She left the enclosure and stepped gingerly over the grillwork floor. Despite the stares of those billeted in the hallway, she made her way to where Garth Diamandis lay. He was awake, but listless. Still, he half smiled as he saw her.
“Ah, that you should dress so for me,” he murmured.
Venera smoothed the hair back from his brow. “What's wrong?”
He looked away, lips twisting. Then, “It was her. She betrayed me to them.”
“Your woman? Wife? Mistress?”
A heavy sigh escaped him. “My daughter.”
Venera stepped back, shocked. For a moment she had no idea what to say, because her whole understanding of this man had been changed in one stroke. “Oh, Garth,” she said stupidly. “I'm so sorry.” We daughters will do that, she though, but she didn't say it.
She held his hand for a minute until he gently disengaged it and turned on his side. “You must be cold,” he said. “Go get some rest.” So, reluctantly, she left him on his cot in the hallway.
She mused about this surprising new Garth as she threaded her way back to her sleeping station. It was hard navigating the place; the nation of Fin was less than thirty feet wide at its broadest point. Since it was literally a fin, an aileron for controlling Spyre's spin and direction, the place was streamlined and reinforced inside by crisscrossing girders. The citizens of the pocket nation had built floors and chambers all through the vertical wing and grudgingly added several ladder wells. Where Garth lay was not a corridor as such, however—just a more or less labyrinthine route between the rooms that were strung the length of the level. Privacy was to be had only within the sleeping chambers, where the ever-present roar of air just behind the walls drowned all other sounds.
Fin didn't have the capacity for an extra seventy or so people. Venera had been informed by an impatient Corinne that they must all leave by nightfall. That suited her fine—she had a meeting with the council later today in any case. But she needed to sleep first. So she was grateful for the little bed they'd prepared behind a set of metal cabinets. You had to squeeze around the last cabinet to get in here and there were no windows; still, it had an air of privacy. She rolled out of the towel and under the blanket.
Venera willed herself to sleep, but she was still a mass of nerves from the events of the night. And, she had to admit, there was something else keeping her awake....
A blundering noise jolted her into sitting up. She groped for a nonexistent weapon. Somebody was blocking the light that leaked around the cabinets. “Who—”
“Oh, no! You!” Bryce stood there, his nakedness punctuated by the towel at his waist. His hands were on his hips.
Venera snatched up the blanket. “Don't tell me they put you in with me.”
“Said there wasn't any room. Last good place was here.” He crossed his arms. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You've had at least fifteen minutes to sleep. My turn.”
“Your—?” She reached for one of her boots and threw it at him. “Get out! This is my room!” Bryce ducked adroitly and stepped up, grabbing at her wrist. She rabbit-punched him in the stomach; the only effect was that his towel fell off.
He took advantage of her surprise to make a play for the bed. She managed to keep him from taking it, but he did grab the blanket. She pulled it back. She kicked him, and he toppled onto the mattress. He sprawled, laying claim to as much of it as he could, and pushed her to the edge.
“No you don't! My bed!” She tried to climb over him, aiming to reconquer the corner, but his hand was on her wrist, then her shoulder and her breast, and his other gripped the inside of her thigh. Bryce picked her up that way and would have thrown her off the bed if she hadn't squirmed her way loose. She landed straddling him and grabbed for the sheets on either side of his shoulders so when he pushed at her she had a good grip.
He was getting hard against her pubic bone and his hands were on her breasts again. Venera mashed her palm against his face and reared back but now his hands were on her hips, and he was pulling her hard against him. They rocked together and she clawed at his chest.
Grabbing him around the shoulders she kissed him, feeling her nipples tease the hairs on his chest. All their movement was making him slide against her wetness and suddenly he was inside her. Venera gasped and reared up, pushing down on him with all her weight.
She leaned forward until they were nose to nose. "My bed,” she hissed, grinning.
They were locked together now and each motion by one made the other respond. She had a hand behind his neck and his were behind her spreading her painfully as they kissed and the bed shook and threatened to collapse. She bucked and rode him like the Buridans must have ridden their horses, all pounding muscle under her until wave after wave of pleasure mounted up her core and she came with a loud cry. Moments later he did the same, bouncing her up and nearly off of him. She held on and rode it out, then collapsed on the bellows of his chest.
“See?” he said. “You can share.”
Well.
Venera wasn't about to dignify his statement with a response; but this was certainly going to change things. Now sleep really was coming over her, though, and she had no ability to think more about it. She nuzzled his shoulder.
Damn it.
* * * *
The Spyre Council building was satisfyingly grandiose. It sprawled like a well-fed spider over an acre of town wheel, with outbuildings and annexes like black-roofed legs half encircling the nearby streets, plazas, and offices of the bureaucracy. The back of the spider was an ornate glass and wrought-iron dome surmounted by an absurdly dramatic black statue of a woman thrusting a sword into the air. The statue must have been thirty feet tall. Venera admired it as she strolled up the broad ramp that led to the council chamber.
She was aware of many eyes watching her. Word had gotten around quickly of the events last night, and Lesser Spyre was quietly but visibly tense. Shops had closed early; people hurried through the streets. The architecture of the spider did not permit large assemblies—Spyre was not the sort of place to encourage mass demonstrations—but the people were a presence here nonetheless, standing in groups of two to ten to twenty on street corners and under the shadowy canopies of bridges. It was their presence, and not memory or reason, that convinced Venera that she had today done something highly significant.
Her own appearance must confirm that. She wore a high-collared black leather coat over a scarlet blouse, with her bleached shock of hair standing straight up and silver trefoil-shaped bangles the size of her hand hanging from her ears. Her make-up was dark—she'd redrawn her brows as two obsessively black lines. Trailing behind her in a V-formation like a flock of grim birds were two dozen people, all similarly startling to look upon. Some appeared pale and unsteady, their faces and exposed hands bearing bruises and burn marks. Others attended these souls, and marching behind like giant tin toys were soldiers of Liris and various preservationist factions. Venera knew that Bryce's people peppered the crowds, there to listen and give an alert if necessary.
“Do you think Jacoby Sarto brings his gun to council meetings?” she asked off-handedly. Corinne, who was walking beside her, guffawed.
“Here,” she said, handing Venera a large black pistol, “try to take this in and see what happens. No, seriously. If they don't stop you, then he's probably got one too. You may need to get the drop on him.”
“I can do that.” She took the pistol and slipped it into her jacket, which promptly dragged down her right collar. She transferred it to the back of her belt.
“Not too obvious,” said Corinne doubtfully.
A preservationist runner puffed to a stop next to her and saluted. “They're on the move, ma'am. Five groups of a hundred or more each were just seen exiting the grounds of Sacrus. They're in no-man's land now, but they have nowhere to go except through their neighbors.... Of course, they own most of those estates....”
“What have they got?” she asked. “Artillery?” He nodded.
“We're moving to secure the elevator cables, but they're doing the same thing,” he continued. “There's been no shots fired yet....”
“All right.” She dismissed the details with a wave of her hand. “Let me see what we can do in council. We'll talk after that.” He nodded and backed off.
The big front doors of the building were for council members only. The ceremonial guards there, with their plumed helmets and giant muskets, raised their palms solemnly to exclude the people following Venera. She turned and gestured with her chin for them to go around the side; she'd been told there was a second, more traveled entrance there for diplomats, attachés, and other functionaries. She strode alone into the frescoed portico that half circled the chamber itself.
The bronze council chamber doors were open, and a small crowd was milling there. She recognized the other members; they were just filing in.
Jacoby Sarto was talking to Pamela Anseratte. He looked relaxed. She looked tense. He spotted Venera and, surprisingly, smiled.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, strolling over to her. Venera glanced around to see what other people—pillars or statues to hide behind—were nearby, and started to reach for the pistol. But Sarto simply took her arm and led her a bit to the side of the group.
“The preservationists and lesser countries are following you right now,” he said. “But I can't see that continuing, can you? The only leverage you've got is the name of Buridan.”
She extricated her arm and smiled back at him. “Well, that depends on the outcome of this meeting, I should think,” she said. He nodded affably.
“I'm here to engineer a crisis,” he said. “How about you?”
“I should have thought we were already in a crisis,” she said cautiously. “Your troops are on the move.”
“...And we've seized the docks,” he said. “But that may not be enough to serve either of our interests.” She tried to read his expression, but Sarto was a master politician. He gave no sign that Spyre was balanced on the edge of its greatest change in centuries.
“Our interests aren't the same,” he continued, “but they're surprisingly ... compatible. You're after power, but not so much power as you'd have to have if you used the key again. It's difficult—you possess the ultimate weapon, but no way to use it to get what you want. But the blunt fact is that as long as we hold the docks, the little trinket you stole from us last night is even worse than useless to you,” he said. “It's an active liability.”
She stared at him.
Apparently oblivious to her expression, Sarto continued as though he were discussing the budget for municipal plumbing contracts. “On the other hand, the polarization of allegiance you're generating is useful to us. I've been impressed, Ms. Fanning, by your abilities—last night's raid came as a complete surprise, advantageous as it's turned out to be. You got what you wanted, we get what we want, which is to flush out our enemies. The only matter of dispute between us, privately, is that ivory wand you took.”
“You want it back?”
He nodded.
“Go fuck yourself!” She started to stalk toward the giant doorway but couldn't resist turning and saying, “You tortured my man Garth! You think this is a game?”
“The only way to win,” he said so quietly that the others couldn't hear, “is to treat it as one.” Now his expression was serious, his gray eyes cold as a statue's.
It was suddenly clear to Venera that Sacrus already knew what she had been planning to say and do here today—and they approved. She made an excellent enemy for them to rally their own forces around. If they had needed an excuse to extend martial law over their neighbors, she had provided it. If civil war came, they would have their justification for marshaling the ancient Spyre fleet. The civil war would provide a nice smokescreen behind which they could seize Candesce. It wouldn't matter then whether they won or lost back home.
She had given them the enemy they needed. Sarto's candid admission of the fact was a clear overture from him.
Venera hesitated. Then, deliberately clamping down on her anger, she walked back to him. They were now the only council members remaining in the hall. The others had taken their seats, and she saw one or two craning their necks to watch their confrontation.
“What do I get if I return the key?” she asked.
He smiled again. “What you want. Power. For the rest, take your satisfaction by attacking us. We know you'll be sincere. We're counting on it. Only return the key, and at the end of the war you'll get everything you want. You know we can deliver.” He held out his hand, palm up.
She laughed lightly, though she felt sick. “I don't have it with me,” she said. “And besides, I have no reason to trust you. None at all.”
Now Sarto looked annoyed. “We thought you'd say that. You need a guarantee, a token of our sincerity. My masters have ... instructed me ... to provide you with one.”
She laughed bitterly. “What could you possibly give me that would convince me you were sincere?”
His expression darkened even further; for the first time he looked genuinely angry. Sarto spoke a single word. Venera gaped at him in undisguised astonishment, then laughed again. It was the bray of disdain she reserved for putting people down, and she was sure Sarto knew it.
However, he merely bowed slightly and turned to indicate that she should precede him into the chamber. The doors were wide, and so they entered side by side. As they did so, Venera caught sight of Sarto's expression and was amazed. In a few seconds he underwent a gruesome transformation, from the merely dark expression he'd displayed outside to a mask of twisted fury. By the time they split up halfway across the polished marble floor, he looked like he was ready to murder someone. Venera kept her own expression neutral, her eyes straight ahead of her as she climbed the red-carpeted steps to the long-disused seat of Buridan.
The council members had been chatting, but one by one they fell silent and stared. Several of those were gazes of surprise; although they were masked, the ministers from Oxorn and Garatt were poised forward in their seats as if unsure whether to run or dive under their chairs. August Virilio's usual expression of polite disdain was gone, in its place a brooding anger that seemed transplanted from an entirely different man.
Pamela Anseratte stood as soon as they were seated and banged her gavel on a little table. “We were supposed to be gathering today to discuss the change of stewardship of the Spyre docks,” she began. “But obviously—”
“She has started a war!”
Jacoby Sarto was on his feet before the echoes of his voice died out—and so were the rest of the ministers. For a long moment everyone was talking at once while Anseratte pounded her gavel ineffectually. Then Sarto held up one hand in a magisterial gesture. He gravely hoisted a stack of papers over his head. “I hold the signed declarations in my hand,” he rumbled. “This is nothing less than the start of that civil conflict we have all been dreading—an unprovoked, vicious attack in the heartland of Sacrus itself—”
“To rescue those people you kidnapped,” Venera said. She remained obstinately in her seat. “Citizens of sovereign states, abducted from their homes by agents of Sacrus.”
“Impudence!” roared Sarto. Half the members were still on their feet; in the pillared gallery that opened up behind the council pew, the coteries of ministers, secretaries, courtiers, and generals that each council member held in reserve were glaring at one another and at her. Several clenched the pommels of half-drawn swords.
“I have a partial list of names,” continued Venera, “of those we rescued from Sacrus's dungeon last night. They include,” she shouted to drown out hecklers from the gallery, “citizens of every nation represented on this council, including Buridan. The council will not deny that I had every right to seek the repatriation of my own kinsmen?” She looked around, locking eyes with the unmasked members.
Principe Guinevera's jowls quivered as he thunked solidly into his seat. “You're not going to claim that Sacrus stole one of my cit
izens? Surely—” He stopped as he saw her scan the list and then hold up her hand.
“Her name is Melissa Ferania,” said Venera.
“Ferania, Ferania ... I know that name...” Guinevera's brows knit. “It was a suicide. They never found a body.”
Venera smiled. “Well, you'll find her right now if you turn your head.” She gestured to the gallery.
The whole council craned their necks to look. People had been filing into the Buridan section of the gallery for several minutes; in the ruckus, nobody on the council had noticed.
On cue, Melissa Ferania stood up and bowed to Guinevera.
“Oh my dear, my dear child,” he said, tears starting at the corners of his eyes.
“I have more names,” said Venera, eyeing Jacoby Sarto. Everyone else was staring into the gallery, and he took the opportunity to meet her eye and nod slightly.
Venera felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
She had stage-managed this confrontation for maximum effect, calling for volunteers from the recently rescued to attend the scheduled council meeting with her. Garth alone had refused to come; pale and still refusing to talk about his experience in the tower, he had remained outside in the street. But there were prisoners from Liris here as well as half a dozen other minor nations. As her trump card, she had brought people taken from the great nations of the council itself.
Sarto seemed more than unfazed at this tactic. He seemed satisfied.
She realized that a black silence had descended on the chamber. Everyone was looking at her. Clearing her throat, she said—her own words sounding distant to herself—"I move for immediate censure of Sacrus and the suspension of its rights on the Council of Spyre. Pending, uh ... pending a thorough investigation of their recent activities.”
For once, Pamela Anseratte looked out of her depth. “Ah ... what?” She pulled her gaze back from the gallery.
Analog SFF, May 2007 Page 23
