Ng shook her head. “Local defense must be included, for the sake of full force-integration.”
The Draco’s face congealed into obstinacy. He shook his head and Ng turned to Jep, waiting for a response.
So it comes to this. Ng looked at him steadily, not a flicker of emotion in her face. It was his opportunity, and his danger. Well, then, it was time to see just how serious the Panarchists were.
“We must agree that full integration is a worthy goal,” he began, noting faint relaxation in some of the Panarchists. “I assume, of course, that the naval officers so placed will be more than supercargo.” He stressed the word “naval” and saw that Ng and the others took his meaning. No Marines. “They must contribute fully to the joint effort,” Jep finished. He sensed heightened expectation from the High Phanist, who was watching him intently.
“We will ask for commissioned volunteers for space duties,” Ng said. “I will not command officers to accept such posts.”
Jep nodded. Now to finesse the necessity for Marines. Or fail. “You must be the judge of that. But it seems only just that Rifter liaisons be placed aboard naval vessels in like fashion.”
Ng hesitated. “It would be impossible to integrate Rifters into the structure of naval discipline in such a short time.”
“No more so than fitting naval officers into Rifter commands,” Jep countered quickly, keeping the initiative away from Chestin.
The silence had the intensity of high-gee.
To his surprise, the High Phanist chuckled, breaking the tension. “That’s already been tried, hasn’t it, young Omilov?” She turned to the lieutenant.
The young man’s expression was more complex than mere reluctance. As Jep watched, color tinged Omilov’s face, but he seemed unable to speak.
Then a door hissed open from behind the Rifters, and a clear voice spoke for him.
“Yes, it has, and I owe my life to it, as does Lieutenant Omilov.”
Relief and gratitude flooded through Osri as a panel in the wall slid back and Brandon entered the chamber. Osri had conceived his attendance as duty, hoping that his mere presence as proxy for the Panarch would be enough. Now he knew that Brandon had seen it not just as duty, but the act of a friend, and had never intended for him to be other than a symbol.
As he is himself. To most of his trillions of subjects, Brandon, too, could never be other than a symbol. Exercise power, a symbol to all; forging the chains by which you’re enthralled. He heard the final Polarity of Jaspar Arkad clearly in his mind, as if someone very close to him had spoken.
Osri had risen with all the other naval officers and civilian negotiators; the hard-faced Rifter triumvir and his two associates rose more slowly.
Then Osri understood that he was called upon to act, to reforge a chain he thought he’d slipped when they at last arrived at Ares.
Unsettling was the memory of the painting in New Glastonbury that had swallowed him: the Panorama of a galaxy with a tiny bubbloid habitat in the foreground, lights flowing from viewports scattered over its craggy surface, a decrepit ship painted in garish colors hanging nearby.
The stone rejected by the builders . . .
Osri felt his career in the balance; had he judged the Panarch’s need correctly? “Admiral,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice was, “I request permission to return that gift now by volunteering for detached duty as discussed.”
Ng could hear the lieutenant’s unease, and felt a moment of empathy; was he now feeling as she had when she’d put her career on the line in support of Brandon Arkad? But he’d stepped into the middle of a delicate negotiation; it had been for the Panarch to speak.
“We haven’t decided that point yet,” Ng replied, and Osri’s heart thudded hard at the flatness of her voice.
“I think the Dol’jharians have decided it for us,” said Brandon. “But I’d like a moment alone with Genz Houmanopolis before we continue.” He gestured towards the still-open door behind him.
Jep thoroughly enjoyed the look on the faces of Siulys and Chestin as he walked around the table. The Panarch lifted a hand to invite him through the door and, to Jep’s surprise, used that same hand to halt the Marines who tried to accompany them. The door closed, leaving them alone, and somehow, despite seventy-plus years of deadly politics, he had no sense that there were hidden jacs trained on him. Cynicism exerted itself nonetheless against that feeling. This one is good. Very good.
“The Dol’jharians certainly left you no choice,” said Brandon. “Or you’d not be here.”
“Nor you, I think,” replied Jep. “You were on the Riftskip for a time. Long enough to make quite a mess on Rifthaven, anyway.”
The Panarch’s quick grin made him look young, almost boyish. From the vid, Jep remembered Brandon Arkad’s hilarity during the battle at Giffus Snurkel’s, whose assassination afterwards despite following Eusabian’s orders had begun Rifthaven’s drift towards this very moment.
“What would you have done if the Dol’jharians had not attacked?” Jep continued. “Would you now be a Rifter rather than ruler?”
The Panarch shrugged, his expression pensive as he gazed down at a plain gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Jep. “But I do know that things couldn’t have gone on as they were, and certainly cannot now.”
Brandon could see the impact of his statement in the old man’s face. This was the man who, as much as anyone could be, was his antitype among the Rifters. A man who represented a world that had welcomed Markham, and had given Vi’ya refuge.
He spoke as one symbol to another. “I have made a covenant. If we win through, I will find a new way for Rifters, Highdwellers, and Downsiders to coexist.”
Jep felt the words strike like rocks on a hull, with a weight not to be denied. Thanks to Ares 25, he knew what covenant the Panarch referred to. Time to seal the agreement.
“Well then, as we’re to be married by Magister Firejac, I’ve a wedding present for you. There’s a hyperwave salvaged from Aroga Blackheart’s ship on the Gloire, and it’s yours.”
FIVE
Vannis Scefi-Cartano, former Consort to the Aerenarch Semion vlith-Arkad (deceased), moved among the nodding blooms in the garden of the Enclave. She carried a long basket on her arm, into which she laid the carefully chosen blossoms she cut from time to time.
To the observer, she would appear wholly absorbed in her task. Even when deep in thought, Vannis was always cognizant of the possible observer—it had been one of the first lessons drilled into her as a small child.
She assessed herself with her inner eye: her formal walking suit, simple in design but costly in fabric, falling in complicated layers to sandaled feet, its color grading from white to palest lavender as a subtle indication of mourning for the dead Panarch Gelasaar; her hair swept up in a coronet, bound only with a single strand of pearls; her hands free of jewels, moving with unhurried calm.
Visible observers would be the Marine guards, eternally vigilant, posted at the entrances to the Enclave, and the steady stream of functionaries, messengers, and titled petitioners going to and fro along the main pathway. Invisible observers might be anyone. Not so long ago she herself had spied on the Enclave from inside her villa across the lake.
Observers would only see the former Aerenarch Consort cutting flowers, as she did early each “morning.” But behind the impervious facade, her mind worked furiously on a personal campaign, conducted through purely social means, but the goal was as far-reaching as the war plans being argued in public and in private by the political and military leaders of the new government.
She had learned to evaluate her tactical strengths and weaknesses before planning a strategy. Now, as she stooped over a rosebush, reaching for a single perfect bud partly hidden behind an interlacing of leaves, she examined the terrain.
She lived at the Enclave, Brandon having invited her to relocate from her villa in order to deflect political speculations about his having taken over the w
ardship of Fierin vlith-Kendrian. As Aerenarch-Consort she had reigned over the social life of the Mandala on Arthelion, a position she had resumed as if the intervening war had never happened. And life was uncertain enough on Ares that the Douloi—even those who had lost families and fortunes—went right along with the illusion.
So the Enclave had metamorphosed from a retreat of monastic quiet to the center of a constant series of entertainments, all planned by Vannis and often hosted by her. And every single one of them was designed to please one person: Brandon Arkad.
This overt part of her campaign was both an unspoken apology and a declaration. She did not expect him to acknowledge it (though hope refused to die) and so far he hadn’t. He was precisely as polite, as considerate in the minutiae of sharing living space, as he would have been had she done nothing—which made his response impossible to interpret.
Vannis straightened up. Today, yellow roses, ranging in hue from ivory to the color of the setting sun over the Mandala. She had gathered enough for three bouquets.
A subtle flex of her wrist, and her boswell obligingly told her the time. They will just be starting.
Moving at a leisurely pace over a circuitous route, presently she arrived, alone and unobserved, at a little alcove, and sat in the dark room so that light would not shine in the window that looked down onto the gym.
This time, a group of perhaps twenty men and women—from Marines to house staff—in addition to Fierin and Brandon, finishing the set of rhythmic exercises that warmed and stretched muscles, under the strict eye of the squat, middle-aged woman who was Ares’s leading Ulanshu expert. Brandon stood in the middle of the crowd, shadow-punching and kicking, whirling, and striking the air with precisely placed hand and foot.
She watched him as she examined with remorseless clarity her spectacular, passion-driven entry into the political arena. For a few hours she had reveled in the riots triggered by her release of the data on the villainous acts of al-Gessinav, Srivashti, and Torigan. The riots had served a double purpose: to vent public rage against the villains and to cover the escape of the Rifter crew of the Telvarna—captained by the woman Brandon loved.
Too late had Vannis discovered that what for her was expedience was to him a betrayal.
As he moved through mock battles with laughing young Marines, she reviewed the conversation that she had forced on him the following day. Convinced after a sleepless night that if he could just be brought to understand that she, too, was motivated by love, she had broken all the boundaries of Douloi etiquette and indirection to speak directly to him and to force him to speak directly to her.
“Your Rifter captain wanted to leave,” she said. “Are Dol’jharians even capable of love?”
“Dol’jharians are human beings, no more and no less than anyone else, Vannis.” He’d sat across the room from her, hands flexed on the arms of his chair, his patient face marked with the signs of extreme physical exhaustion.
“If Vi’ya loves you, then why did she leave?”
“She loves me,” he said, “to the extent that she has pledged her life to make me a gift suitable for a panarch.”
Vannis stared at him through burning eyes. “That is what she wants, then? To be a kyriarch?”
“No,” he said. “It is me she loves. It’s the 48th Panarch she doesn’t trust. My pledge is to prove the latter worthy of her trust, and the former worthy of her love.”
“Can you understand why I did what I did?” she said, through aching throat. “It was my pledge to you—”
“Your pledge to a panarch,” he said, without anger, or malice, or even accusation. Gentle and sober and devastatingly honest. “Worthy of a kyriarch. But your actions yesterday left no room for friendship, or trust, for the human being behind the title.”
She closed her eyes, bracing against the flood of regret and sorrow that the memory of those words always raised. Down in the gym below, Brandon strove against an opponent much taller and broader than he. The two men grappled swiftly, froze in a straining contest of strength, and then with a bone-jarring thump that Vannis felt rather than heard, Brandon was thrown to the mat. But he rolled away to his feet, leaping and whirling in a swift attack that sent his opponent staggering.
They both laughed, then bowed, and the trainer came up and addressed each of them, her hands gesturing.
Two or three more matches, then they performed as a group the ritual movements signifying the end of the session.
Vannis walked into the hallway, still carrying her basket of roses. The door to the gym opened, and Brandon and Fierin emerged, flushed, the latter bright-eyed and smiling. Brandon’s color was heightened as well, his fine dark hair damp, but there was no expression in his face beyond the customary politeness.
“Good session,” Fierin said, lifting her dark braids and fanning her neck. “She almost killed me, then said I’ve improved.”
“She almost killed me, and said I’m slow, lazy, and heavy-footed,” Brandon said ruefully.
Vannis smiled. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent,” Brandon answered, and with a courteous gesture indicating he would rejoin them presently, he disappeared in the direction of his own suite.
Fierin turned to Vannis. Her silvery-gray eyes, startling in her smooth dark face, were earnest. “Learning Ulanshu defense feels good. I suppose it’s silly, but I feel somehow that I am preparing myself for this horrid attack.”
It would take years before you’d be able to defend yourself against a serious threat, Vannis thought. Better to depend on one’s wits—and a palm-jac. But she only nodded.
“I wish I hadn’t been so shortsighted when they offered it in school. The only people who studied the Ulanshu paths were the ones planning to go into the Navy, or who really liked sports with physical competition.” Fierin wrinkled her nose. “Everyone was really focused today, like they might be needing it soon. I think they all feel the way I do.”
Vannis said, “If we lose the Suneater, there will be nowhere safe to go.”
“We have to win. We have to.” Fierin flexed her hands, then dropped them to her sides. “I will be with you shortly.”
When Brandon walked out onto the terrace where they customarily had breakfast, Vannis twitched the finishing touches on a bouquet. They were alone; he didn’t like servants hovering around, so all the food sat in chafing dishes on a buffet. He poured himself some coffee, then let the cup sit between his fingers. Its column of steam curled up in a hypnotic frond as he watched.
Vannis glanced at his oblique blue gaze, then returned to her task, her movements calm and economical. When she was certain the bouquet was aesthetically irreproachable from all angles, she took her seat opposite Brandon and poured out coffee for herself. “Fierin will join us presently,” she said.
Brandon laid a sheet of paper on the table. Vannis knew without looking that it was a printout of the day’s schedule, produced by Brandon’s social secretary, the Desrien oblate Ki.
Vannis did not have to listen to him read it out—she already had it memorized. Almost her first goal on moving into the Enclave had been to make friends with the staff. One of the fruits of her patient labors with the reticent oblate was that she had each evening previous the same exact printout.
Instead, she watched Brandon. Though she was an accomplished muscle reader, his mask of control was nearly impenetrable, as would be expected of someone who had spent his formative years under the eye of a brother as inimical as he was powerful. He read swiftly, in a slightly absent voice, which indicated his thoughts were already otherwhere. On the governing and command schedule, which Ki probably does not see.
When he looked up, she said, “Of the invitations issued in your name, only the dinner and the reception really require your presence. I can preside over the tours and welcomes.”
He looked up, his gesture one of gratitude, though his eyes were still distracted. Planning how to be two places at once. Navy meetings, of course, but those were carefully schedu
led not to overlap. Factions who don’t share scheduling with the Navy . . . like the newly arrived Syndic from Rifthaven whom Vannis officially didn’t know about? Probably.
“If I’m late to the dinner, blame it on my drunkenness.”
It was a joke, so she smiled, though it was also a reminder of the past they shared, and as such, a reminder of that personal distance. “The High Phanist will understand perfectly.” She raised her brows.
Brandon laughed, the long fingers flicking outward in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit.
Fierin appeared, dressed in a flame-colored walking suit. “What did I miss?”
“Merely Vannis’s imputation that Eloatri has a fondness for liquor,” Brandon said.
Fierin choked on the coffee she’d just poured, her eyes swimming with tears. “Oh! Of course! I can imagine the orgies they have up at the Cloisters—she and Sebastian Omilov, hordes of lovers, barrels of liquor . . .”
“Food fights . . .” Brandon murmured, twirling his spoon.
“The latest sex-tech, straight from Rifthaven . . .”
Brandon picked up the image and carried it on, keeping Fierin in a fizzing stream of laughter. Vannis went on with her breakfast. It was clear he enjoyed Fierin’s taste for silly jokes—and that he thought of her as a half-grown puppy.
Vannis contributed enough to appear part of the conversation while reassessing her own day, trying to determine who among her growing contacts would be able to provide her with the data she needed to run her parallel trajectory.
The terrain was laid out, the sides drawing together. In this kind of campaign, the weaponry was a word, a gesture, subtle and indirect, for her dear enemy must not divine her intent. There was a seductively dangerous elegance to it; Vannis thought she understood Tau Srivashti better now. Aesthetics gradually replaced ethics, as one had the means, and the wit. How could one step wrongly if everything one did was beautiful?
I must always remember his fate.
Her crusade now was not merely for her own pleasure. Although that would be great. Her goal was to save the Thousand Suns and their new Panarch.
The Thrones of Kronos Page 9