The Gathering Flame (29 page)
Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 3 PERADA
P
ERADA SAT in the informal reception room of the Palace Major, listening to the gentle plashing of the indoor fountain and the uncertain soprano voices of the An-Jemayne Children’s Choir. Her mother’s branch of House Rosselin had long been one of the choir’s traditional sponsors, and the choir had customarily repaid the family’s patronage with a private performance each year at the manor house in Felshang. Now that Perada was Domina of Entibor, the yearly recital had moved to the palace, and the young singers were so overawed by their surroundings that they could hardly keep on key.
ERADA SAT in the informal reception room of the Palace Major, listening to the gentle plashing of the indoor fountain and the uncertain soprano voices of the An-Jemayne Children’s Choir. Her mother’s branch of House Rosselin had long been one of the choir’s traditional sponsors, and the choir had customarily repaid the family’s patronage with a private performance each year at the manor house in Felshang. Now that Perada was Domina of Entibor, the yearly recital had moved to the palace, and the young singers were so overawed by their surroundings that they could hardly keep on key.
Gentlelady Wherret and the Delaven Academy Glee Club, Perada reflected, could have done better any day of the week—they’d worked on most of the same pieces, in fact, and Perada knew the descant line of the
Lightbearer Canon
considerably better than the current singers did. But it wasn’t done for the choir’s patron to say as much; and if she broke from custom and did anything as radical as opening her mouth and singing along with the music, the choir director would die of mortification on the spot.
Lightbearer Canon
considerably better than the current singers did. But it wasn’t done for the choir’s patron to say as much; and if she broke from custom and did anything as radical as opening her mouth and singing along with the music, the choir director would die of mortification on the spot.
A quick flash of red light alerted Perada to a message coming up on her infoscreen—a discreet panel set into the wall of the reception room at an angle not visible except from the chair of state. She turned her attention from the recital and watched the words forming out of the background mist:
HAFREY SENDS. NEW DEVELOPMENTS. NEW AMBASSADOR FROM GALCEN. YOU SHOULD MEET HIM PRTVATELY/INCOGNITO BEFORE ANY FORMAL PRESENTATION.
The time-tick on the infoscreen—and a quick glance at the elegantly calligraphed program in her lap—told her that the recital had at least an hour yet to run. Arranging her features into a regretful expression, she rose and made the demi-bow that even a Domina could give to art. Then she left the room by the side door that led to her private apartments.
Ser Hafrey was waiting for her by the doorway to her sitting room. “My lady,” he said, with a bow of full respect. “I’m honored that you could come.”
Perada returned his courtesy with a brisk nod. “Your warnings and suggestions have proved their worth more than once already … . You said something about an ambassador?”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “Though in truth we do not know anything for a certainty, except that a ship approaches with someone identified as such on board.”
Finally
she thought with a thrill of excitement.
A response from Galcen!
she thought with a thrill of excitement.
A response from Galcen!
“What do you think they want?” she wondered aloud, taking care to keep the emotion from showing on her face or in her voice. An arch-conservative like the armsmaster was unlikely to approve of her plans—her hopes, really; “plans” was too definite a word—for a permanent alliance of all the worlds threatened by the raiders.
“It’s no secret that you’ve been seeking a mutual defense pact with Galcen, my lady,” the armsmaster said. “And their current ambassador is not a man I, for one, would entrust with negotiations for anything more vital than a dinner engagement.”
Perada smiled in spite of herself. “He does that much well enough, from the look of him.”
“Indeed,” said Hafrey. “But I suspect that he will find himself put out of his office by this new arrival—and that you will find yourself facing someone with both the authority and the skills to negotiate with you.”
She recognized the warning for what it was, and nodded acknowledgement. “So. And why can’t this person be presented to me here, like an other ambassador?”
“Incognito has its advantages, my lady. What the Domina says is law. What some minor aristo says is gossip.”
“And a simple tourist isn’t any ambassador, either. It cuts both ways. But I do like the idea of getting out of the palace. I assume you’ve already arranged—”
The door at the other end of the passageway slid open. Perada schooled herself not to show annoyance.
My private apartments are about as private as a shopping arcade … . I don’t think there’s one single lockplate in the whole palace that has my ID on it and nobody else’s.
Her irritation faded slightly when she saw that the newcomer wore a Fleet uniform. “You have news?”
“From Central,” said the messenger. “A report of a ship from Galcen landing on the field at Wippeldon.”
He handed over a folded piece of stiff paper sealed with a wafer of gold foil. The Fleet might use voicelinks and printout flimsy to handle its internal communications, but when word went out to the Domina, only the best would do. If the best was slower, as it so often was, custom didn’t allow a ruler to complain about the honor.
Perada broke the seal with her thumbnail. The contents of the message proved to be much the same as the news Ser Hafrey had brought, with the addition that the Fleet was going to put up the new ambassador in the Orgilan Guesthouse.
She passed over the message to Hafrey. “Where exactly is the Orgilan? I have to admit I don’t know An-Jemayne as well as I ought to.”
“It isn’t far, if memory serves,” the armsmaster replied. “I’m sure we can find it without undue trouble.”
“Very well, then.” She quit trying to hide her enthusiasm any longer. Let Hafrey and the messenger think it was eagerness for a brief adventure—they’d be half right, anyway. “Let’s go.”
“You’ll need an incognito, my lady,” Hafrey reminded her.
“I hadn’t forgotten,” she said. “Will this do?”
As she spoke, Perada pulled off the Iron Crown and handed it to the Fleet messenger. She shook her head, and the half-dozen braids that had supported the black metal tiara, freed from their formal arrangement, fell onto her shoulders. The messenger was staring at her as if he’d never in his life seen a grown woman with her braids down—living in the Fleet, maybe he hadn’t.
She took off her baldric of state and handed it to him as well.
“Keep these until I get back,” she said. She turned again to the armsmaster. “I’m ready.”
Garen Tarveet—once a citizen of Pleyver, and now, he supposed, a citizen of nowhere at all—wasn’t feeling as happy as he ought. The Palace Major was open to him, as the Summer Palace had been, but he wasn’t deluded into thinking he was a person of any significance at the Domina’s court. The rooms he had been given were comfortable, at least by the standards he’d grown used to at school, but the wing of the palace they occupied was clearly reserved for pensioned-off palace servants and the Domina’s indigent relatives. For the former heir to all of Tarveet Holdings, it was a lowering experience.
He’d had more than enough leisure time to contemplate his declining fortunes. At least while the Domina and her entourage … he
hated
being thought of as part of somebody’s entourage! … at least while the Domina’s household was in residence at the Summer Palace, he’d been able to talk with ‘Rada once in a while. Nobody else on Entibor seemed to have a proper appreciation for galactic politics; as far as most of them were concerned, the universe ended at the edge of the planet’s atmosphere. As for Captain Metadi …
General
Metadi, thanks to ’Rada! … if the man couldn’t carry a thing off and sell it he probably didn’t believe it was real.
hated
being thought of as part of somebody’s entourage! … at least while the Domina’s household was in residence at the Summer Palace, he’d been able to talk with ‘Rada once in a while. Nobody else on Entibor seemed to have a proper appreciation for galactic politics; as far as most of them were concerned, the universe ended at the edge of the planet’s atmosphere. As for Captain Metadi …
General
Metadi, thanks to ’Rada! … if the man couldn’t carry a thing off and sell it he probably didn’t believe it was real.
Here in An-Jemayne, though, Garen never got a chance to discuss things with ’Rada at all. Every hour of the Domina’s working day was filled with formal audiences and informal receptions and traditional presentations of everything from dramatic performances to giant wheels of cheese. The long-range plans they’d talked about so often and worked out so carefully seemed to have been forgotten altogether.
He spent his time, most days, as he did today: reading translations of what passed for political philosophy here on Entibor and nibbling on the small hard biscuits that people in An-Jemayne liked to serve alongside their wine. He didn’t care for the wine, but the dry pastries had a brittle, dusty flavor that suited his prevailing mood.
Trash and drivel
, he thought, scowling at the text reader in his lap. The book it displayed was supposedly written by the foremost political philosopher Entibor had ever produced. Garen was not impressed.
The author should have given thanks that breathing is controlled by the autonomic nervous system—if he had to think about respiration in order to do it, he would have turned blue and died.
, he thought, scowling at the text reader in his lap. The book it displayed was supposedly written by the foremost political philosopher Entibor had ever produced. Garen was not impressed.
The author should have given thanks that breathing is controlled by the autonomic nervous system—if he had to think about respiration in order to do it, he would have turned blue and died.
He didn’t hear his door slide open, and didn’t look up until a familiar but unexpected voice broke into his concentration. “Garen! Come on—I think I need you!”
It was Perada. With her long hair hanging down in half a dozen braids and her eyes lit up with excitement, she looked like a schoolgirl on a spree. Hafrey the armsmaster stood a little behind her, looking grave and reserved as usual. Garen thumbed off the text reader and put it aside.
“‘Come on’? Where are we going?”
Perada grinned at him—a most unroyal expression, and one that Hafrey obviously didn’t approve of. “To see the Galcenian ambassador,” she said.
Garen sneered, more or less as a reflex.
“Him?
Whatever for?”
“Him?
Whatever for?”
“I think our chance has finally shown up,” she said. “These are new envoys, just arrived from Galcen. I need you to listen while I talk—help me find out what’s on their minds. You’ve studied this a lot more than I have. You can tell me if what they’re saying makes sense or not.”
“My lady,” said the armsmaster. Not impatiently; Hafrey was never impatient, any more than a ticking bomb was impatient.
She waved a hand at the older man. “Yes, yes—are you coming or not, Garen?”
“I’m coming,” he said.
He followed her out of the room and down through the backstairs portions of the Palace Major, with the armsmaster a watchful shadow at their heels. Somewhere in the basement depths, they came to a tunnel of arched stone where a hovercar was waiting. Once they were settled into the hovercar and on their way, Garen turned to Perada.
“This is unusual,” he said. “There’s already one Galcenian ambassador here in An-Jemayne—why send out another one?”
“I don’t know why,” Perada said. “That’s what I want to find out, and I want you to help me. In fact, I want you to do the talking.”
Garen felt his ears turning red. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“I’m an outlander. I don’t have any status in your court. And I’m a terrible liar. If I tried … he’d see through me in a moment.”
“Oh.” She paused, looking at him for a moment with sharp blue eyes. Then she turned to Hafrey.
“Witness me,” she said to the armsmaster. “I am creating this man a citizen of Entibor. I am creating him Lord Meteun.”
She turned back to Garen.
“You are now the lord of one of the districts in the northern hemisphere, including a seaport and a spaceport, and open lands adjacent to the royal park surrounding the Palace Minor. Your duties include advising me on economic and interstellar matters.”
The Domina relaxed again in her seat. “So now you don’t have to lie.”
Lord Meteun
. Garen contemplated the name uneasily. “Wouldn’t there already be a noble by the name of Meteun? How is he going to feel about having his title coopted?”
. Garen contemplated the name uneasily. “Wouldn’t there already be a noble by the name of Meteun? How is he going to feel about having his title coopted?”
“I am the Domina,” Perada said. “And there isn’t a Lord Meteun anymore. The last one was in Veratina’s day, and the family line ended with him—no females in that generation.”
“My lady,” said the armsmaster. He was looking out of the heavily reflective window of the hovercar, and something about his voice and expression made Garen nervous.
Perada followed Hafrey’s gaze. “Yes—what is it?”
“We’re going too slowly.” Almost before the armsmaster had finished the sentence, he was working the latch on the hovercar’s passenger-compartment door. He kicked the door up and open with both feet. “Get out! Assassination! Jump! Move, move, move!”
Long skirts and yellow braids flew wildly as Perada flung herself out the open door. Garen recognized the tuck and spin; they’d practiced it three days out of every week in gymnastics class at the Delaven Academy. He’d never been very good at it.
He didn’t have the chance to hesitate. Hard fingers caught him by the upper arm, and the armsmaster half-pulled and half-slung him out the door after Perada. More of the academy’s gymnastics lessons had stuck with him than he’d expected; in spite of the awkward exit, he hit the ground in a creditable if bone-jarring roll. A few seconds later, Hafrey joined him, and they dashed toward the public comm-link kiosk where Perada had taken cover.
In the street behind them, the hovercar exploded.
Garen saw a blaster in the armsmaster’s hand, and wondered where it had come from—but not for long, as an instant later bolts of red and green fire started coming down at them from the roofline on both sides of the street. Hafrey began firing back. Garen couldn’t tell if he was hitting anything or not, but the fire from above slackened.
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