Crown Of Fire (10 page)

The bedroom door opened, and Brennen peered through. "Are you ready?"

Firebird frowned. "Not really." Brennen and Uri had interrupted her session with Shel, reiterating the urgency of practicing fusion before tonight's potential encounter. She'd demanded ten minutes to rest and pray.

"Uri and Shel will wait in the next room, shielding." Brennen sat down on the bedside, casual in a skinshirt and trousers.

Firebird dropped her copy of
Mattah
on the bed. She was learning to tell when Brennen would not back off, and he was right about this. "Let's get it over with," she grumbled. "Do what you can with the excess energy. See if you can restore any of those lost memories."

"I'm going to try," he said, "simply to keep you conscious."

"I need to do that myself. After all—"

"The longer we procrastinate, the more frightened—"

"Yes." She shut her eyes. She envisioned the granite wall and pushed her point of consciousness inside, irked as always by her slow-motion turn. At the heart of the flaming blackness, she spotted the glimmering epsilon nebula. She felt a smoky-sweet presence follow. That had to be Brennen, already holding a turn.

Help, Mighty Singer!

She touched the nebula and then latched onto Brennen's epsilon presence. For one moment, she felt herself as an explosion, expanding at horrific speed, blasting through everything around her. She was a compression wave, or the gas shell of a star going nova. She was Sabba Six-alpha, flinging energy storms into space, atomizing every molecule for light-years. She . . . was. . .

She was a small woman, struggling to open her eyes. Finally, she focused on a blur that became Shel Mattason's face. Uri and Brennen stood close.

She drew a deep breath. "Brenn, are you all right?"

"He's fine," Shel said curtly. "How do you feel?"

"Dizzy. How long was I out?"

"Twenty-six minutes."

The best yet, but still pitiful. "Did you need to bring me back? Out of psychic shock?"

Shel nodded.

Firebird bit her lip. She hadn't yet revived without help. "I'm not going to be much help in a crisis."

"Yes, you are. You're the key we've been given for this time. Everything is falling into place," said Brennen.

Glittering gold tracery hung from the ceiling high overhead. The tour guide's ludicrous white gown had tripped him twice, and Micahel thought it might tangle the simpering fool's legs again momentarily.

Rogonin's Enforcement tail had been pitifully easy to lose.

"The nave, of course," whined the guide, "dates from the late second century of settlement. Notice the exquisite parabolic arches, and how they meet delicate ceiling tracery at precisely calculated angles to create the impression of an infinite golden distance."

Micahel stared upward, paying attention to detail that surely gratified the tour guide. Following those arches, Micahel imprinted every angle on his trained memory. Among those gaudy traceries, he should easily find a sniping loft.

The Hall of Charity was really three halls. He stood in the central nave. The North Hall, with its separate entrance, tight seating, and low ceiling, was normally used by the low-common class. Similarly, the South Hall accommodated servitors who cared to worship their oppressors, the noble electors, in their capacity as priestly demigods. The high-common class was entitled to enter the nave, in sight of the "holy" electors.

The mincing guide led his troop up the nave's long aisle. At the front, five steps led up onto a stage ringed by curved seating. "Here in the sanctum," he intoned, "the noble electors take their places. On the left, the Houses of Tellai, Drake, Gellison . . ." As he spoke, he touched a tri-D projector. A host of ghostly images appeared, holographic portraits of long-dead electors who stood wreathed in heavy floral incense.

Still staring at the ceiling, Micahel jostled a frowzy-haired woman. High rafters crossed the main arch. According to his diagrams, he thought he'd seen . . .

Yes. Near the left pillar, at the sanctum's edge, a gilded beam protruded, concealed from all other angles.

Back at Talumah's apartment, Micahel studied detail maps of the nave, palace, and Federate occupation base. "Borrowed" from Rogonin's files, the first two maps had the look of antiques, printed in two dimensions on thin, brittle wood-pulp paper.

Long-faced Ard Talumah hovered near Micahel's shoulder. He hitched one hip up to half sit on the table.
Did you ever meet our would-be monarch, lovely Phoena?
he asked.

Struck by the way one portion of the map nudged his memory, Micahel matched a balcony-level overlay of the nave to its lower story, running one finger along ceiling beams, studying scanner angles. From beneath, it seemed to vanish.
Tes, Ard. I saw her so-called execution.

What does Adiyn mean to do with her?
Talumah demanded. Dark brown hair drooped onto his forehead, almost into his eyes.

"Keep her in stasis," Micahel muttered aloud. He'd spoken Old Colonial so much lately that he was starting to think in the trade language. "She's just a gene specimen."

Talumah followed his shift to vocal speech. "How seriously damaged was she? Really?"

He shrugged. "If Adiyn ever revives her, it won't be out of kindness. There's not much left of the mind when the body's gone through that." Sipping his kass, he eyed the map again.

"I met Phoena," Talumah rambled, "at the queen's birthday celebration, here in Citangelo. Caught her alone for one moment, proud and angry, superbly open to suggestion ..."

The thought nudged Micahel out of his concentration. Tonight there would be another ball.

Talumah paused. "What?" he demanded. He must have sensed Mi-cahel's turn of emotion, but he knew better than to probe uninvited.

"The debut tonight. Caldwells are required to attend, aren't they?"

"By protocol, yes. Anything less would be an unforgivable insult to the Rogonin family."

"Then tonight, we'll find out which so-called palace servitors are actually Sentinels. They'll all be there, protecting that pair." Ten or twelve Sentinels, two of them. Acceptable odds. Caldwell's high-ES bodyguard would recognize him, of course. There should be a microsecond's delay between the guard's warning and Caldwell's reaction, if Caldwell really were disabled.

The Sentinels might even try to grab him.

He smiled at Talumah, envisioning Caldwell sprawled on a restraint table, stunned by bereavement shock. That had been the plan back at Three Zed.

If Caldwell's imitation palace servitors attacked him, he might take one down. Violence at the regent's daughter's ball would guarantee an interstellar incident. It might even spark a war. His people could step in, becoming Netaia's saviors. He was willing to bet Modabah hadn't thought of
that
option.

Yes. Tonight, he would dare Caldwell to go through with his mate's mock coronation. He would scare them and slip away. He'd enjoyed the outcry over Sunton. Publicity went to his head like a drug. He wanted more.

Modabah Shirak's rich apartment, on the other side of midtown, had too many windows for his gene-daughter's taste. Seated on a lounger near an inside wall, Terza listened to voices speaking Colonial in her father's room. He often closed her out. For a while she'd hoped that by impressing him she might advance her career. He scarcely talked to her, closeted with on-site agents or poring over travel documentaries with other members of the crew that had brought them here. Apparently, Netaia was all he had hoped.

A youth of fifteen or sixteen scurried past her, carrying a carafe of fresh kass. Terza kept her shields steady. She didn't want to feel the youngster's fear. She'd been a subadult too recently, and the sensation might bring back her nightmares. Her father, or any adult of leadership status, could order a trainee sent back to the settlements—or culled, if she were judged inept or dangerous.

Then was Terza, even as a named adult, only a specimen to be sacrificed for others?

Never!

She tightened her inner shields to stifle that cry, then picked up a primitive data desk. With no work to occupy her, she had accessed the Federate register and researched the Carabohd family. She understood Micahel better for it. Terza couldn't fantasize with her father around, but whoever destroyed Caldwell would enjoy unusual pleasures. He would obviously try to die faithful to his god. That kind's despair, as death and defeat sucked him down, should be sublimely sweet.

So she'd been taught. Now even that notion was losing its appeal.

Other details in Caldwell's biography intrigued her. Unmarried until he was thirty by the Federate calendar, he must've been unable to find a connatural Sentinel mate.

Terza wondered what set him apart. Speculating kept her from utter boredom.

And nausea. Always, the nausea.

A different kind of duty took Firebird downstairs that afternoon to a windowless first-floor room in the west wing. She vaguely remembered a diplomatic reception here years ago. Four meters by five, it was adequate for this purpose.

Brennen sat quietly, almost invisibly, in a chair against the wall. In the end, he'd decided against flying that surveillance grid. There was simply too small a chance for success compared with the risk of being shot down.

Three women bustled around boxes piled on chairs and tables at the room's opposite end. These women were genuine palace staff, too highly placed for Sentinels to impersonate. Shel stood at one heavy wooden door, Uri at the other, twin midnight blue shadows in a chamber frosted with gilt. Brennen wore his uniform, as he'd done during every public appearance, as if he too were on guard duty. He also needed to show off that four-rayed star.

He shifted on his chair as someone hurried past Uri's door. They'd insisted on a room with two entries for this fitting. Though it might be less private, it would be easier to escape ... in case. She sensed that Brennen didn't like its closeness, nor the number of strangers. His dislike fell short of phobic panic, though. She wondered which one of the Adorations he was silently reciting.

"Over here, please, my lady."

Startled by the chief dresser's contralto voice, Firebird walked her direction. One helper dragged a spiral-legged table underneath the room's central chandelier. The stout dresser gently laid down a box, lifted its lid, and drew out a garment of shimmering pale gold.

Firebird felt Brennen's tension focus. He was already bracing himself to face the gold accouterments in the great Hall of Charity.

"Undertunic, my lady," said the deep-voiced dresser. "If you won't mind slipping out of that skyff, we'll check its fit. If this hangs well, we won't worry about the gown for tonight. It's not quite finished."

Shel and Uri stepped out through their doors and shut them, leaving Firebird alone with Brennen, the dresser, and her assistants. She appreciated their concern for her modesty.

In the middle of undressing, Firebird glanced back at Brennen. He leaned forward on his chair, hands clasped over his knees, watching intently. She knew his attention had nothing to do with watching her disrobe. He would be entirely open to sense her mood. She wondered if the ceremonial significance of these garments had started to mean anything to Brennen. His upbringing was so different.

His bird-of-prey medallion dangled down her chest as the tunic slithered over her shoulders. At her sides, the assistants pressed seams together to fit it.

Firebird smoothed the undertunic's front and lifted one heel to eye its length. The long-sleeved garment rippled to her ankles.

The stout woman brought up a second parcel. "When your sister Phoena was confirmed," the woman huffed, "we had to try these six times. I do hope you're easier to fit, my lady."

"I doubt the problem was your workmanship," Firebird muttered. Phoena had terrorized palace staff.

The dresser twisted one corner of her mouth upward. "If you wouldn't mind stretching out your arms, my lady."

Three women draped a sleeveless crimson gown with open side seams over her shoulders, then girdled it with a belt crafted of interlacing emblems, finely worked in gold, a relic of the House. Each emblem symbolized an heiress confirmed more than a century ago. "We've kept this regalia under all-day watch," said one woman. "Several small but valuable pieces are missing from the state treasury."

Another said, "Some people say the Federates are stealing things."

Firebird frowned. "I doubt that. But I wouldn't put it past the Shuhr." She fingered the belt while a length of crimson fabric, fastened with a gold brooch to each shoulder of the gown's open neckline, was dropped behind her and draped. The emblems stood for her heritage, her responsibilities, her rights as an Angelo heir.

She looked around for a mirror and found none. She was surprised by how much that peeved her.

The woman pursed her lips. "The overgown seems to fit," she said. "I'd have thought we might have to let it out again. You should be proud, my lady. You've had twins."

Firebird straightened her shoulders. She hadn't worked to get her figure back. She'd lost all that weight worrying while Brennen was a prisoner.

The dresser's attendant brought up a final box, smaller than the rest, made of dull metal. The stout dresser touched its latch and lifted out a tiara sparkling with large, square-cut rubies—at least a hundred of them—and a single diamond drop, dangling at center, to touch the wearer's forehead.

Archivists called it the Crown of Fire, more delicate than the heavy, jeweled Crown of State, the dressy goldstone Iarla Crown, or any of the others. Phoena had worn this tiara, an elegant nine-year-old with her chestnut-colored hair elaborately coifed, her small chin high and forward, when seven-year-old Firebird witnessed her confirmation.

The woman set it on Firebird's hair, far forward, then eased it back toward the crown of her head. It squeezed uncomfortably. The diamond drop tickled her brow.

The woman backed away.

Firebird took a tiny step to her right, facing Brennen. /
used to want this desperately,
she thought at him.
How silly do I look?

He stood up. On the resonance of the pair bond, she felt an uneasy concern. He paced around her, clasping his hands. "She'll wear low shoes, like these?" he asked the dresser.

"It's been fitted for low shoes," she answered. "The costume's normally worn by a preadolescent. She's small for an adult, so it suits her."

He paused in front of her, looked her up and down, then extended a hand. She took it, not quite sure what he intended, or what bothered him.

He raised her hand and kissed it formally. Then he touched one fingertip to her forehead.

An image flooded her mind. With Brennen, she stared up and down at herself as she stood in the costume, taking in its rippling scarlet train, the disquieting shimmer of golden undertunic snaking down the gown's open sides, and the high-waisted fit of the belt. He stared longest, for her sake, at the ruby confirmation tiara, its diamond drop glittering over her forehead.

She was still lost in that image when she and Brennen took an early dinner at the Tellai estate. Tel had invited several local dignitaries, but after Firebird managed a few words of thanks and greeting, those people engaged each other in conversation, excluding her ... to her relief.

She'd fulfilled every wastling's dream. She'd survived to be confirmed, and tonight—just for tonight, she promised herself—she would bask in this pleasure, here at Tel's reception and later at Esme's ball.

Shel remained at one door of the indoor dining balcony, Uri near the other. Tel's staff paraded past, serving a light soup garnished with fresh herbs sprinkled on floating dollops of set cream.

Firebird spotted one uniformed Federate turning aside to speak into an interlink. Two minutes later, the woman beckoned.

Brennen still seemed oddly distant. He pushed back his chair. "Excuse us for a moment, Tel."

Tel made some polite reply that Firebird scarcely heard as she sprang up and followed.

This aide wore the khaki uniform of Carolinian forces. "Another raid," she said somberly. "Two picket ships got too far behind a trade convoy from Beda to Inisi. Inisi is investigating."

Two more ships! Firebird glanced back toward the table. Several of Tel's other guests had fallen silent, staring in this direction. "This isn't classified, is it?" she asked.

The Carolinian shook her head. "It's going out over the newsnets."

They returned to the table, and Brennen relayed the news to Tel and his guests. Firebird went back to eating, watching faces turn sour lipped and narrow eyed as Brennen spoke. As soon as he finished, Tel's clairsinger ran his fingers lightly up and down his instrument's strings and took up a prim art song about picking herbs in springtime.

Netaia!
Firebird fumed silently. Sabba Six-alpha could blast out another radiation storm, and most of these people wouldn't even notice. They clung to their ways like limpet mines to a destroyer.

Yet all these things—the balcony, the art song, the servitors—were part of her heritage, like the small Crown of Fire. "I could help Netaia. I could," she murmured over her soup. She could accomplish things here that she never could do out in the Federacy, and be honored for them. She had every right to wear the Crown of Fire.

"You could." Tel folded his hands on the tabletop across from her, then glanced aside. The dignitaries remained busy with their own conversation. "You must consider your people, Firebird."

"I could at least help them wake up."

Tel plucked a fragrant purple jantia blossom from the nearest table bouquet. "Don't ever give up on us." He leaned toward Firebird with it. Then, appearing to change his mind, he handed it to Brennen. She felt a flicker of surprise before Brennen passed it along to her.

She glanced from one man to the other, unsure of what had transpired.

Neither of them explained.

Back at the palace, Brennen took her coat as Shel and Uri disabled a new set of listening devices. "What was that with Tel and the flower, Brenn?"

He laid her coat over a chair. "He wanted to give it to you. He decided that might not be appropriate."

"I can take a flower from a friend. He's just trying to court me for the . . . no, don't tell me he's . . . no," she said, disheartened. "No, Brenn. I know I look like Phoena, but Tel's too intelligent to mix me up with her."

"He admires you for what you are." Brennen slid an arm around her waist. "Mari, be careful. Pride has no place in our hearts. You are lovely, and regal, but—"

She laughed sharply, realizing what had been bothering him. "It's only a costume, a role. I'll take it off when that day's over and never wear it again."

He raised one eyebrow. Then, to her surprise, he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

She shut her eyes and pressed toward him. Brennen's lips almost pulled away, then pressed again, as a smoky-sweet presence hovered at the edge of her mind, enjoying her sensations, amplifying them. "I really am looking forward to the ball," she whispered, kneading the small of his back. He particularly liked that. Now his pleasure, too, echoed in the bonding resonance. "Dance one triplette with me, just one, as soon as we get there. If we're supposed to be visible, let me enjoy it before anything else can happen."

"I don't know the triplette," he murmured against her ear. He'd pulled off his coat, and a faint scent of leather clung to him. In an hour they would bathe and dress to go downlevel. In the ballroom, their kitchen infiltrators would coordinate every supply run with rotating door guards and footmen, to ensure security coverage at all times. Shel and Uri would run the actual intercept if possible, allowing those Sentinel backups to remain inconspicuous in case they were needed again.

"We can easily create the illusion," she answered. "A little mind-access on your part, a little reminiscing on mine, and you can anticipate anything. The court will be so impressed."

"Using mind-access," he said softly, tangling his fingers into her hair, "to create the appearance that I know how to dance, falls very close to 'capricious or selfish' use of epsilon abilities."

"Not selfish," she insisted. "It's not for you, or even me. It's for the mission." He couldn't argue with that. She tilted her chin, wordlessly asking to be kissed on the lips.

Instead, he reached in through her hair, stroking her throat with both palms. "And for us, my lady."

"Don't tease," she murmured.

His voice turned solemn. "This intercept," he said, "could be the riskiest moment of our trip."

"Second riskiest," she whispered. "There's also Three Zed—"

The crosstown link chimed before their lips could touch. Scowling, Firebird reached for the receiver.

Brennen raised a hand. "Shel?" he called through the marble wall.

Firebird waited silently, wondering if Shel heard the sensuous husk-iness Firebird felt in Brennen's voice. Guarding a pair-bonded couple must be torture for a bereaved Sentinel.

Brennen walked to the room's end and opened the door.

"Good evening." Firebird heard Shel's voice, then silence.

Standing just inside the archway, Brennen raised one eyebrow, and then he frowned. "No one there," he relayed to Firebird, his sweet physical tension fading.

The CT chimed again. Irked, Firebird joined Brennen in the door arch.

Shel held the earpiece on one side, her wide-set eyes cold. "Good evening," she repeated. Firebird waited a slow ten-count, then Shel jabbed a key to break the connection. "Would you suggest calling palace security?" she asked Firebird.

"It could be palace security, harassing us. Redjackets, or House Guard. Or other friends of His Grace."

"Or Shuhr," Brennen said.

"By now, they could be working with him," said Firebird. "Nothing Muirnen Rogonin did would surprise me."

"It occurred to me," he admitted. "Rogonin has tried nothing against us. He could be waiting, collaborating—"

"If he's caught collaborating, the Electorate will throw him out. That's treason—"

Chime, again.

"Shall I?" Firebird moved toward it.

"Let me." Brennen extended a hand. "Yes?" he asked the wall-mounted pickup.

. . . nine, ten. Brennen switched off.

Chime—

Brennen lifted the earpiece, keeping it away from his head. "If you have a message for Lady Firebird, I'll relay it." He stared at the floor, glacial-ice blue eyes gleaming. "Nothing." He hung up.

"I'm going to bathe," Firebird said firmly, glancing over her shoulder toward the master room.

Brennen held the earpiece, looking ready to originate a call himself. "I'll come soon."

She undressed, then lay down on Phoena's bed. The Shuhr were flaunting their invulnerability, she guessed. Much more of this, and protocol or no protocol, appearances or no appearances, she would move out of the palace and down to the base, with its better security.