A Prison Unsought Page 6

  Joffri gallantly offered his arm, Rista took it, and Vannis was rid of them both as Joffri rejoined his group and performed introductions.

  While they were safely immured in polite chatter, Vannis skirted the curving wall of aromatic shrubs screening the entrance to the ballroom. As the steward grounded his mace, announced in a hieratic voice His Highness the Aerenarch and rolled out all of Brandon’s names, she approached the huge carved doors now wide open against the walls. The interior flowed naturally into a visual theme complementing that flowering outer wall, creating a pleasing sense of invitation.

  The steward grounded his mace, and over the chimes called, “Her highness Vannis Scefi-Cartano.”

  Her highness—no Aerenarch-Consort. There was a new Aerenarch now: the steward’s announcement confirmed the official acceptance of that vid.

  Vannis straightened her back as faces turned in her direction.

  Her sense of timing had not failed her. Brandon was not twenty paces ahead of her. He and all the Tetrad Centrum Douloi paused, waiting to see whom he addressed first. He turned at Vannis’s name. Was he postponing the political implications of that first greeting? Is he smart enough to consider that, or is he simply lost in a sea of strangers?

  A stupid sot he might be—his brother had certainly called him that—but she had never heard that he exhibited Semion’s penchant for cruelty. She knew the risk she took in so direct an address, and yet, if she did not triumph now, she was finished in the social theatre of war.

  She risked it all by extending her hands in a gesture half of welcome, half of question.

  He smiled back. And answered by waiting.

  Jaim, at Brandon’s shoulder, thus got a full view of a straight-backed, diminutive figure gowned in unrelieved white. The contrast was startling; framed by the splashes and glitter of complicated color around her, the simplicity of her white gown, its hem rilling like sea foam at her feet, seemed to enhance the smooth lines of her body, the dusky shade of her skin crowned by coiled, glossy brown hair.

  (Vannis Scefi-Cartano, the former Aerenarch’s consort,) Vahn said, in case Jaim had missed the announcement.

  She moved like a trained dancer, so light and elegant she seemed to be a holo rather than real. Reth Silverknife had moved with similar grace. The memory struck Jaim in the heart and he could not look away; he heard the rustle of her gown as she walked straight to Brandon’s side.

  “Brandon!” Her voice was clear and musical as she sank into a profound bow. “Permit me to say how very glad I am to find you here, and safe.”

  “Vannis,” Brandon said, raising her. “Permit me to return the sentiment.” His grip shifted, and he carried her fingers to his lips, where they lingered, the woman smiling brilliantly up into his eyes, before both dropped their hands.

  She said, “As it happens, I preceded you by some weeks, and most of the company is known to me. Would introductions be agreeable, or do you prefer to receive alone?”

  Brandon paused a heartbeat, and said, “Whom shall we greet first?”

  Jaim knew he’d missed something. Vahn said, (‘Receive’ implies he’s ready, at least socially, to declare himself head of the Arkads. It could be construed by some as the first step in forming a government.)

  Jaim watched Vannis move with the assurance of one born to lead; she seemed unaware of the susurrus of tiny gasps and whispers as she took her place at Brandon’s side.

  Brandon and Vannis began circling the room. Vahn explained further that Brandon had two choices: he could choose a position and force people to come to him (something the former Aerenarch would have done), or he could move himself, going to the person with the highest rank. That would cause the rest to fall into rank order, as they had when greeting Brandon on his arrival off the Mbwa Kali.

  But he had chosen to circle, sidestepping questions of preference—and political intent.

  Jaim followed, listening to their pleasant voices complementing one another—his baritone, her soprano—in the slightly singsong Douloi cadences. In spite of Vahn’s explanation, Jaim began to sense that Brandon had an intent.

  Their progress was slow enough to permit Jaim to take in his surroundings, a complication of marble, semi-precious stone, and costly draperies, glittering chandeliers floating above the guests, and a low, faux balustrade behind which stretched an immense, real-time vid of Ares seen from space. The illusion was nearly perfect, as though the back of the immense hall were open to space. The massive Cap with its scattered ship bays—each capable of half-swallowing a seven-kilometer-long battlecruiser—loomed over the slowly rotating oneill attached to its underside like the stem of a mushroom, the whole surrounded by a glittering cloud of ships.

  As long as Jaim deferred to the Douloi, they ignored him as if he were invisible, as Vahn had predicted.

  Jaim was grateful for the reprieve.

  It wasn’t their looks that he found intimidating, in spite of their fine, old-style clothing. The glitter-crowds on Rifthaven, with their wild augmentations and body art, were far more entrancing to the eye. Vahn had said that the Tetrad Centrum Douloi fashions were for biological simplicity—no modifications. Each person as born, to the color of eyes and hair. What they prized most were family resemblances.

  The intimidation lay entirely in their movements, which reminded him of the ripple of the breezes through the reeds at the lakeside. How did such a crowd know when to sidestep, when to come forward, and when to defer? They did it with those smooth, stylized gestures that were indeed dance-like, the smiling faces with their watchful eyes so like masks.

  Brandon and Vannis greeted the guests as if they had been doing this together for years. Brandon received obeisance after obeisance, lightly touching the open hands sometimes with his palms, sometimes mere fingertips; perforce the guests must greet Vannis in a similar manner.

  Jaim began to pick up subtle signals that she had won some kind of invisible duel. As for Brandon, there was nothing but politesse in his words or manner, but Jaim had been sparring with Brandon for weeks, and knew the subtle tells of eye, the twitch of shoulder, the tension of wrist that indicated intent.

  Other patterns began resolving out of the stylized dance. The most noticeable was the segregation of Downsiders from Highdwellers. Downsiders required more interpersonal distance than Highdwellers, so that mixed groups naturally tended to break up. Only Highdwellers lingered along the low balustrade fronting the vid of Ares—the Downsiders were apparently less comfortable with the illusion.

  Jaim sighed. It seemed so futile. Even were there not the grievances between Downsiders and Highdwellers that, according to Vahn, the late Aerenarch Semion had encouraged for political gain, something so simple as a psychological preference could divide people.

  Those who see naught but a single road have no choice in where it takes them, Jaim’s mate, Reth Silverknife, had once said.

  The most subtle pattern was that caused by the flash and glitter of the signet on Brandon’s finger, beginning with Vannis’s reflective gaze. Others noted the ring, then glanced away to meet other gazes. Jaim could not read those looks, but he sensed a question spreading among them.

  Ah. Brandon’s intent: the Naval officers, dressed in full uniform.

  The massive form of Ares’s commander, Admiral Nyberg, was instantly identifiable from novosti coverage, but who were the rest of them? He bozzed Vahn a query.

  (Tetrad Centrum Douloi, attending as members of their class,) came the answer. Then Jaim became aware of the Douloi movements, subtly at odds with what he understood of Naval rank. A kind of space was opening up around a tall, slender officer whose dark good looks were flattered by the white uniform. He stood to the right of Nyberg, face impassive, his body still with tension.

  As Brandon approached, the surrounding Douloi gazes flickered covertly from his ring to that officer.

  Another query.

  (That’s Commander Anton vlith-Faseult. Chief of Security.) Ah. Brother and heir to the Archon of Charvann who, the el
der Omilov had said, had died at the hands of Hreem the Faithless, and whose heraldry was on the ring now drawing every eye. Neural induction could not hide Vahn’s tension.

  Before Jaim could frame his next question, a tall, silver-haired, bearded man crossed the room with consummate assurance to intercept Brandon and Vannis. His spare frame, clothed in dark blue, conveyed the impression of great physical strength, as the sheath of a rapier implies its edge; Jaim knew here was another Ulanshu master. (Vahn?)

  (Archon Tau Srivashti. Head of one of the most powerful Downsider Families.) The rhythm of Vahn’s reply hinted at danger—as if Jaim could not sense it on his own. Jaim edged a foot forward, flanking Brandon. He tried to be subtle, but the Archon’s slack-lidded gaze flicked his way, then narrowed in amusement before his lined face smoothed into urbane Douloi politeness.

  “Welcome, highness,” the Archon said, his voice a husky murmur just above a whisper. “After weeks of grim tidings, your restoration to the living has been welcomed as a miracle.”

  “Thank you, your grace.” Brandon briefly touched the offered palms.

  (Used the honorific for Archon, not his territorial name,) came Vahn’s voice. (Srivashti lost control of his planet Timberwell, forced to withdraw to the Highdwellings.)

  Srivashti was taller than the Aerenarch. His light eyes, a curious yellow-flecked light brown common to his family, narrowed slightly, and Brandon said, “Thank you for the loan of your tailor.”

  “She did not please you?”

  Brandon smiled. “She nearly killed herself in her efforts to finish a truly memorable design—” Jaim wondered if the hesitation he heard before the word “memorable” was really there, or only his imagination. Brandon gestured deprecatingly down his length and added, “But I believe the circumstances warrant a private mourning.”

  “Ah.” Srivashti bowed low. “Entirely correct.” He cast an amused glance at Vannis, who bowed.

  Brandon also bowed. And then the Archon disappeared in the crowd.

  Jaim found that he’d been holding his breath.

  From Brandon’s side, Vannis watched Srivashti gather his admirers around him. Controlling her nerves from hairline to toes, she hid her reaction; his mouth had smirked with amusement, but she had seen anger tighten that slack-lidded gaze, for a single heartbeat, when it first rested on Brandon. The Srivashtis were as old a Family as the Arkads, and their fates had been long entangled.

  And so the dance of power begins, she thought as she and Brandon reached the Naval officers. She took a discreet step back, expecting Brandon to publicly offer the Faseult ring to the new Archon.

  With the Archon gone, Jaim remembered his question. (Why is everyone watching?) Jaim asked.

  (If the Aerenarch presents the ring and bows as if to a new Archon, then he is taking his father’s place in all but name, with a first order.)

  (I don’t understand. If this Faseult, or vlith-Faseult, is the heir, then how is that an order?)

  (We didn’t make it clear? No Archon or Archonei can hold command in the Navy or Marines. If the Aerenarch greets him as the Archon—an appointment that only a Panarch or Kyriarch can make—then at that moment, Commander vlith-Faseult’s career ends, and he becomes a civilian. And the Aerenarch takes the first step toward claiming his father’s prerogatives.)

  Vannis stood a little back, waiting for Brandon to claim power, using the emotional leverage of grief. But Brandon bowed in the mode of civilian to service as he spoke a polite greeting.

  Vannis and Jaim were both aware of the almost subliminal universal sigh as Brandon moved on.

  (Vahn, what just happened? What does it mean?)

  (Nothing. And no one knows,) was the curt reply. Jaim watched Commander vlith-Faseult’s still profile tracking Brandon as the Aerenarch walked on to continue his circle. So the Navy could not approach the Aerenarch at a civilian function, just as the civs could not intrude on the Navy. Interesting balance, Jaim thought.

  At that moment the unseen steward signaled the orchestra to strike up the prelude to a waltz.

  Vannis was not about to let the moment pass. She smiled up at Brandon and opened her hand in the gesture her tutor had taught her was called the blossom of appeal. “Shall we dance?”

  Brandon bowed and held out his arm.

  Around Jaim the Douloi paired off, whirling with practiced ease about the gleaming floor. In the center Brandon and Vannis turned and stepped, their plain clothing marking them out from the bejeweled whites and grays and blues and lavenders around them.

  Jaim sensed someone on the periphery of his safety zone, and sidestepped, hands ready but dropping again when he recognized Osri Omilov, the gnostor’s son. The dark eyes that had been so hateful during the long adventures aboard the Telvarna were now perplexed.

  Jaim remembered his role, and bowed, the correct degree for the heir of a Chival.

  Osri’s heavy brow wrinkled in confusion, then he acknowledged with a curt nod. “Have you—”

  He broke off as a susurration of alarm caused a surge in the crowd. For once the elegant Douloi parted with rather more haste than grace, revealing the frail-looking white-furred Eya’a, their blue mouths open, faceted eyes throwing back the light from the floating chandeliers. They walked quickly, without looking directly at any of the humans, their gossamer-light robes fluttering. Behind them, tall, straight, and forbidding, strode Vi’ya, her ubiquitous plain black flight suit so out of place in this environment that Jaim grinned.

  Her head turned, her long, glossy tail of space-black hair swinging past her hips, and her black eyes caught Jaim’s gaze. Unsmiling, she gave a slight nod of recognition, and then shock burned through Jaim when two of her fingers brushed against her thigh as she walked on. Meeting: ASAP.

  Osri drew a breath. “What is she doing here? Surely they don’t let her loose.”

  “Interpreter,” Jaim said. “Only one who can communicate with the Eya’a. But she’s got a shadow.” More than one, from the looks of the three unobtrusive figures flanking her at a discreet distance.

  “I should have said, what are they doing here?” Osri muttered.

  Jaim grinned again. He was used to the Eya’a, who, despite their fearsome reputation for psi powers, had never harmed anyone aboard the Telvarna.

  “They have ambassadorial status,” Jaim said. “Though nobody knows if they know it. I guess they’re allowed to wander anywhere, except the Cap.” Vi’ya must have got them to come just so she could signal me. Alarm accelerated his heartbeat, but he hid it as he moved obliquely through the crowd, keeping Brandon and Vannis in sight.

  Vannis knew they were being watched, but she trusted to Brandon’s various watchdogs and enjoyed the moment, shutting out the rest of the room; she hadn’t danced with Brandon for close to ten years, and had forgotten how good he was. He seemed to like speed. It took skill to weave so adroitly between the slower twirling pairs.

  She could almost hear her casual words to Rista being repeated from lips to ear—We are at war, time to retrench—and rejoiced in having managed to wrest a social triumph from incipient ignominy.

  Tonight she reigned in her proper sphere. She had to stay there, and the most expeditious method was to flatter Brandon into the place she wanted him. His clasp was light and impersonal in spite of their speed, his attention somewhere beyond her.

  She flicked a glance in that direction and discovered a pair of small sophonts moving through the humans, their twiggy feet brushing over the marble floor in a way that gave her shudders. These were supposedly the ones who could fry brains from a distance. She was vaguely aware of the tall, dark-eyed unsmiling woman behind them, but dismissed her as a Naval or civil hireling.

  More interesting was why Brandon watched their progress. Surely he was not afraid of the Eya’a’s psi powers? Then she remembered someone saying that these sophonts had also been on the ship that had rescued him.

  “I’m sorry about your brothers,” she said in the mode of companionship, a degree off from inti
macy, which invited him to respond with intimacy.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” he said, in an exact mirror to her tone. No intimacy, then, but not in the mode of polite acquaintance, another degree outward, well within the boundaries of politeness, which would make it an effective cut. Tau Srivashti was an expert at the cut.

  How to interpret Brandon’s response—and should she ask him about the Faseult ring? Was he too oblivious to see that this would have been a matchless opportunity to claim power, with its sterling emotional appeal?

  That could wait. Important things first: solidifying her position. “In light of that horrible vid the Navy just released, it seems the time for the family to draw together.”

  Brandon took the lead, spinning them into a tight turn. Vannis caught a flash of rainbow color as they veered between two converging couples.

  “We all need to draw together,” he replied, a response so obvious that it was meaningless. Fatuous, even.

  It seemed to prove he was as stupid as Semion had said. She cast about for some kind of opener to give her a hint of what—if anything—went on behind those blue eyes.

  She tried again. “If nothing else was true on that vid, one thing is apparent, that Arthelion is forever lost to us. What remains of the Panarchy is here, and so here we must begin to rebuild.”

  “There are two facts,” he said as the music wound down toward a close.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “As you say, Arthelion is lost. But my father still lives.”

  She gazed up at him, thinking, Of course he has to say something of the sort. Stupid he might be, but at least he wasn’t the type of brute who would declare the Panarch dead and crown himself. “What shall we do?” she asked, the important word being ‘we.’

  He smiled. “Get him back.”