and looked up.
“I hope you’ll be able to take time off from your carnal adventures,” he said, “to attend your sister’s wedding tomorrow, at sixteen and one.”
Martinez dropped into a chair. “Which sister are we talking about?”
“Vipsania. After which she will be joining Lord Oda and his family on a visit to their clients on Zarafan.”
Martinez put his feet up on his brother’s desk. He was in a buoyant mood, and not simply because he’d spent the night in Sula’s arms. In the morning had come the communication from Do-faq saying that he approved Martinez’s plan and had sent it on to the Fleet Control Board. Do-faq had also sent the results of his latest series of experiments in the new tactics, and he and Sula had analyzed them over breakfast. He couldn’t help but be buoyed by physical satiation followed by useful mental exercise, and all with a partner whose imagination and wit more than matched his own.
Poor Vipsania, he thought.
“Sounds like a delightful honeymoon,” he said, “stuck on a ship with a pack of her desiccated in-laws. Will she be running her broadcasting empire from Zarafan?”
“Probably, unless Zarafan in its turn becomes unsafe.”
Roland folded his hands on his desk and looked at Martinez from over the glossy toes of the shoes. “If Sempronia tries to contact you, I’d be obliged if you don’t reply.”
Martinez only raised his eyebrows.
“She’s to be disinherited,” Roland said. “No money, no communication, no contact. When we have the time to pack them all up, her belongings will be given to charity.”
“Charity,” Martinez repeated, as if the word were a stranger.
“Walpurga insisted on banishment for Sempronia, and after the threat she made I can’t say I have any objection. Oh, did I mention this?—Sempronia agrees.” Roland gave a smile filled with grim satisfaction. “I spoke to her last night, and again this morning. She’ll be given permission to marry, but she’ll be a Shankaracharya from now on—he’ll have to support her fancies, not us.”
“I believe he’s rich,” Martinez pointed out.
“Clan Shankaracharya is heavily invested in pharmaceuticals and biochemicals.”Trust Roland to know these details. “Nothing on Zanshaa, though—we expect she’ll relocate after the war.”
“No doubt a crushing blow,” Martinez said. Roland seemed to have forgotten it was their father, he thought, who did the disinheriting—that was one task he couldn’t delegate to one of his offspring. Martinez might be able to influence that decision with a personal message, perhaps not to Lord Martinez, but to his lady, a woman to whose romantic nature an elopement might appeal…
Roland gave Martinez a curious look. “What did you do to enrage Sempronia so totally? I’ve never heard her use such language.”
Martinez was silent. Roland shrugged, then continued with his news.
“Lord Pierre and I have fixed Walpurga’s wedding with PJ for three days from now. It won’t be a very elaborate affair, but we hope you’ll be present.”
“You don’t mind if I wear mourning, do you?” Martinez barely had to search his mind for the cutting reply.
Roland’s eyes were level beneath his heavy brows. “You know the wedding’s necessary.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” Martinez tossed the Golden Orb medal into the air, then caught it. “You want the Ngenis because they give you access to the highest circles of the capital. Very well.” He drew his feet off the table and leaned forward, letting his gaze meet that of Roland. “Suppose I give you all that myself? Suppose I sacrifice myself in place of Walpurga?”
Roland’s gaze was unblinking. “You’re offering to marry?”
“Yes.” Tossing the medal again.
Roland drew back, his frown thoughtful. “I would have suggested it myself if I hadn’t known how much you enjoy being a bachelor—I assumed you’d turn me down flat.”
“Perhaps I would have. But with all this romance in the air, how can I resist?”
Roland’s look grew abstract. “I can suggest a number of young ladies—”
“I already have one in mind.”
Roland’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your Warrant Officer Amanda, is it? Because my patience is—”
“Lady Sula,” Martinez said, enunciating the words with passionate clarity.
Roland blinked, and Martinez rejoiced at his surprise.
“I see,” Roland said slowly. “It’s not Miss Amanda you’ve spent the last couple nights with, it’s—”
“None of your business.”
“Quite.” Roland fingered his chin. “She has no money, of course.”
“Only the Sula title, which is of the highest. You can’t find a more formidable ancestry in the records. And it’s the ancestry and the title that opens the doors to all those drawing rooms and ministries, the ones that won’t open to mere money.”
“True.” Roland still gazed inward at his own calculations. “Still, we’d have to lay out a fortune to set the two of you up in the High City. Provide you a palace here, a place in the country—she can ride, yes?”
“I’ve no idea.” Martinez grinned. “But whatwill be necessary is an empire-class collection of porcelain.”
“Porcelain?”Roland was frank in his amazement. “What does porcelain have to do with anything? Has she made it a condition?”
“No, but trust me to know my bride.”
A thought occurred to Roland. “Have you even asked her yet?”
“No, but I will tonight.” Martinez suppressed a grim laugh. “How can she resist a family like ours?”
“I doubt she will,” Roland murmured. “She must be sick of being poor in a rich world.”
Martinez clapped his hands and made as if to rise. “So! Walpurga’s off the hook?”
Roland snorted out a condescending little laugh. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t go back on my word to Lord Pierre.”
Martinez gave his brother a long, angry look. Roland held his gaze for a moment, then gave a snort of irritation. “Don’t give me those Command-room eyes—your shoulder boards are too new, and I’m not one of your snotty cadets.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
“Not for Caroline Sula we don’t.” Roland gave his fingernails a fastidious inspection. “The Ngenis are rich, they’re already in place in the Convocation and the ministries, and haven’t lost their influence. Rehabilitating Lady Sula would be a years-long project—it would pay off eventually, but the Ngenis are paying offnow. ” He looked up from his fingernails. “But don’t let me discourage your matrimonial ambitions. Sula’s beautiful and bright, and that’s one more advantage thanyou’ve got.”
“Damn you,” said Martinez. Roland shrugged.
Martinez rose and left the office.
She’s the heir to a title, he thought, and I’m not. And thankfully all my children will be Sulas.
“No,” said Lord Said. “That is out of the question. The empire has been ruled from the High City for twelve thousand years, and will for ten million more.”
The Lord Senior’s office, unlike the gloomy board room in the Commandery, was brilliant with light. One transparent wall showed the great granite dome of the Great Refuge, from which the Shaa had ruled their empire, and beyond that a spectacular view of the Lower Town. From his seat Chen could see the private gallery by which Lord Said’s predecessors had once traveled to the Great Refuge to receive orders from their masters. But the Great Refuge was closed now, with the death of the last Shaa, and vague plans to make a museum of the place had been ended by the war. The first man in the empire sat before him, comfortably disposed in a huge domed chair with a kind of flaring hood that overshadowed the Lord Senior’s face.
“The High City and the government aren’t the same thing,” Lord Chen said, paraphrasing Martinez’s memorial. “The government can be anywhere—itshould be somewhere else, where a stray missile can’t wipe it out. Where it won’t be trapped on the planet if the battle goes against us.”
“What is a more glorious death than one in service to the Praxis?” asked Lord Said. He was over ninety, with close-cropped white hair and mustache and a beaky nose that age was drawing ever closer to his prominent chin.
