“Very well, sir. I’m told the fortifications will fall in less than a week.”
“Excellent.” Her father smiled. At his right, General Gawnt rolled his bulbous eyes, but Vania did her best to ignore it, as she did all his snide remarks and badly hidden whispers of “nepotism” and “brat.” Vania was young to be captain, and some people had a problem with that. But she didn’t know why anyone should be surprised. She had an aptitude for leadership and politics, like her father. Just because they had the same talents and went into the same line of work did not make them like the aristos, whose hereditary positions and privileges had been the bane of Galatea. It would have been wasteful of her father not to take advantage of her natural talents over some quibble about favoritism, just as it would have been wasteful of him not to utilize Justen’s scientific genius, just because his name was Helo. The revolution would never have been this successful without Justen’s contribution.
She wished Justen were here. She doubted Gawnt would be making these comments if Justen Helo were looking him in the eye.
“I heard a report that you were using unconventional methods to convince the Fords to surrender,” said another of the lieutenants. “How did that work out?”
Vania grimaced. “Unfortunately, it didn’t. We bribed the nanny to smuggle the children beyond the barricade, believing that the parents would surrender themselves for their offspring’s sake.”
“Good idea, Vania,” said her father, and she beamed.
General Gawnt cleared his throat, and Vania’s smile withered.
“Unfortunately, the nanny was a moron and lost the younger ones to the Wild Poppy.”
“The Poppy!” General Gawnt snorted. “Again?”
Vania took a deep breath. “However, there is good news. The nanny failed to retrieve the heir, so there’s no real harm done. Lord and Lady Ford will surrender eventually, and when they do, we’ll have them, the heir to the Ford estate, and their entire inner circle.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before, Vania?” her father asked.
“I handled it.” Vania clenched her hands beneath the table as all eyes turned in her direction. “The servant has been appropriately punished, only the youngest children escaped, and the siege remains on schedule.”
“Appropriately punished?” echoed Gawnt. “How?”
“Reduction, of course.”
“Did you interrogate her first?” he asked. Vania wondered whether or not the man was capable of speaking without spittle flying from his lips. “Did she give any information that might help us track down this Poppy?”
“She was an idiot!” Vania insisted. “She didn’t even need the Reduction pill, she was so stupid. She handed those children off to a random old woman who gave her counterfeit money. She knew nothing of consequence.”
“Well, we’ll never know now, will we, Captain Aldred?” Spittle, spittle.
Vania bristled, and bristled even more when her father, of all people, came to her rescue.
“The salient point here is that this Albian spy is stepping up his activities on our soil,” her father said, and all other conversation ceased. “It is time we respond with force and shut him down for good. We need to find out his identity and neutralize him.”
“Which is why an interrogation of witnesses might have been prudent,” Gawnt murmured. Louder, he said, “Is there any doubt the kind of person we’re looking for? Clearly, this is the case of an Albian aristo who is frustrated by what he feels is the utter uselessness of the child princess currently ruling their country.” He sneered in Vania’s direction.
She imagined all the instruments on the dinner table that might make a suitable weapon. How dare he liken her to Princess Isla of Albion? Some inbred, spoiled-brat, empty-headed aristo who wouldn’t even be allowed the appearance of ruling if the infant king were old enough to take the throne? They were nothing alike at all.
“Do we keep any records of what aristos have been visiting the island?” Citizen Aldred asked.
“If they pass through the Halahou docks,” said the general. “But there are plenty of unregistered moorings all over the island. It’s unlikely that the spy is going through the city unless he has to.”
“I think it’s time to go to the source,” said Vania. “The Albians are sending spies to us. Perhaps it’s time we send our own spies to their shores, find out who’s responsible for the raids. There must be gossip in the Albian court—”
“Enough, Vania,” said her father. “Just because you’re sitting at this table does not mean you can forget your rank. General Gawnt knows what he’s doing here.”
“But, Papa—”
“I said enough!” Citizen Aldred brought his hand down on the table.
Vania stared at her father, her eyes wide and unblinking. She would not cry in front of these people. Under the table, she twisted her napkin until it tore.
Gawnt proceeded to drone on, outlining his plan to ensnare the Albian spy and getting in quite a few jabs at Vania’s expense. After a while, she tuned him out. She tuned them all out. Instead, she thought of her long-ago ancestor, the military leader who’d cracked apart the Earth and killed every person he hated in one fell swoop.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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Eight
THE GALATEAN PERSIS HAD brought home to her parents strode forward and bowed to the Blakes. Persis trailed behind, concerned both about how the revolutionary Justen planned to behave and what her parents must be thinking.
“Lord and Lady Blake, thank you so much for your hospitality—”
“Not at all,” said her father. “Had my daughter truly been hospitable, you wouldn’t have spent last night in some back bedroom. I don’t know what Persis was thinking.”
Oh, that was easy. She hadn’t been. She’d been unconscious. Persis was half surprised—and fully relieved—that Justen said nothing. She was in enough trouble for bringing a boy home, Helo or otherwise.
“Papa!” she exclaimed. “Justen isn’t fancy—”
“Please,” her father continued, “we have a suite reserved for our most illustrious guests. You must take it. The king has stayed there.”
And the princess had camped out on the lanai with Persis when they were six. It was hardly hallowed ground.
“Thank you, but your ‘back bedroom,’ as you put it, is more than comfortable. It’s the finest place I’ve ever slept.”
That, Persis realized, was a lie. The Aldreds had been living in the royal palace since the queen had been deposed, which meant Justen must have been living there, too.
“Then you’re welcome to remain there,” said her mother, her voice soft as a sea breeze. She was as stunning as ever—the jewel of the Albion court, the joy of her husband’s eye. Theirs had been a romance of fairy-tale proportions: the beautiful reg who’d won the heart of the richest lord in Albion. But Persis knew the truth. Not only had the heroine of the story been beautiful, but she’d been clever and resourceful, too, and her brains had attracted the handsome hero every bit as much as her lovely face.
If you only looked, you’d think nothing had ever changed.
“Our home is yours, Citizen Helo.”
Beside her, Justen gave a tiny jolt. It wasn’t the first time Persis had noticed it. It happened whenever someone called him “Citizen.” Curious. No matter what arguments he made about the purity of his imaginary revolution, he clearly hated its reality. He hated his new title, and he’d abandoned the homeland that had given it to him. And yet there was no doubt he and his egalitarian ideals would have trouble adapting to the lifestyle of Albion. She recalled his treatment of the Seris and his disdain of her clothing and palmport. For Justen, opulence and snobbery went hand in hand.
“Mama, Papa,” Persis said, “Justen is overwhelmed by all this. You forget, he’s a proud reg.”
“Not too proud,” Justen clarifi
ed, “to accept the gracious hospitality of my new friend’s parents.” He bowed again, this time over her mother’s extended hand, and deposited a kiss on her skin. “Your home is stunning, Lady Heloise, and its beauty and good nature are eclipsed only by the people who live here. Persis and I apologize that you were not told earlier of my arrival. It was unexpected. Your daughter took ill on a trip to—on her yacht—and I was fortunate to be in the right place to offer her assistance. I decided it was my duty to watch over her until she recovered. Since then, we have become fast friends.”
Persis raised her eyebrows at him in surprise and approval. Her father was doing the same.
“We’ll make up for our earlier lack now,” her father said. “Come this way. We’ve planned a spectacular dinner. You do like tilaprawns, I hope?”
Justen nodded, and Torin dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand. They all started up the path that led back to the house. Justen walked ahead with her parents, chatting casually about the grounds, the meal, and whether or not he’d need a tailor sent over to make him more clothes for his stay. Whatever contempt he’d shown to Persis earlier, or to the Seris back at the court, seemed to have vanished completely. He was pleasant and engaged. Perhaps her little pep talk down on the boat had done some good, after all. Nice to know he’d been listening to her.
Wait, was it nice? She didn’t want him thinking she was smart enough to dispense good advice on anything more complex than matching his shoes to his shirt, after all.
They ascended the wide, shallow steps of the terrace to the main building, where Persis noted that her parents had moved the formal dining table to the outdoor lanai and arrayed it with leis of frangipani and enough orchids to overwhelm a king. She covered her smile with her hand, sure that the more they went out of their way to impress Justen, the more he’d feel out of place.
“What a beautiful table,” was what Justen said as they awaited their first course. He brushed a lei aside to examine the grain of the wood. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Hardwood like this was a rarity on the islands. Most furniture was made of polymer, stone, or bamboo. The majority of floors in Scintillans were composed of polished bamboo or crushed onyx, and the wide terraces that circled the main house like the lip of a mollusk shell were inlaid with stone in vast, undulating waves of black and red.
“It’s called cherry,” said Torin. He took a sip of his wine. “It’s a relic my family has kept from before the Reduction. There isn’t another one like it in all the islands.”
“Beautiful,” said Justen, his voice laced with proper appreciation. “I didn’t realize the aristos could take anything so … bulky … with them in their escape from the old lands.”
Persis gritted her teeth, but her father merely chuckled. “You are wondering, I suppose, if my ancestors denied a Reduced passage in order to fit the table into their cargo? I often wonder that myself. Sometimes I think it’s a relief that so many of the records of the old time have been lost. I cannot imagine I would like many of my own ancestors. If we let ourselves dwell on it too much, we’ll end up like those Peccants on your island, in a constant state of punishment to atone for humanity’s sins.”
The Peccants were a tiny monastic order on Galatea that believed New Pacificans should not be allowed to live full lives after the dire fate that befell the rest of the world. Persis could understand why the notion hadn’t ever made it to the mainstream.
“However,” her father went on, “I am comforted, some, by an ancient saying: ‘Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave had kings among his ancestors.’”
“That’s Plato,” said Justen. “I have read him.”
“Ah!” Torin clapped his hands. “Then you and Persis must have plenty to talk about.”
“Papa,” Persis said lightly, “I just had to read him in school.” No good could come of having Justen think she was up on ancient philosophy.
But Torin Blake wasn’t to be swayed. “But, Persis, you couldn’t stop talking about the classics! You made me take the Blake collection out of cryostorage so you could see them on real paper.”
She rolled her eyes for Justen’s benefit. “Three years ago,” she said, as if Torin might as well be speaking of a time before the wars.
Still, she remembered the occasion fondly. She and her parents had spent hours poring over the stiff, cryoclaimed old volumes, reading the inky words on the dry, crumbly pages. Her mother had never seen real books before, and Persis knew only the few volumes they’d kept in cryostorage at school. Persis’s favorite had been the poem about the clever, seafaring king who’d traveled around magical islands trying to find his way home to his loyal wife after winning a long, long war. Her father’s had been a scary book about an aristo medic who’d gengineered a human out of corpses and lightning and was understandably horrified by the results. Her mother’s had been the sad story about the farmhand with the Reduced brother he’d been forced to kill.
She wondered if her mother even remembered that story now.
“At any rate,” Torin was saying to their guest, “I live in hope that people will judge me for myself and not any evils that may have been wrought by my ancestors.”
Justen nodded solemnly. “I hope to be judged for myself, too, sir. But, as you see, we are both hampered. You by a heritage of aristos stretching back generations, and me by the name of Helo. If I were any simple reg who showed up at your door, I doubt you’d have prepared such a feast.”
For a moment, Lord Blake just stared at Justen, then he threw back his head and guffawed, a sound so loud that his wife startled at it. “I think I like you, young man. There aren’t many who would sit at my table and call out my own hypocrisy.”
“Spend a little more time with Justen, Papa,” said Persis. “You’ll learn needling aristos is his favorite activity.”
Justen looked scandalized. “I don’t think you’re a hypocrite, Lord Blake,” he said quickly. “You and your family have shown me nothing but kindness since my arrival in Albion. Even before. And it’s obvious that, aristo or not, you have no prejudice against regs.”
“Oh no,” said Lady Blake softly and with a wry smile. “We always like regs.”
“I wasn’t speaking solely of you, Lady Heloise. All the regs on Scintillans. I met Tero and Andrine Finch at court today, and they told me how your scholarships helped Tero get his gengineering degree. If the estates in Galatea invested in their people like you clearly do, I doubt there would have been a revolution at all.”
How Persis longed to voice a response to that declaration. But her mother was speaking again, and such an occasion had become so rare that neither Persis nor her father dared interrupt.
“I think,” said Lady Blake, “that Plato’s words are apt. The aristos of these islands enslaved the Reduced for generations. They should have been their caretakers, and instead they became their tyrants. And yet, they’re descended from the poorest and most disenfranchised of all in the old lands, which is why they never received the genetic enhancements that caused the Reduction in the first place. And it was the ancestors of the Reduced who began the wars, who destroyed the old lands. No one is innocent in the tide of history. Everyone has kings and slaves in his past. Everyone has saints and sinners. We are not to blame for the actions of our ancestors. We can only try to be the best we can, no matter what our heritage, to strive for a better future for all.”
Even, thought Persis, if we are forced to pay our forefathers’ debts.
Her father laid his hand gently on her mother’s and squeezed. She smiled, but said nothing more for the remainder of the course, as if drained by that effort. Persis, as she had been for months, filled the silence with chatter of her own, tales of the goings-on at court or Slipstream’s antics or news of the twins who had just been born in the Scintillans fishing village. Light, easy topics, suitable both for her mother’s constitution and for the impression of herself she wanted Justen to have.
As the sun set over the edge of the western cli
ff and a lavender light descended on the lawn and the terrace, Torin asked Persis to go turn on the lights. She excused herself from the table and headed inside to find the controls, and there her father intercepted her.
“Where did you really find your new friend, young lady?” She turned to find him standing at the threshold to the terrace, arms crossed over his chest. His face was in shadow, and she couldn’t tell from his voice exactly how angry he was. “And exactly how did you ‘take ill’ on your yacht?”
She mentally upgraded her assessment of her father’s state of mind from moderately annoyed to highly disappointed. “Seasickness.”
“I think not. You’ve been sailing since before you could walk, and I doubt a Galatean medic just happened to overtake you on the high seas.”
“Papa—”
“What did I say about going to Galatea? Do you have any idea what’s happening to aristos down there?”
“Yes, I do,” Persis said. She had a better idea than almost anyone else in Albion. “But, Papa, the revolutionary government has given immunity to all Albians, and the princess would never let anything happen to me—”
“Something already happened to you, to hear Justen Helo’s version of events. And you’ll forgive me if I’m not willing to trust the announced promises of a man like Damos Aldred, a rebel leader who is torturing and killing his own people, when it comes to the relative safety of my daughter.”
“Princess Isla—”
But her father cut her off. “I think we’ve done quite enough for Princess Isla around here, Persis. I know how much you love her, but you’ve already left school to become part of her official entourage or whatever nonsense you two girls are calling it. I’ll not have you risking your life or your brain to get her a few yards of silk on top of that.”
It was miracle enough that her father had let her quit school. But his mind was too full of care for her mother, and though she hadn’t made it part of her argument, she’d let him believe that her mind was too full of it, too.
Across a Star-Swept Sea Page 9
