Crown Of Fire (8 page)

Firebird tried to explain Federate covenance and the process by which free elections would lead to an application for Netaia's membership in the Federacy. By careful questioning, she learned a little about postwar living conditions on the North Continent. Metal and technology items had become scarce with so much manufacturing destroyed. The rich weren't suffering, but low-common and servitor classes pieced together a harder existence.

The pale, dour ice miner asked about Federate wages and rights.

Firebird admitted, "I've seen the Federacy make mistakes. I can't say covenance would end everyone's troubles, but living conditions would improve."

The ice miner lowered her voice. "Under Rogonin?"

Firebird longed to say she'd love to boot Rogonin out of her mother's office and over one of the moons.
Diplomacy!
she reminded herself, but lyrics danced into her mind, set to an old bugle call.
He's back, Bloody Erwin is back. . . .
She hadn't recorded
that
composition for Clareen Chesterson.

The other woman kept her arms crossed. "Governor Danton," she said, "sends inspectors. He makes promises. But so far we haven't seen anything change. We're almost as fed up with him as we are with the Electorate."

"He has only peeled away the surface layer," said Firebird. "This system has lasted for two hundred years. There will be more changes."

The ice miner spoke softly again. "If there's rebellion, the Enforcers will be key players. They're electoral employees, but they're mostly low-common. What would it take—"

"War is never the best answer," Firebird insisted, shaken by this proof that already Netaians were bracing themselves to rebel. The Enforcers, whom Federates would call a hybrid between police force and standing army, maintained order in the cities. What would it take to get their loyalty? Rogonin's wages fed their families. Idealistic songs wouldn't soften them.
Could
she enlist them, if—

What was she thinking? She could not, would not lead an uprising!

The door opened slightly. Shaken by her own thoughts and how easily they turned to war, Firebird reached for the ice miner's hand. "I think we're being told that this meeting is over. Contact me through Danton's office if you have other questions about Federate covenance."

That evening, the Assembly's Pageantry Committee filled the wood-floored west dining hall, applauding and drinking the regent's wine . . . or was it hers? She suspected Rogonin would bill every possible expense to her modest new heiress's allowance. She managed to greet all eighty-five guests, mostly high-commoners. She followed their conversations, depressed by the class prejudices that colored their attitudes.

Interstellar diplomacy, she'd found, also revolved around money, pride, and influence. Class differences just weren't as obvious out there—or as permanent.

"The Countess Esmerield Rogonin of Claighbro has passed the main gate," intoned Tel Tellai's footman, "with an escort of her House."

Tel paused at an indoor trellis, halfway across his estate's dining balcony, and stretched out a hand. "Cutter, Gammidge."

A gardener in black-and-indigo livery handed Tel a small laser cutter.

Tel whisked six buds from a jantia vine's tip. "You've let this runner try to support too many blooms."

His bodyguard, Paudan, remained at the town house, supervising cleanup and interviewing two dozen muscular commoners. Tel could afford to increase a security force for his properties. With Phoena gone, overseeing his homes and their landscaping gave him something to care about.

It no longer mattered whether the other electors approved of him. As he told Firebird this morning, Netaia needed an Angelo ruler. The figurehead role, on behalf of the mighty Power of Authority, had been passed down for thirteen generations. It was a psychological need of this culture. Really, though, he'd never cared whether the Powers, Electorate, or Assembly kept Netaia prosperous. His worship had gone to Authority and Excellence, in the person of Phoena Angelo. . . .

Since returning from Three Zed and Procyel, Tel had required his servitors to keep the Charities and Disciplines whenever possible, but he no longer felt like a representative of the Powers.

He handed off his shears. "Dismissed, Gammidge."

Straightening a gold-trimmed blue sash over his pale blue sateen tunic, he walked to the dining balcony's edge. He'd dressed for Esme Rogonin's protocol visit. They both had postponed this to the last possible evening before her presentation ball. By tradition, the head of each noble House must be invited to a debut ball during an informal dinner.

A man in Angelo scarlet plodded out of the gravity lift at one end of the dining balcony. He had Rogonin's size, but not his figure, and a black cap tucked into his belt over a crimson tunic. Rogonin's eighteen-year-old heiress followed.
Using a palace redjacket as Escort of the House!
He might be entitled, but this was another deliberate affront to the Angelos. Regardless, Tel had to stand and bow. "Countess Esmerield," he intoned.

"Prince Tel," said the young woman. She pushed past him to his table.

Tel's butler pointed out a place to the redjacket, who seated Esmerield and then stood behind her. Tel took his own chair, glanced out through stately gold-framed windows toward the gardens, then back to the countess.

A final growth spurt had stretched green-eyed Esme, giving her attractive proportions and making her almost as tall as he. As soon as the butler poured tiny glasses of gold-white Southport wine, Tel toasted her.

The green visiting gown made her eyes shine like emeralds—or poison, which was a better comparison, considering her father—and like the regent, she eyed everything as if she either despised it or wanted it. Without waiting for Tel's staff to lay out their first course, Esmerield flicked a rolled and beribboned paper up the table. "My father bids you come to my debut ball tomorrow night, as head of your House."

Efficiently done! She could leave now, if she wished. He didn't often think of himself as the head of House Tellai, but when Phoena had been absent for two years, he would be ordered by the Electorate to remarry and start producing Tellai heirs—wastlings, too—so the line would not die out.

For now, Tel missed Phoena too badly to feel any interest in remarriage. He would honor her memory by fighting for her sister's rights, though Phoena would not have found that appropriate. Counseled and healed by Sanctuary Master Dabarrah, he'd come to realize his late wife was selfish, ambitious, and cruel. . . .

But regal and proud, and breathtakingly beautiful. She would have made a better goddess than queen.

He would've begged her not to go to the Shuhr if she'd stopped to say good-bye. His last memory of Phoena framed her sitting on their octagonal bed, knees to her chest, fuming over Firebird's dishonorable pregnancy—wastlings were not allowed to marry or bear children— while he drifted, frustrated as usual, toward sleep.

Mustn't let my mind wander this way!
"My thanks to your father," he answered Esme, "and the House of Tellai will most certainly be represented."

Having concluded that business, Tel reached for his fork. The first course, a rich and beautifully constructed souffle, had arrived while his thoughts slapped back.

"As I hear it," Esme said, "our current discomfort began at the United Session, when the Assembly voted for Firebird's return."

So she meant to stay a little longer? Tel glanced up at the redjacket before he answered. The big man stared back. Tel didn't feel threatened. One of his own bodyguards sat in a hidden observation room, controlling several remote security devices.

He had nothing to lose now. He would not be Rogonin's flunky anymore. "Originally, Countess, I only presented Carradee's request to restore Lady Firebird's Netaian citizenship. The Assembly took that issue a step further. Carradee might have made a capable monarch," he added, "in time, if things had gone differently." Tel would still serve an Angelo queen, gladly. But not Muirnen Rogonin, never again.

"Time." Esme tapped her plate's edge with her fork. "Netaia has little time, Prince Tel. In a year and a half, we could be absorbed by the Federacy. Meanwhile, their occupation taxes are ruining us."

He knew that Esme only echoed her father, having no opinions of her own yet. Tel wanted to remind her that the nobles' taxes were rebuilding defenses that the Federates shattered in response to an unprovoked attack on Federate space, and that the Federates were paying fifty percent of that expense. By the time Danton's engineers finished rebuilding, this world would be better defended than ever. He hoped they hurried.

"We must walk a careful path," he said, deliberately oblique. Rogonin had to be deeply displeased about the timing of Firebird's return. qHer confirmation was overshadowing Esme's festive debut. Protocol demanded that she and Caldwell attend the ball.

"Why," Esme demanded, "don't Caldwell and his mind-crawlers just fly to Three Zed and eliminate those people? Why are they wasting time here?"

So that's what she wanted. He could answer part of her question. "Three Zed has defenses that even the Sentinels can't pass easily. Unless they do it right, it would be suicide."

"Obviously, the Shuhr don't hesitate to fly suicide missions. Losing most of the Sentinels wouldn't bother me at all."

He considered telling her about voice-command, and how a Shuhr pilot could be forced to act against his or her will. That, he decided, would only encourage her hatred and fear of Sentinels. He held his peace, finished the last bit of his souffle, and sat back. Servitors removed his plate and brought sherbet glasses of tart eden fruit, round and pink, seeded and syruped, to cleanse their palates for the next course.

"Thank you, but I'm quite full." Esme raised one finger at her escort. The redjacket drew back her chair.

Fine. Leave.
Tel dismissed her mentally but not without a twinge. He did sometimes miss the placid assumptions of his youth—the lifestyle he'd been raised to expect and the absolute certainty that a nobleman was a superior being. Rising, he bowed again. "Please convey my thanks to your father," he said, "for the pleasure of your company."

Esme's cheek twitched. She dropped a half curtsey and bounced down the balcony stairs without bothering to ride his lift.

Esme's father, His Grace the Regent, sat in his night office and watched two strangers stride past his uniformed door guards. Bypassing the enormous, internally lit crystalline globe of the home world, the wiry young black-haired man stared malevolently. His long-haired partner, slightly shorter, looked vaguely familiar.

Rogonin frowned down at them.

"Thank you for receiving us, Your Grace." The second man made a full, courtly bow. He spoke with a throaty accent so deep that his
Rs
almost gargled. "I am Ard Talumah. I have worked on Netaia for some months as an independent trader, representing a non-Federate concern. My colleague, Micahel Shirak, arrived on Netaia early today." His glance darted toward the taller man. An instant later, Shirak bowed, too.

Muirnen Rogonin's stomach gurgled, and he covered it with one hand, pressing through folds of flesh. These people had demanded an audience on one hour's notice. He wouldn't mind if the Shuhr ejected Occupation Governor Danton and all his ilk from Citangelo, but not by destroying the base, as in the Codex simulation. He had no intention of dealing with a mind-crawling, gene-fixed, offworld trader. Not long ago, offworld trade had been strictly illegal. "Whatever you have to say, you will listen to me first. Any threat against Netaia, or any of my subjects, will not be tolerated. Am I understood?"

Talumah spread his hands. "I give you my word, Your Grace. We have designs on only one of your subjects—Mistress Firebird. Why in all the worlds is she being honored in Citangelo?"

"Not honored. Only confirmed." Rogonin balled a fist. In principle, he approved of the confirmation of wastlings if tragedy struck a noble family. That was why they were born. Each privileged family had to raise wastlings along with its heirs and instill a willingness—even eagerness—to die for Netaia's glory as soon as elder siblings secured the succession. That system, coupled with strict isolation, had kept Netaia stable for decades.

But the notion of restoring Firebird Angelo Caldwell to the royal succession soured his digestion. She'd proved herself poisoned by Federate ideals. Last night she'd shown how eager she was to poison others.

Talumah took one step forward. Rogonin watched him closely. One more step and the offworlder would feel a House Guard stun pistol.

"Despite our political differences," Talumah said, "we are also a people who do not bow to the Federacy, and we are deeply concerned with justice. Firebird was found guilty of treason, was she not?"

"Treason," Rogonin pronounced, "sedition, and heresy—but what do you know of the nine holy Powers?"

"Strength, Valor, and Excellence," recited Micahel Shirak. "Knowledge, Fidelity, and Resolve; Authority, Indomitability, and Pride. Laudable attributes, Your Grace. They should be served by those born to represent them. Such as—her."

Rogonin raised an eyebrow. Maybe he'd misjudged the young man. "That is correct. But I can deal with Lady Firebird without outside help." His greatest fear, after losing his family's position, was the danger of Federatization. Netaia's high culture, directed for centuries by a knowledgeable elite, could drown in a sea of low-popular influence. He would hate to see his people reduced to the homogenous culture of other worlds while others carried off Netaia's wealth. Obviously, Firebird was cooperating with those forces.

"Reconsider." Micahel Shirak's voice sounded brittle, even icy. "The Netaian systems are preparing for pageantry. Would you find it satisfying to substitute a state funeral?"

Rogonin's eyes narrowed. He wanted to ask if Princess Phoena really had died on their world, or if that was Federate fabrication. He'd admired Phoena. Still, she was one more Angelo, and she would have stood between him and his new personal hopes. "I don't need your help," he repeated. "My legal agents—"

"You must understand," Talumah interrupted, "that when it is necessary to take a life of public significance, the event should be arranged to bring the maximum benefit. Firebird Caldwell's death could guarantee permanent Netaian independence from the Federacy."

Rogonin frowned down at the long-faced man and his icy compatriot. Independence . . . permanent... As the words circled each other in his mind, he linked his fingers again. Could these people break Netaia's Federate chains and dispose of the dangerous wastling without implicating him? After all, those reports of the Shuhr threat to Citan-gelo came from Federate sources.

Maybe he'd misjudged that, too.

He waited to see if they would react to his shift in attitude, even before he spoke. Caldwell had shown they could read his emotions.

They gave no sign of having probed him. After several seconds, he accepted their apparently respectful silence (and mentally cursed Caldwell, who had forced mind-access on him twice). "You interest me," he admitted. "But you, too, have your own resources. You may threaten, even dispose of that Netaian subject, but do not implicate me, and do not come back to this palace again." He started to raise a hand, gesturing to his guards. He glanced at Talumah's eyes.

Something warm, like good brandy, threaded through his brain. It lulled and comforted away his desire to see them gone.
What harm in hearing if they have anything else to offer?

He laid down his hand.

Shirak seated himself on the grand desk top, dangling a leg. "Your Grace, what is your present military strength? We assume the Federates have done pitifully little to help you rebuild."

What harm in letting them sit?
Rogonin reached for his touchboard and called up data. As he read it off, Shirak shook his head.

"That," said Talumah, "is disgraceful. They have left you virtually helpless."

"But we will never bow to them."

"Neither will we, Your Grace." Talumah jerked his head to one side, and Shirak slid down off the desk. "Our people's goal is to save humanity. Civilization barely survived the first Six-alpha catastrophe. If that binary emits another radiation storm, we will all be better prepared."

Rogonin raised one eyebrow.

"But the Sentinels oppose us. The last thing they want is for humankind to become immortal. They want us all to settle for life after death, if such a thing exists."

Immortal? They had his attention now!

Shirak gave the crystalline globe a spin. "We started testing Cald-well's defenses this morning, at Prince Tellai's town home. Since we are sharing information, you may want to know he and Lady Firebird are defended by at least three plainclothes remote teams."

Rogonin laughed shortly. "I saw two this morning myself."

"Now you know of another," said Talumah. "And there are more. Here, inside the palace."