Ruler of Naught (57 page)

Perforce they had spent more time in one another’s company
lately than they had since Osri was the schoolboy that the Rifters called him.
And during that time, Osri thought he’d come to understand his father a little
more, and even to appreciate the breadth of his perceptions.

But below that was anger. His right hand strayed to his
chest and the slight heaviness where the jumble of silk and ancient metal
reposed. Now that Osri had had time to think through the events of recent
weeks, he found that his mind kept returning to ‘55, and what had happened on
Minerva. He had come by degrees to believe that there was more to what had
seemed straightforward events than he had thought, and that in fact Markham
vlith-L’Ranja and his father, the Archon of Lusor, had been unfairly treated by
Aerenarch Semion for what amounted to political reasons.

That was a separate issue from the fact that Osri’s father
had kept the truth from him for ten years.

The time had come to discuss it.

He found his father and Brandon seated in two clean-lined,
low Retro-Futura-style chairs. This central room was large, the tianqi set in
the conventional spring-breezes mode, all the signs of the military being
called upon to house unexpected VIPs from outside.

Both looked up at Osri’s entrance. The two dogs lying next
to Brandon’s chair prickled their ears forward, then laid their heads down
again. Osri noticed they still no longer wore the control collars placed on
them and the big cat when they left
Telvarna
.

“Good morning, son,” Sebastian greeted him.

“Good morning,” Brandon echoed.

Before Osri took two steps into the cabin he perceived a
glance passing between them. It took Osri straight back to their school days,
and the maddening realization that his own father and the blank-faced Krysarch
seemed to understand one another without the need for words.

And so he reacted as he had then, by striking out with the
truth. “I’m interrupting a private conversation.” And he backed a step, to
retreat.

“We were discussing the detour,” Sebastian said, his tone
exactly the same mild, friendly one that Brandon had used a moment before. It
functioned as a rebuke. “What could be Nukiel’s reason for not going to Ares?
Have you heard anything from the junior officers that can shed some light?”

Osri stepped stiffly to a chair and sat down. “They are
circumspect around me,” he said. “As is appropriate. But I overheard some talk
while I was in the quartermaster’s, and when I was shown the wardroom, we
interrupted some talk. They seem as surprised as we are. More.”

Sebastian murmured, “Nukiel seems a by-the-books officer.”

“He certainly doesn’t seem the kind who’d run to a fogbound
planet full of self-proclaimed seers for inspiration,” Osri said acidly.

Brandon got to his feet and stretched. “Well, find out what
you can.” He smiled down at Osri’s father as he brought the dogs to a seated
position with an upwards motion of one hand. “Meanwhile, I need to walk these
two.”

The two dogs bounded ahead of him out the door.

Omilov turned a considering gaze Osri’s way, as if he were
thinking,
What do I do with you now?

It was completely without anger, but somehow Osri preferred
his mother’s scorn and sarcasm. “Don’t use your diplomacy on me, father. For
once speak straight.”

Sebastian’s bushy brows rose. “There is little danger of
your interrupting anything of importance between Brandon and me.” He hesitated,
then added, “To my infinite regret.”

“Is this to fix the blame on me for his future mistakes?”

Sebastian’s hand stirred, a gesture setting aside
irrelevancies. “Accusations of fault and blame have no value. The facts are—”

“The fact is,” Osri interjected, “I accused him of
desertion, which is the truth. I accused him of deserting out of cowardice,
which I no longer think is true. But if it’s not, then why did he abandon
everything we believe in, everything we have sworn to protect? He was going to
join that same gang of Rifters sitting in the brig right now!”

“He was going to find Markham vlith-L’Ranja,” Sebastian
corrected.

“You’re trying to say that he didn’t desert? On the day of
his Enkainion, with half the government gathered in the palace to watch the
ritual?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“To find Markham L’Ranja, a man ten years outside the law,”
Osri said. “A Rifter. True?”

“True.”

“So where is the difference?”

“The difference is in the intent,” Sebastian said slowly. “I
wish we had more time... before we reach Ares.” He frowned abstractedly, then
looked up. “Brandon’s motivations and intentions I will not second-guess. As
we’ve established, he will not confide in me. But from conversations with
Montrose, Ivard, and some of the others, I gather that Markham did not prey on
Panarchists, only on other Rifters.”

“This excuses desertion—the prospect of a Krysarch of the
Phoenix House robbing other thieves?” Osri’s sarcastic edge sharpened on every
statement, but to the same degree his father seemed to grow more remote, more
abstracted.

“I think... I think his goal was to win justice from outside
the system.” Sebastian’s gaze transferred to Osri’s face, but the narrowed eyes
seemed to look past him. “From Brandon’s perspective—you have to admit—the
system did not seem to work.”

“Perhaps if he’d spent less time drinking and more in
effort, he would have....” Osri’s words sounded weak in his own ears, weak and
petulant. He remembered, as he knew Sebastian did, the conversation they’d had
on the flight from Granny Chang’s to Rifthaven, when his father had finally
explained to him the real reason behind Brandon’s expulsion from the Academy,
and the accompanying ruination of Markham’s family. Semion had wanted Brandon
to be a Social Figurehead, just as Galen was the family Patron of the Arts.
Gelasaar’s only mistake was in permitting Semion to supervise his brothers’
educations.
But how could he know it for a mistake? Semion was as fearsomely
competent as Gelasaar himself, and we’d thought as truthful.
“I can’t
believe that the Panarch did not see any of this,” he said finally.

“Then we get into the limitations of personality,” Sebastian
said, and with mild dryness, “Will you perceive this kind of discussion as
treason?”

Osri was about to set his father straight on who had been
committing treason, when, and how, but he halted himself. A year ago—a month
ago—he would have been sure who was right, and who wrong. But not now.

“You’re saying that the Panarch was—”

Sebastian cut in quickly, with a shake of his head, “I’m
saying that Gelasaar is probably the most hardworking, decent, innately
truthful human being I have ever known, save only for his wife when she was
alive. But after she died... I think a part of him went with her, and it was a
relief for him to hand some jobs over to Semion, the overseeing of the
education of Galen and Brandon being one of them.”

Osri had only brief memories of the Kyriarch Ilara, but
those memories were vivid. One was how she always managed to make everyone
laugh, even children, whenever there was a gathering. A more personal memory
was of her blue-gray eyes in a face round and smiling, bending toward him.
What
are you learning now, Osri?
she’d asked, and she’d waited for the answer as
most adults didn’t, waited as if what he had to say took precedence over
everything else. He couldn’t remember what he’d said, but he did remember her
sudden smile, and his own conviction that it was the right answer, and how
happy that had made him feel all through the day—

Until he got home, and his own mother had questioned him
closely on the interview, and then afterward said angrily,
“Blunge! Hadn’t
she the grace to invite you to stay? Or did you make a mistake and ruin your
own chances?”

Osri knew his mother saw people in single terms—in one dimension.
They were good or bad, stupid or smart, depending entirely on how they served
her. He began to perceive that he had learned some of the same habit, and all his
father’s efforts to educate him out of this narrow view had been fruitless.

I’m too like my mother
, Osri thought with a bleak
flicker of humor.
Quick to anger, and to judge.

He felt an impulse, and gave in: “Why did you marry my
mother?”

And saw the question strike his father like a dagger in the
heart. It was not an overtly obvious reaction—if Osri had been looking
elsewhere he would have missed it—but his father’s pupils contracted and his
breath faltered momentarily.

Then he looked away, his Douloi mask hiding his thoughts. He
said, “It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

“For whom?” Osri struggled to sound less accusatory. “I
would understand a political alliance, but you were never political. But I
don’t believe it was a match for... personal reasons.” The words seemed to drag
out of him, but he had to know.

His father’s eyes strayed to the slowly cycling art-screen
on one wall, now displaying a colorful nebula, the remnant of an exploding sun.
“My family desired trade access to Ghettierus, and your mother wished a closer
social connection to the Mandala. As for how successful—or how worthy—these
goals were, you will have to answer for yourself.

“To return to Brandon’s flight from Arthelion,” Omilov went
on, “I think he had a purpose, of which he has not yet lost sight.” He glanced
at the discreet wall chrono, then stretched out a hand to touch Osri’s sleeve.
“They are due soon, and I’d hoped to discuss something else of importance.”

Osri looked down at the gnarled hand. His father had aged
badly in recent weeks; Osri reminded himself that he’d been tortured not all
that long ago. He said, “My report. You want me to ignore what happened? Or
lie?” Was that why his father had arranged them to meet the captain together?

Again the Douloi mask. “Do what you think best,” Omilov said
in a pleasant voice, the cadence as slippery as water over rocks. “But I take
leave to remind you that the man we are about to meet is taking the last heir
to the Emerald Throne not first to Ares and safety, but to Desrien, along with
what may be one his majesty’s few surviving battlecruisers. You may be surprised
at the questions he asks or does not ask, knowing that every one of his actions
will be minutely inspected once we reach Ares, as I assume we must eventually.

He indicated their surroundings with a gesture.

“This suite is now the focus of all three poles of Panarchic
power: the Navy, the Mandala, and the Magisterium. And this interview—”

“Will be an interrogation,” Osri interrupted, uncomfortable
with the subject of the fog-bound planet that was their destination. “To be
recorded for the captain’s almost-certain court martial. I understand very well
what Captain Nukiel is risking.”

His father sighed, rubbing his hand over his temple. Osri
felt the sting of remorse when he saw a trembling in the fingers. But then the
door hissed open and Sebastian straightened up, his hands groping to the arm of
his chair. Control was in place again.

The captain and the commander came in, both dressed in
faultless whites. As salutes and greetings were exchanged, white-jacketed
stewards brought in the covers for the meal.

Osri’s mind was busy during the polite exchanges as they
moved to the table and began. He knew his father would not sham weakness;
though he was a diplomat, he had never been a fraud. He wouldn’t let his
control slip for effect.

So Osri thought back to identify the moment Omilov had lost
control of the conversation.

Osri took his place at the table, and other than returning
answers to questions directed at him, he deferred to his father. At first the
talk ranged along safe channels: the comfort of the new quarters, the
Aerenarch’s wishes; Nukiel had insisted on giving up his quarters to the
Phoenix Heir; Brandon had been even more insistent that he remain in civilian
country; Omilov, speaking as Brandon’s old tutor, had cast the swing vote. A
complicated little dance whose outcome was a predictable as its steps—and as
necessary, Osri saw now. Brandon had opted firmly for his civilian role, distancing
himself from the chain of command.

His father was right. Captain Nukiel was being very careful,
as behooved a man with such a weight of responsibility.

While the other three talked, slowly wending their way
towards what Nukiel and Efriq wanted to know without ever approaching the feel
of an interrogation, Osri retraced his way through his conversation with his father.
The subject had been Brandon, but they had not stayed on him. Markham L’Ranja...
Gelasaar... Risiena—no, that had been his thoughts only.

The Kyriarch.

Osri’s heart constricted.
Ilara... and then my question:
Why did you marry my mother?

His hands had gone clammy, and he wished he were back in his
own cabin, away from other eyes. He suppressed twitch of his hand towards
Tetradrachm in his breast pocket.

Don’t ever take lovers
, his mother had said to him
once, in one of her rare confiding moments.
You’ll find yourself bound by
the chains of their greed.
He’d certainly seen the truth of that after some
of her more spectacular fights. She’d always seemed to pick badly. Osri had
cordially hated all his mother’s lovers—a hatred he shared with his half siblings,
even if they shared little else.

His father’s house had always been a contrast much to be
preferred: the quiet, monastic atmosphere, music, art, learning. This was why
Osri nearly always went to Charvann for liberty, or between postings, even if
it was a much longer journey.

As a child Osri had assumed his father’s fidelity to Risiena.
During his adolescence he’d speculated that his father did not care for women,
but he had not sought male company, either. Later, he’d assumed Omilov’s
celibacy was because he’d chosen to be wedded to his work.