by Ada Harper
Which left the second part of Olivia’s request.
“An enforcement arm for domestic issues,” Sabine repeated doubtfully.
“A thug squad, more like it. She’s a former Whisper.” Lyre’s tone was accusing, but her smile approved. “We’re not the Syndicate. What makes you think the Empire needs to keep peace with intimidation and assassination?”
Galen coughed loudly, which prompted Olivia to close her mouth and give Lyre exactly the disbelieving look that deserved. She recovered the next moment. “I’m not suggesting assassination or intimidation. What I’m suggesting is...community advocacy. Protecting all your people for a change.”
“This isn’t the Syndicate. Caricaes enjoy full and equal rights in the Quillian Empire,” another council member noted, and Olivia’s smile thinned.
“Is that right? Then the failure rate of caricae marriages is so much lower than genta marriages because there’s no unhappy pairs in the Empire? Not because, as I’ve witnessed, there’s a deep stigma to a caricae who’s failed to ‘bond’ appropriately? Not to mention a lack of options. Where are your caricaes in government? Where are your caricaes in the military?” The question brought a scandalized look to the crowd, but Olivia pressed forward. “Oh, I’ve heard all the reasons and excuses. Education. Lack of innate interest. Family-rearing. A difference of priorities. Do you really believe your caricae citizens are nearly invisible because we lack interest? That we have nothing to contribute besides that which is in our genes?”
The council fell quiet, if a bit hostile. Galen understood. He’d made the exact same excuses, felt the exact same defensiveness, when she’d pressed the argument with him. Imperial citizens were raised to pride their country on being a symbol of equality and freedom. Pointing out that in practice it wasn’t... Well, it was a high wall to assail, even for a woman who could fly.
“Permission to and access to are two very different things,” Olivia said quietly. “Rights are nothing without support. Without someone to defend them when they fail.”
That struck a thought that shifted across Sabine’s face, softening, considering. Her voice was quieter when she spoke. “I assume you propose that someone should be you.”
“I like to be useful,” Olivia said. “And I don’t see many more qualified. I’ve already got some volunteers and the support of our new council member.”
Maris’s nod was firm, if resigned. Galen wasn’t that familiar with the caricae recruits, but the younger survivors of the coup seemed eager to follow Olivia anywhere after the attack at Ameranthe. The young boy, Kieran, seemed ready to leap off rooftops at her word. Galen knew the feeling. Olivia, for all her unpolished bluster, inspired a very personal kind of loyalty. Galen would be the first off the roof.
“Such a sanction would require careful consideration of the council,” Sabine said. Galen heard the dodge in the words. A typical statement made to put off an unpopular decision—not avoid it. Sabine tilted her head when Olivia’s expression fell. “But one may assume I agree with your sentiments. What would we call these proposed non-Whisper champions of yours?”
“We’ve had enough of whispers. I’m done with secrets.” Olivia’s smile grew, sharpening with a clear-eyed fire that made Galen’s chest warm. “Let’s call us your Howls.”
* * *
“She’ll approve it,” Galen reassured her for the third time since they’d escaped the chambers and gathered, friends and family, in the cozy privacy of the caricae atrium. He reached across the low table and poured another drink from a chilled pitcher. “It’s a boon. If Sabine honors it, the council will have little choice but to fall in line.”
“Master of Howls!” Yoshi said from her other side. He propped his chin on Emeric’s shoulder, suddenly thoughtful. “Or Howlmaster? Do you get a cool necklace for that, too?”
“It’s not a necklace.” Maris gave a scandalized growl from across the table. “It’s a family torque. Surely the Syn does something to symbolize marriage?”
“Just an atrocious amount of paperwork,” Emeric said dryly. Galen found him subdued from his ordeal, not quite the polished arrogance Galen had met in the Syndicate. His time in Whisper hands had given him edges, rough shadows that would need light. But his expression softened as Yoshi tilted his head back and smiled at him. They held each other a little closer.
“Speaking of family...” Olivia set her glass down with a firm clink, rallying to rejoin the conversation. Zahira had joined them, and wiggled under the table until she was successfully sprawled across both their laps. She was less blanket and more hairy furnace. Olivia’s hand rubbed the wolf’s ear gently even as she frowned at Galen. “You could have warned me about Sabine’s eye.”
Galen tilted his head in apology. “I swore silence. I think she delights in cataloging honest reactions. Not that you gave her much.” Olivia had barely blinked when she’d faced the throne.
“The hot trend with the Skin Princes when I left was horns on your knuckles. I’ve seen weirder.” Olivia shrugged and turned toward Maris. “But the physicians really couldn’t...?”
Maris shook her head, expression baldly disapproving. “She refused a nanobot regrowth. She ordered me to take the eye and fashion a prosthetic with one of the deactivated aetheric skippers. As a warning, she said.”
“A warning to who? That’s got to be Lyre’s bad influence,” Olivia said.
“Ghoulish. Morbid.” Yoshi sounded utterly delighted. “Gosh. Your sister is terrifying, Galen. Drinks? Drinks? Drinks. I gotchya.”
He bounced to his feet and ducked out the door, probably to coax his way into the royal liquor cabinet. Emeric hummed in fond exasperation after him before sliding into a discussion with Maris on the particulars of prosthetic programming. Across the way, Jael had made fast friends with Kieran and they were on the couch, locked into some battle with their gaming devices.
The mood in the lounge was languid and warm, conversation lapping between small groups easily. Not all of it was celebration. Some were grieving, finding comfort for the ones they’d lost in the Ameranthe coup and at Meteore, but it was a coming together, separate from the glittering parties that were occurring outside the doors. A family; their family, and it was worth the wealth of every noble in the Empire to Galen. He felt an overwhelming contentment as he reclined again in his seat.
“That’s an altus smile if I’ve ever seen one.” Olivia was studying him, eyes gleaming.
“It’s the only one I have.” Galen curved his hand over where it rested on her hip, drawing her in. She was warm and relaxed under his palm. Contentment, his mind sighed again. Perfect. “Creepy altus?”
“I never said that. You’re right, though,” she said, though he hadn’t voiced his thoughts. She eased against his side, stretching out her legs on the scattered pillows and low seating as her eyes scrolled over the room. “It’s nice to have something that’s ours.”
“Ours? Now who’s being creepy?”
“Nonsense.” Olivia grinned. “There’s no such thing as a creepy caricae.”
Galen hummed his agreement, nosing at her hair. “We can do something similar for the wedding, if you like.”
He felt, more than saw, the crinkle of her nose. “Don’t remind me. Let me guess, you have some big overdramatic Imperial traditions to satisfy.”
Galen considered. It was hard to always know what a woman who jumped off bridges would consider “dramatic,” but he was getting better at it. “Not particularly. We’ll be introduced to the senate, of course. You’ll get titles. But weddings are actually fairly private affairs of family. There’s just the land rites.”
“Land rites?”
“An excursion back to family lands. It’s an old throwback to when we were all landed nobles with separate kingdoms. Something about fertility customs?” Galen shrugged. “It’s more of a camping trip than anything.”
“Camping...” Olivia twisted
and squinted. “Where, exactly is the de Corvus family lands?”
“Ah.” Galen’s eyes found the ceiling. “A small district. The eastern end of the Caeweld?”
A squawk escaped Olivia and she displaced Zahira from her lap. “Galen, no, absolutely not.”
He schooled his face with some effort. “It’ll be a chance to get away. You and me and—”
“And every living creature bred to eat us. We nearly died last time, it was a nightmare, and if you think—if you—” Olivia leaned over him with both hands as she squinted into his face. He enjoyed the proprietary feel as she shoved his chest. “You are a lying bastard. You’re teasing me. There’s no such thing as land rites.”
Galen’s smile grew into laughter, even as he received an additional appropriate thump to his ribs. Olivia allowed him to catch her around the waist and pull her firmly into his lap. She only half scoffed through a soft kiss before settling down again.
“Three stools,” she murmured, and then, when Galen hummed a question, she spoke in a subdued, soft tone. “Three stools at Yoshi’s bar. That used to be the only place I thought I belonged. That I didn’t feel like I had to fight to keep.”
“And now?” Galen asked softly.
Her hand played with a tassel on Yoshi’s abandoned seat before she gazed out over the room again. Emeric and Primya had launched into a highly-technical sounding debate about AI protocols. Maris was mediating a fight between two small girls. Bowen was cornered by a pair of caricae teens animatedly reenacting the estate battle, though his attention was on a pretty young noble across the room. The room percolated with the quiet comfort of new beginnings.
“Now, it’s better,” Olivia whispered, turning back with eyes brimming with light that made Galen’s world fill with horizons. “And better is worth fighting for.”
* * * * *
There’s more to love in the WHISPERS series.
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Acknowledgments
My husband read early versions of the first three chapters of Whispers and promptly gave it the secret project codename: “You Smell Nice: A War Story.” The ridiculous name stuck, and I could not have written this, or any book, without him. Thank you for being every horizon, Levi.
I deeply appreciate the unwavering support and input of my agent, Caitlin McDonald of Donald Maass Literary Agency. I would also like to thank the Carina Press team, especially my editor, Deborah Nemeth, who took a weird little story about a prickly murder-woman and a harsh genmod world and saw the romance in it.
I owe all the words to Jennifer Mace, Chris Wolfgang, Jess Hutton, Becky Littlefield, and Wren Wallis, who read this draft at various stages of not-quite-completion and gave me the critical feedback, teasing, death threats, and encouragement to see it through. You were the shove that got me there.
I’d like to thank Seth Frost for consulting on a couple sensitive issues for this book and asking just the right questions to make the book better. Special thanks to Jennie Goloboy, who gave me so much advice to lean on when I was first contemplating publication. I’d also like to thank John Appel for spending an evening interpreting my vague narrative hand gestures into a semi-feasible strategy for Galen’s Meteore chapters. Any failures or inaccuracies are entirely my own. I owe each of you all the whiskey and tea.
As always, I am forever in debt to my fellow graduates of Viable Paradise 20 for being the best damn writer crew to roll with. I couldn’t do this without you. Also deep appreciation to the members of the Isle and my queer writer group, who encouraged me to write my weird.
And Mom: if you’ve read this far, sorry for the sexy bits. I love you.
About the Author
Ada Harper writes hijinks and feels from her home in Seattle, WA. She also writes fantasy and science fiction as Amanda Hackwith and is a graduate of Viable Paradise writing workshop. Ada may or may not be responsible for an atrocity of books, fandom rants, and horde of unplayed video games. You can get more free stories and news from Ada at adaharper.com or by following @adahwrites on Twitter.
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ISBN-13: 9781488030628
A Conspiracy of Whispers
Copyright © 2018 by Ada Harper
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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