A Prison Unsought (55 page)

Again the response was immediate.
(Lieutenant Omilov?)

Osri swiftly outlined everything Harkatsus had said.

From her end, Ng
listened, her mood grim. Shutting out the ritual of systems check on Grozniy’s
bridge, she said to Osri,
(Who else have you contacted?)

(Only the Aerenarch.)

(Well done,
Lieutenant. I’ll take it from here. Keep an eye on developments there and boz
me if anything changes.)

Osri sighed in relief, running the water in the disposer to
cover the sound. Anything could happen now—it was even possible that Srivashti,
or Harkatsus, or whoever had someone planted in communications, would hear of
this conversation shortly.

But it was out of his hands. He had done his duty.

No, he had done right.

At her end, Ng bozzed Nyberg.
(The cabal is in motion.)

Admiral Nyberg’s voice came clear and cool and
expressionless over the neural link.
(Thank
you, Margot. We’ll leave this dinner—the exigencies of duty—and I’ll return to
the Cap to await events.)

Margot Ng tapped her boswell off and stretched in the
command pod of the
Grozniy
as her XO,
Perthes Krajno, continued to run her alpha crew through systems check.

She was pleased to see them back on duty although Lt.
Rom-Sanchez, now a lieutenant commander, should by rights now be commanding a
frigate, and the two ensigns, the irrepressible young Wychyrski and the
beautiful Ammant—both now sub-lieutenants—had earned enough rank points to
transfer anywhere.

The nature of the service was, you trained a young set of
officers until they were perfect—at which time they’d go on to their own
commands, leaving you with a new and younger set of pups. But they’d all
confronted Ng as a group as soon after the orders went out for double watches
to get
Grozniy
ready. They offered to
turn down promotions that would take them from serving as her alpha crew, and
she’d agreed, with one exception. Nefalani Warrigal’s unmatched mastery of the
hyper-Tenno she had invented made her indispensable on Ares, especially if the
Aerenarch won through and commanded recall of the Fleet.

He just might, she was
beginning to believe.
He just might,
she thought again, remembering the Aerenarch
at the Archon Srivashti’s party, effortlessly playing the complex game of
Douloi social maneuvering.

Social and political
maneuvering,
she thought. At the time the Aerenarch had given no sign that he
was aware of the intent beneath the verbal feints and parries, but she had
since been convinced that he had indeed known very well. What had then seemed a
teasing game of “Do you remember?” with his old tutor had provided a shield for
Sebastian; she was not certain that the gnostor—distracted as he was by his
Jupiter Project—was aware of how expertly he’d been warded from the political
questions that, Ng was sure, had been one intent of the party.

It’s now up to you,
Brandon vlith-Arkad.
The time for feints and parries was past. Either the direct thrust—or the game would be forever lost.

She rubbed her tired eyes. Should she interfere? Could she
interfere?

Instinct was definite: Yes, and yes. But it must be within
the boundaries of her sworn oath, because the Navy could not, and should not,
and must not take direct action in political affairs.

But she could, should, and must be ready once the leader
emerged . . .

And so it begins,
she thought. No, it had begun ten years ago, when the ambitions of the
then-Aerenarch, Brandon’s eldest brother, Semion, had ruined a blameless family
to cut short his youngest brother’s career. All for fear of Brandon’s
capabilities.

Fears well founded, it would appear. The Navy had given up
on Brandon, because that was the rules. But Brandon had not given up on the
Navy, in spite of the rules.

If she was right and he was about to act at last, it was
time for the Navy to repay his faithfulness.

She leaned forward and touched the tab that would enable her
to address the entire ship.

“This is the captain speaking. I
need volunteers for a mission.”

She paused, looking up into the startled gazes of the bridge
crew. Commander Krajno turned in his pod, while Lieutenant Commander
Rom-Sanchez jerked upward from his consultation with a tech underneath a
console, uttering a muffled oath as his head banged into the open panel. She
smiled at them, and then, still connected to every corner of the massive ship,
continued:

“I’m afraid this mission will set
back the exchequer for danger pay . . .”

o0o

Kestian Harkatsus noticed the young man with the heavy
brows, large ears, and angular jaw only because his movements took him against
the flow of the guests in the Masaud ballroom. Then the man disappeared around
a corner and Kestian forgot him, reveling in the rapt attention of the growing
circle of Douloi as he expatiated on Cooperation, Order, and Service.

“. . . and when we
have once again established a competent government, aligned behind the
Aerenarch, giving him the benefit of our many years of service and experience,
then it will be time to strike back at the usurper.”

He caught the eye of the old Archonei of Cincinnatus midway
back in the crowd. She gave him a thin smile.

It was going just as they had planned—in the absence of any Naval
personnel, there was no potential center of opposition. Social opposition had
already been defeated; no one of any importance danced now, in spite of
Charidhe Masaud’s personal invitation to do so.

Kestian spotted Aristide Masaud standing on the fringes of
his group and his smile broadened. Hesthar, it seemed, was right about that
family; ambition always outweighed the caprices of personal loyalty. “Without a
strong government,” he continued, “the Navy, burdened with the task of managing
Ares and the refugee population, cannot effectively prosecute the war.”

Kestian paused as his listeners reassured one another in
their agreement. He spotted Tau Srivashti on the other side of the room, but
the Archon did not return his gaze. His face was abstracted as he bent toward the
Kendrian heir, Fierin; unease chilled Kestian as he comprehended that neither Srivashti
nor Fierin was speaking.

Has Tau received a
privacy he hasn’t shared?
Kestian knew that Srivashti was monitoring the
actions of the others, especially Vannis and the Aerenarch. But then, so was
he.

(Father?)
Dandenus’s voice
came through his boswell. Kestian nodded a deferential agreement to a temenarch
busy repeating the gist of his words back to him and surreptitiously answered
the privacy.
(What is it?)

(There’s something
wrong with the barge. It . . .)

(What?)
Alarm burned
in Kestian at the worry in his son’s voice. Since the boy had disgraced himself
at the Ascha Gardens party he had forbidden him to attend any but the smallest
social functions, a fact well known. Which had turned out to be a perfect
cover—he’d dispatched Dandenus to watch Vannis and the Aerenarch from a
distance.

(It blew up! No, it
tipped over, and everybody was splashing around until a bunch of Marines came
to pull them out. I can’t see the Aerenarch.)

(Get out of there. You
mustn’t be seen. Don’t call me again until you are safe.)

Kestian blinked, to
find the temenarch expecting a reply. He bowed. “You make your point very
cogently,” he said, as Cincinnatus frowned in Srivashti’s direction in mute
question.

Why hasn’t Srivashti alerted me?
The alarm cooled into
anger.
I am head of the group. They’d chosen him! Why was Srivashti concealing
information from him?

Someone else in the crowd, some heel-kissing Chival, had
taken over and was hectoring the crowd, again, repeating everything Kestian
said and looking about for approval.

A privacy: Srivashti!
Under cover of the talker, Kestian accepted.

(Hesthar couldn’t hold
Nyberg. She does not think he is on his way here.)

As the Archonei began answering the Chival in her high,
crackling voice, Kestian excused himself from the group with a general
deference, modulating it with a humorous lift to his brows to indicate a
summons of nature, and made his way to the disposers. He nearly collided with
the big-eared young man he’d noticed earlier.

Privacy assured, he
signaled Srivashti.
(What is going on?)
He was glad of the emotional cloaking
effect of boswell communication; he was not sure he could have concealed his
anger or his anxiety otherwise.

(No doubt you already know of the problem at the lake.)
Kestian sensed a worrisome implication in that statement, but events were
moving too fast to give him the luxury of reflection.
(I cannot reach Vannis.
She is no longer wearing her boswell.)

Kestian clutched his
head, trying to think as Srivashti continued.

(We must assume that
Nyberg is returning to his office in the Cap to await developments. He will not
act on his own.)

(And the Aerenarch?)
asked Kestian.

(I do not know)
,
replied Srivashti, then went silent. Questions streamed through Kestian’s mind.
Why had Vannis removed her boswell? Had she been hurt in the barge disaster?
Too bad to be so clumsy; Kestian dismissed her from his mind.
(Well, it doesn’t
matter, does it? We are ready here, and the Douloi are behind us. The Aerenarch
can’t stop us now, and if Nyberg will not come to us, we must go to him and
present him with the newly formed council.)

(You appear to have
that well in hand. I will follow your lead. As for the Aerenarch—Felton has a
knack for finding those who lose themselves.)

Somewhat mollified, Kestian left the disposer, in time to
see the thin, lank-haired servitor in dull green livery depart through an
unobtrusive door. Kestian had not even noticed Felton’s presence.

Shrugging, he rejoined the group, where Y’Talob was now
holding forth, his earlier reluctance evidently erased by the apparently solid
consensus now apparent among the guests. With satisfaction, Kestian noted the
relative positions of the various players: the cabal were in dominant stances,
deference apparent in the crowds circling them. Even Charidhe Masaud had been
drawn in, as Y’Talob reiterated everything Kestian had said. They were all
repeating his words, in total agreement, exactly as an obedient crowd ought to
do.

His confidence returned, bringing with it his earlier
euphoria. History was in the making, and he was a part of it. Y’Talob saw him,
and deferred: now that they were in agreement, it was time to take the lead.

“Because we are all of like mind,
my friends,” Kestian said, “let us discuss the formation of a Privy Council. I
will lead off by nominating my esteemed neighbor, the Archon of Torigan, whose
grasp of trade issues is scarcely equaled.”

Murmurs of polite compliance wreathed Y’Talob as he bowed
profoundly, then spoke: “If I may serve the polity that has given me birth, and
gifted my Family for eight generations, I can ask no higher. May I in turn
nominate the excellent Aegios of Boyar, whose abilities with respect to
economics are renowned?”

One by one they pulled each other in, applauded by an
ever-growing circle. Even the absent Hesthar was nominated, in a superbly
passionate speech by the elderly Cincinnatus: her age guaranteed preference.
And last was Tau Srivashti, who closed the circle by proposing Kestian as their
chief.

Kestian’s head rang with glory, and a flush of pride
suffused his neck and cheeks as Charidhe Masaud bowed, smiling, and music began
once more.

He missed the signal that returned the party to her
governance, but she made her desires clear as she extended her hand to him to
lead off in the Masque-Verdant Quadrille. A subtle movement of the nominees
converted them into a circle apart; the rest of the guests withdrew slightly,
indicating acceptance of the decision, and soon the ballroom was filled with
people dancing.

At the end of the quadrille, the new Privy Council left the
Masaud salon, departing for the Cap via transtube. The atmosphere in the pod
was electric, but no one spoke. Kestian studied them all, committing each
moment to memory: these people would guide the destiny of the Thousand Suns. Personal
inclination had to be set aside. He must exert himself to bind them into a
cohesive body the same way he had done with the crowd of Douloi elite.

Unless . . . Reminded of the barge disaster
and the disappearance of the Aerenarch, Kestian sensed control slipping once
again. He sought Srivashti’s face for reassurance, but the Archon gazed out at
the glory of lights.

Where was the Aerenarch? What was he doing? What could he
do?

Nothing
, Kestian
decided,
nothing
. Really, a pleasant
young man, but clearly not suited to the demands of government. They would find
him presently, and he’d have no choice but to fall in with the desires of his
people.

Kestian sat back and considered how to win the last of the
Arkads to supportive cooperation—and obedience.

Brandon felt the pod shift as the transtube curved up
vertically, carrying him up the south pole of the Ares oneill toward Tate
Kaga’s palace.

He had no idea what the nuller’s residence looked like. He’d
play out the consequences, whatever they were, but then he would go after his
father. Either with the Navy behind him, or . . .

His thoughts
splintered, images of Dis, of Markham, of the Telvarna, of Vi’ya flickering
through his mind.

Vi’ya . . .

It was probably outright stupidity to leave at the height of
crisis in order to pay one last visit to a woman who went to such lengths to
avoid him. But he had to know what it was in her that had caused the laughing,
freedom-loving Markham to live with her as his mate—and he had to know what he
had done to make her despise him.