Hellhole (22 page)

Some old-style FTL vessels still made runs among the Crown Jewel worlds, but few people wanted to pay a much higher price for a much slower ship. Most of the antique craft had been decommissioned, and those that continued to fly became mere novelties and tourist attractions.

Linking the Crown Jewels with an efficient stringline network might have been enough for any ruler, but Michella had also realized the need to expand into new territory. She offered virgin worlds as a pressure-release valve for overcrowded planets and dissatisfied noble families. She had launched trailblazer ships to lay down iperion paths to the mysterious Deep Zone, eager to connect those frontier worlds to Sonjeera. Because of the vast distances involved, the trailblazer voyages took years.

In the midst of all that, General Tiber Adolphus had launched his violent rebellion before her expansion scheme had a chance to work . . .

As the food was served, Michella and the Black Lord continued to look at each other across the table, exchanging careful conversation. Lord Riomini seemed alternately defiant and intimidated. “How do you like the wine?” she asked.

He frowned down at the glass. “It tastes . . . rough.”

“And so it should. It came in a recent shipment from Hallholme. One of Adolphus’s colonists has set up a working vineyard.”

Riomini looked as if he might choke. “Perhaps we should have it tested it for poison.”

“The rebellion was the poison, but that has been neutralized.” Of course she had tested the wine, and he knew that. She gave him a hard look, more serious now. “Because of that catastrophe, Selik, I am more determined than ever that all planets be utterly dependent on the Constellation – on Sonjeera. It’s simple logic: if they have no options, there will never be another significant uprising. And
that
is why you cannot be allowed to have your own stringline hub at Aeroc.”

Frowning, he sloshed the red liquid around in his glass and drank again. He motioned for the servant to pour more.

As the main course was served, with great fanfare from the kitchen staff, Michella’s attention remained on the Black Lord, rather than the culinary presentation. Disappointed by her lack of praise, the chef led his retinue back to the kitchens.

“Why don’t we talk about something much more pleasant? Something to cheer you up?” Her voice was bright, and when he gave her a blank look, she said, “The de Carre mess and the Vielinger matter. I have arranged it all in your favor.”

“
My
favor?” He raised his eyebrows, but did not fool her for a moment. “I thought what we were doing was for the good of the Constellation.”

“Of course. For the good of the Constellation.”

W
hen the disgraced Lord Louis de Carre was taken to Vielinger for a formal Reading of the Charges, the people did not receive him with cheers and applause.

Since learning of his father’s arrest, however, Cristoph had little time to worry about the man and whatever fines or punishment the Constellation might impose. He was occupied in the aftermath of the fire at the Rapana iperion-processing center, arranging necessary medical services for the injured, including four members of the rescue team, as well as hundreds who had breathed the toxic smoke. Sixty-three had died in the poisonous blaze.

Cristoph had also attended the first funeral of the twelve miners exposed to raw iperion due to faulty breathers. The next day he attended three more funerals, and the final miner had died yesterday. Four of the families, however, had made it clear that they did not want Cristoph at the memorial services.

Shiploads of Constellation inspectors, interim security forces, mining engineers, and safety experts swarmed through the mines. They found countless supposed safety violations, but Cristoph’s own inspectors had combed the same areas, studied the same equipment regularly. Everyone now considered the de Carre administrators incompetent.

Some old-guard nobles suspected it was a setup to bring down the de Carres because that was the way they played politics. For generations, as families grew and holdings were subdivided, powerful nobles preyed upon the weaker ones – stealing property, trumping up charges, disgracing them, and shifting the balance of power. No one felt sorry for the de Carres. If the family wasn’t strong enough to hold on to Vielinger, they didn’t deserve to have it.

Meanwhile, the population suffered, pawns in a game that Cristoph had never considered a game . . .

When his father returned to the ancestral estate, Cristoph was reluctant to greet him, but with the de Carre legacy under fire from so many different directions, he would not be petty. Cristoph faced a more difficult task than ever, and he needed a champion in the arena of politics, someone who could face the Black Lord in the Council chambers, refute the outrageous claims, and out-debate the most silver-tongued ambassadors. Louis de Carre had once been that man, but now he dallied with a married woman and brought embarrassment to the de Carre family.

Nevertheless, he was still Cristoph’s father.

Grim-faced Constellation guards escorted Louis to the front gate of the estate grounds. As he walked up the pea-gravel path and mounted the steps to the main house, Louis looked wistfully at the mossy stone arch, the topiary shrubs, and the well-tended rose garden. Cristoph waited at the open door, keeping his words to himself. Louis looked up at his son, glanced away, and took another step forward.

Before leaving them, the guard captain spoke. “Lord de Carre, by order of the Diadem, you will remain here under house arrest until the Reading of the Charges can commence in two days.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Louis replied. “My ancestral home will be a welcome haven for the time being.” He came forward and embraced his son.

Cristoph remained stiff. “I doubt we’ll have the estate much longer, Father.”

“I fear you’re right. I’m sorry I let you down. You and I worked well as a team when you were younger.”

Cristoph could think of no suitable reply as the two walked into the great hall with its ceiling of massive timbers high over three polished wooden tables, where he, his father, and often some household servants, had spent hours playing games. But that had been back when the money flowed freely. Now the iperion production was showing signs of coming to an end; continued excavations would require more strenuous, more dangerous, and more expensive efforts.

For years, the loss of Angelique, Louis’s wife and Cristoph’s mother, had remained keen, and Louis had dedicated himself to running Vielinger and training his son. He had kept the image of lovely Angelique on a fireplace mantel. During his adolescence, Cristoph had encouraged his father to remarry. Louis had enough willing candidates to choose from, but seemed hesitant.

Rather, his main intent had been to find a good match for Cristoph, a loving wife and the opportunity to carry on the de Carre bloodline. The family legacy had been built over many centuries, and the people had loved and respected their noble lords, crediting them for the planet’s prosperity. When Cristoph reached his mid-twenties, it had been time to consider the matter seriously, and he had noted several women who welcomed his advances. He spent hours with his father studying genealogical charts of ruling families and their holdings, discussing in a practical sense which woman might make the best match.

“Family trees don’t always indicate the best romance,” Louis had said. “I want you to find someone you can adore as much as I adored your mother.”

And then Keana Duchenet snared his father. By seducing him, the Diadem’s daughter had struck his core vulnerabilities. For two years now, Cristoph had tried to juggle the administrative responsibilities of the whole planet, including the work that Lord de Carre had simply abandoned.

Now father and son sat together in the great room and played cards out of habit, a game that interested neither of them but passed the time. Cristoph kept his feelings bottled inside, wanting to rage at his father and demand explanations. Finally, he managed only, “Why would you do it, Father? Why would you let that woman take everything away like this?” He raised his voice. “How could you be fooled?”

Instead of making excuses, Louis raised his head to show deep hurt. “Because I love her.”

The Board of Magistrates set up their imposing bench out in the garden area, near the well-maintained hedge maze that formed the de Carre family crest. Squads of offworld soldiers in colorful ceremonial uniforms acted as an honor guard, but they were soldiers nevertheless. Cristoph resented them tromping through the estate grounds, but he could not object.

To face the Reading of the Charges, Louis de Carre had been provided with commoner’s clothing, as if accepting a foregone conclusion. Even though his father had made no attempt at defense, Cristoph had filed appeals, hired attorneys – but to no avail.

“Why a Reading of the Charges?” he had demanded of his father. “Why not a trial? Why aren’t you given a chance to explain?”

“Because there is nothing to explain. I neglected my duty. They reviewed the charges and evidence, and came to a conclusion. Reading the Charges is a mere formality, an event to amuse the nobles. I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you, Cristoph. You are the last hope of the de Carre legacy now.”

“
What
legacy?” Cristoph let out a bitter laugh. “I am the last one. We’re going to lose everything!”

“Then start over,” Louis said simply. “Find a woman. Have your family. Ah, I wish you’d been able to know your mother.”

Cristoph pressed his lips together, glad his mother was not alive to see this disgraceful day. The night before, he had roamed through the manor house while everyone else slept, though his father must have lain awake, staring at the ceiling as the seconds ticked by. He looked at the portraits in the halls, faces he had seen all his life – Eduard de Carre, his great-grandfather . . . Ambrose de Carre, his grandfather . . . then the portrait of Louis. Someday his own portrait would have hung there, but that was unlikely now.

The triumvirate of magistrates sat at their imposing bench. The honor guard marched out and fanfares called the proceedings to order. Cristoph barely listened. This felt like a stage show, and he knew very little could be changed.

The bailiff presented a document to the three dark-robed magistrates, two men and one woman; each would read a portion of the crimes of which Louis de Carre had been accused. The list went on for pages.

Before the men could begin the Reading of the Charges, however, Louis stepped forward and interrupted the script. “Magistrates, I wish to speak on behalf of my son. I was foolish to leave him in charge of the iperion operations here on Vielinger alone. I was training him as my successor, but I’m afraid I gave him too much responsibility, too soon. He is young and well-intentioned, but not cut out for the job. He wasn’t ready for the difficult decisions and for the dangers. That is my failing, not his.” He avoided looking over at Cristoph, who sat on a secure trial bench at the edge of the garden.

“There have been so many tragic accidents – the basic reason we’re here today. It may seem that the responsibility lies with him, but
I
am Lord de Carre. The fortunes of Vielinger rest upon my shoulders. I ask that all charges listed under his name be placed under mine. I am at fault. My son was not ready. Let me pay the price for my error in judgment.”

Cristoph clenched his fists, upset with his father for painting him as an inept fool. And then he realized that was exactly his father’s intent, a noble attempt to shield Cristoph from the consequences.

After the Reading of the Charges, Louis would be taken back to Sonjeera, where he would await his sentencing from the Diadem herself. Cristoph was certain they would lose the family estate.

The three magistrates conferred, glancing over at Cristoph as if he were an unusual specimen. They finally agreed. “All charges shall be listed under the de Carre name, and you are Lord de Carre.” The central judge lowered her voice. “Though in the end, I’m not sure your son will appreciate this.”

“Thank you, nevertheless.” Just for a moment, Louis looked over at Cristoph, then turned his gaze back to the bench. The three magistrates picked up their documents and began to read.

F
or days after Louis’s arrest, Keana remained frantic. No one would tell her what was happening.

“Lord de Carre is not, and never should have been, your concern,” her mother said, annoyed and dismissive. “You’ve done quite enough already. From now on, whenever you are seen in public, you will make a point of appearing with your own husband. Bolton has already agreed to cooperate in this.”

Until now, Keana’s existence had been soft and comfortable, free of ambition – by design. Her few instances of petty rebellion had accomplished little; her only true success in resisting her mother’s wishes had been refusing to have Bolton’s children. The Diadem would never be a doting grandmother, and Keana was sure that Michella had given birth to
her
only out of duty; then, once she had a Duchenet heir, Michella’s husband had conveniently died.