Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “Roger,” Cord said, in the X’Intai dialect, which couldn’t possibly have been loaded to Chubais’ toot, “this is, perhaps, unwise.”

  “Too bad,” Roger ground out.

  He and his asi followed Erkum out into the slaughtering area, and Roger gestured to the atul pens. Erkum carried the mobster over and lifted him up against the pen. The atul inside it responded by snarling and snapping at what looked very much like dinner.

  “Care to tell me where you’re holding my friend?” Roger asked in a deadly conversational tone.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Chubais repeated, desperately, his voice falsetto-high as the atul got one claw through the mesh and ripped his jacket. “Siminov will kill her!”

  “In which case, I’ll have precisely zero reason to restrain my response,” Roger said, still in that lethally calm voice. “Gag him. And someone get a tourniquet ready.”

  When Chubais was gagged and Rastar had produced a length of flexible rubber, Roger took the mobster’s wrist in his left hand and extended his arm. Chubais resisted desperately, fighting with all of his strength to wrench away from Roger’s grip, but the prince’s hand pinned him with apparent effortlessness. He held the arm rock-steady, fully extended, and raised the sword to take it off at the elbow.

  But as he did, Cord put his hand on the sword.

  “Roger,” he said, again in The People’s dialect, “you will not do this.”

  “Damn straight I will,” Roger growled.

  “You will not,” Cord said again. “Your lady would not permit it. The Captain would not permit it. You will not do it.”

  “If he doesn’t, I will,” Pedi Karuse said flatly. “Des—Shara’s a friend of mine.”

  “You will be silent, asi,” Cord said gravely. “There will be another way. We will take it.”

  “Ro—Mr. Chung!” Kosutic came barreling through the door from the kitchen, followed by Krindi Fain. “What the hell is going on?”

  Roger held the sword, still poised for a stroke, and began to tremble in pure, undiluted rage. Silence hovered, broken only by the atul’s hungry snarls of anticipation and the gangster’s ragged breathing. Finally, the prince twisted his sword hand’s wrist, and the blade moved until its razor edge just kissed the mobster’s throat.

  “You have no idea who you are dealing with,” he said, deadly calm once more. “No pocking idea at all. You and your boss are two slimy little problems which are less than a flea to me, and killing you would have about as much meaning to me. But a Mardukan barbarian just saved your ass, for the time being. He had more control, and more moral compunctions about chopping up a little piece of shit like you, than I ever will. Care to tell me where you’re keeping my friend while I’m still inclined to listen to you?”

  The mobster eyed the sword, obviously terrified, but shook his head convulsively.

  “Fine,” Roger said calmly. “I’ll try another route. If, however, I’m unable to find the information that way, I’ll give you to this young lady.” He gestured at Pedi. “Have you ever read Kipling?”

  Despite his fear, the mobster’s eyes widened in surprise, and he produced another spastic headshake.

  “There’s a line from Kipling which you’ll find appropriate if I don’t find the information I want very quickly indeed.” Roger’s almost caressing tone carried an edge of silken menace. “It begins: ‘When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plain, and the women come out to cut up what remains.’” He showed his teeth in a sharklike smile. “If the approach I’m about to try doesn’t work, I’ll leave you, as they used to say, ‘to the women.’ And she won’t be cutting off your arm.”

  “Ms. Bordeaux,” Roger said, after the three mobsters—one of whom would never again be a problem for anyone, thanks to Erkum’s table—had been flown off to the warehouse in a van. “I need you to go see someone for me.”

  “Mr. Chung—” Kosutic began.

  “I’m in no mood to be ‘handled,’ Ms. Bordeaux,” Roger said flatly, “so you will shut the hell up and listen to my orders. You need to somehow arrange a meeting with Buseh Subianto. Now.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, blanching.

  “No. But it’s the only idea I have short of chopping that silly little shit up into pieces. Would you prefer I do that, Ms. Bordeaux? Make up your mind, because I’d much prefer it!”

  “No.” Kosutic shook her head. “I’d really prefer that you avoided that.”

  “In that case, get with Jin and find her,” Roger snapped. “If she knows where Ni—Ms. Stewart is, we’ll go from there. If not, that guy is going to be walking and eating with stumps.”

  “I thought you said the good guys don’t torture people?” Catrone said evenly.

  “In the end, I didn’t,” Roger replied coldly. “And I might argue that there’s a difference between torturing someone for vengeance and because you need information they won’t give you. But I won’t, because it would be an artificial distinction.”

  He looked at Catrone, with absolutely no expression.

  “You should have listened more carefully, Tomcat. Especially to the part about Nimashet being my ‘prosthetic conscience.’ Because I’ll tell you the truth—you’d rather have one of my Mardukans on the Throne than me without Nimashet.”

  Roger’s eyes were cold and black as agates.

  “Chubais is an operator for a rather larger fish named Alexi Siminov,” Fritz Tebic said. His voice cracked at least a little of the tension between Catrone and the prince, and the IBI agent flashed a hologram of a face. “We have a long list of potential offenses to lay against Siminov, but he’s rather . . . tricky in that regard. Nothing that we can take to court, in other words.”

  “I’ve known Siminov professionally for years,” Subianto said.

  It had been difficult for the two of them to disappear, especially without warning, but Buseh had worked undercover for years, and she hadn’t lost her touch. They’d made it to the warehouse before Roger got there, and the two of them were now bemusedly working a sideline to what was apparently a countercoup.

  “He was just starting his rise back when I was in OrgCrime,” she continued. “Very smooth operator. Worked his way up in a very tough business. Did some strong-arm work to establish his rep, and clawed his way up, over the dead bodies of a couple of competitors, since. Polished on the surface, but more than a bit of a mad-dog underneath. Kidnapping is his style. So—” she glanced sideways at the prince “—is ‘disappearing’ the kidnap victim to avoid arrest or to punish an adversary.”

  “He’s associated with several operations,” Tebic said. “Theoretically, he could be almost anywhere, but he often uses this building for meetings.” Another hologram appeared: a four-story building with some rather large men hanging around the front door. “It’s a neighborhood association, technically. In fact, it’s where he often meets with the groups he controls. We’ve tried to bug it several times with no success—very tight security. Armed security, by the way, legally authorized to carry weapons.”

  “What Fritz is saying,” Subianto said, “is that because of our interest in Siminov, this particular building is always under electronic surveillance. And a woman matching the height and shape of your ‘Shara Stewart’ was seen being carried into the building. Since there was no missing persons report on her, it was assumed she was a street prostitute who’d run afoul of Siminov for some reason. The ImpCity PD wanted to do an entry on the basis that what we were seeing was a kidnap, assuming we could get a warrant. But the idea was shot down. If we did the entry and the presumed hooker had either ‘disappeared’ or refused—as she probably would—to swear out charges, we’d look like fools. Who is she, by the way?”

  “Nimashet Despreaux,” Roger ground out. “Sergeant Nimashet Despreaux. She’s also my fiancée, which makes her a rather important person.”

  “But not an identity we can use,” Subianto pointed out sourly. “Somehow I don’t think you want me going to a judge to report
that Siminov has kidnapped a woman wanted for high treason under an Imperial warrant. Which means we can’t use ImpCity tac-teams to spring her.”

  “I wouldn’t trust ImpCity SWAT to walk my dog,” Catrone said contemptuously, “much less to do an entry with a principal this important.”

  “They’re very good,” Tebic protested.

  “No, they’re not,” Catrone said definitely. “This is my profession. Trust me, they’re not very good at all, Mr. Tebic.”

  “We know where she is,” Roger said, “and we don’t have the ransom. So I’d best go get her.”

  “Like hell,” Catrone said. “Leave it to the professionals.”

  “Sergeant Major,” Roger snapped, “again, get the wax out of your ears. I am the professional!”

  “And you’re indispensable!” Eleanora snapped back at him. “You’re not going off on a Galahad mission, Roger. Yes, you’d probably be the best for the job, but you’re not getting in the line of fire. Get that through your head.”

  “Try to stop me,” Roger said coldly.

  “We’re on a tight schedule, here,” Catrone pointed out, “and we don’t have the personnel, associated with the main mission, or the time, to go rescue your girlfriend.”

  “We are not going to leave her to be chopped into pieces,” Roger said, coming to his feet with dangerous grace.

  “No, we’re not,” Catrone agreed calmly. “But you are essential for gaining entry to the Palace, and you can’t be in two places at one time. If you walk out of this room, I’m walking out of the mission, and so is everyone I’m bringing to the table. I can handle this; you don’t have to get any nearer. Do you know what I do for a living?”

  “Raise horses,” Roger said, “and draw your munificent pension.”

  “And train tac-teams,” Catrone said angrily. “You can’t get a weapon anywhere near Siminov’s offices; I can. And he’s got legal bodyguards that are armed; a sword isn’t going to do you a damned bit of good!”

  “You might be surprised,” Roger said quietly.

  “Maybe.” Catrone shrugged. “I’ve seen you operate. But, as I said, let the professionals handle this—and I know the professionals.”

  “Ms. Subianto,” Roger said, “I imagine it’s pretty clear what’s going on here.”

  “It was clear before our first meeting,” Subianto said. “I wasn’t aware it was this far along, but it was obvious what was going on. To me at least. I’m fairly sure no one else has connected the dots.”

  “We could use your help. Especially on current intelligence on movements and on details of Imperial City police security.”

  “I hate politics.” Subianto shook her head angrily. “Why can’t all you damned politicians solve your problems in council?”

  “I wish it could be so,” Roger said. “But it isn’t. And I hate politics, too, probably more than you do. I tried to avoid them as hard as I could, but . . . some are born to them, some force their way into them, and some are forced into them. In your case, the last. In mine, the first and last. Do you know what they’re doing to my mother?” he finished angrily.

  “Yes,” she said unhappily. “That was why I decided to ignore what was going on when you slid me that nice little ‘fatted calf’ code phrase. But that doesn’t mean I want to help you. Do you know what sort of a nightmare this is going to cause in Imperial City? In the Empire?”

  “Yes, I do. And I also know some of Adoula’s plans that you don’t. But I also know what there is of you in the public record, and what Temu said about you—and that you’re an honorable person. What’s happening is wrong. It’s bad for the Empire, and it’s going to get worse, not better, and you know damned well which side you should be on!”

  “No, I don’t,” Subianto said, “because I don’t know that what you’re doing is better for the Empire.”

  “Here we go again,” Kosutic groaned. “Look, forget everything you think you know about Master Rog unless you’re prepared to puke up your guts for about four hours.”

  “What does that mean?” Tebic asked.

  “She’s right,” Catrone said. “Ms. Subianto, you know something about me?”

  “I know quite a bit about you, Sergeant Major,” Subianto said dryly. “Counter-Intel considers keeping an eye on the Empress’ Own to be just good sense. You hear too many secrets to not be considered a security risk.”

  “Then trust my judgment,” Catrone said. “And Sergeant Major Kosutic’s. Roger isn’t the worthless shit he was when he left.”

  “Why, thank you, Sergeant Major.” Roger actually managed a chuckle. “Nicely . . . put.”

  “I’m starting to get that impression myself,” Subianto said dryly, “although I’m not so sure he hasn’t gone too far the other way. Almost cutting a suspect’s arm off to get him to talk doesn’t make me particularly thrilled about his judgment.”

  “You’re going to need to block out four hours some time, then,” Roger said. “After that, you’ll understand what I consider ‘appropriate’—and why. And that brings us back to Nimashet. Probably the only reason I didn’t cut off the bastard’s arm was Cord’s very cogent point that Nimashet would not approve. Even to save her,” he added bleakly.

  “I need to speak to this IBI agent you have attached to you,” Subianto said equivocally. “I don’t recognize his name.”

  “And there’s no record of him in the files,” Tebic said. “He’s a nonperson, as far as we’re concerned.”

  “He’s at the restaurant at the moment,” Roger said. “We need to get this operation to pull Despreaux worked out, though. I’ll get him headed over right away.”

  “I’ll call my people,” Catrone said. “Good thing we’ve got the datanet wired from here.”

  “This will not be a legal operation,” Eleanora pointed out.

  “I know. I’m not saying they’ll be happy to do it; I said they would do it. I thought about bringing them in on the main op, but . . . Well, I trust them, but not that far. Besides, they’re not combat troops—they’re tac-teams. There’s a fine line, but it’s real. For this, though, they’re perfect.”

  “Jin,” Roger said, as the IBI agent stepped into the meeting room at the warehouse. “You recognize Ms. Subianto, and this is Mr. Tebic.”

  “Ma’am.” Jin came to something like attention.

  “Mr. Jin,” Subianto replied with a nod.

  “There’s some question about your ID, Temu,” Roger said, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t appear to be listed in Mr. Tebic’s records. Anything you’d care to tell me?”

  “I was deep cover on Marduk,” Jin said uneasily. “Kyoko Pedza’s department. I got a coded message to go into the cold when this supposed coup occurred. I’ve sent two counter messages, requesting contact, but no response. Either Assistant Director Pedza has gone to ground, or he’s dead. I would estimate the latter.”

  “So would I,” Subianto sighed. “Which angers me. Kyoko and I have been good friends for many years. He was one of my first field supervisors.”

  “Assistant Director Pedza managed to dump lots of his files before he disappeared,” Tebic pointed out. “It’s not unlikely that Jin’s was one of them.”

  “And Jin has been . . . an extremely loyal agent,” Roger said. “He started covering for us long before we ever even met, and he was instrumental in getting us the weapons we needed to take the spaceport on Marduk. Capable, too; he cracked the datanet on the Saint ship in really remarkable time.”

  “Saint ship?” Subianto asked.

  “It would take far too long to explain even a fraction of our story, Ms. Subianto. The point is that Jin has been an extremely loyal aide. Loyal, I think, to the Empire first. He’s been assisting me because he sees it as his duty to the Empire.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Jin said. “I’m afraid I’m not one of your Companions, Your Highness—only an agent assisting in what I see as a legitimate operation under Imperial law against a conspiracy of traitors.”

  “But,” Subianto said, still
frowning, “while I know a great many of our operatives, at least by name, I’m sorry to say that I don’t recognize you at all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am,” Jin said politely.

  “What was your mission?”

  “Internal security monitoring,” Jin replied. “Keeping an eye on what the local governor was doing. I’d been compiling a report I was pretty sure would have landed him in prison, at the very least. But that’s not an issue anymore.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Roger said. “Based on the evidence against him, I gave him a field court-martial and had him executed.”

  “That was a little high-handed,” Subianto said, arching her eyebrows. “I don’t believe even the Heir Primus has the authority to arbitrarily order executions, however justified.”

  “It wasn’t ‘arbitrary,’” Roger said a trifle coldly. “You did hear me use the phrase ‘court-martial,’ didn’t you? I’m also a colonel of Marines, who happened to be on detached—very detached—duty. I discovered evidence of treason while operating under field conditions in which reference to headquarters was not, in my estimation, possible. It’s covered, Ms. Subianto. Every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed.”

  He held Subianto’s gaze for perhaps two heartbeats. Then the IBI agent’s eyes fell. It wasn’t a surrender, so much as an acknowledgment . . . and possibly a decision not to cross swords over a clearly secondary issue.

  “Mr. Jin,” she said instead, focusing on the other agent, “I’m sorry to say that Marduk is a fairly minor planet. Not exactly a critical, high-priority assignment, whatever the governor may have been up to. So I have to ask this—what is your IS rating?”

  Jin cleared his throat and shrugged.

  “Twelve,” he said.

  “TWELVE?” Roger stared at him. “Twelve?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Jin admitted. Twelve was the lowest Imperial Security rating possible for a field agent of the IBI.