A Conspiracy of Whispers

by Ada Harper

  Olivia had one single exhausted thought: I am going to owe Galen an apology.

  “You are absolutely right, Senator.” Olivia’s voice was distant to her own ears, barely heard over the scarlet buzzing in her head. She lowered her glass away from her face, leaving a salted, withered smile in place. “You’re absolutely right. I confess, the slide of a wide palm along my ribs. Taking both my wrists. A hard thigh pressed between my legs. Being taken hard against a wall.” She let out a low, measured breath. “Being at the mercy of a strong, powerful altus does sound appealing.”

  She bit her lip. Ambrose’s eyes darkened as they followed it. He leaned in as she lowered her voice.

  “My dear senator. You...” Olivia paused, letting her eyes go wide. “You’ll let me know if you find one for me, won’t you?”

  A beautiful twitch rippled through his jowls. Ambrose hitched back, slow rage blotching across his cheeks like a bloated fish. There was a huff behind him, but Virgil’s energies obviously did not extend to interfering in his brother’s cruelties. Ambrose’s lips worked, sputtering fits and starts before his lip curled and Olivia was close enough to sense the wave of aggression she’d come to associate with angry altus men. It would have given most people an instinctual pause, but Olivia had years of ignoring her baser survival instincts.

  “Little slit—” A meaty hand came up. Olivia was ready for it. She stepped to the side. Wine splashed on the floor, a small crack of breaking glass, and Ambrose’s hand hitched midair.

  Polite chatter echoed unabated around them. Olivia smiled. Rage drained as Ambrose dropped his eyes and took in the broken rim of Olivia’s glass, firmly pressed into the thin linen covering the senator’s crotch. Olivia had good aim. Ambrose had a good tailor. She’d angled the edge up slightly, so it was impossible for Ambrose to disengage or press forward without risking a shift in pressure. She might have caught his balls. Just to be certain she pressed a little harder.

  “Let me tell you a secret from the Cauldron, Senator,” Olivia purred. “Whatever I, or any caricae, like in bed—and I am a woman of many passions, let me tell you—it does not mean I have even a speck of interest in your participation. How I like to be fucked signals absolutely nothing about my ability to remove your precious altus prick from your possession. Understood?”

  A muffled noise from Kieran could have been a whimper of alarm. Despite his precarious position, Ambrose growled. He seemed even more infuriated. But that was an altus for you. So high up the food chain they never bothered cultivating a lick of sense.

  “Senator Ambrose.” A mild voice startled Olivia. She barely avoided jerking her hand. Ambrose’s gaze met a point over her shoulder and his bluster abruptly faded into a generic snit. Olivia risked slowly disengaging. She turned and saw Maris was smiling at Ambrose with surgical distaste. “How good of you to entertain our Syndicate guest in the duke’s absence.”

  “This...” Ambrose picked his vocabulary with strained effort. “This ‘woman’...insulted me.”

  Olivia supposed it was better to admit to being insulted than to being physically threatened by a caricae. Lucky her. Altus pride was ridiculous, no matter which side of the border you were on.

  Ambrose inflated again. “This is a diplomatic grievance.”

  “You’re a diplomat now? Clever girl! Full marks.” Alais, the noble from earlier, had joined them, sliding a sharp look to the Vhance brothers. Evidently Olivia had simply needed to lose her shit and half the Empire showed up for the spectacle. Not that she begrudged the backup. She suspected CHARIS had something to do with it.

  Maris held Ambrose with a chill smile. “Best you take up your grievance with the crown. I came to chaperon Lady Shaw.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be her—” Kieran faltered under Maris’s look.

  “Two chaperons. I feel special.” Olivia set her wineglass down to link arms with teenager and doctor with Alais a tall presence at their backs.

  “Brother, perhaps we should move on.” Virgil had decided to speak up, and Olivia felt a rising dislike for the man. A feeling evidently shared by the way an unusual snarl curved Alais’s lips.

  “Yes, Virgil, do try to keep a muzzle on your brother.” Her smile sharpened. “That is why you’re kept around, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Virgil blandly agreed. Olivia’s breath caught at the venom in his eyes as they flicked over each of them in turn. “What a tragedy it’d be to have nothing to contribute.”

  Alais looked ready to flay the quiet man.

  “Enough,” Maris hushed her, not taking her eyes off Ambrose. “We’ll be off now.”

  They left Ambrose still in a froth. She felt safer with her honor guard. Maris and Kieran at either elbow, Alais bringing up the rear. Kieran managed to keep his quiet only as far as the edge of the reception hall before he burst at the seams. “That. Was. Awesome. Maris, you shoulda seen—”

  Maris cleared her throat. “Kieran. You need cake, dear.”

  “Nah, I’m good. Did you see how she just slid all up and kapow, like—”

  “Kieran.” Maris clapped his shoulder. “How about getting Olivia some cake. She’s our guest.”

  Kieran’s eyes bobbed and Olivia shrugged. “I could eat.”

  “I love cake!” Alais offered brightly.

  That was enough for him to weave back into the crowd. Olivia shook her head. “Caricaes get away with threatening altus nobility here?” Caricaes weren’t even allowed in public in the Syndicate, so her point of reference was small, but the Empire seemed stuck on their own social classes.

  Maris was amused. “No, actually. If you weren’t the talk of the party before, you are now. Shouldn’t that have been a question to pose before you held a blade to a man’s testicles?”

  “It wasn’t a blade, please,” Olivia scoffed. “A cultural misunderstanding at best. It’s how we say hello in the Syndicate.”

  “Perhaps it’s better our borders are closed.”

  It was an odd trickle of a feeling, so it took a moment to identify it as...not quite friendship, but understanding. She felt her mind slowly orienting, noting the subtle shift as Maris and the others tilted into something more personal than pieces on a dangerous game board. Olivia had never been around other caricaes, had never been herself around anyone, really, let alone someone who shared the experience. She had occasionally saved a thought for the idea that there were other caricaes living in hiding in the Syndicate, but Syn being what it was, even if she’d been willing to take the risk to find them, what kind of support could she have offered? Kinship was a foreign warmth, and Olivia held on to it uneasily as she scanned the room again, fishing from one tall dark head to another.

  She realized she was looking for Galen again and stopped. Her eyes landed back on Kieran, cake in hand but distracted by staging a familiar reenactment with a wineglass for a girl his age. Olivia winced. Her stunt would be gossip before bedtime, but it made her think of something.

  “Kieran’s a good kid.” Olivia was surprised she meant it. “But you said the caricae quarters were restricted. Isn’t he getting a little old to hang out with the caricaes?”

  Maris blinked at her owlishly. “Kieran is a caricae.”

  Olivia was sure she hadn’t heard her right. She turned and squinted. “But he’s—wait, caricaes are female—”

  “What they say when you’re born and who you are can be entirely different things,” Maris said in a firm but slow voice, the way she’d talk to a small child before taking away their scissors. It simultaneously didn’t condemn ignorance but brooked no argument. “Kieran is a boy and Kieran is a caricae.”

  “But how—” Olivia’s mouth snapped shut before a rude question could escape. Gene tweaks for gender identity were a regular modification in the Syndicate, if not evenly available. You could get expensive, sophisticated genetic treatments or, for poor kids in the Cauldron, basic flesh mods were
more common. Young gentas frequently spent time feeling out various points of the gender spectrum before settling, with or without mods. But altus and caricae teens, once identified, weren’t given the choice in such things. Some altusii could get simple flesh mods that conformed to the requirements of the donor programs but...

  She hadn’t thought past that. It’d never been a personal issue for her, since she couldn’t so much as get a checkup without risking detection. It had been just another uncomfortable injustice she’d found better to ball up somewhere far away from her thoughts. Safer than to wonder as she did now. What would have happened to a kid like Kieran? Did the Syn breeding program have allowances for transgender caricaes? Or even just caricaes who preferred women? No, of course not, that would limit their ability to bear their allotted number of children. They would require—but gender identity sometimes became clear well before disposition testing, how would they enforce—

  “Oh, gods.” Olivia flushed, the room feeling too hot as she tried to get her mind around the implications.

  “Olivia? You’re white as a—oh.” Maris swam in her view.

  Alais cursed softly, reading her face. “The bloody Syn.”

  The Syn would eliminate those without usefulness. That was part of a Whisper’s job. The possibilities welled up, acrid and hot in her throat. She hadn’t just been a coward, she’d been complicit.

  She tried to shake the buzzing sick from her head. Across the room, Kieran mimicked a swoop like an aethercloak racer, laughter rich and sweet. Her stomach twisted.

  Two strong hands clapped down on her shoulders. “We’re getting air,” Alais announced. She waved off Maris’s frown. “Don’t start. Miss Shaw won’t need a broken wineglass around me.”

  Alais was effortlessly guiding her down a hallway before Olivia could make sense of that comment. The courtyard was a diffusion of light. The soft glow of stringed bulbs reflected in gilded decorations and every glimmering bauble on dozens of Imperial gowns. They stopped at the edge of the open space. Olivia closed her eyes and concentrated on the cool air hitting her cheeks until the bile resettled in her stomach.

  “The proper thing would be to ask you to dance.”

  Alais braced her shoulder on the column next to her, looking out over the courtyard and ignoring her distress. Olivia squinted at the dance again. The dancing was complicated and artificial, appearing to be more a guise for private conversation than enjoyment. “I don’t dance.”

  “Don’t or can’t? It’s the done thing, you know. As I understand it,” Alais said lightly, “everyone can dance.”

  “Ability to dance does not equate to desire or interest. I have neither.”

  “How absolutely charming.” Alais’s smile brightened and glanced toward Olivia. “Neither do I.”

  “I thought it was the ‘done thing.’”

  “What’s the fun of being a lady of scandals if you can’t dodge the occasional social obligation?” She took a moment to study Olivia’s face. “Strikes me that you’ve reached your limit on those tonight.”

  “It’s not that. It’s—” Olivia bit down on the nausea again, unwilling to give it a voice. Anxiety was stewing with guilt and it was all too much to swallow. But the conversation played back to her. “Ambrose called Kieran useless.”

  “The esteemed senator holds a dim view of caricaes he can neither fuck nor give the illusion he’s fucking,” Alais explained with a dry primness. “It’s an unfortunate disease among powerful altus men. You might have noticed.”

  Are all of them as enlightened as you? She remembered Galen’s uneasy answer. He had a talent for understatement. “I was told the Empire was more civilized.”

  “By our dear duke? Don’t hold it against him. I’m sure his Grace actually believes it.” Alais tilted her head. “You don’t notice what doesn’t touch you, and nothing touches the duke. Besides, the Empire looks great with the Syn as comparison. We allow the freedom to choose, but not freedom from all the provisions that go with it. Caricaes can be anything provided they are also romantically bonded and settled. Altusii can be anything provided they are ambitious. Fall short of that and there are...repercussions.”

  It explained why she’d seen plenty of noble gentas and altus diplomats tonight, but few caricaes aside from Maris’s residents. But Alais spoke as if from personal experience. She snatched a drink from a passing tray and gave it a considering sip, which allowed Olivia to consider her. She was a woman and an altus, which could indicate gene tweaks—or not. Even Olivia couldn’t be rude enough to ask.

  She was saved from it by the slow smile that grew on Alais face. She winked at her over the glass. “You’re wondering why I am a scandal, aren’t you?”

  “Oh.” Olivia flushed. “I don’t—but it’s none of my business—”

  “It’s not because I’m an altus woman. But please do blush some more. It’s adorable.” Alais hummed, twirling her drink. “My mother is the head of our house. The Duchess Vhehaden. Our family has a quaint tradition of passing on lands and titles at marriage. Not because we’re old-fashioned. It’s not even inheritance, it’s pure greed. Vhehadens have been marrying their neighbors for generations. It’s how we acquired the largest aetheric mines in the north, you see. And we always want more.”

  “So you’re expected to marry. And there’s a problem with that?”

  “Yes. A simple but significant one.” Alais shrugged. “As we established, I don’t dance.”

  “You don’t...dance?”

  Alais nodded slowly. “Everyone loves it, right? But me, I never developed the desire for it. A certain kind of dancing. That makes the partner...irrelevant, or at least hard to find.”

  Oh. The metaphor sank in all at once. Olivia frowned. “I see.”

  “My stubbornness on the issue is ruining the family expansion plan. But that’s not the worst part.” Alais stopped, eyes on the dancers. “We Imperials honor family, those fidelity bonds above all else. You might have guessed that. I’m no different. But any family I find, well...” She sighed, drifting her free hand. “It’ll never be more than a tragic, cheap copy to the rest of them.”

  “That...sucks.” Olivia was sincere, if not eloquent. She considered. The Empire was...complicated. “Is that why Ambrose’s brother was such an ass to you?”

  A startled laugh escaped her. Alais set down her drink before she choked on it. “No. That was personal, I’m afraid. Ambrose’s lands are some of those that my family has their eyes on,” she explained dryly. “Virgil is a second son. Don’t let that limp personality fool you. He’s ambitious. He thought he could win points with his father by staging a political marriage proposal. I refused. He has never forgiven me for the embarrassment.”

  Olivia thought of Virgil’s attitude and wrinkled her nose. “Good choice. So you rejected him, I threatened his brother, Kieran offends their sensibilities...”

  “And Maris has been widowed for fifteen years without any interest in a new mate. We’ve made so many new friends tonight. For instance, half the room is wondering what the wicked lady of scandals did to steal the Red Wolf’s Syndicate mate. So, we’re feeling better, yes?” Alais’s grin turned wicked as she held out her hand. “Let me walk you back to the caricae wing. I need a new scandal for my collection.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  She gave Alais her scandal and allowed her to walk her back to the residence. It didn’t seem that poor of a trade, for an ally. Another altus ally. The Olivia of three weeks ago would have been horrified. The caricae atrium was mostly empty with the party still in swing, so after shedding uncomfortable jewelry, Olivia snuck back into the halls.

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking for until she realized she was stopping at each stair, each intersection, tilting her head to listen to an absent thrum in her chest. It led her up a tower, wandering down empty private corridors—it still shocked her that she was never stopped or checked for
authorization—until she felt a curious, familiar tug. Like a hum not quite heard. Following that led her through a quiet suite, left unlocked but darkened. Sheets were strewn on the beds, closet doors left open. A recently vacated suite the staff hadn’t disturbed yet. A breeze caught her attention and led her to a glass-encased balcony.

  Galen was slumped on the floor, reclining against the corner of the railing. His head tilted back, eyes half lidded, revealing a languid line of neck. He seemed...distant, drawn out. Olivia stopped at the doorway and drank in the sight a moment.

  “Liv. I wanted to see you.” His voice was a soft tumble of words. Olivia’s eyes dropped to the bottle of spesic liquor that was cradled next to his outstretched leg. “I’m done playing general for the night.”

  “That much is obvious. How much of that have you drank?”

  Olivia joined him, opting to prop herself against the railing rather than join Galen on the chill metal floor. He tilted his head toward her. His eyes were half-lidded, gaze shadowed and relaxed with drink. He looked at her in a hungry way that did ridiculous things in her chest. She nearly breathed a sigh as he dropped his head to check the bottle. He rolled the bottle neck between his knuckles. “Three-fourths of a valum.”

  Olivia could only assume the bottle was vaguely valum-shaped. Her eyes widened. “Isn’t spesic like Syn flareshot?”

  “A mite stronger,” Galen slurred.

  “Must be, if you’re tripping up Trade common.” Olivia watched in amusement as Galen pulled another drink from the bottle. It left his lips loose and wet. She felt distracted. “Go ahead, switch to Quillic if civilized tongue is beyond you. Kieran taught me a little over dinner.”

  Galen caught her gaze with that dark, simmering look. He licked his lips. “Avec helionsi tu vas queridae caricae no polaris.”

  His voice stumbled and growled right up her nerves, warm as honey, bright as lightning. And Olivia had the distressing realization that she was developing quite an internal weakness for Quillic. Or at least a certain duke’s pronunciation. “I take it back. I recognized exactly one of those words. What did you say?”