He came to the added clause that his father had told him to watch for, and brought his attention back to the present: “Paragraph 127.3. For the furthering of mutual peace and protection (see paragraph 4), the government of Tolar agrees to return to accredited authorities of the Six Planets the custody of any citizens of said Six Planets who are in distress, or who are suspected of crimes against the security of any human world or colony, upon request of same authorities; and Earth accords the same privileges in return to Tolar.” This was the other point his father had insisted on, though he had instructed Farric to allow Earth to suggest it. It might be unwise, but it was his father’s wish.
The final words rolled off his tongue, and in silence he waited.
Finally, Kallinikov spoke. “We accept these terms, and with your signature, welcome you into trade compact with Earth and its colony-worlds.” Her satisfaction filled the room like aromatic incense, warm and fulsome.
Farric turned carefully to look at the charts against the wall. “And you say that Central Command can begin construction within…?”
“One standard year—two of your seasons. That is assuming, of course, that Tolar’s government provides the requested confirmations within six months from the date of the agreement. As we have discussed, should Tolar breach the agreement or fail to confirm the pledges you have made as her ambassador, the defaults will be serious, in accordance with Trade Alliance protocols.”
And, Farric thought to himself, they may build the station in any case.
“But we find the agreement itself to offer real advantages to both our worlds,” the human diplomat continued.
It was the moment he had waited for, and now he was very glad that his guards were on the other side of the door when he spoke.
“In that case, before I sign, there is one more thing I need from your diplomatic corps.”
As soon as he looked Eran K’Tree Kallinikov, Subcommissioner for Trade Affairs, in the eye and told her what he wanted her government to provide, he knew that he had won.
* * *
The chair at the desk in the corner of the sitting room—living room, the humans called it—creaked as Farric shifted his weight. It, like the rest of the furniture in the Trade Alliance diplomatic suite, appeared to be a not entirely successful attempt by the Den to accommodate bipedal races with forward-facing knees. He shifted again to ease the ache it had put in his lower back and focused on his tablet. It showed the smiling face of a man with yellow hair, fair skin clean of mustache or beard, and eyes of… Suralia blue.
That would put grit in Father’s slippers.
If this human, this Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt, proved as competent as their information suggested, Farric could justify the risk of Monralar’s annoyance, as formidable as that could be. The guards, trained to tease information from the slightest of hints, had found no objection of significance in the ocean of data humans maintained, and much to recommend the man. The human financier was young—thirty-one of their years, very close to Farric’s own age—but possessed a long list of qualifications humans considered essential to his chosen profession, and he lacked detectable alliances with any group or faction overtly allied or opposed to Earth Central Command. Also important, he was a son of the Duke of New Norfolk, whose family owned the interstellar corporation Rembrandt Pharmaceuticals and belonged to a branch of the Britannic aristocracy with far-reaching connections. And while he possessed demonstrable genius, making considerable sums of money for both himself and for those who engaged his services, he had yet to attract his government’s notice.
Farric wondered once more why the old one on the A’aan’ liner had aimed him at Rembrandt—and whom she represented. Her presence did not possess the same layers and clouds and sharp edges as that of the trained operatives who had stalked him on the A’aan’ ship. If she had, he would not have taken the risk of sending a servant to the location printed on Lord Albert’s card after the transport docked. Evie hid something, of that he was certain, but he doubted she could be called a spook.
He pulled out the financier’s handwritten response, its single sentence oddly divided down a rectangle of pure white paper:
Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt
accepts with pleasure
Farric of Monralar’s
kind invitation to tea
on Saturday the twenty-fourth of February
at four o’clock
Farric deactivated the tablet and tucked it into a pocket with the note. That hour fast approached. The servants, who had quickly familiarized themselves with the alien kitchen, murmured to each other in the small space, and the enticing aroma of Suralia tea flower wafted past his nose. Farric allowed himself a grin as he rose from the desk, determined not to inquire where they had obtained the forbidden treat.
Caradyn, the guard who had scolded him for the interaction with Evie, shifted on his peds, stiff with disapproval. Farric ignored the man and padded across the room to the square seating area in its center, which consisted of two divans and several chairs surrounding a low table. He took up a stance in front of a seat with its back to the troublesome guard.
That one is a distraction. Father had sent the man in hopes that Farric might focus on the one and relax his vigilance around the other four guards, or perhaps even the servants, and speak his true mind. The apothecary—yes, even the apothecary. He could trust none of the eight men.
Farric had never felt so alone.
A chime sounded near the entrance to the apartment. The guards scattered around the edges of the room, and the elder of the two servants emerged from the kitchen to open the door for their guest. Taller than Farric but just as lean, Lord Albert wore clothing typical of human aristocracy, in colors that jarred against ruling caste sensibilities. An outer garment in laborer’s deep green, falling to his waist in front but to his knees in back, above a middle layer wrapped tightly around his torso, of a green almost as pale as Parania’s, and an inner layer of brilliant white showing at the neck—only the Jorann wears white!—secured with a knot of black fabric. His trousers were tan, disappearing into slippers made of stiff, dark brown material that reached to his knees.
The human’s eyes flicked to each man in the room as he stepped in with the fluid grace typical of a guard. When his gaze stopped at Farric, his lips parted, then clamped shut, and he bowed, a little more deeply than was correct, if Farric understood aristocratic ranks. Lord Albert smiled as he straightened.
“I greet you,” Farric said in English. “I am Farric, heir to Monralar.”
“You honor me, high one,” the man replied. “My name is Albert St. John Rembrandt. My friends call me Bertie.”
Farric’s eyebrows rose, and with them, his estimation of the human. He took a seat in the chair and gestured toward the one on his right. “Come, sit.” The servants set trays on the low table and began to pour tea. “You have acquainted yourself with our customs?”
“I did my best to find what little information is out there, though Central Command does try to keep a lid on it. So tell me, what can I do for you? Or is it Rembrandt Pharmaceuticals you wish to contact? In that case, my brother Edwin—”
“No,” Farric interrupted. “My interests here are not confined to diplomacy and trade. Such negotiations will commence soon, but we need skills such as yours for a quite different project. What do you know about the area your people call the Drift?”
“I’ve heard of it. Dangerous bit of K-space. We’ve lost a ship or three there recently.”
“My world lies along one of the safe paths through it.”
The human’s eyes widened, and his next words demonstrated his quick intelligence. “You want a station of your own.”
“Without incurring an obligation to Central Command.”
Lord Albert’s eyes unfocused, and his forehead creased, but his presence spiked with elation. “You’ll want to avoid human investors, then. You came to the right man. How do you feel about the Den?”
“I have studi
ed what we know of them,” Farric replied. It amounted to little. The Den were a federation of collective minds, each one consisting of a focus with its builders. The foci possessed considerable skill at architecture and construction, and they sometimes built structures in deep space with no apparent function, for no reason that anyone could determine. “Should I have feelings about the species?”
The human snorted. “They’re the best contractors in the Orion Arm, and I’ve got a working relationship with the focus who owns the station we’re standing in. Once I’ve got the investors, he—it, I mean—will be able to connect me with foci looking for projects. Give the word, and I’ll start contacting my more adventurous clients.”
Farric gave a nod. “Do it.”
* * *
CCS-52-1209
FROM: Adeline Pearson Russell
Get fleas into the Tolari quarters at Capella and activate Silsbury in Rembrandt Pharmaceuticals ASAP. He’s to keep an eye on R&D and report any new developments to me directly.
(signed) Adeline Russell, Major, Central Security
Head of Field Operations, Inner Sector
* * *
Strange red and purple plant life filled the meeting room on the edge of the Terosha sector inside Capella Free Station. Vines clung to the walls; bushes and small trees brushed the ceiling. Soft, springy moss covered the floor. Farric took a deep breath of the fragrant, hot, and sticky air, and sweat rolled down his ribs under his robe. He had arrived early, which was polite by Terosha standards, and he sat in the provided chair, which they also considered polite. A long bench, its upper side padded with more of the supple moss, occupied a space on the other side of a visible division in the vegetation—where a barrier could activate at need.
The Teroshan trade ambassador stepped through the door at the precise moment it had specified. It resembled nothing so much as a segmented, ten-legged tree branch, half again as long as the tallest of Tolari men, and that included the Sural. Two large, jewel-like eyes adorned the creature’s head, which came to a point at the claspers shielding its mouth. Its carapace shone a deep, burnished bronze, a sign of extreme age in its kind, and its hunting claws—
Its hunting claws, sharp and glistening with venom, hung unbound.
Farric suppressed a sudden urge to flee, even as the Terosha’s body scent, sweet and heady, reached his nostrils and glued him in place. The ambassador sang as it lowered itself onto the padded bench, its legs folding underneath like so many twigs.
“No fear, young thing,” said the translation device in Farric’s ear. “Well-fed. Honor to you.”
Farric expelled the air from fear-frozen lungs and extended his senses. Did the Terosha mean to offer honor, or did it mean that it was honored? He could read empathic stirrings in the insectoid being, but their meaning remained beyond his understanding. “You honor me, ambassador,” he replied in Suralian, the only Tolari language he could be sure the odalli’s own translator possessed. “My world gives you greeting.”
The triangular head tilted. It responded in kind, muffled by its claspers. “Tolari initiate trade? At last contact, no interest.”
“That is no longer true. Much of the ruling caste now desires contact with our interstellar neighbors. They believe that isolation produces stagnation and are eager to bring new goods and ideas into their provinces. We have much to offer in return.”
The ambassador lay on the bench, motionless and silent, as if cast from the metal its color resembled. Farric held his breath again, schooling himself to stillness.
“Appellation,” it said, finally, and sang a short, untranslatable melody—its own name.
Farric remembered to breathe and then, with slow movements which deliberately imitated the gentle sway of vegetation in a light breeze, laid both his father’s intent-letter and the diplomatic credentials provided by Subcommissioner Kallinikov on the bench before him. “I am Farric, heir to Monralar,” he replied, “Tolar’s ambassador to the Trade Alliance.”
Chapter Seventeen
“He did what?”
Laura stared at the Paran, who sat at the desk in his open study, impassive, as if he hadn’t said what he’d just said.
“Monralar sent his heir to the Trade Alliance,” he repeated, in English this time.
The air left the room. Her knees weakened, and she dropped into the chair behind her, breathless. “He knows I’m alive,” she managed to squeak out. “He knows my name! If they get their hands on him… they can make him talk… they can make anyone talk.”
The Paran’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “Honor requires him to walk into the dark if he cannot prevent his capture.”
She leaned forward over the gentle swell of her belly, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her temples. “Honor,” she breathed. “My life hangs on one man’s honor. Can’t the Sural prosecute the Monral or something? Anything? Call his son back?”
“No.”
“How could the Monral do that?” she wailed. “He’s your ally!”
“He seeks to advance his own ambition, but he acts within our law and, I do not doubt, for the benefit of his province. In that, he is a devoted ruler, beloved.”
“But how can he—”
“To leave Tolar is not forbidden. His heir departed with the Kekrax.”
“But they came to trade… that was at least a month ago!”
The Paran rose and paced to the windows. “Yes,” he said, turning half toward Laura. “How is the saying in English? The damage is already done.”
* * *
A chill north wind cooled the stronghold grounds. Laura settled against a tree near the keep’s wall and propped her tablet on her lap. Marianne’s face gazed out from it, worn with fatigue. Coos and babbles sounded in the background.
“How long have you known?” Laura asked.
“Probably fifteen minutes longer than you have. The word just went out to the ruling caste.”
Laura opened her mouth and closed it a few times before the words would come. “I thought I was safe.”
Marianne’s lips flattened into a grim expression. “Welcome to the wonderful world of the political refugee,” she said.
“If you’ve had to live with this feeling, you have my sympathy.” Laura gusted a sigh. “I don’t know what to do now. If Central Command gets their hands on Farric they’ll find out everything he knows, but I can’t leave the Paran to hide somewhere else, not for any length of time, even if I wanted to.”
“The idea of Central Command capturing a Tolari provincial heir is scary enough all by itself, but Laura, listen. His diplomatic immunity isn’t the only factor in play. Any action against the heir to Monralar would prompt the Sural to open a formal complaint with the Trade Alliance, and Earth can’t risk that. Even if they did, and they discovered you’re alive, they’d still have to find you in Parania, among how many? Over 500,000 people? Without the locater chip in your head? And they’d have to get past the planetary defenses first, and then they’d have to defeat the combined guard castes of Parania, Suralia, and any of the Paran’s allies who’d join in to help. Brialar for sure, and probably Nalevia. Maybe Nevenar too. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. They know exactly where I am, and they haven’t been able to get to me.”
Laura bit her lower lip, then said, “You don’t have family they can use against you.”
Marianne blanched.
“All they have to do to get me to do anything they want is threaten my grandchildren, and they know it. For their sake, I need to stay dead.”
“The Sural seems to think Monralar’s heir would suicide before he’d let them take him.”
“So does the Paran.” Laura sucked on the lip she’d bitten. “Perhaps they’re right. I’ve met Farric a few times, when he came to debate with… with Vondra. He speaks English, so we talked at meals. He seemed very much a man of honor.”
“I’ve never met him. I’m not likely to, either, not with all the enmity between the Sural and the Monral.”
“That’s t
oo bad. He’s a pleasant young man, a good conversationalist. I think he’s actually a little younger than you are. You might get along.”
Marianne scrunched her face. “That’s not how things work here. If you ever see two people from opposing provinces interact, you’ll see what I mean. Sparks fly. It’s an effect of the ruling bond, and the closer you are to the ruler, the stronger it gets. A wandering laborer, loosely connected to Suralia, maybe not even pledged, will feel a little uncomfortable being close to a Monrali. I’ll hate him on sight.”
“That isn’t going to happen to me, is it? I’m not ruling caste like you are, and I never pledged my life to the Paran.”
“But you’re bonded to him, so yes it will.”
“Hell’s bells.” Laura heaved a sigh. “Well, what do we know?”
“Precious little. I can tell you what was in the announcement that went out to the caste, but you already know what it said. The heir to Monralar went to Capella Free Station and entered into a series of diplomatic meetings with the more powerful trade ambassadors, including a personal encounter with the Terosha.”
“That takes nerve.”
“It certainly does.”
“No, I mean it takes nerve,” Laura repeated. “The Terosha are pure carnivores—twitchy, reflex-ridden predators. Make a sudden movement at the wrong time, and they’ll jump on you and eat you. Literally. It takes courage to face one in person.”
Marianne’s jaw slackened. “Why didn’t I know that?”
“Central Command doesn’t acknowledge it publicly, and in addition to that, Terosha limit their personal contact with other species. It’s not good business to eat your customers. For that matter, it’s not good business to let your customers know that getting eaten is a serious possibility.”
“Oh my.”
“Exactly. You have to admire Farric’s courage.”
The Fall Page 15
