The Accidental War

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Before the Convocation resumes its business this afternoon,” he said, “I should like to raise a point of personal privilege.”

  Despite the fact that she had known approximately what Lord Saïd would say, Sula felt a shimmer of anticipation at the Lord Senior’s words.

  “I should like to direct the attention of this assembly to a certain officer of the Fleet,” he said. “This officer bears a great name, which, though lately eclipsed, has provided the empire with many generations of brilliant leaders and faithful servants. She fought in the late war with great distinction and has earned the commendations of her superiors for her actions at Magaria, Naxas, and elsewhere.”

  Sula, in her full dress uniform with its double row of silver buttons, sat in the small visitors’ gallery above the assembly and heard the murmuring from the convocates as they tried to guess of whom the Lord Senior spoke. The six-hundred-odd desks of the convocates were laid out in graceful half circles centered on the Lord Senior’s dais and rose in tiers, each half circle higher than the one before it. Behind the Lord Senior was the glass wall that led onto the terrace of infamous memory, the terrace from which the Naxid rebels had been flung to their deaths; but against the strong afternoon sunlight the wall had been darkened, so that Lord Saïd would be more than just a silhouette against the bright background.

  “In fact,” Lord Saïd continued, “this assembly owes her a debt of gratitude, for after circumstances compelled us to abandon the capital, it was she who led the forces that recaptured the High City and scourged from this chamber the rebels who had fouled it for so long.”

  A stir ran through the amphitheater as the convocates realized the subject of Saïd’s address. A few faces turned up to the gallery to see if Sula was present. Sula felt the touch of their interest, and she felt her spine straighten and her chin rise as she presented herself to their gaze.

  The Lord Senior went on to praise her ancestors, who had served the Praxis as high-ranking Peers for hundreds of years, dating almost to the Shaa conquest of Earth, and then he wound up his address. “While the late Lord and Lady Sula were judged guilty of a crime against the Praxis, and paid for their crime with their lives, their punishment was not only directed against them, but against their descendants. Members of Clan Sula are forbidden to serve in the Convocation or in the civil service. Only a military career was open to Lady Sula.

  “But that career has been astounding, marked with nothing but success. Captain the Lady Sula has redeemed her name and her clan by her brilliant actions against the enemies of the Praxis, and in response I would like to conclude by moving that this assembly, in thanks to the champion of the High City, immediately restore Clan Sula to its ancient privileges.”

  There was some applause in the chamber as Lord Saïd fell silent, adjusted his brocade cloak, and sat on his chair. Several convocates had bounded to their feet in order to be recognized, and the Lord Senior recognized Lord Eldey.

  Eldey, an elderly Torminel with gray-and-brown fur and lamplike, night-adapted eyes, had followed Sula as governor of Zanshaa after the reconquest and had proven both able and sympathetic to the problems Sula had encountered at fighting a highly irregular ground war on her own, a war the very nature of which her superiors were bound to disapprove of. He spoke with admiration of Sula’s abilities and then seconded the Lord Senior’s motion.

  Eldey then surrendered some of his time to Lord Durward Li, whose son, Lord Richard, had been Sula’s commander on the heavy cruiser Dauntless before both he and Dauntless had been lost at First Magaria. Lord Durward was not a convocate himself and couldn’t have spoken without the cooperation of Eldey and Saïd. But with their permission, he spoke of his son’s admiration for Sula and her abilities and reminded the convocates that she had taken a First in the exams for lieutenant held just before the outbreak of war.

  After Lord Durward came Lord Chen, who served on the Fleet Control Board, and Chen was followed by Lord Roland Martinez. Sula viewed Roland with distaste—with his wide shoulders, long arms, and big hands, he resembled his younger brother, Gareth, and he spoke with the same provincial Laredo accent.

  She hadn’t asked Roland to speak, and she wondered who had, and if Lamey’s influence extended as far as Clan Martinez.

  What could Lamey have to do with Roland Martinez, or anyone else in the Martinez family? If they were in some kind of alliance, an alliance to accomplish what? For a moment, even as Roland praised her to the Convocation, she felt a strong, sudden sense of her own helplessness—she was caught up in a web of relationships and objectives that she clearly didn’t understand, and that meant that she was someone’s pawn. Possibly not even Lamey’s pawn, but that of the person behind him.

  Roland was followed by Lord Ngeni, who had been Roland’s patron before his own rise to the Convocation, and then by Lord Yoshitoshi, who like Lord Chen was a Martinez in-law. Others rose to speak, strangers whose connection to any of the others was not apparent, and as yet there was no dissent. Not one spoke in favor of continuing the ban on Clan Sula.

  And then members of the Convocation began to rise from their seats, first a few scattered members, then whole groups. Eventually everyone rose, including Sula in the gallery, and she knew this would be a fight after all.

  Lord Tork entered the room in silence. The gray-skinned and cadaverous Daimong was approaching the age of ninety, but despite his advanced age, he had organized the loyalist Fleet and then led it to victory at the Second Battle of Magaria, and afterward he had been awarded the unprecedented title of Supreme Commander of the Fleet.

  That his tactics had been clumsy and wasteful, and resulted in more casualties among the loyalist forces than were necessary, was a minority opinion shared by Sula and other younger officers. Tork was perfectly aware of this and viewed Sula with distaste when he did not view her with hatred. He looked at her unorthodox behavior in the war as a threat to the perfect ways of his ancestors; and he had done his best to keep her unemployed, and her part in the war obscure. Tork’s malevolence would last a long time, since victory had so secured his grip on the Fleet that, like the Lord Senior, he would probably only leave office when carried out in his coffin.

  What had caused the Convocation to rise to its feet was not Tork’s rank, but the baton in his gray, ever-dying hand. This was the Golden Orb, the empire’s highest military decoration. It consisted of an ornate golden baton topped by a crystal sphere filled with a golden liquid that swirled in layers and bands, like the clouds of a gas giant. So prestigious was the award that every person in government service, civilian and military, was required to rise to their feet in the Orb’s presence. Only two Orbs had been awarded during the entire war, one to Tork, and the other to Gareth Martinez.

  Sula couldn’t claim to be a fan of either.

  Tork may have been Supreme Commander, but he was a professional officer of the Fleet, not a member of the Convocation. If Sula succeeded in becoming a convocate, she could end up his boss.

  Maybe, she thought, she could keep him waiting in an anteroom for a long afternoon.

  At any rate, that prospect was clearly not to Tork’s taste. No doubt he’d heard of the motion before the Convocation and hurried over from the Commandery as quickly as his ancient legs could propel him.

  “My Lord Senior,” Tork said, in the bell-like tones of his species. “I respectfully request permission to address the Convocation.”

  Lord Saïd, standing in the Orb’s presence, waved his wand of office gracefully. “The Supreme Commander is always welcome to address this assembly.”

  “I wish to offer a few remarks on the Lord Senior’s motion,” Tork said. His beautiful voice seemed to shimmer in the air. “I prefer not to comment on the details of Lady Sula’s career, but to remark generally on the morale and tradition of the service.”

  Tork’s black, unblinking eyes scanned left and right at the standing ranks of convocates in their wine-red jackets. He had not given them permission to sit, and under his blank gaze the assemb
ly shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

  “There were many in the Fleet who served bravely and capably,” Tork said. “They did so without hope of reward or favor, united as they were by the knowledge that all who served would be rewarded equally by the preservation of the Praxis and the restoration of a way of life built by the Great Masters together with our ancestors. The morale of the Fleet was sustained by shared hardship and danger, and the knowledge of the great purpose that drove them.”

  The tone of Tork’s melodious voice shifted, became more insistent. “But what will become of that morale, that unity, when this assembly chooses to honor only a single officer, while offering the others no awards at all? I offer no disparagement of Captain the Lady Sula, but I would like to state firmly that offering her rewards beyond those she has already earned will, in my opinion, certainly damage the service.”

  Sula wondered if her sneer was visible from the dais below. What damage had been done to Fleet morale, she wondered, when the Convocation had given Tork, a single officer, not only the Golden Orb, but the unprecedented rank of Supreme Commander?

  The Lord Senior offered a lazy wave of his wand. “I would like to offer a clarification to my friend the Supreme Commander,” he said. “My motion was not to offer Lady Sula any extraordinary reward. The motion offers her no commands, no promotions or decorations, but rather intends to restore the ancient rights that have long attached to her family.”

  Lord Tork hesitated. The ancient rights of established Peer families were a part of the tradition for which he had fought. Without them, without the privilege that had enfolded him from the day of his birth, the Praxis would hardly have been worth defending at all.

  “The officers of the Fleet may not understand your lordship’s distinction,” Tork said. “They would, however, know that it is the prerogative of the Supreme Commander to approve awards.”

  Saïd’s orator’s voice seemed to offer nothing but understanding and sympathy. “I have every confidence that the officers of the Fleet have the intelligence and understanding to know that your prerogative is in no way being usurped,” he said.

  While Saïd’s voice had grown silky, Tork’s timbre now grew discordant. “I strongly advise against this motion! This will not be received well!”

  Not by Tork, anyway, Sula thought. She was enjoying the debate, not only because her side was winning, but because her enemy Tork was getting a thumping. She had served under Tork and knew he was a bully in debate, repeating his views over and over, with ever-increasing stridency, until he overwhelmed all opposition. But never before had he taken on the full Convocation, hundreds of able orators whose noble antecedents equaled or exceeded his own.

  “I’m sure this assembly will give full weight to the Supreme Commander’s views,” Saïd said.

  “I wish also to make a correction!” Tork said. His voice sounded like tortured metal. “Lady Sula was not commended by her superiors after the Battle of Magaria, as the Lord Senior stated!”

  Now that, Sula thought, was just petty. There was a moment of silence in the chamber as the convocates absorbed Tork’s small-minded retort.

  It was Roland Martinez who begged then to be recognized, and then shot the Supreme Commander’s feet out from under him. “I’m sure the Lord Senior referred not to your lordship’s victory at the Second Battle of Magaria,” he said, “but to the First, in which Lady Sula in her pinnace succeeded in destroying no less than five enemy warships. I believe, Lord Tork, that you decorated her personally.”

  Which completed the rout. Lord Tork begged permission to withdraw, and permission was duly granted. The Convocation gratefully returned to their seats. A half-hearted debate followed, in which Tork’s clients and adherents duly registered their support for the Supreme Commander’s views, but the debate died away, and the Lord Senior called the question. The motion passed overwhelmingly on a voice vote.

  On the instant, Roland Martinez sprang to his feet, turned to face Sula in the gallery, and began to applaud. The applause spread through the chamber, and the convocates who had stood for the Golden Orb now stood for Sula.

  Sula rose to her feet, smiling, and for a tingling instant bathed in the warmth of the chamber’s approval. Her heart lifted, but she knew that she was not the object of the Convocation’s approval. She was not a member of an ancient Peer family, she had not been raised in a mansion in Zanshaa’s acropolis, she had never been swaddled in an atmosphere of privilege, and the only right her ancestors had ever possessed was the right to toe the line or die. If the Convocation knew her true identity, they would have ordered her torture and execution with the same enthusiasm with which they now applauded her.

  As she turned to the different corners of the chamber with her arm raised, she noticed a message of congratulations shining on the sleeve display of her uniform tunic. It was from Lamey.

  She managed to keep herself from scowling just in time, but the thought had already entered her mind. What does he really want?

  Chapter 5

  The reception hall at the Martinez Palace echoed with the sounds of servants preparing the afternoon’s fete. Encountering his brother by the drinks counter, Martinez paused to ask the question that had been occupying his mind.

  “Why does Sula get to be a convocate? Why not, for example, myself?”

  “Our family already has a convocate,” Roland said.

  “Other families have more than one,” Martinez said. “The Ngenis, for example. The Yoshitoshis. Or the Akzads.”

  Roland picked up a crystal goblet and viewed it against the light shining in from the clerestory. “The Akzads were traitors who were thrown off a cliff at the end of the war.”

  “True, but irrelevant to my point.”

  Roland put down the goblet and patted Martinez on the arm. “Your day will come, Gareth.”

  “When?” Martinez spread his hands. “Not only am I a war hero and a brilliant yacht captain with a following throughout the empire, but I’m married to the future Lady Chen, who is almost certain to become a convocate on her father’s death.”

  “And that would make three of you.” Roland sighed. “If you can convince Lord Saïd to bring your candidacy before the Convocation, then I’m sure I and all your friends will be happy to vote for the motion.”

  Suspicion entered Martinez’s mind. “How did you get the Lord Senior to back your Sula scheme?”

  “I didn’t. That was your father-in-law.”

  Martinez felt taken aback. “It’s more than he’s ever done for me.”

  “Lord Chen’s an old friend and ally of Lord Saïd, and Saïd was also a particular friend of Lady Sula’s grandmother and remembers little baby Sula fondly. Once prompted, the Lord Senior was happy to do the family a favor.”

  Martinez raised an eyebrow. “Little baby Sula? How adorable she must have been, crawling about the nursery with a knife in her teeth and a grenade in her tiny fist.”

  There was a stir by the door to indicate the arrival of the first guests.

  “I don’t suppose Sula’s going to be here today?” Martinez asked. At the thought he felt an invisible hand close, just slightly, on his windpipe.

  Roland peered over his brother’s shoulder to see who had arrived. “No,” he said shortly. “She doesn’t have enough money. We’re here to raise funds, after all.”

  You’re here to raise funds, Martinez thought. I’m here because I have nothing else to do.

  He had been unemployed since the war, save for an appointment as Lord Inspector of the Fleet for Laredo, Chee, and Parkhurst, an appointment intended as meaningless, but which had enabled him to do some useful work after all. But there had been nothing since then. He had been promoted from junior to senior captain, but that happened automatically after five years and could only have been prevented by his resignation or his conviction for treason or some other serious crime.

  And all that while his wife, Terza, had been rising at the Ministry of Right and Dominion, the civilian agency that supported th
e Fleet.

  Because of his wife’s prominence, he’d been obliged to join Terza in a long series of receptions, balls, dinners, and entertainments—and when she wasn’t so occupied, his brother and sisters were always inviting him to one event or another. Most of the events had one thing in common, which was that Martinez envied almost everyone else present. They all seemed to have work, or if not work exactly, some meaningful way to spend their time. If they were not serving in the government or the Convocation, they were hardworking merchants or financiers or builders; and if they were so rich or well placed or lucky they had no job at all, they occupied themselves with bankrolling theater or ballet companies, with amateur sports, with collecting art or supporting concert halls.

  Martinez had founded the Corona Club out of desperation—racing gave him both an occupation and the public recognition that helped him to convince himself that he hadn’t ceased to exist.

  The new arrivals at the Martinez Palace turned out to be Vipsania and her husband, Lord Convocate Oda Yoshitoshi, a distinguished-looking, white-haired man a couple decades older than his wife. Though he was now a perfectly respectable figure in the top echelon of the High City, Martinez knew enough about him to guess at depravities somewhere in his past, enough to run up a considerable amount of debt. Roland had purchased the debt, and with it Lord Oda, who was now a faithful and indulgent husband and compliant member of Roland’s faction in the Convocation. Should Lord Oda step out of line, Roland would bring the debt to the attention of Oda’s uncle, Lord Yoshitoshi, who would almost certainly disinherit him.

  Roland preferred his in-laws tractable, and for that he was willing to spend money. He’d purchased Lord Oda, he’d saved Lord Chen from bankruptcy, and he’d stripped his onetime father-in-law, Lord Zykov, of his considerable fortune—but then Zykov had been trying to do the same to him, so that was perfectly all right.

  Martinez greeted Lord Oda and kissed his sister on the cheek. She gave him a businesslike look. “We’re wrapping up our war series,” she said. “I’d like you interviewed again—just a few questions to clear up a few last-minute issues.”