by David Weber
“You were saying?” he said, then noticed her slight smile. “What?”
“Nothing,” his former tutor said. “I was talking about universality. It’s not quite a given that fops aren’t to be trusted, but rulers who pay more attention to their wardrobes than their subjects have a habit of coming to bad ends.”
“Did you have anyone in mind?” Roger asked coldly.
“Oh,” O’Casey chuckled, “that wasn’t directed at you, Roger. Although, at one time it might have been,” she added pensively. “But, frankly, son, there’s not much of the peacock left in you.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Roger gave her a wry smile now that he realized the comment wasn’t directed at him. “I’m definitely looking forward to getting back into some civilized clothing.”
“That’s fair.” O’Casey looked down at her own stained uniform. “So am I. But I wasn’t speaking of you. I was actually thinking of Ceasare Borgia and your father.”
“Now that’s a comparison you don’t often hear,” Roger said tightly.
“Perhaps you don’t,” O’Casey acknowledged, “but before I was your tutor, I used it frequently in lectures. I suspect that was one of the reasons I was assigned to you in the first place. That and the follow-through, which is that, frankly, it’s an insult to the Borgias. They never would’ve screwed up their plot the way New Madrid did.”
“You know the whole story?” Roger asked in an odd voice. “I never realized that.”
“I’m sorry, Roger,” O’Casey said sadly. “I’m surprised you weren’t aware of how widely it’s studied. I only learned the details after becoming your tutor, of course, but the broad outline is used in political courses as a case study. It’s right up there with the takeover of the Solarian Union by the Dagger Lords.”
“Really?” Roger’s eyes were wide. “Well, you never discussed it with me!”
“It’s a sensitive subject, Roger.” His chief of staff shrugged. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, and I felt that you must have already learned any lessons it could teach long before I was named your tutor.”
“Really,” Roger repeated, sarcastically, this time, and leaned one elbow on the table and fixed her with a glare. “That’s just absolutely fascinating, Eleanora, because I have never known what it was that got my father exiled from Court, which makes it rather difficult to learn anything from it, wouldn’t you say?” He let out an exasperated hiss and shook his head. “I’m so glad that you were respectful of my feelings, teacher!”
“But . . .” O’Casey stared at him, her face white. “But what about your mother? Or Professor Earl?”
“Ms. O’Casey,” Roger snarled, “I don’t remember my mother from when I was a young child at all. Only a succession of nurses. From the time I started to know who she was, I have a general impression of seeing her—oh, once a week or so, whether I really needed to see her or not. She would comment on the reports from my tutors and nannies and tell me to be a good boy. I saw John and Alexa more than I ever saw my mother! And as for Professor Earl, I asked him once—just once—about my father. He told me to ask my mother when I was older.” Roger shook his head. “The good doctor was a fair tutor, but he was never very good with the personal stuff.”
It was O’Casey’s turn to shake her head, and she pulled at a lock of hair.
“I’m sorry, Roger. I just assumed—Hell, everybody probably assumed.” She grimaced in exasperation, then inhaled sharply.
“Okay. Where do you want me to begin?”
“Well,” Roger said with a smile, “I had this tutor once who was always telling me—”
“To start at the beginning, and go through to the end,” she finished with an answering smile. “This will take a long time, though,” she said more seriously, and Roger gestured around the room.
“You may not have noticed, but I’ve got all night.”
“Hmph. Okay, let me think about how to begin.”
She gazed into an unseen distance for several seconds, then made a little moue of annoyance which was clearly directed at herself.
“You know, I never really covered recent history with you too well, did I? I just let that little detail slide. Renaissance or Byzantine politics, yes, but not what was going on right under your nose. Of course,” she flashed a quick grin, “most of the time it was stuck so far up you’d never have noticed anyway.”
“True, unfortunately.” Roger chuckled ruefully. “But I have to get the story.”
“New Madrid,” she said, nodding. “As you know, there were few major military actions during your grandfather’s reign. This is sometimes pointed at as an indication that he was a great emperor, but what was actually happening was that your grandfather was almost completely ineffectual. The Fleet and Marines were being slashed to the bone, and we lost several border systems to treaties we accepted out of weakness—or disinterest—or small actions that never got much press coverage back home. There weren’t any major actions because no one was drawing any lines to stop the gradual erosion of the frontiers. And while they were crumbling, the Empire was self-destructing internally with plots and counterplots.
“New Madrid was part of that action, but not as a central player.” She sighed and looked at the prince in the glow from the camp light. “Roger, you got almost all your brains from your mother, thank God. If you’d gotten your mother’s looks and your father’s brains, you would have been shit out of luck.”
“That bad?” he asked with a chuckle. “He’s as smart as Mom is good-looking?”
“Say rather that he’s as good-looking as your mother is smart. Which is where you come in.”
“What a line!” he observed.
“John Gaston, John and Alexa’s father, died, as you know, in a light-flier accident. The Duke of New Madrid was part of the Court at that time, fairly recently arrived. He was, and is, a gorgeous man, and quite the ladies’ man, as well. However, he was very circumspect at Court. He and your mother struck up an acquaintance shortly after the death of Count Gaston, and the acquaintance slowly changed to . . . um . . .”
“Me,” Roger said with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, the ‘proto’ you. Empress Alexandra—Heir Apparent, at that time—might have been having a hard time, but she was no fool. She was more or less swept off her feet, which is why she wasn’t on a contraceptive, but she landed back on them quickly. Especially when the head of the IBI brought her a report on New Madrid’s contacts among factions known to be maneuvering to control the Empire.
“There’d never been a question of marriage, because she had to leave the way open for a dynastic alliance. With the IBI report in hand, though, she had to know if New Madrid’s interests were from the heart or the scent of power. So she let herself appear to weaken.”
Eleanora twisted her lock of hair again, and let a smile quirk.
“I understand New Madrid can be somewhat dominant, and he apparently found nothing odd in Alexandra’s suddenly becoming compliant during her pregnancy. Which was when he tipped his hand. He began forcefully lobbying her for some of the precise policies that the Jackson Cabal had been promoting.”
“Are you talking about Prince Jackson of Kellerman?” Roger asked. “He’s one of the most important noblemen in the Senate!”
“Ummm-hummm. And doesn’t he just know it?” O’Casey wrinkled her brow. “Towards the end of your grandfather’s reign, it became apparent even to him that the Saints were becoming very expansionist. That caught him by surprise, since he’d felt that the Saints were . . . well, saints. Once he realized he was wrong, and possibly because he recognized that he had been and felt somehow ‘betrayed’ by them, he began giving a great deal of weight to the more militant factions in the House of Lords.”
“And Jackson was one of those.” Roger nodded. “He’s always been one of the more, um, hawkish members.”
“Indeed. However, your grandfather began making most of his appointments on the basis of Jackson’s advice. Many of them weren’t ap
pointments, whether to the House of Lords or to the imperial ministries, which Alexandra thought were wise. She had long argued against the military drawdown, but when it became apparent even to her father that the Empire was in trouble, he turned not to her, but to Prince Jackson.
“It might have appeared on the surface that there was little difference, since both she and Jackson supported many of the same policies. But even then, Alexandra was more interested in loyalty to the concept of the Empire of Man than in a specific cant. Worse, all of Jackson’s choices for appointments were people he could depend upon to follow his lead.
“So when Alexandra found New Madrid spouting the Jackson line, after having been handed that damning report, she saw the situation with amazing clarity. One of the few things she managed to convince her father of in his waning years was to have New Madrid banished from Court.”
“However . . .” The former tutor gave her former student a winsome smile.
“That left me,” Roger said, his eyes wide. “I’m surprised she didn’t . . .”
“Oh, it was contemplated. She’d already had the fetus, you,” she pointed out with another smile, “transferred to a uterine replicator, so it would have been a simple matter of—”
“Turning a tap,” Roger said woodenly.
“Sort of.” O’Casey nodded. “For whatever reason, though, she didn’t.” She began twisting another lock of hair. “I understand that she spent quite a bit of time with you when you were an infant, Roger. It was only as you matured that she started spending more and more time away.”
“As I began looking more like my father,” he said in a deathly tone. It wasn’t a question.
“And acting more like him, frankly,” O’Casey confirmed. “There were other reasons. Things were getting very tense at Court as your grandfather began to fail, and Alexandra was desperately trying to line up partisans against the coup she could see in the offing. In the end, of course, she was able to. But even so she’s spent the last decade trying to repair the damage to the Empire.”
The chief of staff shook her head again.
“To be honest, I don’t know if she ever will be able to truly repair all of it. Things were getting tense again before we left. Most of the Fleet has been pulled away from home systems towards the Saint sector, which is Jackson’s sphere of influence, and she doesn’t trust the Imperial Inspector’s Corps. At least she can trust the chief of the Fleet and the IBI, but those are thin reeds with the Saints pressing the border and the House of Lords deadlocked most of the time.
“So,” she finished, “that’s the tale. Both the one that I used as a case study of blown political conspiracies, and the additional data I was made privy to as your tutor.” She looked at the prince, who was staring at the far wall. “Questions?”
“A million,” Roger said. “But one simple one first. Is this why no one has ever trusted me with anything important? Because of my blood?” he ended angrily.
“Partially,” she admitted with a nod. “But more of it was, well . . . you, Roger. I certainly didn’t realize you’d never been ‘briefed,’ so I’m guessing that, just like me, everyone else around you must have assumed that someone else had told you. They thought you knew. So if you knew the problems that had been associated with your father, and yet chose to emulate him in every way, then one logical conclusion was that you’d chosen him as your role model rather than your mother.”
“Oh, shit,” Roger said, shaking his head. “So all this time . . .”
“Captain Pahner asked me, early in the voyage, if you were a threat to the throne,” Eleanora said quietly. “I had to tell him that, frankly, I didn’t know.” She looked the prince in the eye. “For that, I’m sorry, Roger. But I didn’t know. And I doubt that anyone, except probably Kostas, was sure about you.”
“Is that why we’re here?” Roger asked, with a hand over his eyes. “Is that why we’re stuck in this rathole?” he grated in an iron tone. “Because everyone thought I was in a conspiracy with Prince Jackson? To overthrow my own mother?”
“I prefer to believe you were being protected,” the chief of staff said. “That your mother saw a gathering storm and chose to put you out of harm’s way.”
“On Leviathan.” Roger dropped his hand and looked at her with tight eyes. “Where I’d be safe if it ‘dropped in the pot,’ as Julian likes to put it.”
“Um,” O’Casey said, thinking about the company’s incredible battle to have reached even as far as Marshad. “Well, yes.”
“Oh!” Roger began to laugh even as tears welled up in his eyes. “Thank God she didn’t let me stick around for something dangerous! I’d hate to think what Mother might find dangerous! Maybe facing the Kranolta with a knife?!”
“Roger.”
“Aaaahhhhh!” he screamed as the door burst open to admit a worried Marine sentry. Kyrou panned his bead rifle around the room, looking for the threat, as the prince slammed both fists down on the table. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Pock, pock it, and pock you, Mother! Fuck you and your fucking paranoia, you secretive, Machiavellian, untrusting, coldhearted bitch!”
Kyrou stepped aside as Pahner slid through the door, pistol in a two-handed grip.
“What the hell is going on here?” the captain barked.
“Out!” Roger screamed. He picked O’Casey up by one biceps, and shoved her towards the door. “Out! All of you, out!” He pushed Kyrou so hard the heavyset private skittered backwards on his butt through the doorway. “If you’re not out of here in one fucking second, I will fucking kill every fucking one of you!”
The solid door of the suite slammed shut with an ear-shattering boom, followed almost instantly by the sounds of complicated destruction.
“I think I could have handled that better,” Eleanora said judiciously. “I’m not sure how, but I’m almost certain I could have.”
“What just happened?” Kyrou said, lurching upright and looking around the main room of the suite, where the Marines were all staring at the door.
“Did he just say what I think he said?” Corporal Damdin asked, his eyes wide. “About the Empress?”
“Yes,” Eleanora said calmly, “he did. But,” she continued, raising her voice, “he just found out something very personal and unpleasant. He’s very upset with the Empress, not as the Empress, but as his mother. I think that once he calms down,” she suggested as the sound of breaking wood came through the door, “he’ll be less—”
“Treasonous?” Pahner suggested lightly.
“He’s angry at his mother, Captain—very angry, I might add, and not completely without reason—and, not at the Empress,” the chief of staff said coldly. “There is, in this instance, a distinct difference. One you and I need to discuss.”
Pahner looked at her, then glanced at the door as the sound of hacking came from the far side. The door shook to the pounding blows of the prince’s sword.
“What did you say to him?” the captain asked incredulously.
“I told him the truth, Captain,” the former tutor said tautly. “All of it.”
“Oh,” the Marine said. “You’re right. We do need to talk.” He looked around the room. “Kyrou, back on post. The rest of you—” He glanced at the door and winced at the sound of steel skittering on stone. Roger loved that sword; if he was willing to bang stones with it, his fury was even more towering than the captain had thought.
“The rest of you, go back to sleep,” he said finally, and beckoned for O’Casey to follow him out of the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The next day passed quietly, especially in the hostages’ suite.
Roger failed to emerge from his room even when a breakfast of barleyrice and vegetables was brought to the suite. The food no longer contained the obnoxious herb that had been so prevalent in the first dinner, but there was still a weird, bitter aftertaste. Despite that, Roger had been able to stomach it on the previous two days, but he obviously had no interest in it at all today.
An hour after the breakfa
st had been cleared, Pahner opened the door to make sure he was all right. Roger was sprawled on his camp bed, in the middle of a mass of broken fixtures, his forearm across his face. When the door opened, the prince simply glanced at the captain and resumed his position. Recognizing a deep funk that was in no mood for semi-parental bitching, the Marine shook his head and closed the door.
Back in the troop barracks, however, the mood was quiet but active. Rumors were still the only method of faster than light communication the military had discovered.
“I heard he called the Empress a whore!” St. John (M.) said.
“I heard it was just a bitch,” St. John (J.) said. The older twin had often had to control the outbursts of his younger brother. “But still.”
“It was a bitch,” Kosutic confirmed, appearing as if by magic behind them. “To be precise, a ‘paranoid bitch.’ But,” she added, “he was also referring to the Empress as his mother, not the Empress. It’s a big difference.”
“How?” St. John (M.) asked. “They’re the same person, ain’t they?”
“Yes,” the sergeant major agreed. “But calling one of them a bitch is treason, and calling the other one a bitch is just being really, really pissed at your mother.” She looked from twin to twin. “Either one of you ever been upset with your mother before?”
“Welll . . .” St. John (M.) said.
“He always calls her a damnsaint when he’s mad at Momma,” St. John (J.) said with a grin.
“Well so do you!” St. John (M.) protested.
“Sure, Mark. But not to her face!”
“The point is,” the sergeant major said before the family feud could go any farther, “that he was mad at his mother. Not at Empress Alexandra.”
“Well, why?” St. John (M.) asked in a puzzled tone. “I mean, Her Majesty’s not exactly here to get mad at. I mean, I don’t get mad at Momma back on New Miss just ‘cause, well, she ain’t here.”
“You got mad at Momma just the other day ‘cause she had twins,” St. John (J.) said slyly.
