“I would need a day to prepare a thorough economic analysis.”
A day to contact the half dozen sources that had been prepared in advance to assist her in her mission and restructure the digested analyses they provided into something that sounded original. Father Pauli’s thorough attention to detail was an inspiring example of dedication to a cause the men facing her could not begin to understand.
“That won’t be necessary.” Frederick smiled with a possessive pride.
Good to own proficient servants.
“In three days we—by which I mean Sir Philip Hughes and I—will journey to the Rim Commonality.” The smile became predatory. “We will be attending the wedding of Lady Elis to their prime minister, Lord Michael Cendar.”
She nodded.
Two of the evil one’s daughters had slipped away before she’d arrived on Oriente; and the third gone before she was properly established in Sir Frederick’s household. That none she sought were within reach had tested her faith more than any other event since her choice to ascend the Path. Long nights of prayer and days of fasting had strengthened her spirit, but brought her no closer to fulfilling the ebo laid upon her by the Rada.
Her eyes turned inward, the voices of the drones becoming a distant buzz.
The spawn she’d wounded now lay in bed-ridden exile among the Clans. That was her only comfort. The too-pretty boy faced, and no doubt cowered before, the Lyran horde in some forsaken corner of space, the wanton warrior daughter skulked through the darkness between worlds, and the middle child—the daughter touched most deeply by her mother’s evil—had fled to the fringes of the sphere. All were beyond her grasp.
“Sir Philip will be laying the groundwork for a more formal political relationship between the parliament of the Protectorate and the senate of the Commonality.” Frederick Marik’s mundane syllables penetrated her thoughts, pulling her out of her self-pity. “While I will be doing what I can to transform that cordial but anemic trading relationship you described into a ferrosteel economic partnership.
“I think you’d be an invaluable asset in that endeavor.”
Her breath stopped.
“This will mean a substantial elevation in your position. You will be working on behalf of the Protectorate, not as my personal assistant.” Frederick smiled, smug in his imagined control of her fate. “But it also involves protracted residence in a foreign nation and learning a new market and unfamiliar economic system from the ground up.”
She sat transfixed, all thought of posing forgotten.
The caplatas of Oriente was sending her consort to support her spawn in spreading her web of evil across an innocent nation. Worse, once she had bent the unwitting satrapy to her will, could there be any doubt she would solidify her grip by absorbing—conquering, destroying—the worlds between the Commonality and the Protectorate? How many worlds? Twenty? Thirty? All would fall beneath the dead-hearted witch’s will. Including beautiful, holy Siendou.
Surely Ayza the protector, whose name she had adopted for this holy mission, had guided her to this place, this moment. She offered up a prayer of repentance that she had ever doubted the Orisha’s wisdom.
The seed of the monster, the mate of the beast, the tool of the destroyer: all three would be under her blade in a foreign land. A land whose leader was being drawn under the thrall of evil through his wedding bed. Or who might already be a willing partner in his people’s enslavement, trading their souls for the satisfaction of his lusts.
Four deaths—four glorious sacrifices—that would wound the bokor-bitch to her cold and lifeless heart, thwart her plans of conquest and save an innocent people from her avaricious evil.
She thanked Olorun for this opportunity—this affirmation.
A pop of burning wood in the fireplace brought her back to Sir Frederick’s sitting room–office and the two nobles watching her. Waiting for her answer. From the insipid smiles spread across their pasty features, she knew they had seen the exaltation of her epiphany flowing through her. No doubt they attributed her evident excitement to appreciation of their tawdry proposal.
She wondered that they did not burn to ash in the radiance of her spirit.
“Sir Frederick, Sir Philip,” she said, aware of a new huskiness in her voice. “I can honestly say that my only prayer is that I be equal to the task that has been set before me.”
46
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
28 August 3138
“What has she done?” It took all of Jessica’s will not to throw the noteputer and its offending report into the fireplace. “What has she done?”
“It is the Clans Sea Fox and Spirit Cat that—”
“With her as their envoy,” Jessica cut off Torrian’s explanation. “Don’t try to placate me when I’m holding your damned report in my hand.”
Unable to contain herself, she rose to her feet and paced the length of the sitting room. Turning on her heel, she caught Torrian in a lost expression before he professionally smoothed his features.
God, Philip. Where are you now?
Halfway to the edge of nowhere helping Elis secure her power base in the Rim Commonality, she answered herself as she paced back toward the fireplace. The time stamp on the message hadn’t escaped her notice. One week ago. One year to the day from the night the assassin had plunged a knife into Julietta’s throat.
The pop and crackle of the wood burning in the oversized fireplace seemed to mock her. The evening was really too warm for a fire, but up until a moment ago the dancing flames had given her comfort. Now…
“We were the ones who asked them to garrison those worlds—” Torrian’s words cut across her thoughts.
“Because Clanners don’t take worlds except by conquest. Play to their honor and worlds they were asked to protect would be safe. Wasn’t that the argument?” Jessica demanded. “She put them up to this. She taught them how to gain worlds and honor their oath at the same time.
“Clan Protectorate!”
Torrian opened his mouth and shut it again, wisdom stilling his tongue.
The plan had seemed so simple, so straightforward in a world twisted with labyrinthine politics. The Clans were the perfect tool for freeing up Oriente’s military to deal with Andurien. ClanSea Fox wanted safe trading partners and there weren’t enough Spirit Cats standing after the conquest of Marik to take a world that didn’t want to be taken. But kilo for kilo the Clanners could outfight any army in the region—at least that was their reputation. The mere presence of a Spirit Cat defensive garrison on Abadan and Avellaneda would be—had been—enough to persuade raiders to look elsewhere.
When that vile reptile Lester had seized Atreus, it had seemed only logical to extend a plan that was working. Stretching the Clanner’s resources was far more logical than dividing Oriente’s. The Lyrans were too intent on wrestling the Wolves for worlds closer to their border to strike so far rimward, and the Senatorial Alliance was in no condition to invade anyone. Garrisons for Angel II, Oceana and the Asellus systems would be more symbolic than necessary—a reassurance to the populace.
It had never occurred to her the Clans would annex the worlds by invitation. It was unheard of; it was unthinkable.
It was brilliant.
Why? Jessica raged silently against her oldest daughter. Why now do you finally apply the lessons I spent a lifetime teaching you?
“After the liberation of Atreus we will have the resources available to reestablish our control over the region,” Torrian ventured again. “Though the Clan Sea Fox fleet is legendary, only a tiny fraction is actually present, and we know the Spirit Cats have enough resources to defend, at most, two systems against simultaneous assaults.”
“By the time Atreus is ours, the Clan Protectorate will have established diplomatic ties with a half dozen nations,” Jessica countered. “You’ve read this damn declaration. ClanSea Fox is requiring all their trading partners to recognize their sovereignty. Anyone who wants to confound Orie
nte is going to follow suit.”
What’s next? Elis marshaling the Rim Commonality to strike at Oriente? Nikol resurrecting the Marik-StewartCommonwealth to snatch Atreus from my grasp?
Philip, damn you, I should never have let you go away. For a wild moment she considered recalling him. He couldn’t yet be more than three jumps away.
Jessica reined in the rising tide of self-pity with an effort. Looking at her hand, she was a little surprised to see that the noteputer hadn’t shattered in her grip.
“Thank you, Torrian,” she said. “That will be all.”
Alone again, she resumed her chair by the fire, hoping to draw some comfort from its warmth. Taking a careful sip of her still cool Riesling, she considered the noteputer and its contents. The Clan Protectorate’s declaration of sovereignty and Torrian’s strategic analysis.
Tabbing back to the beginning of the files, Jessica began reading again.
Brilliant.
Liberation Base
Torville, Loongana
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
“Julietta’s alive!”
Fontaine Marik grinned at the obvious joy on young Christopher’s face.
“A new nation has declared itself, the Clans are doing something that has never been done before, your mother—her dream of unifying the Free Worlds League—is now pressed on three sides and yet you, lad, see right to the most important part of the matter,” he said. “Your sister is indeed alive. And from the evidence, doing quite well for herself.”
The wind was picking up. Fontaine squinted against the blowing dust, trying to gauge the readiness of the DropShips. Foolish, of course. He could get more accurate data sitting in the comfort of the hunting lodge Viscount Damatto had provided, reading updated reports on his noteputer. But nothing quite matched the visceral effect of an eyes-on inspection. It grounded events in reality, not ordered phosphor dots.
And it got him out into the fresh air, which—he reminded himself as another dust-laden gust nearly triggered a fit of coughing—was something he had said he needed.
His plan to retake Tamarind in the wake of Anson’s death had been delayed nearly a fortnight. Not only had the damn Steiners been more cautions about relaxing their guard than he’d anticipated, the planetary militias of Merton and Sackville, the Duchy’s newest members, had been unwilling to risk assets they felt they needed in retaking a capital world toward which they felt no real loyalty.
Why tell us you have the damn troops if you won’t let us use them?
Fontaine took a deep breath—risking inhaling another half kilo of blowing dust—and calmed his nerves, grateful for Karli’s steadying hand on his shoulder. Two weeks of rearranging rosters to make up for the lack was all it had cost them. And there was always a chance their apparent inactivity had helped the plan, making the Lyrans more sure the spirit of Tamarind-Abbey had been broken.
Beside him, Christopher navigated across the dusty ferrocrete by instinct, reading the reports on the noteputer screen and trusting his sense of space to keep him from falling down a gopher hole. Roland, Tamarind-Abbey’s director of SAFE, kept station on Fontaine’s other flank as the three made their way across the DropShip field.
Julietta of Marik? Fontaine returned to the declaration the courier had delivered. She’s carved a new nation for herself out of the carcasses of both The Republic and Anson’s Commonwealth, snatching the prize right out of Jessica’s hand in the process. She may not have the blood, but her moves are pure Marik. Fontaine chuckled. Those Clanners will never know what hit them.
Aloud he said: “How does this affect us strategically?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Roland answered. Even though they were well out of earshot of any who might have overheard, he spoke in the formal tones of court whenever they were outside the confines of rooms his people had swept for listening devices. “In addition to Oriente, the Clan Protectorate borders the Covenant Worlds, the Senatorial Alliance and a region of the former Commonwealth we believe Clan Wolf intends to annex.”
“Meaning if they want to jump one way they have to turn their backs on at least one hungry neighbor with a knife.”
“Essentially, Your Grace,” Roland agreed. “It is doubtful Oriente will divert any of the resources it has committed to the Atreus campaign to the new front. The Clan Protectorate will be too preoccupied with cementing stability to be a threat. And as an objective, Marik is well below Atreus on Oriente’s priority list.”
“Meaning everyone else is playing with someone else and out here it’s just us and the Lyrans?”
“Essentially,” Roland repeated.
“Good.” Fontaine nodded, looking up at the nearest DropShip. “I like an even fight.”
Regulus City
Chebbin, Regulus
Regulan Fiefs
“How many worlds?”
“According to their declaration, seven, including Marik,” Gustav Salazar answered with the passion he usually reserved for commenting on the weather. “Abadan, Angel II, Asellus Australis, Asellus Borealis, Avellanada and Oceana.”
Lester was aware he was standing, with no memory of getting up. He was peripherally aware of the last pages of the report he’d been reading drifting to the emerald carpet of Emlia’s sitting room.
“And only Marik taken by force?”
Salazar nodded.
“Ha!” Lester scrubbed his hands, unable to contain his glee. “The bitch lay down with vipers and the damn things bit her in the ass.”
“Lester!”
“Sorry, my dear.” He grinned at his wife, feeling not the least bit contrite. “But that’s exactly what happened.”
He began pacing, having to plot an oblique course between the overstuffed chairs—how could the woman he loved not notice the saffron-flowered russet upholstery clashed with the carpet?—to reach the window. Turning on his heel, he barked his leg on an incidental table, but the sharp pain did nothing to dampen his mood.
“She brought in the Clans to bring down the Free Worlds League because she thought she could control them. Instead they took a page from her own book and stabbed her in the back when she was most vulnerable. Oh, the delicious irony.”
This time Emlia’s smile answered his own, her eyes dancing with shared delight.
“There is more,” Salazar said.
“News?” Lester asked. “Or irony?”
“Both, I believe, sir.”
“Gustav, I believe that is the first bit of humor I’ve ever heard from your lips.”
“Sir?”
“Lester, don’t tease the man.”
“You’re right, of course, my dear.” Lester composed his features into a solemn mask. “My apologies, Mr. Salazar. What is this additional information?”
“The spokesperson for the Clan Protectorate, and evidently chief of their foreign affairs, is Lady Julietta Halas-Hughes.”
Lester felt a chill wash through his body. “Julietta Hughes?”
“Yes, sir,” Salazar confirmed. “Though she now identifies herself as Lady Julietta of Marik, evidently indicating the planet.”
Emlia made an appreciative sound, earning her a glare from her husband.
“Legitimately linking the Marik name to hers while making it clear she stands separate from her mother and conforming to the Clan tradition of no unearned last name,” she explained. “Elegant.”
Dismissing the trivial point, Lester focused his glare on his chief of intelligence. “What happened to her coma?”
“I reported that she had regained consciousness some months ago. The Spirit Cat physicians—”
“Took her to Marik, I know,” Lester snapped. “She was bedridden. What happened?”
“I have no assets within the Clan enclave,” Salazar said. “Inferring from available evidence, Clan medical technology exceeds anything we anticipated.”
“Damn it!”
“Lester?”
“Is even the smallest victory snatched from us?”
“Dearest, I d
on’t believe you’re appreciating the irony Mr. Salazar mentioned,” Emlia said. “Or perhaps it’s Ashe.”
Lester stared at his wife blankly.
“Where is the irony in that—woman’s—unholy whelp being alive?” he demanded. “She should be dead.”
“Leaving Jessica with no heirs is one justice.” Emlia smiled. “But isn’t this justice of a different sort? Jessica living to see her dream torn to shreds by her own children?”
47
Padaron City, Tamarind
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
7 September 3138
Christopher glanced between his datascreens and the heads-up display, confirming their empty fields matched.
No one appreciates how much double-double-checking goes into being a daredevil. He grinned.
With no targets in range and no sensors sweeping his way, he eased his BattleMech forward, following the curve of the aqueduct leading into the Padaron water desalinization plant. The bulk of Teteli Company was spread out to his left, moving cautiously through the metal-heavy manufacturing district. Only Missy Carter was to his right, the purple icon denoting her Hercules hovering at the edge of his heads-up as she paced him along the far side of the aqueduct. He knew she could see him as they passed each arch of the elevated waterway, but the over/under barrels of the twin extended-range medium lasers jutting from the right chest and shoulder of his BattleMech blocked his view in her direction.
Prevailing on Duke Fontaine to let him be part of the liberation of Tamarind had depended on his promise to pilot a BattleMech and not one of the light, fast vehicles he preferred. The duke had expected him to select a BattleMaster or something equally indestructible. His choice of a fifty-five-ton Cronus 5M had almost ruined the deal; would have landed him in the situation room with the duke and Roland if Force Commander Talbridge hadn’t convinced Fontaine the fast, rugged machine offered as sure a guarantee of survival as any ’Mech could in the battlefield.
To Ride the Chimera Page 25
