Demon in White

by Christopher Ruocchio

  “Oh no!” Alexander replied, but rested a hand proudly on the pommel of his weapon. “I wouldn’t let him. I said I wanted to earn it.” I felt an odd spasm of pride at the words. Perhaps my squire had learned something from me after all. “I didn’t do anything during the Battle of the Beast.”

  “The what?” Valka almost laughed.

  “That’s what they’re calling it, Sir Hadrian’s battle with that . . . thing.”

  “It’s a good name,” I allowed—it was proper dramatic. “But it wasn’t my fight. It was as much Siran’s as mine,” I gestured to the patrician woman behind me, “and Udax’s, of course.”

  Alexander blinked, as if surprised by my devolution of credit. He still had so much to learn, I thought. “Where are the birds?”

  I had to swallow my initial reply, but said, “Not allowed in. No inmane. They almost barred Ilex and Aristedes, here, but I insisted. They are my officers.” In truth, I had fought as hard for Pallino, Elara, and Siran, who though fully human were base-born patricians and not of any exalted blood. “But they’d not allow the auxilia.”

  The prince only nodded. “Come, please! I must introduce you to my brothers!” Placing a hand on my shoulder, he led me back through the thronging nobiles, Valka following in my wake. We ascended a short step to a carpeted platform above the ballroom floor where padded couches curved round small tables. He stopped before one, where two men in Imperial gold and white sat in close conversation, attended round by lesser lords and ladies of the court. Each was so like unto one another—and each so like unto Alexander—that one might be forgiven for thinking them clones. They had the same strong aristocratic features, the same thick red hair—though one wore his long and gathered into a queue like the Mandari and the other wore his short as Crispin once had done. They each watched with the same emerald eyes as Alexander approached, and smiled the same pearlescent smile.

  “Ricard! Philip! This is Sir Hadrian Marlowe,” Alexander said. Valka cleared her throat, moving to retake her position beside me, as though the nobiles about her were each a nest of adders. Realizing his error, the young prince added, “And his . . . his paramour? Valka of Tavros.”

  The long-haired prince’s smile grew lazy, and he said, “We know who he is, Alex. We saw the same parade you did.” Not standing, the fellow offered his hand. At first I took it for a plebeian handshake, realized only a moment after that I spied the signet ring with its graven ruby and knew he meant for me to kiss it. “Ricard Anchises, 47th Prince of the Aventine House,” he said, still sounding bored. “This is Philip. He’s . . . what number are you, brother? Fifty-three?”

  “Fifty-two,” the other said, sharp enough I guessed the former’s slight was deliberate, meant to rile the younger man.

  The whole procedure felt suddenly absurd. Ricard was not the Emperor, nor was he any great captain or strategos of the Legions. Here was no man worthy of honor, here was only a bored and pampered young man drunk on wine finer than he had the wit to appreciate. But he was of the Blood Imperial all the same, and it was to the station I bowed—I did not kneel—and kissed the ring. “An honor, Prince Ricard.”

  “Tell me, Lord Marlowe: is it true you slew that metal monster from the triumph?” Prince Philip interjected, a deal drunker than his brother.

  “Not alone,” I said.

  Philip raised an eyebrow. “No? I thought not.” I felt Valka’s grip tighten on my upper arm, but froze my crooked smile in its place. “Our Alex has been singing your praises. He loves you, I think.”

  “Enough, Philip!” Alexander snapped. “You asked to meet him. Here he is!”

  “Angry, little brother?” Philip almost laughed.

  Ricard smiled lazily, adjusted one of his boots with a finger. “He’s embarrassed, Philip. You hit too near the mark, I think. Our Alex is in love, but Sir Hadrian doesn’t love him back—is that it?” His eyes raked over Valka, whose fingers froze against my arm at the contact. “And why would he? With this lovely to warm his bed at night. Tavrosi, wasn’t it?” He did not put the question to Valka. He did not even put the question to me, but raised an eyebrow toward Alexander instead, who nodded, unspeaking. “You know, I always heard these foreign types are wild. Good for you, Sir Hadrian.”

  “Quite wild,” Valka said icily, nails cutting through my shirtsleeve, “so have a care how you speak about her.”

  Prince Philip raised his cup to his lips, chortling. “Oh, I like her.”

  “You won’t,” she said, stopping short of an actual threat, of anything to which the high lords might object. I did not have to turn to see her barbed smile, and it was all I could do to suppress my own.

  Eager to have the ordeal over and done with, I asked, “Alexander says you wanted to meet me? To what do I owe the pleasure?” I gave a slight bow, too slight for the princes’ high stations.

  The drunk one, Philip, said, “He doesn’t look so fearsome, Ricard. I bet Irshan could take him.”

  Ricard’s long fingers toyed with a golden clasp that secured the end of his braid. “We only wanted to meet the man of the hour! You’ve beaten three Pale chieftains, Sir. With your bare hands! Who else can claim the same?”

  I could not say for certain that they mocked me, but the princes reminded me of Sir Lorcan Breathnach. The aristocratic sneering was the same.

  “Two chieftains,” Philip amended. “This third was some sort of commander.”

  “Two chieftains,” Prince Ricard allowed. “Very good.”

  Valka had had enough already, and cut in. “Who is Irshan?”

  To my surprise, Alexander was the one to answer, saying, “Philip’s pet gladiator.”

  “Irshan!” Philip almost shouted, putting his goblet on the table before him with such force I feared the thing would topple over, “Is a Jaddian Maeskolos of the Fifth Circle! He was the sulshawar protector of Prince Constans du Olante, and the finest fighter I, sirs, have ever employed.” He raised a finger and pointed it square at my face. “And he would use you for a doormat, Marlowe.”

  I did smile then. My estimation of the two had been quite correct: two bored and pampered aristocrats chafing for want of trial, living out their heroic fantasies through the skill of others. “Sounds fearsome,” I said lightly. “Perhaps I shall meet him one day.” Turning to Alexander, I asked, “My prince, would you excuse us? We only just arrived and I . . . promised the lady a drink.”

  A bit sheepish and realizing the scope of the trap he’d pulled us into, Alexander hung his head. “I’ll go with you.”

  We left Alexander not long after we found the wine. Valka drained one glass of red entire and returned the goblet to the servant homunculus before taking another. “How do you deal with such people?” she asked in Panthai, leaning close to minimize the chances we’d be overheard by any of the passing nobility.

  “Chan minte,” I said. I don’t. “Better to let them be fools. There are some arguments you can’t win without violence. Like I’m always telling you, reason has its limits.”

  “At least there’s wine,” Valka said. “I’ll need plenty if I’m to survive all this.”

  “Would you like to dance?” I asked, switching back to Galstani.

  Valka snorted. “You know I don’t dance.” Her smile widened as her eyes picked me over. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not wearing black.”

  “It is my color,” I said, feeling strangely defensive.

  “The white doesn’t suit you,” she said, fingers fussing with the edge of my half-cape. Speaking Panthai again, she said, “Mand thafar til a dehmuxn en av ni dem.”

  It makes you look like one of them.

  “I am one of them,” I said, smiling down at her.

  “ ’Tis what you think,” she said. “ ’Tis not your Emperor supposed to be here?”

  Your Emperor, I thought, and did not pause to point out that this particular choice of words
walked back Valka’s insistence that I was not one of them, one of the palatine.

  Taking a sip of the wine she’d given me, I said, “He’ll make an appearance, but Caesar doesn’t mingle.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Valka nearly laughed and threw back the remainder of her glass of Kandarene red as though it were cheap liquor. “Caesar,” she said. “You all do like your costumery. Dressing up as the ancients. Wearing their names. Role-playing.”

  It was not quite a dangerous remark, though it bordered on one. “It isn’t costumery.”

  Valka cocked an eyebrow at me. “ ’Tis not?” Her smirk remained undimmed.

  “There are two sorts of people in the world,” I said, leaning one shoulder against a carnelian pillar. The chandeliers above our heads filled the heavenly vaults like constellations of shattered crystal. “Those who accept reality as it is, and those who force reality to be what they will.”

  “And your Emperor can force reality to be what he wills, is that it?”

  “No, Caesar is Caesar.”

  Valka made a face. “Because he has power.”

  “No.” I reached out with one hand to stroke her tattooed arm. “This is what I was trying to teach Alexander, you know? Power is a part of it, perhaps the greatest part. But Caesar is Caesar because we believe he is. Reality is built from the bottom up, not the other way round. If the Emperor were not emperor, he could only force himself to be a tyrant.”

  “ ’Tis still a mask,” Valka said, dismissive.

  “A role,” I countered. “A persona.”

  “A what?” Valka raised her empty glass to draw the attention of a uniformed waiter.

  It was a Classical English word—and older than that, it was Latin—and no wonder she did not recognize it. I gave her the Galstani word, then smiling, added, “It means mask.”

  “Sir Hadrian! Lord Marlowe!” a voice sounded from over my shoulder. Turning, I found a group of young nobiles in bright gowns and more muted suits, cut military fashion but not military proper, with tight collars and short, wide sleeves with bronze metal cuffs on the forearms in lieu of armored gauntlets. The speaker stepped forward and bowed. He had three golden birds embroidered above his heart on a white shield beneath a crown. The sigil looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. “Lord Andrew Curzon, sir. My friends and I were wondering . . .” Lord Andrew smoothed his oiled hair back, turning to his friends as if he was afraid to ask his question, “Could we have a holo?” The young nobleman held up his terminal as evidence.

  Behind me, Valka snorted again.

  “Curzon? Are we cousins? My mother’s father was a Curzon.” I’d never known the man. He’d died centuries before I was born. Mother and three of her sisters—or was it four?—had been born out of the man’s preserved sperm. It was no wonder I hadn’t recognized the banner at once. Grandmother never flew it. With Lord Michael dead there’d been no call for it.

  The fellow shook his head. “No sir. I’d hoped we were. I checked. He was of the Lassira branch—we went splits seven thousand years ago.”

  “I see,” I said, allowing the fellow to press in beside me.

  “Would my lady be so kind as to take the picture?” he asked Valka, who beamed.

  Grinning ear to ear at the discomfort I felt creeping its way up my neck, she answered, “Oh, she would be delighted.”

  As Lord Andrew’s friends gathered round, I threw back my cape, rested one hand on the ceremonial saber, and wrapped a jocular arm around the young man’s shoulders. One heavily perfumed young lady in a violet gown seized my arm and pressed herself close against me, only heightening my discomfort. Valka covered her mouth to stop from laughing, but I only hoped the young lady would not squeeze too tightly and feel the irregular lattice of my false bones beneath the muscle of my arm. The false bones violated no Chantry law, but they might raise eyebrows and start awkward questions.

  “Is it true a Pale prince struck off your head?” the girl whispered in my ear, entirely too close for comfort. “And you grew a new one?”

  Is that what I did? I wanted to ask her. To push her away. But I smiled my Marlowe smile. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on broadcast, madam.” I felt the expression freeze as I turned to look to Valka and Curzon’s terminal.

  “Lord Hechingen says you’re a fraud,” she whispered, covering her mouth. “Some sort of sorcerer.”

  “If I were a sorcerer, you shouldn’t tell me these things,” I said, and she laughed. “Who’s Lord Hechingen?”

  “One of Prince Hohenzollern’s retainers.”

  Lord Andrew cut in, “Oh, he’s one of the old Lions, you know! Stodgy old bastard.”

  I only arched my eyebrows. The Lions were a coterie of some of the proudest and most venerable houses in the Imperium, men more loyal to the throne than they were to the man who sat upon it, though many were the Emperors who had counted them among their most loyal supporters.

  Obedience out of loyalty to the office of the hierarch, I thought, and noting Valka’s quizzical look, I said, “Conservative lords.”

  “ ’Tis redundant.”

  It was my turn to make a face. The Lions weren’t truly a political party—such had been illegal since the time of the God Emperor. They were only an informal assembly of the more old-fashioned nobile lords and high princes, counting among their number all three Magnarchs and most of the Imperial viceroys—my late grandmother included. I might have been one myself, had I become any sort of politician. I’d always found the idea of them terribly romantic, stolid knights defending not the false memory of an Empire that never was, but cleaving to the dream of what it might be, whatever its faults. What it must be.

  That was something we had in common.

  I have of course learned that such men as the Lions seldom live up to their principles. That is the danger of having principles. In politics, principle is like a sword aimed at the heart. Far better, one might be forgiven for thinking, for a lord to have no principles than to risk that he might fall on that sword. The principled man simply has more to lose.

  It is what makes them such fabulous villains.

  Talk of the Lions recalled the banners I had seen that same day, the ones that had not bowed with the others in recognition of my triumph.

  Bourbon.

  Mahidol.

  Hohenzollern.

  But all thought of those men was driven from my mind, for there followed a brief silence in the playing of the orchestra, then the high, clear note—not of horn or trumpet—but of the lonely keening of a single, amplified guitar. The strings joined in a moment later, the keys, each instrument strung together in that lonely anthem called Far Beyond the Sun.

  The Emperor had arrived.

  CHAPTER 30

  SELENE

  AMID THE SWELLING OF that lone guitar and the crash of cymbals, His Radiance appeared. The Emperor William XXIII entered through a high, round-arched door at the far end of the chamber amid mirrored Excubitors and attendants in every color you could name. Beneath him the whole room was silent but for the wail of that triumphal anthem, prouder and more strange than anything that had played for me in the Campus Raphael. In a great wave that started from the end of the chamber nearest his raised position, everyone knelt. I had to pull Valka down, but she went, dropping as I dropped to but one knee.

  Through it all the voice of a herald was raised, high and clear as the crystal overhead. “His Imperial Radiance, the Sollan Emperor William of the House Avent, the Twenty-Third of that Name; Firstborn Son of Earth; King of Avalon; Lord Sovereign of the Kingdom of Windsor-in-Exile; Prince Imperator of the Arms of Orion, of Sagittarius, of Perseus, and Centaurus; Magnarch of Orion; Conqueror of Norma; Grand Strategos of the Legions of the Sun; Supreme Lord of the Cities of Forum; North Star of the Constellations of the Blood Palatine; Defender of the Children of Men; and Servant of the Servants of Earth. And his Lady, the
Empress-Consort Maria Agrippina of the House Avent, Princess of Avalon, Archduchess of Shakespeare, and Mother of Light!”

  The brief procession ended with the music just as His Radiance drew to the white balustrade and looked down upon us. In a voice barely more than a whisper—a voice amplified not by technology, but by some clever artifice in the construction of the ballroom, our Caesar said simply, “Greetings.”

  A great tumult of applause went up as the kneeling lords and ladies regained their feet. It seemed an absurd reaction in that moment, clapping for the Emperor where he stood arm-in-arm with Maria Agrippina. I seldom saw the two together—indeed I suspect they seldom saw one another. How similar they appeared, the same ivory complexion, the same rich red hair, each dressed in white and gold dripping with rubies and garnet.

  “They could be siblings,” Valka said.

  “Like the pharaohs of old,” I said coolly, sharing her discomfiture. “Or the Jaddians.” The Aventine house had—in the royal line—married only itself for more than ten thousand years, relying on the ministrations of the High College to prevent mutation. They were the blood of the God Emperor, after all, and it was said that one day through their breeding he would come again, and that his rebirth would mark the rebirth of Old Earth, and that in his second reign the deserts of Earth would blossom again and the shark no longer starve in the deep waters for want of fish. To that end the Imperial line had kept itself pure for millennia, with the effect that the scions of the House Avent seemed as like to one another as clones, as Philip and Ricard had done.

  Just such a collection of clones stood behind the Imperial couple. There was Crown Prince Aurelian, the firstborn, and Princess Irene, the second. And there were others, Faustinus and Matthias, Eleanor and Elara—for whom our Elara was named—and two dozen others. Not all of the more than a hundred royal children were present, but perhaps a third of them. Still more, like Alexander, like Philip and Ricard, had elected to attend the ball despite not being part of the formal entourage, but the rest, I knew, were elsewhere in the Peronine Palace, or at Caliburn House on Avalon, or sleeping in crystal creches on secret Legion bases throughout the Empire to protect that massive and most ancient dynasty from destruction.