For the actual ceremony she stood in the Commandery’s Hall of Ceremony, braced at attention in her new viridian full-dress uniform. Lord Tork hung about her neck the Nebula Medal with Diamonds, while she fought to keep her face properly stoic as the stench of rotting flesh came off the fleetcom in waves. A pair of Lai-own aides replaced her sublieutenant’s shoulder boards with those of a full lieutenant. The citation was vague in its description of the circumstances in which she had destroyed the five enemy ships—no one was yet admitting that, her own actions aside, the Battle of Magaria was a hideous defeat.
As if people hadn’t long since drawn their own conclusions.
Because live heroes were rare in this war, the video of the medal ceremony had been repeated almost hourly on all video channels since, and Sula, on her walk to the bank this morning, had received a number of curious looks and a few congratulations from total strangers. If she presented affidavits to the trust manager, it was because the law required it.
While Weckman tapped silently at the glowing characters in his desk, Sula sat in the deep green leather bank chair and inhaled the delicate scent of old money growing even older.
“What will you want done with the balance?” Weckman said. “Unless of course you intend to take it all in cash.”
Sula looked at him. “Havepeople been withdrawing their funds in cash?”
Weckman raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised at the names.”
Converting their fortunes into convertible things, Sula thought, misquoting herself. Taking their assets to the more shadowy parts of the empire to await the bright sun of peace.
She wondered if Lord Durward Li was one of those carrying a fortune in his pillowcase. When she’d visited the Li Palace the day before to pay a condolence call on the death of his son and to ask him to provide the affidavit, she’d found he had discovered a need to visit family properties in the Serpent’s Tail, and was closing his house.
“I don’t need the cash just yet,” Sula said. “But I’d like the money available.”
“Standard account, then.” Weckman’s fingers tapped the glowing surface of his desktop. “We have other accounts that offer higher rates of interest, should you wish to commit the money for longer periods of time.”
She offered him a slight smile. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded. “You’d know better than I. Personally I’m hoping that my application for a transfer to Hy-Oso comes through within the next few days.”
“Hy-Oso’s a long way out,” Sula commented.
“Bankers must go where the money goes. And a lot of the money is leaving Zanshaa.” He touched the desktop, and new lights burned in its surface. “To open the new account we’ll need your signature, a password, and the print of yourleft thumb.”
Sula complied and bade Wesley Weckman a pleasant farewell. As she left the bank and stepped into the bright spring sunshine, she felt the tension that had followed her for years fall away from her like a long wave.
For she was not, of course, the real Caroline Sula. Lady Sula had died in murky circumstances on Spannan years ago, and another, a girl named Gredel, had stepped into her place hoping that the circumstances would remain forever murky.
And that other, having burned away the thumbprint that threatened to betray her identity, was now in possession of the real Lady Sula’s money.
And now the woman called Caroline Sula, decorated and celebrated and now of modest fortune, passed down the sloping street. The touch of the sunlight caused her to smile, and the fresh air of spring, so unlike the canned air of theDelhi, to exult.
Sula walked along the Boulevard of the Praxis, past the famous statue of The Great Master Delivering the Praxis to Other Peoples. Over the prow-shaped head of the Shaa, his arm thrusting out a tablet with the text of the Universal Law graven upon it, was an accidental halo, the thin silver arc of Zanshaa’s accelerator ring, brilliant in the dark green sky, the same viridian shade as Sula’s uniform tunic.
Sula continued past the statue to the ornate mass of the Chen Palace, all mellow beige stone and the strange winged gables of the Nayanid style, separated from the street by a narrow, geometrically perfect formal garden. Sula rang the bell, then gave the footman her name and asked for Lady Terza Chen. Sula waited in a drawing room and examined an exquisite porcelain swan while the footman queried to see if Lady Terza was present.
Lady Terza, the daughter and heir of Lord Chen, had been engaged to Lord Durward’s son and Sula’s captain, Lord Richard Li, killed at Magaria. The Li family had once been clients of the Sulas, but after the fall of Lord Sula had become clients of the Chens instead. Both the Lis and the Chens had been kind to Sula, presumed a penniless, friendless Peer who had endured disgrace and the hideous execution of her parents.
She turned at the sound of a quiet step, and saw Terza enter. The heiress of Clan Chen was tall and slim, with wide almond eyes and beautiful black hair that poured past her shoulders like a lustrous river of sable. She wore soft gray trousers and a pale blouse, and over that a short dark jacket with white mourning ribbon threaded among the frills and fringe.
Terza walked toward Sula with an unhurried grace that spoke of centuries of quiet breeding, and reached out a hand to clasp Sula’s own.
“Lady Sula.” Her voice was low and liquid, and it floated in the air like a soothing incense. “It’s wonderful that you’ve come. You must be so busy.”
“I’m on leave, actually. I wanted to express my condolences over the death of Lord Captain Li.”
There was a subtle shift in Lady Terza’s eyes, and her mouth tautened slightly. “Yes,” she said, “thank you.” She took Sula’s arm. “Shall we go to the garden?”
“Certainly.”
They walked over echoing marble floors. “Shall I ring for tea? Or wine?”
“Tea please.”
“Oh—” Terza was startled. “I forgot you don’t drink. Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” She patted the arm that held hers. “No need to remember everything. That’s why we have computers.”
The garden was in the center of the great quadrangle that was the palace, overhung by the winged gables of the main building and featuring a gazebo of glittering crystal facets. Spring flowers—tulips, tougama, lu-doi—were arranged in bright patterns and rows, separated by neat ankle-high hedges. The still air was heavy with the scent of blossoms. Since the day was warm, Terza avoided the gazebo and chose a table that consisted of a single long strand of brass-colored alloy artfully woven into a series of spirals. She and Sula sat on chairs similarly constructed: Sula found hers springy but comfortable. Terza ordered tea with her personal communicator.
Sula looked at her and wondered where to begin.I saw your fiancé die, though typical of her style, was nonetheless an awkward opening. Fortunately Terza knew a more suitable way into the conversation.
“I’ve saw you on video,” she said. “I know my father wanted to be present at the ceremony, but there was an important vote coming up in the Convocation.”
“Tell him I appreciate the thought.”
“And let me offer my congratulations as well.” Her cool eyes glanced at the Nebula ribbon on Sula’s tunic, with its flashing little diamond. “I’m sure it’s well deserved. My father tells me that what you did was actually quite spectacular.”
“I was lucky,” Sula said, shrugging. “Others weren’t.” Then, feeling she’d been too blunt, she added, “At least death is quick, in battle. No one onDauntless would have felt a thing. I saw it happen and…well, it was fast.”
And that, too, was too blunt, though Terza seemed to take it well enough.