“We can,” she said slowly, looking away from those hands, and the memory of their imprint on her skin. Heat spiked behind her navel, unfurling downward. “But . . .” She fingered the chinois cup, suspecting that the tea would have an adverse effect. Of course it would. “. . . wouldn’t that be the Aerenarch’s prerogative, to host such a gathering in her honor?”
“We can’t know that his highness will do it. And if he does, whom he will invite,” Srivashti said, enjoying the visible effects of the tea in her still-delicious curves, which matched the intensifying sensations along his own nerves. Really, an unexpected benefit of his intent. “Several of our friends have already tried to honor her this way, and Captain Ng has refused them all. If you and I throw in together, I believe our combined names might obtain a different answer.”
“I’ll do it, of course,” Vannis said slowly. He never has one goal. “But will you forgive my stupidity today and tell me why it is so important? If you want to hear about the Battle of Arthelion, they’ll have something on the novosti feeds before long—”
“They’ll have everything but the objective and the outcome.” Srivashti got to his feet and walked slowly across the room, the light from the golden gargoyle wall sconces glimmering in the gold threads woven in the dark silk that fitted his shoulders so nicely. “Tomorrow Nyberg is holding a briefing.” He turned her way. “They will be going over the records of the battle.”
He leaned down and tapped a key; the console showed the highest ranking officers in the station, wearing full regalia, forming the double line called the “arch of steel.”
Vannis had attended enough of them at Semion’s side to recognize the highest honor for a returning captain, and there, alone between the lines as the officers struck fist over heart, walked a small female in uniform. Ng appeared to be forty or so, trim, her coloring the ubiquitous brown of most of humanity, her face intelligent rather than remarkable. She moved with the toe-heel precision of a trained athlete.
The vid was a regular novosti feed; the surprise was Srivashti’s knowledge of the proposed briefing. Again thanks to Semion, Vannis knew how difficult it was for civilians to get access to military schedules.
So how did Tau Srivashti find out? If they really were going to be allies, she hoped he’d give her access to his contacts.
“I shall be honest,” he said with a rueful gesture. “I tried to obtain an invitation.”
She laughed, aware of the movement of air against her skin, the subtle scent he wore, the same scent, the same amber eyes, and the same merciless smile, aboard this very ship ten years ago. He’s using sex to hide his real goal.
“But the Navy—so simple with their black and white judgments—cannot forget that Timberwell was lost to the insurgents,” he went on, with an air of candor. “They were polite enough to avoid trouble, but firm enough that I still remain determined.”
Vannis remembered what the captain of Rista’s yacht had said on their arrival at Ares, The Navy is coming on board to disable the fiveskip—no one leaves Ares while the emergency lasts. Srivashti would hate the inability to leave whenever he wanted.
He was drinking again. Had the tea the same effect on him? It must, but he no doubt had more experience. The room seemed to undulate slowly, and her palms tingled. She lifted her cup to her lips and made a pretense of sipping; if she wanted to be part of any forming government, then she had to be able to negotiate Srivashti’s intrigues. “So you think a gentle hint—purely within the pleasant boundaries of social interaction—might remind our Naval friends that they, after all, defend what is ours. Yet we, as the Panarch’s sworn servants, must have access to information that concerns our government?”
“Correct, my dear.”
My dear? That was what he called his pets. So he thought she’d made a tactical error? She set down the cup, blinking as its outline wavered. Perhaps the error was in accepting his invitation. Yes. He’d beckoned; she’d come.
But she was no longer a girl. Ten years ago, as the negotiations for her eventual marriage to Semion were carried out, she’d happened to encounter the infamous Tau Srivashti, Archon of Timberwell, and he’d chosen her out of all the high company, which she’d found flattering.
The encounter lasted the duration of a journey aboard this very yacht, the cost her innocence. By the time he deposited her at the Mandala before her wedding, she had discovered that the encounter was not accidental. The secondary cost of this encounter—Semion’s hatred of Srivashti, visited thence upon herself—she paid when she met Semion for the first time.
In spite of all her mother’s careful training, that had been her real introduction to court politics. He thinks I’m as ignorant as I was ten years ago. Good. Because his arrogance becomes his weakness.
The decision was made between one breath and another. Vannis would permit Srivashti to regard her as weak. She had learned in dealing with Semion that there was no more exquisite way to undermine the strong than through their own underestimation of others.
“It sounds delightful. And I do want to know what happened.” She smiled as she pretended to sip more tea. The cooling liquid had a faint, oily sheen, its scent thick in her nostrils.
Forcing her mind to focus, she sat back in an attitude of coziness, and saw from the satisfaction in his lazy gaze that this was what he expected. “Another question,” she said, toying with her cup. “Why will Brandon need friends? From my—admittedly little—experience of him, that was the one thing he had no dearth of.”
“True.” Srivashti’s tone was soft. Indulgent. “And I hope he will always retain them, for I hold no grudge against him—really, a very charming, pleasant young man. But there are some rumors, among those handicapped with a narrower vision, that might harm him.”
“I’ve heard nothing.”
“Consider your position,” Srivashti reminded her, still with that instructive air. “Surely no one will wish to commit the solecism of discussing around Semion’s widow how it is that her one remaining relation by marriage is the only one who escaped the disaster at his Enkainion. But you know everyone is talking about it.”
She did know that. Now to elicit some information by displaying her ignorance. “Oh, but surely it was not through his contrivance. If his bodyguards found out about the plot, they would have bundled him aboard a ship so fast he would not have had any choice.”
“Except . . .” Srivashti ticked the rim of his cup with his nail. “None of his bodyguards survived. From what little news we’ve obtained from Arthelion, very few people made it out of the Palace Minor after the bomb ignited.”
“There’s got to be an explanation,” she said.
“Of course,” he agreed, spreading his hands. “And we will see that it gets disseminated when he does tell us. For he is one of us, isn’t he? And we protect our own.”
Warning made her head throb. She was not going to ferret out his real intent now, with this damn tea clouding her mind.
He set his cup down and took her hands in his. This time she could not suppress the shiver, and his smile increased. “Cold, my dear? Shall I adjust the tianqi?”
“Just fatigue,” she said. “The relentless pace of our celebrations.”
“You can rest here, if you like.” He stroked his finger along the inside of her wrist.
She gritted her teeth, watching the little signs of excitement in him at her show of resistance. Ah, another weapon. “I have a pressing obligation.”
He raised her hand and kissed her palm. “Another time,” he promised, and she did not try to suppress another shiver. That tea was now boiling in her stomach. “We will discuss our reception when your schedule allows.” He leaned back and touched his console, and the door slid open. “Felton will show you out. Unless you remember the way?”
The silent man waiting in the corridor took her directly to the lock. She got herself into the shuttle and keyed her destination as her head swam unpleasantly. Chill followed the heat at how painfully her nerves felt unsheathed,
so even the touch of her clothing was nearly unbearable, and she was grateful for the escape from the sort of pleasures Srivashti would have taken in that noise-muted room.
Why did he tell me that about Brandon? Any number of reasons; he would not tell her the truth, any more than he meant his words about their union. His Cambrian tea had nearly caused her to commit the first and worst error of a Douloi: loss of control. It had been deliberate.
It took all the strength she had left to walk the short path from the transtube station to her villa, where she sank into the first chair she saw, and closed her eyes.
She made an effort and stirred; here was Yenef, bending over her.
Vannis stared blurrily up into the revolving face, trying to make sense of the words. Yenef went away, then came back with a sharp-tasting drink that cleared Vannis’s head enough for the sense to penetrate. “The Aerenarch called in person while you were gone.”
Vannis sighed. Another tactical error. She tabbed the console and studied the pair who had stood on the threshold, looking like they’d been rolling in mud. Another tactical error? No, that was a challenge.
FOUR
ABOARD THE FIST OF DOL’JHAR
“When we met before, you maintained you told the truth, and yet you sidestepped the fact that either one or both of your sons was lying ten years ago. In result, L’Ranja, your trusted adviser, killed himself, and his son vanished. I want to talk further about that.”
“What more remains to be said? I believe I told you that the time for investigation was past. Lusor passed to another branch of the family, the son was gone, and as for my sons, each had his perspective. When the three of us met, I requested Semion to guard his brother’s safety, which Semion vowed to do. And Brandon, I encouraged to find another path to service.”
“Something, no doubt, involving sensory stimulation and little else.”
The Panarch gestured, apparently unperturbed.
Hoping to shake that veneer of tranquility, Anaris said, “I tried to kill Brandon. Several times.”
He watched Gelasaar for reactions, and saw nothing but his own amusement mirrored back.
Anaris waited. Gelasaar finally said, “Are you asking indirectly if I knew about your lessons in manners?”
Surprised, Anaris laughed. “Yes, I was testing you as well as trying to eradicate from existence a weak fool.”
“Not,” the Panarch said, “the last time.”
Anaris half-raised a hand, but Gelasaar’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened in awareness. Anaris recognized the hypocrisy in demanding truth from Gelasaar while avoiding it himself. “That was different, yes. Ironic, isn’t it? The only time I ever attempted that particular ritual of my people. Your tutors were successful with me afterward.”
Gelasaar said gently, “I thought Lelanor gained the credit for that. Where is she, may I ask?”
“Dead. My father wished to see my weakness expunged.”
Gelasaar looked away, his sorrow evident. “She was a gentle soul.”
Her name unsettled Anaris; he wished it had not been brought in. Had Gelasaar done that on purpose? He probably had several purposes.
So do I. “You never said anything about my attack on Brandon, either that time, or before. I assumed you did not know, or if you did, you had found him as worthless as I did.”
“Are you asking why I did not punish you for not obeying our social rules? There was nothing to be gained from that. As for Brandon, he had to learn to deal with difficult personalities someday. His safety I entrusted to his guards, both human and canine. And as you no doubt remember, it sufficed.”
Anaris schooled his face to stillness. He still bore scars from the savage, crushing bite Brandon’s dog had inflicted. “Except that after that particular attempt of mine you sent him, and Galen, off to Charvann. I read condemnation of them in the fact that I was the one to remain in the Mandala.”
“There was much you could learn,” Gelasaar said. “Brandon’s learning could as well be done elsewhere. Such words as ‘worthless’ are easy, but I expect better from you. Why did you try to kill Brandon?”
“If you are looking for an answer within Douloi social rules, you could call my efforts an attempt at intimidation.”
“With what result?” Gelasaar asked mildly, his oblique blue eyes on the row of double knots Anaris looped with the dirazh’u in his hands.
Gelasaar knew the what of it: where did his question really lead? To oblige him, Anaris gave the obvious answer. “With no discernible result. Before you sent him to Charvann he continued to harass me with practical jokes exactly as much as ever.”
Gelasaar shook his head slowly, the silver beard, even un-trimmed and un-brushed, neat and composed. “I had hoped that you would cease to be so short-sighted,” he said mildly. “Your attempts inspired him to fresh efforts. Long after he would have cried truce.”
ARES
From the control rostrum Margot Ng watched as the gallery high above the Situation Room slowly filled.
From the back rows, Commander Sedry Thetris, former revolutionary and present traitor, commenced her secret recording.
The chamber held perhaps a hundred seats, each with its own analysis console, arranged in ranks rising steeply above the bank of presentation consoles at the front where she sat. She could see most of the seats without turning her head, and for a short time amused herself watching those gathered below puzzling over the new Tenno they saw on their consoles.
But restlessness, that sense of urgency that had possessed her ever since the battle of Arthelion, caused her to check her chrono yet again, then turn to take in her officers: Lieutenant Commander Rom-Sanchez and newly-promoted Sub-Lieutenant Warrigal from the Grozniy (watching the assembled officers’ reactions to her new Tenno with that fixed, unnerving stare of hers), and the tactical officers from the Babur Khan and other ships that had fought at Arthelion. She wished Nilotis could be present, but at least he could listen by com from the surgery.
At her right sat Admiral Trungpa Nyberg, commander of Ares Station.
Two pairs of double doors opened into the gallery. Ng noticed with a surge of impatience that with few exceptions, the ship captains and other space officers invited entered through one, and the civilian analysts and station officers, the latter mostly older men, entered through the other—the visible evidence of the late Aerenarch Semion’s polarization of the Navy.
Then the elegant severity of a Douloi tunic among the blue and white of Naval uniforms drew her eye, the wearer an older man followed closely by a young Naval lieutenant, who ushered him to a console and seated himself next to him. Their similarity of features marked them as father and son—their fleshy earlobes triggered her memory.
The Omilovs. An interesting story: the elder Omilov tortured by Eusabian in the Mandala where that Dol’jharian autocrat had usurped a thousand years of Arkadic rule, the younger credited with rescuing the last Arkad heir from the siege of Charvann.
Admiral Nyberg stirred restlessly, then leaned out to scan the Situation Room. His chair angled her way; accepting the tacit invitation, she followed suit and surveyed the space.
Before them a thick dyplast window revealed a huge three-dimensional projection of the Thousand Suns suspended over the bustle of activity among the banks of consoles far below. A multitude of colored lights and ideograms glittered coldly among the holographic stars, representing the data laboriously culled out of the Rifter chatter from the hyperwave Ng had captured in the Battle of Arthelion, and the less timely reports from the Navy couriers and various civilian craft reaching Ares.
She recognized some of the symbols as versions of the Tenno battle glyphs—tactical ideograms—that had been modified and extended by her tactical officers on the Grozniy to deal with the apparently instantaneous communications enjoyed by Dol’jhar and its Rifter allies. Wherever Eusabian had obtained the hyperwave devices, they had rendered centuries of strategic and tactical experience useless. Much as if her personal icon, Lord Admiral Ne
lson and his British Admiralty, had faced a French Navy equipped with radio.
Admiral Nyberg squinted at the projection. “I understand you’ve organized a seminar on the new Tenno?” His tenor voice, surprising in a man of his bulk, was mellow, resonant with the concealing singsong of the Tetrad Centrum Douloi.
“Yes, sir. It begins directly following this briefing.”
His expression was typical Douloi, revealing nothing of his thoughts. “I wish I could attend. But the Tenno are of little use to me here on Ares.”
It was a warning, but Ng could not tell how it was intended. She knew that the huge station, the last center of power remaining to the Panarchist government, would inevitably become the site of a battle whose intensity would rival the action in the Arthelion system that had battered her ship into near scrap. But the battle of Ares—whose combatants would all be nominally on the same side—would be fought with words, and gestures, and all the mannered subtlety of a millennial aristocracy.
As Nyberg studied the ever-changing holograph, she wondered if they would find themselves allies. With the death or capture of High Admiral Carr, who had been with the Panarch on Lao Tse, Nyberg was de facto head of the Navy. He was Downsider, old-line, but unlike many of that background he did not owe his appointment to the late Aerenarch Semion.
And that’s exactly as one would expect of the commander of one of the Panarchy’s poles of power. Arthelion, Desrien, Ares: the Arkads, the Magisterium, and the Navy: these were the legs of the tripod that had given the Thousand Suns a thousand years of relative peace.
Until Dol’jhar struck.
A flurry of activity from the rear of the gallery resolved into a cloud of older station officers surrounding a slim, dark-haired young man in a plain blue tunic. At his sides walked two other men, one in the uniform of a Solarch of the Arkadic Marines, the other wearing gray. Ng recognized in the latter the easy readiness of Ulanshu masters. An officer stepped in front of the man in gray and held up his hand, evidently forbidding him entrance, then yielded at a few words from the young man in blue.
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