“I don’t understand that,” Thalias said. “He’s a magnificent warrior. How can they see danger in him?”
“The danger is that he’ll overreach himself, or take the Mitth into some adventure that leaves us politically vulnerable. Should that happen, our rivals will surely take advantage of our momentary weakness. These particular contenders for the Patriarch’s Seat would prefer to trade any potential glory Thrawn might bring to the family for the assurance that he won’t bring an equal degree of infamy.”
Thalias nodded. “Seeking a steady path without risks.”
“Which is foolish,” the Patriarch said, his mouth twisting with contempt. “The cautious path merely guarantees a slow slide to irrelevance. The Mitth must take risks—calculated and well planned, but risks nonetheless—if we’re to maintain our position among the Ruling Families.”
For a moment the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the trees. “What can we do?” Thalias asked at last.
“I honestly don’t know,” the Patriarch conceded. “I’ve done all I can. Even as my life stretches toward its conclusion, so my power and authority wane.” He smiled sadly. “Don’t look at me that way, child. This is as it should be, and as it must. The reins of command must be neatly gathered so as to be handed over to my successor without any sort of delay or uncertainty, lest the other families leap in to exploit such confusion to our detriment.”
“I understand,” Thalias said, shivering. She’d seen how politics colored relationships even among the professional warriors of the fleet’s warships. It must be far more virulent in the Syndicure. “Tell me how to protect him.”
“He has friends,” the Patriarch said. “Allies. He may not know how to gather them to his side when necessary. That will be your task.” He shook his head. “I knew from the start that politics wasn’t his strength. But I never realized just how blind he was to those shifting winds.”
“I’ll do my best,” Thalias said. “Assuming I’m still in the Mitth at day’s end.”
“Still in the family?” the Patriarch echoed, frowning at her. “What are you talking about, child? Of course you’re in the family. Your travel through the Trials may not have shown brilliance, but it was more than adequate. You’re officially a Trial-born now, Thalias, only one step from advancement to ranking distant.”
“Thank you,” Thalias said, bowing her head to him as a flood of relief washed through her.
“But only if you aren’t reported as apparently having fallen off the mountain,” the Patriarch said, some of his earlier humor peeking through the darkness of his warnings. “You’d best continue to the top. Study the staffs as you climb. Note the pattern and flow of family history. Meditate on the lives and triumphs of the Mitth.”
“And on their occasional failures?”
The Patriarch nodded, the humor fading again. “Especially their failures,” he said quietly. “Note closely the gaps in the memorial record, the asymmetries where a syndic’s or Aristocra’s efforts have been cut off. Failure can be a harsh but capable teacher.”
“But only when those who observe it learn from it.”
“Indeed.” The Patriarch reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thank you for speaking with me, Thalias, Trial-born of the Mitth. And watch over your commander. I cannot help but feel that he holds the key to the Ascendancy’s future, whether that future be triumph or ultimate destruction.”
“I’ll watch over him,” Thalias promised. “To my own life or death, I’ll watch over him.”
The sun had long since set, but there was still a glow in the western sky when Thalias finally emerged from the path. Thurfian had clearly been watching, and as she walked toward the mansion he appeared through the door and motioned her toward a tunnel car waiting by the mosaic map.
“Change of plans,” he called as she came within earshot. “I’m needed back at the Syndicure, and the Patriarch said I should take you with me.”
“Is there trouble?” Thalias asked.
“None that I’m aware of,” Thurfian said. “But Admiral Ar’alani sent a message asking that you be returned to the Vigilant as soon as possible.” He gave her a suspicious look. “I also note that while I was conveniently distracted, Thrawn managed to slip away.”
“That was certainly not my intent,” Thalias said, knowing full well that she wasn’t fooling him in the slightest. “But since you bring up the Trials, when will I know if I passed them?”
“You think too much like a schoolgirl,” Thurfian said sourly. “The Trials aren’t an essay to be graded and returned after class.” His lip twisted. “Yes, you passed. You’re now a Trial-born of the Mitth. Congratulations. Get in.”
“Thank you,” Thalias murmured.
She sat sideways in her seat as they headed out, watching the mansion, the mountain, and the homestead fading in the distance behind them, until the tunnel wall abruptly blocked it from her sight. She’d never dreamed she would actually meet the Patriarch of her adoptive family, let alone have a long and serious conversation with him. She would hold that meeting, and her promises to him, locked away in her heart.
And even as a new chapter of her life was beginning, so now did an era in the Mitth family’s life draw to a close.
MEMORIES XI
Once, it was said, the March of Silence in Convocate Hall had been used by leaders of the Ruling Families to arrange for their enemies’ censure, imprisonment, or execution. Its construction and acoustics were such that a conversation could realistically hold no more than four or five people without those on the outside edge being unable to hear what was being said in the center.
But that had been thousands of years ago. Now, with the enlightenment that came from political maturity, the March had become a gathering place for Speakers and syndics who wished to discuss political matters without one of them having to show the weakness inherent in meeting in another’s office.
As Councilor Thurfian watched Councilor Zistalmu approaching from the other end of the March, he wondered if the Irizi would appreciate the irony of the proposal he was about to lay out.
Zistalmu’s path was by necessity somewhat meandering as he carefully skirted the other conversational groups at distances calculated to avoid unintentional eavesdropping. Finally, he reached Thurfian and stepped up beside him. “Aristocra Thurfian,” he said, nodding.
“Aristocra Zistalmu,” Thurfian returned the greeting. “Let me get straight to the point. I understand the Irizi have approached Senior Commander Mitth’raw’nuru about detaching from the Mitth and joining your family.”
A flicker of surprise and suspicion touched Zistalmu’s usually unreadable expression. “I was under the impression such offers were confidential until and unless they were finalized.”
“It was a chance overhearing,” Thurfian said. “I also understand that he declined your offer.”
“Not officially,” Zistalmu hedged. “The offer remains open.”
“No, he’s declined it,” Thurfian said. “You’ve seen Thrawn’s record. He doesn’t hesitate when he sees a tactical advantage. If he hasn’t accepted by now, the answer is no.”
“Perhaps.” Zistalmu eyed him. “I presume you didn’t invite me here simply to gloat at our failed attempt.”