The Sundering

by Walter Jon Williams

  Chen frowned. “I’ll send the plan to my sister, for comments.”

  Martinez had hoped he would. Squadron Commander Chen had been orbiting the system for over a month now, staring into the oblivion of Wormhole 3, through which the Naxids would come from Magaria with annihilating force and missile batteries blazing. It was very possible that she would welcome any plan that would enable her to evade that confrontation.

  “I’ll presume on Squadcom Do-faq’s patience and send the plan to him as well,” Martinez said.

  “Very good, Lord Gareth. Ask him to copy any comments to me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  A subtle smile played about Lord Chen’s lips. “Blow up the ring,” he said, half to himself. “The idea has a certain barbaric vigor.” He rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several clients waiting.”

  Martinez pushed back the chair, made of a long spiral of wire, and stood. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  Chen waved off the inconvenience with a movement of his hand. “I was happy to oblige your brother. Give him my best wishes when you next see him.”

  Martinez turned at the sound of soft footsteps on the gravel walkway. He saw a young woman holding a tray with teacups and a teapot. She was tall and black-haired and wore a soft, nubbly suit of an autumnal orange, with a white rosette and its dangling mourning ribbons pinned with pleasant asymmetry to one shoulder.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said in a soft voice. “But I heard you had company, and so I thought…”

  She made a subtle movement that called attention to the contents of her tray.

  “That was very good of you,” Chen said. He turned to Martinez. “May I present my daughter, Terza? Terza, this is—”

  “I recognize Lord Captain Martinez, of course,” she said. Her dark eyes turned to Martinez. “Would you like tea, my lord?”

  “I…” Martinez hesitated. His meeting with Chen was clearly over, and it seemed absurd to stop for a cup of tea now.

  “I can’t remain,” Chen said, “but if you’d like to share a cup with Terza, by all means stay.” He looked at Terza. “I have Em-braq waiting in the office.”

  “I understand.” She turned to Martinez again. “By all means stay, if you have the time.”

  Martinez agreed to remain. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. He had no idea who exactly had died, but there were many Peer families who were wearing white after Magaria.

  She poured tea, the movements of her hands pale and elegant in the shadowed courtyard.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m told that he was very much admired by his crew.”

  “I’m sure he was, my lady,” Martinez said.

  “I see from the morning reports that your sister is marrying Lord Oda. Please give her my congratulations.”

  “Oh. Do you know Vipsania?”

  “Of course. Our families have been acquainted for some time now, while you’ve been off-world making your name.” She smiled. “Under the circumstances, we can’t expect you to know all your sister’s friends.”

  Martinez raised the fragile tea cup with its leafy decoration—Sula would be able to tell him its lineage, he knew—and breathed in the smoky fragrance of the tea. He was about to remark that he hadn’t seen Terza at last night’s party, then realized she wouldn’t have attended, she was in mourning.

  He sipped the tea to give himself time to think of an appropriately neutral remark.

  “Lovely tea,” he managed.

  “From our estate in the To-bai-to highlands,” Terza said. “It’s a first cutting.”

  “Very nice.” He sipped again, the tea warming him in the growing chill.

  Martinez left after half an hour with a vague memory of pleasant twilight conversation with a graceful, soft-voiced woman amid the fragrance of smoky tea and sweet lu-doi blossoms.

  Had he met Terza a year ago, he reflected, he would have made a point of calling on her again. But now, as soon as the door of the Chen Palace closed behind him, his mind turned at once to Sula.

  He had made plans to join Sula for dinner, then a show or a club. After which they would return to her apartment, the bed, and the scent of Sandama Twilight.

  Once back at the Shelley Palace, Martinez started the water steaming into his bath, added a hops-scented bath oil, and then remembered that he intended to send a message to Squadron Commander Do-faq. Since there was a degree of urgency involved, he thought he’d better turn to the message immediately.

  He brushed his hair and buttoned his uniform tunic, and faint alarm rang through him as his fingers missed the disk of the Golden Orb from its place at his throat. He checked his pockets, then remembered where he’d last seen the disk—dangling on its ribbon from the erect phallus of one of the Sevigny figures arched over Sula’s bed.

  Well. It had seemed funny at the time.

  Martinez decided to send the message without the medal. He sat at his desk and activated the camera set into the mirror, and composed a deferent, mildly flattering message to go along with the plan. “We would be interested in any comments you may care to make,” he said.

  He watched his words print themselves across his desk, and he made a few changes, then rerecorded the whole thing, without the hesitations and with more polished phrasing. He appended a copy of the plan he downloaded from the sleeve memory in his tunic, then sent the message on. It would take three or four hours for the transmission to reach Do-faq where his squadron was zooming around the other side of Shaamah, and that there would be no reply till morning at the earliest.

  His duty toward the salvation of the empire complete, Martinez stripped and settled himself into his bath. The scent of a hops floated to his nostrils. Steam rose. Heat soaked into his limbs.

  He thought of Sula, the candlelight glowing on the curves of her body. The touch of her lips. The fine, mad frenzy in her eyes as she helped him draft the operational plan.

  He wondered if it were possible to live any longer without these elements in his life.

  The comm chimed, a two-tone effect in his bedroom and bathroom both. Martinez thought about answering, but didn’t. He decided he deserved a few peaceful moments in his bath.

  The chime ceased. There were a few moments of silence, and then his sleeve comm chimed, a higher-pitched tone than the room comm. Martinez decided that whatever the message was, it wasn’t worth climbing out of the bath, let alone getting his tunic sleeve wet while answering.

  There were another few minutes of silence. Martinez told the tap to turn on again and added more hot water to the bath. He’d closed his eyes and was on the edge of slumber when the heavy teak door of his room slammed open. The house trembled.

  “Damn it, Proney, I’m in the bath!” he roared in his captain’s voice. These interruptions from Sempronia were becoming annoying.

  If she started throwing things again, he thought, he’d make a fine sitting target in the tub.

  “I’m not Sempronia,” said a frigid voice. Martinez looked up in surprise from his bath to see Vipsania standing in the door.

  “Don’t you ever answer a page?” she demanded. “There’s an urgent family conference downstairs. It’s a crisis—a bad one.”

  Vipsania turned and stalked away. “Marriage contract not going well?” Martinez asked after her, but there was no reply.

  He toweled, threw on some casual clothes, and bounded down the stairs to find Roland, Vipsania, and Walpurga in one of the parlors. Roland turned his head as Martinez entered. His expression was grim. “Close the door behind you,” he said. “I don’t want anyone outside the family hearing this.”

  Martinez slid the heavy door shut and dropped into a plush chair. Vipsania and Walpurga sat on satin cushions on an ivory divan, and Roland sat like an uncrowned king in a massive, hooded leather armchair. Vipsania turned to Martinez.

  “I’ve just got a hysterical call from PJ Ngeni,” she said. “He’s received a message from Sempronia that she’s broken the engag
ement and run off with another man—with the man she loves.”

  Martinez felt the slow, cold toll of doom sound through his blood. “Did she say who?” he managed.

  “Apparently not,” Vipsania said. “We’ve been cudgeling our brains trying to think who it might be.”

  “It hardly matters,” Walpurga said. “Sempronia isn’t of an age to marry without the family’s permission.”

  Roland gave a furious little jerk of his chin. “So she’s run off with a man and can’t marry him,” he scorned. “Is that supposed to make it any better?” His voice turned thoughtful. “If we sent police or private detectives after her, that would only make the scandal worse. Our only hope is a private appeal.” He turned to Martinez. “Do you have any idea—any idea—who it might be?”

  “I’m thinking,” Martinez said, and what he thought was, Shankaracharya, you little bastard. He turned to Vipsania. “How was PJ?”

  “Grief-stricken. In tears.” Her tone was disapproving. “It seems he’s made the mistake of caring for her.”

  “We all made that mistake,” Roland said grimly. He passed his hand over his forehead, as if swiping away any inconvenient sympathy. “We can’t afford to make enemies of the Ngenis,” he said. “They’re our patrons and are too critical to everything we hope to accomplish.” He turned to Walpurga. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re going to have to marry PJ, and soon. We can’t drag out your engagement as we could with Sempronia.”

  Walpurga took this news with a long breath and a hardening of her dark eyes. “Very well,” she said.

  Roland took on a calculating look. “The marriage won’t have to last long, I think. And then”—he offered a reassuring smile—“then we can pay off PJ and find you someone more to your liking.” With one hand he thoughtfully brushed the soft leather of his chair arm. “I’ll contact Lord Pierre and make the arrangements.”

  Martinez felt his anger rise. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “The whole engagement to PJ Ngeni was a fraud. I know it was a fraud—it was my fraud, I thought of it.” He turned to Walpurga. “This was never intended to be a real marriage. You don’t have to do this—not to pay for Sempronia’s mistake.”

  “Someone has to pay for it,” Vipsania said levelly. “Otherwise we’re disgraced in the eyes of all the highest Peers and of the Ngeni family.”

  “The Ngenis will get over it,” Martinez said. “So will everyone else. They all know how much PJ is worth. All they have to do is get PJ drunk and he’ll tell them himself.” He pointed at Walpurga. “I forbid you to marry PJ Ngeni. You’re worth twenty of him and you know it.”

  A light flush dappled Walpurga’s cheeks. She looked down at her hands. “No,” she said. “It’s necessary. I’ll marry PJ.”

  Martinez slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. The sound boomed against the paneled walls. He turned to Roland. “If you think PJ is worth so damn much,” he said, “then you marry him.”

  A soft smile played over Roland’s lips. “I don’t think PJ has the proper hormonal bias.” He looked at Martinez. “You’ve got to stop thinking like a military officer, Gare. You can’t carry the High City by storm. You have to infiltrate.”

  Martinez rose to his feet and took an angry step toward his brother. “What prize are you playing for? What is there in Zanshaa High City that’s worth selling your sister to PJ Ngeni?”

  Roland’s chin lifted. “We’re playing for our proper place in the order of the empire,” he said. “What else is worth the game?” His mild brown eyes rose to gaze at Martinez. “And what about yourself, Gare? I haven’t noticed that you’re free of ambition. You devised this sham engagement in part to benefit yourself—and now it’s Walpurga who pays when it goes wrong.”

  Fury blazed in Martinez’s blood. He took another step toward Roland and raised a fist.

  Roland made no move, and he regarded Martinez with a kind of dispassionate, studious interest. Then Martinez turned to Walpurga, and he slowly lowered the fist.

  “I’m not going to fight for you if you won’t,” he said.

  Walpurga said nothing, just turned to Roland. “Make the call,” she said.

  “You’re all insane!” Martinez offered, and stormed from the room.

  He bounded up the stairs to his room, still humid with the scent of hops, and stalked for a long moment in a tight angry circuit at the foot of his bed. Then he raised his arm and triggered the comm display.

  “Urgent to Lieutenant Lord Nikkul Shankaracharya,” he said. “This is Captain Martinez. You are to contact me immediately.”

  The answering call came in a few minutes, and it was from Sempronia. Her narrowed eyes looked at him from out of the sleeve display.

  “Too late,” she said.

  “It’s not,” Martinez said. “Your arrangement with PJ was a joke—no one ever intended for you to go through with it. I don’t care what you do with Shankaracharya, and maybe even PJ doesn’t—but now that you’ve run off, Walpurga is actually going to have to go through with your marriage.”

  Sempronia gave a contemptuous little puff of anger through pursed lips. “Good,” she said. “Walpurga had no problem with PJ when I was engaged to him—now let her entertain him for a change.”

  “Proney—”

  “I’m not your pawn any more, Gareth!” Anger came hissing off Sempronia’s tongue. “You shackled me to PJ! And then you wrecked Nikkul’s career!” The display whirled, and Martinez saw a flash of ceiling, of floor, of a table behind which sat the wide-eyed, meek figure of Shankaracharya. There was the sound of something crumpling near the sound pickup, and then Sempronia flickered back into the frame, holding a large, official certificate, all gold ink and elegant calligraphy, that she brandished before the camera.

  “There!” she said. “We’ve both been to the Peers’ Gene Bank! Our visit will be posted in the official record tomorrow. We can get married now.” She offered the camera a defiant glare. “You told me to help Nikkul choose another path. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “You can’t marry without permission,” Martinez said, fearing as he said it that this would only provoke another storm.

  “Then the family will give permission,” Sempronia said. “Or if you won’t, then we’ll just live together until we can marry on our own.” She dropped the certificate out of frame. “The one thing you won’t do is stop us. Because if you interfere with our arrangement, people will start to hear about some of Roland’s dealings, particularly with the likes of Lord Ummir or Lady Convocate Khaa.”

  Perfectly respectable Naxids, as Roland had called them. Martinez suspected others might disagree with Roland’s description.

  “May I speak to Lieutenant Shankaracharya?” Martinez asked.

  He heard Shankaracharya murmur something in the background, but Sempronia was quick to answer. “No. You may not. He actually respects you, but I know better. Comm: end transmission.”

  The orange end-stamp appeared in the display. “Comm,” Martinez said grimly, “save transmission.”

  He called Roland. “Sempronia’s with a Lieutenant Lord Nikkul Shankaracharya.”

  Roland’s brow clouded. “Isn’t he one of your officers?”

  “He’s Sempronia’s officer now,” Martinez said. “I’m forwarding you the recording of the conversation I just had with her. I suggest you pay particular attention to the threat she made at the end.”

  He sent the recording, then erased it from his own array’s memory and blanked the display, the chameleon-weave fabric returning to its normal viridian green.

  Martinez stood in the silence of his room for a long moment, his anger burning. Isn’t he one of your officers? It was becoming clear who was going to get the blame for Sempronia’s defection.

  He decided not to stay around to wait for the blame to descend on his head. He changed into civilian evening dress, brushed his hair, and descended the stair in silence. The doors to the parlor were still closed, he saw; the family conference was still going on, with marriag
es and condemnation being assigned on every hand.

  Martinez felt his spirits lift the second he was outside of the palace and into the mellow twilight. In the pre-dinner hour there was little traffic on the streets, and few walkers. A scattering of stars were visible in the darkening sky, and Zanshaa’s shadow had cut a wide slice out of the silver accelerator ring. A ship’s antimatter torch blazed directly overhead, brighter than anything in the sky, and heading—Martinez guessed—for Wormhole 4 and Seizho. Thoughts of Sula set his nerves tingling.

  Martinez bought an armful of flowers from the Torminel pushcart vendor on the corner—a carnivore selling blossoms—then turned the corner and walked on to Sula’s building. She met him at the door of her apartment, fading surprise still in her eyes.

  “You’re early,” she said. She wore a green Fleet fatigue coverall, apparently her usual dress at home.

  “Sorry,” Martinez said. “I couldn’t wait.” He offered her the flowers. “I thought I’d replace those stolen daffodils.”

  Sula looked at the extravagant bouquet with bemused pleasure. “You’re going to have to give me a lot more vases at this rate,” she said.

  He stood in the hideous Sevigny extravagance of the front room while Sula busied herself filling some vases, equally hideous, that had been sitting empty on stands, intended apparently as objects of admiration. Fleet officers, raised in a tradition in which every object had its proper drawer or bay or locker, were a tidy breed, but Sula’s room was preternaturally neat: even papers with arithmetical jottings, worksheets from her hobby of mathematical puzzles, were squared neatly on a table, slightly offset so that the numbers on the upper right corners were visible. Aside from the vases with their flowers there was no indication that Martinez had ever been present in the room at all, something that sent a waft of depression sighing through him.

  “I was just about to take a bath and change,” Sula said as she returned a vase to its stand.

  Martinez brightened. “Would you like company in the bath?”