Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “In fact,” Dubois said cheekily, and made an adjustment to her wrist. Her musket-class dart shimmered and took on an entirely different skin: gold instead of pearly white, sprinkled with scarlet stars in a regimented pattern. The engines and fin looked a different shape, for all the world as if the dart was sabre-class.

  “That’s a better look for you,” Dana said, with a laugh.

  Dubois winked, and let herself into the ship.

  Conrad stood a little way away, having a polite argument with thin air. He broke off as Dana approached. “This is Mecha Cadet D’Artagnan,” he said. “Extra security detail.”

  There was a shift to the air as the prince turned towards her – the artificial scenery rippled a little, though he remained invisible. “My thanks, Mecha Cadet. If Conrad trusts you, I am sure that I can do the same.”

  Dana tried to look as official as possible. “We should move,” she said.

  The three of them made their way back through the mecha graveyard, and the tunnel that led back to the main dome. Conrad led them through into the gardens of the Palace. “We should wait until we’re closer to the living quarters,” he said. “Before we…”

  But the Prince Consort had already shrugged off the sight-shield, as if sick of the deceit. Alek of Auster looked just like he did on the holovision, only more dishevelled. Dana had only ever seen him in beautiful suits before, or TeamJoust armour. Today he wore the trousers of a beautiful suit, with a rumpled shirt over the top.

  Conrad rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you come out with a coat, your Highness?” He shrugged his own royal blue velvet garment off, and threw it over the Prince’s shoulders. The Prince accepted this as his due, strolling amiably along the paths.

  “I gave it to a friend,” he said carelessly, grinning at nothing in particular.

  If Dana had been in any doubt about what had been going on in that spaceship tonight, she would have known from that shit-eating grin. She dropped behind them both, playing the silent bodyguard.

  Conrad was furious – he carried it mostly in his shoulders, but it spilled over into his voice. “That’s all we need,” he muttered. “Never mind the paper trail of tonight’s activities, you left a clothes trail as well.” They walked along in silence for a moment. “Which coat?” Conrad suddenly asked, as if it had been weighing on his mind.

  The Prince was drunk on happiness. “You’re not going to begrudge me a coat, my friend?”

  “I make all your coats!” Conrad said impatiently. “Each one take weeks of design, and is hand-printed as a one-of-a… no, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Whatever your Highness needs.”

  A pause, as they circled the Fountain of Tranquility, a majestic stone formation from the surface of the moon, which had been enhanced by sprays of Artifice water, dancing in loops and rivulets. It was a common sight on tourist posters of Luna Palais, though Dana had never seen it in person before. There was no time to do more than glance in its direction.

  “Yes, it does matter, actually,” exploded Conrad, on the verge of being extremely rude to his Prince. His exhaustion from the days of captivity frayed his diplomacy. “What were you thinking?”

  Prince Alek patted him. “It’s all going to be fine.”

  Conrad looked utterly defeated. “As long as it wasn’t the peacock coat.”

  The Prince kept walking along the path of marble tiles.

  “The one you haven’t even worn in public yet?”

  “You can print another copy,” Prince Alek said airily.

  “Princes aren’t supposed to wear copies,” Conrad huffed. He turned around, miming his frustration to Dana, who hid a laugh.

  They walked through room after room of exquisite garden art, Dana making a mental map as they went so that she did not get lost again.

  Conrad stopped. The Prince walked a few steps before he realised, and turned back with one beautifully arched green eyebrow. “Conrad?”

  It wasn’t a joke any more, or a minor costuming inconvenience. Conrad looked like death warmed up. “You removed the diamonds first, didn’t you?” he asked with a shudder in his voice. “Before you took the peacock coat for a casual night-time stroll in the Palace gardens? You removed the twelve diamond studs loaded with the culture bank of Honour? The ones your wife gave you for your birthday last month?”

  The Prince just looked at him.

  “I’m going to be executed,” Conrad whispered.

  “They made her eyes sparkle,” said the Prince. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Conrad made a sputtering sound.

  “I wanted to give Buck something nice, something important – you know she’s going back to Valour and they’re never going to let us see each other again? My marriage contract lasts for eight more years!”

  “Yes,” said Conrad. “I know that, Highness, that’s why I risked life, limb, my reputation and my career to let you have this meeting.”

  They looked at each other for a long time, and then the Prince smiled casually and turned back towards the Palace. “Lalla-Louise has bought me many gifts over the years. I am sure she won’t even notice.”

  Conrad stayed where he was standing, for a few moments later, as the Prince went on without him.

  “I should go back to barracks,” Dana said awkwardly. “I bet you’re wishing right now that I didn’t overhear any of that.”

  “You’re not the one I’m worrying about,” said Conrad, and reached out to her hand. “Though maybe that makes me as much of an idiot as…” he stopped himself, and shook his head. “He’s usually smarter than this,” he added, plaintively. “You’re not seeing him at his best.”

  Dana nodded. “I believe you.”

  “You don’t sound like you believe me.”

  “I’m trying really hard.” It was obvious that Conrad cared deeply about the Prince despite the other man’s idiocy.

  Conrad laughed. “You know, if he had decided to go with her, not one of us would have had the power to stop him.”

  “Wars have been started for less,” she agreed.

  “I know it looks like Chev and I made a disaster of things tonight, but… it could have been worse.” Conrad groaned, and buried his face in Dana’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m so tired. There should be a law against how tired I am.”

  Dana patted him on the head. “You should catch him up before he accidentally proposes to a potted plant, or blurts out his night’s activities to the Regence over late night cocoa.”

  Conrad laughed into her shoulder. “Love makes people stupid.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Dana was having a terrible urge to thread her fingers through his bright blue hair.

  Conrad looked up, and met her gaze with his. “You’re young,” he said. “You’ve got time.”

  That would be the moment for her to tease him – who couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than her – about being such an ancient married man, but Dana couldn’t bring herself to make a joke about that.

  “We’re done?” she asked, instead.

  “You’re done,” Conrad said firmly. “My drama continues.”

  “If I can ever be of help again -”

  He nodded once, and then turned away to leave her again, following his Prince.

  “Wait, Conrad,” she called after him, feeling like an idiot. “Which is the quickest way to the mecha barracks?”

  Conrad came back for a moment, and pointed down an avenue of Artifice roses bursting out of floating teacups. “Keep going down that way until you reach the glow in the dark daisy clock, and take the hedge path past the seahorse spheres. They come out near the croquet lawn, and there’s a gate in the wall on the other side that leads directly to the East Wall.”

  She would never have found it on her own. “Good night.”

  Conrad blew her a kiss, jogging backwards along the path. “You’re spectacular, Dana D’Artagnan. I owe you.”

  Dana had not stayed a night at the barracks for weeks, but she had arranged to meet Planchet there onc
e they were both done with their parts of the adventure. She found the young engie fast asleep on her bunk, surrounded by snoring mecha cadets. The girl looked worn out, but peaceful.

  Dana sat on the edge of the bunk, and Planchet stirred. “Did we save the day?” she asked drowsily.

  “Yes,” Dana lied. “That is a thing that we did.” Apart from being sworn to secrecy, there was no way she ever wanted Planchet to know what a massive waste of time their “heroic mission” had been.

  Still, the Prince Consort hadn’t actually run away with his lover to a planet that was making rumblings about independence. That counted as a win, right?

  “Was fun,” Planchet muttered, turning over to make room for Dana. “Can we do it again?”

  Dana paused, and then lay down beside her, balancing precariously on the edge of the narrow bunk. She would just close her eyes for a minute. “Sure,” she said. “Any time, Planchet.”

  It’s hardly worth lying down, it’s not like I ever sleep on the Moon, was Dana’s last thought for the next twelve hours.

  She dreamed of flying, and peacock coats that scattered diamonds through space like a pattern of falling stars.

  14

  The Madness of the Duchess of Buckingham

  One week ago.

  Georgiana Villiers, Duchess of Buckingham and Ambassador of Valour (“Buck” to her friends), was ready to go home. The planet of Honour was appallingly hot from one end to the other, and the southern hemisphere was worst of all. If you were going to spend this much time in air conditioned bars and hotels, you might as well be on the moon.

  Except, of course, she wasn’t allowed on the moon.

  It was worse in Auster than it had been anywhere else. For this entire Grand Tour Of Stay Away From The Regence’s Husband, she had mostly been able to relax and enjoy herself, visiting different cultures and communities across the nine continents.

  Here in Auster, though, everything reminded her of Alek, and the unholy mess they had made for themselves last year when a fun flirtation turned into something far too serious. So many of the local inhabitants had trails of metallic scales on their light gold-brown skin. They wore the scales like beauty marks, and damn it if they weren’t exquisite, every single one of them.

  A whole country full of Aleks. Spirits save me.

  The other New Aristocrats, the top families that Buck mixed with socially, all either knew Alek or had heard of him. Half the men and most of the women she had danced with at the Government Ball upon her arrival were related to Alek’s family. Since Buck had been up on Lunar Palais only six months ago, they constantly dug at her for gossip about his health, happiness, hair colour, fitness regime, and of course his beautiful wife who ruled the solar system.

  Local boy makes good.

  Buck was not going to tell them all the truth, of course – there would be no confession of a flirtation gone too far, a potential PR disaster of epic proportions, or that she still couldn’t stop thinking about him. No one wanted to hear that the eight years left on Alek’s marriage contract to the Regence had become a millstone around all of their necks.

  She would tell no one that Alek and Buck were still exchanging texts, discreet little conversational snippets on the subspace comms, on a daily basis.

  He wanted to see her again, before she went home. And oh, she wanted to see him. There were no words to describe how much of a bad idea that was, but they both wanted.

  A week to go before a Musketeer pilot arrived to escort her back to Valour, and Buck had still not decided what to do.

  Meanwhile, with almost all of the formal events finally done, there was beer. Cold beer was the best thing about Honour in general and Auster in particular – the locals took great pride in keeping it as cold as possible, despite the inhospitable weather.

  Buck had only tried 30 of the Austerian Top 40 Local Beers in the bar nearest her hotel, and was determined to complete the list before that damned ship arrived to escort her home like a naughty teenager who had been caught kissing a boy from the wrong school.

  She was settling down to a glass of something called Griffin’s Sweat when the door to the bar opened, and a Raven sauntered in.

  He recognised Buck immediately, and came over to her. She took a mouthful of the beer, savoured its chill, and wondered what she had done wrong now.

  “Your Grace?” the messenger said. He had a black cap pulled down over his head, which accentuated his pale skin and stone-grey eyes. “I have an urgent message from Madame Marie Chevreuse.”

  That, Buck had not expected. She reached her hand out for his clamshell, but instead he offered her a stud on his wrist to scan with her own. The ID code confirmed he did, indeed, come directly from Chev.

  “Vocal message only?” Buck said, raising her eyebrows. “This should be fun.”

  “I have permission to cover the drinks tab,” said the Raven. “If that helps.”

  “It does indeed.” Buck waved him towards the bar. “Have them print me a glass of Desert Daughter’s Old Peculiar, and they can pull me a draught of that hand-brewed ale they make in the back shed, while we’re at it.”

  Buck finished the Griffin’s Sweat while she was waiting for her messenger to return. It tasted better than it had any right to, with a name like that.

  “Okay,” she said when the black-capped Raven had returned and the drinks were lined up before her. “Break it to me. What is my sweet Chevreuse up to, over in whichever of the floating cities of Truth she got exiled to?”

  “She’s waiting at your hotel,” he told her.

  Buck spluttered into the Desert Daughter’s Old Peculiar, and slammed the glass down. “What the f -”

  “She wanted me to break it to you gently,” said the messenger, with an apologetic smile. “I’m not very good at gentle.” He was attractive, especially when he smiled like that. Buck wasn’t so stupidly lovestruck that she couldn’t appreciate a fit man in uniform, even if it was the rather dull uniform of the independent messenger corp. “She’s here to join you on your flight home to Honour.”

  “She doesn’t trust me,” Buck muttered. “Even my friends don’t trust me.” Damn it all. Guilt rose up in her throat like bile. Buck had been inconvenienced by the events of That Night six months ago, but Chevreuse had been destroyed; exiled formally from Honour space. This planet was the last place she should be. Chev could be arrested if anyone pinged her identity, all because Buck couldn’t be trusted not to throw the last shreds of her own personal honour and diplomacy away for one night with Alek.

  Chevreuse was, unforgivably, always right.

  “I’m going to need more beer,” Buck muttered.

  “That I can help with,” said the Raven.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, when the messenger returned with further examples from the Top 40.

  “Slate,” he said, giving her an odd look. Perhaps people didn’t ask his name very often. Ravens were Ravens – you saw them flitting about from place to place, but you didn’t need to know about them as individuals.

  That was sad, Buck decided. Far too sad. “Are you married, Slate? Ever been in love?”

  His eyes, if possible, became a frostier shade of grey. “I was married once,” he said. “It ended badly.”

  “Oh, endings,” Buck slurred, waving her glass at him. “Love affairs, marriages, all end badly. All badness. It’s the good bits you start out with, those are the good bits.” She was drunker than she had realised, drunker than she had intended. Thoughts bubbled up into her mouth like they wanted to be free. “Would you wait eight years for the man you loved?”

  Slate the Raven gave her a strange smile. “That would depend on what I was waiting for him to do.”

  Buck felt the first prickle of danger, but it was too late. The bar dissolved around them. He stood out, clear and sharp against the fog, this man with a lovely face, all cheekbones and grey eyes and sad, sad smile underneath the black cap that didn’t suit him at all.

  “You’re not a Raven,” she s
aid as the pieces fell into place. “You’re… I don’t think you work for anyone.”

  “Oh believe me, sweetness,” Slate said, and his voice was different now, smooth like silk underwear and vintage brandy. “I’m getting paid.”

  “Something in the beer,” Buck muttered, trying to stay awake.

  “A little something,” he admitted.

  “What’s your name? Your real name. Not Slate.”

  He leaned back in his chair, regarding her thoughtfully. “You can call me Winter, if you like. It doesn’t signify, as you won’t remember this when you’re awake.”

  “I am awake. Aren’t I?” Buck looked wildly around her, but the bar was frozen in amber. Her senses were fuzzy, blurring into each other. Nothing felt real.

  “In one manner of speaking, yes, but in another… it’s complicated. I put a micro-stud in your drink that is burrowing its way into your brain stem even as we speak. That means you’re going to be susceptible to anything I tell you.” Winter leaned in, and tapped Buck sharply on the side of the head. “I actually left the bar ten minutes ago. Urgent appointment back on Valour, you understand. Politics waits for no one. But look at me, sitting right here inside your head. I will see everything you see, hear everything you say, and if you follow a path I don’t like, I can simply… correct you. Convenient, yes?”

  Buck gazed at him, taking in every plane of his face, cheekbones, jaw. “It’s treason, then,” she whispered. “That’s the only reason anyone would go to so much trouble.”

  “Georgiana, that’s hilarious.” He neither laughed, nor smiled. Winter was a good name for him – he was cold all the way down to his veins. “What a lack of imagination you have. The beautiful things we are going to do together are far more sophisticated than mere treason.”

  “What, then?”

  Winter’s eyes blazed into hers, like an ice comet powering through space. “Love first, then war. They go together so nicely, don’t you find?”

  Buck forgot about the man called Winter who now lived inside her head. He was gone from her memory before she stood and left the bar, and made her oops-too-many-beers way back to the hotel.