The intelligence he had seen in Lady Julietta’s eyes was there, though of a cooler temperature. There was her courage, but not the spirit. Not the same spirit, he amended; for there was a spirit. A hunger, a drive—an assurance the Lady Julietta had not possessed.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Star Colonel,” Lady Jessica said, her words announcing he had approached as far as he was welcome.
A step closer, Rikkard stopped. Two strides and a leap from the woman on the throne.
“Unexpected,” he echoed. “Yes. But I would doubt it is a pleasure.”
A half smile touched Lady Jessica’s lips, but she did not concede the point.
“May I ask what brings you to Oriente?” she asked.
He considered. Not prolonging the moment, but letting his eye measure the others assembled.
A man, broad of shoulder and face, stood beside and behind the woman on the throne. A man of war, Rikkard saw as he narrowed his focus; but also a man of calculation. One who saw patterns and meanings, but who weighed his decisions on the scale of hard facts.
Rikkard suspected there was a social significance to his placement, but did not know enough of the mores of Oriente to parse it precisely. A champion? Or an ally? That he stood, that there was no place prepared for him on the dais, indicated he was only recently added to the assembly. Was his positioning for Rikkard’s benefit?
To Lady Jessica’s other side were two very similar women, but younger. One was the veritable image of the ruler of Oriente, regal in her discipline. The other had something more to her bearing, something of the warrior. And eyes that cared as much as they calculated. Daughters? Yes, he was certain these were Elis and Nikol.
With that recognition Rikkard became aware of a thread, a connection, that bound the two to each other and to the woman on the throne. An energy; physical for all it was insubstantial. And the thread, anchored to their mother, wrapped around them and stretched…
Rikkard followed the thread with his eyes, turning his head left until he found his gaze met by a man of simple bearing standing just beyond the edge of the dais. Older than himself, the man wore clothes of somber cut without sign of rank or office, as though he were meant to fade into the surroundings of the chamber.
There was the spirit, the placid strength he had first encountered on Marik. Rikkard inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the father of Lady Julietta before turning back to the ruler of the Oriente.
“I do not pretend to understand the relationship between a mother and her daughters,” Rikkard said.
If that non sequitur admission, delivered seven heartbeats after her question, surprised Jessica Marik, she gave no sign.
“From what I have observed, trust is a key element.”
Tension. Rikkard felt it. With no change in physical position or expression, an electric communication burst into life between the women on the dais.
“Is it considered a betrayal of that trust,” Rikkard asked, “for a mother to send a daughter to her death?”
The warrior shifted his stance, the daughters straightened. Others in the room rustled; from behind he heard a shoe squeak and an intake of breath. He did not turn his head, his eyes firm on the unblinking regard of Lady Jessica.
“I have sent no daughter of mine to her death,” she stated flatly.
“You sent Lady Julietta, unarmed, to bargain with me,” Rikkard said. “You sent her to convince me to waste my forces, destroy my people, fighting your enemies. You sent her with a promise of help so deceptively worded that you could honor its letter in safety while my people died to attain your ends.”
The woman on the throne did not move. But steel entered her posture, a fire flared behind the calculation in her eyes.
“If you believe some restitution is owed,” Lady Jessica said coldly, “you cannot expect us to honor promises we did not make. We cannot be held responsible for your failure to understand.”
“Restitution,” Rikkard repeated, tasted the word and nodded his approval. “Yes. A restitution must be made.”
“If you are expecting a handout”—Lady Jessica’s tone was pitched to provoke—“you will be sadly disappointed.”
Rikkard smiled, letting her see he was immune to her insult.
“You knew that I would eventually recognize your deception.” He explained the obvious. “That I would, when my people were near the end, understand what you had intended from the beginning—that we die as pawns in your game of conquest.
“And you knew that your daughter—Julietta—would be there, in my grasp, when the scope of your treachery became clear.”
“Your accusations are unfounded,” Jessica said. “And given your circumstance, unwise. If opening negotiations with false accusations is tradition among Clan Spirit Cat, I suggest you become acquainted with the customs of your hosts.”
Rikkard smiled again. Not to show he was untouched, but because he found her words—her tactics—genuinely funny. Why were spheroids so relentlessly incapable of honest speech?
“I was looking into her eyes.” For a moment he felt those eyes, filled with a fatalistic resolution, regarding him as he stood before the Lady Jessica, just as they had regarded him over Janis’ bent but unbowed form. “She expected to die. She was ready to die.
“She knew she had lied in manner, betrayed by implication,” he said. “She accepted her shame and her responsibility and stood ready to embrace the consequences.”
Rikkard paused, anticipating Lady Jessica’s interruption. But her eyes, fixed on his own, did not flicker.
“To give one’s life for duty, that is understood,” he said. “But to fail and in failing serve the greater good? To forfeit one’s honor?”
He shook his head. Part of his mind was aware that no one in the throne room moved.
“She showed me a new thing. Not a new vision, the key to understanding a familiar vision. And through that understanding I was able to save my people.”
Again he paused, but Lady Jessica remained still, her face a mask. Even her eyes were without expression. Rikkard realized his words were carrying her into territory she had not anticipated. She was waiting to see where the journey led before responding. She showed wisdom.
Choosing to forgo further explanation, he made a flat declaration of purpose.
“I have come to make restitution.”
One of the other women—the youngest, Rikkard thought, though he did not look directly—shifted her weight.
Lady Jessica remained still. She had not followed his final leap. Through no fault of her own, Rikkard admitted to himself, given the length and direction of the jump.
“We have heard your daughter is injured,” he said. “Wounded in the spine and brain by an assassin’s knife?”
“Yes,” Lady Jessica answered in a flat, bitter tone. “She is in a coma.”
“The nerves of her spinal column must be reconnected?” Rikkard asked. “Perhaps torn brain tissue mended?”
“Her spine is almost certainly severed,” Jessica said, her voice edged with an anger fueled by grief. It was the most genuine emotion Rikkard had seen her display. “The damage to her brain cannot be assessed. The repair you suggest is beyond the capabilities of our finest physicians.”
“Beyond the capabilities of your finest physicians.” Rikkard echoed Lady Jessica’s words a third time.
Hands laid flat on the arms of her heavy chair, as though she gathered strength from the ancient wood, Lady Jessica became a statue of palest alabaster. Rikkard saw—alarm? hope?—something in her eyes she did not entrust to her voice.
“You’re saying your doctors can heal Julietta?” asked one of the daughters.
Turning, Rikkard saw he had been right. It had been the younger one, Nikol the warrior, who had understood him first.
“My healers have not yet examined your—sister,” he answered, aware of the feel of the unfamiliar word. “But with the injuries we have heard described…”
Turning his shoulder to the women on t
he dais, Rikkard sought out the eyes filled with Julietta’s spirit. “It is possible that we will be able to make restitution.”
This time Lady Julietta’s father nodded in return.
14
Zanzibar, Tamarind
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
5 November 3137
The wind whipped through the wire fence along the edge of the landing field and through the open frames of the loading gantries, whistling and moaning by turns. Microscopic bits of black sand stung Christopher’s cheeks as he squinted against the white glare of morning sunlight on ferrocrete.
Sixteen months ago, seeing the ZanzibarDesert through the tinted windows of a rented limousine, he’d thought the boundless stretch of black sand dramatic, full of what the travel-vid writers called stark beauty. The ever-blowing sand had been a soothing susurration as it slid across the sealed skylight.
Black and gray beneath a crystal blue sky, the desert was still dramatic. Christopher noted the thinnest crescent of one of Tamarind’s moons just above the horizon. The bigger one, he guessed. Teteli? Scattered patches of yellow-green vegetation saved the rolling expanse from being completely barren. The plants grew close to the ground, stunted and twisted by the constant wind.
And without the protection of the limo, the constant, sand-filled wind was anything but soothing. It stung his exposed cheeks above the dust mask and threatened to blind him. He should have worn goggles.
It was easy to imagine his flesh being scoured away by the desert.
Just beyond the fence the sluggish ZanzibeRiver, made nearly as black as the desert by sediment, pushed its sullen way toward whatever sea it fed. Christopher searched his limited knowledge of Tamarind’s geography and could not come up with a name.
No place cheerful, of that he was certain.
Christopher had not appreciated the gritty reality of Zanzibar on his first visit to Tamarind, though the DropShip that had brought him had berthed less than a kilometer from the spot where he now stood. The limo had carried him the few dozen meters to the VIP travelers’ club, an opulent lounge and restaurant with a sweeping view of the black and brooding desert. Through the polarized windows of that penthouse, the river had seemed like a ribbon of silver across black velvet. The VIP club had sleeping quarters available for those who needed them, but he hadn’t. A half hour after his arrival, a civilian VTOL had carried him to the lodge at the base of OthoMountain on the continent of Padaron. He hadn’t seen the desert again until his departure and then also through glass.
No mystery why the historical home of the Marik clan on Tamarind was in the icy heights of the southern continent. Nobility would want to be as far as possible from this grimy and utilitarian urban sprawl in the middle of a black-sand desert.
And I’m a noble. I know what I’m talking about.
Only he wasn’t a noble now, he reminded himself. And he wasn’t all that sure he knew what he was doing.
Christopher took pride in the fact that every risk he took was carefully calculated. He knew going in the limits of his skills, his body and his equipment. He studied the waterfall or the mountain or the hurricane from every angle before approaching. When he committed to the challenge, he was ready: the only question in the balance was whether his drive to win was greater than the forces arrayed to defeat him.
No, that wasn’t true. The forces he faced generally didn’t know he existed. The meteor he jumped would follow its course with or without him; the gravity he battled was an oblivious constant aloof to his displays of defiance. This…
He squinted against the glare and grit, measuring the distance between himself and the heavily armed guards at the crew gate.
This was different.
Technically, there was no conflict between Tamarind-Abbey and Oriente. In fact, they had a common enemy in the Lyrans—though that animosity was primarily intellectual in his mother’s court.
But he was infiltrating the capital of a sovereign nation. A spy. The fact that he intended to reveal himself to Fontaine Marik meant nothing if he was caught before reaching the duke. His protests of his pure intent would sound like lies.
He could have approached openly—in fact, that had been his original intent. But the ubiquitous Charles had schooled him on the potential consequences. Particularly during their passage through the Lyran-controlled wedge between Tamarind-Abbey and the Marik-StewartCommonwealth. Christopher Hughes Marik was too important a target, he said, details of his movements a valuable commodity to informants—particularly if that information included mention that his JumpShip was carrying Mules laden with materiel support for Tamarind-Abbey. One Tramp -class JumpShip would not have been able to defend itself against Lyran attack; Christopher the scion traveling openly could all too easily become Christopher the hostage. He doubted the Lyrans would be able to leverage many concessions out of his mother, but why give them the chance to find out?
Christopher shifted the strap of the kit bag on his shoulder. Too late he recognized the gesture as a tell, revealing his own nervousness. As nearly as he could determine by surveying his surroundings through his eyelashes, no one had noticed. A dozen steps ahead the guards at the gate were focused on crewman Jemi Hendricks as she demonstrated that her lyre was indeed hollow and empty.
He had intended to end the charade on arrival in the Tamarind system, but a Lyran JumpShip with a Corvette escort parked at the zenith jump point had prevented him from announcing his presence. Who knew how thoroughly the Lyrans had penetrated the Tamarind communications net? One hint he was aboard and not even the Captiva’s registration with the adamantly neutral Rim Commonality could have prevented the Lyrans from boarding and confiscating the JumpShip.
One guard was watching Jemi’s hips roll as she walked away. The other watched with flat eyes as Christopher extended his identity chit toward the customs officer.
Until the instant he released that coded bit of plastic, Christopher had options. The brown-dyed hair could be a fashion choice; traveling as a merchant able spaceman could be one more jaunt for a bored prince infamous for being determined to experience it all; the clandestine arrival at Tamarind—well, that would have been tougher to explain, but he could have hammered out some story just plausible enough to keep him out of trouble.
But the moment the falsified documents left his fingers, he was committed.
Christopher pulled down his dust mask and let it hang around his neck to allow the guard to compare his face with the ident chit. He tried to keep his face impassive, willing none of his internal turmoil to show. Hope this guy doesn’t watch extreme sports.
Handing over the forged chit transformed him from sports hero to criminal; he was a spy. Whether or not he was an enemy spy depended on how tightly the Lyrans held Tamarind. If they held Tamarind.
The guards—both now watching him as the customs officer fed the ident chit into the reader—wore Tamarind uniforms, not Lyran. A good sign if Tamarind was still independent. Tamarind shipping control had made no mention of the glaringly present Lyrans while clearing his DropShip for landing and assigning its descent route. There were so many layers of possible meaning to that circumstance that Christopher had given up trying to compute them all.
It was completely possible the armed guards were allies, but asking the question could get him killed—or worse, captured to be used against his mother—if the answer was the wrong one.
The first customs officer took a long look at Christopher’s face while a second went through his kit. He met the man’s gaze levelly, not watching the thorough search. He hoped he’d been right to reject Charles’ suggestion of contacts: his jade green eyes were unusual, but were not unique to the Oriente Mariks, and colored lenses were easily detectable.
“Your first time on Tamarind?” the officer asked.
“Aye,” Christopher answered. He had no idea if Rim Commonality natives had a regional accent; monosyllables seemed the wisest course.
“Military areas are marked in purple,” the man said. “Stay a
way from purple signage. Also stay out of uptown and residential areas unless accompanied by a resident. There are signs. You’re expected to know the law and obey it.”
The silent customs agent probing the lining of Christopher’s bag paused just long enough to take a plastic card from a dispenser and hand it across the table. Taking it, Christopher saw it was covered in fine print.
“
All street
markets and taverns near the DropPort are duty-free,” the first agent droned, evidently planning to save him the trouble of reading the card. “Gambling is legal only in licensed casinos. Use of narcotics and prostitution is illegal.”
Despite the dull delivery, the agent’s eyes were sharp, looking for a flicker of reaction as he itemized potential vices. Christopher almost blinked when he added, “This is Friday. Temple services are open to believers only. Sunday Christian services are open for all but have formal dress requirements.”
Christopher nodded and accepted his three-day crewman’s visa without a word.
Buy what you want, get drunk, bet where we say, but don’t screw or get stoned, and be sure to dress nicely for church, he thought. Rules we can all live by.
He imagined the guards watching him as he made his way along the narrow walk that led to the public transportation terminal.
Don’t be silly. You don’t have Jemi’s million-Eagle ass.
Christopher grinned. Recognizing the adrenaline rush of survival, he picked up his pace. If he hurried, he’d catch the short tail of the line boarding the dust-covered bus.
15
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
6 November 3137
Talar Nova Cat acknowledged Sonja Sea Fox falling in step beside him with a slight dip of his chin, not taking his eyes off the corridor ahead.
The Clan Nova Cat delegation, which included Sonja as a representative of the Sea Fox ovKhan, had been given a limited run of the Marik palace for the duration of their medical mission. Talar had chosen to take advantage of the hospitality by wandering wherever he was allowed, studying the art and architecture. Things that had never interested him until the ornate buildings of Marik had been used as weapons against him.
To Ride the Chimera Page 7
