Sempronia narrowed her hazel eyes. “I hate him,” she said. “I refuse to hear a word said on his behalf.” She smiled as she said it, but those narrowed eyes weren’t smiling.
Lord Richard seemed both amused and a little discomfitted to find himself in the midst of this family drama. “What do you have against my brother officer?” he said finally.
Sempronia gave PJ a flicker of a glance. “That’s between me and Gareth,” she said.
“Sometimes I feel as if I’m marrying into a pack of tigers,” PJ said. “I’m going to have to watch myself night and day.”
Sempronia patted his arm. “Retain that thought, my dear,” she said, “and we’ll get along fine.”
PJ adjusted the line of a lapel, then gave his collar a tweak, as if suddenly finding himself a little warm.
“Lady Sula,” Terza said in her soft voice, “Richard tells me that you’re interested in porcelain. Would you like to see some of our collection?”
“I’d love it,” Sula said, happy for Terza’s tactful shift of subject. “And I wonder,” she ventured, “if I might glance at some of the books as well.”
Terza was mildly surprised. “Oh. Those. Certainly. Why not?”
“Do you have any books,” Sula asked, “that come from old Terra?”
“Yes. But they’re in languages that no one reads anymore.”
Sula gave a contented smile. “I’ll be very happy just to look at the pictures,” she said.
The case of the missing wardroom supplies was solved when Martinez went into the wardroom that evening for a cup of coffee and found Lieutenant Captain Tarafah rummaging through the steel-lined food locker. Tarafah had just returned with the team after a day’s practice, and he was placing a couple of smoked cheeses in the hamper carried by his orderly. Martinez observed that the hamper already contained three bottles of wine and two bottles of excellent brandy.
“My lord?” Martinez asked. “May I help you?”
Tarafah looked over his shoulder at Martinez, then nodded. “You may, Lord Lieutenant Martinez.” He reached into the locker and withdrew two bottles of aged cashment. “Do you prefer the pickled or the kind soaked in vermouth?”
“The pickled, my lord.” Martinez hated the stuff and would be glad to see the last of it.
The pickled cashment went into the hamper, followed by some canned butter biscuits, purple-black caviar from Cendis, and a wedge of blue cheese. “That should do it,” Tarafah said with satisfaction, then closed the heavy doors and locked them with his captain’s key.
The captain’s key opened the wardroom store and spirit locker, Martinez noted. Interesting.
The smoky odor of the cheeses floated up from the hamper, which sat on the narrow cherrywood table built to serveCorona’s three lieutenants and one or two of their guests. Martinez called up the inventory, and jotted the captain’s acquisitions onto the wardroom screen.
“My lord?” he said. “Would you sign for the stores?”
“I can’t sign. I’m not a member of the wardroom mess.”
Which was perfectly true. Martinez reflected that the captain certainly had the facts at his fingertips.
Time, he thought, for the query discreet.
“Are the captain’s stores running low, my lord?”
“No.” Offhand, as he tucked his key away into his tunic. “I’m contributing as well.”
“Contributing, Lord Elcap?”
Tarafah looked at him with impatience. “To our series of feasts for theSteadfast ‘s officers. They’re providing the officials and referees for the game, and it’s necessary to keep on their good side.”
“Ah. I see.”
“The chief referee is being very sensible about the offside rule. We need to keep him sweet.” Tarafah shouldered his way past Martinez and into the corridor that led to his own cabin. “Koslowski, Garcia, and I won’t be back till late. You’re on watch tonight, right?”
“Ah, no, my lord.” But Tarafah was out of earshot, followed by his orderly, before Martinez could explain that he’d just got off his double watch, and that the watch tonight would be kept byCorona’s master weaponer, who would be drinking himself into unconsciousness in Command while Cadet Vonderheydte performed all necessary watch-keeping tasks from an auxiliary station he’d set up forward, near the umbilical.
But Tarafah wasn’t interested in these arrangements, anyway.
Martinez watched the broad-shouldered back of the captain recede, then returned to the wardroom and signed out all missing stores as a “contribution to captain’s personal charity.” Then he signed out a can of caviar—the last—a tin of macaroons, another of crackers, a bottle of smoked red peppers, a duck preserved in its own fat, a brace of cheeses, a couple bottles of wine, and a bottle of brandy, from which he made a splendid cold meal, the remainder of which he stowed in his own cabin.
If he was going to be paying for someone else’s feast, the least he could do was have one of his own.
The exam proctor was a Daimong, and scented the room with the faint putrescence of her perpetually dying, perpetually renewed flesh. Strips of dry, light gray skin, weightless as the empty husks of insects, hung from the Daimong’s cuffs and long, long chin, and her round, deepset black eyes gazed at the assembled cadets with the fixed Daimong combination of melancholy and alarm.
“Electronic devices must now be turned off,” she said in her chiming voice. “Any electronic devices will be detected and the user marked down as a cheat.”
It would have been hard to smuggle electronic devices into the examination room in any case. The cadets—all in this room were Terran—wore their black examination robes, silk with viridian stripes for Peers, synthetics without markings for commoners. They had been made to change into these just moments ago, and their clothing was being held for them till the end of the day. The rest of the costume consisted of felt slippers and a soft, floppy round hat, the Peers’ version of which had a green pompon.
Sula supposed she might have smuggled some electronics in her underwear, but how she would read them past the densely woven black silk was beyond her imagination.
The Daimong checked the telltales on her electronic scanners. Apparently the result was satisfactory, because the next command was, “Activate your desks.”
Sula did so. The exams existed only in electronic form, and had been loaded into the desks only moments before by the proctor herself. Though the computers in the desks could be used to help solve problems, there was no information in their memories that could give the cadets any help beyond doing the numbers.
The first exam was mathematics—a snap, Sula reckoned. Then astrophysics, with an emphasis on wormhole dynamics, followed by theoretical and practical navigation, which was math and astrophysics combined. All things she prided herself as being good at.
The next day’s exams included history, military law, and engineering, all subjects in which she felt confidence. The third, final day featured tactical problems and the only exam for which Sula felt trepidation, “The Praxis: Theory, History, and Practice.” As the old joke went, it was the only exam where too many wrong answers could earn you the death penalty. Even though the Praxis was supposed to be eternal and unvarying, in practice the ground of interpretation tended to shift uneasily over time, and Sula had saved studying Praxis theory till last in hopes that her answers would reflect the current official line.
“You may toggle on the first question,” the Daimong said. “You have two hours and twenty-six minutes to complete the series.”
Sula toggled, and the first question appeared:
Under what circumstances does the identity
give the following:
The answer was obvious to her: whenx =x1,x2,x3, etc. andR4 (x) vanishes.
Then she read the question again to make sure there wasn’t something hidden in it.