“He’s about to board the Star of Tanith for a trip to Beowulf to negotiate for more missiles – we’re running low, thanks to Spasso – and some prototypes of that atomic minefield of theirs,” Harkaman said with a grunt. “After Spasso’s attack, I’m giving building one for Tanith some serious consideration. I think we can still catch him, though . . .”
They did. It only took four or five minutes to track down the Minister of Commerce and former Wardshaven politician. He was at the spaceport about to board the shuttle to dock with the ship, already in orbit. Rathmore had been using the Star of Tanith more and more to further the goals of the Commerce Ministry, but Valerie couldn’t complain about his results. Business was booming. Arms, in particular.
“Yes, Highness?” he asked, looking slightly annoyed.
“Duke Rathmore, I know this sounds like a strange question,” Valerie began with a deep breath, “but it might just be very important. Were you with Angus of Wardshaven on a trip to . . . was it Joyeuse? Flamberge? Flamberge – sorry, I still get the Sword Worlds mixed up sometimes – were you with Angus when he made a trip to Flamberge, about . . . well, I guess it would be over thirteen, fourteen years ago?”
Rathmore looked surprised at the question, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yes, I was – one of my first jobs for the House of Ward was acting as an aide on that trip. That mostly meant arranging for drinks and dancing girls for the negotiators, but . . . why?”
“Do you happen to remember the genesis of the Tanith Adventure arising out of that trip?” Karffard asked.
“Yes, actually, that’s exactly where the whole thing began, in a restaurant in Renaud, on Flamberge. We were dining with three groups of aristocrats and businessmen, one from Flamberge and one from . . . Haulteclere, I think. What? What?” he demanded, as the faces on small council changed.
“Think back, very carefully,” Karffard said. “Try to remember who, in particular, brought up the subject of Tanith, in particular. And who recommended Harkaman as a captain.”
“Oh, that was one of the Haultecleran businessman, if I remember correctly,” Rathmore said with a huff. “It’s been a long time but . . . yes, it was some sort of importer from Haulteclere. Barry, maybe? Bart? Had a mustache and a funny accent . . . liked Gram pear-brandy a lot, I remember . . .”
“Bartee, perhaps?” suggested Karffard.
“That’s it!” Rathmore snapped. “Bartee! I do remember now, because everyone was joking with Angus about making himself king, back before anyone thought he might actually do it. He said that the Wardlands were too poor to consider such a thing. Bartee shot back that King Konrad – he’d just come to the throne, remember, and everyone was trying to get a handle on him – that Konrad was making money in tribute hand-over-fist, thanks to his cousin Viktor’s base on Xochitl. He started throwing around some very big numbers. That’s when Angus’ eyes kind of glazed over. All we had to do was finance and build a ship – one decent ship – and we there was a world for the taking. That’s when he mentioned Harkaman’s availability, and his familiarity with this planet.”
“So Bartee suggested it, and then . . . ?”
“Well, Angus didn’t think that the Wardlands could afford to build even one ship, at the time. He loved the idea, don’t mistake me, but Ffayle’s dad was screaming about the costs and how frivolous it was, and how it was a risky scheme. Bartee said he could probably come up with some loan guarantees through Haulteclere, at least some seed financing, in return for mutual use of facilities and other fairly innocuous considerations. That would be enough to get the landing legs of the Enterprise built – that was Andray Dunnan’s ship, or the one he stole, at least, Highness,” he explained.
“I’m familiar with it,” she murmured. “So Bartee suggested Angus build a ship and then a base and start cashing in on the ruins of the Old Federation, and even put up some seed money? And that would be enough to set him up as monarch?” she asked, incredulously. “And all he wanted was trading rights?”
“Actually, that’s pretty much how it worked out,” Rathmore pointed out. “Except that Dunnan shot up Trask’s wedding and stole the Enterprise, Trask traded Traskon for the Nemesis, and took Tanith instead of Angus. If Angus had owned the Nemesis . . . well, things would have worked out a lot differently. As it was, we had to call on those original loan guarantees after the Enterprise was stolen. No one anticipated that. But they were pretty generous about it, if I recall. We paid them back, of course, as soon as the Tanith Adventure was solvent again.”
“Thank you, Duke Hugh,” Valerie said, graciously. “You’ve been most helpful. Good luck on your trip – and please extend my regards to President Pinrose, if you would.”
“My pleasure, Highness,” Rathmore said, formally bowing to the screen, before cutting it off.
“There you have it,” Dawes said, disgustedly. “Who puts Angus up to a base on Tanith? Bartee. Who convinces Viktor that invading Gram is in his best interest? Who funds Spasso’s attempts to take over Tanith? Bartee. He’s behaving with all of the ruthlessness of a Sword World aristocrat—”
“And all of the guile and sophistication of an Old Federation great power,” finished Valerie. “And now we know why. Someone in the Federation is trying to create the proper conditions for a Sword World invasion. This Bartee . . . he doesn’t like the Great Powers very much. He’s got to be the one behind this. And apparently behind Spasso’s latest putsch. But its all part of a vendetta against the Old Federation . . . from the Old Federation.”
There was silence in the room as they all tried to comprehend an idea of that magnitude.
“That’s . . . that’s just crazy!” Harkaman finally managed. “That’s crazier than Andray Dunnan thinking he could take over Marduk!”
“Which he very nearly did,” reminded Valerie, quietly. “Gentlemen, every time I think we understand our position, it keeps getting murkier. Every time we think we know who our enemies are, it turns out that there are other hands holding their strings. I want to make it a priority to discover just whom among the Great Powers is behind this . . . this plot. And I’m starting to think,” she added as she stared at the star map’s twinkling lights, “that it isn’t just our own world at stake here.”
Chapter Ten:
The Winter Ball
The Grand Concourse of Rivington’s spaceport had been originally designed as the bustling hub of commerce and transportation of a bright, up-and-coming world. It had grand vaulted ceilings that rose a hundred feet in the air, and before Tanith’s fall into barbarism there had been chandeliers and statuary tastefully decorating the concourse.
Then there had been centuries of neglect and decay. The chandeliers were long gone by the time the first Space Vikings landed. The statues had been destroyed or carted off to serve as idols in shrines and temples. The stately paneling had been ripped out or destroyed by fire. All that had been left had been debris and refuse, and plenty of wild creatures who found the ferrocrete shell a snug residence.
But after Lucas and his men had restored her, the Grand Concourse was once again grand. It had served as a public meeting place during Tanith’s early years, one of the few indoor spaces large enough to address a thousand or more men at once. While the wooden paneling was long gone, artisans had replaced it with colorful mosaics, including one reproducing the beautiful work at the Trask Shrine.
There were displays of artwork by schoolchildren and masterpieces looted from other worlds. There were buffet tables and serving robots stocked with delicacies from Tanith, Khepra, Beowulf, Amateratsu, Marduk, and the Sword Worlds, including a freshly-slaughtered Gram Bisonoid, cooked in the traditional style. The robobartenders were stocked with expensive Lyran Spirits, Gram Pear-Brandy, Morglayan bourbon, and even some locally-made liquors. The floor was strewn with tropical flowers imported from Cavendard, the little settlement in the southern hemisphere, now grown to a population of over four thousand in the half a year it had been reclaimed.
And by the night of
the Winter Ball, the chandeliers were back: commissioned by Baron Basil Gorram, and designed by Stan Dawes, there were three elaborate structures of crystal and light the size of combat cars floating overhead on their own contragravity devices, designed to move and undulate according to random patterns. The result was utterly breathtaking.
A stage had been erected along with a massive viewscreen. In front of it were set two thrones, with Lucas’ crown placed on the seat of his. Valerie hated running court herself, but it couldn’t be helped. Lucas was still missing, and she could not bring herself to consider the possibility that he might not be coming home. Not yet. She couldn’t do that to herself or Elaine, or the people of Tanith.
Rivington was blessed with relatively mild weather that night, and by the time her aircar arrived at the spaceport, the Grand Concourse was already packed with fur-clad aristocrats, businessmen, and the diplomatic corps, plus hundreds of wounded Space Vikings for whom this ball was a benefit. There were also hundreds of children present, the orphans of those who had lost their fathers on distant worlds. To them this was merely the grandest party they’d ever seen, after days of fighting and combat spent huddled in bomb shelters. They’d already mostly forgotten about the attack, Valerie realized. The resiliency of the child’s mind never ceased to amaze her.
“Highness,” Sir Alexi, her chosen bodyguard for the evening, said as they were descending to the landing stage designated for their use. “Message coming in from Minister Karffard.”
“I’m almost down,” she grumbled, adjusting the pesky Shawl of State on her shoulders, “can’t it wait five more minutes?”
Sir Alexi paused as he relayed Her Highnesses’ request into his helmet radio. His eyes opened wide. “Highness, he says it concerns Prince Lucas!”
“What? Well put him through! Instantly!” she demanded. Her heart quickened – would this be good news? Or the worst news of her life? Valerie wasn’t sure which would be more emotionally powerful, but she had silently been gnawing at herself with worry over poor lost Lucas, and she had to know if she was a widow . . . or just waiting.
Karffard’s increasingly broadening face filled the tiny viewscreen. He was in some office, she saw, although the screen was so small – and the Minster of Everything was so large – she couldn’t tell which one.
“Duke Alvyn. You have news of my husband?”
“Highness, as you know the Duchess of Wensley from Marduk via Gimli made its scheduled stop in Rivington this morning,” he began. “More political exiles, of course, and plenty of cargo from your homeworld. But also word from our . . . friends in the Mardukan military in the form of the new Military Attaché. They forwarded this tape to me. I think you need to see it at once.”
“Go ahead, Minister. I’m watching,” she said, uneasily.
Ten minutes later there were tears in her eyes – tears of rage. “They dare!” she said, hoarsely. “Very well, Minister. We’ve just arrived at the spaceport for the Ball – can you join us shortly?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I change,” the rotund spymaster sighed. “I’m not a great dancer, though, you should be warned.”
“Somehow I think by the end of the night that dancing will be the last thing on anyone’s mind,” she said, grimly.
As this function was Countess Dorothy’s personal project, she found one of the Minister of Health’s aides waiting patiently for her to exit the aircar. She was a young, high-energy medic in a formal Mardukan gown, holding a clipboard and trailed by a shiny clerical robot bearing the caduceus-and-trapezoid arms of the Royal Health Service.
“Highness, thank you so much for coming!” the woman began with affected enthusiasm as she executed a low bow. “We’re delighted that—”
“Stop,” Valerie ordered. “What’s your name?”
“If Your Highness pleases, I’m Senior Surgical Technician Cindy Calderon,” she explained blushing. “I’m in charge of ensuring you make it to each point on your agenda, this evening, beginning with the opening ceremonies and—”
“Well, Senior Surgical Tech Cindy Calderon, I’m in charge of running a planet at the moment, and due to urgent matters of state your agenda is now worthless. I need a conference room, secure, with secure screen access and room for at least six or seven. And I need it in five minutes. For a war council meeting.”
“But, Your Highness,” the girl nearly sputtered, blushing. “If you will please take a look at the—”
“Sir Alexi,” she ordered, “take this nice young lady and help her do as I require, please.”
Alexi Karvall, at least, knew who his boss was, and it wasn’t a clipboard. He firmly took the pretty young functionary by the elbow and began leading her away, much to her confusion.
“This way, Mademoiselle Calderon,” he insisted, gently. “The Princess has given us a command – all we need do now is follow it. Is that not simplicity, itself?”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Alexi,” the girl said, still confused, “I thought she’d start by judging the children’s –”
“Mademoiselle, that is a lovely gown,” Valerie heard the adept young knight say firmly. “It would be a shame to ruin it if I had to shoot you through the leg to secure what is required within the brief time allotted. I’ve done it before. The Princess made a request for a conference room in five minutes, one of which has already expired. I don’t plan on admitting failure . . .” he said, as he nearly dragged her away.
Valerie smiled despite herself. Karvall was quite persuasive, she knew, and extremely handsome besides. If that over-eager young twit didn’t have the wit to realize an opportunity to get to know a handsome young knight in the Royal Guards, she didn’t need to be working for Tanith.
“My Princess,” Otto Harkaman boomed, meeting her at the stage a moment later, Countess Dorothy right after him, along with two Royal Navy troopers in dress uniform. “What a splendid dress! You look like the Queen of Winter, herself!”
Valerie looked down at the custom-made dress. Lady Ashley, who was in charge of Princess Elaine tonight, had picked it out from a microbook and had it fabricated to her dimensions, and it was beautifully stitched. It was made of some unbelievably-soft material, in shimmering white punctuated with sapphires at the collar and wrists, and ran from her throat to her heels, cut to fit her waist – now almost recovered from pregnancy, thanks to her daily work-outs with her hand-to-hand instructor. It was designed to display her feminine charms elegantly but forcefully. A beautiful sapphire necklace, a gift from Nikkolay and Cecelia, sparkled brilliantly, and her blue-and-white Shawl of State was stretched across her shoulders. Over that she wore a voluminous white fur, and the entire thing was topped with her silver-and-sapphire crown.
It was noteworthy that despite her elegant attire, she had not dressed without arming herself. Her silver dress dagger was worn openly, on her left hip, and on her right was her argentium-plated side-arm. She rarely appeared in public without it anymore. Not that she expected to be in a fire-fight, but she realized that carrying it not only made people take her more seriously, it also reminded them that the Realm was at war. She had almost not worn them this evening, since it was a time of celebration and reverie coinciding with the local Winter Solstice – a big holiday for the Tanith natives, apparently. But she wanted to send a message to her people, that even in the midst of celebration that Tanith needed to be girded for battle.
An odd thing for a former elementary-school teacher to promote, she realized. But if she had had any misgivings about wearing her dagger and pistol, the audiovisual message from Marduk had cured it.
“Thank you Duke. Lovely evening you’ve put together tonight, Countess,” she added, as the Royal Physician curtsied. She wore a stunning gown of Tanith blue, one cut like a Sword World gown, Valerie noted, but with cleavage that would scandalize any of the conservative notions of propriety the Sword Worlders held. She’d even adopted the pesky Sword World custom of wearing a shawl at formal occasions. That was one fashion Valerie devoutly wished would fall out
of style.
“Thank you, Highness,” she said, smiling. “It’s a welcome relief after three days buried in wounded. Thank Ghu the emergency medical bays are on the other side of the spaceport, or the whole event would smell of disinfectants and . . . other hospital smells,” she continued, realizing that a formal ball wasn’t quite the place to expound on just how disturbing a field hospital was.
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but I had to commandeer your aide for a moment,” Valerie explained. “Minister Karffard just received important news. I want to meet quickly before the ball with my principal advisors to prepare a response. Karffard tells me he can keep Paul Koreff from running it as a news story for a few more hours, but not much more.”
“Oh, Paul would pull a story for you if you want him to,” Harkaman said, defending his old Signals-and-Detection officer. “Since he went off to become Tanith’s media magnate, I haven’t seen him much, but I can’t imagine he’d refuse a request from an old shipmate . . .”
“That’s not the issue, Duke,” explained Valerie. “This story will get out. It’s not secure. All Karffard has done is buy us a little time to get in front of it and try to control the situation. Ah, here comes Sir Alexi and Miss Calderon now.”
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