Roland looked up. “Yes. Give me a hand with this, would you?”
Martinez set down his drink on the ancient, scuffed parquet floor and helped Roland carry the couch to the storage room at the end of the hall, where it was placed with other furniture adapted to the specialized physique of the various species living under the Praxis. Then he and Roland carried a second couch from Roland’s office, after which they replaced the Terran-scaled furniture that had been taken from the office for the convenience of Roland’s guests.
“I could have the servants do this, I suppose,” Roland said, “but they’d gossip.”
Martinez got his drink from the hall, returned to Roland’s office, and made a note of the private entrance that led to the alley on one side of the palace, a discreet way for members of the empire’s most suspect species to pay confidential calls.
“Why are you seeing Naxids?” he asked.
Roland gave him an amused look. “I’m not conspiring against public order, if that’s what you suspect. These are perfectly respectable Naxids, Naxids that the conspirators never told about their rebellion, and who were as surprised about it as we were.”
Martinez sipped his drink as he considered this. “And that doesn’t make themless trustworthy?”
“I’mnot trusting them. I’m just helping them do their business.” Roland, eyeing Martinez’s glass, stepped to the glass-fronted cabinet behind his desk, opened it with a key, and poured himself whiskey. “Freshen yours?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Crystal rang against crystal as the decanter touched the lip of the tumbler. “Naxids have been so cut out of the picture since the rebellion,” Roland said, “that they and their clients have really begun to suffer. All the money that’s going into military contracts and supply contracts for the Fleet—the Naxids are seeing it go right past them.”
“Good,” Martinez said.
The whiskey flooded his tongue with its peaty flavor. Roland returned the decanter to the cabin and locked it securely. “Naxids like my guests—Lord Ummir, Lady Convocate Khaa—are prepared to live under suspicion for the rest of the war,” he said. “They understand that’s inevitable, and their families have the resources to survive the downturn. But the position they’re in makes it hard for them to get business for their clients, and their clientsaren’t all Naxids. ”
Martinez gave a slow nod. “Ah. I see.”
Roland smiled. “We’re getting the Naxids’ clients a share of all the good things, the things they’d be getting anyway if it weren’t for their patrons’ unfortunate racial affiliation.”
“And in return?”
Roland shrugged. “We’ll turn a profit, but mainly it’s for after the war. I want to earn the Naxids’ gratitude.”
Martinez felt anger flare. “And why should we want the Naxids to be grateful to us?”
“Because after we win the war they’ll be allowed a share of power again, and that power can be turned to good use. And also…” He stepped close, and touched Martinez’s glass with his own. As the chime of the crystal faded, Roland said, “If welose the war, their gratitude just might keepyou from being executed. Not to mention the rest of us.”
Martinez, his defused anger thrashing in the void, followed his brother out of his office to the parlor, where Vipsania had begun to make cocktails.
The evening’s guest was Lord Pierre Ngeni, who arrived at the appointed hour, neat in the wine-colored uniform tunic of a lord convocate. He was a young man with a round cannonball head and a powerful jaw, and in the absence of his father represented Martinez interests in the capital.
In manner Lord Pierre was the opposite of his cousin PJ, being businesslike and a bit brusque. “I’ve been speaking with people in hopes of getting you an appointment,” he told Martinez. “I’ve prepared the ground. Tomorrow’s announcement will provide some impetus. And if necessary”—he looked uncomfortable—“I can raise the matter in open Convocation. The Control Board declining to give the Fleet’s most decorated captain a meaningful postingshould be a matter for discussion.”
Thoughyou’dhate to be the one who sticks his neck out by bringing it up, Martinez read.
“With any luck it won’t come to that,” Roland said. He turned to Martinez. “One of the members of the board is very much with us on this matter. Tomorrow’s announcement should give his arguments some extra weight.”
And that was all that Lord Pierre and Roland had to say concerning Martinez’s plight. They had much to say about other business, though—it appeared there were many other schemes afoot, contracts to be awarded, leases to be signed, delivery dates to be met. Vipsania and Walpurga arrived as Roland and Lord Pierre began to get into details, and seemed as familiar with the subjects as Roland. Martinez was surprised by it all, and a little bewildered—I wonder if Lord Pierre knows about Lady Khaa and Lord Ummir.
If he did, Martinez concluded gloomily, he’d probably be far from outraged, just demand a share of the spoils.
That was how it seemed to work.
SIX
Sula walked to Martinez amid the throng in the Shelley Palace and watched his eyes go wide as she offered him her congratulations.
“I’ve never seen you out of uniform,” he said as he took her hand.
Clattering in her blood was the anxiety that drew her smile taut. “I thought I’d give you a surprise.”
“I hope it won’t be the last surprise you’ll give me tonight.” He put her arm in his and drew her toward the refreshments.
Sula had worn a uniform all those years because she hadn’t been able to afford to do otherwise. To compete with the women of the Peer class, each raised from the cradle in obedience to laws of beauty, of fashion, and of courtesy, with wardrobes that changed every season to conform with rules that were understood but were never written down…her allowance would never have permitted it, and in any case the idea was too daunting. The danger of making a mistake was always present, and fortunately a uniform was always correct attire for Fleet personnel.
Once she’d been at the center of a kind of whirlwind of modish style. She’d had a lover—a linkboy, the sort of person described in melodramas as a “crime lord,” though of a minor kind—and he’d enjoyed dressing her in the most outrageous and expensive stuff he could find. He’d bought a new outfit every few days, and her closets overflowed with clothing. She’d given a lot of it away to her friends just to make room for the new. And then another person had come into her life—a person she didn’t want to think about—who also enjoyed dressing her. She’d abandoned almost all of the clothing when she became Lady Sula and left Spannan for the service academy, and since then confined herself to Fleet-approved uniforms.
The binges in the boutiques of Spannan would in any case have been of little use on Zanshaa. The clothing here was richer, more expensive, and worn in accordance with a different notion of style.
For the evening she had purchased a black dress of the kind described as “timeless.” She dearly hoped that was the case, since by the time she’d added shoes and a matching jacket she was scandalized to discover she’d spent a little over one-twentieth of her entire fortune. At this rate her simple black dress was going to have to last a good many years.
Certainly it didn’t compete with the peacock colors she saw about her, the ruffles and flounces and brocade. Fashion was going through an ornate phase, perhaps in defiance of the grim standards of war. Even the Torminel, who were heavily furred and wore little clothing in order not to fall to heatstroke, sported vests and shorts heavily encrusted with beadwork and gems.