"The Sundering" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter Jon)

SEVEN

Martinez was amused that Sula kept getting up during the night to plunder the kitchen. “Didn’t you eat at the party?” he asked.

“No. Want anything?” Smiling over her shoulder.

“No thanks.”

They weren’t actually dressed till noon, when they breakfasted on whatever food was left in the kitchen, plates and food strewn over a table ornamented by some distressed daffodils and supported by Sevigny caryatids with sagging breasts, knock knees, and goggle eyes. Sula commanded the windows to open, letting in the spring breezes.

Martinez always delighted in the first breakfast with a lover. From a state of pleased satiation, he could contemplate his companion in light of the fact that his knowledge of her had increased by a factor of six or eight or even a hundred. He knew where she was bold, where reluctant, where shy, where exuberant. He would know at least some of the secret places where she liked to be touched. He would learn how she liked to spend the time in between the courses of a night-long banquet of love—and in Sula’s case, that seemed to be with her head in the refrigerator.

And in the morning he would learn what a lover liked for breakfast. Alikhan knew to serve him strong coffee and smoked or jellied fish—he liked protein to start his day—but Sula preferred carbohydrates and sweets, flat wroncho bread with a chutney of plums and ginger, fried sweet goat cheese with a topping of strawberry jam, and coffee turned into a near-syrup with golden cane sugar.

Martinez was buoyant. Energy cascaded through him. He wanted to address the Convocation, command a battleship, write a symphony. He felt capable of doing all three at once.

Perhaps, he thought, he would sing an aria instead.Oh, the woman on the strand…

Sula’s comm chimed just as Martinez was on the edge of bellowing the first note. Sula spoke to the doorman, then went to the door to sign for an envelope from a uniformed functionary. She returned to the dining room and broke the seal.

Martinez’s nerves prickled at the possibility that a posting might take her away. “Orders?” he asked.

“No. The Blitsharts trial.” She stepped toward the open window and tilted the document toward its light. “I’m giving my deposition in three days.”

Martinez observed something glistening below Sula’s lower lip, a smear of the strawberry jam. He considered licking it off.

She slowly lowered the thick legal document. Her bright eyes had grown sober. “Therewill be a posting after the deposition, though. My month’s leave is almost gone.”

“Maybe it will be in the capital.” He grinned. “And if it isn’t, well,I have a month’s leave. I’ll just follow you.”

As she looked at him he saw the hint of sadness in her eyes. “If the Naxids don’t come,” she said.

“If the Naxids don’t come,” he repeated. She knew the odds as well as he. Thirty-five ships to twenty-five, with two of the loyalist squadrons being scratch forces, ships thrown together that wouldn’t normally serve in the same division. And the eight Naxid ships last seen at Protipanu were still unaccounted for.

“Do-faq was practicing the new tactics—ournew tactics,” he said. “Maybe he can convince Michi Chen. Maybe the two of them can convince the new fleetcom.”

“Do you think new tactics are enough?” Sula said. “Enough to overcome the odds?”

Martinez thought about it, then drew a breath. “We’d have to be lucky.”

Her jade eyes seemed to gaze through him into some deep abyss of time. “I wasn’t scared of the Naxids till just now,” she said. Her voice was strange, the languid Zanshaa consonants replaced by sharper accents. There was a flicker across her face, as if she’d just realized where she was; and her eyes focused on him, on the present. “I’m frightened of losing what we’ve just found,” she told him, the Zanshaa voice back. “I’m frightened of losingyou. ”

A slow, sad thrill rang through him like a chime. He rose from his chair and embraced Sula from behind, holding her close, her head lolled back against his shoulder. He licked the jam from her lower lip.

“We’ll get through it,” he said, making an effort to fight the tone of hopelessness that threatened to invade his voice. “I’m going to get a ship, and I’ll request you as a lieutenant. We’ll spend half each day plotting strategy in the recreational tubes, and the crew will spit with jealousy.”

A smile drew taut the sadness on her lips. The soft warmth of her hair touched his cheek like a caress. “I don’t even know why they’re trying to hold Zanshaa,” she said. “Not when there’s every reason to give it up.”

Martinez felt his mouth go dry. Cold, calculating energy sang through his nerves as he gave the expected reply. “Zanshaa is the capital. It’s the government. If Zanshaa falls the empire goes with it.” Even as he said the words he knew where the flaw in the argument lay.

“But none of that’s true.” Sula turned to give him a serious look. “The capital isnot the same as the government. The government—the Convocation and the senior officials—they can beanywhere. We should put them on a ship and get them out of the way of the Naxids.

“Right now the Fleet is nailed here defending Zanshaa against a force we can’t defeat. More ships are being built to replace our losses, but they need time.” She tapped a finger against his chest. “Time, in war, is the same as distance. If we draw our forces in toward our source of supply, we’re falling back on our own reinforcements. If the Naxids come after us, they’ll strain their lines of supply.” Her lips drew back to reveal her sharp incisors. “Particularly if we make certain that they can’t draw support from here, from Zanshaa.”

He looked at her. “How would you prevent that?”

Sula shrugged. “Blow the accelerator ring.”

Martinez gave an involuntary glance toward the ceiling, toward the silver accelerator ring that had encircled the planet for over ten thousand years.

“They’ll never go for that,” he said. “Zanshaa is thecenter. All the Great Masters lie in the Couch of Eternity here in the High City. If we start dropping bits of the ring onto the planet, that’sdesecration. The government would lose all legitimacy—no one would follow them.”

Martinez felt Sula’s muscles grow taut. “If we won the war, they damn well would,” she said. “It’s not as if we’d give them a choice.” She gently detached herself from his embrace and reached for her cup of coffee. “But that wouldn’t happen anyway. The ring isbuilt to be detached from the planet.”

“You’re joking,” Martinez said.

“No. I found that out when I was sent to guard a ring terminus just after the rebellion began—I checked the records to find out where the vulnerable bits of the terminus were. And I found out about the fail-safes built into its structure.” She sipped her coffee. “The engineers weren’t stupid—they wanted to be prepared in case something went wrong. They didn’t want the whole mass of the ring to come crashing down on the planet, particularly with antimatter on board. So the accelerator ring was set into an orbit where, if the cables were broken, the release of centripetal force would gently carry the ring away from the planet, not toward it.”

“But you’d have to break the ring into pieces.”

“Right. The engineers calculated exactly where the scuttling charges would have to be placed. And scuttling chargeswere there, heavily guarded, for years—until the Shaa were satisfied that the ring would stay where they put it.”

“What about the cables? If the ring slipped off the skyhooks, the cables would wrap themselves right around the planet…”

Sula dabbled plum chutney onto her flat bread. “The engineers weresmart. The cable termini are built with release mechanismshere, on the planet’s surface. The cables would be drawn up into space and we’d never see them again.” She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Imagine the Naxids’ surprise. They’d come expecting to land their government on the ring and take the elevator down to the surface—and they wouldn’t be able to get down to the planet! All their officials would bestuck up there, issuing decrees they couldn’t enforce, at least until they brought enough shuttles from Magaria to land their government.”

By this time Martinez had recovered from his slow surprise at this unorthodox notion and his mind had begun to grapple at its implications. “A hot reception could be arranged for them on the ground. I’d have thousands of soldiers guarding Zanshaa city.”

Sula seemed puzzled. “What good would it do? The Naxids would just flame your army from orbit.”

Martinez felt a triumphant smile split his face. “That’s exactly what they’d do—they’d flame any city—but not Zanshaa.They wouldn’t hit Zanshaa for the same reason thatwe couldn’t drop a piece of the ring on it—it would be a desecration of the most sacrosanct place in the empire. Flame the Couch of Eternity? The Convocation? The Great Refuge? The original Tablets of the Praxis?They wouldn’t dare. ”

A wild mirth brought blood mantling the surface of Sula’s face. “Your soldiers could hold out in the capitalforever!”

He shrugged. “For a long time, anyway. The Naxids would have to shuttle in enough troops to defeat them….”

“…And in the meantime the Fleet would be building its power off in the reaches of the empire.” Sula’s grin was gleeful. “Ready to come back.”

“Ye-es…” Further calculations shrank Martinez’s smile. “Except that the Naxids are building, too. They’d have to be.” He looked at her. “What will the Naxidsdo if we don’t fight for Zanshaa? If we blow the ring and withdraw? What could they do? Come after us?”

The green fire of calculation burned in Sula’s eyes. “They couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because they wouldn’t know where the fleet’s gone. Zanshaa has eight wormhole gates. If the Naxids plunge on ahead toward where theythink we are—even if they get the right wormhole—our fleet could still double back through another gate and retake Zanshaa. If they leave a smaller force behind to hold the capital, that force could be destroyed. They’d have to stay here.” She took a thoughtful nibble of her bread. “Yes,” she nodded, “they’d be stuck here.”

“In which case,” Martinez said slowly, “our forces wouldn’t have to just fall back and stay put. They could go on the offensive.”

Her face was a mask of concentration. “Yes. They could bypass Zanshaa and strike into the areas the Naxids already control. Disrupt trade, hinder resupply…”

“…destroy reinforcements and anything building in the shipyards,” Martinez added.

“While the main Naxid force is stuck at Zanshaa trying to find a way to fightyour army and secure the High City,” Sula said.

“…And after suitable havoc is wreaked, and the new loyalist elements assemble…”

“We rendezvous, return to Zanshaa, and take back the capital!” Sula almost shouted out her triumph. And then her exhilaration faded.

“But who listens to the likes of us?” she asked. “So far as we know, the Fleet is nailed to Zanshaa to defend or die.”

Martinez was mentally adding up the people who might be useful. Lord Chen, he thought, perhaps Lord Pierre Ngeni, the recently promoted Do-faq. Perhaps he could get Shankaracharya to contact his patron Lord Pezzini on his behalf.

And if necessary he could go to Lord Saïd. The Lord Senior had been present when he’d been awarded the Golden Orb, and they’d exchanged a few words—Martinez knew that the head of the government was a busy man, but he suspected that the Golden Orb might be able to win a few moments of the old man’s time.

“We should put together a proposal,” Martinez said slowly. “A formal proposal, listing all the options.” He didn’t want to spring an idea prematurely, before it was developed…he’d made the mistake of doing that with the new tactics, only to encounter ridicule.

Sula’s look was skeptical. “But who will ever read it?”

“I’ll think about that later. Proposal first.”

They cleared away the breakfast dishes, made another pot of coffee, and ordered the surface of the Sevigny table to brighten with its cybernetic options.

They would have to pare their ideas down to a manageable few.

It didn’t pay to be too imaginative in these matters.

Martinez, with Sula’s farewell kiss still tingling on his lips, walked toward the Shelley Palace at midafternoon, his mind saturated with a kind of awe. It was as if his brain had just discharged all its energy like a capacitor, and would require several hours to recover. He and Sula had been so perfect together, their minds working as if in tandem, one filling in details while another leaped ahead to the next point, then the two combining to collaborate on a particularly knotty problem. He no longer had any recollection which idea had occurred to which of the collaborators, it was all one smooth, perfect, ecstatic interface.

It was like wonderful sex. And this was inaddition to the wonderful sex.

He bounded up the stairs of the Shelley Palace as he hummed to himselfOh, the woman on the strand, and as he entered the foyer he encountered his brother. Roland was preparing to go out and gave Martinez a saturnine look as he shrugged into his coat and twitched the lapels into place.

“I’ve been working on family business all day,” he said, “and here you come loitering into the house in the middle of the afternoon reeking of sexual satiation.”

“It’s the uniform,” Martinez said. “The uniform works wonders on the ladies.”

“It seems to have worked its magic on that Amanda person, sure enough,” Roland said. “But you might oblige me by considering a more permanent liaison, as your sister’s done.”

Martinez, smiling to himself, decided not to correct Roland’s misapprehension about the woman with whom he’d spent the night.

“Whereis the happy bride-to-be, by the way?” he asked.

“At our lawyer’s, where I will soon join her.” Roland moodily studied himself in a glass, then twitched at his lapels again. “A few last little wrinkles of the marriage contract need to be ironed out.”

“I’ve been assuming the wrinkles on the contract are the whole point of the marriage,” Martinez said, “since I hadn’t till last evening actually seen the joyful couple together, or heard the groom so much as mentioned.”

“You would if you hadn’t spent so much of the last few days asleep.” Roland stepped to the front door, put a hand on the polished brass knob, hesitated, and then turned to Martinez. “But why be surprised that they don’t know each other particularly well? Why be surprised that marriage is about money and property and inheritance? Why else bother with it?”

“That carefree, fey romantic spirit of yours,” Martinez said, “will get you in trouble one day.”

Roland gave a grunt of annoyance and launched himself out the door. Martinez followed.

“So what gems are going to fall into our collective laps as a result of this alliance?” he said as he fell into stride with his brother.

“Lord Oda is the nephew of Lord Yoshitoshi,” Roland said, his eyes fixed forward. “Lord Yoshitoshi had two children—the eldest, Lady Samantha, has been disinherited for reasons that have never been disclosed publicly, but which are assumed to be…” He searched for words.

“The usual,” Martinez finished.

“Yes. The usual.” Roland frowned. “The youngest child and heir, Lord Simon, died at Magaria. That leaves Lord Yoshitoshi’s brother Lord Eizo as the heir. And Lord Oda ishis eldest child.”

“And the presumed heir to Clan Yoshitoshi. Very good. But presumably Lord Oda’s increased prospects didn’t escape the attention of other clans with eligible women. How did we happen to land him for Vipsania?”

Roland’s stolid face took on an expression of grim satisfaction. “Lord Oda’s only thepresumed heir,” he said. “The elder Yoshitoshis are very strict—remember the disinherited daughter? — and Oda’s got some younger siblings who want the title. Oda also has some debts he preferred his father and uncle not know about—”

“Debts?” Martinez began to choke on laughter.

“The usual.” With a sidelong smile.

“So you bought up his debts, and…”

“The debts will be canceled after the marriage ceremony,” Roland said. “The only thing holding us up was that Lord Yoshitoshi insisted on interviewing Vipsania personally. He let us know just yesterday that she passed her audition.” He smiled. “Now we’ll see how Vipsania runs a video company.”

Martinez tried to stifle his rising hilarity. “Video company?”

“Clan Yoshitoshi and its clients own a majority interest in Empire Broadcasting. That’s two entertainment channels, four devoted to sports, and one to information, broadcasting in all of forty-one solar systems not counting the ones the Naxids currently occupy. We’re going to ask Lord Yoshitoshi to let Vipsania run it. We think he will—he considers broadcasting a plebeian pursuit, nothing like the high culture here in the acropolis that really matters to him.”

Surprise quelled Martinez’s laughter. “Vipsania knows how to run a major broadcasting corporation?”

“She’llhire people for that.” Irritably. “The point is that she’ll be in a position to influence the public about…” He made an equivocal gesture with his hand. “…about whatever we think suitable. As, for example, why you aren’t being given a meaningful command.” He shot Martinez a shrewd glance from under his heavy brows. “You won’t have a problem with an adulatory documentary about your exploits, will you?”

Martinez felt a waft of pleasure at the idea, immediately followed by caution. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it won’t be the public who decides my assignments.”

“I’d prefer something more subtle myself, but we can always keep the broadcast in reserve.” Roland nodded to an acquaintance passing on the street. “The wedding will be very soon, by the way—we’re starting to get the point where I want to get as many of my kinfolk off the planet as possible.”

“I’ve been telling you that for over a month.”

Roland chose to ignore the comment. Passing down the walkway, he and Martinez negotiated their way through a pack of glits—fashionable, decorative young people who chattered their way past, leaving behind a waft of laughter and hair pomade. Glits had been in the mode before the Naxid revolt, but the seriousness of the war seemed to have suppressed them: these were the first Martinez had seen since his return.

“If only we can get you and Walpurga married before the time comes to leave,” Roland continued, after the glits had passed.

Martinez only smiled. Roland gave him a sharp look. “Do you actually have someone in mind? Someone who isn’t awarrant officer, that is?”

Martinez increased what he hoped was the mystery of his smile. “Perhaps I do. How are Walpurga’s prospects?”

“Nothing concrete, though there are a number of possibilities.”

“Get her and Vipsania and Proney and yourself off the planet. Do itnow, whether they’re married or not.” He tried to put all his urgency into the words. “Bad things are going to happen here. I think the Fleet’s going to get another pasting.”

Roland gave a grim nod. “Yes. I think you’re right.”

And where do your schemes go then?Martinez wanted to ask. But the words never passed his lips: he was afraid that Roland might admit that had been betting on the Naxids all along.

“Which brings us to the reason I’m following you down the street,” Martinez said. “I need an interview with Lord Chen, and I need it as soon as possible.”

Roland gave him a frowning look. “This isn’t about your posting, is it?”

“No. It’s about…” Martinez realized how absurd this sounded even as he said it. “I have a plan to redeploy the Fleet and save the empire.”

To Martinez’s surprise, Roland stopped dead on the pavement, then raised his arm and engaged his sleeve display.

“Personal and urgent from Lord Roland Martinez to Lord Chen,” Roland said. “I need you to meet my brother, and the meeting must be at once. Please respond.”

He lowered his arm and looked up at Martinez.

“Right,” he said. “Now it’s up to you.”

“And you developed this plan yourself?” Lord Chen asked. He had received Martinez—graciously, under the circumstances—in his garden, amid the scent of the purple lu-doi blossoms growing on either side of the walkway. The afternoon was well advanced, and the garden largely in shade, overhung by the sunlit, winged Nayanid gables. It was growing chilly.

“I—” Martinez hesitated. “I developed it with Lady Sula.”

Lord Chen nodded. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “Our two most celebrated officers,” he said. “That speaks well for these ideas. But you realize that this isn’t simply a military decision. It’s political, and of the highest possible order.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ithad occurred to him that the government leaving Zanshaa for the first time in twelve thousand years was very possibly an act of some significance.

Chen frowned. “I’ll send the plan to my sister, for comments.”

Martinez had hoped he would. Squadron Commander Chen had been orbiting the system for over a month now, staring into the oblivion of Wormhole 3, through which the Naxids would come from Magaria with annihilating force and missile batteries blazing. It was very possible that she would welcome any plan that would enable her to evade that confrontation.

“I’ll presume on Squadcom Do-faq’s patience and send the plan to him as well,” Martinez said.

“Very good, Lord Gareth. Ask him to copy any comments to me.”

“I’ll do that.”

A subtle smile played about Lord Chen’s lips. “Blow up the ring,” he said, half to himself. “The idea has a certain barbaric vigor.” He rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several clients waiting.”

Martinez pushed back the chair, made of a long spiral of wire, and stood. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Chen waved off the inconvenience with a movement of his hand. “I was happy to oblige your brother. Give him my best wishes when you next see him.”

Martinez turned at the sound of soft footsteps on the gravel walkway. He saw a young woman holding a tray with teacups and a teapot. She was tall and black-haired and wore a soft, nubbly suit of an autumnal orange, with a white rosette and its dangling mourning ribbons pinned with pleasant asymmetry to one shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said in a soft voice. “But I heard you had company, and so I thought…”

She made a subtle movement that called attention to the contents of her tray.

“That was very good of you,” Chen said. He turned to Martinez. “May I present my daughter, Terza? Terza, this is—”

“I recognize Lord Captain Martinez, of course,” she said. Her dark eyes turned to Martinez. “Would you like tea, my lord?”

“I…” Martinez hesitated. His meeting with Chen was clearly over, and it seemed absurd to stop for a cup of tea now.

“I can’t remain,” Chen said, “but if you’d like to share a cup with Terza, by all means stay.” He looked at Terza. “I have Em-braq waiting in the office.”

“I understand.” She turned to Martinez again. “By all means stay, if you have the time.”

Martinez agreed to remain. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. He had no idea who exactly had died, but there were many Peer families who were wearing white after Magaria.

She poured tea, the movements of her hands pale and elegant in the shadowed courtyard.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m told that he was very much admired by his crew.”

“I’m sure he was, my lady,” Martinez said.

“I see from the morning reports that your sister is marrying Lord Oda. Please give her my congratulations.”

“Oh. Do you know Vipsania?”

“Of course. Our families have been acquainted for some time now, while you’ve been off-world making your name.” She smiled. “Under the circumstances, we can’t expect you to know all your sister’s friends.”

Martinez raised the fragile tea cup with its leafy decoration—Sula would be able to tell him its lineage, he knew—and breathed in the smoky fragrance of the tea. He was about to remark that he hadn’t seen Terza at last night’s party, then realized she wouldn’t have attended, she was in mourning.

He sipped the tea to give himself time to think of an appropriately neutral remark.

“Lovely tea,” he managed.

“From our estate in the To-bai-to highlands,” Terza said. “It’s a first cutting.”

“Very nice.” He sipped again, the tea warming him in the growing chill.

Martinez left after half an hour with a vague memory of pleasant twilight conversation with a graceful, soft-voiced woman amid the fragrance of smoky tea and sweet lu-doi blossoms.

Had he met Terza a year ago, he reflected, he would have made a point of calling on her again. But now, as soon as the door of the Chen Palace closed behind him, his mind turned at once to Sula.

He had made plans to join Sula for dinner, then a show or a club. After which they would return to her apartment, the bed, and the scent of Sandama Twilight.

Once back at the Shelley Palace, Martinez started the water steaming into his bath, added a hops-scented bath oil, and then remembered that he intended to send a message to Squadron Commander Do-faq. Since there was a degree of urgency involved, he thought he’d better turn to the message immediately.

He brushed his hair and buttoned his uniform tunic, and faint alarm rang through him as his fingers missed the disk of the Golden Orb from its place at his throat. He checked his pockets, then remembered where he’d last seen the disk—dangling on its ribbon from the erect phallus of one of the Sevigny figures arched over Sula’s bed.

Well. It had seemed funny at the time.

Martinez decided to send the message without the medal. He sat at his desk and activated the camera set into the mirror, and composed a deferent, mildly flattering message to go along with the plan. “We would be interested in any comments you may care to make,” he said.

He watched his words print themselves across his desk, and he made a few changes, then rerecorded the whole thing, without the hesitations and with more polished phrasing. He appended a copy of the plan he downloaded from the sleeve memory in his tunic, then sent the message on. It would take three or four hours for the transmission to reach Do-faq where his squadron was zooming around the other side of Shaamah, and that there would be no reply till morning at the earliest.

His duty toward the salvation of the empire complete, Martinez stripped and settled himself into his bath. The scent of a hops floated to his nostrils. Steam rose. Heat soaked into his limbs.

He thought of Sula, the candlelight glowing on the curves of her body. The touch of her lips. The fine, mad frenzy in her eyes as she helped him draft the operational plan.

He wondered if it were possible to live any longer without these elements in his life.

The comm chimed, a two-tone effect in his bedroom and bathroom both. Martinez thought about answering, but didn’t. He decided he deserved a few peaceful moments in his bath.

The chime ceased. There were a few moments of silence, and then his sleeve comm chimed, a higher-pitched tone than the room comm. Martinez decided that whatever the message was, it wasn’t worth climbing out of the bath, let alone getting his tunic sleeve wet while answering.

There were another few minutes of silence. Martinez told the tap to turn on again and added more hot water to the bath. He’d closed his eyes and was on the edge of slumber when the heavy teak door of his room slammed open. The house trembled.

“Damn it, Proney, I’m in the bath!” he roared in his captain’s voice. These interruptions from Sempronia were becoming annoying.

If she started throwing things again, he thought, he’d make a fine sitting target in the tub.

“I’m not Sempronia,” said a frigid voice. Martinez looked up in surprise from his bath to see Vipsania standing in the door.

“Don’t you ever answer a page?” she demanded. “There’s an urgent family conference downstairs. It’s a crisis—a bad one.”

Vipsania turned and stalked away. “Marriage contract not going well?” Martinez asked after her, but there was no reply.

He toweled, threw on some casual clothes, and bounded down the stairs to find Roland, Vipsania, and Walpurga in one of the parlors. Roland turned his head as Martinez entered. His expression was grim. “Close the door behind you,” he said. “I don’t want anyone outside the family hearing this.”

Martinez slid the heavy door shut and dropped into a plush chair. Vipsania and Walpurga sat on satin cushions on an ivory divan, and Roland sat like an uncrowned king in a massive, hooded leather armchair. Vipsania turned to Martinez.

“I’ve just got a hysterical call from PJ Ngeni,” she said. “He’s received a message from Sempronia that she’s broken the engagement and run off with another man—with the man she loves.”

Martinez felt the slow, cold toll of doom sound through his blood. “Did she say who?” he managed.

“Apparently not,” Vipsania said. “We’ve been cudgeling our brains trying to think who it might be.”

“It hardly matters,” Walpurga said. “Sempronia isn’t of an age to marry without the family’s permission.”

Roland gave a furious little jerk of his chin. “So she’s run off with a man andcan’t marry him,” he scorned. “Is that supposed to make it any better?” His voice turned thoughtful. “If we sent police or private detectives after her, that would only make the scandal worse. Our only hope is a private appeal.” He turned to Martinez. “Do you have any idea—any idea—who it might be?”

“I’m thinking,” Martinez said, and what he thought was,Shankaracharya, you little bastard. He turned to Vipsania. “How was PJ?”

“Grief-stricken. In tears.” Her tone was disapproving. “It seems he’s made the mistake of caring for her.”

“Weall made that mistake,” Roland said grimly. He passed his hand over his forehead, as if swiping away any inconvenient sympathy. “We can’t afford to make enemies of the Ngenis,” he said. “They’re our patrons and are too critical to everything we hope to accomplish.” He turned to Walpurga. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re going to have to marry PJ, and soon. We can’t drag out your engagement as we could with Sempronia.”

Walpurga took this news with a long breath and a hardening of her dark eyes. “Very well,” she said.

Roland took on a calculating look. “The marriage won’t have to last long, I think. And then”—he offered a reassuring smile—“then we can pay off PJ and find you someone more to your liking.” With one hand he thoughtfully brushed the soft leather of his chair arm. “I’ll contact Lord Pierre and make the arrangements.”

Martinez felt his anger rise. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “The whole engagement to PJ Ngeni was afraud. Iknow it was a fraud—it wasmy fraud, Ithought of it.” He turned to Walpurga. “This was never intended to be a real marriage. You don’t have to do this—not to pay for Sempronia’s mistake.”

“Someone has to pay for it,” Vipsania said levelly. “Otherwise we’re disgraced in the eyes of all the highest Peers and of the Ngeni family.”

“The Ngenis will get over it,” Martinez said. “So will everyone else. They all know how much PJ is worth. All they have to do is get PJ drunk andhe’ll tell them himself. ” He pointed at Walpurga. “Iforbid you to marry PJ Ngeni. You’re worth twenty of him and you know it.”

A light flush dappled Walpurga’s cheeks. She looked down at her hands. “No,” she said. “It’s necessary. I’ll marry PJ.”

Martinez slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. The sound boomed against the paneled walls. He turned to Roland. “If you think PJ is worth so damn much,” he said, “thenyou marry him.”

A soft smile played over Roland’s lips. “I don’t think PJ has the proper hormonal bias.” He looked at Martinez. “You’ve got to stop thinking like a military officer, Gare. You can’t carry the High City by storm. You have toinfiltrate. ”

Martinez rose to his feet and took an angry step toward his brother. “What prize are you playing for? What is there in Zanshaa High City that’s worth selling your sister to PJ Ngeni?”

Roland’s chin lifted. “We’re playing for our proper place in the order of the empire,” he said. “What else is worth the game?” His mild brown eyes rose to gaze at Martinez. “And what about yourself, Gare? I haven’t noticed that you’re free of ambition.You devised this sham engagement in part to benefit yourself—and now it’s Walpurga who pays when it goes wrong.”

Fury blazed in Martinez’s blood. He took another step toward Roland and raised a fist.

Roland made no move, and he regarded Martinez with a kind of dispassionate, studious interest. Then Martinez turned to Walpurga, and he slowly lowered the fist.

“I’m not going to fight for you if you won’t,” he said.

Walpurga said nothing, just turned to Roland. “Make the call,” she said.

“You’re all insane!” Martinez offered, and stormed from the room.

He bounded up the stairs to his room, still humid with the scent of hops, and stalked for a long moment in a tight angry circuit at the foot of his bed. Then he raised his arm and triggered the comm display.

“Urgent to Lieutenant Lord Nikkul Shankaracharya,” he said. “This is Captain Martinez. You are to contact me immediately.”

The answering call came in a few minutes, and it was from Sempronia. Her narrowed eyes looked at him from out of the sleeve display.

“Too late,” she said.

“It’s not,” Martinez said. “Your arrangement with PJ was a joke—no one ever intended for you to go through with it. I don’t care what you do with Shankaracharya, and maybe even PJ doesn’t—but now that you’ve run off, Walpurga is actually going to have to go through withyour marriage.”

Sempronia gave a contemptuous little puff of anger through pursed lips. “Good,” she said. “Walpurga had no problem with PJ whenI was engaged to him—now lether entertain him for a change.”

“Proney—”

“I’m not your pawn any more, Gareth!” Anger came hissing off Sempronia’s tongue. “Youshackled me to PJ! Andthen you wrecked Nikkul’s career!” The display whirled, and Martinez saw a flash of ceiling, of floor, of a table behind which sat the wide-eyed, meek figure of Shankaracharya. There was the sound of something crumpling near the sound pickup, and then Sempronia flickered back into the frame, holding a large, official certificate, all gold ink and elegant calligraphy, that she brandished before the camera.

“There!” she said. “We’ve both been to the Peers’ Gene Bank! Our visit will be posted in the official record tomorrow. We can get married now.” She offered the camera a defiant glare. “You told me to help Nikkul choose another path. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“You can’t marry without permission,” Martinez said, fearing as he said it that this would only provoke another storm.

“Then the family will give permission,” Sempronia said. “Or if you won’t, then we’ll just live together until we can marry on our own.” She dropped the certificate out of frame. “The one thing you won’t do is stop us. Because if you interfere with our arrangement, people will start to hear about some of Roland’s dealings, particularly with the likes of Lord Ummir or Lady Convocate Khaa.”

Perfectly respectable Naxids,as Roland had called them. Martinez suspected others might disagree with Roland’s description.

“May I speak to Lieutenant Shankaracharya?” Martinez asked.

He heard Shankaracharya murmur something in the background, but Sempronia was quick to answer. “No. You may not. He actually respects you, but I know better. Comm: end transmission.”

The orange end-stamp appeared in the display. “Comm,” Martinez said grimly, “save transmission.”

He called Roland. “Sempronia’s with a Lieutenant Lord Nikkul Shankaracharya.”

Roland’s brow clouded. “Isn’t he one ofyour officers?”

“He’s Sempronia’s officer now,” Martinez said. “I’m forwarding you the recording of the conversation I just had with her. I suggest you pay particular attention to the threat she made at the end.”

He sent the recording, then erased it from his own array’s memory and blanked the display, the chameleon-weave fabric returning to its normal viridian green.

Martinez stood in the silence of his room for a long moment, his anger burning.Isn’t he one of yourofficers? It was becoming clear who was going to get the blame for Sempronia’s defection.

He decided not to stay around to wait for the blame to descend on his head. He changed into civilian evening dress, brushed his hair, and descended the stair in silence. The doors to the parlor were still closed, he saw; the family conference was still going on, with marriages and condemnation being assigned on every hand.

Martinez felt his spirits lift the second he was outside of the palace and into the mellow twilight. In the pre-dinner hour there was little traffic on the streets, and few walkers. A scattering of stars were visible in the darkening sky, and Zanshaa’s shadow had cut a wide slice out of the silver accelerator ring. A ship’s antimatter torch blazed directly overhead, brighter than anything in the sky, and heading—Martinez guessed—for Wormhole 4 and Seizho. Thoughts of Sula set his nerves tingling.

Martinez bought an armful of flowers from the Torminel pushcart vendor on the corner—a carnivore selling blossoms—then turned the corner and walked on to Sula’s building. She met him at the door of her apartment, fading surprise still in her eyes.

“You’re early,” she said. She wore a green Fleet fatigue coverall, apparently her usual dress at home.

“Sorry,” Martinez said. “I couldn’t wait.” He offered her the flowers. “I thought I’d replace those stolen daffodils.”

Sula looked at the extravagant bouquet with bemused pleasure. “You’re going to have to give me a lot more vases at this rate,” she said.

He stood in the hideous Sevigny extravagance of the front room while Sula busied herself filling some vases, equally hideous, that had been sitting empty on stands, intended apparently as objects of admiration. Fleet officers, raised in a tradition in which every object had its proper drawer or bay or locker, were a tidy breed, but Sula’s room was preternaturally neat: even papers with arithmetical jottings, worksheets from her hobby of mathematical puzzles, were squared neatly on a table, slightly offset so that the numbers on the upper right corners were visible. Aside from the vases with their flowers there was no indication that Martinez had ever been present in the room at all, something that sent a waft of depression sighing through him.

“I was just about to take a bath and change,” Sula said as she returned a vase to its stand.

Martinez brightened. “Would you like company in the bath?”

“Good grief, no,” she said. Martinez blinked in surprise.

And then, as if Sula had begun to suspect she’d been too blunt, she stepped close to him and put her arms around him. “My baths are for me alone,” she said. “It’s one of those things I’m fussy about. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Martinez said. How Sula’s standards of privacy could possibly have been maintained in the Fleet was something he couldn’t imagine.

He kissed her. “Would you mind terribly if I left my family and joined yours?”

She gave him a curious look. “My family’s dead,” she said.

“There are advantages to that,” Martinez said. “And in any case it’s you I want to join.”

Her expression softened. He kissed her again, and her hands cupped the back of his head to hold his kiss to hers.

Join Sula’s family? he thought.

He could. He believed he could.