by Blaze Ward
“Wildgraf Keller,” he said formally with a twinkle in his eyes. “Premier Indah-Rodriguez. Lord Vo. Lady Moirrey. Thank you and welcome to my home.”
“Duke Wachturm,” Jessica replied, ignoring his uniform for the moment. “We thank you for the invitation.”
He beamed down at her, some private message so at odds with how they had interacted in the past, and then turned to gesture to the door and the grand foyer visible beyond.
“Please,” he continued. “Make yourselves at home.”
Emmerich surprised her by offering his left elbow for her, but Jessica was intent on playing her role as diplomat tonight, guest, so she took it.
Soon enough, she would find up what devilry these men, these Imperials, had planned.
Then she could go through her mental files and pick out the next steps in her campaign.
Sitting down, it wasn’t as obvious, but Jessica had found the height differences amusing.
Generally, there was little physical difference between the two cultures, Aquitaine and Fribourg.
Jessica was a touch short for a female, and Moirrey tiny by any standards. Vo was half a head taller than most of the men present. It was on the Imperial side where things made her smile.
Karl VII and Emmerich Wachturm really were cast from the same mold, once you had them side by side. The Red Admiral’s hair was fully gray, while his cousin was only halfway, but Wachturm was also in better physical shape.
Crown Prince Karl Ekkehard, the oldest child of Karl VII at twenty standard years, was a close knock-off of both men, obviously Wiegand in bones and coloring and height, just as seventeen-year-old Kasimira, Casey, was. At nineteen, Princess Steffi took after her mother, a slightly-stocky, green-eyed redhead, what Jessica’s mother would have called the Irish Cousins back home. But both girls, and their mother, the Empress Ekaterina, Kati, were within a few centimeters in height of the men.
On the Wachturm side, it was no different. Duchess Freya had that same lean height, blond hair, and green eyes that ran through the noble class’s blood. Their oldest child, Lady Jeltje, was a strawberry blond who was just barely the shortest in the family. And still much taller than Jessica. Son Tiede, Commander Wachturm, was another, younger version of the Imperial House male, taking after father, uncle, and Crown Prince cousin. And Heike, Lady Henrietta Anne, could have passed herself off in public as Princess Casey fairly easily.
It was only the two outsider men that differed from the Imperial family. Jeltje’s husband, Commander Carsten Voight, was nearly as tall as Vo, but a pencil of a man, rather than a mountain, and both bright and charming, just from the little she had been near enough to hear him speak. Lt. Commander Bernard Hourani, Heike’s fiancé, was average in height, possibly the shortest man here, and much darker than average in complexion, looking more like her or Desianna that way. He was also calmly poised and sure of himself, as well as extremely intelligent. He would be a welcome addition to the family.
The Red Admiral had made that much abundantly clear.
And now they were seated at the long table, watching the stewards clear dessert. Dinner had been a smashing success in five courses: salad, small plate, soup, another small plate, dessert.
From her spot at Wachturm’s right hand, the dynamics had been interesting to watch. The Red Admiral at the head of the table as host, with Freya at the far end facing him. Jessica to the first right, with Princess Casey next to her and Moirrey beyond that. Vo across from Jessica and then the Crown Prince across from his youngest sister. The rest of the table was a touch more random, except for the Emperor seated at Freya’s left, mirroring Jessica’s spot next to Emmerich Wachturm.
The conversation had been polite and rather vague up until now. Inane chatter, although Casey had asked a number of pointed questions, especially when she happened to discover that Jessica had two pilots, Rocket Frog and Neon Pink, who were her own age and flying Starfighters for a living.
Everything changed when Emmerich Wachturm picked up his wine glass and held it in the air in one mountain-steady hand, eyes ranging the whole table before coming to rest on Jessica’s.
Everyone scrambled to find their glasses and raise them as well.
“I am reminded,” Wachturm began with a distant, heavy tone, ominous if one was not paying close attention. “Of a dinner held at Callumnia, many years ago.”
Jessica remembered that night. Desianna would as well. The war between the two of them had become personal, then and there. Worlds would suffer for it.
Had.
As had many men and women along the way.
Jessica kept her smile neutral and expectant. Pleasant. Polite.
None of the sea of raging emotions that she might have shown now. She had found Daneel then, and lost him, partly as a result of this man. Stopped the Red Admiral from killing the Republic’s past and future in Suvi, even at the cost of Alexandria Station. Gotten even with him at Thuringwell.
Yes, their personal war went deep.
She wondered if Emmerich Wachturm had any idea.
“We spoke of differences that night,” the Red Admiral continued in a lighter voice, almost lyrical. “Founding Myths. Things that separated Aquitaine from Fribourg. I have made many mistakes in my life, but thinking we were all that different was probably my greatest. In the end, we all want the same things: life, love, family, friends.”
His eyes seemed to bore into hers now. Piercing.
Demanding.
Jessica breathed shallowly through her nose, keeping her own glass steady as she let the moment build.
Wachturm surprised her by breaking the rope of mad energy that flowed between them and turning to the Crown Prince, seated to his left. That young man obviously felt the weight of that tremendous stare, but he didn’t flinch under it.
“My friends,” the Red Admiral concluded. “I give you the Peace between our nations. May it be long and fruitful, and both sides keep finding excuses to extend it beyond our lifetimes.”
Jessica was glad she had enough breath in her to drink with the rest of the table. The shock would have prevented her, otherwise.
Emmerich Wachturm was either the greatest poker player ever born, or those were truly heartfelt words. Was it even possible that their war could fade away?
Could there be peace?
What would Jessica Keller do with the rest of her life?
CHAPTER XXIX
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/010/12. IMPERIAL PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
It had been Mother’s idea, originally.
Casey distinctly remembered bristling at the order, even if it was phrased as a mere suggestion. But even a Princess Imperial did not brook the Empress. At least, not without a better reason than had availed itself at the time.
So Casey found herself seated on her favorite patio, overlooking the duck pond, having a light lunch with her sister.
She would have been hard pressed to identify two people more dissimilar in the extended clan, than she and Steffi. Herself the artist, Steffi the ever-practical scholar. She might even go so far as to call her a small-dreamer. Boring. But Steffi would live a happy, simple life as a result.
More than Casey could claim.
Still, this was her sister. The least she could do was listen, and not sigh or roll her eyes. Much.
“It will never work, you know,” Steffi announced as she glanced over, breaking the silence that had accumulated around their salads.
So much for that idea.
“What won’t?” Casey replied, trying desperately to sound adult and not let her own tones of teenage peevishness color the conversation.
“Keller,” Steffi said, munching gracefully.
Casey had never met anyone who could be as dainty and lady-like while eating, even so far as to carry on a conversation.
Casey settled for putting down her fork and swallowing.
“Could you please be a little more vague, dear sister?” Casey sarcastically half-growled. “I’m likely to start understandi
ng you soon at this rate.”
It was an old argument. Two people speaking the same language, and not even speaking remotely coherently at one another.
Steffi actually smiled at that, a rare occurrence in someone so serious so young.
And what does that make you, oh artist princess?
“I watched you at the dinner at Uncle Em’s, littlest one,” Steffi replied. “More importantly, I listened, which is more than anyone else did.”
“Em was listening,” Casey fired back defensively, still unsure where her sister was headed.
“He still thinks you’re twelve and going to grow up to be a proper, little waif of a girl,” Steffi said. “I know better.”
“So, oh grand oracle,” Casey said in a semi-mocking voice. “What am I?”
“A revolutionary,” Steffi said with a serious smile, cutting Casey to the fine. “A dangerous, underhanded rebel, intent on tearing down all of Imperial society and turning us into Aquitaine when nobody is looking.”
Casey felt her eyes threaten to swell out of her head, like the dog-wolf in her favorite cartoon. She started to say something, anything to deny her sister’s words, but there were none.
How do you dispute the honest truth?
Casey barely managed a weak sputter in response, but Steffi softened her glare into a smile.
“It will never work,” Steffi repeated with indomitable finality.
“I have to try,” Casey finally managed to whisper, her heart and mind racing. “If nobody is willing to push against those walls, then life turns into nothing so grand as a cattle chute with the butcher quietly waiting at the end.”
“I know,” Steffi said. “Mother and I talked about this afterwards. About you.”
Casey’s blood went cold. She was sure her face went white as well. This felt remarkably dangerous, all the more so because Steffi was always practical. Even as a child, she had held no poetry in her soul.
“And?” Casey squeaked.
“I suggested they find you a foreign husband,” Steffi’s voice was like a river slowly rising over its banks, inexorably coming closer as Casey’s island of stability, of sanity, shrank. “Aquitaine, or someplace similar. A man who would appreciate his dangerously-open-minded wife in ways no Imperial nobleman could possibly envision. I can just see you, in disguise, being arrested somewhere in the middle of a Chartist protest.”
When had her sister gotten so smart, so cagey? Or what were her minders whispering on to others? That was eerily prescient.
Casey made a note to pay closer attention to the words coming out of her mouth in the future, lest the wrong players draw dangerous conclusions.
Even accurate ones.
“Oh?” Casey replied, unconvincingly trying to shrug Steffi’s words off.
“It was that, or watch the scandal unfold when you ran away to find your own life, your own destiny,” Steffi plowed on.
Casey reached for a glass of water for her suddenly-dry mouth. Words eluded her, the young woman who wrote poetry and music as naturally as she breathed.
Just hollow, fearful emptiness.
How long did she have before Father and Mother took their older daughter seriously and put the youngest in a gilded cage?
“You’re safe, you know?” Steffi’s voice softened abruptly. “Father also sees you as twelve, and both Ekke and I will have to be married off before anyone tries to solve the Bohemian.”
Steffi’s smile returned, warmer, like it had been when Casey was much younger and had a nightmare her sister could comfort away.
“Unless you have your heart set on becoming an Ambassador somewhere. Or a pirate captain,” Steffi teased.
“It would never work, you know,” Casey fired back in panicked relief.
“That’s what I said,” Steffi giggled lightly. “Although I know a Pirate Queen who might offer you asylum in extremis.”
Casey’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. Saša and Asra Binici. Rocket Frog and Neon Pink. Starfighter pilots, no older than she was.
Free.
Casey suddenly bitterly resented not being a sixth, or even seventh child.
Until Ekke had a family of his own, she was third in succession. The ugly shrews of the Imperial Court wouldn’t stand for her stepping any further out of line than she had managed to date, even as those walls slowly began to push back harder against her.
Those high, brick walls around the Gardens would only protect her for so long.
Even the rose hadn’t managed to escape.
Could she really leave everything Fribourg and convince Father to make her a diplomat? Aquitaine would certainly welcome her as such. Two birds, one stone?
Or was she better off staying right here, in Werder, spending the next several decades railing against the world? Would anyone listen?
“There are days I would like to hate you,” Casey said finally.
“I know,” Steffi replied breezily. “But I will be happy in a much smaller garden than you will, Casey. I’m not sure you will ever actually be allowed to be happy. That would be a shame. And a waste.”
Casey refused the tears that threatened. Who was this strange creature across the table from her, and what had happened to the boringly-normal girl she had fought with for so many years?
Casey choked down another mouthful of water, rather than speaking.
What was there to say at this point? She could have her dreams, her flights of fancy, but they would never turn into the prince that would whisk her away from all this.
She was probably better off stowing away on a tramp freighter.
Or buying one and turning herself into a pirate.
Every girl needed to dream.
CHAPTER XXX
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC OCTOBER 16, 398 DOCKSIDE DISTRICT, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
By now, Vo had gotten the rhythm of his new mates.
He was a Colonel of the Regiment, however honorary and undeserved, but the men treated him as the real thing, this team of veteran enlisted troopers, friends, intent on showing their new mate, their new commander, the finest attractions that a true officer and nobleman would miss, in some of the seedier bars and establishments, in the wrong parts of town.
On the other hand, Vo had met exactly two men taller than himself in the last month. And four that might be strong enough to wrestle with, of the scores and hundreds his wanders on the docks of St. Legier had covered.
That size, combined with his uniform and the little, gold lapel pin proclaiming him an Imperial Ritter of the Household, guaranteed the best service, anywhere he went, though Vo had made it clear that he would not join the boys when they wanted another round at the bordellos.
He had made no stout promises to Rebekah Kim, Cohort Centurion of LVIII Armored Ala Heavy (Cataphracti): The Storm Guard. She was back with the Ninth Pohang Legion now, home and training her tankers. Hopefully, she had taken well to his letter apologizing about being unable to come visit on leave this past summer, as he had intended. The timing had been too tight, just getting to St. Legier, to do anything else.
And while it would have been nice to spend more time around her, she might be a tad too abrasive for Imperial High Society, as he was occasionally engaged by.
On the other hand, a dive like the current one would have been right up her alley, once the poor fools got over a woman being here who wasn’t a professional. And who was tough enough to take any two of them by herself.
Right now, Vo zu Arlo found himself mostly alone, tucked into a corner booth in back of a medium-sized establishment, with only Edgar Horst seated. One group of men from the 189th were tournamenting darts along the side wall with the seriousness of brain surgery. Another squad was taking turns on a badly-tuned piano, entertaining the crowd with patriotic barbershop tunes. Again, professionally serious goofballs. Others were at the bar, sipping and lying.
It was a Thursday night, and still early. The mostly-civilian crowd hadn’t really gotten warmed up yet, or even particularly here. In another three
hours, a dive like this would hold twice as many men, and a goodly collection of professional girls, cheek by jowl.
The place had that feel to it.
Vo knew the newest group of men would be trouble the moment they walked in the door.
He had spent enough time as a Security marine aboard Auberon to see the signs in a man’s stance, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
They came in like a pack of mangy coyotes, but there were still eight of them, led by a fierce bantam with a shaved pate, exotic tattoos, and scarred ears.
Vo regretted the rules that prevented him and his men from having sidearms on this planet.
The night had suddenly developed that feel.
The lead coyote locked eyes from just inside the door. Some dark fire took possession of the man’s soul a moment later.
He stalked closer.
Vo rested one hand on the table, just to confirm, but he already knew there was no way to tear the tabletop loose and use it as a weapon in a fight. Probably a design feature in a joint like this.
There were stools, but none close. The mugs were a light plastic for the same reason, with none of the usefulness of shatterable glass, nor the weight of steel mugs. Something like that would be valuable about now, as the man drew closer, his pack in close tow.
Silence seemed to trail with the men.
Seated, Vo barely had to look up at the bantam. From here, the man’s breath could have peeled paint.
“Yer in my seat, soldier boy,” the man menaced in an ugly, rough tone.
One hand rode close to a hip in a manner that suggested a blade, either in a side pocket, or up the sleeve and into his hand with a quick snap.
Horst started to reply, until Vo fixed him with a hard, silent stare that brought the man to heel like the end of a too-short stake-chain in a squirrel chase.
Vo returned his gaze to the stranger and retained his silence.
Eight on two, them standing, but unable to deploy their numbers effectively. The leader looked tough, but the others had the swagger, the giggling, of street bullies.
Vo remembered being one of those punks, fifteen years ago. Before a friendly judge sentenced him to being a marine. Before Navin the Black. Before Ballard.
