“So we heard.” Kavya motioned to a robot waiter, and it brought her a beverage. “Captain Vayer told us my father defeated a major attack two days ago, but the empire continues to deny him the throne.”
Captain Vayer, the estate’s chief security officer, often made a show of withholding information about the ongoing solar war only to concede after a bit of niggling from Kavya. The man’s playacting didn’t fool her or Symeon. They knew he shared what Fang allowed and no more. Without access to the sphere, they couldn’t confirm what the man told them, but Symeon figured it must be true. Why pass them anything besides the rosiest of pictures otherwise?
“I’ll have a word with the man about his loose tongue,” Fang said, his expression surly. “But yes, that’s true. Your father’s forces are making headway, though not as quickly as I had hoped. This was the first major offensive launched by the great houses, but they’re fighting a limited war. After they failed to capitulate as I predicted, I thought they would commit fully to winning back Bastrayavich. It’s what I would have done. But I fear it is as Symeon told me some weeks ago—the royal admiralty refuses to yield even with their heads of state in mortal danger because the outcome might favor their personal rise should someone amenable to them take the throne. Their hesitancy keeps them from launching an assault large enough to overwhelm Alexei’s forces. I appreciate their reticence, obviously—I want Alexei to win—but this prolonged conflict is placing a strain on the Wuxia.”
He’s stymied. He’s fishing for your insight. I say you give it without stint. His cause aligns with ours.
Symeon almost shook his head at Yudi’s suggestion, but stopped himself at the final second. Aloud he said, “What sort of strain? Aren’t your people safely hidden across the empire? What does it matter to them if their masters go to war?”
Fang stared off into the trees surrounding the clearing for a moment, his lips pressed into a hard line. “They’re hidden, but that doesn’t mean they feel safe or that they’ll remain patient. The Wuxia aren’t a military organization. There exist factions within our factions, small groups beholden more to their local leaders than the movement at large. It’s taken years for me to consolidate enough control to forward the current plan. Now that it’s underway, our people chafe at the waiting—some have been serving as slaves their whole lives, dreaming of this time. Even my own children and grandchildren complain that I’ve kept them leashed too long.”
Symeon shared a brief glance with Kavya. This was the most information Fang had yet divulged to them about his overall plan. Cagey to a fault, he often made it seem like he had given away every facet, only to leave Symeon vague on concrete details as to how the Wuxia would reveal themselves to the empire when the time came. He worried Fang might call on his shadow forces to rise up against their masters—to gut families in their sleep and seize their holdings in a night of terror.
Surely not. That sort of attack would leave the entirety of the Wuxia vulnerable to reprisals. Besides, if that was Fang’s plan, why would he need Kavya?
“What happens when you drop that leash?” Kavya asked, echoing Symeon’s thoughts.
Fang took a long draught from a beer and sighed appreciatively before he answered. “You’re an intelligent woman. You must know I’ll want you to negotiate with your father on behalf of the Wuxia.”
Another diversion , thought Symeon. The man never explicitly says what the Wuxia will do when they reveal themselves.
What do you expect? Fang has spent his entire life safeguarding his secrets. Either way, your idea of massacre is a foolish notion . He can’t expect servants to kill the people they’ve served, sometimes for the better part of their lives, as if taking a life is nothing. These aren’t trained soldiers we’re discussing, they’re slaves. Oaths to the Wuxia aside, I’d wager most of them harbor some affection for their masters.
You underestimate the pain of enslavement, Symeon thought .
And you the capacity of the human heart. Odd that an AI should need to school you on that.
“Negotiate to what end?” Pushing Yudi’s words aside, Symeon moved to sit on his knees, hands on his thighs as many in Fang’s family sat. They took it as a sign of both giving and commanding respect.
“You know my goals,” Fang said. “Have I not made them clear? Peace, freedom, a voice for the Shorxing in our mutual government.”
“There is no mutual government,” Kavya said without rancor, her voice mild. “And revealing yourselves won’t create one.”
“It will.” Fang met their gazes, his expression concrete. “The great houses have no clue we exist, and you know nothing of our true numbers. They will cower when they see our strength.”
“The way they have under threat of losing the divors?” Kavya cocked her head to one side, eyebrows raised.
A look of irritation flashed across Fang’s expression, and Symeon thought the old man might lose his temper, but Fang laughed. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s good speaking with the two of you. Sometimes I need to hear a dissenting opinion, and you always give me that, though I’m pleased I don’t see you every day.”
“That makes this a special occasion.” Symeon gestured at the mostly empty drop cloth they occupied. “I notice none of the others joined us today, not even Czarina.”
Fang nodded. “It’s time we discuss roles.”
“You mean my transformation into the Wuxia’s songbird?” Kavya placed no emphasis on the final word, yet Symeon could taste the derision in her meaning. So could Fang and Anushka by their expressions.
“Just so,” Fang said. “As you so astutely pointed out, your father’s coup is proceeding slower than I anticipated. For reasons I cannot divulge, this means I must ask you to speak with him sooner than I originally planned. I want you to reveal the Wuxia to him in your first interview. It’s paramount he understand our vast reach within the empire—that we will be one of his major concerns the moment he secures the throne.”
“And you assume I’m amenable to this task?” Kavya’s gaze never wavered. She watched Fang with the intensity of a huntress.
“As I said, I had hoped to give you more time—months even—to live amongst my kin and my closest confidants. I want you to know us, our hearts, our deep love for one another and the cause of freedom. I can only hope you’ve seen these virtues reflected in us already given your short stay in Gomarov Castle?”
Kavya sat quiet for a moment. Symeon, at a loss for how she might react, watched her while gauging his own feelings. Though he might not agree with Fang’s plans for the empire, he couldn’t deny the beauty he found in the man’s family. If they were Fang’s vision of the future empire, he could scarcely argue against it.
“For a man steeped in secret influence and slow, patient manipulation, you come off rather heavy-handed to me, Fang. You’ve practically rubbed my royal nose in your picturesque ideals. I can’t turn around without stepping on the toes of a gorgeous child or running into a charming wife, son, grandchild ready to extol the virtues of the Shorxing way. And your overzealous push to see Symeon and I fall in love has been anything but adroit.”
Symeon’s pulse quickened. Would Kavya reveal their ruse? What about their plans to escape?
What about your chance to be near her on a daily basis?
Again, shut up.
Fang’s lips curled into a grin. “But it’s worked, yes?”
Kavya gazed into Symeon’s eyes with such ardor he thought his face might catch fire from the heat rushing up his neck. She entwined her fingers with his and pressed his hand to her breast so that he could feel her heart beating. “Yes, damn you.”
“It’s our way forward, Princess.” Fang, still smiling, eyes soft, grasped Anushka’s hand. “We can and will fight to free the Luxing. No amount of hoping or wishing will let us avoid that. But final victory doesn’t hinge on bloodshed; it hinges on love.”
Kavya nodded and turned to him, her silver-blue eyes glistening in the bright sunlight. “What would you have me say to my father
?”
* * * * *
Chapter 24
The sky above Gomarov Castle had grown dark though the air remained warm from the daytime heat. Symeon stood on a high balcony overlooking the castle’ s eastern courtyard, his hands planted on it s balustrade, his mind anywhere but the present.
She’s acting, Symeon.
“Didn’t you see the way she looked at me—the way she held my hand? It wasn’t like other times. This was different.” Symeon watched a six-legged robot crawl up the courtyard wall opposite him, scrubbing the stones with a clutch of neon green brushes and a spray of soapy water.
The difference was Fang. She wanted to sell it. She’s a princess, Sym. Acting is her life.
“You’ve been wrong before.”
You’re mixing up your feelings for hers.
“Enough. I don’t have time for this. Here comes the sergeant.”
A man dressed in powered armor the color of ripe wheat strode into the courtyard, his heavy footfalls ringing echoes from the flagstones.
“Kozar, hello!” Symeon called.
The sergeant looked about for a moment before locating the voice. He tapped a control on his chin to raise his visor. “Symeon Brashniev. How are you?”
“Bored! Care to have a drink in the Kitchens?”
“Sure. I’m just going off duty. Let me peel out of this clam shell, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Bah, why wait?” Symeon caught hold of a rain gutter, bounded over the balcony handrail, and shimmied down to the courtyard floor.
Kozar laughed and slapped his metal thigh with a PING. “You never told me you were an acrobat. You should have joined the emperor’s mummers when you were young!”
“If it gets me out of my room, I’ll do it now.”
“Come, let’s have that drink.” Kozar placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Symeon’s back and guided him toward a steel-polymer door wholly incongruent with the stone wall. It swung open at their approach.
Symeon had visited the castle’s armory five times since his arrival at Gomarov Castle. On each occasion, escorted by one or another guard he had befriended, he made it his purpose to avoid even the appearance of a dishonest action. Those earlier trips, two of them with Kozar, had been preparation for this night, and Symeon vowed to keep his wits about him.
They descended a flight of stairs into a bunker hardened against bombs. The cool air made Symeon’s skin prickle. Lights flicked on, revealing three dozen armored suits like Kovar’s standing at attention in the middle of the room. Fang’s people had stolen most of them the night they kidnapped Kavya, though a few older models evidenced previous heists. Behind the armor stood rack upon rack of rifles and handguns, both modern laser and plasma models as well as old-fashioned projectile arms. Still other instruments of war lined the armory walls, but Symeon lacked the training to recognize their use.
“Let me park this thing.” Kovar moved to stand in an empty space at the right side of the armor formation. His suit grew inanimate in a way Symeon couldn’t define, like a puppet when its master has become distracted, and the whir of servos filled the air. Kovar’s helm lifted off his head, held up in front by a multi-jointed arm that extended from his breastplate. At the same instant, the armor’s back plate from heel to neck split apart on concealed hinges.
Kovar backed out of the suit, his brown hair moist with sweat, and breathed a heavy sigh. What his grandfather, Fang, would term a true Shorxing, Kovar looked like a perfect melding of his dual heritage. With the broad nose and round jawline of a Luxing combined with the silvery blue complexion of a Shorvex, his features would have seen him rejected from either society. Not so in the rarefied air of Gomarov Castle. Here, amongst his many female cousins, he was considered quite the handsome beast.
“I’m always proud to pilot armor,” he said, stretching his back, “but it does grow uncomfortable after seven or eight hours.”
“I should think it would.”
As was his custom after a long shift on guard duty, Kovar pulled on a basic shirt and plain britches he kept stashed in a locker before retrieving the palm-sized key card that gave him access to the armory from his suit. He slipped it into his trousers pocket and gestured toward the door. “Let’s have that drink.”
* * *
Deprived of the clubs and bars they might have enjoyed in a city or town, the adult staff employed at Gomarov Castle had arranged for themselves a pub known as the Kitchens, so named for its proximity to the castle’s actual kitchen. Most nights, off duty maids, guards like Kovar, grounds keepers, and a slew of others visited the place. Fang, who often dropped by whenever he wasn’t away, not only approved of the Kitchens, by all accounts he bankrolled the place, making the drinks free so long as Valentin, the bartender, approved of the person ordering.
A live band—usually an ensemble formed from whatever musicians were available—often played at Kitchens. Tonight’s combination, two electric guitars, a stand up bassist, a synth drummer of some renown, and a sultry voiced nanny who could bring tears to Symeon’s eyes when she got going, filled the place with a sweet sound.
“So, you and the princess, eh?” Kovar, who had imbibed no fewer than six beers and a slew of hard liquor shots in the last three hours, nearly bobbled his seventh before getting it to his lips. “I never asked you about that. She’s quite a beauty. Too pretty for the likes of you, no offense.”
Humans always say that when they mean nothing but offense.
“Tell me about it,” Symeon said. He and Kovar sat alone at a table in a corner of the converted dining hall. Never one much given to alcohol, Symeon had drank three beers to Kovar’s six, and still felt muzzy.
“What?”
“Yeah, me and Kavya—you’re right, she is too pretty for me.” Symeon wished Kavya was with him now, though they had agreed schmoozing guards was best left to him. Most of Fang’s trained soldiers, like Kovar, looked and acted far more Luxing than Shorvexan. And besides, her presence at the Kitchens would have caused a stir. The last thing Symeon needed right now was undo attention.
“What’s she like?”
He wants to hear that she’s a spoiled child. I can see it in his expression.
Symeon agreed. Kovar wasn’t a bad sort, but the eagerness in his eyes made Symeon want to break his nose, not that he could let that feeling show. He needed to keep things light. “She’s a hell of a lot nicer than you’d expect. Level-headed, practical, not what you’d expect in a duchy princess.”
Kovar, too drunk to hide his disappointment, nodded. He looked half asleep, his eyes rheumy in the bar’s scant light. After a moment he brightened, his gaze coming back into focus as his lips slowly curled into a smile. “How is she in the sack?”
Five years of boxing informed Symeon he could lay Kovar out with a single right hook. Doing so would take no more effort than flipping a pancake.
You’re letting the drink go to your head. Remember your purpose here.
Symeon took a swig from his beer to hide the sudden flush of anger heating up his face. By the time he had set his bottle on the table, he had control of his emotions. He still wanted to belt Kovar into low orbit, but now possessed the sense to refrain.
“Let’s just say, she’s beyond my imagination.”
“I bet!”
“It’s getting late. Don’t you have duty tomorrow afternoon?”
“Don’t remind me.” Kovar squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to banish a sour thought. “Another mindless shift doing nothing. I can’t wait to get out of this shit hole.”
“This shit hole seems like a cushy job to me. And you’re with your family.” The seneschal in Symeon wanted to reprimand Kovar for denigrating his posting. All service, no matter how menial, deserved respect.
“I don’t want cushy. We leaving or what?” Kovar made to stand and nearly tripped over his own feet, forcing Symeon to catch him. Other patrons stared at them, most not even trying to hide their laughter. Everyone knew Kovar couldn’t hold his liquor.
Symeon mentally cursed his luck. He had hoped they could leave without catching anyone’s attention. He got a shoulder under Kovar’s arm and started him weaving towards the exit.
“Hey, Symeon Brashniev.” Valentin, the Kitchens’ ever present bartender, leaned his muscular arms over the bar. “You tell Kovar he’s cut off for two weeks. I won’t have people coming in here getting sloppy drunk every night, even if he is my cousin.”
“What? You sorry bastard.” Kovar struggled against Symeon’s grip.
Now the entire bar is looking at you.
“I’ll tell him when he sobers up.” Symeon hustled Kovar out the north exit into cool night air.
“Cut me off? That musclebound sack of shit is lucky to have me visit him at all. I’m entertaining! Aren’t I, Sym?”
“Absolutely.” Symeon lugged the sozzled Kovar around a corner, their boots wet with nighttime dew. Unseen and unheard drones recorded their passing. Symeon fancied he saw one limned in moonlight a few meters overhead, but couldn’t be sure. The things’ rudimentary AI performed a superb job keeping them out of sight.
Rudimentary AI? Try elementary algorithms lacking even the most basic semblance of sentient thought.
“Is someone offended?” Symeon huffed as he dragged a near unconscious Kovar up a short flight of stairs into the castle’s eastern wing.
“Me? No,” Kovar warbled. “Pissed off I might miss the real fighting though. I ask you, is that fair? I’m one of the old man’s true grandsons, and I’m sidelined here guarding the nursery while others are out there.” Kovar gestured at the ceiling. “Where’d the stars go?”
“We’re inside. What do you mean by the real fighting?”
“Not supposed to talk about that, am I?” Kovar wrinkled his nose as if struggling to marshal his thoughts. “It’s not for you and the pretty princess, all right?”
Salvage Mind (Salvage Race Book 1) Page 21