After years of striving, after all the work and the schemes and the danger, Martinez had finally reached his moment of glory. The moment when all the empire waited only for him.
And he couldn’t say a word. The fine phrases that had been in his mind a moment ago had vanished, and all he felt was the awesome weight of expectation, the presence of the grand personages of the empire, all waiting for him to make a mistake, to show himself for the rustic nobody that he was.
The silence yawned before him as his heart thundered in his ears. He forced his mouth to open and forced sound from his throat.
“My lord convocates,” he began, and his eyes desperately sought among the audience, to light on Saïd and on Fleet Commander Tork. “My Lord Senior,” he managed, “my lord commander…” His eyes flew to the gallery. “My friends,” he said.
And then, once he had convinced himself that he could actually speak before this audience, the words broke free in his mind. At first only a few phrases floated to the surface, but once he spoke them, others came, and then more. It was fortunate that he had already given the speech twice—that helped him settle into a rhythm. Adopting his sentiments for the Convocation wasn’t hard: his audience had fought their own battle, on this very spot, and he could credit them with the same courage, skill, and rare genius with which he’d credited the crew ofCorona.
By the end the phrases were flying naturally from his lips, as if he’d been addressing the Convocation all his life.
“I know this in my heart,” he concluded. “With the wisdom and leadership of this body, and with such courage and skill as that demonstrated by the crew ofCorona, our noble cause cannot fail!”
The room erupted in cheers and applause that lasted longer than it had the first time. Martinez tried to smile his wise, confident smile, and saluted them again with the orb.
And if you don’t like the accent,he thought,you can lump it.
There was a reception afterward in the Ngeni Palace. The place was fragrant with the scent of hundreds of floral bouquets, and brilliant with glowing decorations in the shape of snowflakes, no two alike, that hovered below the high ceiling and cast a silver glow on the assembled throng. Snow, the real thing, dusted the window ledges outside and sparkled brilliantly on the trees in the courtyard. Convocates, high-ranking members of the Fleet, and senior administrators filled the rooms and galleries.
None wore mourning. The Convocation had decided to cancel the mourning period for the last Great Master, and with it the customary restrictions on the size of social engagements. Officially this was because the rebellion took priority over sorrow, though if Martinez were a convocate, he would have wanted mourning canceled on the grounds of confusion, because it was no longer possible to know whether one was mourning the Great Master, war casualties, dead Naxid rebels, or the stability and peace of the old imperial order.
No longer having to worry aboutwhich twenty-two to invite to any function, society happily removed its corsets and began to take what pleasure it could from winter and rebellion.
In any case, Martinez was pleased to be wearing viridian again.
“I didn’t know you were going to make a speech,” said Lord Roland, Martinez’s older brother.
“I’m planning on being a convocate myself someday,” Martinez said. “I thought I’d let them know that I can speak in public, and can be useful, and that Laredans don’t drool or twitch or pitch a fit when they get nervous.”
“Actually,I was planning on being the first convocate to be co-opted from Laredo,” Roland said. He was a little taller than Martinez, a result of his longer legs. His Laredo accent was pronounced. “I hope you’ll defer to seniority.”
“Maybe,” Martinez said. “But if I don’t, I’ll work hard to get you in. Now’s the time; there are vacancies.”
He didn’t know how seriously to take his own words. Lieutenant Captain Lord Convocate Gareth Martinez? It certainly seemed possible, on such a day as this. The Convocation was in a generous mood. They had already given the Laredo shipyards an order for three frigates, and guaranteed a substantial profit for the Martinez clan and their dependents.
Perhaps, after all this time, his father’s plans were actually bearing fruit. Marcus Martinez had been snubbed in the Fleet and on Zanshaa, and returned to Laredo determined to become so rich that no one would ever dare snub him again. Hehad become ridiculously wealthy, even by the standards of Peers, and his children were elements of his scheme to storm the city and cast down its social walls. But until now, Martinez hadn’t thought it was possible to purchase respect, not from the old families like the Ngenis and the Chens.
Until now.Since the rebellion, all sorts of things seemed possible.
Lord Pierre Ngeni arrived and raised his glass in salute to Martinez of the Golden Orb. Martinez raised the orb in reply, then noticed a piece of Fleet Commander Tork’s flesh hanging from the baton, stripped it away and let it fall.
“We were discussing,” Martinez said, “how the first convocate from Laredo should be one of your clients.”
Lord Pierre hesitated.He, theoretically, represented Laredo in convocation through his patron/client relationship with the Martinez clan, though of course Lord Pierre had never been to Laredo, and would never go. “I’m sure,” he said finally.
“You can never have too many allies in Convocation,” Martinez said.
Lord Pierre turned to Roland. “Now that your shipyards have got those contracts,” he said, “you’ll be returning home?”
“It will take me three months to get there,” Roland said, “and by then your frigates will be half finished. There’s no need for me to be on site—my father can handle all that. No,” Roland smiled, “I’ll be in the capital for quite a while. Probably a few years.”
Lord Pierre did not seem cheered by this. He turned to Martinez. “But you, Lord Captain, you must leave soon.”
“In two days, to make up this new squadron. I’ve barely met my new officers.” And what he’d seen hadn’t encouraged him: a gray-haired lieutenant who hadn’t been promoted in sixteen years, and a new-fledged youngster with scarcely any more seniority than Vonderheydte. He clearly had his work cut out for him.
“Do you think Jarlath will strike for Magaria?” asked Lord Pierre. “Everyone seems to think he will.”
“I don’t think he’s got the numbers,” Martinez said.
Roland gave a little smile. “I thought you said we couldn’t fail.”
“We can if wetry. ”
Later, as strains of music floated toward the assembly from the orchestra in the ballroom, Martinez found himself with a powerful yearning to have Amanda Taen in his arms. But Warrant Officer Taen was away in her ship, repairing satellites for the next month, and Martinez hadn’t the time to make a new connection, not unless he made one now.
As he walked toward the ballroom, Martinez found himself next to PJ Ngeni. Melancholy seemed to have become a permanent fixture on PJ’s long face, and Martinez assumed this to be a consequence of frequent contact with his sisters. Martinez more or less knew how he felt.
“I say, Gareth,” PJ said.
“Yes?”
“Terrific speech you gave this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“It made me want to—todo something, if you know what I mean. Do something useful, in the war.”
Martinez looked at him. “To join the Fleet?”
“I hardly think I—” He hesitated. “Well, to dosomething.” PJ touched a hand to his collar. “I wonder if I might ask your advice. On a more personal matter.”
Martinez lifted his eyebrows. “Of course.”
“I wonder if it’s normal for someone from Laredo—a young woman, for example—to maintain, ah, a sort of social and emotional independence.”
Martinez hid a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Laredans are renowned for their independence, both of thought and of character.”