Osri backed away, repelled as always by her penchant for fashions that ripped and tore.
It brought him near the window, which he glanced out of, wishing for escape. The teens were a mix of Douloi and Polloi, playing some kind of game with hand paddles and darting pods. One moved deliberately into view, a slim redhead, a familiar dog leaping into the air to try to catch the pod.
Ivard. But he looked different, somehow, as he beckoned to Osri.
Basilea Risiena said, “Poma! Tell Kuld to run that rabble off.”
“Oh, Mother,” Pomalythe whined. “He won’t. It’s a public green, that’s what those Marines said when I tried to get rid of those religious nullwits, with that hellish chanting.”
“Osri,” Basilea Risiena said, showing her teeth. A wink of golden enamel inlay gleamed off a canine. “You can manage to pay attention. You’re worse than Sebastian, who . . .”
His mother was now launched onto Osri’s rotten upbringing, a topic (he knew) that could consume hours—unless one surrendered and gave her what she wanted. So what did she want?
Basilea Risiena and Pomalythe were gowned as if for a formal garden party. Did she try to force her way into some titled person’s house?
“. . . dreadful old woman who calls herself Numen, but who’d do better in life, I should think, as a doorstop. My legal spouse, and I cannot even exchange so much as a word . . .”
She’s trying to get Father’s attention—and has had even less luck than I’ve had.
“. . . even see the musicians, much less properly hear them. And you know that your sister is musically sensitive, much more than most people on this station, and would in fact have been a master performer had she had the time to take lessons—”
Brandon’s concert. Osri glanced overtly at his boswell. “Mother, I apologize, but I have an appointment with the Aerenarch himself. I will be late if I don’t leave at once. While I am there, shall I ask him to include you in his party?”
His mother’s mouth opened, showing some very exotic dental art. Poma smirked.
Basilea Risiena was even more frightening when gracious. “Well, dear boy, for such exalted company, even a mother must give way. As for your offer: do. Not, you understand, for myself, but for your sisters, who . . .”
A step back, another, a few more assurances that he was serious, and he was out the door, breathing deeply. Let Brandon handle her. It’ll be good practice, he thought, skirting the edges of the game just as Ivard ran flat out toward a knot of players. The pod darted near him, and with a mighty swing of his paddle, he sent it across the sward to tangle in Osri’s feet.
The velocity carried Osri over. He fell into a thick shrub, the pod caught under him, its gravitor whining as it tried to rise.
Cursing, Osri pushed aside leafy fronds, hoping they wouldn’t stain his uniform. A small, square hand appeared; he grabbed it, and with surprising strength Ivard pulled him to his feet. Osri sucked in breath preparatory to a heated reproach, but held it when Ivard whispered, “Shh.”
This was no longer the half-crazed, sickly youth Osri had seen aboard the Telvarna. Even the ugly freckles and pale skin had somehow merged into a healthy brown.
“Promised Vi’ya I wouldn’t tell Jaim or the Arkad, because she doesn’t want to interfere, because it’s dangerous to us, but I overheard someone talking about a regency council, and I think the Arkad should know. You tell him?” Ivard raced through the words, the pitch barely audible, as he helped Osri brush leaves and dirt from his uniform.
Osri’s head buzzed. “Uh. I . . .”
Ivard picked up his pod and bounded away, launching himself into the game as though nothing had happened.
All the way to the Enclave Osri debated telling Brandon. He dreaded making a fool of himself by repeating Rifter gossip. And wouldn’t Vahn and his security team know about something that important?
As he trod the path to the door, Osri decided he’d mention it only if there was an opportunity.
He found Brandon alone, moving restlessly around the plush outer chamber with its sunken couches, back into the library, across to the informal entertaining area called the garden chamber, and then circling back again. Vahn sat in the alcove, busy at a console.
But he wasn’t oblivious, Osri knew, and so he made a correct bow, lieutenant to civilian of the highest rank, as they exchanged greetings. Brandon’s restlessness had to be caused by his impending concert. It certainly couldn’t be the prospect of toughing his way through the Naval Academy exams, which were difficult even for those who had completed their course of study. Though Osri had been sent specifically to administer the tests, he couldn’t believe that Brandon was actually going to go through with them.
Osri was never going to get Brandon more alone than this. He said reluctantly, “Before we start, I have a favor to ask.” As Brandon’s expression smoothed into the bland mask Osri had always hated, he added, “I should say I feel constrained to ask.”
Brandon opened his hands. In his driest, flattest voice, Osri relayed his mother’s request; he was relieved when Brandon laughed and said, “Done. Easily done. I’ll take care of it.” That would have been the opportunity to bring up Ivard’s gossip, but then Brandon said immediately after, “Can we get started?”
“I’m ready,” Osri replied. He really does want to take the tests. Why don’t I just leave the political gossip to those who earn their pay filtering such stuff? Relieved, he followed Brandon into library, where he made a check of Brandon’s console. He cleared it, then inserted his chip, calling up the first test.
“These are timed,” he said.
“I remember the routine.” Brandon’s smile was wry as he sat down and flexed his hands. This was the cause?
Why the nerves? Two weeks of review even from a genius does not give one mastery of these courses. Osri could not imagine why Brandon followed this whim now, here, at Ares.
A sudden regret for ten years of sybaritic sloth would not score well—and there was no place for titles or names on the tests. The Aerenarch’s scores would be compared to the scores of the year’s cadets, and not just those of the small group of cadets up in the Cap who had taken the same tests the day before.
“Begin,” Osri said, moving out of Brandon’s field of vision so that he could concentrate.
Osri stood at the garden door looking out, tempted for less than a heartbeat to ask Vahn about Ivard’s gossip. Extreme reluctance to be perceived as officiously probing into the security team’s business was only slightly less horrifying than embarking into political gossip—a subject he’d ignored so thoroughly that he knew, and relished, his own ignorance.
Surely Vahn and his team knew everything and anything pertaining to Brandon’s position as well as his personal life. Moreover, he couldn’t imagine why overheard gossip would be dangerous, but then Vi’ya was a Dol’jharian. They surely considered everything in terms of force.
A quiet step brought Osri’s attention back. Vahn stood at the inner doorway, out of Brandon’s vision. He held two mugs, his eyebrows telegraphing a silent query.
Osri hit his boswell. (Whatever it is, I’ll have some. Thanks.)
He stepped soundlessly to the doorway, where Vahn handed him a warm mug. The welcome pungency of real coffee met Osri’s nostrils, and he breathed deeply before sipping.
“Standard Series?” Vahn murmured, tipping his chin in Brandon’s direction.
Osri nodded, and both glanced into the library at Brandon, utterly absorbed in what he was doing. Osri suspected he wouldn’t notice if a bomb went off right under his chair.
“Heard it’s a tough one,” Vahn said.
“I can attest to that.”
Vahn hefted his coffee. “Here’s to his success.”
Was there an edge to the words? Osri considered Vahn, whose face was utterly bland as he turned away and retreated back down the hall.
With a mental shrug, Osri moved to one of the guest consoles in the alcove, from which he could see into the library i
n order to maintain his duty as proctor. He may as well get some of his own work done, he thought, using his boswell to relay his ID, then dropping one of his personal chips in.
The time passed swiftly. While Brandon silently took test after test, Osri scanned the assigned work of one of his classes, and got three responsive lectures roughed out.
The Aerenarch never spoke once, not even to ask a question. At the end, he got up from the console and moved straight to the dumbwaiter. As he drank down some dark liquid, Osri shut down his work and retrieved the test chip. “I’ll send your standing in the mail,” he said. “It won’t take long.”
“Thanks.” Strain narrowed Brandon’s eyes, and once again Osri wondered why he had put himself through it.
Hopefully he won’t humiliate himself with a total failure, but even if he manages to do a creditable job, where will it get him? There is no possibility Nyberg will commission him now, he thought as he entered the tube.
His mind returned to those lectures he’d roughed out, and he added several points via his boswell as the tube shot up to the Cap.
Osri was passed through the checkpoints, all the way to nosebleed country, the Phoenix-level senior officers’ wardroom, where Commander Y’Mandev had said to meet.
He was surprised to find it crowded, though it was the end of the afternoon watch. A party atmosphere prevailed, but as soon as he walked in, conversation stopped, and he thought, They’re waiting for me.
Captain Ng got up from her chair and held out her hand. “I’ve been officially appointed stand-in for Y’Mandev. I was to tender his apology, and say that not even an Aerenarch could keep him from the rack,” she said.
Laughter rippled around the room, but it did not abate the air of expectancy.
Ng cast a wry glance at the other officers, then motioned for Osri to go into the console cubicle adjacent to the wardroom. In silence Osri stood at the back while Ng started up the console. She keyed in the codes for the test evaluations, then took the chip from Osri.
The evaluation did not take long. Quite properly Osri waited at the back, out of sight of the screen. Instead, he watched Ng’s face, his heart rate unaccountably accelerating. The woman’s fine brows arched and her lips pursed. Some of the silky short hair swung forward, hiding her eyes. She reached for a printout and scanned the sheets as they came out.
“Well,” she said at last. “Well, well, well.” She looked up at Osri and held out the top sheet.
Osri took it, his eyes moving so rapidly over the page, he had to go back and start again. The scores were high, the top percentile in every field.
“He ranks second for the year, Omilov,” Ng said. “Not just our group here on Ares, but for the Academy—three tenths of a point behind Tessa Chang.” Osri remembered the exceptionally gifted ensign who had been commissioned very young—and who had died aboard the Korion.
And he could not hide his astonishment. He flipped through the pages, looking through Brandon’s work. Even at a glance he could see elegant solutions to justly infamous problems in the math section, and as for the tactical section, it was obvious he had not just gotten lucky; he had drawn on a vast store of knowledge.
Finally he looked up at Ng, who sat on the edge of a chair, her smile acid. “I wondered,” she said, “if Warrigal was training him privately in the new Tenno, on her own time.”
Osri suppressed a jolt of the old disgust, and Ng recognized the affront in Osri’s tight upper lip and the contraction of his heavy brows. “Omilov, if you’re thinking he used his position as constraint, remember this is Warrigal we are talking of. She wouldn’t know an Aerenarch from an under-cook. That is, civilian rank means nothing to her. But talent, that would bring her out of her citadel of numbers. Brandon vlith-Arkad has enormous talent—probably a lot more than his brother ever had.”
“He must, if he could master all this in two weeks!”
Ng laughed. “He’s talented, but not a computer.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ng hesitated, with that sure instinct that had protected her in battle that she was entering a far more complex situation than at first perceived. Least said, most gained.
She tapped the flimsies. “What this shows, incontestably, is that—somehow—during those ten years of peaceful social pursuits he never stopped his studies.”
Which must have been damned difficult, watched as he was by Semion, Osri thought. And—slowly—the implications started settling in.
That Brandon, after all, had had a goal. Had pursued it without pause, without discussing it with any living soul.
And then the night of his Enkainion, when he was to step into the political arena as a player, he threw it all away and disappeared.
Why?
Osri looked up to meet Ng’s knowledgeable eyes. “This is classified,” she said. “Until Nyberg decides what to release, and when. And how.”
“But I promised him a notification, by mail.”
Ng shrugged, smiling. “You have a social engagement to prepare for. And he has one to host. This will wait.”
Osri thought of his mother and winced. “But I’ll be right with him, the entire evening.”
Ng dropped the flimsies into the disposer and stored the files under a high-level code. “My opinion of that young man has undergone some serious revision in the last few days, and will again, I suspect,” she said slowly. “But I’ll hazard a guess on this much: he won’t ask you. He might not even remember it.” She took the chip out and pocketed it.
“What do you mean by that?” Osri asked. “Sir.”
Ng shook her head. “Go. Watch. Listen to his music. I have an idea he’s giving us a message, in the way he’s most adept. A message, or a warning.”
Osri left, shutting out the questions and comments of the other officers. Ng would know how to field those.
He glanced at his boswell. An hour and a half to go.
o0o
From all over Ares, those invited to the Aerenarch’s concert began to converge on the Burgess Pavilion.
Many more turned up to watch the most powerful, the highest ranking, and those just plain lucky, arrive and ascend the shallow stairway to the main floor.
Archon Srivashti arrived early, with Fierin vlith-Kendrian on his arm, in order to observe the other arrivals.
Fierin paced beside Srivashti, her fingertips resting on his silken sleeve. She had every nerve under strict control, so the first sign of something out of the ordinary was Srivashti’s short intake of breath.
Marines in formal uniform lined the wide hall, an honor guard for a ruler’s son. But there was no mace-bearing grand steward standing at the door to announce the visitors. The Aerenarch stood there himself, wearing the same white suit she’d seen him wear to several parties, but tonight he wore jewels, which the severity of his clothing set off beautifully.
He’s on display, and he knows it, Fierin thought, admiring his slender form, from the perfectly barbered hair to the glossy boots. A diamond glinted in his ear, and more on the boswell at his wrist.
Where had he got them? Hadn’t he arrived with nothing but Charvann’s family signet?
Then she heard Vannis, newly arrived a few paces back, laugh softly. “That’s Charidhe Masaud’s prize blue diamond in his ear. How in Haruban’s Hell did he get it from her?”
Fierin glimpsed Charidhe, who always reminded her of a poisonous flower, standing in the background with the very first arrivals. She wore a fabulous gown that seemed to be made entirely of silver filaments, a smile of pride on her thin lips.
Borrowed jewels, Fierin thought. An Arkad wearing borrowed jewels. And from a family that hates his. Whispers spread behind Fierin as the reception line made its way up the steps.
They were close enough to hear snatches of conversation as Brandon greeted everyone by name. Of course there had to be some laergist concealed in the background somewhere, bozzing him any IDs he didn’t know, but still it was impressive.
Fierin looked his way, then
remembered who she was with, and dropped her gaze. Nerves tightened the back of her neck, and her privates clenched. Twice she had tried to reach Nyberg, and both times Srivashti had somehow known, and stopped her.
Both times she’d almost blurted out her real reason, but that horrible image of the laergist’s pleading gaze before he died stopped her, and she blathered words about Jes. You leave that to me, Srivashti had said. I am pursuing your brother’s case quietly.
The second time, he had signified his displeasure in her lack of obedience.
It took a very long time.
And afterward he kissed her and gave her new gowns and the jewels she wore in her hair. She abandoned trying to get through the many layers of security protecting Nyberg; she would be patient. Whatever was on that chip could wait.
Jes was her heart’s concern, and she had yet to see any sign of Jes’s situation being investigated, much less mitigated. So she’d tried to get near the Aerenarch at parties, but he was always surrounded by people, and she always had Felton shadowing her. For safety, Srivashti said.
She had managed to speak briefly, to each of the Telvarna’s crew, except for the captain, who everyone said seldom left Detention. They were powerless to help her. Srivashti had said that the Aerenarch was a handsome, beautifully trained fool, and that a Regency would be the best thing.
As they approached, she gathered her courage. She was going to ask the Aerenarch a question, but it had to be the right one, because there was no chance to ask without Srivashti’s hearing.
Her question must not make Srivashti angry. She shivered, and he glanced down at her, his brows raised. “Cold, my dear?” he asked, his heavy-lidded gaze running down her thin figure in the gossamer gown in warm shades of apricot.
“A little,” she said, glad he had provided his own answer.
No, she must not ask anything that would make Tau Srivashti angry.
“Ah, Fierin, that is a lovely gown.” That was Vannis mounting the steps to join them, accompanied by Kestian Harkatsus, with his son Dandenus at his shoulder.
Fierin returned Vannis’s compliment sincerely, admiring the snow-maiden grace of Vannis’s floaty white, severe in line, with no ornament, but perfectly fitted. Dandenus and his father both looked handsome in silken tunics and old-fashioned trousers, but their twin sulky expressions sparked amusement in Fierin—and annoyed Srivashti.
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