Crown Of Fire (6 page)

Micahel smiled slightly. Talumah respected his methods? Maybe that was why he offered the room.

"After that," Talumah continued, "we can give each Whorl world a choice when its time comes. I don't think you'll have to waste too many suicide ships."

"It's a good time to be coming into our own." The Whorl only had two real powers, and Micahel believed he and Talumah would live to see that reduced by one.

"Well," said Talumah, "now that Caldwell scores thirty-two instead of ninety-seven—"

"I won't believe that without better evidence."

Talumah shot him a tolerant half smile. "Berit, on their campus, cracked the data base, and I got a shallow probe into him yesterday as they left the governor's camp. I can tell you Brennen Caldwell is no longer that kind of threat."

"Really." Micahel grimaced, glad for the information but resenting Talumah's success. If Dru Polar could've kept his prisoner semiconscious in the interrogation lab, too drowsy to focus on complex tasks like amnesia blocking, they would've had RIA from him—and now he would be dead.

"And the lady," said Talumah, laying down his viewer, "is a seventy-one, according to Berit. Nothing remarkable. So Polar must have been blasted by something else, something new. Did your people turn up any more clues as to how they escaped him?"

"No." Micahel frowned. "But I never liked the theory of Polar destroying himself. Polar was too smart."

"I agree," said Talumah.

Micahel rubbed his chin. The Sentinels refused to breed for talent and even married outsiders. Over recent decades, his own people had grown measurably stronger while the Sentinels declined. Polar had reported that their strongest Master was easily dominated. Debilitated by his own amnesia blocks and drugged to the gills with the epsilon-block-ing drug DME-6, he shouldn't have been able to escape.

Talumah widened his eyes and let his face slacken in an idiotic expression. "I know!" he exclaimed. "Their all-mighty god has finally gotten mad enough to slap us down!"

Micahel ignored the mockery. "I'm less interested in Ehret's god than Netaia's regent. You have contacts on his staff, don't you?"

"Yes. I could call—"

"Not yet." Micahel paced to the window and stared out at the unsteady stars. "First, I want to test Caldwell's other defenses, his reinforcements. To see what I can scare up, with a feint."

That same morning Firebird steered a small, unmarked skimmer up a ramp into a residential block's parking stack. Tel's town apartment was half of an impressive granite-block complex, and they'd agreed to meet him early. Followed by Brennen at one hand and Shel at the other, she sprinted up the steps and touched the door. Uri came last. Danton's uniformed team followed in another vehicle.

The first meeting on today's agenda had nothing to do with the Shuhr. Firebird had already delivered a vital message to the noble class. She hoped to send one more to the rest of Netaia, to people she'd known in downside Citangelo, huddled in back rooms together—her fellow musicians and the people who passed on their songs.

A tri-D image appeared on the door's central panel. "Come in," said a woman wearing a stiff blue apron. The door swung open.

Firebird spotted movement behind Tel's servitor. Shel swept around her, one hand grasping the butt of her blazer, and stared up the paneled hall.

Tel strode into view, dressed in casual slacks and a natrusilk sweater. "Come in, come in." He led through a wood-and-stone door arch. This long room had a massive stone firebay at its center, surrounded by deep chairs and loungers. Firebird's feet sank into longweave carpet.

A woman stood up quickly. "Lady Firebird," Tel said, "this is Cla-reen Chesterson, a versatile bassist and arranger who sings like a brook sprite."

Firebird clasped the woman's hand. Gold-blond hair waved around Clareen's shoulders and fell to curls near her waist. She wore a floral tattoo under one eye. Her grip was strong, with rough fingertips.

"Clareen," Firebird said, "I'm honored to meet you."

"And you," said Clareen. "And General Caldwell." She turned to Brennen, offering her hand again. "I was raised on Tallis," she said. "I'm a consecrant and deeply honored to meet you, sir."

Brennen bowed slightly over their clasped hands. Firebird back-stepped. She'd asked Tel to find a competent performer and arranger, but she hadn't specified "Netaian." She'd assumed . . .

"I've lived on Netaia almost a year," Clareen told Brennen. "I've been trying to get a Chapter room established or a house built. I hope you might help me negotiate the legal tangle."

"I wish we could," said Brennen. "I can at least contact Shamarr Dickin with your request."

"That would be a help. These people are desperate for mercy."

"I know," Brennen said, and Firebird felt the gentle warmth of his pity on the pair bond.

Clareen released his hand. When she became a consecrant, Clareen would have been told about the prophecies regarding Brennen's family. Besides destroying a "nest of evil" that sounded strikingly similar to Three Zed, some Carabohd descendant would wield the creative power of the One who sang all worlds into existence. In that person, the Mighty Singer would complete a reconciliation that none of His other servants could attempt.

Firebird still didn't understand all those prophecies. She suspected they weren't meant to be fully comprehended until after the fact. Still, she liked Clareen's sense of priority.

Brennen sat down on one arm of a long lounger and motioned the musician to a nearby chair. Firebird took a seat next to Brennen. "Clareen," Brennen said, "you must understand that we need to check your intentions."

Here we go again,
Firebird thought glumly. "This isn't deep mind-access," she explained. "It isn't interrogation. Sentinel Harris—Uri— can simply make sure you don't mean to betray us. He can make sure you won't, too," she added, trying to sound lighthearted. Voice-command, the violation of another person's will, was no laughing matter. "But as for prying into your secrets, that's just not done. It's only. . . uncomfortable," she admitted. "The first time someone did it to me, it turned my stomach."

Clareen frowned and sat down. "Since I'm one of your fellow believers, you might simply take my word. I am on your side."

"Certain parties on Netaia," Firebird said carefully, "would consider this kind of music seditious. If you're suspected of involvement with us and questioned, voice-command will protect you. You won't be able to incriminate yourself." She flicked back her hair. "Believe me, I understand how most people feel about mind-access." She barely resisted shooting Brennen a glance.

His amusement came through, though, followed by a rueful sense of apology.

Long forgiven,
she thought at him.
Don't worry about me. Clareen's our concern at the moment.

Clareen folded her long, slim hands in her lap and exhaled heavily. "I should have known. Your lives are at stake, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid so," Brennen said softly. "I do apologize. My people have been made stewards of abilities that many of us dislike. We try to use them responsibly."

"Then you have my permission, General."

"I can't," Brennen insisted, but Firebird felt a ghost of his former self-confidence. He'd lost abilities, but nothing could change his standing as the Mighty Singer's eldest heir. "Will you permit my bodyguard, Lieutenant Colonel Harris?"

Clareen's lips tightened, but she said, "Of course."

Uri moved a second chair close to hers. Firebird hardly knew where to look as Uri gave Clareen basic instructions—to get comfortable, try to relax, look into his eyes. While the silent mind-access lasted, an ancient clock ticked over the mantel between a pair of beautifully executed portraits. She suspected Tel had painted them, though she didn't recognize the subjects. On the pair bond, she felt Brenn focus tightly. Again, he had to rely on someone else's abilities. Firebird faintly sensed his frustration.

Uri broke the silence. "Thank you, Clareen. I don't need to go any deeper." His voice sounded slightly fatigued. "Welcome to the conspiracy to give Netaia back to its people."

It was exactly the right touch. Clareen smiled weakly, wrinkling the floral tattoo. "A lofty goal. Very Federate." She turned back to Brennen. "All right, General, Lady Firebird. How may I help?"

Firebird reached into a pocket of her loose, blue Thyrian skyff and pulled out an audio rod wrapped in bio-safe cloth, which she passed to Brennen. Without touching the rod, he pushed it onto the arm of Cla-reen's chair, then pocketed the cloth.

"I've put together several songs," Firebird said. "Some are better than others, but I think the melodies are catchy—"

"Wait." Tel remained standing, close to his massive firebay. "You put them together? You wrote them?"

"Yes, but I don't want that known. They're about Netaia, Clareen." She pulled one leg up on the lounger, trying to recapture the casual, cordial air they'd lost by insisting on an access check. She explained to Clareen that she'd written them carefully, including lines about seeking freedom in the right way and giving it to others. Most freedom ballads were spark in tinder. She wanted to prevent a war, not start one.

"Prince Tel told me about your presentation to the Electorate," Clareen said somberly. "I came here hoping to research popular ballads like you're describing. I'm particularly interested in the Coper Rebellion period."

It was Firebird's turn to smile weakly. Two centuries ago, Tarrega Erwin—regent for the infant Queen Bobri—had killed eighty thousand people, putting down that coup attempt. Two young noble offspring had led it, and Netaia's wastling traditions began shortly afterward. "I know those songs," she admitted. They'd been some of her favorites, years ago. " 'Northpoint,' " she suggested. " 'The Bridge of Glin,' and 'Bloody Erwin.' "

"Yes!" Crossing her ankles casually, Clareen raised the audio rod. "What would you like me to do with these?"

"That," said Firebird, "is a recording of chords with a synthesized voice. The songs can't be traced this way, but no one would change her political views from listening to them. They have no soul. Still, I think— I hope—that the melodies have broadcast quality. I have to trust your judgment. If you don't think they're up to par, destroy the rod. But if you think they might influence people, can you record . . . can you release?"

"If they move me," Clareen said soberly.

"Perfect." Firebird touched her hand, relieved, suspecting Clareen would deliver a quality performance or none at all. They discussed instrumentation, Firebird suggesting a double conchord, a wide-necked instrument with four pairs of strings, two pairs tuned an octave apart. It put a soul-digging "chunk" in every note.

Clareen pulled back her hair with one hand. "Is there a chance you could make an appearance this week? You'll change more minds and win more friends with one live concert than a dozen recordings. People who have sat in the same room bond to you."

"They do." She knew it well. Her secret performances, years ago, showed her how much a wealthy but doomed wastling had in common with poor laborers. But security had to take precedence.

"And you don't want to encourage an uprising?" asked Clareen. "I think you should. Songs can only do so much. If there's no other way of getting Rogonin out of office, there has to be violence—"

"No!" Firebird's stomach churned at the thought. "No more Coper Rebellions, Clareen. You've seen the Codex simulation of what a Shuhr strike could do to Citangelo? A civil war would do worse. The Coper ballads make warfare sound noble and exciting. It's brutal. Good people die in horrible ways."
Eighty thousand of them . ..

Clareen stared at her. "I respect your point of view," she said. "You have been in combat. You . . . don't want the regency ended, either?"

Firebird laughed. "I'd love to see Rogonin tossed out. But someone else should take the regent's rod. Someone who could cooperate with Governor Danton and gradually shift power away from the Electorate. Slow changes tend to be permanent."

"But if you became queen—"

"That won't happen." Firebird spread her hands for emphasis. "I'm being confirmed as an heir, but that's just for show. The Electorate controls the crown. They wouldn't give it to me, and I wouldn't take it. Anyway, Brennen and I expect a transfer back to Regional command on Talk's as soon as we finish here." He
had
been reinstated to Special Ops. "I hope to set up a cultural exchange program and work toward cove-nance there."

The woman toyed with the curling end of one long blond lock of hair. "Don't worry, Lady Firebird. General. I won't let you down. And I would never betray the Carabohd line and the Word to Come. General," she said, "maybe you're the one who'll end the Shuhr threat. I hope it happens soon. People are frightened."

Brennen opened his hands. "I wish it could've been ended before they killed my brother and his family and Firebird's sister. Don't look to me, Clareen, but remember us in your prayers."

"From this day on," Clareen declared.

As his servitors escorted Clareen to the door, Tel swept an arm up the other hall. "Would you join me for an early lunch? My staff prepared a meal. Nothing fancy."

"That would be wonderful." Uri and Shel had tested the palace-delivered breakfast, and Firebird's biological clock had been ringing "dinnertime" ever since she rolled off Phoena's bed, but she'd barely touched the palace meal.

Following Tel's gesture, she strode into a timber-beamed dining area. At its far end, double doors hung open into a kitchen. High curtained windows let her see Citangelo's streets. The inlaid wooden floor would have cost a high-commoner two years' wages, and this was only one of the Tellai family's Citangelo holdings.

Uri and Shel walked slowly around the room, and then Shel took a parade-rest stance near the hall door while Uri moved behind Brennen. A servitor laid out steaming dishes. Though Tel insisted the meal would be modest, Firebird found familiar foods well prepared, their flavors a cauldron of memory: pied henny baked in a tender crust, crisp multicolored slivers of marinated vegetables, and the traditional steaming mug of sweet, spicy cruinn.

She attacked this target with enthusiasm.

"Firebird," Tel said gently, "if you would ever want lessons in, ah, diplomacy, I would be delighted to assist. Waiting for the right moment to speak last night might have won you more allies than shouting down Erwin and Rogonin."

Amused, she washed down a bit of pied henny with a sip of cruinn. "Tel, they remember seeing me kneel on that floor and agree to go out and die nobly. I had to prove that I wasn't their wastling anymore. I'll be more respectful in the future."

"They already know you're no wastling." His dark eyes gleamed— fondly, she thought. "But to get people to really listen, sometimes you have to speak in the right way, at the right time."

Pride, willfulness, impatience.
There they were again—

"Thank you, Tel," she said, trying to sound gracious. "Maybe we will have time to get together again."

Brennen sipped his cruinn and made a face. He'd never liked the sweet, spicy Netaian beverage, which was fine with Firebird. She barely tolerated the ubiquitous Federate kass.

The servitor brought a soup course, then disappeared into the kitchen. Tel leaned close to Firebird and murmured, "Firebird, Brennen, it's my turn to bring you into sedition. Don't tell people you would not take the crown. There is a growing alliance to restore the monarchy, mostly among high-commoners. Something must be done to get rid of Rogonin. I feel strongly about this. Better you were on the throne . . . than him."

She'd been half afraid Tel felt this way. Something at the back of her mind adored the idea. She sat on it. Hard. "Tel, if I took the crown, I would try to change one thing immediately. No one would worship the Powers, even though people could still respect them as attributes. Do you want that?"

"Service to the Powers has never been a matter of faith," he said. "Only action."

"Be careful, Tel. You almost sound like a heretic."

He smiled broadly. "I am. I want an Angelo in the palace again. Danton's reforms make sense, but a low-common rabble cannot run our government. As queen, you would have the support of many of the noble class—"

"Tel, they despise me. And not all low-commoners are rabble—"

Tel's blue-aproned servitor hurried back in, and they fell silent. On the woman's tray, three mounds of granular white powder burned orange on individual dishes. "Flamed snow!" Firebird exclaimed. "Tel, it isn't Conura Day." On that holiday, Netaia's nobility celebrated the accession of the first Angelo monarch, who freed Netaia from out-Whorl invaders.