Their father’s unfailing love was the stuff of legends.
If Jessica’s media manipulators had tried to propagate the tale he’d left in rage or engaged in some marriage-destroying dalliance, no one would have believed it. Yet Philip had to leave, and leave in a way that made Jessica a sympathetic character, and plausibly available. The sympathy and plausibility were vital.
Not listening, Nikol smiled for no other reason than her mother did.
So—to keep from being screamingly obvious the fact that her mother was about to marry an irritating drone to gain the credibility of his name, her father was going through a breakdown. Nothing terrible. No public frothing at the mouth or fits of rage: quite the opposite, in fact. Tomorrow he was going to ask the court chamberlain to remove his chair from the dais. In coming weeks he would be seen standing around the edges of things, choosing not to take part; he would leave early or not be present at all. Philip would be gradually less and less apparent until…
A few months from now—the precise timetable would be determined by the public relations specialists on Torrian Dolcat’s team—news would leak from the palace that Philip had decided he could no longer live the public life of consort to a ruler and had gone into seclusion, leaving behind a divorce decree.
Philip Hughes would be vilified and pitied—the story would be spun both ways to different media—and Jessica would bravely carry on alone. By then Frederick Marik would have been coached in his role as loyal adviser and companion. Few in the upper levels of real political power would be fooled by this performance, particularly when Frederick Marik became her new husband. But with a little judicious staging and a few scripted events, the story would play well to the mass media. And be just plausible enough to the general public that it might win Jessica a new level of popular support.
The poached trout from dinner roiled dangerously in Nikol’s stomach, and she carefully sipped the sweet wine. She wanted to bolt from the room, as Christopher had done when the other guests had taken their leave. Instead she perched dutifully at the end of the brocade divan, looking interested in their guest. With an effort she focused on what he was saying.
“The Marik clan has always been endogamic.” Frederick Marik smiled smugly. “I suppose it’s a case of no one else ever being quite up to our standards for tying the knot.”
Jessica Marik managed a tiny smile, but Nikol could see how much even that cost her mother.
Either I’m getting better at reading her or she’s letting me see how she feels.
Nikol was almost certain it was the latter. What she could not decide was whether her mother was being so transparent because she needed her daughters’ support or was trying to manipulate them into pitying her. As though either daughter was likely to forget that the purgatory before their mother was entirely of her own making.
Nikol looked at Elis and was not surprised to meet her sister’s basilisk glance.
Finally found something we agree on.
That thought almost brought a smile.
“Of course, my parents were an extreme example.” Frederick cocked a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Probably the result of being isolated in the wasteland of The Republic. No way to get back to our roots.”
“There are many reasons for marriage,” Jessica agreed.
“Perhaps they loved each other,” Nikol suggested.
Jessica’s eyelid flickered but she did not look toward her daughter.
“Perhaps.” Frederick seemed genuinely surprised the notion had been suggested. “But the Marik-to-Marik affinity as well as close proximity is probably what tipped the balance. After all, Calvin Bernstein-Marik was raised like a son by his aunt Kristen Rousset-Marik, younger sister of his mother, Ana. To marry Agatha Hampton-Marik, Kristen’s daughter, after being raised in the same household?”
He let his voice trail off, inviting comment—or perhaps agreement. When none of the women responded, he evidently concluded the point needed to be driven home.
“They were first cousins, you see, which violates the incest taboos on half a hundred worlds—”
“And affirms the familial traditions on as many more,” Elis pointed out.
Good shot, Nikol thought.
“Perhaps.” Frederick’s tone was dismissive. “But if the trend among Mariks of The Republic had continued—and if Thaddeus had been born a woman—I’m certain I’d have been expected to marry my sister. No doubt our offspring would have been hermaphrodites.”
Frederick chuckled into the goblet as he drank deeply of his liquor. The bowled glass resonated the sound unnaturally.
Good God, he thinks he’s just been witty, Nikol boggled. Maybe even titillating.
Frederick Marik had presented himself as a self-obsessed bore in every conversation with Nikol since she’d first met the man on Terra; he had proposed marriage twenty minutes into their initial conversation. But he had never revealed himself to be a boor until now. Noting his now-empty goblet, she wondered how much could be blamed on drink.
Two and a half years ago, Nikol had been rescued from Frederick Marik’s unwanted attentions at a reception following Victor Steiner-Davion’s funeral by Danai Liao. It had been necessary for the Capellan chancellor’s sister to physically attack Frederick—disguised as a drunken stumble, of course—to break the man’s concentration on his own charm.
Was this same man subtle enough now to be testing their mettle under the guise of inebriation? Or was he actually such a fool as to allow himself to become incapacitated in their presence?
Either way, Jessica Marik’s body language made it clear the after-supper portion of the evening was at an end.
Clear to everyone except Frederick Marik. It took another ten minutes, during which he focused what he no doubt considered to be his considerable charm on each of them in turn, before he was safely in the hands of the servants and headed for the gate.
“That went well,” Elis observed drily when they were again alone.
“He does tend to make Anson appear a more suitable candidate,” Jessica agreed, with a complete deadpan that surprised a bark of laughter from Elis.
“Was he really that drunk?” Nikol asked.
“Or is he really that foolish?” Jessica asked back.
“He did seem to flirt with all three of us,” Elis agreed, her tone thoughtful. “Until today he has been fixated on Nikol.”
“So was the change due to his figuring out something is afoot?” Nikol picked up the thread. “Or is omnidirectional flirtation his natural response when in the company of more than one woman?”
“The latter,” Elis said flatly. Then amended: “I think. Though I confess I find the idea that there’s more to this man than a caricature basically unbelievable.”
“Which could in itself suggest there is more to this man,” Nikol countered. “Frederick Marik may be an answer, but he brings a lot of questions with him.
“Questions we shall need to resolve in coming weeks,” Jessica agreed.
* * *
So.
Frederick Marik leaned back, allowing the ground car’s acceleration to push him into the neoleather upholstery.
That was informative.
Her Grace the Lady pseudo-Marik was certainly desperate to marry off her spinster daughters; that much was plain. What was not plain was why. Securing heirs, of course, but why now and why in this manner? Perhaps the loss of her first two options had driven home the point that contingencies must be planned.
She certainly didn’t seem to pin much hope on young Christopher. Not surprising; he was an abrasive chap with no sense of manners. Usually a lad with the impunity of position and power Christopher obviously enjoyed would have to be restrained from dropping inconvenient offspring all over the landscape.
Of course, Christopher was—or had been—the younger son, he reminded himself. The willing young breeding stock with the greed-glittering eyes would have been ignoring him to throw themselves at his older brother. Frederick could certainly empathize with t
hat situation.
Now, however, the boy’s political and sexual star was on the rise. The loss of Janos was tragic, of course, but Christopher was no doubt already considering the horizons from the vantage of his new position.
Frederick wondered what sort of deals with new cronies the boy was striking. He’d certainly escaped from the soirée as though he had something urgent on his agenda. Though truth to tell, there was nothing to hold him at what was obviously his mother’s effort to parade the available daughters to the new stud.
Frederick smiled and adjusted his cuff.
And she was desperate enough to put up with behavior that should have earned him the boot by dessert. Even kept him on for a private chat afterward.
The old girl’s gotten a serious insight into her own mortality.
He would have to make some effort to discover the particulars of the covey of minor notables who’d been called in as witnesses. There had certainly been nothing about any of them to indicate any need for his consideration, but Lady Jessica pseudo-Marik—
Careful, he warned himself. Keep admiring your own cleverness and you’ll slip and say “pseudo” out loud to the wrong person.
Lady Marik, Lady Marik, Lady Marik.
He sighed, already missing the clever turn of phrase he’d never use again.
Lady Marik had evidently considered the guests to be of some importance. Common sense dictated he discover how and where they fit into the suitable-spouse selection process.
And why no maidens for Christopher? One would think binding him to a monogamous relationship of political advantage would be a priority. Unrestrained, a boy of his good looks would be providing heirs abundant.
Unless the lad was a flower, despite all his robust adventurism.
The one does not preclude the other, old boy. Frederick smiled again as he admonished himself. Wouldn’t do to let stereotypes limit one’s thinking.
Even if Christopher was uninterested in women, a marriage of convenience and routine medical procedures would guarantee suitable inheritors of the pseu—of the Marik line.
The Marik line.
That was it. There were no eligible females of the Marik line available—the real Marik line, that is. Her Grace was after legitimacy.
He’d known the Oriente Protectorate needed an infusion of genuine Marik blood if it was ever going to gain acceptance among the Houses of the Inner Sphere. That had motivated his decision to relocate to Amur. However, with Lady Jessica so certain of her own legitimacy, he’d anticipated having to educate his rustic nonrelatives of its necessity. Either he was underestimating Jessica’s subtlety, or the seeds he’d planted in young Nikol’s ear at Victor Steiner-Davion’s interminable round of funereal fetes two years ago had borne fruit.
Poor Thaddeus, Frederick thought as the limousine pulled into the gates of his guest estate. All that hard work being a good soldier of The Republic came to nothing. Where are all your lectures on duty and calling now, Thaddy-boy? Your precious Republic is dust.
Aware of the importance of the common touch, Frederick inclined his head in appreciation when the footman opened the door of the ground car. Feeling particularly pleased with the events of the day, he went so far as to smile at the maid at the door. His smile grew slightly at her obvious confusion.
Birth order is no match for intelligence, big brother of mine, or for a game shrewdly played. Your lifetime of cutting me off from everything I deserve has come to naught, and the little brother you denounced as a wastrel is poised to inherit the most powerful realm in Free Worlds space.
Glancing at the marbled entry hall of the manor loaned to him on the strength of his name alone, Frederick Marik suppressed the urge to laugh out loud.
Karma, brother dearest, can be a bitch.
5
Augusta, Savannah
Former Prefecture VII
3 September 3137
“He wants what?”
“Targeting systems and replacement components for”—Voline shrugged, turning her noteputer so its screen faced the minister—“a whole shopping list of weapons systems.”
Minister of Industry Jim Doonah—until a year ago The Republic’s planetary legate on Savannah—sighed. Extending his hand across the cluttered desk, he accepted the noteputer.
“I take it the captain-general never got word of the Jihad,” he said, paging through the screens.
“The tone of his letter suggests he doesn’t believe the Blakist destruction was as thorough as generally believed,” his secretary answered. “Either that or he has a lot of respect for our ability to rise from the ashes.”
Doonah grunted. “The tone of his letter is the same tone he uses for everything from death threats to inquiring after your health. Assuming he cared enough about anyone besides himself to ask. He’s just an arrogant bastard.”
“In that case, I’d say he’s simply requesting everything he needs in the hope we actually have it.”
“Agreed.” Doonah keyed a thumb control, highlighting items on the list. “And in some cases he’s right.”
“Sir?” Voline made no effort to hide her surprise.
“BattleMechs? Ha!” The minister shook his head; deleting one item, he typed in others. “But we can probably spare those G-chassis Industrials. Dieudonne can wait until next production run. We’ve got some mod kits too. He’s got the people to put them together.
“Armor, myomer, fusion drives—all of these are off-the-rack.” He handed the noteputer with the highlighted list back to his secretary. “Send them payment-deferred until his convenience. And ask Petrie in Defense over my signature what weapons systems she can spare.”
“Sir?” Voline asked again.
Doonah grinned crookedly at her expression. “Confused?”
“Yes, sir,” his secretary admitted. “Payment deferred?”
“I think even the bean counters in Budgetary will agree that free support of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth’s survival is a prudent use of our resources,” Doonah said. “Anson Marik may be an arrogant bastard, but right now he’s the arrogant bastard standing between us and the Lyrans.
“If he falls, we’re next.”
6
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
7 September 3137
“Milord?”
The voice barely rose above the burble of the fountain at the corner of the broad patio. It was an abstract affair that managed to be both impressive and ugly while rising no higher than his chin. Frederick hated the thing and was glad the architect had chosen to place it to one side; possibly to better facilitate being able to ignore it while admiring the view of the sculpted gardens.
Not that Frederick Marik had been paying the garden the least attention.
He’d spent the last day and a half completely absorbed by a noteputer that had been presented to him by one Dimitri Oshaka, member of Parliament, during a personal visit. It was a beautiful machine: a top-of-the-line Blue Heron, the outer case of which had been expertly embellished with a tasteful rendering of the Marik crest inlaid in what looked to be a sort of mother-of-pearl. Blue Heron was a prestige name brand from…he couldn’t think of the world. Somewhere in Prefecture II, if he recalled correctly; on the far side of the former Republic.
Won’t be seeing any more of these for a while.
The contents of the beautiful noteputer were both fascinating and tiresome: a detailed breakdown of the political situation in the Oriente Protectorate. Captain-General Jessica was not quite the undisputed monolith of power she presented herself to be. There were factions within Parliament, including a significant power bloc that opposed her military expansion.
Of course Frederick was not fool enough to believe this new information was entirely unbiased. Though there was no overt propaganda—or even direct criticism of the captain-general—the word choices and general spin made it obvious the digest had been prepared by members of the loyal opposition.
Frederick looked up, concealing his gratitude f
or the interruption behind a thoughtful frown, to find the domestic administrator of the house Jessica Marik had loaned him standing at a respectful distance.
“Yes”—Frederick fished for the majordomo’s name—“Ballard?”
“This was just delivered, milord.”
Ballard presented a buff envelope precisely centered on a silver tray.
Frederick turned over the missive in his hands as Ballard beat a stately retreat. His name was nicely hand-calligraphed, he noted, and there was no sign the seal had been broken. Of course he was sure whatever the envelope contained had been thoroughly examined and recorded. Living in a house provided by Jessica Marik—he emphasized use of her chosen name, willing himself to make it habit—and surrounded by servants in her employ, he had no doubt the first was thoroughly bugged and the latter trained informants. Always best to assume every gesture was observed and every nuance evaluated.
Keeping his expression thoughtful, Frederick broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment. The needlessly expensive paper was in keeping with the calligraphy, no doubt reflecting a rural concept of elegance.
Frederick stopped himself midgesture.
Rural, rustic—he needed to eliminate all these disparaging adjectives from his vocabulary. He was not now, nor would he ever again be, in the courts of Terra. Oriente was now his home, his arena, and if he was going to be successful here he needed to understand and respect the prevailing conventions. He looked at the envelope with new eyes, noting the quality and weight of the paper. The elegant penmanship implied a scribe, as he doubted anyone casually used a fountain pen with such grace.
Satisfied with his assessment of the medium, he turned his attention to the message.
Member of Parliament Frances Claireborne was requesting the pleasure of his company at an evening soirée the evening of Thursday the ninth. Two days struck him as unusually short notice, but perhaps such last-minute social announcements were common on Oriente. He made a mental note to verify that supposition.
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