A Conspiracy of Whispers

by Ada Harper

  “First thing’s first.” She gestured to the wall. “Press your hand here.”

  Olivia did so. When her full palm rested against the smooth plaster near the door, the paint began to change, seeping and bleeding into new patterns before lighting up.

  “CHARIS, please authorize Olivia Shaw for diplomatic guest access,” Maris said.

  The wall grew warm under Olivia’s palm, and the paints smoothed to rippling lines. The voice was cheerful and localized, though Olivia couldn’t discern a speaker. “Welcome, Ms. Shaw.”

  “Oh. Um—just Olivia is fine.” Her brow raised to Maris. An AI built into the facilities. That explained the lack of pulsebands or slate tablets that were common in the Syn. Olivia felt naked without hers. “CHARIS?”

  “Crown Household Asset and Regulatory Interface System.” Maris noted Olivia’s stiff surprise. “I take it you don’t work with AI much in the Syn.”

  “We don’t make a habit of building anything that could replace us.” Any artificial intelligence fancier than a scripted holo-character was banned for anyone but the government.

  “Please be reassured. I find the existence of my residents very pleasing.”

  “Oh, good, we’re pets.” Olivia withdrew her palm while Maris rattled off some additional authorizations to CHARIS. When it was done, the mural sank back to its original state and Maris guided her toward the couches.

  “CHARIS manages everything that needs managing in the estate, from security to dinner orders. If you need anything, just talk to a wall, she’ll be listening.” Maris tilted her head as if realizing how that sounded. “She’s very discreet.”

  “And I thought FL-AIs were bad,” Olivia muttered. As they approached the sitting area, Maris launched into introductions that Olivia couldn’t hope to remember. By the end of it, she had a dozen names, three offers for tea, and one crumbled cookie a quiet kid in large glasses had pushed into her hands.

  Everyone was friendly, endearing even. Olivia felt guilty for the way her mind kept half engaged with pleasantries. The other half was occupied with quietly cataloging, trying to figure out the motives and dangers of what wasn’t said.

  After they’d made a round, Maris beckoned a teenage boy over who Olivia gauged to be about fourteen. He was rangy, with a close-shaved head and bright blue eyes, and put on a skeptical frown as he shook Olivia’s hand.

  “This is Kieran. Court gofer. He’ll show you around for a day or two until you get your feet wet.” Maris silenced the groan of protest that started in Kieran’s throat. Olivia might have groaned too; she didn’t do great with kids. She had barely learned to hold a conversation with Emeric’s little brother. “Kieran, this is Olivia, a guest of the duke’s who comes to us from the Syndicate. Don’t be shitty.”

  “Hey,” Olivia managed.

  “Hey,” said Kieran with just as much enthusiasm. His gaze drifted to her shoulder holster. “That a gun?”

  “It is.”

  “You shoot people with it?”

  “Only when someone needs shooting.”

  Kieran’s eyes widened, a glint of interest springing up before he remembered himself. The teenager sniffed, voice just on the edge of intrigued. “That’s cool.”

  “Every noble child learns to shoot, but Kieran has ambitions to join the scouts,” Maris said in a false sotto.

  That explained her choice of guide. “Well, I’m a Whisper, not a scout.”

  “Whisper?” Kieran momentarily forgot all about being disinterested. “A Syndicate Whisper? Like Zen Kyree?”

  Olivia turned helpless eyes to Maris.

  “A procedural holo series popular now. Set in what I can only suspect is a very fantastical depiction of the Syndicate since we don’t get many facts,” Maris explained. “The hero is a Whisper. Her uniform is slightly less...extensive.”

  “Ah.” Olivia turned back to Kieran. “Exactly not like Zen Kyree.”

  “Cool. Cool.” Kieran was unaffected. He appeared ready to launch into a new series of questions but Maris shooed him off. The teenager slunk off with a disaffected air that didn’t quite match the “Shit, guys, she’s an assassin” they heard hollered once he cleared the corner.

  Maris watched him go thoughtfully. “Well, now, that one’s nearly as dazzled as Galen.”

  “He’s a little young for my tastes,” Olivia said. They began walking toward what would be Olivia’s quarters. “Besides, I have a hard time imagining Galen starry-eyed precisely.”

  “That’s only because you didn’t know him before.” Maris led Olivia into a tidily appointed bedroom that was nearly the size of her old apartment. She left Olivia to gape at the door while she fussed at the closet. “The Wolf nickname was just as much an indicator of his personality as his military reputation. Standoffish, cold. Half of that was noble rumor from those that didn’t know him, of course, but...”

  Olivia was not quite able to match that with smiling Galen, steady Galen, storming and sentimental Galen. “Well, he’s certainly single-minded like one.” She found a depressed square on the wall near the bed and toyed with it until she found the setting that let her play with the lights. It served as a good fidget for her thoughts. “He’s...insistent.”

  “I’ve been here since Sabine took the throne. She was in for a hell of a fight to keep it. Both of them had to empty themselves out, you see, to manage it. He’s never given any indication of wanting more than to secure her rule. Or more like I’ve never heard him express a single desire that wasn’t related to troops and firepower.” Maris surfaced, heaving a pile of slithery fabric into Olivia’s arms. A crooked smile sprang up around the cigar. “Then he showed up three days late, with you and a new backbone.”

  Olivia clutched the bundle blankly as she placed the facts in the larger puzzle that was Galen de Corvus. It never occurred to her to think of royalty and wealth in terms of what they gave up, but it made sense. Galen’s sense of duty, his single-mindedness. But that dedication also struck Olivia as a vulnerability. He had hollowed himself out for his sister, so it’d be easy to expect, with that privileged simplicity, that others would hollow themselves for him. It was why, perhaps, he had been so certain of Olivia’s welcome to the Empire: he wanted her here, so everyone else would, too.

  But Olivia was not a noble, and knew hollowness was not in people’s nature. The playing board was not full of pawns to be commanded, it was full of players with hungry ambitions of their own. Good, bad, or indifferent.

  Galen was intelligent, brilliant at strategic combat, but he was too good a person to see that. It made her feel oddly protective of him.

  Maris was still waiting for an answer, Olivia realized. “Galen’s never struck me as lacking in backbone.”

  “He’s a big marshmallow for family. Don’t tell our enemies.” Maris winked and fluttered her hands at the clothes. “Put those on. We’re going to be late.”

  “Late for what?” Olivia regarded the tangle of silks and stiff collars like a trap. At least until Maris answered with a larger one.

  “The nobles’ favorite playground: racing.”

  * * *

  In the small time she’d had to mentally prepare for Ameranthe, there’d been a few things Olivia expected. Nobles with too much money and time, wasting both on formal dinners, maybe gluttonous pleasure cruises on private aetheric crafts. The rich of the Syndicate were forever circling in the same intensely insular circles, never leaving their holo-bedecked towers of expensive alcohol and designer synths. She figured Imperial rich would be much the same. Hobnobbing, fancy dress, maybe some chuffy handshakes.

  A floating platform amid the mock ruins of a mock city was not on her list. It was the structures she’d caught a glimpse of as they landed, but up close, she could see wide flanks of perma-plast and steel beams set up at angles to give the impression of city streets. Tight alleyways and wide avenues all crisscrossing at patently useles
s angles. And in the midst of it, a platform rose out of the concrete, already full of glittering, twittering nobles.

  Maris led her up the steps, plowing determinedly through the clusters of elites with Kieran trailing in their wake. Olivia had previously thought Maris’s outfit would be impossible to lose, but she had to struggle to keep up. It was crowded enough to make Olivia feel anxious, and she caught only impressions of the other attendees as they passed. Military men and women clanking with too many medals, senators in the ridiculous high-necked, embroidered tunics that Olivia guessed were a mark of state, and lithe figures of both genders in colorful silks and outrageous jewels. Some were engaged in gilt-edged conversation, but most were idly occupied by palm-sized slates that Olivia supposed was the Imperial version of a pulse feed.

  Maris expertly found an eddy of space by the platform railing where they wouldn’t get nudged into unwanted conversation. It gave Olivia the time to gawk properly, take in the platform. It was bi-level. A sunny lower level where they all were now, marked with small clusters of nobles and politicians and milling waiters offering refreshment and recording bets. Blank screens hung at either end of the platform, probably to simulcast the event. “What kind of race is this?”

  “Aethercloaks.” Maris made a vague gesture that was not at all helpful. “I hear today will include a combat demonstration for the military altusii.”

  Olivia frowned. The military power of the Empire didn’t get featured much on Syndicate feeds, mostly because the Syn government was intent on convincing the civilians of their own superiority. But she knew from the little information she got as a Whisper that Imperials were forever prototyping absurd and creative new tactical weapons. After meeting Galen, she understood how absurd that could be. “Aethercloaks? Like some kind of craft or...?”

  “Maneuvering gear for aerial flight.” Galen’s voice turned her head, and the rest of him held her attention.

  Olivia had seen Galen in precisely two outfits: the increasingly filthy fatigues of the Caeweld, and the ill-fitting clothes he’d stolen in the Syn. She’d never seen him in crisp wool and leather supple enough to follow every line of muscle. The military dress uniform was made for show. Minimal lines and excessive gold threadwork set off dramatic cuts of fabric the color of midnight and whispers. The diagonal cut of the jacket pulled the eye from one broad shoulder to his hip, where it was a short jump to the thick thigh muscles in trousers that were far too deliciously tight to be anything but ceremonial.

  Olivia heard a sigh and realized it was hers. The sigh. Not the...thighs.

  “Rather, aerial falling, if you want to be technical about it,” Galen said and Olivia remembered to raise her eyes. He was completing his own study of her. She felt a strange moment of self-consciousness. Maris had insisted the embroidered green sleeveless tunic with gently swishing silk pants was an appropriate choice for the day, but she still felt exposed. At least the tunic’s collar rose high and protective around her nape to counter the low cut. But when Galen finished, his gaze was hot. It almost distracted her. Almost.

  “Is...is that gold?” She squinted, leaning on her tiptoes to get a better look at the fine line of paint hemming Galen’s brown eyes. Gold lined his lashes, paired with a faint dusting on his sharp, angled cheekbones.

  “It’s the fashion this year,” Galen said with a hint of challenge.

  The gold warped as his eyes narrowed. It brought out the fine seams of amber in his dark eyes and a delicate touch to the hard angles of his face. “I like it. You look pretty.”

  Galen grinned. “Good. I feel pretty.”

  She ducked her head before he could see her smile. She turned it into a searching gesture. “I thought there’d be more fuzzballs here.”

  “Wolves? It’s considered impolite to bring your wolf to visit another noble house—even the crown.” Galen had a smile that always teased more than he said. He unleashed that one now. “Wolves are very territorial, you see. Zahira’s probably running herself ragged reclaiming the estate as her own again.”

  “Perhaps you could help. Pee on a senator or two. Some of them look like they could use it.”

  Galen smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

  A muffled snort caught their attention. Maris had a thoughtful finger pressed to her smile as she looked between them, but she simply said, “You don’t usually attend these kinds of things, Duke. Did you miss home that much?”

  “It’ll take more than two weeks in the woods for me to miss being paraded like a peacock for Sabine’s games,” Galen said. “But I’ll suffer through. I had a feeling you might enjoy seeing the demonstration, Liv. We’ve got seats, if you like.”

  That was touching. Frankly, Olivia had thought she was the one to be paraded here. She’d moved through the crowd easily with Maris, but as they left Maris and Kieran and made their way into the crowd arm in arm, she could feel the occasional hitch in conversations. “You do seem to be the center of attention.”

  Galen waved a hand. “Ah, royals come and go. But a Syndicate Whisper in exile is new.”

  Olivia spared a moment to appreciate that Galen thought the interesting part of her was her Whisper skills, not her status as a Syndicate caricae or the supposed mate of the Red Wolf duke. The itch on the back of her neck told her that he might have been the only one who thought so. She felt gawked at, exposed, and targeted.

  “I need to make a few introductions before the races. Do you mind?”

  Olivia tilted her head at the question and took in the crowd. Speculative glances slid over lazy wineglasses, hooded and patient. “To reassure the nobles that the nasty Syndicate will neither bite nor pee on the sofa?”

  Galen failed to hide his laugh entirely. “Something like that. I don’t enjoy it either, but I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

  “And how many of these nobles are altusii?”

  “Many of them.”

  “And as enlightened as you?”

  Galen hesitated. “Not as many.”

  “Charming.”

  “The empress can grant you asylum, but if you want to dig into who conspired with the Syndicate, you’ll benefit from an acquaintance with the senate families.”

  There was a tenor in Galen’s voice that Olivia recognized. The tenor of traps and maneuvers in shadowed forests. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You want to show me around and see who reacts to your failed assassination plot.”

  Galen had the grace to look guilty. “Lyre’s plan. Do you object?”

  “Of course not. Just say that first next time.” She set down her untouched glass and took his arm again. “I’m much better at baiting traitors than charming nobles.”

  “You charmed one.”

  They slipped through a press of embroidered silk and needling eyes. Galen kept a reassuring hand on the small of her back, through a carousel of wealthy house families, military, and senate, all different names and faces, all glutted on power. There were grizzled military generals, who Galen seemed most comfortable with as he spoke of the border attack in hushed tones. And there were the senators and politicians, brightly colored but dull-eyed in a way that couldn’t be covered up with gilded makeup. Since she was not fluent in Quillic, most were polite enough to switch to trade Common upon introduction. Those not polite enough quickly withered under a haughty, imperious stare that Olivia hadn’t been aware Galen possessed.

  Olivia weathered polite questions after her health, her work, her short time in the Empire. She weathered less polite questions after her looks, her prospects, her breeding. Galen’s presence kept the conversations from turning outright offensive—at one point, he backed them out of a conversation with an orange-haired senator as her hand twitched for a gun she wasn’t carrying—but she was beginning to quickly grasp that the Empire, for all its improvements, had a cultural inclination to view caricaes as only a step above children. Protected, treasured, but not respected. Still,
if any of them acted uncomfortable with the obvious presence of a failed assassin and her target, she didn’t see any indication of it.

  She was relieved when they finally escaped to the shaded box and a chime sounded over the platform, turning all attention toward the field.

  CHARIS, voice pitched to mimic the tone of a sports announcer on the platform speakers, ran through a series of welcomes and introductions that Olivia only half followed. Her attention was caught by the blue-cloaked figures scaling two of the structures at the far end of the mock city. They wore tight-fitting military garb underneath a voluminous cape, which was a shifting shade of slate blue beneath the bright skies. The capes hung to about mid-thigh and caught and fluttered with the wind oddly, as if made of more than cloth. Light glinted off something on their gloved hands as each soldier carefully removed their boots and dusted their feet with powder. When they stood and raised their fists, a rowdy noise went up from the gathered nobles.

  Olivia leaned forward, insults forgotten as the competitors approached the edge of their respective platforms, and at a bell, leaped into open air.

  Leaped poorly. Olivia gasped the moment she saw it. The soldier nearest to her had shoved off the platform. Too fast, too hard. She winced as the figure hurtled into the wall, but opened her eyes again when the crowd cheered instead of falling silent. The figure had done...something? The soldier was miraculously still in the air and had changed direction, shooting in a new direction toward a pillar farther down the mock course. Olivia watched this time as he approached it. The soldier executed a fluid twist in the air. His arms were extended, silver rings glinting in the sunlight as the cloak bloomed and somehow slowed the sideways momentum. Just enough for his feet to hit the steel pillar, give at the knees, then shove into a new direction. Olivia realized the other soldier was doing the same. Both racers completed impossible acrobatic leaps, flips, dives, striving to stay aloft as long as possible to reach the end of the course first.

  “I don’t see any equipment beneath the capes.” She turned to Galen.