Fontaine Marik’s voice snapped his attention back to the throne.
“Each Free Worlds League nation stands alone until a true captain-general assumes control of the whole,” the duke declared. “You cannot easily paint me with the same brush you paint him with, Lady Steiner.”
Him? Christopher fished in his memory. Anson, of course. But distancing yourself from him emphasizes your lack of allies.
He shook his head, moving a millimeter and a half before he remembered he was staying still to avoid notice. It was too easy to second-guess another’s tactics when you were not the one on the spot, but he couldn’t help but think Fontaine had made a tactical error with that declaration.
Unless… Christopher almost straightened as the thought struck. He’s planting seeds, telling his own people a unified Free Worlds League has his blessing so people will remember even if he’s not around to see it through.
“The Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey has suffered a great deal under your onslaught only because we were unprepared to wage war,” Fontaine was saying, his voice still frosty with controlled rage. “But that does not mean we are weak. You will find the worlds that remain are fortified. We will not be caught off guard as we were when you first struck. We will not be intimidated.”
“I have not come to intimidate you, Duke Marik,” Trillian Steiner said. “I have come to try and find some grounds where further loss of life can be averted.”
Christopher admired the cool with which she delivered the bald lie. Did anyone in the room doubt she had come to test Fontaine’s resolve? Maybe distract him from the defense of Tamarind-Abbey? Trillian after all was not military; her presence here had no effect on the Lyran campaign. But the duke was the heart and mind of his Duchy’s defense. If she kept him busy she slowed his ability to respond, to lead.
Only fear of attracting the Loki agent’s attention prevented Christopher’s bolting from the room. They had to anticipate Lyran tactics—head them off. Things had to be in motion to diminish the effect of Trillian Steiner’s delaying tactics.
How?
Realization of the difference between knowing something must be done and knowing what to do ran a cold, stabilizing shock through Christopher’s rising panic. No point in jumping on his horse and riding off in all directions, as his father used to say. Action without a plan was not better than no action at all.
He listened with half an ear as arrangements were made for the next audience—his mind filled with what little he knew of Tamarind and plans for the world’s defense.
19
Regulus City
Chebbin, Regulus
Regulan Fiefs
11 November 3137
“…a task for which I thirst.”
Lester touched a stud, freezing the image of the dark-skinned woman. There was a beauty to her, no denying it; something that sprang from more than mere physical attributes.
Though those were plainly visible. Her ceremonial robe, bleached brilliant white, no doubt to indicate purity, covered her from throat to wrists to ankles. Yet the fabric was sheer to the point of weightlessness and for reasons of static electricity or errant breezes or simple lust, it formed itself to her lithe body—clearly naked beneath the cascading folds—and revealed far more than it concealed.
Lester shuddered.
No, her beauty came from her eyes—or perhaps her whole face, darkly luminous in the light of a dozen torches. Her expression of conviction, of faith. Lester suspected this was what ancient writers had tried to describe when they spoke of transfiguration. But those long-ago scribes had attributed the radiance of inner beauty to a God this woman rejected.
It’s the human act of faith—not the object of that faith—that has the power to elevate.
“It seems a shame.” Emlia’s quiet voice broke in on his thoughts.
Lester glanced at her seated beside him, then twisted his body in the chair, leaning back a bit to look at her properly.
They were in the sitting room of his apartments—all somber woods and muted shades of russet and green; the colors of house Cameron. The wide glass-paned doors that opened out onto his private veranda were shut now against the fury of an autumn thunderstorm. They rattled every few moments as the weather seemed to take notice of the ancient building and buffet it with a hail-laden gust.
The stormy view—which faded to gray mist beyond the railing—formed the backdrop for the flat vidscreen positioned at the far edge of the simple table that served as Lester’s desk when he was in quarters. On the table between him and Emlia were the remains of a light brunch—clutter he detested, but he did not want to break their companionable mood by calling in servants to carry away the trays.
The gray storm light from the floor-to-ceiling doors and the golden glow of the incandescent lamps ranged about the room suffused Emlia with a soft clarity.
Emlia’s was a different beauty—light where the woman on the screen was dark, and streaks of gray providing silver counterpoint to the golden waves that fell to her shoulders. A smile curved her lips, acknowledging his regard and bringing light—more light—to her eyes. His wife was beautiful in the classical sense, the beauty of Rome or Athens. One of the mysteries of his life was how this magnificent creature had come to love a pale and jagged scarecrow such as himself. And that love, illuminating and informing her every word and gesture, was the source of her own inner beauty.
Faith in things imagined or love for ones who love you? Yours is the greater beauty, my dearest.
“What is a shame, my dear?”
“That girl’s religion—Coeur du Vodun,” Emlia said. “Heart of the Spirit. After you told me about Pauli, I did a bit of research. It’s a—I guess you’d call it a radical fundamentalist group—within Sevi Lwa, a religion from ancient Dahomey, on Terra. Quite beautiful, in its way.”
“I’m going to regret this,” Lester muttered, loud enough for her to hear. Then in a conversational voice: “In what way, dearest?”
Emlia cut her eyes to let him know she was aware of his teasing, but pressed on regardless.
“They believe everything has a soul,” she said. “Not just living things, but objects too. How alive they are depends on how much of this life force they have.”
“Is it a life source or a soul?”
“Both.” Emlia turned a hand palm up. “It’s called Ashe. It connects everything so everything is one. Whatever you do to someone else, you do to yourself because you’re one.”
Lester snorted. “That’s worse than Hinduism.”
Emlia laid a cautionary hand on his sleeve.
“No one can hear us, my dear,” Lester reassured her. “I know better than to speak my mind on cherished traditions of Regulus where my words might be noted.”
Emlia shook her head, but whether at her own caution or his daring Lester could not be sure.
“I think you’ll find Coeur du Vodun has more to do with your own Catholic tradition,” she said. “That girl is trying to become a saint.”
“A saint?”
“They call them O-something. Oshira? Orisha, that’s it. Orisha Loa. Source of mysteries.”
Lester cocked an incredulous eyebrow. His wife was not a fool, and not given to foolish word games. This prattle was leading somewhere, but she wanted him to recognize that somewhere on his own. He nodded slightly, inviting her to continue.
“The pantheon of Coeur du Vodun is infinite, always growing.” Emlia spread her hands slowly to illustrate. “Everyone who dies becomes a venerated ancestor, with a place at the hearth shrine, and is consulted on matters of family importance…”
“An eternity of refereeing in-law disputes.” Lester shuddered with comic horror.
Emlia smiled slightly without pausing. “—but the aborishaloa—faithful worshipers—who lead exceptional lives, lives devoted to one of the Rada, one of the original Orisha Loa, earn the right to become Petro Orisha Loa—minor gods.”
Lester studied the image on the screen with new eyes. Not just faith, but faith alloyed with ambition
s of godhood. Interesting combination. “What sort of god is she trying to be, I wonder?”
“I don’t know their pantheon,” Emlia said, looking at the same image. “But at a guess, one devoted to protecting her people.”
A fresh gust of wind rattled the French doors.
Lester cast a weather eye at the storm beyond the veranda and noted the rain was slacking off. He could now see as far as the BrahmaRiver, its broad expanse whipped to whitecaps by the savage winds.
Satisfied the natural world was proceeding normally, he returned his attention to the young woman on the screen. A religious fanatic who believed perfection in murder would lead to her own deification—who aspired to be a god protecting her people. There could be no more relentless a hunter.
And if she was caught? She knew nothing about Cameron-Jones or the Regulan Fiefs. She was a simple native of an unaligned world she imagined Jessica intended to conquer. His people could fill the media with the tragic tale of a young martyr doing her best to defend her home against imperialist invaders.
“You’re advising we use her,” he said at last. “Send her back in.”
“She attains her goal of immortality, we ensure the safety of the Fiefs,” Emlia said. “A perfect balance of Ashe.”
“Ashe?”
“You weren’t listening. Ashe is the life force that binds everything together.” Emlia indicated the screen. “Sevi Lwa teaches that the more you understand Ashe, the more you understand the world.”
“I understand the world well enough,” Lester said, not bothering to hide the bitterness. He didn’t take his eyes from the frozen image of the woman.
An untraceable weapon that gives advantage whether she succeeds or fails. He shook his head. That madman Pauli was a genius for finding these people. Or did he create them by twisting their religion? Either way, genius.
Five deaths—four and a half, if she kept the vegetable that had been Julietta on life support—were less than nothing when weighed in the balance against the ten thousand the bitch had ordered slaughtered at Clipperton. Ten thousand innocent lives ended horribly for no other reason than to distract him from going to Anson Marik’s aid.
Was Jessica in league with the Lyrans? Had her terrorism been linked to, been a part of, their invasion? It was satisfying to believe so, but Lester knew that whatever else she was, Jessica Halas was too smart to lie down with that particular viper.
How do you hurt a woman who so casually butchers thousands for a moment’s political advantage? By making certain that all she does is for nothing.
Lester couldn’t take the Free Worlds League away from her. Even without Anson and Fontaine Marik fighting for their lives against the Steiners, he could see enough in the pattern of her manipulations to know the imposter’s daughter was within a decade of laying hold of enough worlds to claim she had reforged the Free Worlds League. A League she saw as her personal realm, to be held as firmly as the Davions or the Kuritas or the Liaos held theirs. She imagined herself the founder of a great House, the root and heart of a dynasty.
He lacked the resources to stop her. But he could ensure her dynasty was a dead end. With no children to carry on after her, she would rule knowing that nothing she did mattered. She would die knowing her dream died with her.
A small, small price for the carnage of Clipperton.
“I don’t think you’re taking the idea of Ashe seriously,” his wife accused.
Lester glanced at her, startled that she’d so misread his mood. Then he realized she’d read it well enough and was teasing him gently to remind him he did not face his demons alone.
“If you mean the belief a rock has a soul like yours, then you’re right,” he answered, reaching out with an ungloved hand. “No tree or rock or forest or mountain could have a soul that means as much to me as yours.”
Emlia blinked back sudden tears, far more moved by the rare offer of unguarded contact than his clumsily poetic words.
“Lester…” She took his hand lightly.
“Jessica Halas, now,” Lester said, looking out at the storm, not thinking overmuch about the feel of his wife’s bare flesh against his own. “Her soul. Yes. I’d say her soul had much in common with a rock.”
Emlia, not letting his jest mar the mood, held his hand and stared out at the storm.
20
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
21 November 3137
“My husband tells me not to waste time trying to manipulate you.”
Thaddeus Marik met Lady Jessica’s eyes, his fingers a centimeter from the proffered teacup. Her gaze was measuring, he decided; appraising, not challenging.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, taking the cup.
So much that happened on Oriente seemed to center on the rituals of eating or drinking. Luncheons, teas, dinners—even after-dinner liqueurs—often served as settings for serious discussions on affairs of state or business. It made one wonder whether obesity was a problem among the power elite of the Protectorate.
The thought made Thaddeus smile as he sipped his tea. Then the flavor registered and he nodded appreciatively to his hostess. Some aromatic herb had been added to the green tea, giving it an invigorating tang that seemed to clear his senses.
The Sunday afternoon lunch had been surprisingly pleasant. Along with fourteen members of the Protectorate’s parliament and his brother Frederick, he had shared a light meal of what he assumed were seasonal dishes with the captain-general and her two daughters.
Two of her three daughters, Thaddeus corrected himself. It was too easy to forget Julietta.
He had glimpsed the gray, shrunken form of Philip and Jessica’s eldest daughter only once—wrapped in some sort of medical cocoon and being pushed through a hallway on a gurney by a short black woman in a lab coat, accompanied by Star Colonel Rikkard Nova Cat. A vaguely surreal image he would not have seen if he’d kept to the public corridors. Rikkard’s small entourage and the Clan medicos—each pushing his or her own cart of medical equipment—had followed close behind.
Details were scarce, but rumor had it Julietta had awakened from the coma she’d been in since the assassination attempt that had killed her brother—Was it only three months ago?—and that Clan physicians on Marik would be overseeing her recovery.
Thaddeus suspected part of that was either wrong or deliberate disinformation.
His own brother had surprised him yet again this afternoon. Over the years Thaddeus had come to anticipate Frederick’s moods and excesses; worse, the smoldering resentment that had marred their relationship since adolescence. Today, however, Frederick was a changed man. Without a single veiled barb or double entendre, he had been a charming conversationalist throughout the meal, his company clearly appreciated by several of the noble-born MPs.
Thaddeus considered the apparent fact that it had taken the collapse of The Republic and exile—or repatriation, depending on one’s perspective—to push his brother fully into his own.
Philip Hughes, now accepting a cup from his wife, had been conspicuously absent at lunch. In fact, until discovering him waiting for them by the tea cart, Thaddeus had been under the impression Jessica’s husband was off-planet.
However, since neither of his hosts mentioned either Philip’s absence or reappearance, Thaddeus chose to treat his avoiding the public luncheon as routine.
Which it might very well be.
The fact that Jessica herself was pouring tea, and that only she and her husband, Philip, were in the room, indicated this midafternoon repast accompanied a discussion of particular importance—but beyond that assumption, Thaddeus was in the dark. Though the statement about manipulation, and choosing an alternative, indicated—
“The Covenant Worlds,” Philip said, breaking into Thaddeus’ thoughts. “They sprang up quite suddenly when The Republic withdrew.”
“Many worlds that found themselves abandoned have formed communities with their neighbors,” Thaddeus pointed out; this was familiar
ground. “The Senatorial Alliance that borders Irian formed even more quickly.”
“The Senatorial Alliance is the product of negotiations that were under way long before The Republic imploded.” Philip leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. “And even given that advantage, it has proven less stable than the Covenant Worlds.”
“By focusing on the needs of the people rather than expansion, the Covenant Worlds are able to consolidate and integrate effectively.” Thaddeus matched Philip’s relaxed posture as he delivered the party line with thoughtful sincerity. He was aware of Jessica’s eyes on him, but he did not glance her way. “The Senatorial Alliance has ambitions beyond the survival of its member worlds. They would have annexed your own homeworld if more powerful neighbors had not responded to their overreaching policies.”
Which is better than saying “before Oriente decided to take some of their worlds.”
“It must be difficult, having such an alliance centered on your own home.” Philip’s concern seemed genuine. “Though I suppose it was even more difficult as a paladin of The Republic, knowing that your homeworld was represented by a traitor.”
“More than difficult.” Thaddeus made no effort to mask his feelings. “It was painful. It is still painful, knowing I can’t go home again.”
“No love lost between you and the Alliance, then?”
“With all due respect, sir, if you have any contact with your homeworld, you know the differences between the Covenant Worlds and the Senatorial Alliance.”
“Indeed I do,” Philip confessed. “In fact, it’s my family’s suspicion that the foundation of the Covenant Worlds was laid much more carefully than that of the Alliance.”
Thaddeus sipped his tea.
Philip was clearly fishing, but doing so with a confidence that implied knowledge. The question was how much of that confidence was authentic and how much a pose.
“The Covenant Worlds combined their resources for the betterment of their people,” he said. “The name of the union reflects the leadership’s commitment to the best interests of the people. I believe this straightforward objective and unity of purpose have allowed the worlds of the Covenant to flourish more quickly than alliances powered by greed or fear.”
To Ride the Chimera Page 10
