Israi listened to the male in stony silence. She had not yet forgiven him for canceling her vacation to Mynchepop yesterday. For the past several years, she had made an annual summer visit to the exquisite pleasure planet to escape the heat of Vir. It was a trip that she looked forward to with great anticipation, but with war raging along the outermost edges of the empire, it had been deemed inadvisable for the Imperial Mother to leave the safety of Viisymel.
She was furious. She had never found disappointment easy to accept, and to be denied her wish was something rare and most difficult to swallow.
Now she sat on her red-cushioned throne in the audience hall, closed to all while she met with Lord Nalsk, and glared at him through half-slitted eyes. She had given Nalsk increasing power over the years, and his network of intelligence agents had proven invaluable to her, but she hated anyone who thought he could tell her no.
Had a passenger ship not been attacked in recent weeks, she would have ignored his order and departed for Mynchepop as planned. But Israi was no fool. She knew some risks were too costly. Therefore, as soon as her audience with Nalsk ended, she would close the court and go instead to her lodge in the mountains.
There was much optimism among her courtiers that the mountains would be cooler. They would not be as cool as Mynchepop, which had no adverse weather. But any respite was better than nothing.
She slumped lower in her chair, leaning her head on her hand, and flicked out her tongue.
Nalsk’s droning voice stopped. “Do I bore the Imperial Mother?”
He had an icy way of speaking and a disdainful way of looking between his nostrils. His rill was held up by a tall collar of engraved silver, and he wore a coat of plainly woven blue silk. Not for Lord Nalsk the outrageous, extravagant fashions of the court. But although he might sometimes prove boring, Israi knew he should never be underestimated. She could ill afford to make an enemy of him.
She flicked out her tongue again. “Not bored, my lord,” she replied smoothly. “Merely fatigued.”
He bowed, displaying streaks of pink along his rill spines. “My report is perhaps too long?”
“No longer than any of the other reports we have received this day,” she said. “Yours is the eighth or ninth. None bring us good news.”
“The war goes poorly,” he said.
She slammed her fist down on the arm of her throne. “Then when will it go well?”
Nalsk puffed out his air sacs. “Lord Belz has reached the area of greatest fighting. He reports the next battle will commence our time tomorrow. I will continue to send your majesty reports on that matter during your majesty’s absence.”
She barely concealed her grimace of disgust. “Thank you.” Oh, yes, she thought bitterly, he would flood her with reports, as would every other official on her council. Going to the lodge was hardly getting away. And she was tired, so tired her head buzzed all the time and she could barely concentrate. It seemed of late that never a day passed without several new crises. The desk of her study was heaped with problems, and she could not cope with them all. Even Temondahl looked weary and worried.
And yet, she had to try to get away from Vir, even if her rest was interrupted. She knew she must take care of herself first.
Nalsk was staring at her, as though he had said something she’d not heard and now expected an answer. Israi stared back at him, and he finally bowed.
“Very well, majesty,” he said. “I shall give as many reports as is possible to the chancellor of state. But he is not cleared to see everything. Nor should he be.”
“Do your best,” she replied.
He seemed to be turning to leave, and Israi straightened in her chair in hope, but Nalsk was only pulling another document from a pocket inside his wide sleeve.
“There is one last thing,” he said.
This time Israi could not conceal her sigh of impatience. “Yes?”
“It concerns your egg-brother Oviel.”
At once he had her complete interest. A surge of hatred washed over Israi. Her brother had been in exile for years now, living far from court as punishment for his attempt to steal her throne. Israi refused to have his name mentioned in her presence, and no courtier dared defy her.
Except Nalsk, who feared no one, not even her.
“What about the creature?” Israi asked coldly.
“He has served his term,” Nalsk said. “His exile officially ends tomorrow.”
“No!”
“I’m afraid so, yes.” Nalsk’s eyes were the green hue of the ocean. They regarded Israi steadily. “He cannot live in exile indefinitely. The law does not allow for that.”
“The law should have allowed for his neck to be broken,” she said, fuming.
Nalsk permitted himself a small smile. “Even so, Chancellor Temondahl has approached me on the matter and—”
“Temondahl!” Israi said in surprise. “He has discussed Oviel with you?”
“Asking advice,” Nalsk said. “Asking when the term would expire. Asking whether Oviel might return to Vir and the court in safety.” Nalsk flicked out his tongue. “The Bureau cannot offer him security without the Imperial Mother’s permission.”
“Never!” she said, outraged. “We find it difficult to believe that Temondahl is so interested in the welfare of our brother.”
“Chancellor Temondahl concerns himself with many details,” Nalsk said. “In many different areas.”
Israi wasn’t going to waste her time trying to figure out what he meant by that. “We do not want Oviel here,” she said. “He betrayed us, and we are not yet ready to forgive him.”
Nalsk bowed. “As the Imperial Mother commands. But I thought I would warn your majesty of the matter. Temondahl will bring it up, and in such delicate affairs it is best to be prepared.”
“Why is it a delicate matter?” she asked. “Oviel is a traitor.”
“Some,” Nalsk said with care, “do not think so.”
“Who?” she demanded with fresh anger. “We demand their names.”
“That would entail submitting half the names at court.”
Israi rocked back in her chair, too shocked to speak. For the first time in years, she felt disquiet. Had she no better hold on her subjects than this? It seemed inconceivable that a scrawny, overly ambitious upstart with no legal claim to the throne should be able to make so much trouble for her. Yet Oviel had always surprised her that way.
“You are saying that he is popular,” she said slowly.
“According to my shadows, yes,” Nalsk replied.
“But he has been gone all these years!”
“Perhaps that has helped with his popularity,” Nalsk said.
“How great a threat to our throne is he?” she asked.
“Perhaps very little.”
Surprised, Israi stared at him. That was not the answer she had expected. “We fail to understand.”
“The common citizens think of him seldom, yet he is of imperial blood and therefore of some interest. The aristocrats believe he has been punished enough for a youthful indiscretion—”
“He betrayed us!” Israi exclaimed.
Nalsk looked down at her from where he stood, and she forced herself to be silent.
“The term of exile was very long, majesty. During that time, Oviel has behaved himself. He has not attempted to leave his remote villa. He has not spoken against your majesty. He has not been in contact with certain subversive groups under our most serious suspicion. In short, he has conducted himself on model lines. This is generally known and greatly in his favor.”
“And?” she prompted.
“It may mean that he no longer covets your majesty’s throne.”
Israi laughed harshly. “Oh, he wants it. He will always want it.”
“But if the lesson has been learned, it is possible he will not reach for it.”
“Is that your recommendation, Lord Nalsk? That we allow him to return to our side?”
Nalsk flicked out his tongue. “I m
ake no recommendation. I merely bring a report to your majesty’s attention. Others will make recommendations, but now your majesty is prepared for them.”
Soon thereafter, he bowed and left her.
Israi sat scowling in the empty audience hall, making no attempt to leave it. She knew that Oviel would bring her nothing but trouble. She could not allow him to return. She dared not allow it. He would take every advantage of his presence at court. He would twist words, and tempt subversives, and start new intrigues. She had enough problems to deal with already. She did not need him to add to her difficulties.
A soft tapping on the door broke her concentration. Flicking out her tongue, Israi replied.
Temondahl entered, carrying his staff of office and bowing. “Your majesty’s shuttle is almost ready for departure. Your majesty’s luggage is being loaded, and the attendants—”
Israi waved these minor details aside. “Come here, chancellor, and speak with us.”
Temondahl obeyed, halting just a few steps short of her throne. His rill was extended in surprise and expectation. His old, half-lidded eyes regarded her patiently.
“We hear,” she said, unable to keep a rasp from her voice, “that Oviel will soon be released.”
“Tomorrow,” Temondahl said too promptly.
She felt a flare of suspicion and did her best to conceal it. “We hear that he wishes to return to court.”
“Yes. majesty. He has written to me, requesting it.”
“To you,” she said coldly, her anger growing steadily. “But not to us.”
“No, of course not,” Temondahl replied. “The Imperial Mother has said she would not hear his name spoken, would not see his name written. How could he write to your majesty without violating this command?”
Some of Israi’s anger deflated. She flicked out her tongue, turning over Temondahl’s words in her mind, seeking any deceit.
“We dislike our brother,” she said at last. “We are in no mood to forget old wrongs.”
“But these wrongs are very old,” Temondahl said. “Regret has been expressed. I think your majesty will find your brother much changed.”
She said nothing. Her heart was stone.
“Majesty, I hesitate to say this, but Lord Oviel’s popularity has grown in recent years. He has behaved himself flawlessly, and the people have heard of this. He has expressed contrition, and the people know of that. He has caused no trouble, made no attempt to flee from a villa in a most inhospitable part of Viisymel.”
Yes, Israi thought. Oviel had been sent to live in an area called the Anvil of the Gods. Nothing grew on the land. Nothing lived on the land. The temperatures were hotter than anywhere else on the planet. Terrible sandstorms raged almost daily. Heat and dust and poisonous insects ruled the place. She had hoped he would die there. But it seemed he had thrived instead. Cursing him silently, she clenched her hands around the arms of her throne and told herself she could not relent.
“He has done nothing less than he was supposed to do,” she said. “Why should he be rewarded?”
“Would the return to court be a reward?”
“Would it not?” she replied, astonished that Temondahl would make such a naive remark.
“Please, majesty, do not misunderstand what I am about to say, but as food becomes scarcer and more costly, the people—well, the people do not revere the Imperial Mother as they once did.”
“We are aware of the polls,” Israi said harshly. The hurt never went away. But she always told herself she did not care. The people could curse her if they dared, but she was Kaa and would remain so.
“I believe that the Imperial Mother’s popularity would rise if she decided to show mercy to her egg-brother,” Temondahl said cautiously. He looked at her as though he expected her to fly into a rage. “Politically, it would be wise to allow his return.”
“Politically it would be a disaster,” she said. “He will cause trouble.”
“I don’t believe he will. May I show your majesty his letter?”
Her rill flared to its fullest extension. “You may not,” she snapped.
Temondahl retreated a step and bowed low.
Israi rose from her throne and began to pace back and forth. She was tired, and she wanted only to get aboard her shuttle and leave the palace as fast as she could. Yet the problems stayed with her, as though attached to the hem of her gown. Her mind turned the issue over and over, seeking a solution.
“And if we turn Oviel away?” she asked at last. “If we refuse his return? Will he go offworld?”
“That is doubtful.”
No, she thought. He would never leave Viisymel while his presence could still bring her trouble.
Anger throbbed in her rill. She hesitated, battling inside herself. She hated being put into a corner, but she could see how Oviel had accomplished it. He had acquired a certain finesse over the years, and he had Temondahl’s help now. She had a memory of her father’s deathbed, when she had seen Temondahl deep in conversation with Oviel and their uncle, the very radical Telvrahd. Traitors both—and perhaps Temondahl was a traitor also.
The thought of no longer being able to trust her chancellor was a disquieting one. Fatigue burned through her, and she felt overwhelmed.
“Very well,” she said. “Permission is granted, but Oviel will have no privileges of imperial rank. Do not expect us to welcome him as a long-lost brother.”
“As the Imperial Mother commands,” Temondahl said.
As he went out, Israi observed that his eyes were sparkling.
She stared after him with the hollow certainty that she had made a huge mistake. With her chancellor’s loyalties belonging to Oviel instead of to her, and with Lord Belz on the other side of the empire, she had few strong allies indeed.
She flicked out her tongue, hesitating a few minutes longer.
An attendant entered cautiously. “Majesty, the shuttle is ready for departure. When will it please the Imperial Mother to board?”
Ignoring the lady, Israi summoned a herald. “Bring Lord Nalsk to us at once,” she told him.
She had to wait a long time for the head of security to return. It seemed he had left the palace to attend a dinner party elsewhere in the city. Increasingly impatient, Israi went to her apartments to change her court gown for comfortable traveling attire. When she emerged at last, with a slave fastening the clasp of her jeweled bracelet for her, she found Nalsk waiting for her.
He bowed, and she dismissed her servants with a gesture.
“We shall be brief,” she said and told him what had transpired between her and Temondahl.
“It is wise to allow Oviel’s return,” Nalsk said. “He can be watched better if he is here.”
“He can meddle better if he is here,” she said angrily.
Nalsk inclined his head in silence.
Israi paced back and forth. The hollow feeling was back, and she did not like it. “We want him watched day and night,” she said. “Put your shadows on him. Let nothing go unreported.”
“As the Imperial Mother commands.”
“Watch Temondahl also,” she said.
Nalsk flicked out his tongue as though surprised, but she had the momentary suspicion that he was pleased. “It shall be done,” he said.
Israi left her palace wondering if Nalsk had just intentionally driven a wedge of distrust between her and her chancellor that had not been there before. Perhaps it was Nalsk she should be worried about.
And that was the most disquieting thought of all.
CHAPTER•NINE
Chased by the shouting Rejects, Ampris could not hope to outrun them. Grunting with pain, she dodged down a narrow, shadowy street with them hard on her heels. A hand gripped the back of her jerkin, and suddenly she was falling, knocked off her feet by a tackle.
But while she might be hurt, weary, weak, and out of practice, Ampris had not forgotten her old training. She hit the slimy ground and rolled with a kick that freed her from the pursuer who’d taken her down.
Snarling, she leapt up to meet the attack of another, gripping his skinny shoulders and using his own impetus to launch him off his feet. He slammed into the side of a rickety shack, caving in a wall. The roof fell in on top of him, and with screams and shouts, a whole family of Rejects emerged in all directions.
Ampris seized the opportunity and fled again. In seconds, she was panting, and her leg hurt so bad she sobbed with every step, but she knew she had to keep going.
From behind, she heard curses and running footsteps. She darted down a cross street and ducked inside a windowless hut lit only by a sputtering lamp that was obviously losing its charge. The occupant was an extremely tall female Reject with mottled red and pink skin, a rill larger than any Ampris had ever seen before, and fierce white eyes that made her look blind. She turned on Ampris, however, and hissed. Her rill stood stiff behind her head, and her pupils dilated just before she came at Ampris with a stick.
Ampris could hear her pursuers coming. At the last second, she dodged the flailing stick and caught it in both hands. She wrenched it easily from the female, who shrieked at her.
Holding the stick like a club. Ampris pinned her against the wall behind her cooking fire and clamped her hand over the female’s mouth.
“Be quiet,” she said in Viis. “I won’t hurt you.”
The female’s eyes widened. She tried to struggle, but Ampris held her fast. Viis muscles were never a match for Aaroun ones, and Ampris would not let her captive break free.
Outside, the thudding footsteps passed. Ampris waited a few seconds longer, listening, then stepped back and released the female.
The female’s white eyes blazed at her. “Thief! You will not have my hut. You will not!”
Again she came at Ampris, flailing with her long thin arms. Ampris ducked her and exited the hut.
She looked in both directions, but did not see the gang of Rejects.
The female hit her in the back. “Get out! Get out!” she shouted. “You abiru have no right to be here. Get out!”
Ampris turned on her and snarled so fiercely the female’s rill dropped.
She stepped back with her white eyes wide and frightened. “Do not hurt me. Do not rip out my throat. You can have my—”
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