What Distant Deeps

by David Drake

  Commissioner Brown sat across from Adele. He wore a suit which was suitably formal for this gathering; he’d probably bought it when he learned he had been appointed commissioner to Zenobia.

  The table was wide enough that a low-voiced conversation probably couldn’t be heard across the scarred wood, but Brown’s eyes had a thousand-yard stare anyway. His mind was in a different place and time.

  Adele didn’t shut down her data unit, but she shrank the display and smiled pleasantly. Well, she hoped it was pleasant. She rather liked Posy. She had been a perfect surrogate for Adele in the Palace when the trouble started.

  Besides—Adele’s smile changed slightly—it was Lady Mundy’s task to winkle information out of Lady Belisande. At this point Adele was nearly certain that success was impossible, but she owed it to Mistress Sand to make an effort.

  “Do you mind?” Posy said, gesturing to the chair to Adele’s right. “I keep thinking this business is going to start but they delay yet further.”

  Adele shrugged. “If there are assigned seats, they haven’t told me,” she said. “Mind, I think that if I tried to sit at the head of the table—”

  She nodded.

  “—someone would have told me.”

  Posy walked around behind her, which meant that Tovera had made way. Adele had chosen the side of the table facing the Palace because that put her back to the brick wall. While a powerful impeller could shoot through bricks, as Hogg had proved the previous afternoon, it made Tovera more comfortable.

  Adele suppressed a wry smile. The situation now was that Wood would be standing behind Posy and therefore behind Adele, and vice versa. That wasn’t going to do anything positive for either bodyguard’s state of mind.

  Posy settled onto the chair, a pair to Adele’s though there were several different styles around the table. These were of pale wood with cushions of light suede and seemed surprisingly comfortable. Which might mean more to Lady Belisande than it did to Adele.

  Founder Hergo sat down at the head of the table. Otto von Gleuck took the seat on his right, and Admiral Mainwaring sat to his left. Daniel was on Mainwaring’s left, displacing Milch by one seat. Lesser officials began scrambling for chairs.

  “They wouldn’t want me up there either,” Posy said. She glanced toward Commissioner Brown, who remained in another world.

  A thin Zenobian with a pointed beard and maroon velvet garments tried to take the seat beside her. Posy put a hand on the chair back and said, “Wood, sit here if you will.”

  “Mistress . . . ,” Wood said doubtfully, glancing at Tovera. The Zenobian Councillor looked startled, then concerned when he realized who Posy must be. He didn’t take his own hand off the chair, however.

  “Tovera, please step around to the other side of the table,” Adele said. “You’ll have a better view of what might be happening above us on the wall.”

  Tovera had been smirking at Wood’s discomfiture. That expression blanked, then reappeared with a wry twist. “Whatever the mistress wishes, of course,” she said as she walked around the table.

  Wood touched the official’s wrist. In a voice as dry as rustling paper, she said, “I won’t cut your hand off, because that would spatter blood on Lady Belisande. But I will break your wrist, and then both your knees.”

  “What?” said the fellow. “What?”

  Whatever he saw in the servant’s eyes answered his question. He blundered off backward because he was afraid to turn his head.

  Wood slid the chair back slightly as she sat. Now she could keep Posy—and Adele—in her peripheral vision without turning her head.

  “All right, we’ll start now,” said Hergo. He’d raised his voice, but the acoustics of the garden were surprisingly good: the walls and the back of the Palace provided clean reflections. “While the internal governance of Zenobia is a matter for her Founder and Board of Councillors alone, we—and I speak here for the Board as well—”

  Six civilians at the long table nodded in various mixtures of solemnity and enthusiasm. Though four were dressed in slightly dated Pleasaunce fashions, they and the seventh man now standing in back of the Founder—the fellow Wood had run off—were unmistakably the Councillors. The ones who’d survived the attempted coup, which explained their present subservience.

  “—are aware of our debt during the recent difficulties to Zenobia’s friends and allies, the Alliance of Free Stars and the Republic of Cinnabar. I have called all parties together here as a mark of our respect.”

  “My brother understands the situation,” Posy murmured, leaning sideways so that she was almost speaking into Adele’s ear. “In front of the other Councillors he has to pretend we’re independent, but he won’t give Guillaume any reason to impose direct rule.”

  Though the combined tables—at the Founder’s end, one from the banquet hall of the Palace; and joined to it one from the refectory of the Founder’s Regiment—seated almost forty, many more people were watching from behind plush ropes. A Palace functionary stood at the passage to the tables, but four spacers in liberty suits lounged nearby. Their utilities were so covered with ribbons and embroidered patches that only by their caps could Adele tell which pair was Fleet and which was RCN.

  The spacers’ cudgels differed according to individual taste, but all four were serious weapons. From their banter, and from Adele’s experience of the breed, they were looking forward to having somebody try to push past the rope.

  “I think your brother is fortunate that you were in Calvary when this plot was uncovered,” Adele said. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but she was pretty sure her opinion of Founder Hergo was evident in her tone. Still, thick and parochial though Hergo might be, he had shown enough intelligence to take his sister’s direction during the crisis.

  The people at the head of the table were introducing themselves. Adele wondered if the process would continue beyond the polished wood. If it did, she would be Signals Officer Mundy and let those who didn’t know her wonder how she rated a seat.

  And what will Wood say? Adele’s lips twitched.

  “Hergo’s a good sort,” Posy said, though she wasn’t really protesting. “He’s never approved of me, but neither did he try to run my life. And he never pretended that I couldn’t be smarter than him because I’m a woman.”

  “He’s gone up in my estimation,” Adele said truthfully.

  It’s harder to notice something that is missing than it is something which has been added to a familiar array. Adele frowned as she looked at the head of the table and said, “Why isn’t Resident Tilton here?”

  Posy turned slightly toward her. “Ah,” she said. “There was an incident during the coup. The Resident—”

  “I think that will do for introductions,” the Founder said forcefully as the uppermost member of the Council rose to make what—from his sheaf of notes—was a speech. “I believe the first order of business is to inform everyone that the Alliance Resident, the Honorable Louis Tilton, was foully murdered by Palmyrene agents. I’m sure you all—”

  “Murdered!” said the Councillor with the sheaf of notes. “How did that happen? He had an army of guards, didn’t he?”

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Posy said, “My understanding is that this was a well planned operation which began when a bomb went off in the wing of the Residency where the guards were quartered.”

  Everyone at the table turned to look. Posy was a striking woman, and the very simplicity of her dress set her head and shoulders above the other Zenobians present. The local women had at best overdressed for the occasion.

  “The Resident and the three guards who had escaped the explosion,” she continued, “were killed by the attackers in what I’m told was a hail of gunfire.”

  “There must’ve been forty of them,” said Major Flecker. “Resident Tilton didn’t have a chance. But I figure we got all the bandits and traitors when we did the cleanup of their hideouts later in the day.”

  Tovera looked over the table at Wood, who sh
rugged without speaking. Adele caught the exchange and said quietly, “Your Ladyship, do you know how many bullets hit the victims?”

  Wood turned to look past her smiling mistress. “Three each,” she said in her dry voice. There was a discussion of the situation at the head of the table, several people talking at once, but even without the background noise the words would be barely audible. “At the top of the breastbone.”

  That must be Fifth Bureau training, Adele thought. Though Tovera was more likely to center her three rounds on the bridge of the target’s nose.

  “As I was saying,” Hergo resumed, “I’m sure you all share my deep sense of loss at Resident Tilton’s death.”

  Adele half expected somebody to burst out laughing at that, but apparently the events of the past day and a half had frightened all the humor out of the Great and Good of Zenobia. They looked at their hands or made their faces rigidly blank.

  “The office of Resident has therefore devolved on the senior member of the Alliance present on Zenobia,” Hergo said. “The Honorable Otto von Gleuck, who in order to take up this civilian position has resigned his commission as Fregattenkapitan in the Fleet. I’m pleased to announce that the interim Resident has announced his intention to settle permanently on Zenobia and to marry one of our fairest flowers—if I may be allowed to voice my pride: my sister, Lady Posthuma Belisande.”

  “Hear hear!” said Daniel and began to clap.

  There were cheers around the table and from the lesser lights gathered in the garden. Admiral Mainwaring called, “And you couldn’t have found a prettier gel or a sharper one, von Gleuck!”

  “By heaven, man!” said Commander Milch. “I bow to no man in my appreciation of a pretty face—”

  He glanced down the table and dipped his chin to Posy.

  “—but you’ve won a brilliant victory here. Wouldn’t the lady travel back to Pleasaunce with you? Because you’re sure to be promoted, aren’t you? Even with our great nations at peace, as I’m glad we are.”

  There was frozen silence from the junior Alliance officers, and a look of incredulous anger on Founder Hergo’s face. Admiral Mainwaring stared at his aide in frustration. Daniel pursed his lips, evidently searching for a way to cover the gaffe.

  “Not at all, my friend,” said von Gleuck, apparently the only person at the upper table who hadn’t been horrified or angered by the question. “To be quite honest, I’ve grown tired of spacefaring. On my homeworld Adlersbild, I would get in the way of my brother, the Count. On Pleasaunce, well, I’m sure I’d find myself in somebody else’s way. I’m confident that Zenobia will give me enough challenges to keep me interested. It will also allow me to work for the betterment of the Alliance at a considerable distance from the seats of power.”

  The seat of power, singular, Adele thought. Guarantor Porra had sent a potential rival to the fringe of the galaxy. Should that rival come back a greater hero even than he went, well . . . there was a place from which no human had yet returned.

  Quietly to Posy she said, “Many RCN officers are smarter than that, Your Ladyship. And in fairness to Milch, nothing in his normal duties requires him to be familiar with the political realities of Pleasaunce.”

  Posy gave a brief, silvery laugh. Her face settled. In a falsely light tone she said, “I wonder if Otto would stay if he could go back to Pleasaunce? Even for those of us who were born here, Zenobia is a rather limited place. Though I don’t really mind having to live out my days here. . . .”

  She met Adele’s eyes.

  “As of course I must, by Guillaume’s direction. Though I suppose I ought to call him ‘the Guarantor’ now that we’ve ceased to be friends.”

  Farther up the table, Councillors were enthusiastically reopening matters in which they felt they had been unjustly treated by Resident Tilton. Hergo was letting them talk, and von Gleuck listened with what seemed to be an equable expression.

  Adele eyed Posy. Because of the way they were seated, the younger woman was in part profile. Her features were as perfect as if stamped from a die.

  Sometimes when people asked the kind of question Posy just had, they wanted reassurance rather than an answer. If that was the case here, Posy was less perceptive than she had seemed.

  “I don’t know,” Adele said. “I’m not an authority on human relationships.”

  She thought in silence. Though she didn’t understand feelings, she was skilled at analyzing data and making recommendations based on that analysis.

  “I think you make suitable consorts for one another,” Adele said. “You’re both intelligent and pragmatic; you’re willing to make the best of situations which aren’t what you might have wished. As for your specific question rather than the general one it implied—”

  Posy’s expression remained calm, but Adele thought she saw a sudden hint of tension. It wasn’t quite fear, but it tended in that direction.

  “Have you been to Adlersbild?”

  “Otto’s home?” Posy said. “No, Your Ladyship. I met him here on Zenobia when I returned, only a few months ago.”

  “I accompanied my mentor, Mistress Boileau, there,” Adele said. “To inventory a library which had been bequeathed to the Academic Collections. It may be that you think of Adlersbild as a smaller version of Pleasaunce since it’s an equally old world and was an original member of the Alliance?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Posy admitted guardedly. “Though I haven’t really thought about it very much. Why do you mention it?”

  “The Great Houses of Adlersbild perch on high crags,” Adele said. “Contacts among them are limited and formal. Social life is centered on hunting parties.”

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t think the Honorable Otto will miss the social whirl which you encountered on Pleasaunce; he wouldn’t have been exposed to it on Adlersbild or as Fleet officer on active duty. And I suspect there are parts of Zenobia which lend themselves to hunting if he gets nostalgic for home. From personal experience, I can say Diamond Cay is suitable.”

  Posy laughed again and patted the back of Adele’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose I—”

  Both women had been speaking in low voices, but they suddenly realized that the chattering further up the table had ceased. Posy’s laugh had rung in silence.

  Founder Hergo looked at his sister, then turned toward Daniel and said, “While I’m very thankful for the help which the Republic of Cinnabar provided to us during the recent crisis—”

  “It was critical,” said von Gleuck firmly. “We couldn’t have defeated the invaders without the aid of Captain Leary.”

  “Yes, I have accepted that,” Hergo said to his soon-to-be brother-in-law with a hint of a frown. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I remain puzzled. Captain Leary, why did you risk your life to become involved in a business which you might have honorably walked away from?”

  “Yes, Leary,” said Admiral Mainwaring, turning to stare at Daniel beside him. “I was going to ask you that when we had a chance to talk, but I’m willing to have an audience. What in bloody hell were you thinking of when you got mixed up in this?”

  He frowned toward Hergo, then added, “Though I’m not saying you were wrong, not after the way things worked out.”

  “Ah,” said Daniel, tugging down the right sleeve of his tunic. His eyes met Adele’s and he smiled.

  Returning his attention to the head of the table, he said, “Yes, I’ve been wondering how to answer that question ever since we turned out to have survived. You see, it’s this way . . .”

  Daniel had been dodging Admiral Mainwaring ever since the Dotterel landed six hours ago. Though the Princess Cecile and her captain were not part of the regional chain of command, the reality was that Mainwaring and everybody in the Navy House bureaucracy would expect Daniel to provide a full explanation to the commander of the Qaboosh Squadron—which he had just embroiled in a war with a Cinnabar ally.

  Daniel was willing to do that, but he’d hoped and prayed
he could do so publically rather than in a private conference with the Admiral. Mainwaring’s reaction would be muted in front of a foreign head of state, albeit a barbarian, and—more important—officers of the Fleet. If the Admiral were alone with a junior captain during the discussion, it might be kitty bar the door.

  But the explanation was still a minefield.

  “Your Excellency,” Daniel said, realizing that he didn’t know what honorific was proper for a Founder of Zenobia. He dipped his head toward Hergo in something just short of a bow, hoping that the gesture would make up for it if he’d gotten the rank wrong. “My Republic has no desire for additional possessions in the Qaboosh Region. But . . .”

  He swept the table with what he hoped was an apologetic grin.

  “Inevitably there are rumors and suspicions. Cinnabar and the Alliance, though at peace now, have been at war for most of the past decade. My former Fleet counterpart across this table—”

  He nodded again, this time to von Gleuck.

  “—and I have spent almost all our service careers in trying to kill one another and one another’s colleagues. Peace has come and I personally welcome it, but I’m afraid that trust won’t arrive for some considerable time.”

  Admiral Mainwaring looked restive and was verging on angry at what he saw as a lecture; Founder Hergo was intent but obviously puzzled; and the other Zenobians present looked as though Daniel had lapsed into unintelligible singsong.

  Von Gleuck, however, wore a hard smile. He—alone at the upper table—understood what Daniel was saying.

  “Commissioner Brown found certain anomalies when he inventoried the records of his new posting,” Daniel said, gesturing toward the man as he spoke. Brown straightened when he heard his name, but he still looked like someone who was desperately trying to hang on to life after a fatal wound. “He brought them to me as a fellow Cinnabar official.”

  He grinned. The thought amused him, but he reacted openly because it struck him as politic to do so.

  “We were rather thin on the ground here before the Dotterel landed, you’ll recall,” he said. “At any rate, I put my staff to work on the question—”