The aircar dropped down and landed neatly on a pad. A pair of security officers stepped forward, wearing the king’s livery. Peter considered protesting as they scanned his body, then decided there was no point. He couldn’t blame the king’s protectors for feeling paranoid. The enemy agents who’d killed Peter’s father had never been caught. And, judging by some of the chatter on the datanet, the king’s life was in very real danger.
“Your Grace,” a voice said. “His Majesty is expecting you.”
Peter looked up and saw a pretty young woman wearing the red-and-gold uniform of a Royal Equerry. She looked young—too young; there was a hardness in her eyes, barely masked, that suggested she was considerably more dangerous than she appeared. Another protector, then: a protector hiding in plain sight. Peter was used to plainclothes security officers, but this was a new one. The king was definitely feeling paranoid.
“Thank you,” he said.
The woman dropped a curtsy, then led him into the palace and up towards the king’s private chambers. It wasn’t the first time Peter had visited—the palace was a governmental complex, after all—but it was the first time he’d been honored with an invitation to the king’s private chambers. He wasn’t blind to the political implications or to what his enemies would make of it. Too many people would hear about the visit and draw the wrong, or at least inaccurate, conclusion.
Politics, Peter thought. The word was practically a curse. We should just agree to govern rationally.
His lips twitched. There was nothing rational about politics. He’d learned that lesson long ago. Self-interest ruled the more practical-minded politicians, while sentiment encouraged the others to try to look good rather than be good. The House of Lords had the advantage of not having to stand for election, which gave them a long-term view the House of Commons lacked, but the Lords needed to constantly defend their families and promote their clients. It was impossible to expect rationality from either House. The best he could hope for was that they would try to do the right thing.
And yet, we can’t agree on what the right thing is, Peter thought as they stopped outside a large wooden door. One man’s right is another man’s wrong.
The door opened, revealing a large office. Peter looked around, interested. Everything was modern—everything. The style Peter had seen in a dozen offices—solid wooden desks, Regency armchairs, bookshelves, and paneled walls—was missing. Instead, a computer terminal sat on the desk, the chairs were comfortable rather than fashionable, and the walls were covered with smart panels. One of them was displaying the view from the palace’s security monitors. The protest seemed to have grown larger in the last few minutes.
“Your Grace,” the king said. He stood, revealing that he was wearing a simple business suit instead of his robes. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Peter said as they shook hands. “This is an . . . interesting room.”
The king beamed. “Do you like it? I had to take out all the old furniture when I inherited the place.”
“It’s different,” Peter said. “Less dignified, but more . . . modern.”
“Please, take a seat,” the king said, indicating one of the armchairs. “Would you care for a drink? Or something to eat?”
“Just coffee, please,” Peter said.
He sat down, feeling the chair adjust itself under his weight until it was comfortable. It made him feel vaguely unsettled. He’d never really liked chairs that presumed to think for themselves, even though he had to admit that they had their uses. At least it wasn’t trying to give him a massage. There was a subtle message, he was sure, in how the king had organized his chambers. The old had been removed, while the modern had been brought forward. He suspected it boded ill for the future.
“I trust that your mother is well,” the king said as a steward poured them both coffee and withdrew as silently as he’d come. “She declined the invitation to the Betrothal Ball.”
“My mother has yet to recover from my father’s death,” Peter said carefully. There was a great deal of truth in it, yet it was not the whole truth. Caroline Newport-Falcone had been horrified by the mere suggestion of the king marrying the runaway princess. “She keeps to herself these days. Even I don’t see her as often as I should.”
“It is the way of the world,” the king agreed. “Those of us who have work to do”—he waved a hand at the smart panels—“have little time for everything else.”
“Indeed,” Peter said. He cocked an eyebrow. “And the princess? Is she well?”
“She has endured far worse than social scorn in her life,” the king said. “She couldn’t be happier.”
Peter nodded in agreement. High Society could be a merciless place—there were people who were still shunned for events that had taken place long before Peter’s birth—but it was nowhere near as cruel as the Theocracy. A woman could rise to the top, if she wished, or seek out a career of her own. She was not the property of her male relatives. And yet . . .
He shifted, uncomfortably. His marriage had been arranged. Neither he nor his wife had had any real choice. But they’d reached an accommodation, hadn’t they? He hadn’t locked her up in her room and forced her to bear child after child, or had her fixed so she couldn’t talk or think for herself . . . no, there was no comparison. High Society was not the Theocracy. And anyone who suggested otherwise was an idiot.
“It must be quite different,” he said. “To be here, a free society . . .”
“Indeed,” the king said. “Do you realize that, for all her bravery, she
