For two days Venera feted the local wealthy and talked horses—horses as luxury items, horses as tourist draws, as symbols of state power and a connection to the lost origins of Virga. She convinced no one, but since she was hosting the parties, her guests went away entertained and slightly tipsy. The arrangement suited everyone.
There was nothing scheduled for the third morning, and Venera awoke early with a very strange notion in her head.
Leave now.
She could do it. Oh, it would be so simple. She imagined her marriage bed in her chambers in Rush, and a wave of sorrow came over her. She was up and dressed before her thinking caught up to her actions. She hesitated, while Candesce and the rest of the capital town of Fitzmann still slept. She paced in front of her rented apartment’s big windows, shaking her head and muttering. Every now and then she would glance out the window at the dark silhouette of the Slipstream ambassador’s residence. She need only make it there and claim asylum, and Spyre and all its machinations would lie behind her.
Slowly, as if her mind were on something else, she slipped a pistol into her bag and reached for a set of wings inside the closet. At that moment there came a knock on her door.
Venera came to herself, shocked to see what she had been doing. She leaned against the wall for a moment, debating whether to step into the closet and shut herself in it. Then she cursed and walked to the door of the suite. “Who’s there?” she asked testily.
“It’s Brydda, ma’am. I’ve a letter for you.”
“A letter?” She threw open the door and glared at the maid, who was dressed in a nightgown and clutched a white envelope in one hand. She saw Brydda’s eyes widen as she took in Venera’s fully-dressed state. Venera snatched the letter from her and said, “Lucky thing that I couldn’t sleep. But how dare you come to disturb me in the middle of the night over this!”
“I’m sorry!” Brydda curtsied miserably. “The man who delivered it was very insistent that you read it now. He says he needs a signed receipt from you saying you’ve read it—and he’s waiting in the foyer…”
Venera flipped the envelope over. The words Amandera Thrace-Guiles were written on it. There was no other seal or indication of its origin. Uneasy, Venera retreated into the room. “Wait there a moment.” She went over to the writing desk; not seeing a letter opener anywhere handy, she slit the envelope open using the knife she’d been keeping in her vest. Then she unfolded the single sheet under the green desk lamp.
TO: Venera Fanning
FROM:—
SUBJECT: Master Flance, otherwise known as Garth Diamandis
We have arrested your accomplice (above-named). As an exiled criminal, he has no rights in Greater or Lesser Spyre. If you want him to continue living, you will return immediately to Spyre and await our instructions.
She swore and knocked over the writing desk. The lamp broke and went out. “My lady!” shouted Brydda from the doorway.
“Shut up! Get out! Don’t disturb me again!” She slammed the door in the maid’s face and began pacing, the letter mangled in her fist.
How dare they! This was obviously Sacrus asserting their hold over her—but in the most clumsy and insulting manner possible. There was a message in their bluntness and it was simple: They had neither the need nor the patience to treat her carefully. She would do as they asked, or they would kill Garth.
Like Garth, they must have thought she was going to run. So why not let her do it? They didn’t appear to be concerned that she might alert Slipstream to the theft of the Key to Candesce because they had let her get this far. That was odd—or not so odd, when you considered that the leaders of Sacrus must be as insular and decadent as any of the other pocket nations on the wheel. But why not just let her go?
They must have decided that they needed Buridan’s stability. She probably shouldn’t read too much into the decision. They could just as easily change their minds and have her killed at any moment.
Anyway, the reasons didn’t matter. They had Garth—she had no reason to doubt that—and if she didn’t return to Spyre immediately, his death would be her fault.
As her initial anger wore off, Venera sat down on a divan and, reaching in her jacket, brought out the bullet that nestled there. She turned it over in her hands for half an hour and then as Candesce began to ignite in the distant sky, she made her decision.
She slid the dagger back into her vest.
She took the wings from inside the closet and stepped into the hallway. Brydda was asleep in a wing chair under a tall leaded-glass window. Venera walked past her to the servant’s stairs and headed for the roof.
Gold-touched by the awakening sun of suns, she took flight in the high winds and lower gravity of the rooftop.
Venera rose on the air, losing weight rapidly as the wind disengaged her from the spin of the town wheel. High above the buildings, among turning cables and hovering birds, she turned her back on the apartment and on the trade delegation of Buridan. She turned her back on Garth Diamandis, and flew toward the residence of the ambassador of Slipstream.
Various scenarios had played themselves out in her mind as she flew. The first was that she could pretend to be the estranged wife of one of the sailors on the Rook. Wringing her hands, she could look pathetic and demand news of the expedition.
Venera wasn’t good at looking pathetic. Besides, they could legitimately ask what she was doing here, thousands of miles away from Slipstream.
She could claim to be a traveling merchant. Then why ask after the expedition? Perhaps she should say she was from Hale, not Slipstream, a distant relative of Venera Fanning needing news of her.
These and other options ran through her mind as Venera waited next to the tall scrolled doors of the ambassador’s office. The moment the door lock clicked, she pushed her way inside and said to the surprised secretary, “My name is Venera Fanning. I need to talk to the ambassador.”
The man turned white as a sheet. He practically ran for the inner office and there was a hurried, loud conversation there. Then he stuck his head out the door and said, “You can’t be seen here.”
“Too late for that, if anyone’s watching.” She closed the outer door and walked to the inner. The secretary threw it open and stepped aside.
The ambassador of Slipstream was a middle-aged woman with iron-gray hair and the kind of stern features usually reserved for suspicious aunts, school principals, and morals crusaders. She glared at Venera and gestured for her to sit in one of the red leather wing chairs that faced her dark teak desk. “So you’re alive,” she said as she lowered herself heavily on her side.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Venera was suddenly anxious to the point of panic. “What happened to the others?”
The ambassador sent her a measuring look. “You were separated from your husband’s expedition?”
“Yes! I’ve had no news. Just… rumors.”
“The expeditionary force was destroyed,” said the ambassador. She grimaced apologetically. “Your husband’s flagship apparently rammed a Falcon dreadnaught, causing a massive explosion that tore both vessels apart. All hands are presumed lost.”
“I see…” She felt sick, as though this were the first time she’d heard this news.
“I don’t think you do see,” said the ambassador. She snapped her fingers and her secretary left, returning with a silver tray and two glasses of wine.
“You’ve shown up at an awkward time,” continued the ambassador. “One of your husband’s ships did make it back to Rush. The Severance limped back into port a couple of weeks ago, and her hull was full of holes. Naturally, the people assumed she was the vanguard of a return from the battle with Mavery. But no—the airmen disembarked and they were laughing, crying, claiming a great victory, and waving away all talk of Mavery. ‘No,’ they say, ‘we’ve beaten Falcon! By the genius of the Pilot and Admiral Fanning, we’ve forestalled an invasion and saved Slipstream!’