Cameras were present—anything the lady governor did was news—but had been told to keep their distance.
A Daimong chorus chanted Ornarak’s arrangement of the Fleet burial service, ending with the deep bass rumble, “Take comfort in the fact that all that is important is known.” As the harmonies faded among the tombs, Sula bent to kiss the polished surface of the coffin, and looked down to see her own distorted, reflected face, its expression carefully painted on that morning lest the features beneath dissolve into turmoil and grief.
She was expected to say something, and could think of no words. Casimir had thrived in a life of crime and glamour and violence, a happy, amoral carnivore, and died, with many others, fighting to replace a vicious tyranny with another tyranny that at least possessed the grace of being inept. He and Gredel, as Lord and Lady Sula, could have burrowed into the darker corners of the High City and emerged gorged with loot, content and sleek as a pair of handsome young animals. The House of Sula would have been built on a foundation of plunder.
Casimir’s lack of compunction was a part of his dangerous glamour. He took what he wanted and simply didn’t care what happened later. Sula had taught him that patience, at least occasionally, paid; but it was only out of his strange sense of courtesy that he deferred to her—courtesy, and perhaps love, and perhaps curiosity to find out what she would do next. Perhaps she and Casimir had been more in love with adrenaline and their own mortality than with each other. Whatever the case, she knew that each had taken from the other what they wanted.
None of this was anything Lady Sula could say in public, or anywhere else.
She stood by the coffin and looked out over the crowd—the fighters, the cliquemen, Spence and Macnamara in viridian green, the Masquers in their strange white costumes with their tufted ears. A gust of wind brought an overwhelming waft of the flowers’ scent, and she felt her stomach turn. She moistened her lips and began.
“Casimir Massoud was one of my commanders, and a friend,” she said. “He died in the act of bringing the Naxid dominion to an end.
“Like everyone else in the secret army, Casimir had other choices—he didn’t have to be a fighter. He was very successful at his work, and he could have kept his head down for the remainder of the war and come out of it with wealth and credit and”—for a moment her tongue stumbled—“and his life,” she finished.
She looked at the coffin, at the expectant faces ranked behind it, and felt a tremor in her knees. She anchored herself on the concrete beneath her feet and spoke over the heads of the people in front of her, into the wet cold sky.
“And his life,” she repeated.
“I would like to be present at every memorial for every victim of the Naxids,” she said, “but I can’t. Let this service represent them all. Let the record state that Casimir was brave, that he was very smart, that he was as loyal to his friends as he was deadly to the enemy. That he chose to fight when he didn’t have to, and that he never regretted his choice, not even when he was dying in the hospital.”
Her voice faltered again, and she managed through an act of will to make a gesture of finality.
“May the Peace of the Praxis be with you all.”
The Bogo Boys stepped forward, raised rifles, and fired volleys into the air. The Masquers went into their ancient pantomime as the pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried it into the tomb.
As the tomb was sealed and the monument placed in front of the door, Sula felt dropping upon her the horrendous weight of being Lady Sula, of living every minute with the consequence of a reckless, angry decision taken years ago, of living forever behind the mask she had painted that morning on her face, and living alone…
She and One-Step and Turgal traveled then through Riverside and the other neighborhoods in the Lower Town and carried out the instructions given by Casimir in his will. One safe after another was opened and emptied, and the proceeds of Casimir’s businesses dumped into pillowcases. In similar fashion, Sula acquired the profits of her shipping company from their hiding places and theju-yao pot from her last safe house. She then went to a bank, opened an account, and deposited it all.
A hundred and ninety-five thousand zeniths, more or less. Hardly a sum to compare with the great fortunes of the High City, but enough to keep her in luxury to the end of her days.
The money was spare comfort. Perhaps she would throw it all off the terraces of the High City after all.
She held the pot between her hands as One-Step drove her back to the Commandery, and as her fingers blindly traced the smooth, cool crackle, she thought that perhaps she, as well as the pot, had outlived her proper time.
“Ihave received the recommendations for awards and decorations that you have forwarded to me.” The image of Tork had been recorded seven hours earlier and spent the intervening hours in transit. Sula had made a point of finishing her luncheon before viewing it, as she knew it was bound to sour her digestion.
“I believe that on further review you will wish to reconsider some of the recommendations,” Tork said. “You have recommended commoners for awards that are customarily given only to Peers. A lower grade of decoration is surely more appropriate.”
A buzzing disharmony entered the Supreme Commander’s chiming voice.
“And as for the amnesties that you have proclaimed for various citizens, I must question them. To fight bravely for the Praxis is no more than one’s duty, and hardly excuses any criminal offenses that might have been committed earlier in life. I shall keep these for a careful review. And now…”
Tork’s voice filled with clashing discord, a sound that raised the hackles on Sula’s neck. She could imagine that the sound was intimidating at close range—even at the range of seven light-hours it was unpleasant enough.
“I must strongly disapprove,” Tork said, “of your appearance at the funeral of someone who seems to have led an—irregular—life. This is consistent neither with the dignity nor the gravity of an official of high rank. Nor did the—the ‘soldiers’ at the funeral”—Sula could hear the quotes in Tork’s voice—“display appropriate military discipline. I trust that there will be no repetition of this kind of disgraceful exhibition.”
The orange end-stamp appeared on the screen before Sula could hurl at it the obscenities she held pent-up in her lungs.
And then she thought,How does he know?
The funeral had been broadcast on Zanshaa, but how had Tork heard of it light-hours away? No one was beaming news video from Zanshaa to the fleet.
Someone, Sula thought, had been sending Tork messages. She wondered who it was.
These speculations moderated the tone of her reply, though not by much.
She replied from the private quarters of the commander of the Home Fleet, with the polished silver symbol of the Fleet on the paneled wall behind her, and seated behind the commander’s massive kesselwood desk.
Theju yao pot stood on a corner of the desk, just in pickup range.
“I would love to have rewarded Peers for their bravery, my lord,” she said, “but unfortunately most of them had already fled Zanshaa as fast as their yachts could carry them, and the ones that didn’t seemed to have kept away from anyplace where bullets were likely to fly. So far as I know, there were only two Peers in the entire secret army, and I was one of them. The other, PJ Ngeni, you’ll note I recommend for the Medal of Valor, First Class.
“The fact is, my lord,” she went on, gazing straight into the camera pickups, “the commoners have been far braver in this war than the Peers, and they know it. If we Peers want any credit at all, we should at least recognize the courage that these people displayed. All of my recommendations stand—and in fact they will be proclaimed publicly by the time you have a chance to view this.”