Carnelians (42 page)

“It looks exactly like the models ESComm and ISC came up with,” Jaibriol said.

“I should hope so,” Robert said dourly. “Given the arguing over
every
excruciating detail.”

Jaibriol smiled. “Ah, well, it’s to be expect—” He stopped as his comm shrilled. At the same moment, the holicon of a red emergency beacon appeared above Robert’s mesh screen, its brightness swamping the other images.

Jaibriol tapped his comm. “Qox here. What is it?”

“Your Highness! This is Major Iquarson. We’ve intercepted an encrypted ISC message and broken the code. ISC has attacked more of our ships!”

Jaibriol swore under his breath. Had yet another fanatic set up another crisis in the hopes of squelching the summit on the eve of its commencement? Robert was bringing up menus above his screen so fast, the holos blurred in a smear of colors.

“What happened?” Jaibriol asked the major.

“A Skolian military unit attacked a Eubian wheel ship—a
civilian
ship—belonging to Axil Tarex, the CEO of Tarex Entertainment.”

Well, bloody hell. Jaibriol didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more worried. Kelric and the Ruby Pharaoh must have translated his last Quis message. Lord Axil Tarex, CEO of Tarex Entertainment, may the gods scorch his greedy soul, had been part of Barthol’s ill-advised attempt to kidnap Prince Del-Kurj and stir the interstellar pot of outrage over “Carnelians Finale.” Barthol had assigned all five of ESComm’s spies on Earth to the mission, which meant he had effectively thrown away decades of building their covers, all for an abduction that could start another war.

“What happened to the crew and passengers of the wheel ship?” Jaibriol asked.

Major Iquarson spoke grimly. “The Skolians captured them all.”

Jaibriol glanced at Robert’s mesh screen. His aide had located a file showing the battle, a surgically precise attack by the Skolians. The so-called “civilian” wheel ship was firing back with what looked like military armaments.

“I see,” Jaibriol told Major Iquarson. “And did this ISC message happen to mention
why
the Skolians attacked Lord Tarex’s ship?”

A pause came from the major. Jaibriol supposed he should have kept the sarcasm out of his voice. But he was fed up. For Barthol to collaborate with Tarex on the kidnapping had been a bad idea; doing it without telling the emperor had been stupid. If Jaibriol hadn’t picked it up out of Barthol’s mind, gods only knew what would have happened. Right now one concern wiped out all others: if Del hadn’t survived the rescue, this summit was over and done with before it even began.

“The ISC message we intercepted was brief,” Iquarson told him. “It just said they had seven people, everyone who had been onboard the wheel.”

“Only seven people?” Jaibriol asked. “Including the crew?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Although Jaibriol knew a wheel ship with a good EI could, in theory, operate with no crew, he sure as blazes wouldn’t want to travel on it. He could see why Barthol didn’t want a lot of people involved, though; the fewer who knew about their contraband prince, the less chance someone would compromise the mission. EIs were easier than humans to program, as Barthol was so fond of saying in his constant drive to design an army of cybernetic soldiers.

“Do you know the identities of the crew and passengers?” Jaibriol asked.

“Not for certain,” Iquarson said. “Either it carried seven Allied citizens, or else two Allieds and five Eubians.”

Jaibriol would have laughed if he hadn’t been so angry. “Seven Allied citizens as the only crew on Lord Axil Tarex’s wheel ship?”

“It does seem far-fetched,” Iquarson admitted.

Jaibriol continued to watch Robert’s record of the battle. It showed a racer arrowing away from the battle with four Jag fighters keeping pace and two Eubian fighters chasing them.

“Who was on the racer?” Jaibriol asked.

“We don’t know, Sire,” Iquarson said. “They appear to be fleeing.”

“Did the Jags catch them?”

“Yes, just barely. The passengers in the racer made a valiant effort to destroy themselves, but the Jags dishonored them.”

“By rescuing them?” Jaibriol asked dryly.

Iquarson apparently missed the edge in his voice. “Yes, Sire. I’m sorry.”

Jaibriol had never understood this suicide-to-retain-honor business. If the people in that racer were who he suspected, he was immensely grateful the ship had failed to kill them. “So ISC has everyone from the mothership?”

“As far as we know,” Iquarson said. “We’ll keep you apprised as we learn more.”

“You do that,” Jaibriol said. “And tell General Iquar I want to see him.
Immediately.
”

“Yes, Your Highness. Right away.”

“Very well.” Jaibriol flicked off his comm.

Robert was watching him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I wish just
once
someone would surprise me with good news.” Jaibriol pushed to his feet and paced across the uselessly gorgeous rug, which like so much else in his life achieved nothing except beauty. He needed so much more from the people and environment that surrounded him, like morality and trust. He wanted to excoriate Barthol. He wanted even more, though, for this beleaguered summit to succeed, and that meant reining in his desire to stake the general across hot coals.

“Would you like me to prepare a statement for you on the incident?” Robert asked. “I can also monitor the meshes to see if the Skolians come up with an apology.”

“Apology?” Jaibriol swung around to him. “For what? Rescuing Prince Del-Kurj?”

Robert gaped at him. “You think he was on the wheel ship?”

“That’s right,” Jaibriol said. “If the Skolians know Tarex owned that ship rather than these Minutemen of whatever, they have grounds to pull out of the summit.” His best hope was that they had found Del because of Jaibriol’s Quis message, and that the Imperator would make allowances because of that.

The military had obviously armed Tarex’s ship. Of course, Barthol would claim ESComm had no connection to the operation, just as ISC claimed they had no connection to the attack on the Eubian merchants. And Tarex had never signed any peace treaty, so he couldn’t be accused of treason for trying to recover a singer he had considered his possession ever since he held Del prisoner nine years ago under the guise of “signing” him to his music label. The Skolians would consider his actions criminal, but according to the Eubian legal system, Tarex had broken no laws.

The EI that ran the suite spoke. “General Barthol Iquar and his bodyguards are at the entrance. Shall I grant them entry?”

“Just Iquar,” Jaibriol said. “Not his guards.” It would anger the general, but tough. “Make sure my Razers stay with him.”

Within moments, the thud of boots came from beyond the archway. Jaibriol stood in his living room, watching the entrance. Two of his bodyguards appeared in the arch, giants with gunmetal collars and massive gauntlets that not only included their slave guards, but also miniature weapons platforms. As they stepped aside, Barthol stalked through the archway, his grey uniform like a shadow. Two more of Jaibriol’s Razers followed, including Tide. Barthol’s face showed only detachment, but hostility blazed from his mind.

The general stopped at exactly the appropriate distance from Jaibriol and bowed from the waist exactly as expected, not one centimeter more. Jaibriol wouldn’t have been surprised if Barthol had his biomech web controlling the amount he bent so that he didn’t give even a fraction more respect than his life demanded.

“My honor,” Barthol said. “At your Glorious presence.” His pause before the honorific left the words hanging as if he had almost forgotten them. It balanced on the edge of insult, and he no doubt believed he could get away with it because Jaibriol needed him at the summit.

“So it is,” Jaibriol said, knowing Barthol would take it as an affront. He slowly walked around the general, pacing with deliberation, while Barthol looked straight ahead, his posture ramrod straight. His mind was like a grinding machine that relentlessly eroded Jaibriol’s barriers.

Steeling himself, Jaibriol probed the general’s thoughts. Barthol was furious. He hadn’t expected Jaibriol to figure out his role in Del’s capture, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected the Skolians to rescue the prince. That Barthol already knew about the rescue hit Jaibriol with another unpleasant realization; ESComm had reported to its army commander first, before the emperor.

Damn.

If he lost his already shaky ESComm support, this summit would be in even more trouble. He felt reasonably certain about Erix Muze, at least as confident as one could ever feel about a Highton, but Barthol could cause him no end of problems.

Jaibriol paused behind the general. “Have you ever wondered, Barthol, why the late night hours have such a terrible reputation with poets?”

“No,” Barthol said. Then he added, “Your Highness.”

“They always write about the despair those hours can inflict on the human soul.”

“Do they now?” Barthol said. “I don’t read poetry.”

“No, I imagine not,” Jaibriol said. “A pity, that.”

Barthol shrugged. “Poets often prey on the pity of callow youth.”

Robert stood up, his mesh screen clutched in one hand, blurring the holicons that floated around it. Jaibriol shook his head slightly and Robert made no further move, though his jaw stiffened.

Jaibriol finished his circuit and came in front of Barthol. He stood regarding the general, looking
down.
A muscle twitched under Barthol’s eye.

“Music is a form of poetry, don’t you think?” Jaibriol said.

“I imagine those who write music would like to think so,” Barthol answered.

“There are those who say it can bring about the rise and fall of empires.”

Barthol lifted his shoulders again, a brusque motion. “Such delusions aren’t reserved only to those who write little ditties.”

“Of course, other composers could care less,” Jaibriol continued, as if Barthol had said nothing. “They just want to sing. But what they sing, now that is what causes the furor.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Barthol said. His arms were by his sides, innocuous, except that his middle finger on his left hand rested on top his index finger, which implied he was the one who couldn’t care less.

“Some singers inspire any number of dramatic responses,” Jaibriol said. “Fans scream, women profess their love, concert halls fill. Conglomerate executives amass prodigious wealth. Perhaps even a war begins. All from one song.”

“Slaves waste their time in all manner of silly ways,” Barthol said. “That’s why they’re slaves and not Aristos.”

“And yet,” Jaibriol said, “music always has its place. Force it to go somewhere against its will, and the resulting discord can destroy those who would attempt to steal it.”

Barthol’s fist clenched. “Music is a waste of time. Often it deserves to die.”

In a deceptively quiet voice, Jaibriol said, “Music never dies, General. It survives wars, famine, plague, and the fall of empires. The same cannot be said even for our most powerful warriors. The songs written about their deeds will live on long after they have died.”

“History is written by the victors,” Barthol said. “The songs we sing are part of that history, vaunted today.” He regarded Jaibriol steadily. “And crushed tomorrow.”

Robert’s face had gone pale and the Razers were tensed as if ready for combat, their hands resting on their holstered guns.

“Spoken well, with such experience,” Jaibriol murmured. “Those who live with their failed deeds today know what it means to pay the price tomorrow.”

“Ah, but ‘price’ implies a trade,” Barthol said. “Have you noticed, Most Gloried Highness, that those who demand too high a price find themselves with no trade at all when a new day dawns?”

Jaibriol knew if he pushed Barthol any further, the general would withdraw his support for the summit, which was supposed to be about trade relations. So he just inclined his head. “Trade is always complex. It will be our pleasure to see its success.”

Like hell,
Barthol thought, with such bitter disgust that it came to Jaibriol’s mind even though the general was the antithesis of a psion.
My only pleasure would be freedom from your wretched existence. I failed to kill you once; I won’t again.

Aloud, Barthol said only, “It will be an auspicious day,” and in doing so, he backed away from the edge of their verbal battle before they fell so deep into it, one of them unforgivably insulted the other.

Security protocols activated,
Jaibriol’s spinal node thought, hiding his response to Barthol’s thought.
I failed to kill you once; I won’t again.
With that thought had come a vivid image in the general’s mind of Jaibriol lying in the wreckage of the library where he and Tarquine had nearly died.

Somehow Jaibriol stayed calm as he raised his hand, giving Barthol permission to leave. His Razers escorted the general out, all of them striding through the archway. Inside, rage seared his thoughts.

“Well, wasn’t that rousing?” a throaty voice said behind Jaibriol.

He turned with a start. Tarquine was standing in the archway to their bedroom, leaning against one side of it, her arms crossed, her black hair mussed around her shoulders from sleep.

“How long were you listening?” he asked.

“Long enough to wonder if you and my nephew were about to declare war on each other.”

Jaibriol couldn’t say what he had picked up from Barthol about the attempts on their lives. He glanced at Robert. His aide met his gaze, then unclenched his fist, which had crumpled his mesh screen. He smoothed out the screen, rolled it up and slid it back into its sheath on his belt.

“Your Highness,” Robert said, “shall I prepare a statement on the situation with Tarex?”

Jaibriol nodded, wishing
he
could crumple something with his fists, anything to ease his tension. “Get as much background as you can on the situation. Lord Tarex is a Silicate Aristo, the CEO of Tarex Entertainment. It’s unlikely the people who kidnapped Prince Del-Kurj were his agents.” Given the verbal slugfest Robert had just witnessed between Jaibriol and Eube’s General of the Army, it wouldn’t be hard for him to figure out where the agents came from.