A Prison Unsought (6 page)

She ripped out one outfit after another, scrutinizing it in
growing hopelessness, then throwing it on the floor. Vannis was peripherally
aware of her maid Yenef’s silent reproof, as they both knew who would have to
clean up the mess, but Vannis was too angry, and too desperate, to care.

Yenef stood against the far wall, her attention divided
between the desk console and her mistress, aware that she had made a drastic
error.

“Half an hour.
Half an hour
until the reception,” Vannis said, her voice low and
melodious even in the extreme of anger. “No sign of the new Aerenarch?” The
word ‘new’ prefaced a word Vannis had come to hate in the years she’d spent
married to Semion.

“No, highness,” Yenef said.

Two things will keep you safe,
the Aerenarch-Consort’s Head Steward had said to Yenef when she was hired a
mere four months ago.
Silence, and silence. The
first, when you are in their proximity. Say nothing unless you receive a direct
question. The second, when someone tries to hire you to spy for them—and you
will receive these offers, we all have—you do not respond, but turn it directly
over to Security.
The Head Steward had added drily,
They will find out anyway, and anyone stupid enough to
break that rule disappears, by direct order of Aerenarch Semion.

To?
Yenef had
asked, appalled.

The Head Steward had shrugged.
Who
knows? I don’t, and I don’t care. What I expect from the Aerenarch-Consort’s
personal staff is loyalty. If you cannot give us that, consider my words as
advice in self-preservation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vannis murmured, flinging down a
dainty, fragile lounging outfit made entirely of spider-lace.

Vannis’s enormous personal staff on Arthelion would have
known this for a rhetorical question, but Yenef, though exquisitely trained in
the arts of tailoring, was new enough, and stung enough, to respond, albeit
with downcast eyes. “I did tell you, highness.”

At one time any servant who spoke back would have been
instantly dismissed. But this one maid was all Vannis had. “You merely informed
me that the Navy said that naval stores are reserved for military purposes.”

“So it was, highness.”

“You did not tell me until this
morning—
this morning
—that . . .”

Vannis halted there, hearing a memory of her mother’s
smooth, precise diction:
There is never a time, or an
excuse, for bad manners,
followed by her governess’s practical tones:
Treat your servants like human beings, and they will be
loyal; treat them like machines and they will plot against you.

Vannis forced herself to pick up the trousers of the
lounging outfit, smooth them, then the paneled over robe, and last the chemise
that went under the robe. When she had finished this, she spoke again. “You are
new, so I can’t expect you to understand the political implications of the Navy’s
stricture against sharing stores with anyone but the ruling family.”

Yenef was surprised into pointing out, “But highness, you
are a member of the ruling family.”

Vannis suppressed a hot surge of anger. “I
was
. A member of the ruling family. You
surely know that no married partner of any Arkad is adopted into the Arkad
Family until his or her spouse becomes a ruling Panarch or Kyriarch.” When
Yenef bobbed her head in agreement, Vannis went on. “You might be forgiven for
not considering what that means.” And the words came unbidden, “
I
did not consider what that means. But
it appears others have. Thus your observation to me this morning that you
thought the messages gone astray, the unaccountable delays that my peers have
all put down to the chaos of refugee life and communications blunders, the
promises of the loan of a tailor and team that never materialized, were
obfuscations, came
too late
.” Her
voice did not rise, but her consonants sharpened.

Yenef responded once again. “I was not
certain
 . . . and I was afraid.”

Vannis could hear the tone of conviction in Yenef’s low
voice, and saw it in the maid’s tight mouth.

I don’t have time to
educate her
, Vannis thought—but if she didn’t do
something
, all she would have would be time. For the Douloi accumulating
on Ares, the only people who mattered, would know that she was a relict. A
nonentity.

Anger gave way to a spasm of regret that she had only this
one newly-hired maid with her. Though Vannis had dared not contravene Semion’s
orders that she attend Brandon’s tedious Enkainion in his place, she had taken
steps to at least guarantee a pleasant journey to Arthelion. Her friend Rista,
too indolent to have political leanings, but rich enough to possess a small,
fast yacht designed for comfort, not capacity, had enabled her to slough off
the security; choosing Yenef to accompany her meant the least chance of divided
loyalty.

Unfortunately, while Rista was wealthy enough to possess
such a ship, its maintenance and proper crewing had apparently strained her
resources. The fiveskip failed—beyond the ability of the crew to repair—three
days real-time from Arthelion.

No regrets
. That
disabled skip had probably saved their lives, for the long approach under
gee-plane meant they’d discovered from the safety of deep space that the entire
universe had gone mad rather than by skipping into the middle of it.

Vannis looked up at Yenef, who stood in a submissive
posture, her shoulders rigid, and her hands pressed stiffly together.

Disarm with the truth,
or some of it.

“Your area of expertise is clothing. You know how long it
takes to make court clothing,” Vannis said carefully.

Yenef said, “Yes, highness.”

“But I do not.” Vannis spread her hands. “You understand
that the very reason why the Tetrad Centrum Douloi are never seen in any
machine-made piece of clothing is that our apparel must be unique, that our
wealth itself is not on display, but what it gains us. I, as Aerenarch-Consort,
fully expected to appear in Arthelion the day of the Enkainion, give you and
the waiting staff an order for a new gown, and have it ready by evening. How
many of you would that have taken?”

“Anywhere from ten to thirty. The embroidery is the most
difficult,” Yenef said.

“See, I did not know that. I give the order, and the work is
executed somewhere out of my sight. I give an order for a ball tomorrow
evening, with a rain-shield, a complete display of fireworks, a live orchestra,
a twelve-course meal for 500—a breakfast for twelve on a barge the next morning—and
it all happens. Wealth is the power to make it all happen.”

Yenef bobbed a brief curtsey, but Vannis could see
non-comprehension there as Yenef glanced at the console.

“No sign of the Aerenarch?”

Yenef, glad to be moving, tapped the keypads, choosing
different discriminators. “No sign of anyone, highness,” she said.

Vannis tried a last time. “You know that until the
Aerenarch’s arrival, the Douloi had relaxed etiquette.” That had been
unexpectedly delightful, a sense of adventure and freedom. “Some had arrived
with even less than we brought, having been rescued from Highdwellings or
planetary enclaves under attack. A few had only what they stood up in.”

Yenef bobbed her curtsey from behind the console.

“But with so many coming in, the
return to etiquette has been inevitable.”
Some
might say a desperate grasp at a semblance of normality
. “And the most
strict rule of all is Mandalic court mode, which we must follow to honor the
last living Arkad.”

Yenef could have recited that lesson herself: the latest
court mode, due to the incipient millennial celebration of the Panarchy’s
existence, had swung all the way back to the modes popular in the days of
Jaspar Arkad, when those who identified as female wore gowns, and those who
identified as males wore tunic-jackets of a quasi-military cut, trousers, and
boots. Only the actual military was exempt, but they wore their dress uniforms,
which also hearkened back to ancient styles.

“So I need a
gown
,” Vannis said, as if stating it would make one materialize in
her closet. She was already wearing every jewel she had brought, her heavy
brown hair dressed elaborately.

Vannis knew she was waiting for a miracle—for one of her
smiling peers to boz her with an apology, and a team of tailors. There were
tailors here—some of the bigger yachts had brought stores, tailors, even
musicians.

But no one, it seemed, deemed Vannis important enough to
loan her one, now that Semion was dead, and a new Aerenarch had taken his
place.

The symbolism was crudely ineluctable. Her enormous wardrobe
at the Mandala, gone. Here, her enormous prestige . . . gone?
Scefi and Cartano holdings and clients scattered, dead, blown up, who knew?

Her funds were fast running out, yet Brandon had still not
contacted her, even though she was the closest thing to family he had on Ares.
She had found through some discreet checking that the only outside contact Brandon
had made had concerned some injured Rifter boy from his rescue ship. His staff,
from all reports, consisted merely of a suitable Marine guard, a couple of men
(some said Rifters), and a pair of Arkadic dogs rescued from Arthelion.

He had room for dogs and Rifters, but not for her. Either he
was truly the dissipated sot that Semion had always said he was, or he was
playing some sort of game.

It didn’t matter. In either case, humiliation and final
failure loomed huge ahead as the Aerenarch-Consort, who had set fashions for
the past ten years, contemplated attending the reception in one of the same
morning and garden party garments she’d been wearing for weeks.

“Your highness,” Yenef spoke
suddenly. “The Aerenarch is just leaving the Enclave, and there is a vid issued
by the Cap with total override. It’s from Arthelion!” She hesitated. “But
there’s a warning of graphic content.” She reached for the console again. “I’ll
scan the summary . . .”

“The
Aerenarch,” Vannis interrupted. Important things first. “Who’s he with, and
what is he wearing?”

“One other man, highness,” Yenef
said. “In a livery I do not recognize. The Aerenarch wears white, with no
decoration. I thought at first it was Naval uniform,” she added. “But there is
no rank marking, and the wrong buttons.”

“He can’t be wearing a Naval
uniform,” Vannis exclaimed. Wasn’t he thrown out of the Navy?
The Academy, anyway
.

Yenef shook her head. “Plain dress, highness.” She tapped
her boswell, and the desk holo came to life, showing two male figures walking
across the grass toward the central pavilion. The colors were hard to discern
because of the darkness; the imager that Yenef had tapped into apparently had
poor light enhancers.

Vannis studied the flattened figures. The tall one in gray
could be dismissed. He walked in the place of a bodyguard. Brandon . . .

Vannis chewed her underlip. His tunic was indeed utterly
plain. He didn’t even wear any jewels. What did it mean?

Doesn’t matter what it
means
. Killing the image with a sweep of her hand, she turned. “Ah.” She grabbed
at the shimmering folds of a much-worn semi-formal afternoon hostess gown in
layers of sheer gauzy silk, and ripped away the upper layers of pale blue,
revealing the plain white under layers.

Yenef gasped.

Their eyes met across the length of the room, mistress and
maid.
She needs me
, Yenef thought,
relieved, almost dizzy with the idea that she and Vannis were in some wise
conspirators.

Her thoughts raced as rapidly as her fingers would have to
shortly, circling around the word that the steward had used when interviewing
her:
Loyalty
.

It had always been one of those words that people uttered
but that didn’t mean anything to Yenef. ‘Loyalty’ and ‘honor’ and suchlike were
play words for the Douloi, who controlled everything. Yenef wanted to make
clothes—and become famous for doing it. Ten years of bowing and smiling for the
Arkads—ten well-paid years, housed in a palace—would have enabled her to go
anywhere and command whatever salary she liked.

Now she lived in a tiny villa on a military outpost, she had
become a maid-of-all-work, and she suspected her pay might abruptly diminish just
as her living circumstances had.

But now. If this ruse of Vannis Scefi-Cartano’s worked, what
might it do for Yenef?

“Do you see?” Vannis asked.

“Yes, highness,” Yenef said. “If I
snip the lace, and satin-stitch the silk here and here . . .”
She touched her neck.

“Do it,” Vannis said, unclasping
her jewels and tossing them down. “And find my white morning slippers. No, I
will. You sew, and we’ll watch whatever this is the Navy saw fit to send so
late, in case we need to know its contents before the reception.”

Vannis carefully lifted her parure from her high-dressed
hair, then touched the console to view the waiting vid as Yenef sat down with
needle and thread. For a few moments the needle flashed and flashed again, then
slowed and stopped, suspended as both women stilled with shock and horror.

o0o

Jaim followed Brandon along the curving path toward the
huge, golden-lit pavilion. At the edge of the lake, Brandon paused, Jaim suspected
to permit Roget’s teams to sweep the shadowy garden bounding the landward side
of their path. From this vantage, the line of villas and the pavilion looked
peaceful, untouched by war.

Under the oneill’s false night the soft, cool air carried
the scents of loam and blossoms and fresh water. Jaim could almost believe he
was on a planet: high overhead, the patterns of light created by the dwellings
on the far side, nine kilometers away, and lights on the structures of the spin
axis, simulated the constellations of a planetary sky. He stopped, staring
upward, as the essentially Douloi design of Ares manifested itself. The
dwellings in the Ares oneill were arranged not only to appeal to people in
their proximity but also with an eye to their appearance in the night sky of
the opposite surface.