Jainan’s smile came from some deep, sharp place within him. “Of course not,” he said. “In fact, I would be very pleased if you would.”
CHAPTER 30
“I see where you’re coming from,” Kiem said into the recording. “I want you to know that it’s not true, but I get that you have to tell reporters you’ve done something. Fine. You want me to resign as a patron, I’ll do that.” He swallowed another spike of frustration. “Let me know if I can find you someone else, though. You should have someone from the palace on the board.” He paused. “Stay in touch.”
He cut the recording to the latest charity and slumped back from the tiny desk. The steel of the chair dug into his shoulder muscles. He stretched his arms out. The room was large enough for him to do that, at least, though his knuckles grazed the frame of the bunk bed.
But his surroundings were luxurious compared to what they might have been. The armored core of the station had a holding room that Internal Security used for who knew what nefarious purposes, and when the military and civilian wrangling had been sorted out, that was where Kiem had ended up. For a holding cell, it didn’t lack for frills: there was a tiny bathroom, an exercise machine, and even a flickering screen with hundreds of preprogrammed media in the corner.
Depending on how you looked at it, it might not even be a cell. The door wasn’t locked, just guarded by agents with instructions to keep him in and no sense of humor. Kiem had played with the idea of seeing if he could bluff his way past them to get to Jainan’s med room but had reluctantly abandoned it after the first unsuccessful attempt. It would be a bad idea to make the Emperor any more furious than she already was. He had Bel and Jainan to think about.
He knew what the newslogs were saying. Bel had started sending him copies as soon as they realized Aren, even in detention, had managed to make good on his threat to smear them. Kiem had winced at the abduction articles, but at least they were true. Then the first accusation that Kiem mistreated Jainan had appeared in a small-time gossip log on Thea: it had spread from there to fringe newslogs and anti-royalist streams across both Thea and Iskat, who’d all eaten up the scandal. It wasn’t hard to find pictures of Kiem looking drunk and unreliable. One of the newslogs had even decided their wedding photos looked miserable enough to illustrate the article; Kiem had abandoned his reading at that point and gone to bed. Then he’d asked Bel to stop sending cuttings.
His latest message of resignation—this one his third, for an education charity—hung as a small glowing circle above the table. Kiem drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, outside the sensor area, and sent it before he could give in to temptation and add anything else. His messages were getting more like babbling as the hours went on. He should stick to writing, but even talking to an imaginary recipient staved off the awful silence of not having anyone to talk to. He had seen only Internal Security agents for the past four days, usually Rakal or one of their interchangeable deputies. He was going to go mad if this carried on too long.
When the message was gone, he put his head down on the desk. What he wanted to do was send a message to Jainan—an honest one—but he knew Rakal’s people were reviewing everything that went through his account while he was in here, and he wasn’t going to hand them anything else about Jainan or Taam. It had to wait until Jainan woke up. Whenever he did wake up.
He made himself breathe out slowly. What he needed was a fraction of Jainan’s calm. When things went wrong for Jainan, he didn’t flap around uselessly like Kiem. He just got … more focused. For a moment Kiem wasn’t even afraid for him, he just missed him. Just not having Jainan there hurt.
A message added itself to the depressingly short list in the corner of the desk. Kiem abandoned his attempt at serenity to see what it was.
It was from Bel. Kiem wasn’t expecting much: his messages to and from Bel were short and businesslike, so neither of them accidentally contradicted the details about Taam that Kiem had fudged in his original story. This one was short even by her standards, though, and contained a clipping with a single line above it.
Jainan’s awake. Brace yourself before you read this.
Kiem’s surge of joy left as fast as it had appeared. He frowned and opened the clip.
It was a press cuttings file; not fringe newslogs, but some of the biggest outlets on Iskat and Thea. The moment Kiem recognized it as news he nearly shut it off before it could spread over the desk. But he’d left it a moment too long to cancel. The pages fanned out and settled in front of him. Kiem’s stomach gave a lurch.
Jainan’s face stared back at him from every cutting, from every newslog. The same photo: he was propped up in a hospital bed, looking directly, almost defiantly, at the camera. He had made no attempt to hide that the wrist lying across his lap was hooked up to a drip. The most shocking thing was what he was wearing—Jainan, who rarely let himself be photographed, and never in anything less than full formal dress, had let them take his photo in a hospital gown.
The first time Kiem tried to read the headlines, his brain rebelled, and he couldn’t take them in. His eyes kept going back to Jainan’s diamond-hard gaze. The biggest picture, the one Bel had placed in the center, was under the familiar green-and-black header of the Consult. The words next to it read, “TREATY REPRESENTATIVE ‘SETS THE RECORD STRAIGHT’: ACCUSES PRINCE TAAM OF ABUSE.”
Kiem stopped breathing.
The Consult was a restrained, respectable outlet. Their headline was the least sensational of the bunch. The rest of the articles started at “FREED FROM HELL” and went downhill from there. At first Kiem wondered wildly who had leaked this—who had done this to Jainan—but then he looked farther down the Consult article. A smaller candid shot showed Jainan and Hani Sereson talking in the same hospital room. Jainan had done this on purpose.
Kiem should be able to read the article. He didn’t understand why he was so afraid of it. It hadn’t happened to him.
He took a deep breath and made himself read it.
Jainan was very clear on who was to blame. He took apart Taam’s character—and Aren’s—like a surgical strike. Every time they quoted him, he was dry and emotionless, but the details themselves were blunt weapons. Taam’s monitoring of his calls. His order to revoke Jainan’s security clearance. Incidents both in public and in private. Set out in black-and-white with dates and places, it looked surreal, grotesque, and yet whenever it was in Jainan’s words he made it sound very ordinary, while Hani’s careful arrangement of the article threw his descriptions into stark relief.
Kiem and the rest of Iskat came out better than they deserved. Jainan carved out Taam and Aren like pieces of rot, separating them from the rest of the Empire and creating a story that both the Iskat and Thean press could swallow. He had decided to get the treaty signed and he had used his own past to do it. Kiem was torn between feeling sick to his stomach and being overcome with desperate admiration.
A side article showed a set of messages from Taam, though heavily redacted, since even the Consult was wary of the palace and the law. But Hani had done her legwork: there were confirmations of the events Jainan and Taam had attended, a physician’s record, a barely diplomatic quote from the Thean embassy.
Why now? Hani asked, in the last column. Count Jainan seems more intense, as if he’s been expecting this. “Because it’s over, and justice can now be done,” he says. “Prince Kiem has been a hero. The Emperor has pledged a full investigation. She has looked at the Thean treaty and promised further concessions to make up for this. Iskat is trying to bridge the gap.” Both the Emperor and Prince Kiem, his current partner, were unavailable for comment at the time of publication.
Kiem couldn’t bring himself to read through to the end. He swept his hand compulsively across the desk. The press clippings spun and winked out, but the burst of uncontrollable energy didn’t dissipate, just propelled him pointlessly to his feet. He leaned over the table and had to press on it to stop his arms from shaking—with what emotion, he wasn’t sure. He wanted t
o hit something. He wanted to fix the universe so the last five years had never happened. He wanted to find Jainan and kiss him.
He didn’t do any of that. Before he could get any further in his thoughts, the door gave a perfunctory chime and opened to admit Agent Rakal.
“Your Highness.” Rakal’s stride didn’t slow as they threw their wristband projection onto the small screen on the wall. “Her majesty wishes for an audience with you.”
Any similarity that had to a request was purely superficial. Kiem only had a couple of seconds to try and tug his crumpled shirt straight before the Emperor’s face was on the wall.
He bowed. Rakal, somewhat unexpectedly, went to one knee.
“Oh, get up,” the Emperor said. Rakal rose. Their jaw was tightly locked in an expression that, Kiem realized, looked a lot like shame. “Assigning responsibility will come afterward. Clean up this mess first. Kiem!”
Kiem jumped. “Ma’am?” Suddenly Rakal’s salutation didn’t seem like an overreaction. Rakal had definitely made some mistakes, but from the Emperor’s point of view, Kiem was the one standing by the blaze with a gas canister and an innocent expression. He was probably heading up the Least Favorite Relative list right now.
“Did you tell him to do this?” the Emperor said.
Kiem’s first instinct was to say, Do what? But Jainan had flung this up like a flare in the dark, and the time for cover-ups was over. “No,” Kiem said. “But aren’t you glad he waited until Taam was dead before he did? Did you volunteer to give Thea more concessions in the treaty, by the way? You’ll have to draft them fast.”
“Your blasted partner has left me little choice,” the Emperor said. “We’ll find them some baubles. The Thean newslogs are contacting me for quotes. There is a press conference directly before the treaty signing tonight. How you and Jainan conduct yourselves will be crucial for planetary opinion over the next few hours. Jainan has family in the Thean diplomatic contingent.”
“Oh, shit, Ressid,” Kiem said, dismayed. “Sorry. ’Scuse the language. Is Jainan…?”
“He will be at the opening press conference,” the Emperor said. “So will you.” She adjusted her old-fashioned glasses, grimacing. “So, of course, will every Thean and Iskat news outlet that can possibly scramble their staff to the station. I have decided you are the most appropriate one to deliver the official apology for his previous treatment.”
“Official—apology?” Kiem said, taken aback. It must be bad. Of course Jainan deserved it, but the about-face was so fast, he might get whiplash. “Yes? I mean, I’d be happy to, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t improvise,” the Emperor said. “I will send Hren to brief you. Listen to him and to Rakal, and do not even think of going off script. You have less than an hour to prepare—the Theans are arriving by shuttle even now.” She peered closer at the screen. “And what in Heaven are you wearing? Burn it immediately. Put on something suitable.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kiem said, barely paying attention to the last part. “Can I see Jainan before the press conference? They haven’t let me see him yet. I know he’s awake.” He glanced sideways at that, including Rakal in the request. They were looking even more mortified at the talk of the official apology, though they must have known in advance.
“You will certainly talk to Jainan afterward,” the Emperor said. “That boy has gone a great deal too far. You will remind him of his duty.”
“I will?” Kiem said. “Saving Your Majesty’s presence, it sounds like he’s already said what he’s going to say. You can’t wipe it off the Consult’s pages.”
Rakal said, in a low, flat voice, “It is ongoing. He leaked a security camera video and pictures of you and him to four organizations after the initial Consult interview.”
“And how do we know, you ask?” the Emperor said. “Because the dratted man apparently requested that each of them send a copy of their article to my Private Office—why are you wearing that particularly vacuous grin?”
Jainan did not strike out and create a random mess, like Kiem would have done. He caused deliberate, targeted mayhem. “I love him,” Kiem said. He shouldn’t say it. Jainan’s declarations had just been politics, he knew that, but Kiem was unable to stop smiling.
“Of course you do,” the Emperor said. “You have never made good choices. Sell this, or the Empire falls.”
She cut the connection. Kiem stepped back, his mind whirling with hope and doubt, and let Rakal cut theirs.
* * *
Everything in the corridors leading to the Observation Hall had been freshly cleaned and polished. The white walls glittered, a pristine runner had been laid underfoot, and silver light fittings shone like mirrors. As Jainan turned into the curved walkway to the anterooms he was sharply visible against the pale background in the deep green of his clan uniform. Feria used several shades of green with gold patterns boldly climbing over them like vines, and whether it was the un-Iskat patterns or the fact his face was in all the newslogs, he had felt stares on him all the way from the med room. It made him ensure his head was up and put a fraction of extra length in his stride. Let them stare.
He knew Ressid had landed, along with the rest of the Thean contingent. He had kept his messages with her brief because Hani’s interview wasn’t something he wanted to talk about unless it was in person, but he knew she had seen it. Right now Ressid would be in the pre-treaty press conference—and according to Bel, that was where Kiem was as well. Jainan suspected that the moment he walked into the press conference, he would become the center of attention himself, but it couldn’t be helped. He had gone to the press and the world had not ended. He could weather it.
And he had waited long enough. He was well enough to walk, he was looking presentable, and he was going to find Kiem and nail down this treaty if he had to go through half the station to do it.
The hallway and staircase leading up were nearly empty, although a low murmur of voices came from the Observation Hall itself. A couple of glamorously dressed women with newslog equipment had just reached the top of the staircase, awkward in the light gravity, and were being ushered in by an attendant. Jainan was late; it had taken longer for the doctors to do the final checks than he had anticipated.
He slipped into the side of the hall. It had been set up for the conference with a semicircular dais in front of the grand sweep of windows, a wash of stars forming the backdrop to the podium itself. The first thing he saw was the Auditor, seated at the back with his arms folded, the seats deserted for three rows around him and his staff. The second thing Jainan saw was Ressid at the podium in the middle of an answer, her emphatic cadences so familiar it was disorienting. As Jainan silently closed the door behind him, he scanned the handful of Theans and Iskaners sitting behind her on the stage. He barely looked at any of them except Kiem.
Kiem was at the end of the row, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his seat. His elbows rested on his knees and his foot jiggled restlessly, as if he couldn’t bear to be in a space as confined as a chair. His face was lined with anxiousness, but he was solid and real and alive, and for a moment Jainan was an invisible observer in a private bubble of affection.
It only took seconds for one of the reporters in the audience to turn their head and notice the newcomer. Jainan’s arrival spread out through the crowd like a ripple. Photographers turned their lenses. At the front, Ressid hadn’t yet noticed.
“… remains committed to the treaty,” she said. “Discussions are still underway with the Resolution’s Auditor…” She faltered and stopped.
Jainan swallowed, ignoring all the press, and returned her gaze. He wasn’t twenty-two, newly married and naive anymore. He wasn’t twenty-six and trying to hide. He and Ressid would have to talk, and until then, he could at least look her in the eye.
Not everyone in the front row had noticed. One of the reporters took advantage of the gap to jump in. “And Count Jainan’s press statements today? Can you comment on that?”
Ressid was not a trained dip
lomat for nothing. The steel returned to her voice as she turned her attention back to the press. “I must disclose a personal interest. You are all aware Count Jainan is my brother.” As she said my brother, her eyes went briefly back to Jainan, fierce and uncompromising, and then bored into the reporter again. “After the treaty is signed, we demand that Count Jainan comes to live on Thea.”
Jainan stopped in shock.
A murmur rose around him. On the dais behind Ressid, Kiem looked as if someone had finally landed a blow he’d been dreading. His shoulders slumped.
“Next question,” Ressid said. Jainan realized she was trying to protect him from the glare of attention.
“No,” someone said sharply. “Stop.” Jainan realized it was him.
Kiem looked up. The whole room was paying attention now, but that wasn’t important. Jainan saw the moment Kiem realized he was there. He saw the way Kiem straightened from his slump like someone had pulled him up, and he saw Kiem’s whole expression light up with hope.
Jainan had never been good at communicating, but he didn’t have to be, because now his certainty was a cascading river buoying him along. As he strode up to the front, camera lenses started turning on him. He ignored them. He ignored everything except the way Kiem shot out of his chair, caught his foot on the leg of it, stumbled, reached out.
Jainan caught his hands. He hadn’t meant to clutch them as tightly as he did. “Kiem.”
“Jainan,” Kiem said, as if his name was the first breath of air he’d drawn in minutes. “You—you’re—you’re—”
“What’s this about?” Jainan said.
“Splitting us up?” Kiem said. He didn’t seem to be able to string more than a few words together. People had started to call questions from behind Jainan, but neither of them paid attention. “I didn’t—”
“I’m clearly not leaving now,” Jainan said. “This should be obvious. I love you.”
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