to defect to the Naxids and let him sabotage them.”
The savagery had made her feel better for an instant, and afterward empty. She returned to her apartment, drank a cup of cold tea, and ate some of the food she had acquired in the expectation of sharing it with Martinez.
As she sat alone in the silent apartment, the anguish began once more to fill her.
She should have trusted him, she decided. She could have said, “I’m not the real Lady Sula. The real Sula died and I took her place. If anyone checks the records at the Gene Bank, they’ll find that out.”
She could have trusted Martinez that far. She wouldn’t have to say how Caro Sula had died.
But she hadn’t brought herself to tell Martinez anything, not even a fraction of the truth, and now it was too late. If he’d ever been inclined to trust her, that trust must have been shattered.
Vipsania’s wedding was as magnificent as the short lead time and the thinned population of the High City would permit, and was held at the palace of Lord Eizo Yoshitoshi, the groom’s father. Roland delayed things by arriving a few minutes late, thus earning a frown from Lord Yoshitoshi, who had been standing amid his new in- laws in an attitude that suggested he was testing the air for bad smells.
After Roland made his apologies, the couple, along with selected representatives of their families, convoyed to the Registrar, where the brief official ceremony was performed by one of the Yoshitoshi cousins who wore the scarlet and white sash of a Judge of Final Appeal. By the time they returned the reception was in full swing, with a Cree band playing its witty way through old standards and Lai-own waitrons in stainless white satin jackets circulating with drinks and canapes.
Martinez had approved of the trip to the Registrar because all he was required to do at the ceremony was stand in silence and watch, and the reception earned his annoyance because he was required to be civil to everyone present.
He hoped that Sula would arrive to throw herself at his feet and beg forgiveness, her garments rent in penitence and her knees bloody from walking to the palace on her patellas, but it didn’t happen.
He tried avoiding contact by feigning interest in the palace’s architecture, but unfortunately the building had been constructed during the heyday of the Devis mode, with long clean featureless lines, and had been furnished and decorated in much the same style. There was little to observe in clean featureless lines once one had observed how clean and featureless they were. The walls were mostly bare except for an occasional painting, and the paintings were mostly blank white canvas except for an intricate swirl of color slightly off the painting’s geometrical center. One particularly daring canvas was avocado-green, but the off-center swirl of color looked much the same as the others.
“The height of restrained elegance, don’t you think?” The voice in Martinez’s ear was that of Roland.
“Warships come out of the builders’ yards with more interesting decor,” Martinez said. He turned toward the bustling reception—more and more people were fleeing the High City for the safety of other systems, but the wedding of the Yoshitoshi heir had still managed to draw five hundred of the most elite Peers in the empire. “Here they all are,” Martinez said. “All the great names come to Vipsania’s wedding. Your triumph.”
“I’ll feel the triumph when I see all these people atour place,” Roland said, and he sipped from his glass of white wine. He turned to Martinez. “I’m sorry to have scandalized the Yoshitoshis by turning up late.”
“I’m sure you were late for a good reason.”
“In fact I was.” He looked sidelong at Martinez from narrowed, catlike eyes, as if he were reluctant to face Martinez head-on. “I hope you’ll appreciate my efforts.”
“I will if you got me a job.” Martinez was in little mood for Roland’s games.
Roland offered a slight smile. “In a manner of speaking, I did,” he said. “I’ve arranged for your marriage.”
Martinez answered with a cold, murderous stare. Roland looked out across the crowded room and lifted his glass in salute to a Lai-own in convocate red.
“Youdid put yourself in play, Gareth,” Roland said. “And Idid say I would take up your cause.”
“I hope,” Martinez said, “you are prepared to grovel in apology to the poor woman’s family, or better yet marry her yourself.”
Roland raised his eyebrows, all mock innocence. “Don’t you want to hear her name?”
“I was rather hoping not to.”
“Terza Chen.” And, in the shocked surprise that followed, Roland said, “You have no idea how hard I had to pressure her father. He’s been willing to take millions of our lousy provincial zeniths, but a provincial son-in-law was another matter.” Self-satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. “Still, I managed to convince him that our alliance really was for the long term.”
Martinez found his tongue. “Terza Chen? That’s insane.”
Roland’s mock innocence returned. “Really? How?”
“For one thing, she’s in mourning.”
“Lord Richard Li is dead.”
Lord Richard Li?Martinez thought.One of the Fleet’s brilliant rising stars? That’swho she was in mourning for?
“He’svery recently dead,” Martinez pointed out. “She can’t have got over it.”
Roland took Martinez by the elbow and leaned close to his ear. “With grieving widows, it’s best to strike quickly. I assume it’s much the same with grieving fiances.”
Martinez shook off Roland’s hand. “Forget it.” His eyes searched the crowd. “Lord Chen has to be here, somewhere. I’ll find him and tell him the marriage is off.”
“If you must.” Roland affected a shrug. “While you’re at it, you may as well tell him you won’t be taking your new appointment, either.”
Martinez gave Roland another cold stare, but a surge of warmth beneath his collar told him the stare lacked conviction.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Roland’s smile was that of a well-fed predator. “Squadron Commander Lady Michi Chen needs a tactical officer aboard her flagship. And later, of course, as she rises in the service she will be in a position to offer you one choice posting after another.”
And then, in the silence, Roland leaned close again, and his soft voice was a silken purr in Martinez’s ear. “You know,” he said, “Ithought that might compel your attention.”
NINE
Martinez wandered through the Yoshitoshi Palace in a kind of daze, his mind unable to manage thought, exactly, but swept instead by erratic surges of pure feeling: black anger followed by weird hilarity, detached irony by profound disgust. The disgust and the irony tended to predominate, passions so strong he could taste them.
Irony tasted like used coffee grounds, and disgust like copper.
Behind the grace and the fine manners, he thought, behind the tailored uniforms and the brocade and the seams sewn with seed pearls, there was nothing but the circle of fat, hairless animals, molars grinding, jowls running with the thick juices of the common trough.
He wanted to shriek at them.Shriek. But they wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t hold off their gorging even when the Naxids loomed and threatened to knock down the whole foul sty.
Martinez found Terza standing by a Devis paper screen, white with one panel of pale blue. Her gown was a radiant contrast to the austerities of the Devis mode, in the ornate high style so popular since the war had begun, deep gold with a pattern of green vegetation and brilliant scarlet flowers, all flounces and fringes, and slashed to reveal the satin underskirt. Terza’s hair was bound with white mourning thread, and covered with an intricate net of tiny white starflowers. She was with a group of her girl friends, and listening to them with what appeared to be careful attention.
Martinez hesitated at the sight of her, then made his way to her side. She turned to him, and her lips parted in a shy smile. “Captain Martinez,” she said.
“My lady,” Martinez answered. He turned to her friends. “I’m afraid I must beg your pardon for taking Lady Terza away from you.”
He drew her away, down a side corridor. His nerves flared with contrary impulses: to laugh, to whimper, to
