A Prison Unsought (45 page)

“Who
is that out there?” Basilea Risiena interrupted herself, glaring out the window.
“Disgusting louts! As I was saying, Osri, I’ve tried again and again to get the
barest modicum of cooperation from him, and I must add that you could so easily . . .”

Osri reviewed his list of things to be done as soon as he
could escape. Belatedly he heard the rise in pitch that indicated question. “ .
. .but of course you see him every day, don’t you?”

Him?
My father.
“Well, yes,” Osri said, looking past his mother at his oldest half-sister, who
lounged on a couch, glowering the exact same way she had when they were small.

Pomalythe sighed. “Who
else have we been talking about?”

By my count you’ve
been complaining about half a dozen people since my arrival.
He turned back to
his mother. “He never has time for anything not directly bearing on the assignment
he received from Commander Nyberg.”

Basilea Risiena glared at her son. Another secret? Fury
burned through her, as Osri added the old escape, “It’s classified.”

“Both
your lives seem to be classified,” she retorted, angered even more by the way
he edged toward the door.

“I
have my own duties to keep me busy,” he began.

“Oh,
no, you don’t. I found out when your watch is.” Basilea Risiena slapped her
hand against the door, the rings hooked through her long nails clattering
against the wood.

Osri backed away, repelled as always by her penchant for
fashions that ripped and tore.

It brought him near the window, which he glanced out of,
wishing for escape. The teens were a mix of Douloi and Polloi, playing some
kind of game with hand paddles and darting pods. One moved deliberately into
view, a slim redhead, a familiar dog leaping into the air to try to catch the
pod.

Ivard. But he looked different, somehow, as he beckoned to
Osri.

Basilea Risiena said, “Poma! Tell Kuld to run that rabble
off.”

“Oh,
Mother,” Pomalythe whined. “He won’t. It’s a public green, that’s what those Marines
said when I tried to get rid of those religious nullwits, with that hellish
chanting.”

“Osri,”
Basilea Risiena said, showing her teeth. A wink of golden enamel inlay gleamed
off a canine. “You can manage to pay attention. You’re worse than Sebastian,
who . . .”

His mother was now launched onto Osri’s rotten upbringing, a
topic (he knew) that could consume hours—unless one surrendered and gave her
what she wanted. So what did she want?

Basilea Risiena and Pomalythe were gowned as if for a formal
garden party. Did she try to force her way into some titled person’s house?

“. . . dreadful
old woman who calls herself Numen, but who’d do better in life, I should think,
as a doorstop. My legal spouse, and I cannot even exchange so much as a word . . .”

She’s trying to get
Father’s attention—and has had even less luck than I’ve had.

“. . . even
see the musicians, much less properly hear them. And you know that your sister
is musically sensitive, much more than most people on this station, and would
in fact have been a master performer had she had the time to take lessons—”

Brandon’s concert.
Osri glanced overtly at his boswell. “Mother, I apologize, but I have an
appointment with the Aerenarch himself. I will be late if I don’t leave at
once. While I am there, shall I ask him to include you in his party?”

His mother’s mouth opened, showing some very exotic dental
art. Poma smirked.

Basilea Risiena was even more frightening when gracious.
“Well, dear boy, for such exalted company, even a mother must give way. As for
your offer: do. Not, you understand, for myself, but for your sisters, who . . .”

A step back, another, a few more assurances that he was
serious, and he was out the door, breathing deeply.
Let Brandon handle her. It’ll be good practice,
he thought,
skirting the edges of the game just as Ivard ran flat out toward a knot of
players. The pod darted near him, and with a mighty swing of his paddle, he
sent it across the sward to tangle in Osri’s feet.

The velocity carried Osri over. He fell into a thick shrub,
the pod caught under him, its gravitor whining as it tried to rise.

Cursing, Osri pushed aside leafy fronds, hoping they
wouldn’t stain his uniform. A small, square hand appeared; he grabbed it, and
with surprising strength Ivard pulled him to his feet. Osri sucked in breath
preparatory to a heated reproach, but held it when Ivard whispered, “Shh.”

This was no longer the half-crazed, sickly youth Osri had
seen aboard the
Telvarna
. Even the
ugly freckles and pale skin had somehow merged into a healthy brown.

“Promised
Vi’ya I wouldn’t tell Jaim or the Arkad, because she doesn’t want to interfere,
because it’s dangerous to us, but I overheard someone talking about a regency
council, and I think the Arkad should know. You tell him?” Ivard raced through
the words, the pitch barely audible, as he helped Osri brush leaves and dirt
from his uniform.

Osri’s head buzzed. “Uh. I . . .”

Ivard picked up his pod and bounded away, launching himself into
the game as though nothing had happened.

All the way to the Enclave Osri debated telling Brandon. He
dreaded making a fool of himself by repeating Rifter gossip. And wouldn’t Vahn
and his security team know about something that important?

As he trod the path to the door, Osri decided he’d mention
it only if there was an opportunity.

He found Brandon alone, moving restlessly around the plush
outer chamber with its sunken couches, back into the library, across to the
informal entertaining area called the garden chamber, and then circling back
again. Vahn sat in the alcove, busy at a console.

But he wasn’t oblivious, Osri knew, and so he made a correct
bow, lieutenant to civilian of the highest rank, as they exchanged greetings.
Brandon’s restlessness had to be caused by his impending concert. It certainly
couldn’t be the prospect of toughing his way through the Naval Academy exams,
which were difficult even for those who had completed their course of study.
Though Osri had been sent specifically to administer the tests, he couldn’t
believe that Brandon was actually going to go through with them.

Osri was never going to get Brandon more alone than this. He
said reluctantly, “Before we start, I have a favor to ask.” As Brandon’s
expression smoothed into the bland mask Osri had always hated, he added, “I
should say I feel constrained to ask.”

Brandon opened his hands. In his driest, flattest voice,
Osri relayed his mother’s request; he was relieved when Brandon laughed and
said, “Done. Easily done. I’ll take care of it.” That would have been the
opportunity to bring up Ivard’s gossip, but then Brandon said immediately
after, “Can we get started?”

“I’m
ready,” Osri replied.
He really does want
to take the tests. Why don’t I just leave the political gossip to those who
earn their pay filtering such stuff?
Relieved, he followed Brandon into
library, where he made a check of Brandon’s console. He cleared it, then
inserted his chip, calling up the first test.

“These
are timed,” he said.

“I
remember the routine.” Brandon’s smile was wry as he sat down and flexed his
hands. This was the cause?

Why the nerves
? Two
weeks of review even from a genius does not give one mastery of these courses
.
Osri could not imagine why Brandon followed this whim now, here, at Ares.

A sudden regret for ten years of sybaritic sloth would not
score well—and there was no place for titles or names on the tests. The
Aerenarch’s scores would be compared to the scores of the year’s cadets, and
not just those of the small group of cadets up in the Cap who had taken the
same tests the day before.

“Begin,”
Osri said, moving out of Brandon’s field of vision so that he could
concentrate.

Osri stood at the garden door looking out, tempted for less
than a heartbeat to ask Vahn about Ivard’s gossip. Extreme reluctance to be
perceived as officiously probing into the security team’s business was only
slightly less horrifying than embarking into political gossip—a subject he’d
ignored so thoroughly that he knew, and relished, his own ignorance.

Surely Vahn and his team knew everything and anything
pertaining to Brandon’s position as well as his personal life. Moreover, he
couldn’t imagine why overheard gossip would be
dangerous
, but then Vi’ya was a Dol’jharian. They surely considered
everything in terms of force.

A quiet step brought Osri’s attention back. Vahn stood at
the inner doorway, out of Brandon’s vision. He held two mugs, his eyebrows
telegraphing a silent query.

Osri hit his boswell.
(Whatever
it is, I’ll have some. Thanks.)

He stepped soundlessly to the doorway, where Vahn handed him
a warm mug. The welcome pungency of real coffee met Osri’s nostrils, and he
breathed deeply before sipping.

“Standard
Series?” Vahn murmured, tipping his chin in Brandon’s direction.

Osri nodded, and both glanced into the library at Brandon,
utterly absorbed in what he was doing. Osri suspected he wouldn’t notice if a
bomb went off right under his chair.

“Heard
it’s a tough one,” Vahn said.

“I
can attest to that.”

Vahn hefted his coffee. “Here’s to his success.”

Was there an edge to the words? Osri considered Vahn, whose
face was utterly bland as he turned away and retreated back down the hall.

With a mental shrug, Osri moved to one of the guest consoles
in the alcove, from which he could see into the library in order to maintain
his duty as proctor. He may as well get some of his own work done, he thought,
using his boswell to relay his ID, then dropping one of his personal chips in.

The time passed swiftly. While Brandon silently took test
after test, Osri scanned the assigned work of one of his classes, and got three
responsive lectures roughed out.

The Aerenarch never spoke once, not even to ask a question.
At the end, he got up from the console and moved straight to the dumbwaiter. As
he drank down some dark liquid, Osri shut down his work and retrieved the test
chip. “I’ll send your standing in the mail,” he said. “It won’t take long.”

“Thanks.” Strain
narrowed Brandon’s eyes, and once again Osri wondered why he had put himself
through it.

Hopefully he won’t
humiliate himself with a total failure, but even if he manages to do a
creditable job, where will it get him? There is no possibility Nyberg will
commission him now,
he thought as he entered the tube.

His mind returned to those lectures he’d roughed out, and he
added several points via his boswell as the tube shot up to the Cap.

Osri was passed through the checkpoints, all the way to
nosebleed country, the Phoenix-level senior officers’ wardroom, where Commander
Y’Mandev had said to meet.

He was surprised to find it crowded, though it was the end
of the afternoon watch. A party atmosphere prevailed, but as soon as he walked
in, conversation stopped, and he thought,
They’re
waiting for me.

Captain Ng got up from her chair and held out her hand.
“I’ve been officially appointed stand-in for Y’Mandev. I was to tender his
apology, and say that not even an Aerenarch could keep him from the rack,” she
said.

Laughter rippled around the room, but it did not abate the
air of expectancy.

Ng cast a wry glance at the other officers, then motioned
for Osri to go into the console cubicle adjacent to the wardroom. In silence
Osri stood at the back while Ng started up the console. She keyed in the codes
for the test evaluations, then took the chip from Osri.

The evaluation did not take long. Quite properly Osri waited
at the back, out of sight of the screen. Instead, he watched Ng’s face, his
heart rate unaccountably accelerating. The woman’s fine brows arched and her
lips pursed. Some of the silky short hair swung forward, hiding her eyes. She
reached for a printout and scanned the sheets as they came out.

“Well,”
she said at last. “Well, well, well.” She looked up at Osri and held out the
top sheet.

Osri took it, his eyes moving so rapidly over the page, he
had to go back and start again. The scores were high, the top percentile in
every field.

“He
ranks second for the year, Omilov,” Ng said. “Not just our group here on Ares,
but for the Academy—three tenths of a point behind Tessa Chang.” Osri
remembered the exceptionally gifted ensign who had been commissioned very
young—and who had died aboard the
Korion
.

And he could not hide his astonishment. He flipped through
the pages, looking through Brandon’s work. Even at a glance he could see
elegant solutions to justly infamous problems in the math section, and as for
the tactical section, it was obvious he had not just gotten lucky; he had drawn
on a vast store of knowledge.

Finally he looked up at Ng, who sat on the edge of a chair,
her smile acid. “I wondered,” she said, “if Warrigal was training him privately
in the new Tenno, on her own time.”

Osri suppressed a jolt of the old disgust, and Ng recognized
the affront in Osri’s tight upper lip and the contraction of his heavy brows.
“Omilov, if you’re thinking he used his position as constraint, remember this
is Warrigal we are talking of. She wouldn’t know an Aerenarch from an
under-cook. That is, civilian rank means nothing to her. But talent, that would
bring her out of her citadel of numbers. Brandon vlith-Arkad has enormous
talent—probably a lot more than his brother ever had.”

“He
must, if he could master all this in two weeks!”

Ng laughed. “He’s talented, but not a computer.”

“I
don’t understand.”

Ng hesitated, with that sure instinct that had protected her
in battle that she was entering a far more complex situation than at first
perceived.
Least said, most gained.