He looked at the bed. He decided it was unlikely that he was going to get back to sleep, so he put on his shirt and trousers and civilian jacket, and the half-boots that Alikhan had polished to a mirror gleam just that morning. With proper military concern he tidied the objects that Sempronia had flung about, then went downstairs to the ground floor.
The parlor and drawing room were deserted. Perhaps everyone was in a back room discussing Sempronia’s explosion.
In the parlor Martinez poured some Laredo whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and he sipped it as he continued his search. He found Roland just outside his office, dragging a piece of furniture down the hall toward a storage room.
Martinez looked at the specialized couch that would hold two humans comfortably enough but which was better adapted to a reclining four-legged body the size of a very large dog.
“You’ve just had a visit from Naxids?” Martinez asked in surprise.
Roland looked up. “Yes. Give me a hand with this, would you?”
Martinez set down his drink on the ancient, scuffed parquet floor and helped Roland carry the couch to the storage room at the end of the hall, where it was placed with other furniture adapted to the specialized physique of the various species living under the Praxis. Then he and Roland carried a second couch from Roland’s office, after which they replaced the Terran-scaled furniture that had been taken from the office for the convenience of Roland’s guests.
“I could have the servants do this, I suppose,” Roland said, “but they’d gossip.”
Martinez got his drink from the hall, returned to Roland’s office, and made a note of the private entrance that led to the alley on one side of the palace, a discreet way for members of the empire’s most suspect species to pay confidential calls.
“Why are you seeing Naxids?” he asked.
Roland gave him an amused look. “I’m not conspiring against public order, if that’s what you suspect. These are perfectly respectable Naxids, Naxids that the conspirators never told about their rebellion, and who were as surprised about it as we were.”
Martinez sipped his drink as he considered this. “And that doesn’t make them less trustworthy?”
“I’m not trusting them. I’m just helping them do their business.” Roland, eyeing Martinez’s glass, stepped to the glass-fronted cabinet behind his desk, opened it with a key, and poured himself whiskey. “Freshen yours?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Crystal rang against crystal as the decanter touched the lip of the tumbler. “Naxids have been so cut out of the picture since the rebellion,” Roland said, “that they and their clients have really begun to suffer. All the money that’s going into military contracts and supply contracts for the Fleet—the Naxids are seeing it go right past them.”
“Good,” Martinez said.
The whiskey flooded his tongue with its peaty flavor. Roland returned the decanter to the cabin and locked it securely. “Naxids like my guests—Lord Ummir, Lady Convocate Khaa—are prepared to live under suspicion for the rest of the war,” he said. “They understand that’s inevitable, and their families have the resources to survive the downturn. But the position they’re in makes it hard for them to get business for their clients, and their clients aren’t all Naxids.”
Martinez gave a slow nod. “Ah. I see.”
Roland smiled. “We’re getting the Naxids’ clients a share of all the good things, the things they’d be getting anyway if it weren’t for their patrons’ unfortunate racial affiliation.”
“And in return?”
Roland shrugged. “We’ll turn a profit, but mainly it’s for after the war. I want to earn the Naxids’ gratitude.”
Martinez felt anger flare. “And why should we want the Naxids to be grateful to us?”
“Because after we win the war they’ll be allowed a share of power again, and that power can be turned to good use. And also…” He stepped close, and touched Martinez’s glass with his own. As the chime of the crystal faded, Roland said, “If we lose the war, their gratitude just might keep you from being executed. Not to mention the rest of us.”
Martinez, his defused anger thrashing in the void, followed his brother out of his office to the parlor, where Vipsania had begun to make cocktails.
The evening’s guest was Lord Pierre Ngeni, who arrived at the appointed hour, neat in the wine-colored uniform tunic of a lord convocate. He was a young man with a round cannonball head and a powerful jaw, and in the absence of his father represented Martinez interests in the capital.
In manner Lord Pierre was the opposite of his cousin PJ, being businesslike and a bit brusque. “I’ve been speaking with people in hopes of getting you an appointment,” he told Martinez. “I’ve prepared the ground. Tomorrow’s announcement will provide some impetus. And if necessary”—he looked uncomfortable—“I can raise the matter in open Convocation. The Control Board declining to give the Fleet’s most decorated captain a meaningful posting should be a matter for discussion.”
Though you’d hate to be the one who sticks his neck out by bringing it up, Martinez read.
“With any luck it won’t come to that,” Roland said. He turned to Martinez. “One of the members of the board is very much with us on this matter. Tomorrow’s announcement should give his arguments some extra weight.”
And that was all that Lord Pierre and Roland had to say concerning Martinez’s plight. They had much to say about other business, though—it appeared there were many other schemes afoot, contracts to be awarded, leases to be signed, delivery dates to be met. Vipsania and Walpurga arrived as Roland and Lord Pierre began to get into details, and seemed as familiar with the subjects as Roland. Martinez was surprised by it all, and a little bewildered—I wonder if Lord Pierre knows about Lady Khaa and Lord Ummir.
If he did, Martinez concluded gloomily, he’d probably be far from outraged, just demand a share of the spoils.
That was how it seemed to work.
SIX
Sula walked to Martinez amid the throng in the Shelley Palace and watched his eyes go wide as she offered him her congratulations.
“I’ve never seen you out of uniform,” he said as he took her hand.
Clattering in her blood was the anxiety that drew her smile taut. “I thought I’d give you a surprise.”
“I hope it won’t be the last surprise you’ll give me tonight.” He put her arm in his and drew her toward the refreshments.
Sula had worn a uniform all those years because she hadn’t been able to afford to do otherwise. To compete with the women of the Peer class, each raised from the cradle in obedience to laws of beauty, of fashion, and of courtesy, with wardrobes that changed every season to conform with rules that were understood but were never written down…her allowance would never have permitted it, and in any case the idea was too daunting. The danger of making a mistake was always present, and fortunately a uniform was always correct attire for Fleet personnel.
Once she’d been at the center of a kind of whirlwind of modish style. She’d had a lover—a linkboy, the sort of person described in melodramas as a “crime lord,” though of a minor kind—and he’d enjoyed dressing her in the most outrageous and expensive stuff he could find. He’d bought a new outfit every few days, and her closets overflowed with clothing. She’d given a lot of it away to her friends just to make room for the new. And then another person had come into her life—a person she didn’t want to think about—who also enjoyed dressing her. She’d abandoned almost all of the clothing when she became Lady Sula and left Spannan for the service academy, and since then confined herself to Fleet-approved uniforms.
The binges in the boutiques of Spannan would in any case have been of little use on Zanshaa. The clothing here was richer, more expensive, and worn in accordance with a different notion of style.
For the evening she had purchased a black dress of the kind described as “timeless.” She dearly hoped that was the case, since by the time she’d added shoes and a matching ja
cket she was scandalized to discover she’d spent a little over one-twentieth of her entire fortune. At this rate her simple black dress was going to have to last a good many years.
Certainly it didn’t compete with the peacock colors she saw about her, the ruffles and flounces and brocade. Fashion was going through an ornate phase, perhaps in defiance of the grim standards of war. Even the Torminel, who were heavily furred and wore little clothing in order not to fall to heatstroke, sported vests and shorts heavily encrusted with beadwork and gems.
She should have looked out of place, but she’d received several compliments on her appearance from people since she’d arrived, some of them from people who had no motive for pleasing her.
And the look on Martinez’s face when he’d first seen her had been priceless.
“Are those beads porcelain?” Martinez asked, his gaze straying to her neck.
She tilted her head to let him see them. “Blown glass.” Layered with brilliant color, each bead an individual, swirling masterpiece of art, and inexpensive compared to the rest of her turnout.
“Very nice.” His nostrils flared, just a little. “And is Sandama Twilight another part of tonight’s ensemble?”
“It is.”
He smiled happily. “I’m so pleased you could attend my party, Lady Sula.”
She gave a formal nod in acknowledgment and felt the tension flutter in her chest like a caged bird. “I’m pleased to be here,” she said.
For the party, pocket doors had been rolled into the walls, turning two parlors, a drawing room, and a formal dining room into one long reception room. Martinez took her the length of the room to the buffet and offered to fill a plate for her. Sula was too nervous to have an appetite, but she managed to swallow a pair of the little bow tie–shaped pastries.
Do not destroy this night, she told herself. Remember that this one actually likes you. Remember that he’s giving you a second chance after you wrecked the last one.
Martinez brought her sparkling mineral water.
“I laid in a stock of this just for you,” he said as he poured from the violet-colored bottle.
“You think of everything.”
“Yes.” A tight little self-congratulatory smile. “I do.”
Martinez wore the viridian dress uniform of the Fleet. At his throat was the badge of the Golden Orb, a circular sun disk on a gold-and-black ribbon, which he wore instead of carrying the heavy baton. His two decorations sparkled on his chest, the Medal of Merit First Class, for his part in rescuing Captain Blitsharts, and the Nebula Medal with Diamonds, for the Battle of Hone-bar.
She had watched Lord Chen pin the latter on his tunic that morning. Lord Tork, the chairman of the Control Board who had presented to Sula her own medal, had not been present, and neither had any of the other board members. She presumed they were occupied with urgent meetings concerning their fellow board member Lady San-torath, who had been arrested the previous night on charges that she had conspired to suppress information concerning enemy movements at Hone-bar. She had been subjected to a midnight trial before a judge of the High Court, and sentenced to die at the exact moment at which Martinez was being decorated.
Die screaming. Sula remembered the satisfaction in Lord Ivan Snow’s voice when they met two days before. He had already known what San-torath’s fate would be—to have her fragile, hollow arms and legs broken with steel bars, after which her limbs were amputated with a special hydraulically operated cutting tool and the still-living torso thrown off the acropolis from a site near the great granite dome of the Great Refuge. The new laws specified being flung from a height as the punishment for treason, in imitation of the Naxid convocates who had been thrown off the terrace of the Convocation after proclaiming the rebellion. Executions were no longer performed on the terrace, presumably because it might put the Lords Convocate off their feed, and the Shaa who had once inhabited the Great Refuge were dead, and could hardly object.
The news of the conspiracy, released that morning, also gloated over the fate of the conspirators captured at Hone-bar, who were thrown from a greater height—they were to be stuffed into vacuum suits and hurled with some force from Hone-bar’s accelerator ring. Their air supplies had been carefully calculated: they were to burn alive in the atmosphere before they could suffocate. It would take a little over three days for the video images to reach Zanshaa, after which they would be broadcast repeatedly on the news programs and on the channel reserved for punishments.
All very imaginative, Sula thought. If only the imagination applied to torture and executions had been applied to the running of the war.
Sula stood with Martinez’s family on the gallery overlooking the Hall of Ceremony, and applauded as Lord Chen took Martinez’s hand and murmured some carefully chosen words while a pair of aides strapped on Martinez’s new captain’s shoulder boards. After which Dalkeith, Martinez’s premiere, received the Medal of Merit Second Class, and her step to lieutenant-captain. Other officers likewise received recognition or promotion.
Quite a number of Corona’s crew turned up for the ceremony. There was a little blond lieutenant, very young, a half-dozen cadets, and a number of senior petty officers with truly magnificent mustachios. Sula noticed that Lieutenant Captain Kamarullah, who had wrested command of the squadron from Martinez, was not present and was not receiving awards. Also absent, more oddly, was Lady Sempronia Martinez.
While Fleet officers were receiving their promotions and while conspirators died in pain and terror, on his flagship in orbit around Zanshaa’s primary the official victor of Hone-bar, Do-faq, was decorated and jumped two grades to senior squadron commander. Various of his officers were likewise honored. The whole circus, trials and deaths and glittering medals, had been carefully staged to maximize the value of the news to the government. With the video of Do-faq’s promotion coming in from five light-hours away, and the video of the executions on Hone-bar coming in three days, the honors of the righteous and the degradation of the corrupt would occupy public attention for some time to come.
Sula reached a hand to Martinez’s chest and adjusted the sparkling new decoration. “It looks good on you,” she said.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Martinez said, pleased. He took her hand, and his expression changed. “Your hand is cold,” he said.
“Yes. I’m—” She took a breath. “Very nervous.”
Concern entered his face, and again he put her arm in his and walked away with her, toward the hall. “Let me take you to a place where we can be private,” he said, and then he looked at her. “Unless that would make you more nervous rather than less.”
“I think…I’ll be fine, whatever you decide.”
She had decided to surrender to the man with more experience. Martinez adopted an air of firm authority that kept others from approaching him while he marched off with Sula. Suddenly she could imagine what Martinez had been like in command of Corona—incisive, intense, and very stern. He led her out of the reception room, then down a hall, through a parlor, and through another hall to a small room, quietly furnished.
“Roland’s office,” Martinez said. With the back of his knuckles he brushed the walnut desk’s gold inlay and silent inset, the access to the palace’s various cyber systems, then he sat on the edge of the desk, took her mineral water from her hand and placed it on the table. Drew her to him. She could feel the warmth of his body on her bare shoulders and face.
“Will it help the nervousness if I just kiss you now?” he asked.
An anxious titter escaped her lips. “It wouldn’t hurt,” she said.
He drew her closer and touched her lips with his lips. They were pliant and not too insistent, both qualities that she appreciated. Her jangled nerves began to ease.
Martinez drew back. “I’m beginning to see what’s so special about twilight on Sandama,” he said.
She barked another nervous laugh. The brown eyes beneath his heavy brows were half veiled, frankly appraising, but somehow appraising without the
insolence she saw in the eyes of other men. A nice trick, she thought.
“You are the most beautiful thing here tonight,” he said, breath warming her cheek. “And I’m the luckiest man in the empire—which you once pointed out to me, I remember.”
Sula felt herself flushing. She looked at her feet. “I never know what to say at these moments,” she said.
“You could try working up some praise of my looks,” Martinez said, “but if the insincerity would be too challenging, you could just say ‘thank you’ and blush as prettily as you’re doing now.”
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice.
He folded her in his arms and kissed her again. Her skin seemed to blaze with heat. On sudden impulse she cradled his head in her hands and drove her kiss against his, and felt his surprise and pleased response. Fire scorched her veins. He gasped free of the kiss and buried his head at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and Sula felt a shudder run up her spine at the touch of his lips in the hollow of her shoulder, just above the subclavian artery with its pulsing blood. She ran her hands through his wavy brown hair.
He gasped again, then drew back and looked at her. “There’s a private door in this room,” he said. His voice was urgent and feverish. “Let’s leave the party and go somewhere. We don’t have to go to that famous bed of yours, not if you’re not at ease, but for all’s sake, let’s get away and be together. Anywhere you like.”
She looked at him in dawning surprise. “I can’t take you away from your party. You’re the guest of honor.”
“If it’s my party, I can leave anytime I want.” He began to kiss her throat again, and she gave another shudder and held him there against him for a long moment. Then she placed her palm against his chest and firmly pushed him away.
“No,” she said. “You’re not going to be rude to your guests.”
“They’re not my guests!” Martinez protested. “They’re Roland’s guests! And Walpurga’s guests, and Vipsania’s! I hardly know any of these people.”
The Sundering Page 16
