“You’d give it all back for one more night of vodka at Pinnacle Square?” An image of Yakov dancing on a table while a Luxing waitress tugged at his pants leg to get him down flashed through Symeon’s head, eliciting a grin. Yak excelled in school; he would make a fine steward for any of the royal houses when the time came, but he could party with the best of them.
“I don’t know that I’d give it all back.” Yakov turned to take in the stadium, the bright sunny day, and the hundreds of graduates melting away in groups of five or ten. “But I’m sad it’s over.”
“You shouldn’t be; you’re heading for a fine house—a solid appointment.” Symeon clapped Yakov’s shoulder.
The two friends had rarely spoken of their future during the five years they had lived and studied together. Happenstance had thrust them together as roommates back in the ancient, dim time known as year one. Or, perhaps it hadn’t been chance at all. Symeon belonged to House Rurikid, Yakov to House Vasilyevich. In all the star system known as Phoenix, no two houses detested one another more. Given the chance, the grand dukes of both duchies would gladly swim through a lake of broken glass for the privilege of killing the other. Symeon had often entertained the idea that the school’s administrators had paired him with Yakov to test their patience. If so, no one ever admitted it. Perhaps out of embarrassment? To everyone’s surprise, Symeon included, he and Yakov got on like old chums from the day they met.
“A good house, yes, but I’m not so sure about the appointment.” Yakov shook his head and feigned an all-over shiver. By tomorrow night, he would begin his duties as third secretary administrator serving Count Vasili Feodorovich’s fourth son on the other side of the planet—not what one would call a prestigious position.
“At least you’re not going back to a farm,” Symeon said.
“And what, I might ask, is wrong with a farm?”
Symeon spun around so fast he almost made himself dizzy. His adoptive father, Ologav Brashniev, stood behind him, arms outstretched, a toothy grin splitting his face.
“Papa!” Symeon rushed into his father’s embrace the way he had as a young boy and hugged the man for all his worth.
Symeon’s adoptive mother, Varvara Oskenskya , slapped playfully at Ologav’s shoulder until he moved aside so she too could hug their son. Her tears felt cool on Symeon’s cheeks.
“What are you two doing here?” Symeon looked back and forth between them. Few Luxing parents got to see their son’s graduation. Most houses wouldn’t dream of doing without their servants for something so trivial. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“We have news!” Varvara Oskenskya trilled like a little girl with a juicy secret. She pinched Symeon’s cheeks with both hands the way she had when he was six, which he endured with good grace. He thought he had missed his parents during his schooling, but seeing them brought his homesickness into sharp relief.
“What news?”
“Hello, Yakov.” Ologav purposefully ignored the question to push past Symeon and shake Yak’s hand heartily.
“Mr. Brashniev. It is good to finally meet you in the flesh. You’re much taller outside a holo tank.”
Ologav’s laugh made several people turn and stare, not that he would notice. “And much fatter too!” He turned a sly gaze on Symeon, and whispered loud enough for all within a ten-meter circle to hear. “The boy never could stand a secret. He would always try to sneak downstairs early on New World day for a peek at his presents. Has that changed in five years?”
Yakov laughed in true merriment. “No, sir! Not one iota!”
Symeon made a sour face, playing along with the game—or so he told himself. Deep down, he really did want to know what was happening. How the hell had his parents gotten permission to travel half the continent to see him when he was due to return home tomorrow night?
“Don’t leave the young man in suspense too long,” said a deep, resonant voice behind Symeon. “He is liable to burst.”
Ivan rab Rurikid, First Seneschal to Grand Duke Alexei Rurikid, nodded at Symeon who stared back, agog.
All the blood in his body seemed to set Symeon’s face afire. He bowed deeply to the august high servant. “Seneschal, you honor me with your presence.”
His parents and Yakov did likewise, though Ologav and Varvara Oskenskya were grinning as they bowed.
Symeon had expected some unimportant administrator to escort him back to his master’s holdings on the District Two farms in the out-of-the way province known as Gorinich. He had not expected the lord steward of the most powerful Grand Duke in the Shorvexan peerage to turn up. This man, in his master’s stead, commanded the largest economy in the entire system, not to mention its military forces, at least in matters of logistics. His presence sent a thundering shudder through Symeon.
“How could I let a young man following in my wake go unremarked?”
“In your wake? Sir, I cannot dream that big.”
“Good,” Ivan said. “Dreams don’t make reality. Hard work does that.”
Symeon inclined his head, thrilled that so great a man deigned impart wisdom to him, a lowly steward on the brink of his service. “I will remember that.”
“Excellent, because you’ve already proven it.” Ivan gestured at the gold and azure chords draped over Symeon’s shoulders. “Advanced computer science, advanced mathematics, achievement in the war college, the school of finance, and administration. You’ve proven your work ethic already, young man.”
“And he trounced every opponent he faced on the boxing team, Seneschal,” Yakov said, pride in his voice.
Ivan nodded, his full lips pursed. “I know you planned to return home to our master’s farms this year, but I’m afraid we cannot allow such a talent as yours to waste away in some backwater.”
Symeon knew he should feel immense pride both in Ivan rab Rurikid’s praise and whatever pronouncement he was leading up to, but the man’s choice of words made his jaw tighten. Most Luxing considered farm work the domain of talentless, low intelligence servants, but Symeon didn’t think of his parents that way. Ologav and Varvara Oskenskya had spent their lives coaxing profits from their master’s land. Anyone who couldn’t see the value and honor in such work was a fool.
Before he could prove himself an even bigger fool by saying something untoward, Symeon bit the inside of his cheek, an old trick he had taught himself during long harangues put on by his professors. The slight pain helped him refocus his thoughts. Obviously, Ivan rab Rurikid meant no offense by his minor slight toward the farm and Symeon’s parents. For their part, they appeared completely unfazed, beaming at the seneschal and hanging on his every word.
“I am pleased to inform you, young Symeon Brashniev, that you have been appointed the office of seneschal and will serve our master’s daughter, Princess Kavya Rurikid.”
Symeon’s knees went weak, and all the air hissed out of his lungs as if he had taken an uppercut to the solar plexus. “Sir...is this a joke?”
Ivan grew serious, his dark eyes boring into Symeon like twin drills. “It is anything but a joke, young man. The work of a seneschal is deadly serious at all times. I will expect the utmost diligence on your part in serving Her Highness despite your relative youth.”
Realizing his breech of etiquette, Symeon bowed deeply, eyes on the ground. “Forgive me, sir. I am overwhelmed.”
The older man took Symeon by the shoulders to push him upright. “And that is why the grand duke and I have chosen you for this duty. We have watched you progress through your studies with eagerness. Show the princess that same diligence, and you will bring honor to our choice.”
“Thank you, sir.” Symeon’s tongue felt like a lump of soggy wood in his mouth. He couldn’t have spoken more if he tried.
His mother, having restrained her mirth for as long as she could bare, wrapped her arms about Symeon with a squeal of delight. “It’s why the Seneschal let us visit! You’re off to the tropics to take your position, and we won’t see you for—” She halted, still
hugging him close, and sniffed loudly. “Who knows when we’ll see you again, my dear sweet boy?”
Ologav waited until Varvara Oskenskya reluctantly released Symeon to shake his hand in a farmer’s steel grip. The old man’s eyes glistened, but he somehow kept his tears from falling. “We will see you again, son. And when we do, you’ll be seneschal to our princess. I couldn’t be prouder.”
“A full steward on your first assignment?” Yakov didn’t bother trying to hide his jealousy. He punched Symeon’s shoulder. “And here you were playing up my appointment.”
Symeon wondered at how his world had changed in the passing of one moment to the next—how a few words uttered by Ivan rab Rurikid could so alter his destiny he no longer recognized it as his own.
“I don’t know what to say.” Symeon held onto his father for support.
“You say yes!” Varvara Oskenskya shouted in delight. “You say, ‘How soon are we leaving, Seneschal?’”
Symeon watched her, smiling, though his mind whirled with too many thoughts to reconcile. He should feel elated at this news, and for certain he did, yet a question gnawed at the back of his mind—a question he knew he shouldn’t entertain though he felt powerless to banish it.
Why him?
Ivan’s excuse that Symeon had excelled in the School of Seneschals bore weight, but could it uphold a mountain of protocol and tradition? No graduate fresh from his studies had ever attained so high a position. What was Ivan and, for that matter, the grand duke, hiding about this appointment? Had they some agenda they intended to keep from Symeon under the cloud of his awe and honor at being chosen?
Symeon knew they must. Men like the seneschal never played at any one strategy. No matter how sincere this gesture, it would come with magnets as the old saying went—sticking points that might well crush the unwary.
Not that any of that mattered. Symeon could no more refuse his master’s call than a planet could ignore the pull of its mother star. That left him but a single choice: follow Ivan’s orders, but travel with his head up, his eyes open.
To do otherwise might spell death.
Symeon shook his head as if he could swirl away the dissenting thought. Death? He was letting his fears get the best of him. Shorvexan masters didn’t kill their servants. They might chastise them when wayward Luxing ignored orders, but such punishments were only the servant’s due. With thoughts like these swirling in his head, Symeon wondered that he didn’t deserve a bit of chastisement.
“My Lord Seneschal,” Symeon said, mustering all the solemnity and obeisance he could manage. “I would be honored to serve Princess Kavya in whatever capacity you deem fit.”
Ivan smiled, his dark eyes folded to slits. “And serve you shall, my boy.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3
The next day found Symeon hurtling across the continent aboard Ivan rab Rurikid’s private yacht. Though the ship was capable of transiting the system, this trip required only a high altitude lift to cross half the planet and reach the eastern seaboard. Symeon had never been on a spacecraft of any kind. He had taken a speed train from the farms of the Gorinich district to the city of Borisyanivar for school where he had spent five years within the confines of that city. Watching the curvature of Phoenix unfold beneath him outside the viewing glass made his heart sing. The pilot, an untitled Shorvexan man named Fedor, allowed him to sit up front in the copilot’s chair. Symeon leaned forward, eyes wide, as the land below quickly gave way to blue ocean, and they began their descent.
“How much longer?” Ivan asked from his seat at the back of the cabin.
“Ten minutes, sir.” Fedor keyed the command panel to begin the landing cycle, while Symeon marveled at hearing a Shorvexan address a Luxing, even a seneschal, as sir. The yacht shuddered a bit as their angle toward the planet’s prevailing winds changed, but the ride remained impressively smooth.
A large island soon appeared in the view screen. Covered in luscious trees, many of them fruit bearing, and wreathed with natural springs and rivulets, Yaya Island rose from the water like a jade ornament. Few signs of habitation marred its wild beauty, though Symeon immediately spotted the white-walled castle situated atop its highest hill. Dotted with multi-colored domed towers and flying pennants encrusted with the black hawk of House Rurikid, the fortress struck a defiant air in an age of space flight and orbital strike weapons. Symeon doubted the structure could provide even limited protection for its occupants from basic artillery despite its formidable exterior, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Constructing this sort of anachronism, on a tropical island no less, spoke of grandeur, power, and a vast command of resources.
Never mind it was built on the backs of slave labor.
Symeon sat upright, his mouth open. Where had that thought come from? It felt as foreign in his head as teeth on a snail. But this wasn’t the first time such dangerous opinions had worried his mind. As a child, especially during his first ten years, Symeon had been plagued by monstrous images and waking dreams completely outside his control. Much of those early, rebellious thoughts he no longer recalled, only that they made of him an unruly boy who questioned every order, even those given by his Shorvexan masters.
His affliction had grown so acute, his parents had feared one of the overseers might sell him. Only after long bouts of therapy, and the threat of separation from his adoptive family, had Symeon finally succeeded in locking away his inner voice. Its entreaties to rebel eventually faded, relieving him from his years of torment.
While Symeon couldn’t be certain his odd thoughts now were the same as those which had beleaguered him as a child, he vowed to keep a close watch on his own mind. Self-mastery featured highly at the School of Seneschals. No steward determined to appropriately manage his master’s estates could hope for success without first managing his own thoughts, feelings, and desires. Should such rebellious musings threaten his inner peace again, he would pummel them to dust.
Fedor put the yacht down on an empty landing pad east of the castle. Blowing sand and jungle debris scoured the area as the ship settled on its extended legs. Several Luxing servants, who had been sheltering inside an adjacent outbuilding, hurried to take up positions at the foot of the ship’s extended ramp the instant its engines shut down. The two men and three women wore House Rurikid colors—azure, black, and gold—in various combinations. They bowed deeply as Ivan rab Rurikid descended the ramp, Symeon close on the older man’s heels.
“How was your flight, Seneschal?” asked one of the men, still bowing.
“Quick and easy.” Ivan waved a lazy hand at the servants, releasing them from their obeisance. “Symeon, this is my personal staff. I’d introduce you, but we’ll be gone before you have time to know any of them.” He turned away. “Pyaka.”
“Yes, Seneschal,” said a young woman who looked of an age with Symeon.
“See that Fedor gets a meal in him before we leave, and that my luggage is secured. We’re to attend the grand duke at 1800 tonight, and I want to get an early start for Biryusinsk.” It was a sign of Ivan’s high station that he should command the meals of a Shorvexan, even a lowly shuttle pilot.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come, Symeon.” Ivan gestured toward a sealed tube made of steel and plastic that looked odd juxtaposed on the stone castle beyond. “I have much to show you before you assume your duties.”
The climate-controlled hallway leading from the landing pad smelled of new paint and carpet. Its far end split along two paths, one leading into the castle proper, the other diverging to a flight of steps that in turn led to the castle grounds. To Symeon’s surprise, Ivan chose the steps, which deposited them on the southern side of the massive building. Here the grass grew thick along the verge of the jungle, which evidenced continual pruning else its vines and crawlers would have long ago swallowed it. Birds, amphibians, and who knew what other sorts of creatures trilled and called in the jungle’s black depths, their discordant symphony at once jarring and beautiful.
&nbs
p; “You’re wondering why I didn’t lead you immediately inside,” Ivan said as he gamely mounted a hillock in the castle’s expansive front acreage.
“I assumed you would inform me in your own good time, sir.” Symeon pawed at the sweat on his forehead. The island’s oppressive heat made him want to strip out of his black traveling robe with its thick embroidery and the hawk of House Rurikid emblazoned on the chest. Not that he could do such a thing. His days of after school swim sessions were over.
“What do you know of Princess Kavya, Symeon?”
“I won’t lie, Seneschal. I’ve heard the media reports about her, and I’ve seen the social holos.”
“You and every citizen from here to the golden shores of Bastrayavich,” Ivan said, his lips turned down at the corners.
Shorvexan news outlets suffered no shortage of tabloid stories about the rich and famous, and when it came to those two traits, few enjoyed more wealth or fame than the only daughter of the most powerful duke in the Phoenix system. Three quarters of what Symeon had seen, heard, and read about Kavya Rurikid was probably lies, but if even a small portion of it were true, the princess was a piece of work.
Rumor said she had once bought a small Luxing village in order to throw a birthday party for a friend. Hundreds of young Shorvexans had converged on the town to run amok in the streets while its citizens were forced to serve the intruders hand and foot. Within days, the former village was a ruin, its homes and shops largely destroyed. Kavya and her friends abandoned the place once the food and alcohol ran out, leaving the former citizens to deal with the consequences of their debauchery.
“I wanted the chance to speak with you in private.” Ivan turned to survey the castle. He too was sweating though he looked disinclined to remove his heavy travel cloak.
The white castle blazed in the noonday sun, almost too bright to look upon.
“Yes, sir?”
Salvage Mind (Salvage Race Book 1) Page 2
