Law of Survival (35 page)

“One, if you take preliminaries into account.” Niall wandered over and sat on the floor across from her. Like John, he didn't relax well—he braced straight-backed against the bedframe, and even though he tugged at his tunic's banded collar, he made no move to loosen it. “So?”

Jani had no trouble defining the question contained in that single word. “I'm not political. I'm not the least bit skilled in that area.”

Niall shrugged. “So much the better. Politicians got us into this mess in the first place.”

“No. Greed got us into this mess. For money, power, career advancement. Simple, dull, boring greed.” Jani tried to pull both knees to her chest, but her cracked ribs objected, forcing her to sit with her left leg straight in front of her. “And say what you will, but we are going to need politically skilled people to get us out of this mess. The ability to deal is necessary. To compromise. To not take everything personally. I don't possess that mind-set, and it's not something I can learn. I could butcher these negotiations and set back human-idomeni relations twenty years.”

Niall rested his head against the footboard. His scar skewed his quizzical frown into a scowl. “What do you think should happen?”

Jani groaned. Her head had started to ache. “I think we should purchase the microbial filter from the Elyan Haárin until we can build a new Karistos treatment plant. We need to set up a timetable for the construction, and stick to it so that the unaligned Elyan merchants see that we mean it when we say that we won't tolerate any bullshit. Any businesses affiliated with
L'araignée
shouldn't be allowed to bid for the job, but I doubt that will happen. So, if any of them win, they'll need to be watched.”

Niall nodded. “Accounts to be paid on a milestone basis. Have their work inspected every step of the way.” He paused. His hand went to his tunic collar, as though it felt tighter.

Jani grinned humorlessly at his discomfort. “Yep. They'll scream, and the Elyan government will scream, and the Elyan Haárin will scream. We're probably going to have to
drag the Service in to act as a silent threat, so someone from Intelligence will scream that we're blowing their deals with
L'araignée
. It will be a mess however it's handled, but the important thing is that we're left with a working water treatment plant. Once the Elyans have one thing that works, they're going to want more things that work. If they know they'll have the government watching their back as they obtain those things, they can begin to rebuild their broken system. Something like
L'araignée
needs to be excised one tendril at a time. You do that by making their method of doing business uneconomical, and vigilance backed by a strong Service threat equals uneconomical. That's my solution, and if you think it will be as easy as I make it sound, your collar really is too tight.”

Niall pulled his hand away from his neck, his face reddening. “I think what you've said sounds quite reasonable.”

“Once I proposed it in open session, I'd give it five minutes before Ulanova's team tears it to shreds.” Jani straightened her right leg and lay back. Everything hurt now—her shoulder, her ribs, her back. “Does what I want to do have any bearing on this? Does the fact that I do not want to spend the rest of my life grappling with the Anais Ulanovas of the Commonwealth come into play at all?”

“How often does what you want have anything to do with anything?” Niall regarded her with an odd admixture of impatience and kindness. “You and I came up from the same place. A hardscrabble colony youth leaves wounds that never heal.” His honey eyes darkened. “One thing you learn is that what you
want
to do doesn't always matter. It's what you
can
do. What you have to do. What you must do.”

“Duty?” Jani cocked an eyebrow. “I was never the best soldier in the Service, Niall, or didn't you notice?”

“Obedience isn't your strong suit, no.” Niall's lip twitched, but the smile soon faded. “But I will say without reservation that you're one of the most dutiful people I've ever known.” He fixed his gaze on the opposite wall. “I'd follow you into hell, because I know you'd bring me out, or stay behind and burn with me. What you'd never do is leave me behind to burn by myself. That's not a bad quality for a future Chief Propitiator to have, I should think.” He boosted
to his feet. “I can't tell you what to do. I wouldn't try—not with a decision like this. But I've never seen you give less than everything, no matter who you angered, and regardless of the cost to you. That has to count for something, even in this lousy city.” He nodded sharply to her, his manner turned formal, distant, as though he felt he'd revealed too much and needed to shut down fast. “I'll be in the other room.”

Jani listened to the door close, the fading echo of Niall's footsteps. “Dutiful.” She stared at the ceiling. “I don't want to be dutiful. I want to be left alone.” The armoire clock chimed the half-hour. “They'd eat me alive, Niall. I'm not political. I'm…what I am.” Derringer's “meddling bitch.” Frances's “lone operator.”

She sat up by rolling onto her right side and pushing herself to her knees. Then she went to her closet and hunted down the lightest-color suit she owned, a tan tunic and trouser combination. She tossed it on the bed, then retired to the bathroom to shower. Her left side had indeed turned into a relief map of bruises and gashes. She stood sideways in the water stream, and counted down the minutes.

Dutiful.
The suit fit her, even though she had bought it months before. Shoes had become as big a problem as clothes, since her feet had grown longer and narrower, but she managed to uncover a pair of brown boots that didn't feel too tight.

She studied herself in the mirror as she arranged her hair. The suit, spare and utilitarian, looked like a uniform of sorts. It lacked medals and badges because she hadn't yet earned any in this particular war, and it lacked rank designators because thus far, she didn't need any.
I belong to an army of one.
She laughed at her own pomposity; the sound died as she continued to stare in the mirror, and thought of sheared heads and horsetails, and gold hands closing around the handle of an ax-hammer.

Not alone.
Not really. Not anymore. Others followed her, which meant she needed to lead.

She peeled off the eyefilms one at a time, then returned to the bathroom to wash them down the sink. As she walked back into the bedroom, she watched herself in the mirror to observe the effect.

Her eyes caught the light in strange ways, shades of green from forest to lightest sea.
They're not…beautiful.
But they defined her somehow, as her filmed eyes never did. Not human anymore, but not idomeni, either.
In-between.
She tried to see what Lucien saw, even though she knew that she never would.
Not beautiful.
But what she was, now. Point man.

She headed for the door, then stopped and detoured to her closet. Given the state of her ribs, stretching proved impossible—she had to drag the clothes cleaner into the space to serve as a stepstool so she could reach the back of the shelf.

She slid on the redstone ring, then wrapped the soulcloth round her wrist. The single knot stayed tied and the ends remained tucked. She took that as a favorable omen.

The armoire clock chimed the hour as Jani walked out into the main room. Steve and Niall stood by the window smoking and talking while Angevin sat on the couch and leafed through a magazine.

Angevin saw her first—she tossed the magazine aside and bounded to her feet. “Hey, there she—!” She stopped. Stared. Squinted. Then she emitted a tiny yelp and slapped her hand over her mouth.

Steve and Niall had fallen silent. Steve took one step closer, then another. “Bloody hell, Jan.” He stuck his half-spent 'stick in his mouth, and worked it from side to side.

Niall extinguished his own 'stick and brushed off his tunic. Then he stepped around Steve and walked to Jani's side. “Are you sure?”

Jani tried to smile, then shook her head. “No. But I doubt if I ever will be.” She walked to the desk and gathered up her duffel. “Let's go.”

The ride down to the lobby proceeded without incident, if only because they didn't encounter anyone. The traverse of the lobby itself drew no notice until Hodge negotiated an intercept route from the front desk, meeting them just before they reached the entry.

“Mistress Kilian, I'm so glad to find—” Trained in the art of ignoring Family foibles, he cropped his start before it turned into a stare and barely missed a beat. “—that you are all right.” He took a step closer, and dropped his voice. “I'm so sorry about that young lady. So lucky that you found her before that awful young man—” His lips pressed in a thin white line as he dealt with yet another blow to his gentle neighborhood. “Well. As I said. So glad. Mistress. Sir.” He nodded, then returned to the refuge of his desk.

“Mistress? What year is this, anyway?” Niall waved off the doorman who stood beside the skimmer they had arrived in. At the same time, another sedan, a dark green four-door, lumbered curbside. The gullwing popped up and Lieutenant Pullman emerged, wearing dress blue-greys and an anxious smile.

“Check that one over”—Niall pointed to the dark blue two-door—“then rotate it out.”

“Sir.” Pullman saluted, then turned to Jani. “Ma'am, I hope”—his eyes widened, but he clamped down as quickly as Hodge—“hope that you and your folks are OK.”

“Yes, we are.” Jani lifted her chin and smiled broadly. The idea of an idomeni teeth-baring crossed her mind, but she liked Pull. Better to save that surprise for someone she didn't. “Thanks.”

“My job. Ma'am.” Pullman led her around to the passenger side and closed her in.

“A different skimmer for every trip?” Jani watched Pullman recede in her side mirror. “What did you do, requisition the entire Sheridan vehicle pool?”

Niall shrugged. “Just standard precautions.”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Frankly? No.” He expression sombered. “The courtly Mr. Hodge isn't the only one disgusted by the actions of his fellow man.”

“He seemed to have a good idea of what happened. What are they saying? I checked the
Trib-Times
from cover to cover. Couldn't find a thing.”

“I hit the garage just as the clean-up was winding down. Family security everywhere, tidying up for the ComPol. The official story is that you stumbled upon Lescaux attacking Roni, and were injured trying to intervene. Lescaux fell to his death trying to get away.” Niall steered onto the Boul access road that skirted the idomeni property. “I'm guessing that's close enough to what actually happened to pass ComPol muster?”

“I haven't talked to them yet. With Joaquin Loiaza around, I may never.”

“I met him once, you know. He was van Reuter's attorney. Sold him out but good.”

“Niall, that doesn't make me feel better.”

“Oh, you've got nothing to worry about. You're the sort of client he likes—on your way
up
the food chain.” Niall slowed through the first unstaffed idomeni checkpoint. “So, feel any different?”

Jani's stomach clenched as they passed beneath the silvery arch. “Except for assorted hospital stays, this is the longest I've ever gone without filming since Rauta Shèràa.” She widened her eyes, closed them, then opened them. “I got used to them always feeling a little tight, and now that feeling's gone.” She looked out her window and watched the landscape drift past. Blue-tinged grasses. Stunted yellow and green-leafed shrubs. “It's strange.”

Niall slowed the skimmer. “If you want to go back—”

“No.”
Jani held an image in her mind now, of a shorn
head and a look of quiet acceptance.
It occurred to me that when the gods informed me of the future, they did not also guarantee my presence in it.
“I owe someone this.”

“What?” Niall looked alarmed. “Are you sure you don't—”

“I'm sure.” Jani watched the first of the staffed checkpoints appeared in the distance. “I'm sure.”

 

Vehicles filled the stone-paved courtyard. Jani recognized Callum Burkett's steel blue triple-length, along with the color-coded entries belonging to the various Ministries: green for Commerce, gold for Treasury, black for Interior. She recognized Anais Ulanova's triple-length, as well, its burgundy color damped by a spray-on filter to the color of coffee beans.

Niall steered them to an opening beside Burkett's vehicle, lowered the power to standby, and waited. “You've gone quiet,” he said after a time.

Jani leaned back her head so she could check her eyes in the side mirror. “Be honest—what do I look like?”

Niall fingered the steering wheel. His mien altered from professional vigilance to the sort of introspection he saved for his off-hours. “I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful, a faery's child. Her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild.” He smiled softly. “Keats.
La belle dame sans merci.”

“The beautiful woman without mercy.” Kind of Niall to say. Not that Jani believed it. She tugged at one of her curls. “Not long. Rather short, in fact.”

“Ah, well. So much for that.” Niall popped his gullwing and exited the skimmer.

“So my eyes look wild, huh?” Jani asked as she followed suit. “That should go over big.” She hoisted her duffel to her right shoulder and watched the faces that turned toward her, bracing for the reactions. The courtyard air was still and cool. She shivered, and blamed the temperature.

“Kilian!” Callum Burkett broke away from a Minister-cluster and crossed the courtyard toward her. Dressed in desertweights, his expression grim, he resembled Derringer enough to have fathered him. “We should talk before this thing sta—” He froze in mid-stride, his front foot in the air,
looking as though he'd caught himself before he stepped in something embarrassing. Then the foot lowered. So did his voice. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Not by any means, General.” Jani felt the heat flood her cheeks. “This is what I really look like.” She glanced past him in time to see more heads turn in their direction.

Burkett directed his stone-grey glare at Niall. “Did you know about this, Colonel?”

“Do you mean, sir, have I noticed that Ms. Kilian's eyes look different?” Niall regarded Jani with a look of studious examination, the duck-and-dodge in full force. “Yes, sir. Rather striking, I think—”

“I mean, did you help plan—”

“No!
He did not. He did, in fact, ask me several times if I wished to reconsider.” Jani wedged herself between Niall and an Article 13. “My eyes. My call. I have my reasons, which will reveal themselves presently.”

Burkett's face reddened. His arms hung at his sides, hands slowly clenching.

Oh, Cal, you hate surprises, I know, and you've had a couple of zingers over the past few days, haven't you?
Jani made a show of scanning the crowd. “Where's Eugene? I don't see him.”

Burkett's eyes narrowed. “He's…been reassigned.”

Jani nodded. “Thank you for the security.”

“You're…welcome. I trust you're…all right?”

“Yes. Thanks. You're going to take care of my bioemotional restriction, aren't you?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“I hope so.” Burkett dropped his gaze, then tensed. “That's a soulcloth.”

Jani followed the angle of his stare and pulled down the red braid, which had been half-hidden by her tunic cuff. “Yes.”

Burkett started to speak. Stopped. He looked at Jani, his expression altered to hangdog uncertainty. “Well.” He nodded to her, then turned on his heel and clipped toward a concerned-looking major who had emerged from one of the groups.

“Poor Cal. Every time he thinks he's got you sussed, you
throw him another curve.” Niall veered close. “Do you know what you're doing?”

Jani nodded. “The idomeni have an idea what I look like. So do most of the people I work with. It's…time.”

“Well, I'll be out here with the rest of the chauffeurs if you need me.” Niall tried to look encouraging, but he could only manage tense. He scanned the assorted faces one last time, then moved off to the far side of the yard.

Jani caught sight of the brown-clad diplomatic suborn emerging through the beaten bronze door, and made her way to the center of the courtyard to take her place in the rank line. As she walked, she grew conscious of an invisible barrier growing around her, formed from unease and the pressure of scrutiny. She would have expected it even if she hadn't chosen to reveal herself—word of Lescaux's death had had almost a day to percolate through the Ministries; the true story that the Family security officers had pieced together had no doubt whipped around, as well.

She heard a few gasps, followed by low muttering, as she took her place. Some stared openly, others, furtively.
Look at it this way—it could be worse.
For example, she'd yet to negotiate a Chicago city street.

Jani realized that the voices behind her had receded to nothing. She turned, and found herself looking into Anais Ulanova's red-rimmed eyes.

The woman wore black. No jewelry. She seemed oblivious to the change in Jani's appearance—the emotion in her pained brown stare originated in a deep place, slicing past the physical into Jani's own inner dwelling. For an uncounted time, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then the suborn broke the silence with her call.
“Time!”
People hurried to their places in line, jostling and muttering.

Jani turned to face front as the bronze doors swung wide, conscious with every forward step she took of the danger bearing down from behind.

 

They trooped the halls in single-file, like prep schoolers returning from recess. Jani looked down each bare-walled hallway they passed, through each open door, on the watch for the faces from the night before. Beyva's. Dathim's.

Nema's.

Her anxiety ramped as they entered the meeting room. Under normal conditions, Nema would have met the delegations by now, moving down the line shaking hands and commenting loudly about the weather.

But conditions aren't normal, are they?
Jani wended through the banked rows toward her usual place behind Burkett, then remained standing as those of higher rank filed in.

Burkett fractured a few minor rules of protocol by dodging around assorted deputies to reach his seat ahead of them. His eyes still had that slitted look, which meant a headache had settled in for the duration. A thin film of sweat coated his brow, as well.

Jani touched her own forehead.
Still dry.
She felt quite comfortable now that she thought about it, which meant that the Vynshàrau had cranked up the temperature to the upper limit of humanish comfort.

“Someday we're going to have one of these get-togethers in my neck of the woods and so help me God, it will be payback time.” Burkett tugged at his trousers as he sat.

Jani took her seat. This allowed her an unrestricted view of the back of Burkett's tan shirt, through which the first faint splotches of sweat had bloomed. “Lieutenant Ischi once suggested the Arctic test facility.”

Burkett's stiff posture unwound ever so slightly. “The ATF?” A ghost of a smile had crossed his face by the time he turned to face front.

Most of the humanish had settled into their seats when the doors opened again and the lower-ranked born-sect idomeni filed in. Clothed in shades of sand and dun, hair bound in napeknots or arranged in fringed braids, earrings flashing in the chandelier light. Documents and communications suborns, charged with recording the minutes. Shai's clerks and researchers. Dominants from various departments. Religious Suborn Sànalàn, looking worn and subdued.

Then came a blue-clothed figure, like a fault in a pale stone. The lowest-ranking of the Elyan Haárin. Female, her waist-length light brown hair bound in a single braid. Then came a male, clad in orange and yellow, brown hair sheared so closely that the room light flashed off golden patches of
exposed scalp. They seated themselves on the highseats at the far end of the V-shaped table and busied themselves pulling documents from the briefbags they wore slung across their shoulders.

Another shear-headed male followed. He wore black trousers and shirt, topped with a leopard-print jacket cut like a humanish male's daysuit coat. Around his neck, he had knotted a long strip of orange cloth that was without question the Elyan Haárin version of a humanish neckpiece. He carried his briefbag using a handstrap. Jani harbored the sense that he didn't want to rumple his jacket.

Burkett twisted around in his seat. “Did you know about this?”

Jani shook her head. “It doesn't surprise me, though.”

“That makes one of us.” He pressed his fingers to his temple as he turned back to the entry procession.

Two more Haárin had entered—a male and a female. The male wore more traditional garb, a pale green shirt and trousers topped with an overrobe the color of dried grass. He wore his brown hair in an odd hybrid style, a humanish pageboy that he had braided into a skull-defining cap. The female, the group's dominant, leaned toward a taut humanish look—grey tunic and trousers, her grey-streaked brown hair bound in a loose horsetail. She and the male took their seats on the same arm of the V, and leafed through files that had been laid out for them by their three suborns.

The room's atmosphere had altered with the successive appearance of each Haárin. Jani likened it to walking out on a sheet of ice and feeling that subtle shift beneath one's feet, hearing the faintest of squeals as the first cracks formed and radiated, then tensing for whatever came next.

After the Haárin dominant seated herself, the first wave of Vynshàrau diplomats entered. Speaker to Colonies Daès and his suborn, followed by Suborn Oligarch Shai's suborn, and finally, Shai herself. With them came the return to sartorial sanity, born-sect-style, sands and off-whites and hair arranged in fringed braids.