The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  Astonished, Ng sat upright in bed.

  “Twenty-four years, thirty-six days, four hours, fifteen minutes,” Hayashi crowed. “I win!”

  But through her astonished delight at the conclusion of her long search for the meaning of that obscure term, Ng shivered. The voice! She had heard it before. Where? It was not that of a living man. “Who was that voice?” she asked.

  Metellus’s face abruptly lost its smile. “Who, indeed?” he said, and his tone made her shiver again. “Jaspar Arkad.”

  “What?”

  The frisson of awe and fear intensified as Metellus related the strange story of the Palace computer and its assumption of the identity of Jaspar Arkad. When he finished, she was silent for a long time, still sitting up, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Is it still . . . here?”

  “I suppose so. I didn’t want to bring it to the attention of the authorities—although I believe Vannis Scefi-Cartano suspects. It’s something the Panarch will have to deal with.”

  Then he pulled her down on top of him and ran his fingers up her back, their pressure increasingly urgent. “Never mind that. We have more important things to consider. Like this, and this, and this—”

  Despite the warmth flooding through her, she squirmed away from his insistent kisses and looked him in the eyes. “Just one other thing, Captain Hayashi!” she said in mock umbrage. “No more surprises, AyKay?”

  “Surprises?”

  “Like the welcoming ceremony. It was wonderful, but I would have liked it better if it had been private.”

  Metellus shook his head. “Couldn’t be. Look, one thing this war has taught me is the effectiveness of ritual and symbol.”

  Ng nodded, remembering the vid of his confrontation with Juvaszt and the hostage Panarch over Arthelion.

  Ng closed her eyes. She experienced a brief flash of pity for Brandon Arkad, who would have even less privacy than she for the rest of his life.

  “But I draw the line . . .” said Metellus, his voice suddenly mischievous.

  “At what?”

  “At this!” he said, and she shrieked with laughter as his tongue suddenly and unexpectedly tickled a particularly tender place. “All those trillions can build their own sex legends. They’ll have to do without our example.”

  “They’ll never know what they’re missing,” she laughed, and gave herself up to the pleasure of a love she thought forever lost.

  o0o

  Sitting back in his chair, Montrose looked out the window of his room in the Palace Minor into the terraced garden and reflected on the irony of his being here—in the Mandala—as a Rifter. Had he remained a minor Douloi on Timberwell, it would never have come to pass.

  Eh! It was too pleasant a day, and the surroundings too fine, for dark thoughts. No, even mildly ironic thoughts were not an appropriate way to treat luxurious surroundings, and as a connoisseur of luxury, he knew his responsibility. He’d been working assiduously at it for three highly enjoyable weeks.

  Montrose closed his eyes in order to concentrate on savoring the first sip of the coffee he had just made. The rich blend was precisely the right temperature, the exact proportion of grind to water—pure, distilled water—and the flavor lingered on his tongue.

  The door opened behind him, and he recognized Sedry’s quiet step.

  “There is nothing,” he said, “that enhances the flavors of things like a sudden outbreak of peace.”

  He liked the sound of that and glanced at Sedry to see if she enjoyed his essay into wit.

  She smiled, but it was perfunctory, and her eyes were distracted as she began tidying her clothing.

  Still in his relaxed and expansive mood, Montrose sipped again at the coffee and watched Sedry’s hands as they laid each item down, smoothing, squaring corners, everything precise and orderly. Those short, plain hands, which moved so gracefully at a console, and so tenderly at play . . .

  Her face, which he had thought once so unprepossessing, was angled slightly downward. Her gray hair, usually pulled back and now loose, hid her expression. Not that he could read it—even now, when he knew her so well. It was not Douloi training but nature that made her face a habitual mask, but her hands did not hide her emotions.

  Turning his attention to them, still idle, he observed their ceaseless flow of movement: precise, deliberate, and tense.

  Unconsciously he sat up straighter. Those smoothings and squarings were not gestures of satisfaction. Tendons, white knuckles, mute testimony to a compulsive attempt to order one’s environment . . .

  Because of chaos in one’s life?

  He drew in a deep breath. “Are you packing?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  His first reaction was disbelief. It simply seemed impossible that tragedy could find him here, in this pleasant room at the Mandala. “You’re bunking me out?” he said, knowing it was a joke—trying to make her smile.

  And she did. Slightly. With her lips, but not with her eyes. “I see you haven’t read your messages.”

  She nodded toward the corner desk, at the discreet console there. A green light winked in a corner, but Montrose ignored it and crossed the room in two steps.

  He took her shoulders gently in his hands. “Tell me, Sedry. What is it? Have I done something amiss?”

  She shook her head. “Vi’ya’s orders. Telvarna is leaving.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I was going to talk to you,” she said, her voice the flat tone she assumed when deeply disturbed. “Today. Later.”

  “What is it? Has anyone said something? Done something—” He reached toward her, and she ignored his hand.

  “Montrose, there is no way to preface this: I am pregnant.”

  Wild ideas had raced through his head, but not that. Never that. His first reaction was deep, fierce joy. This surprised him so much he was unable to speak for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It was not by my design.”

  His emotions reeling, Montrose continued to stare at her. But when he saw the sheen of moisture along the rims of her eyes, and her compressed lips, he folded her in his arms. “Sedry, Sedry,” he murmured into her gray hair with its clean-smelling scent. “There’s no need for sorrow. I’m surprised—I’m happy.” He had thought that side of himself closed off forever, buried with his wife and children on Timberwell. Could he face that possible pain again? I had forgotten the joy.

  Then her second statement penetrated, and he turned to look into her face. “You did not choose?”

  She shook her head. “I did not ask for reversal of the contraceptive implant,” she said evenly. “It must have been done on the Suneater, probably through food or drink.” Her voice was still controlled, flat.

  “The Dol’jharians,” Montrose said, and cursed. “But why?”

  “I have thought about that through nights, ever since I first suspected. I tested myself,” she added hastily. “And it is true. The contraceptive was reversed, against my will or knowledge.”

  “But it makes no sense,” he said. “Why would they want you pregnant?”

  “Not me,” she whispered.

  His mind sifted through the difficulties of making certain Sedry’s food would carry the necessary chemicals, then the obvious occurred to him: all the Rifters ate the same food, but only the women would be affected.

  He looked up. Marim, of course, was beyond questioning: had she died pregnant? Because if she had . . .

  His heart tolled, a single sharp stroke, hammer on anvil.

  “Vi’ya,” he said.

  o0o

  “No,” Sebastian Omilov said to his son, his relief obvious. “I’ll not be attending either reception, nor any other.”

  Fierin squeezed Osri’s hand, and he flushed, grateful for her support.

  “No,” his father continued, “the thought that cheers me most is that, after the coronation, and after I finish the correlations with Lysanter, who will be assuming my duties in whatever they’re calling
the Jupiter Project now, I will be able to go home.”

  “To Charvann?” Osri asked, confused.

  His father shook his head, for a moment looking grim. “Apparently the Hollows was destroyed, the servants killed. I am going home to Chernakov, to my mother’s house, which is where I grew up. When you see it, you’ll understand why it is a perfect place to retire.” He smiled at each of them. “But you two haven’t much time, so I’ll leave you to your social duties.”

  Osri held out his hands to his father, and was surprised when the older man pulled him forward into an embrace. Then Sebastian bent and kissed Fierin’s cheek. He left without another word.

  Osri watched, his emotions roiling.

  Fierin squeezed Osri’s arm gently. “I’ll bet his biggest sense of relief is because he won’t be here when your mother shows up.” Her mouth curved down into an alarmingly accurate evocation of Risiena’s ferocious temper, while her voice scaled up into a horribly familiar whine. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t get me a better position at the coronation. Why, the Panarch will never notice me if—”

  Osri was surprised into laughter. He had never suspected Fierin’s talent for mimicry, which had emerged only recently as she gradually flowered into the person that Torigan, and then Srivashti, had deliberately suppressed.

  Then her expression softened to wistfulness. “I wish I could go with you. I would love to meet Granny Chang. But the Vakianos reception is something I can’t avoid.”

  “They want to make up to you for years of neglect.”

  “Well, of course.” She laughed. “That’s why I have to be there.” Her brows went up in an ironic twist. “They weren’t on Ares when I needed them. They seem to have a lot to make up for!”

  “I’ll present you to Granny later,” Osri promised, and they parted reluctantly.

  As he made his way through the labyrinth of the Palace Major to the room where the reception was being held, he reflected on how much had changed for him. The Panarch had expressly invited him, but few others to perhaps the most exclusive soiree of the many being held tonight. And most of the other invitees were Rifters.

  He grinned. The very thought would have thrown him into a helpless rage not very long ago. Now he looked forward to seeing the crew of the Telvarna again. He wondered what the future held for them. Would they attempt to fit into the Panarchy, or return to the freedom of the Riftskip? But neither the Panarchy nor the Riftskip will be what it was.

  When he reached the reception, he scanned the slowly circulating crowd, many dressed in splendidly bright colors. He recognized Lokri right away, entertaining with extravagant gesture and laughing voice a circle of handsome young Douloi. Jaim was deep in conversation with Admiral Ng, and not far away Vannis moved gracefully from group to group.

  Montrose was on the other side of the room, and Osri recognized Lucan Miph and two or three other captains from the alliance. Though the Rifters seemed to make little attempt to observe the careful positional preference of Douloi society, most of the Douloi were skilled enough to make the party cohere—though Osri saw some of them watching Brandon for cues.

  It was amazing, he thought. Before the war, the Rifters would have been the ones at loose ends, but now it was the Douloi who seemed uneasy.

  He made his way toward Granny Chang’s gee-bubble to pay his respects, then stopped when he saw her talking to Vi’ya, the Douloi around them standing carefully back.

  “You have grown, daughter,” said the ancient nuller, her dark eyes gleaming.

  And reaching through the gee-bubble, she pressed a little jade lion into Vi’ya’s hands. Osri recognized it as one of the treasures that the Rifters had looted from the Ivory Antechamber what seemed a thousand years ago. Now—he would have thought it impossible at one time—it was returning home. “Given freely to me as a gift, now given freely back. It is you who must return it to its rightful place among its ancestors, for in you we see the symbol we never thought to see: the possible meeting between the chaos of the Rift and the order of the Panarchy. Perhaps there can be a new life, a better life, for both peoples, with strengths and wisdom taken from each.”

  Osri watched Vi’ya bow to the old nuller. The jade lion had not just returned but had accrued new meaning.

  As Vi’ya walked away and Granny Chang turned to another guest, Osri contemplated how he would be a part of that new meaning. Once upon a time his future had been utterly predictable, to the date of his retirement and his taking up of residence at the Hollows on Charvann. But now, like everyone else here, his future was unknown, and completely open.

  And to his amazement, he found he very much liked the idea.

  o0o

  Vannis stood under a shade tree and watched the westering sun touch the fountain, the gold refracting like liquid flame.

  Her restoration labors were, in a sense, finished. The new Mace had arrived from Karelais that morning, and symbolic objects from every capital of each octant waited in the hands of the stewards for the commencement of the new reign. The vast logistical tapestry was now complete—or nearly. She could congratulate herself for the almost miraculous smoothness with which it had been woven.

  Nearly complete. The coronation is tomorrow . . .

  Looked at from another perspective, her duties were just beginning.

  She had not decided which point of view to embrace, and this inability to make a decision indicated a withdrawal for a time of contemplation.

  Certainly the personal interactions were neither finished nor beginning. Against all the odds, Vi’ya had lived through the Suneater battle. She had lived, and apparently had proved whatever she had needed to prove to Brandon—and he had done the same by her.

  Vannis had been working with him extensively of late, not once but often several times a day, and had seen him in a range of moods, from severe to hilarious, but always, when Vi’ya entered or left the room, there was a subtle change in his demeanor. Vannis knew that if Vi’ya had not come back alive, there would have been no change in his devotion, save that of the living for memory. At least for the present; in her experience, lifelong commitment to a single individual was too much a rarity to rely on. So she would involve herself indispensably in the first circles of power and wait.

  Unbidden woke a vivid image of a tall figure dressed in gray, with long braids down his back. Inevitably a shadow at Brandon’s shoulder, Jaim had watched her at least as often as her own gaze strayed toward Brandon. His expression was no easier to interpret than the Panarch’s when he wished to be impervious, but for all that she felt a strong tug of attraction.

  Easy enough to resist, of course. There were plenty of candidates for her own bed, and she did not have to resort to a Rifter bodyguard with obscure background and even more obscure future, for now that the coronation was nigh, he had made it clear his wardship over the Panarch’s life had ended. He had chosen—not Brandon.

  Obscure Jaim might be, but not powerless, it seemed.

  She shook her head, dismissing the image.

  It was time indeed for her to withdraw for a more protracted period. After the extensive coronation celebrations, she would board her yacht for a journey to Desrien. The irony of her action had not escaped her, nor would it any of her detractors. But my mother left to abjure the world, and I do not. When I return, I will know who I am and what place I want.

  The sun, a glorious red ball, dropped beyond the line of distant trees, and its light faded out of the fountain, leaving the water a cool blue-white.

  The air was chilly, and a breeze kicked at her skirts, sending skittering leaves dancing across the terrace in front of her. Vannis breathed deeply, enjoying the inconvenience of weather again.

  She backed away and chose a path at random, one mysterious with merging blue-green shadows. She had an hour before she had to get ready for the state dinner for the Privy Councilors.

  The seating had been arranged between Brandon and her days ago: Vannis would sit across from the Panarch, making a circle
. At his right would be Vi’ya.

  Vannis had dispatched a message to Vi’ya earlier in the day with an explanation of the difference between a formal dinner en circle (meaning no hierarchy) and one en table (which meant strict hierarchy would be observed). She’d listed some of the customs the Douloi observed and offered to explain further if the Rifter captain had questions.

  There had been no answer.

  Vannis slowed her steps, breathing deeply of the interlaced subtle scents. The shadows enfolded her as her sensed came to a conclusion: it smelled like night, and impending rain.

  As sophisticated as our tianqi technology is, we have never been able to more than approximate an ordinary garden on a late spring day. Was that a metaphor for human understanding?

  Irony nipped at her soul with the tang of aloe. No doubt there was a poem—an essay—a clever dialogue in that thought, but her interest in its pursuit had passed, evanescent as the fading light.

  Then she heard the soft rhythm of footfalls and the crunch of a twig.

  Palming her jac, she whirled, pointed—

  And her hand dropped as a tall black-haired silhouette emerged from the shadows. It was Vi’ya, walking with tread heavy enough to be heard.

  But how had she found Vannis?

  Of course. She is a telepath.

  Vi’ya closed the distance with leisurely step. Dressed in spacer’s tunic and trousers of the blue of steel at twilight, Vi’ya looked down at the elegant little palm-jac still in Vannis’s hand and said, “Ever had to use it?”

  “Just once.” And Vannis thought with a kind of desperate challenge, Read my mind and found out when, and where, and why.

  But the impassive profile next to her did not change as Vi’ya scanned through the trees at the distant horizon.

  They paced a dozen steps in silence, Vi’ya shortening her strides to accommodate Vannis. At length, Vi’ya said, “I have a question.”

  “About the dinner tonight?”

  Vi’ya lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture that stirred deep memory. “I will sit and be silent, and mirror the others. It is what they expect of a Dol’jharian barbarian,” she added with faint humor.