Beside and to the left of King Kamehameha another man was on the dais—standing; the only seat in the room was filled with Ali'i. An older man, he was, scrawny and weathered, looking like he'd been carved from nut brown wood. He too wore a cape—no feathers, just red fabric—and a loincloth. Around his brow was a headband, and a single feather of some kind protruded from the back, to sag forward—forlornly, I thought—over his forehead. An advisor of some kind, I figured at once. What had Scott called these guys? Kahunas, that was it. The kahuna looked only a couple of years younger than God himself, but he had the same steely edge in his eyes as Gordon Ho. Not a slag to trifle with.
Two white-suits flanked the dais, and another loomed over me and Ortega, who'd joined me in the room. These boys were holding spears, but I noted they also had big-time handguns holstered on their belts.
And then there were the three . . . visitors? supplicants? what would you call them? They stood before the dais, eyes averted as I'd forgotten to do. All humans, all Polynesians . . . and all suits (in the corp sense, this time). One of them turned and shot me a bad look—I was getting pretty goddamned tired of stink-eye by this time—before getting back to his averting.
The Ali'i looked up from his notes, and fixed one of the suits with a sharp look. "Is there any more I should hear on this matter?"
The suit looked up and said formally, "No more, e ku'u lani."
"Good," the king said with a nod. "Then you'll hear my decision within twenty-four hours."
Another of the suits—he looked younger than the rest—opened his mouth to bitch, but the look the Ali'i shot him shut him up before he could start. The young suit shifted uncomfortably, then he got back to his averting, too.
The Ali'i glanced over in my direction, and I thought I saw a faint smile. "Mr. Montgomery," he said. That wasn't a question, so I didn't speak. Ho shifted his gaze to Ortega by my side. "Please escort Mr. Montgomery to my private office."
Ortega stiffened. "E ku'u lani, is that proper?"
Oops, mistake. Regal stink-eye is very different from the run-of-the-mill kind, and I was glad this dose was directed at someone else. Surprisingly, it was the scrawny kahuna who said, "It is for the Ali'i to decide what is proper and what is not." The reprimand was delivered in a quiet voice, little more than a whisper, but Ortega flinched as though he'd been whipped.
The aide/maitre d' nodded and seemed to be trying to swallow his prominent Adam's apple. He tapped me on the arm, and I followed him back out the door.
Leading me through the bowels of the palace, he didn't utter a word for the next few minutes, which suited me just fine. Finally, he stopped before another rich-grained wood door, nodded to the requisite white-suit on guard outside, and turned the knob. Wordlessly, he gestured me in, and this time he didn't follow. I let the door shut behind me before giving the place the once-over.
State-of-the-art, cutting-edge corporate office—that was my first impression. Tech everywhere—not obtrusive or overbearing, but always to hand. Anything and everything to make the life of a busy executive just that one little bit easier or more comfortable. Huge holo unit against one wall; one of those high-tech whiteboard displays, the kind that automatically networks to multiple pocket 'puters via infrared links and lets a dozen people make and annotate drawings and notes; a telecom/commo suite that you'd need an electrical engineering doctorate just to turn on; an electrostatic printer only marginally bigger than the pieces of paper it printed on; and—thank God for something I fully understood—a slick little coffee/espresso maker on the credenza.
I suppose I'd expected the decor of the Ali'i's private office to be something like that of the throne room: dark, polished woods, somber drapes, that kind of drek. Good try, but no cigar. The place was light and airy, painted in pale pastels that made it feel larger than it actually was. The desk and credenza were macroplast finished in a contrasting pastel. The chairs—there were four of them, one behind the desk and three in front—weren't the antiques I expected either; instead, they were this-year's-model self-adjusting units.
Behind the desk was a huge window looking out toward the mountains north of the city. It looked like a storm was blowing in, black clouds boiling up over the ragged peaks. I shook my head, tempted to go over and touch the window material. There wasn't any of the color-shift I'd always associated with reinforced ballistic composite. If that window was standard transpex, any yahoo with a rifle could cap the fragging Ali'i, put a pill in the back of his noble skull. Hey, just wait one tick . . . What was wrong with this picture?
A couple of things. First of all ... this shouldn't be an outside office. Unless I'd gotten myself totally turned around—possible, but not likely—this place was right in the fragging middle of the Iolani Palace's second floor.
Second, the view of the mountains I was enjoying was simply impossible from the site of the palace. Sure, you could spot the mountains .. . but only between corporate skyrakers, none of which appeared in the view through the "window." A sophisticated holo display, that's what it had to be—like the "window" in Adrian Skyhill's office at Fort Lewis, now that I came to think of it. The sense of Déjà vu gave me the shivers. I sat down in one of the visitor's chairs, and tried to relax while I waited.
I didn't have long to wait—convenient, since I couldn't relax anyway. The door behind me clicked open, and I reflexively jumped to my feet.
Gordon Ho, King Kamehameha V, had changed again. Not just his garb, although he had doffed his regalia for a set of hideously expensive casual clothes. No, his whole manner—his aura, to use that stupid word—had changed, too, as if in setting aside his royal trappings he'd set aside the strength of personality I'd sensed in the throne room. Was that strength of personality some kind of magical effect, then, incorporated into the headpiece, perhaps?
Uh-uh, I revised after a moment. The strength was still there; it glinted in his eyes. It was just that Gordon Ho made a strong distinction between ceremony and business, like any good executive.
"E ku'u lani," I began.
Ho gestured casually for me to be seated. "I told you on the phone, it's the kahunas who are so set on the old forms, not me." He sat down in the chair behind the desk and leaned back luxuriously. Then, for almost a minute, he just watched me from under his dark brows. His scrutiny wasn't hostile—more curious than anything, I thought—but that didn't make it any more comfortable. I shifted edgily in my chair, and I felt a bead of sweat start to trace its way down my ribs. I tried to match his stare with my own, but it wasn't long before I had to drop my gaze—look at the "picture-window" behind him, at the desk, at the whiteboard, at anything but those flint eyes.
Finally the Ali'i stirred, and I felt the intensity of his gaze ease. "Mr. Montgomery," he said slowly, almost speculatively. "Derek Montgomery." He smiled. "I know a little about you, Mr. Montgomery. Born on July 22, 2019 in Seattle, Washington—it was still Washington state at that time, wasn't it? One sibling, a younger sister. Both parents killed." His tone of voice was like he was reading, though his gaze was still fixed on my face. It was only when I noticed a faint artificial glint from his corneas that I realized some kind of unit in the desk was projecting my personal data directly into his eyes. "Attended the University of Washington," he continued, "but didn't graduate. Served a tour of duty with Lone Star Security Services Corporation." He shot me a wry grin. "An abbreviated tour," he amended ironically, "after which you left the corporation on less than amicable terms.
"Since then"—he shrugged—"very little, really. Occasional hints that you might have been contracting out your services to various individuals, and even to a couple of corporations. But not much concrete data.
"Until your death, confirmed via gene typing and dental records, in 2052." A thick eyebrow quirked. "Interesting, Mr. Montgomery; I've never chatted with a dead man before."
I shrugged ... and tried not to show how chilled I was by the ease with which he'd dug up background information on me. Date and place of birth, family details,
employment history ... all of which should have dropped out of public ken when I tubed my SIN number after my break with Lone Star. I'd always thought "zeroed" meant just that—you don't exist anymore, no connection between who you are and who you were, and no easy way of tracking down that drek after the fact. Live and learn, I suppose.
The Ali'i leaned forward. "So tell me, Mr. Montgomery, what is a dead man doing in Hawai'i?"
I hesitated. Frag it, I realized Barnard hadn't briefed me enough. Yes, I was supposed to deliver a specific message to King Kam, but what else should I or shouldn't I tell him? "Trying to do something about that graveyard pallor," I temporized, giving myself time to think.
He chuckled softly at that. "Well, perhaps we'll come back to that later." He paused, then his voice changed—time for biz. "You implied you had a message for me. From whom, Mr. Montgomery?"
"Jacques Barnard," I told him. "Senior veep or something at Yamatetsu."
"I know Jacques Barnard," he acknowledged, "a fine gentleman. I assume you've spoken to him recently. Is he enjoying Chiba?"
"Kyoto," I corrected.
"Of course, Kyoto. I wonder ... did you ever have the chance to see his estate in Beaux Arts?"
"I did see his exercise room ... but it was in Madison Park."
"Quite. And how's his lovely wife—Marie, isn't that it?" I sighed. "Never met his wife, don't know her name," I told him wearily. "Two questions out of three right. Does that mean I don't win the grand prize?"
The Ali'i paused again, and his gaze seemed to pin me to the chair. "Do you always joke so much, Mr. Montgomery?" he asked quietly.
I blinked, and—to my surprise—I told him the truth. "Only when I'm drek-scared."
He smiled at that. "I think I understand." Another pause.
"All right, Mr. Montgomery, I think I can accept your bona fides
Considerate of you, slot, is what I didn't say. I just nodded.
"So what was Jacques's message?"
I couldn't think of a graceful way of dancing around the issue, so I just said it flat. "He wants me to reassure you that he wasn't behind the assassination of Ekei Tokudaiji."
Gordon Ho's eyebrows shot up at that. "Indeed?"
"Honto," I confirmed. "Indeed."
"Then who was behind it, does Mr. Barnard think?"
"ALOHA," I stated. "Who else?"
The Ali'i smiled again. "Quite a number of people, I'd think. Tokudaiji-san was an oyabun of the yakuza, after all. But I rather think you're right about ALOHA."
His hard gaze softened. "Thank you, Mr. Montgomery," he said. "You may consider your message delivered. I didn't really think that Yamatetsu was behind the matter, but it's good to receive one more reassurance.
"I'd be very interested in hearing any insight Jacques has on developments," he went on, more conversationally. "Some of my sources are already starting to report increasing popular support for ALOHA on the streets. And in the legislature the opposition party is starting to apply pressure. I'd like to be able to speak with Jacques personally, but..." He shrugged. Then his smile changed, and his gaze drilled into me again. "Perhaps you can help me with this, Mr. Montgomery," he said deceptively lightly.
Oh frag, not again ...
My thoughts must have shown in my face, because Gordon Ho chuckled. "You look as though it's continuing to be one of those days."
"One of those lifetimes," I corrected.
"Not your first choice on how to spend your stay in the islands, running messages back and forth, is it?" He hesitated, and real curiosity showed in his eyes. "Just how did you get involved in this, Mr. Montgomery?"
"Just lucky, I guess." I sighed. What the frag, if anything about my involvement was a secret, it wasn't my secret, and I figured I didn't owe Barnard anything further.
So I told him the story—the short version, the one starting in Cheyenne, not the complete saga including how I'd fallen in with Barnard in the first place. Probably I shouldn't be doing this, I thought while babbling, but frag, there are times when you've just got to talk to someone. I couldn't see what practical harm it would do. King Kam had my life in his hands anyway, and I couldn't think of any ways—well, not many ways, at least—that he could glitch things up for me worse than they already were. Besides, now that he wasn't wearing his feathered drek, Gordon Ho didn't seem that much different from me, and I felt myself drawn to like him.
(Which, truth to tell, scared the drek out of me. I'd been drawn to like Barnard, too, hadn't I? And look where that had gotten me ...)
When I was finished, the young Ali'i nodded slowly. "The direct involvement of Ryumyo is somewhat disturbing," he said slowly. (Somewhat disturbing? Understatement of the century, e ku'u lani ...) "If that was Ryumyo you spoke with, of course."
"One dragon kind of looks like another," I acquiesced dryly.
"Quite." Ho paused. "But it might not have been a dragon at all. Oh, I know it certainly looked like one, but many kahunas and hermetic mages could produce an illusion that only another magic-wielder could penetrate."
I blinked at that one. That line of thought hadn't even occurred to me.
"Whether or not Ryumyo is personally involved, however, I think the ALOHA connection is fairly certain," the Ali'i concluded. He studied me speculatively for a few moments. Then he opened one of the desk drawers, extracted a small item and extended it to me."Take this, Mr. Montgomery."
I reached out for the object and studied it in my palm. It was a lapel pin or badge—almost a brooch, judging by its size. Intricately worked into the likeness of the crest I'd seen behind the Ali'i's throne, it massed heavy in my hand. "Gold?"
Ho's dark eyes twinkled. "Electroplated. Sorry." He indicated the badge. "This identifies you as officially under the protection of the Ali'i, Mr. Montgomery. As far as members of the government service are concerned, it marks you as carrying my authority—some of it, at least."
I snorted. "You mean I've been deputized?"
"You might think of it that way," the Ali confirmed with a smile. "When you display the badge, you can expect at least some degree of cooperation from servants of the Crown—government agencies, even Na Maka'i, the police. Not the military, however." He shrugged. "You might even find that Tokudaiji-san's security personnel will think twice before gunning you down if they see that," he added thoughtfully. "After all, Tokudaiji-san was a servant of the Crown, in his own way, and his help did not go unreciprocated."
I looked skeptically down at the badge in my hand. Maybe the Ali'i was right, maybe Tokudaiji's samurai would feel some kind of ... I don't know, patriotic loyalty to the Crown or some drek ... and decide not to pulp me if they saw this. Maybe not. I certainly wasn't going to depend on it. I'd made the mistake of thinking a badge could protect me during an earlier phase of my career, and it hadn't taken me long to realize how fragging wrong I was. Still, it couldn't hurt. I nodded thanks to the Ali'i and pinned it onto the collar of my shirt.
Ho's eyes never left my face. "I wouldn't force you into a situation that you find uncomfortable . .."
I finished the thought for him ". . . But you do want me to get word to Barnard that you're trolling for ideas." I sighed again. "Yeah, okay, I'll see what I can do ... if it doesn't mean too much exposure." Frag, intermediary again. Why oh why don't people ever learn that killing the messenger just isn't a good idea?
"I appreciate that, Mr. Montgomery. Now—" Ho stopped as a knock sounded on the door. "Hele mai. "
The door opened, and a functionary—not Ortega, though he could have been the gray-faced man's Polynesian half brother—stepped into the room. "Kala mai ia'u, e ku'u lani, " he began, then noticed me for the first time and clammed up on the spot. He looked at the Ali'i with a "what the frag do I do?" expression on his face.
Gordon Ho chuckled. "This man is in my confidence," he told the functionary quietly. "You have a report for me?"
" 'Ae, e ku 'u lani, '' the older man said with a bobbing nod. "I luna o ka Puowaina. "
"In English, please
," the Ali'i said sharply.
The functionary looked almost as scandalized as Ortega had in the throne room. Just to make sure he got the idea, I pulled back the lapel of the jacket Ortega had loaned me, so he could spot my deputy's badge nice and clearly.
He spotted it, all right, and I could see in his eyes just how little he thought of the whole thing. But at least he managed to control himself. "Ae, e ku'u lani. Yes, O my royal one, of course.
"The"—he shot me a sidelong look, and I could see him mentally editing what he'd been about to say—"the incidents on Puowaina seem to have escalated, e ku'u lani. The most recent one is quite disturbing—that's how the chief of Na Maka'i describes it, 'quite disturbing.' The ... level of activity is more intense."
"But nothing could come of it, correct?" Ho asked.
The functionary looked really uncomfortable ... and not just because of my presence, suddenly. "The kahunas think not, e ku'u lani."
"Think not?" Ho sounded surprised.
"That's what they told me, e ku'u lani."
"Interesting. Na Maka 'i are continuing their investigation, of course?"
"Yes, e ku'u lani, they have the area sealed off."
"Good." The Ali'i nodded approval. "Do you have anything more to report?"
"Not at this time, e ku'u lani."
"Thank you, then." Ho dismissed him with a nod.
Once the functionary had shut the door behind him, the Ali'i leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
"What was that about?" I asked.
Ho sighed. "Puowaina," he said, then waited.
"Punchbowl," I said after a moment.
"That's right," he confirmed. He turned in his chair and pointed to an area of the holo "mountains" behind him. "There. Puowaina, just north of the city. Its name means 'Hill of Sacrifices,' referring to the old religions. It seems as though someone is taking that name a little more seriously than they might."
House of the Sun Page 18
