As we climbed to the top of the steps, the door gave a soft click. I turned the handle and it opened.
“You’re stepping into the Imperial apartments, now,” Lyth said, his voice soft in our ears.
We stepped through the door and let it shut silently behind us.
Then we walked up stairs and down stairs—Noam insisted we avoid the drop shafts and chain pods for they were a natural bottle neck. We wandered corridors and turned corners, opened doors that would open to us and glanced inside to classify the rooms.
“Pretend you are lost, which will explain the random directions, if anyone should find you there,” Noam had said.
“Come on, Noam. Someone will find us there inside three nanoseconds,” Juliyana protested. “It’s the Imperial apartments!”
“I think you’ll be surprised,” Dalton said. “They’re spacious. And only five members of the family live there now, with a very small number of staff who will all be focused upon the preparations for the ball, the feast and the parade.”
And damn if he wasn’t right. The corridors were deserted.
After only five minutes of wandering, Noam said to us, “We believe with a high degree of confidence that we now know where the study is. Go back the way you just came and turn right at the next intersection.”
The suit gave me an encouraging tap on the back as I turned around. Juliyana caught up with me.
“Take your hand off your gun,” I murmured to her. “Because that doesn’t look suspicious at all.”
She dropped her hand and flexed it as she walked, as if she longed to feel the butt against her palm. Her jaw was tight.
Noam directed us through turns, then into a wider corridor. “We’re near the diorama and one flight up,” I murmured to Juliyana. “The edge of the private apartments,” I added.
Juliyana nodded, her throat working.
Our steps slowed.
There was a pair of doors ahead, inlaid with flourishes and gilt.
“The door on your right,” Lyth said.
“On the right?” There was a plain door without markings, colored in the same shade as the walls, to blend in.
“Trust me, it’s the door on the right,” Dalton’s voice came through strong with confidence.
I took the shriver from the holster, but didn’t arm it, as I moved down to the nondescript door. I put my finger on the arming button and looked at Juliyana.
She had her gun out, too, and one of her favorite little knives in her left hand. She nodded.
“Whenever you’re ready, Noam,” I murmured.
The door clicked open, the keyplate flashing briefly green. It wavered a centimeter or two inwards.
That would warn anyone inside. There was no time to hesitate. I pushed through, Juliyana right on my heels.
Three long paces into the room, quartering with the gun up, looking for exit points, enemies, environmentals that could be a hazard.
Large antique desk with nothing on it but a decorative screen emitter made to look like an old pen set from the days when they used styluses.
Two windows, both armored, with the distinct blurring in the glasseen that said they’d never break. Door to my left, that Juliyana would cover. Shelves with knickknacks, busts, holograph frames with family images.
Thick, muffling rugs on the floor.
Man in the corner by the other door, his back to us. He looked like he was pouring himself a coffee from a flask sitting upon a tray with cups and cream—no plebian printer maw for this man.
He turned, stirring the small cup. Two meters, plus. Regal tunic with braid and buttons, medals and ribbons. Red hair, long nose, slender build from years of not lifting anything heavy.
Ramaker III, first and possibly last of his dynasty.
He considered us, showing no surprise. “Hello, Danny,” he said, his voice warm. “You took your time.”
24
“Check the other door, what’s behind it,” I told Juliyana when I found my voice once more.
She edged around the room, her gun on Ramaker, and sidled to the door. With a quick movement, she opened the door, twisted and looked into the room beyond. I guessed it was the room the ostentatious double doors opened upon. It was another waiting room.
Juliyana spun and pointed her gun into the other room. I kept mine on Ramaker. “Don’t try anything silly,” I advised him.
“Of course not.” His voice was as rich and cultured as it was on the media, although I’m not sure why that surprised me. He seemed less substantial in person. Smaller.
He sipped his coffee.
Juliyana waved her gun. “You. In here.”
Soft steps. A woman appeared in the doorway, with Juliyana’s gun trained on her back. The woman neared the point of rejuvenation, with dark hair shot with gray, and thick brows. She wore gala finery, the type of elaborate day gowns women standing near the Emperor tended to wear when he appeared in public. She didn’t seem afraid of us. She swept over to stand beside Ramaker.
He calmly handed her a cup and poured coffee into it.
“This is Elizabeth Crnčević,” the Emperor said. “She is a psychoanalyst. A very good one. She has also been waiting for you. You may feel free to put down your weapons, Danny, Juliyana. The house guards are outside the room, now, but they will not enter unless I tell them to, or if they hear a gun fire. We will be uninterrupted for as long as this takes.”
I had the queasy sensation that Ramaker was taking control of the conversation, which was not a good thing. “I have questions to ask, Ramaker. About my son, Noam Andela. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does,” Ramaker replied. “I knew Noam as well as I know you. You don’t remember any of that, of course.”
I glanced at Juliyana. She was frowning, but the gun was steady. Her glance shifted to me for a split second, then back to checking the woman, the Emperor, the door, one after another.
Ramaker put his
