He ground on before she could answer. “We agreed to the wartime taxation because it was better than the alternative. Everything we loved would have been destroyed if the Theocrats had won the damned war. We preferred to spend millions of crowns on defense instead of offering one teeny tiny crown for tribute. But now the war is over. The king has no damn right to claim so much from us, nor does he have any right to dictate to us. He has shown he has no interest in anything we might recognize as a compromise. His actions indicate either stupidity or malice. And the more we agree to . . . humor him, the more he will demand.”
His eyes swept the room. “His demands will ruin us. You all know that to be true. We cannot allow him to force them on us. We must resist him now, doing everything in our power to curb his ambitions, or, when we finally try to resist him, we will find the task far harder.”
“Fight now or fight later, when he is stronger and we are weaker,” Duke Rudbek said.
“A political fight could disrupt the government,” Janet pointed out. “Or worse.”
Peter kept his thoughts to himself as the argument raged back and forth. In truth, he wasn’t sure which way to jump. The budget had to be resisted—on that, he agreed with Harrison—but how far were they prepared to go? He keyed his datapad, sending a series of messages to his staff. By now, news of the proposed taxation and spending bill would have already hit the datanet. Masterly and Masterly would have a write-up for him by the time he returned home.
“We need to find ways to bring pressure to bear on him,” Harrison said. “Whatever it takes, we must do it.”
Or try to find ways to talk him down, Peter thought. It was a shame the king’s father hadn’t lived longer. Peter’s father wouldn’t have let him make such a public mistake. There’s no way he can back down easily.
He sighed, understanding, once again, why his father had preferred backroom dealing to public politics. The former allowed the participants more room to maneuver or back away without making utter asses of themselves. If the king had been someone else, a political rival perhaps, Peter would have enjoyed watching him make an unforced mistake that would haunt him for years. But now, the stakes were too high for such indulgences. He . . . they . . . needed to find a way to help the king save face. He just didn’t know how.
“We also need to consider the worst-case scenario,” Duke Rudbek said. “What happens if he refuses to go quietly?”
“Or tries to use the military against us,” Duchess Zangaria agreed. “He’s been putting his own people in command slots.”
Peter shuddered. Technically, the military was under the king’s direct command; practically, the military council issued the orders. But too many things had changed over the last four years. It was astonishing how much could be done during a state of emergency. He had a nasty feeling that his intelligence agents hadn’t ferreted out anything like the whole story.
He suddenly had difficulty speaking. “You don’t think he’d . . . he’d turn on us?”
“Let us hope not,” Rudbek said. “His father would never even have considered it.”
“Then we tighten our grip on the planetary defenses,” Peter said. That, at least, was under Parliament’s direct control. “And . . . and we start resisting his attempts to gain control of the military.”
“Which may make matters worse,” Janet pointed out.
“He’s gone too far to back down easily,” Rudbek snapped. “I think we must start making plans for the worst.”
And hope that we never need to implement them, Peter thought. Because if we do start shooting at each other, where will it stop?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UNCHARTED STAR SYSTEM
It had been dangerous—it was still dangerous—to show one’s innermost feelings in the Theocracy. A hint of fear or resentment or hatred was often enough to have one reported to the clerics for unbelief, which resulted in a cleansing session that supposedly purified one’s soul. Admiral Zaskar could never have risen in the ranks without being skilled at hiding his true thoughts and feelings, even now. Showing doubt or weakness could easily get him killed.
He hid his disgust behind a mask as he studied the men in the cage. They were naked, weak, and helpless; their backs were covered with bleeding lacerations from where they’d been flogged. They’d been chained so heavily that they could barely move. The stench of piss and shit and blood hung in the air, revolting him. Clerics moved from man to man, whispering words of comfort in exchange for gasped confessions. The fallen would be redeemed soon enough, Admiral Zaskar knew, or they would be cast into the fire. He hoped it would be the former. His fleet needed those men.
“Admiral,” Moses said. The cleric looked pleased, even though blood stained his red robes of office. “These men have been redeemed.”
“Good,” Admiral Zaskar said, biting down a number of sarcastic answers. A man would say anything under torture as long as the words made the pain stop. The inquisitors had been experts at keeping a man in agony without inflicting permanent harm. He rather suspected the enthusiastic amateurs Moses had recruited wouldn’t have quite so much self-control. “How long until they can take up their duties?”
Moses seemed surprised. “They are ready now, Admiral.”
Admiral Zaskar looked at the nearest man. He was almost as still as a corpse. If he hadn’t been breathing, his chest rising and falling, Admiral Zaskar would have believed him dead. Blood trickled from his wounds and pooled on the deck beneath his bare feet. The whips had been designed to ensure that the scars didn’t heal quickly.
“That man requires medical attention,” he said curtly. “And so do the others.”
He turned away, allowing Moses to follow
