She went down on one knee and bowed deep—partly in acquiescence, partly to hide her dismay.
“My cousin accompanies the linesman to every function,” Emperor Yu said, above her head to Sattur Dow. “You will have ample opportunity to speak with him.”
How did Dow did think he was going to get access to the functions Ean attended?
“My cousin is a dutiful soldier. She is also a dutiful employee of the Crown.” He directed the next words to Radko. “Cousin, you will take every opportunity to allow your new husband to speak to your charge.”
Never. If she allowed Dow access to Ean, she was failing her job. She wasn’t going to be Yu’s pawn. But the Emperor had given her an order. If she refused, it was treason, and he had every right to kill her.
If she was going to die, she’d do it her way.
Radko looked up. “I wish you had spoken to me earlier, in private, Cousin.” Not the Imperial form of address, for this had to sound personal, not professional.
It was personal.
It was also her job—her right—to protect Ean. Giving Sattur Dow access wasn’t protecting him.
She stood, breathing deep to stop the tremble that threatened, and bowed to Sattur Dow. Lower than she might have otherwise. “No insult intended, Merchant Dow, but I have a career, a life. It doesn’t include a partner.” It might have included a partner, but not the one Yu was proposing.
Emperor Yu’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was cold when he said, “You insult me with your rudeness.”
“You insult both of us by not discussing this with me privately first.” She bowed to Sattur Dow again and hid her icy hands in the folds of material.
The stance of the guards changed subtly. None of them had moved, but Radko could see they were ready. She couldn’t take on six guards on her own. Not Royal Guards. Right now, she would have liked Ean and line eight backing her up.
“You forget yourself, cousin,” Emperor Yu said.
“No. You forget yourself, Cousin. There is nothing in the laws of Lancia that says another Lancastrian must marry a person of the Emperor’s choosing.” If she had to make such a futile stand, she might as well do it properly. “The only reason other members of the family have done so is because you are head of our family and have arranged the marriage.”
And because they were scared of him.
He was about to kill her, and she couldn’t do anything about that. Not that he’d kill her himself; he wouldn’t soil his hands. One of those guards standing tense with their hands near their weapons would do the deed.
She hoped Ean’s new bodyguard would look after him properly.
The Emperor looked at the guard to Radko’s left.
Radko looked at him, too. He’d better look her in the eye while he shot her.
“Wait.” Sattur Dow spoke with such urgency that the guard paused at his command. How much power did Dow have?
Emperor Yu’s eyes narrowed. He shifted his cold gaze from Radko to Sattur Dow, and maybe, just for a moment, Dow remembered how easy it was to fall out of favor with the ruler of Lancia. At least, Radko hoped he did.
“I will not have my orders challenged.”
“Your cousin is emotional and overwrought.” Dow held Yu’s gaze. “If we give her time to reconsider, I’m sure she’ll come around.”
The Emperor’s face darkened into a scowl.
“I have already made plans,” Sattur Dow said. “The wedding. Our future. I would hate to see them ruined.”
The emphasis was so slight that if she hadn’t been listening for it, Radko wouldn’t have heard it.
“Plans. Of course.” Emperor Yu waved dismissively at Radko. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
She bowed to Dow, ignored the Emperor altogether, and kept her back straight as she walked to the door.
“And cousin.”
Radko looked back.
“Prepare for your wedding.”
CHAPTER THREE: EAN LAMBERT
A whump in the walls and the sudden movement of the station jerked Ean out of a restless sleep. The wee-wah of a hull-breach alert brought him upright hurriedly, only to fly out of bed as something hit the station with enough force to turn it.
“What’s happening?” he sang to the lines.
Line eight came in strong. “A ship. Firing at us.”
“Which ship?” Ean made for the cupboard containing his space suit, the location of which Radko had ensured he knew before she left. As he pulled it on—it still took fifteen seconds—two suited guards burst in. Hana and Gossamer.
Hana checked his suit.
He only half noticed, sorting through the images from the exterior of the station, trying to match them to the sound of the ship the lines had sent him. That one. A freighter, the type that delivered the station supplies every three days. He listened to the lines, heard the damage to lines two and three, watched the bulwarks slam shut, heard the station chatter through line five.
“… Exploded in the shuttle bay.”
“We’re under attack,” Ean said. “Something in the shuttle bay exploded.” The external air lock had bowed out, but inside was a gaping hole that went for half a corridor. The inner air lock must have been open.
The station rocked again. There was another soft whump along the walls. “That’s a bomb,” Gossamer said. He pushed Ean out into the central area.
In the central room, Sale was trying to pull up screens. Nothing. She pounded on a panel in frustration. “We put in state-of-the-art equipment, and it doesn’t work.”
“That’s because the lines are down, sweetheart.” Rossi was still pulling on his suit.
“What? All of them?”
They wouldn’t have air in this part of the station if that were the case.
“No,” Ean said. “Where the damage is.” He was already singing to the damaged lines. Line six, first, because it was more damaged than the others. Why did everyone try to damage line six? Because they controlled the engines, he supposed, but there were other ways to disable a ship.
“What’s happening?” Sale demanded of him.
What did she need to know? What would Abram or Michelle, or even Radko, want to know? “There’s a freighter firing at us.”
“Show me.”
He sang up the station control center and the call going out right now. “Emergency. Emergency. Confluence Station is under attack.” He routed lines farther, to the other ships in the Eleven fleet, and only realized he’d sent the signal to all of them—the media ships included—when he saw the flurry of activity it caused.
Another bomb hit jerked him off his feet. Ean stayed on the floor. More damaged lines. He sang them straight, aware of Rossi singing with him.
Sale opened the comms to the Eleven, the Wendell, the Gruen, the Lancastrian Princess. And to Abram—still pulling on his shirt—on Haladea III. “Are you getting this?”
“Affirmative,” Wendell said. “The attacker is an unmarked merchant freighter but those weapons are military grade. Could have come from anywhere. We’ll be an hour reaching you.” The ships—except the Lancastrian Princess — were already moving. The Wendell had six bombs, the Gruen none. The Eleven was the only ship that could save them.