A Conspiracy of Whispers

by Ada Harper

  Olivia saved him from the blunder by introducing herself. “Olivia Shaw.”

  Alais swept past Galen’s frown. “Alais de Verdis, heir to the Duchy of Vhehaden province, ruiner of reputations, lady of scandals.”

  “Charmed.” Olivia didn’t take the hand that Alais offered, though she eyed her with curiosity. “Those are quite the titles to live up to.”

  “They’re quite the titles to earn. I nearly impressed myself.”

  “If you three are done,” Sabine interrupted, stiff in her chair, “I have business with my brother and I am not in the habit of being kept waiting.”

  Alais murmured her excuses, bowed deep to the empress and departed. Only then did Galen ease, watching with amusement as Olivia took in the rooms. Sabine’s private sitting room was an airy affair filled with artful relics and pots of meticulously kept plants. So many pre-Crisis artifacts were intended as a show of wealth and power, but Galen knew it for the personality quirk it was. That was Sabine: a love for growing things at conflict with a desire for nothing to ever change.

  Olivia perched at the edge of her seat, and Galen couldn’t tell whether it was the artifacts or presence of green things indoors that fascinated her more. Galen had the sudden urge to buy his mate a private greenhouse.

  Sabine had held her tongue through Alais’s exit, but as the door swung closed she rose. “Now then. It’s good to see you well, brother.”

  Galen made to bow, but was swept up into a hug before he could execute it. Sabine clapped his shoulders and held him at arm’s length, giving them both a chance to study each other. She was nearly as tall as him. Height and discipline ran in their family. His sister had always been gifted with the darker, more striking looks, but her brown skin seemed dull under the eyes, her lips a little too finely pressed.

  He ignored all that in favor of a formal response. “I have much to report, Highness.”

  “I would hope so. We expected to see you several days ago.” Sabine’s smile sharpened, releasing him to take her seat at her desk.

  There it was, the question. Galen kept his eyes straight. “I was delayed. There were complications following a lead.”

  “Is that so?” And Sabine’s gaze shifted in increments to his side.

  Olivia knew her cue. She bobbed her head in what Galen cringingly judged to be the world’s most sloppy bow. It was not the bow of a humble exile requesting political asylum. It was an acknowledgment of a challenge. “Olivia Shaw. Formerly of the Syn Department of Whispers. Guess that makes me the lead.” Her eyes locked with the empress’s when she added, “And the complication.”

  Sabine’s smile balanced on a knife-edge before tipping over into something more authentic. She inclined her head again to Galen. It was a silent, tacit acceptance, if only the first of several Galen would need from her. “It appears you have much to tell me. Let’s begin.”

  An aide brought them coffee, poured into paper-thin bone china. Olivia paused and turned the cup around twice looking for a mug handle before wrinkling her nose and awkwardly pinching the cup at its filigreed rim. Sabine observed this with mute amusement, sipping her drink with the cup held in the traditional three-finger grip.

  Galen summarized the events she surely already knew from Lyre’s reports. He described the confrontation with Henley and Olivia’s role. The devices found at the comms tower. He summarized his suspicions based on the movements of mercenaries and rebels they encountered in the Caeweld. He glided over the deaths of his soldiers, with a look in his eyes that dared the empress to make a point of it. She didn’t. She didn’t even respond to his intelligence suspicions. Perhaps she didn’t feel comfortable continuing the brief in front of Olivia.

  “What an unusual series of coincidences,” Sabine murmured. “Wouldn’t you say, Miss Shaw?”

  Or perhaps Olivia became the brief. Sabine’s attention narrowed as she began to ask Olivia questions. His hackles raised, but he bit down on the instinct to intercede. He intended to make Olivia family—she already was family to his senses, whether she acknowledged the bond or not—so some measure of sniffing out between her and his sister would be necessary. In any case, Olivia never quailed from a fight.

  Galen started the interrogation tense, but found his tension slowly easing into fascination as Olivia and Sabine traded verbal feints. Olivia appeared to quickly realize she could not match Sabine for clever verbal traps so she fell back to a simple defense. For every nettled insinuation Sabine placed, Olivia found a way to agree with it by misunderstanding. It wasn’t Olivia’s sharp, glib norm, but only Galen and perhaps Lyre were familiar enough to note that. She reached for the simplest, dullest answers possible that landed like cannon volleys amid Sabine’s subtle traps. A humble, stubborn ignorance that repeatedly sent Sabine searching for a different avenue of inquiry. His sister remained calm and amiable throughout, but Galen knew where to look to detect the irritated twitch hidden at her jaw. The flex of fingers against her coffee cup that she’d never quite trained out.

  Olivia knew nothing of noble games, she’d claimed, but she’d managed to perplex a spider queen. A glow warmed his chest and Galen was torn between deep pride at the woman he had at his side and a deep foreboding about how Sabine would balance the scales later. Either way, Galen felt a rightness that made him wish they had been received in the senate today. So everyone could see the endless surprises and brilliance of the woman who would be his wife. His mate. Nothing felt more rewarding, more certain, right then.

  The showdown ended with Olivia slurping her coffee with much more noise than was precisely necessary. Sabine’s mask broke just long enough for her to rub her temple and flick a weary look at her brother. He hoped it was a sign she’d accept the next part, when Sabine began to pick at a public cover for Olivia’s stay.

  “Simple,” Galen said. “We’ll announce a mate candidacy.”

  Sabine gave an incredulous huff. “A courtship? That’s too dramatic to be believable.”

  “That’s what I said,” Olivia muttered.

  Galen said, “Not if it’s true.”

  Bone china clicked on the table. Sabine paled. “That’s...absolutely not.”

  “It’s also not up for debate,” Galen said. “Even the empress can’t dictate a bond.”

  His sister visibly struggled for a response, picking and casting aside admonishments as her eyes flicked first to Olivia, then Galen, then stilled. “You’re mistaken. Think how it will look. A mate bond with a random Syndicate gutter—”

  “Select—” Galen’s temper flared and he bit his words hard “—your next words carefully, sister. That is what you’re best at.”

  Sabine stilled. She turned a displeased look at Olivia, who had, with uncharacteristic wisdom, stayed quiet. “Your people breed in a lab. How can you understand the significance of a bond?”

  “I don’t know if I can understand,” Olivia said slowly, causing Galen’s heart to fall. She studied her hands before looking up. “What I understand is myself. And what I experience isn’t...sensible. I trust Galen. In the Caeweld, I didn’t hesitate to trust him. That’s not sensible, especially not for me. I feel a lot of...nonsense when we’re together, and then I feel even more nonsense when we’re apart. It’s irritating. I understand that there’s a lot I don’t understand, but I’m here because I intend to find out.”

  It was...the most Olivia-like confession of feelings. Awkward and eloquent in its avoidance and...honest. The honesty was new. A swell of emotion clogged Galen’s throat. He reached for her hand. Her cheeks were pink, radiating discomfort. She looked rather like she’d faced an execution squad, really.

  It was a start. It took every bit of strength to will the grin off his face. He cleared his throat. “Are you satisfied, sister?”

  “No. But it’s no matter.” She composed herself. “You discover a compatibility bond with the Red Wolf of the Empire at the exact same moment you become a
fugitive of justice. How startlingly fortunate for you.” She let the accusation hang in the air. For a moment she looked as if she wasn’t certain whether she wanted to embrace or throttle the woman in front of her. Galen knew exactly how that felt. “In exchange for cooperation, we will deny the Syndicate their extradition based on a candidacy of a bond. I will not face the ridicule should either of you change your mind when this honeymoon period fades. Of course—” Sabine saved a significant look for Olivia, full of meaning that was easy to read “—should you find your feelings mistaken, the crown would provide for you as a diplomatic guest.”

  Royal speak for “I can make disappearing profitable for you.”

  “Your Highness is too generous,” Olivia said dryly.

  Galen let out a slow breath. Good, all that was left would be to make their farewells. Sabine would surely draw him back for hours of endless strategy but if he could get Olivia settled, it would put the last of his creeping anxiety at—

  “I want to talk to Yoshi,” Olivia said as she stood. Galen kept his groan mostly in his chest. Olivia looked drained but determined. “I know Lyre can get a pulse feed into the Syndicate.”

  “An unauthorized communication? Why, that would break our peace treaties,” Lyre said with false horror as she entered with her usual sense of timing. Having listened to everything, no doubt.

  “I thought we were cooperating. Unless the Imperial meaning of that word only goes one way.”

  Olivia was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles, but Galen already felt a headache coming on as Lyre prepared to draw it out. “Enough, Lyre.”

  Lyre shot a flicker of a look to where Sabine sat. Whatever unspoken communication passed between Empress and spymaster was enough. Lyre shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

  Galen diverted Olivia out of the royal residence before she could find another demand to make.

  * * *

  “Are all nobles like that?” Olivia asked as soon as they were away from the empress’s quarters.

  Galen considered whether she meant Sabine or Alais before deciding there was not enough time to explain his sister. “Yes and no. Lady Alais has somewhat of a reputation as I understand it.”

  “The lady of scandals thing?”

  “A difficulty with her inheritance of title. Her mother has stipulated it’s upon marriage—some land-grab scheme the family’s enthralled in. She’s put it off long enough that it’s become quite an issue.”

  Olivia pursed her lips. “Why? I don’t know how you lot view altus women here—they’re rare in the Syn. But she’s obviously good enough looking—”

  “That’s—that’s not the problem.” Galen felt his cheeks heat. “It’s not for me to say.”

  He caught a gleam in her eyes and quickly added. “Or you to ask.” Though he was sure Alais would jump at the chance of scandalizing some new audience. The woman had no sense of propriety.

  “Well, that makes it sound more interesting.”

  “That’s how they get you. Leave the games to Lyre.”

  Olivia sighed. “Is there anyone in this blessed Empire who isn’t constantly planning psychological warfare?”

  “Depends how you feel about the company of children,” an amused voice interrupted.

  A sweet tobacco smoke hit his nose. Galen turned, following the cigar smell to the familiar owner of the voice. Maris leaned against a planter, peering at her over the stub of her cigar. She was a short, older woman, swallowed up by a pile of lace and color. Red warred with violet warred with yellow, and all of it warred with warm olive skin lined with age. It was like a wave of neon when she pushed away from the wall and approached them.

  “Maris,” Galen said with more grace than he felt. He knew all of court would be curious about his guest but he’d anticipated they’d wait to pounce until they were formally announced. However, Maris was not a woman to wait. Or pounce, thankfully. She took in Olivia with warm interest. “Liv, Maris is the royal physician and senior matron of...” He hesitated.

  “Marm of the caricae court.” Maris’s lip curled around her cigar.

  Caricae court. That sounds so sinister now. He’d never thought of it that way, but spending time around Olivia had put new light on a lot of things Galen had taken for granted. Olivia shot him a look dripping with accusation. Maris burst out in laughter.

  “Not like that. Plenty of families send their kids to foster here, young things apprenticing in the staff pool, older ones playing politics, all in hopes they catch a noble’s eye—for an evening. Unless they have a bond family proper, they stay in the residence wing with me. I just keep the brats out of trouble.” Maris leaned in. Galen got a lungful of sweet smoke as she clapped Olivia’s shoulder. “You’re all right, kiddo. The Liar warned me you would be skittish.”

  “I am not skittish.”

  “Right then.” Maris made a shooing motion in Galen’s direction. “Go on then. I’ll take her from here.”

  Galen frowned even as he was driven back a step by tiny fluttering hands. “Olivia doesn’t need a chaperon—”

  “She’s mated then? I don’t see any family torque on that pretty little neck.”

  Olivia’s gaze landed on his collarbone. A torque indicated what noble house you were allegiant to, and Galen wore the straight simple gold and silver lines of house de Corvus. Soldiers didn’t wear them in the field, but Galen had hastily clapped his back on before they met with Sabine. Olivia glanced back to Maris. “Where’s yours then?”

  “Me?” Maris barely came up to Olivia’s nose when she straightened. “My mate passed years ago. I’m my own house.”

  “Huh.” The cogs turned visibly in Olivia’s head, slotting that information into her growing understanding of Imperial society. He worried what shape that would take now; Maris had a flair for storytelling, and had known him a very long time.

  His fears were well-founded when Maris took possession of Olivia’s elbow again. “A tour, come. I’ll show you the ballroom where wee-Galen once streaked naked as a fish.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  This country was going to give Olivia a headache. She followed Maris up and down hallways, her caricae guide a stomping froth of lace against the crusted decor of the palace. Every surface, wall, floor had embellishment on it: gold flourishes glowed in artificial brass light, backed by careless murals from a forgotten time. Every alcove had a table and every table had a priceless trinket. At the juncture of one hallway, Olivia paused long enough to look down and see fantastical creatures capering under her feet in a mosaic. A strange gray boulder of a creature with a nose like a firehose, a bear so white that it had to be a failure of old pigments. She’d taken note of the age and wealth of the estate as they’d arrived, but inside it swallowed her senses whole. The air was filtered, canned but still heavy with sweetmeats, bitter smoke, and the chemical smell of freshened fabrics.

  It was so much. It roiled through Olivia’s senses and into her stomach, adding to the stew of tension there. She’d left the Syn, she’d jumped a train and negotiated with royals, all to come to the Empire but it still felt like falling. Everything was strange here and everyone a stranger. While she’d been holding Galen’s hand, his rumbling amusement bantering in her ear as his rough palm sent sparks of ridiculous feelings curling up her wrist, she could handle it. Galen was an undeniable, immobile presence anywhere and Olivia found herself using it as an anchor when the rest of her life had fallen to chaos.

  But then Galen had let go of her hand and the world was tilting again. She was still trying to process it as Maris gave her a shorthand orientation. She was explaining that the caricae court was less of a sequester and more of a social construct. The Imperial noble families were fussy about appearances, so any young, unpartnered caricaes who stayed at Ameranthe were housed in a private corner of the estate’s residential wing. Caricaes and young children only, though everyon
e was free to come and go.

  She meant it to be reassuring, but Olivia didn’t feel relief. It felt like a prelude, a prettied-up and rationalized beginning to everything she’d run from. It didn’t seem like that big of a jump from courts and apartments to locked doors. From locked doors to mandatory registration.

  “Olivia?” Maris’s voice cut through, easily missed over the sound of fast wheezing. Oh. That was her. They’d stopped in front of a new set of doors, and Olivia had the impression that she’d been staring at it blankly for longer than was polite.

  Maris frowned around her cigar and pressed cold, precise fingers along Olivia’s neck. Somehow, that helped. Olivia blinked back at her, finding her voice. “What if I want to stay somewhere else—is there, I don’t know, a bunk near the shuttles or something?”

  “We can see...” Maris said it slowly, as if Olivia had just asked for lodging with wraicath. “But why don’t I show you the residences first, see how you like them, eh?”

  “Fine,” Olivia said, and couldn’t help it coming out short and terse.

  Maris nodded, an irritating sympathy in her eyes, and opened the doors to a wide, sunny space. Private rooms were arranged around a glass-roofed courtyard lounge with a lived-in appeal. Olivia stepped out of the hallway and felt an instant relief. The lounge was decorated with couches rather than antiques, tufted fabrics rather than gilt edges. It was still loud and fussy by Syndicate standards, but Olivia no longer felt caught in the jaws of a very fancy trap.

  “Private rooms to each side, and a large shared bath down the hall. Better than a shuttle bunk, I’d think.” Maris watched her reaction carefully, and Olivia was forced to nod her assent. Maris smiled, ignoring the curious looks they got from the other lounge residents.