A Prison Unsought (29 page)

Omilov snorted impatiently. “Of course they do. Didn’t the
briefings make that clear? They undoubtedly learned about it on Rifthaven.”

Eloatri gestured at the walls, now visible through a faint
holographic fog of stars. “The Eya’a can feel the captured hyperwave here on
Ares. They are trying to get to it. There is even the possibility that through
it, they are still linked to the Heart of Kronos.”

Omilov let out his breath, and he said hoarsely, “Now that,
I did not know.” Then a flood of questions spilled out of him. How did she know
this? Did the Eya’a have a sense of direction about the Heart of Kronos? Why
didn’t she know? Who did?

She was explaining about Manderian, the Dol’jharian gnostor,
when the annunciator chimed again and the hatch hissed open.

Eloatri recognized Omilov’s son, Osri; she was struck by the
lack of anger—once a constant—in his demeanor. The woman with him, in the
uniform of a Naval captain, took a moment longer: Margot Ng, the hero of
Arthelion.

“I know you didn’t summon me,
Father. Is this a bad time?”

Eloatri forestalled Omilov’s reply. “There’s nothing more I
can tell you,” she said to the gnostor. “You must speak to Manderian. I will
arrange a meeting at the Cloister.”

He nodded. “Very well, but please stay. I have a few more
questions you may be able to answer.” He turned back to his son and the
captain. “No, Osri, it’s no problem. The simulation is down. You really
couldn’t have picked a better time.”

“Father,” Osri said, “this is
Captain Margot Ng. You’ll remember I told you about the Tenno seminars she
organized. I’m attending them to help you with the hyperwave data.”

Captain Ng stepped forward. Eloatri was intrigued by her
grace.

“Gnostor Omilov, Yevgeny ban-Zhigel requested that I bring
you his greeting if the opportunity ever presented itself, so I prevailed upon
your son to make the introduction.”

Eloatri watched as the intricate ritual of introduction
proceeded, establishing, through mutual requests for information about related
third parties not present, the web of obligation that existed between Ng and
Omilov.
She is Polloi, but unlike me she
plays the game like a Douloi.

Then the gnostor drew her smoothly into the ritual, with an
introduction, and Eloatri found herself the focus of a pair of warm brown eyes
in an intelligent face.

“Numen,” said Captain Ng, “I’m
honored to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is mine, Captain Ng. But
if this is a personal matter, I can withdraw. I hope, however, that you will
find time to visit me at the Cloister sometime soon.”

Captain Ng gestured, the Douloi turn of wrist and fingers
including them all. “I only intrude for a moment, and on an entirely civilian
matter.” She inclined her head toward Omilov. “At least, it is my intention to
keep it civilian. You are acquainted with the Archon of Timberwell, gnostor?”

Omilov bowed his agreement, his bushy brows betraying faint
surprise. Then suddenly, perhaps unwillingly, he smiled. “Yes, and I’ve been
invited, and I’d intended to turn it down in favor of my work here.”

Ng’s amusement blended with sympathy. “I, alas, do not claim
acquaintance with the Archon, and would very much like an escort to help me
avoid the worst social blunders.”

What social blunders? Then Eloatri saw it: a civilian escort
would make very clear to Srivashti and his Tetrad Centrum Douloi guests that Ng’s
presence was a social one only. And, with deeper appreciation:
She is a realist, and a skilled one at
that—she must know that the gnostor was once tutor to the Panarchist heirs
.

Margot Ng watched Omilov closely. “You know why
they’ve invited my undeserving self,” she said, feeling that blunt honesty was
the least she owed him for putting him on the spot. “It’ll be a food-and-drink-disguised
interrogation on military subjects. Questions I cannot, and will not, answer. I’d
rather refight the Battle of Arthelion from a two-seater tug than go. But if
you—experienced with the weaponry of the Mandala ballrooms and salons—would run
shield for me . . .”

Omilov uttered a sniff, almost a snort, and smiled. There
was no mirth in that smile. But he said, “Were you planning to wear your dress
whites?”

“Yes. I was even going to break out
all the medals, to hide behind—no?”

“A gown. They’ve gone back to the
fashions of Jaspar’s day.”

“A
gown?
I don’t own such a thing . . .” The
implications began to proliferate, and she laughed. “Oh, yes. Oh, you are so
right. Do come with me? I couldn’t possibly be better armed.”

Omilov bowed with surprising suavity. “When you put it that
way, I should be honored.”

Eloatri observed that something in the cant of his head, and
the placement of his hands, made the captain’s smile widen almost to laughter.
Nothing was said, but they had all, with artistic finesse, conveyed to one
another their thoughts about the prospective entertainment.

o0o

Despite Vannis’s anomalous position as former
Aerenarch-Consort, she had so firmly re-established her position as social
leader that retrenchment, so necessary, was now the mode—and no one had to
admit how much of a relief it was.

A great deal of covert sharing was necessary for many, some
of it dictated along family or alliance connections, some by speculation. The Navy
had been neutral but firm about the limit on resources from the beginning, and
those who paid attention knew that the situation was only going to get worse.

So social activities, most offered by hosts and hostesses
who had been used to virtually unlimited resources, were now simple.

That said, Vannis reflected while inspecting the clever
alterations Yenef had achieved in what once had been a semi-formal dinner gown,
everyone without exception longed for a return to life as they knew it.

Thus, although Tau Srivashti’s reputation was sinister, and his
political position anomalous after losing Timberwell in all but title, when he
and Vannis declared their intention to host a reception for the heroic Captain
Ng, everyone in the civilian world wanted to be there.

Just as Srivashti had predicted.

Vannis did not have to do anything. Srivashti’s ship was a
mobile fortress, with enough supplies to sustain a siege for a significant
time. As soon as the word was out, Vannis had seen how everyone expected, anticipated,
craved the profligacy of the old days, even if only for a few hours.

Competition for invitations among the Douloi heightened to
duels of innuendo. To no avail. Vannis had given Srivashti her list of those
she felt ought to be invited, and he had his own list. They agreed not to
argue; the two lists were joined, and with one stroke, they created a new
elite.

And so she sat before her mirror as Yenef set gems into her
the elaborate coils of her hair, and prepared for battle on the grounds she
knew best.

At the same time, in her quarters, Margot Ng climbed into
the gown that Vice-Admiral Willsones’s niece’s partner had loaned her, and
headed out of her cabin with the air of one going to a court-martial.

Elsewhere, those Douloi lucky enough to be invited put on
the best clothes and jewels they had hoarded or borrowed (because tonight,
there was no pretense at retrenchment) and converged on the Cap.

The youngest of them, Dandenus vlith-Harkatsus, stepped off
the shuttle beside his father. He couldn’t believe it! He was actually on board
the Archon Srivashti’s fabulous glittership.

His father stood impassively, looking neither right nor left,
and Dandenus took his cue from that and kept his head still, though his eyes
flickered side to side, up and down, taking in everything possible.

The lock slid open, and they walked down a corridor that
made Dandenus breathe in ecstasy: one side opened over a drop of fifty meters,
the other displayed a long mosaic featuring mythological figures from Lost
Earth. Underfoot, a living carpet of mosses silenced their footfalls.

The yacht was much bigger even than any Harkatsus trade
vessel, and, Dandenus reflected in delight, probably faster and better armed
than any Navy frigate.

But he was careful to keep his reaction strictly to himself.
The other Harkatsus relatives distrusted the Srivashtis, with all the
resentment—so Dandenus had discovered since he started delving into the records—reserved
for someone who bests you in your own area of expertise. His father, however,
loathed the Archon with a depth that hinted at some other kind of defeat.

But they were
here
.
As relatives by marriage, they had been included among the select number chosen
to attend this party, and his father had said that to turn down the invitation
would be political as well as social suicide.

Dandenus wondered if he would see his mother at the party.
Though she spent the two months a year required by the marriage adoption treaty
at the Harkatsus family Highdwelling, Dandenus scarcely knew her.

Father and son rounded a corner, stepping under the leaves
of a gnarled argan tree. The silvery hand-shaped leaves were open toward the
light below, wraith-like and curiously supplicating. In the distance,
twelve-tone music played, so soft Dandenus could feel the bass notes more than
hear them, but the combined effect of this and the unidentifiable scents in the
tianqi stirred his neck hairs. Anything could happen here—and, remembering the rumors
whispered around school about his infamous relation-by-marriage, probably had.

They reached a platform on which stood the beautiful former
Aerenarch-Consort, Vannis Scefi-Cartano. Standing next to the tall, much older
Archon to greet the guests, she looked like somebody Dandenus’s age. Though
Dandenus had never actually met Tau hai-Srivashti, he’d seen plenty of holos.
He looked even taller in person, imposing in forest green and gold.

The Aerenarch-Consort murmured a polite greeting, then
turned to converse with the people who’d followed right behind Dandenus and his
father. Dandenus paid her no attention; he was fascinated by this man his
father hated worse than the Shiidra. Maybe even worse than the Dol’jharians.

And Tau Srivashti knew it. Appreciating the irony of the
moment, he held out both hands and said, “Kestian.” Srivashti’s voice was soft
but rough-edged, like a predator cat’s growl.

Dandenus stared in fascination as his father flushed, barely
touched the out-held hands and made a formal bow, which the Archon returned
with grace and a gesture of welcome that was disarmingly deferential. Then the
man turned to Dandenus, and ophidian-yellow met his.

Now it was Dandenus’s turn to stare with the fascination of
the rabbit before the snake.

The snake regarded the rabbit with surprise and pleasurable
anticipation: Kestian, ever awkward and sullen, had managed to produce a
handsome lad who struggled to mask his diffidence with a challenging lift to a
well-cut chin.

Srivashti’s smile widened. “Dandenus. I am delighted at last
to meet my young nephew. My sister has much to say in your praise.”

The words were the usual politesse you expected to hear, but
the soft voice conveyed a sincerity that warmed Dandenus despite all the
careful coaching and warnings he’d heard since the invitation came.

Hearing that low, caressing note caused Kestian’s insides to
gripe with fury, and deeper, deeper, a roil of old humiliation and desire. He watched
in impotent fury as his son performed the correct bow to one of superior age
and social standing, his hands at his sides, which would make claims of kinship
ambiguous.

That much Dandenus had been coached to do, but at the end he
could not prevent a return smile.

This seemed to delight the Archon. “Charis tells me you are
now the heir—that you were to make an early Enkainion?”

Gratification suffused Dandenus, though he struggled not to
show it. The words—
At home, we can make
our Enkainion at twenty-one, but only if we’ve earned it
—died unspoken.
Bragging was weakness, his father had told him over and over. Far better for
others to note your successes. So he said only, “I was to go to Arthelion.”

His brief response seemed to please the tall man, who asked
a few questions, still in that soft voice, about his studies. Dandenus was
careful to keep his answers brief and his tones neutral, and he sensed his
father’s approval.

Then the Archon—very nearly his uncle—turned to his father
and touched his sleeve, the gesture of intimates. “Let the young man wander
about. He’ll find compatriots his own age. As our guest of honor seems to have
wandered off, permit me to introduce you to her. You will have much in common.”

Dandenus watched his father’s gratified smile. Remembering
his father’s bitter warning that the Archon would scarcely notice them, he followed
the direction of the Archon’s gesture toward a woman his mother’s age wearing a
flowing, flame-colored gown. If that was Captain Ng, why was she wearing
civilian dress?

More significant, seeing that he’d been ordered to stay at
his father’s side while aboard the ship, was his father saying after the
briefest hesitation, “Enjoy yourself, son.”

Dandenus heard the
warning underneath the permission, bowed to the Archon first, then to his
father, and approached the grand stairway, relief shedding off him with every
breath. The hated Archon had been nice to him, and then had chosen to mark his
father out as a special guest by his promised personal introduction to Ng, even
adding a compliment about Father’s Navy years.

He wants Father as an ally,
Dandenus thought.
He wants me
as an ally.

Buoyed with a sense of self importance, he looked about him,
delighting in the way the glorious ballroom somehow implied vast spaces
impossible on anything smaller than a battlecruiser. Everything about him suggested
wealth, power, and fun, and its glory was his glory. As he descended the curved
stairway, Dandenus spotted a familiar face among the young people gathered
before a convex window that looked out at the distant stars: a pretty girl whose
blue hair matched her gown.