The Sundering (16 page)

“I’m not sure I do,” Martinez said. “I’m only the nail that sticks out.”

Roland smiled thinly. “But you’re sticking out in wartime—and
that,
I think, is all right. The family can move fast now, because the war is so big that no one’s paying attention to the likes of us. And when the war is over, we’ll be a part of the structure here, and that will be all right, because we’ll have got in without anyone noticing us at all.” He frowned. “There may be a backlash after the war, of course. We’ll have to be prepared to ride that out. That’s why you’ll want all the rank and honor you can achieve now, while they still need you.”

Martinez glanced down the table at PJ, who was as usual paying elaborate court to Sempronia, and presumably unable to hear the low conversation at the opposite end of the table. “Clever of you to use Sempronia the way you did,” Roland said in Martinez’s ear. “And PJ is, well, so
perfect
in his way…”

PJ apparently heard his name spoken, and he looked up—long-headed, balding, dressed with perfect taste, and on his face an expression of amiable vacuity. Roland smiled and raised a glass.

“So glad you could come tonight, PJ,” he said.

A bright smile flashed across the table, and PJ raised his own glass. “Thank you, Roland! Happy to be here!”

Martinez raised his own glass and pretended he couldn’t see the face that Sempronia was making at him.

It was Sempronia who took his arm just after he’d excused himself and began trudging up the main stair to his bed. He turned to her with pleasure: she was his favorite sister, with fair hair and gold-flecked hazel eyes, features so unlike the dark hair and brown eyes of the rest of the family. She was lively and outgoing, unlike her sisters, who had adopted a premature gravity that made them seem older than they were.

“Haven’t I been good to PJ tonight, Gare?” she asked. “Haven’t I been a good girl?”

Martinez sighed. “What do you want, Proney?”

She looked at him brightly. “Can’t you take PJ off my hands tomorrow?”

He looked at him. “I’ve just got back from a
war,
for all’s sake. Can’t you get someone else to do it?”

“No, I can’t.” Sempronia leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. “You’re the only one who knows about Nikkul.
He
just got back from a war, too, and I want to be with him.”

Through his weariness he managed a glare. “What if I have an assignation of my own?”

She gave him a look of amazement.
“You?”
she asked.

No man, Martinez reflected, is a hero to his sister.

“You just lost points, Proney,” he warned.

“Besides,” Sempronia said, “PJ
wants
to see you. He admires you.”

“Enough to give up an afternoon of your company?”

She squeezed his arm. “Just once, Gare. That’s all I ask.”

“I’m very, very tired,” Martinez said. Which was why, in the end, Sempronia beat him down. A few minutes later, he called PJ’s number from his room and left a message asking if PJ would like to join him tomorrow afternoon for, well, whatever.

“I was so glad you called,” PJ said cheerfully. “I’d been hoping to speak to you, actually.” He and Martinez were dining in the Seven Stars Yacht Club, one of the three most exclusive yacht clubs in the empire.

The club was the sort of place that would almost certainly have blackballed Martinez had he attempted to join, but which accepted PJ without question even though he’d never once flown a yacht. In the foyer was a glass case containing mementoes of Captain Ehrler Blitsharts, the yachtsman that Martinez and Sula had attempted to rescue—
had
rescued, though Blitsharts was dead by the time Sula finally grappled to his
Midnight Runner.
Among the pictures, trophies, and oddments of clothing was a studded collar belonging to Blitsharts’ celebrated dog, Orange, who had died with him.

The club’s restaurant was famous, fluted onyx pillars supporting its tented midnight-blue ceiling, its surface perforated by star-shaped cutouts behind which gold lights shimmered. Scale models of famous yachts hung beneath the side arches and gleaming trophies sat in niches. The waitron, a Lai-own so elderly she shed feathery hairs behind her as she walked down the lanes between the tables, visibly shuddered at the sound of Martinez’s barbarous accent.

“I thought seriously about becoming a yachtsman,” Martinez told PJ, glancing at the gleaming silver form of Khesro’s
Elegance
as it rotated beneath the nearest arch. “I’d qualified as a pinnace pilot and was doing well in the Fleet races. But somehow…” He shrugged. “It never seemed to happen.”

“I’d put you up for membership if you ever changed your mind,” PJ said. “That would have to be after the war, of course. No races being held at present.”

“Of course,” Martinez said. He doubted any amount of heroism and celebrity could offset the disadvantages of his provincial birth. If he couldn’t even impress a
waitron
…

He looked at PJ. “So how did you become a member? You haven’t raced yachts, have you?”

“No, but grandfather did, ages ago. He put me up for membership.” PJ sipped his cocktail, then swiped at his thin little mustache with a forefinger. “And it’s useful, you know,” he nodded, “if you like to wager. Listening to the conversation in the club room, you can pick up a lot of information about which pilot is off his game or who’s having a run of luck, who’s just had his maneuvering thrusters redesigned…”

“Did you make a lot of money that way?”

“Mmm.” PJ’s long face grew longer. “Not much, no.”

The two contemplated PJ’s financial state for a moment, one gloomy and the other lighthearted, and then the elderly waitron brought their plates, the meal that would have been called “dinner” on a ship but was “luncheon” here. The summery flavor of a green herb—Martinez didn’t know which one—floated up from his pâté. The waitron departed, leaving behind a cloud of floating hair.

PJ dipped into his soup, then brightened and looked at Martinez.

“I wanted to say that I think you’re just the most brilliant person,” he said.

Martinez was surprised by this declaration. “That’s good of you,” he said, and put a bit of the pâté on a crust of bread.

“You’ve done wonders in the war, right from the first day. From the first hour.”

Martinez straightened a little as vanity plucked up his chin. Praise from an ignoramus was, after all, still praise.

“Thank you,” he said. He popped the bread into his mouth. The colossal fat content of the pâté began to melt thickly on his astonished tongue.

PJ sighed. “And I’d like to be a part of it somehow. I’d really like to do my bit against the Naxids.” He looked at Martinez, his brown eyes wide. “What do you think I should do?”

“You’re too old for the service academies, so the Fleet’s out,” Martinez said, hoping very much that this was true—the thought of PJ in the Fleet was too alarming. They’d probably give him command of a ship or something.

“And I’m not qualified for the civil service,” PJ said. “And the civil service isn’t exactly on the front lines of the war, anyway. I thought for a moment about becoming an informer…”

“A what?” Martinez was thunderstruck.

“An informer.” Fastidiously, as he dabbed his mustache with a napkin. “You know, the Legion of Diligence is always urging us to inform on traitors and subversives and so on, so I thought I’d join a subversive group and try a bit of the informing line.”

Martinez was enraptured by the idea of Lord Pierre J. Ngeni, Secret Agent. “Have you
told
anyone of this plan?” he asked, smearing sauce on bread.

“No I worked it out myself.”

“I thought so.” He scooped up pâté. “The idea has all the hallmarks of a incomparable mind.”

PJ was pleased. “Thank you, Lord Gareth.” A frown intruded onto his face. “But I ran into a problem. I don’t
know
any traitors, and all the traitors seem to be Naxids anyway, and since I’m not a Naxid it would be difficult to join any of their groups, wouldn’t it? So the plan hasn’t worked out.”

Martinez chewed thoughtfully through this, then swallowed. “Oh. Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence, and then PJ asked, “You wouldn’t know any subversive groups I could join, would you?”

Other than the Martinez family, you mean?
“I’m afraid not,” Martinez said..

“Too bad.” PJ was downcast. “So I’m still looking for something to do, to help with the war.”

Martinez reflected that he’d been on a ship for the whole war and had no idea what it was that civilians
were
doing, and so he asked.

“Well, we’re urged to Uphold the Praxis and Repel Seditious Rumors,” PJ said. “And I
do.
I repel rumors like anything.”

Martinez drew a feathery hair off his plate. “Very commendable,” he said.

“And we’re told to Enhance War Production and Conserve Precious Resources,” PJ continued, “but I don’t really have anything to do with production or resource management, so there’s nothing I can do in that line, I’m afraid.”

Martinez considered urging PJ to acquire some resources and then conserve them, but that didn’t seem to be the sort of thing PJ was aiming at.

“I want to do
more,
” PJ said. “It’s—these are
critical times,
they call for…” He flapped his hands. “For
action.
”

“Well,” Martinez said, “you could sponsor a benefit show at the Oh-lo-ho or the Penumbra. Proceeds going to Fleet Relief or somewhere useful.”

PJ looked abashed. “I’m afraid—well, the current state of the finances does not permit that sort of thing.”

Martinez had suspected they might not. “Perhaps a jumble sale,” he said. “Urge your friends to clear out their attics for a good cause.”

PJ seemed to be considering this for a moment, and then shook his head. “It’s useless, isn’t it?” He slumped. “
I’m
useless. Here we are in stirring times, and I can’t contribute a whit.” He looked at Martinez, and genuine desperation shimmered in his eyes. “I want to prove myself worthy of Sempronia, you see. She’s
your
sister, and that makes it hard. She’s used to having heroes loitering around the house, and when
I’m
loitering instead of
you
, I’m sure she can’t help but make comparisons.”

Martinez listened in astonishment.
Worthy of Sempronia?
What, he wondered, could have prompted this? Had the poor sap actually fallen for his sister?

His sister, who at this very moment was loitering, if the word could be said to apply, with one of the heroes of Hone-bar?

“Ah. Well,” said Martinez. “Perhaps you could consult with Lord Pierre.” Referring to Lord Pierre Ngeni, who was handling Clan Ngeni business on Zanshaa while Lord Ngeni was serving as governor of Paycahp.

“What’s the use?” PJ cried. “The only thing I’m good for is buying Fleet officers lunch.”

“It’s appreciated,” Martinez said. He tried to sound as cheerful as possible, but he feared he was unable to succor, or for that matter much care about, PJ’s agony of spirit. He was more worried, given that discretion had never been one of Sempronia’s prime attributes, about the Ngenis finding out about Sempronia’s attachment to Shankaracharya.

“Sorry to bother you with all this,” PJ apologized. “But I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions. Or connections you could bring into play.” He brightened. “Maybe I could serve on your next ship, as, I don’t know, a volunteer or something.”

Martinez tried not to recoil in horror from this suggestion. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’d have to go through one of the training academies first.”

“Ah.” PJ shook his head. “Thanks anyway.” He sighed. “I appreciate your talking to me like this.”

“I’m only sorry,” Martinez said, “I haven’t been able to help.”

Afterward, walking home, he passed by an antique store, hesitated, and stepped inside. After tapping it to find if it had a satisfactory ring, he purchased a broad-mouthed porcelain vase, creamy and translucent, with a light relief of chrysanthemums, which he sent to Sula at her apartment.
Here’s a vase for your flowers,
he wrote on the card.

Then he went to a flower shop and sent to Sula a huge spray of gladioli.
Here are some flowers for your vase
.

The next hour was spent with a skilled Torminel masseur, having some of the pains and kinks of two months of acceleration poked, squeezed, and beaten out of him. Exhausted but with his skin aglow, he returned to the Shelley Palace and to his bed.

He was awakened by the chiming of the comm. He opened his eyes.

“Comm: voice only. Comm: answer.”

“Where’s the picture?” came Sula’s voice. “I wanted to show you your flowers.”

Martinez swiped gum from his eyelids. “I’m trying not to send you screaming for the exit.” He rolled over, reached to the bedside table, and aimed the hood of the comm unit in his direction. “But if you insist…Comm,” he commanded. “Video and audio both.”

The flowers sprang into life on the screen—oranges and reds and yellows—and with them Sula’s smiling face. Her eyes widened as she took in Martinez’s bed, tousled hair and undershirt, then a skeptical tone entered her voice.

“You thought
this
would send me screaming?”

He swiped again at an eye. “It hasn’t failed yet.”

“At least I get to see what
your
bed looks like.”

“Feast your eyes.” He looked at the screen, at the pale, golden-haired figure. “And I’ll feast mine,” he added.

Even on the small screen he saw the flush mantle her cheeks. “I see you’re still on ship time,” she said, a bit hastily.

“Somewhat.” The Fleet’s twenty-nine-hour day contrasted with that of Zanshaa, which was 25.43 standard hours. If the twenty-nine-hour day imposed on the empire by the Shaa corresponded with that of any planet, the planet had yet to be discovered.

Sula looked at the vase. “How did you know I liked Guraware?”

“Innate good taste, I suppose. I saw it in a shop and thought it should belong to you.”