by David Weber
"Yes, I have, but you're not a Voice. And I've decided I don't like people who lie to me."
The second shot was just as noisy as the first one, and the second Sharonian fell diagonally across the body of the first.
"We can keep this up as long as you like," Neshok told the remaining prisoners, and nodded to Porath again.
"That won't be necessary," another Sharonian said. His face was hard with hatred, and he stepped forward on his own. "I'm the Voice."
Neshok looked at him for a moment, then glanced down at his PC again. This time, the crystal showed no flashing red, and he nodded slightly.
"And would you happen to be the only Voice?" he asked calmly, still watching the crystal.
"As far as I know, I'm the only one still alive, at any rate," the Voice said harshly, and once again the crystal remained clear.
"And who would this fellow have been?" Neshok said, nodding his head at the second dead man.
"Company-Captain chan Robarik," the Voice grated, and Neshok just managed not to curse. Just his luck. They'd actually managed to take the fort's commanding officer alive, only to have him get himself killed out of sheer stupidity.
"It's too bad you didn't step forward soon enough to keep him alive," he told the Voice.
"No Sharonian made you pull that trigger," the Voice said.
"You may have a point," Neshok conceded, then cocked his head. "Tell me, is it true that no Voice can communicate with another one through a portal?"
"Of course it is," the Sharonian replied.
"So you all keep telling me, and I suppose I have to believe you," Neshok said, glancing back down at his PC once more. "Still, it's probably best not to take any chances, don't you think?"
The Voice only glared at him, and Neshok shrugged. Then he raised the revolver again.
"Now," he told the other prisoners a moment later, his own voice sounding strangely far away and tinny through the ringing in his ears, "I trust the rest of you will see the wisdom of answering my questions promptly and thoroughly. If you don't—" he looked down at the three bodies sprawled grotesquely across the ground "—I'm afraid I'm going to have to reload, aren't I?"
'Chapter Thirteen
The parade, Kinlafia decided, was going to be just as incredibly gaudy as the Emperor had promised.
And my own modest appearance definitely contributes to the overall gaudiness.
He looked down at the sleeve of his coat and grimaced. The skintight trousers—only the tailors and the incredibly polite (if not overly impressed) valet had told him they were properly called "pantaloons"—looked (and felt) as if they'd been sprayed on. He could see why that style had gone out of fashion so many centuries ago; what he couldn't see was what lunacy had ever brought it back into fashion. At least the rigorous lifestyle of a Portal Authority Voice assigned to survey duty had kept him reasonably fit . . . unlike some of the courtiers and politicians, who looked remarkably like sausages stuffed into too-tight skins.
The boots weren't too bad, although he'd had no time to break them in properly and the gilded tassels with the diamond sets were a bit much. Then there was the single, elaborately engraved silver spur mounted on his right heel. And the full-sleeved silk shirt with enough ruffles and lace to have made him look like an irritated pigeon if not for the coat's confinement. Ah, yes, the coat. The thing had to weigh at least thirty pounds, and at least half that poundage was consumed by the layer upon layer of scallop-cut silk fluttering from his shoulders. Alazon had informed him that they were properly called "capelets," and he supposed he could understand why they were. Why anyone wanted to waste that much perfectly good—and hideously expensive—fabric on them was something else, however.
And then, as the crowning touch, there was the rapier. The never-to-be-sufficiently-damned rapier. Not only was the accursed thing a good four feet long, but it was also a genuine, tempered steel blade which dragged at his left side like an anchor and waggled around behind him like . . . like . . .
Actually, he couldn't think of a good way to describe it, he decided disgustedly. He didn't know enough cuss words.
One of the things he'd liked best about his survey crew duties was the fact that he'd never had to worry about formal clothing very much out in the wilderness. Sturdy denim trousers, boots, and a serviceable shirt—plus, of course, the pistol belt which was an essential fashion accessory—pretty much took care of the sartorial problem. Not only that, it kept him from feeling like a circus clown.
Unfortunately, his normal outfits would have been completely unacceptable today. Which, in his considered opinion, said something unhealthy about the mentality of high-fashion designers. But he was trapped on their turf, and his total lack of experience left him with no option but to rely entirely on the judgment of others. It was, he'd discovered, an uncomfortable feeling. Fortunately, he'd had Alazon to look out for him, and he had to admit that the tawny, almost amber-colored silk she'd chosen for his ridiculous coat was just as striking with the black "pantaloons" and gleaming boots as she and the imperial tailors had promised it would be. Now if only he could figure out what to do with the elaborate fall of capelets, the ridiculous rapier, and the ludicrous confection of silk, fur trim, sequins, and feathers which shared some distant ancestor with a Bernithian Highland bonnet.
He snorted a laugh and shook his head.
Alazon's position as Zindel's political chief of staff had turned her into a sort of auxiliary parade marshal. She'd been incredibly busy with last-minute details all morning, although two Voices could at least manage to keep track of one another much better than other people might have. In fact, Kinlafia had discovered that he always knew exactly where Alazon was, just as she knew where he was. That was one aspect of the bond which had leapt upon them so unexpectedly that had surprised them both. Indeed, both of them were still just a bit bemused by its strength and depth, and he knew it was going to take a lot of getting used to.
Kinlafia had always envied his married friends for the strength of their marriage bond. The one between Jathmar and Shaylar had been particularly rich, as any Voice would have recognized. But he already knew the one between him and Alazon would be even deeper, even more richly textured, for both of them were Voices, and he felt a tiny stab of something that was almost guilt as he thought about his murdered friends. It seemed . . . wrong, somehow, that their deaths had brought him and Alazon together.
Alazon Said gently.
he Told her.
< No, I've noticed that about you. You do appear to do things rather . . . impulsively, don't you?>
He Heard her mental gurgle of laughter and smiled. But then the smile vanished as she appeared at the top of the stair.
She paused in midstride, her head coming up, an
d he saw the color rising to her cheeks.
She shook her head and continued down the stair to him, and he never even saw Ulantha Jastyr or the other four people with her.
Whatever idiot had set the rules for designing male apparel for Empress Wailyana, someone else had obviously been in charge of designing female fashions. Or perhaps the empress had simply kept lopping off heads until she got a designer she liked. However it had happened, Darcel Kinlafia, for one, wholeheartedly approved the result.
Alazon was gowned in a deep, rich green which perfectly complemented her midnight hair and dusky-ivory complexion. It was an off-the-shoulder design, which emphasized her upthrust bosom and drew attention to her shapely shoulders and long, slender neck. A beautiful emerald necklace, with matching earrings and bracelet, glittered in the sunlight, the floorlength skirt was light and flowing enough to swirl around her long, shapely legs whenever she moved, and the gown was cut to highlight her tiny waist. Golden combs, set with more small emeralds, swept her hair back in a coiffure which managed to be simultaneously formal and yet gracefully natural, unlike most of the far more elaborate confections Kinlafia had already seen.
She reached the final step and crossed the marble palace sidewalk to him, holding out both hands. He took them, and discovered that the high heels of her court shoes canceled the usual difference in their heights. He found himself gazing deep into her gray eyes . . . which, he realized, was a dangerous thing for him to be doing if they were going to keep to the parade's rigorously planned schedule.
"Your vision can't be anything remotely like perfect," she said, freeing one hand to reach up and touch him on the cheek. "Your appearance, on the other hand, is. Perfect, I mean."
"And you think I have problems with my eyes?" He shook his head, smiling. "And even if you think I 'clean up pretty,' you'd better be ready to give me some advice."
"What sort of advice?"
"Like telling me how in all the Arpathian hells I walk with this thing!" He indicated the long, thin rapier sheathed at his side. "I've already tangled myself up in it at least two dozen times, stabbed a hole in the upholstery, eviscerated a couch pillow, and sent two underfootmen to the infirmary."
"You didn't!" she laughed, eyes dancing.
"Well, I'm not sure about the underfootmen," he conceded. "They might have hobbled off to heal on their own somewhere. But there are feathers all over my apartment, if you don't believe I've heroically slain that dastardly pillow."
He smiled back at her, then shook his head.
"Seriously. How do people manage these things?"
"Oh, Darcel, you poor man. We don't have time for deportment lessons. Let me see . . . oh, dear. Hmmm . . . All right, when you walk, you have to keep your left arm sort of clamped, like this."
She touched his wrist to move his arm into position, and a pleasant tingle seemed to radiate from her fingers. One which both of them resolutely ignored . . . for the moment.
"There. You keep this arm cocked, and that contains the capelets . . . unless the wind gets up, at least." She smiled and reached up to twitch the multiple layers of silk into order. "Then this piece goes like so, over this shoulder." She adjusted the richly embroidered sword sling over his left shoulder. "That helps with the capelets, too, and lets you tuck the sword hilt under this chain and keep it out of the way. You'll just have to pay attention to where the end of the scabbard is behind you, I'm afraid."
"Lovely. I'll probably rap an empress or a duke or president across the knees. Better yet, I'll get it tangled between their ankles and send them sprawling. That should be an impressive start to this new political career of mine!"
She spluttered with laughter again, then shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Darcel. I don't mean to laugh at you. I mean, I do, but—" She shook her head again. "It's just that most of the courtiers positively preen on occasions like this. They can't wait to get into fancy costume and show it off. And Earl Ilforth makes preening in his finery a permanent pastime. That's why it's so refreshing to find someone who actually hates court dress as much as I do."
His eyes widened.
"Why in the multiverse would you hate wearing a gown that makes you look like a goddess?" he demanded, and her entire face flamed at his simple sincerity. Then she surprised him with a tart rejoinder.
"Because it weighs about sixty pounds, the corset is made of steel, these stiletto-heeled shoes pinch my feet and make my calves scream, and the trailing skirts and these ridiculous, yard-long sleeves tend to snag on things—like other people's swords, three thousand year-old statuary, and the occasional rosebush."
"Oh." It was his turn to laugh. "Oh, dear. How are we going to get through the day in these things?"
"By gritting our teeth, smiling, and thinking very hard about long, hot baths and witch hazel for the chafed spots and bruises."
"Bruises?"
"You don't want to know," she assured him. "I did mention that the corset is made out of steel, didn't I?" She gave him a bright smile. "Still, at least we both have the comfort of someone to commiserate with now. And, speaking of 'now,' we really must get moving. The marshal's reserved a place of honor for you."
She hadn't been joking about his position in the parade, he discovered when they arrived at the designated float. The bunting-draped vehicle, drawn by a beautifully matched pair of gray Shikowr geldings, was smaller than many of the others . . . but it was also sandwiched between those of the Portal Authority's first director and the imperial family.
And, unlike First Director Limana or the Emperor's family, he had his float all to himself.
He turned towards Alazon and opened his mouth, but she spoke before he could.
"First," she said firmly, "it's far too late for us to be changing the order of the parade now. You're stuck with this one. Second, it was First Director Limana's suggestion that you be assigned your own float, and I think his instincts were right. And third, His Majesty wants your political career properly launched. In other words, there's no way out, so you might as well just climb up there, smile, and pretend you like it."
He almost argued anyway. Fortunately, his own sense of the ridiculous came to his rescue before he completed the process of making a fool out of himself, and he bent his head in submission.
"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.
"Good. Now, get!"
She made shooing motions with both hands, and after making certain he had the rapier throttled into at least temporary submission, he started obediently up the short, steep ladder.
He managed to make it to the top without killing himself or any innocent passersby, and settled himself into the surprisingly comfortable seat. For all intents and purposes, the thing Alazon had insisted upon calling a "float," was simply an unusually impractical and unstable carriage. Despite her assurances that even the two-wheeled floats like his "almost never fall over," Kinlafia felt more than a little insecure as he surveyed the world from his high perch. The fact that the float came equipped with a seat belt didn't exactly inspire him with confidence, either, although he felt profoundly grateful for its presence as he strapped himself securely in.
Once he was reasonably confident that he wasn't about to plummet to his doom, he drew a deep breath and looked around him at the assembling spectacle.
Since the still officially independent Kingdom of Othmaliz was this afternoon's host, the Othmalizi Army's marching band formed the parade's vanguard. A troop of the Seneschal's Own Dragoons followed, and was followed in turn by a company of Imperial Ternathian Marines, then a company of Uromathian infantry, one of Farnalian cavalry, and on and on.
The "floats" were interspersed among the marching and mounted formations, and the imperial family's was actually rather near the end of the entire procession. In fact, despite
the ruler-straightness of Emperor Daerha Boulevard, the official parade route, Kinlafia (whose vision really was as good as he'd told Alazon it was) found it almost impossible to make out details of the leading formations simply because of the sheer distance involved.
The floats also varied widely in size. Kinlafia's was one of the smallest; the imperial family's was undoubtedly the largest. Where his had only two wheels and was towed by a single pair of Shikowrs, the Emperor's float was a six-wheeled, articulated wagon towed by an entire six-horse team of tall, black Chinthai. The massive draft animals, descended from ancient heavy cavalry mounts, were taller at the shoulder than Kinlafia, and their flowing manes and tails had been elaborately braided and threaded with silken streamers in the green and gold of the House of Calirath.
Zindel chan Calirath himself sat on a throne which rose considerably higher than Kinlafia's, although the broader vehicle at its base promised greater stability. At least, Kinlafia certainly hoped it did. The thought of watching the future Emperor of Sharona plunge to his doom from a parade float left a little something to be desired from a public relations viewpoint.
Empress Varena sat beside him, on an equally elevated throne, and all three of their daughters were grouped around them on thrones of their own. It was fairly obvious from where Kinlafia sat that young Anbessa wasn't exactly enthralled, but it was equally obvious that her mother had "reasoned" with her to good effect. Razial, on the other hand, seemed excited, eager for the spectacle to begin.
And then there was Andrin. Kinlafia gazed at her for several seconds, trying to gauge her emotions from the set of her shoulders, the angle of her head. He couldn't. And yet, he could.
He grimaced and shook his own head. Was he really interpreting her emotions correctly? Or did he just think he was? How much of what he thought she was feeling was real, and how much was simply an echo of that devastating moment in which he had shared the Emperor's Glimpse?
No one could claim that your life's been exactly boring for the last two or three months, Darcel, he told himself. But the last thirty-six hours have to have established a new all-time record, even for you. A private audience with the Emperor, Alazon, an invitation to a quiet little supper with the entire imperial family, and then Her Imperial Highness Grand Princess Andrin.
