Hidden Empire (7 page)
At court, noble-kith women, as well as courtesans, artists, and singers, wore flowing diaphanous gowns with diagonal sashes
across their breasts and shoulders. Striped sleeves extended down to the courtesans’ knuckles, though they could be retracted
into the curving shoulder pads.
Reynald smiled as they entered a large greenhouse banquet hall. “Will I be able to meet the Mage-Imperator?”
The golden chains of Jora’h’s hair fluttered of their own accord. He sighed apologetically. “The Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran
Empire cannot meet with representatives from every human-settled planet. There are so many of them! He is reluctant to give
Theroc a greater status than other colonies in the Terran Hanseatic League.”
Reynald responded stiffly. “Prime Designate, sovereign Theroc is an independent planet, not part of the Hansa.” Then he smiled.
“On the other hand, I think I’d enjoy your company more than your father’s anyway.”
Jora’h’s star-sapphire eyes twinkled. “And the best part has not yet begun. I have sent for our greatest living historian.”
Inside one of the Palace’s many gemlike domes, Jora’h gesured to a long table set with a thousand exotic dishes. Courtesans
and servers flocked around them as they took their seats.
The courtesan females were smooth-skinned, hairless, with lovely patterns painted on their faces and long, delicate necks—swirling
curves that swept past the alluring eyes to the tops of their heads like flowing waves of water or licking tongues of fire.
As the courtesans walked, the fabric of their garments changed color like living rainbows.
The women smiled politely at him, but beamed seductively at Jora’h. The Prime Designate had their full attention, as if he
walked within a fog of pheromones.
“You are not married yet, Prince Reynald? Marriage is the accepted human custom, I believe, especially for royal families?”
“It is—and no, I have not yet chosen a woman to become Theron Mother beside me. There are political considerations as well
as… romantic ones. On this peregrination I have received several offers of marriage from leaders of some of the Hansa colonies.
All respectable, but I prefer to consider a variety of possibilities, since this is such an important decision.”
“I find it incomprehensible to spend so much time choosing a single mate.” Jora’h selected a plate of jellied fruit, tasted
a bite, then offered it to Reynald, who happily sampled it himself. He raised his gaze to the hovering courtesans. “It is
my duty to have as many lovers as possible and father numerous children who carry the Mage-Imperator’s bloodline. Committees
and assistants aid me in choosing among the thousands of candidates and verify their state of fertility when I mate with them.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Reynald said. “And not terribly erotic.”
“A Prime Designate has his duties to suffer.” Jora’h chose a bowl of his favorite sliced fruits in steaming syrup. “The Ildiran
people consider it a great honor to breed with me, and I have more volunteers than I can possibly service in my lifetime.
Everything will change for me when I succeed my father and become Mage-Imperator.”
“That must be exciting,” Reynald said.
Jora’h wore a contemplative expression. “At that time I must undergo a ritual castration ceremony.” Reynald looked shocked,
as the Prime Designate knew he would. “Only in that way can I become the focus for the
thism
and see through the eyes of my race. I will give up my manhood and become a demigod, all-seeing and all-knowing. A fair enough
exchange, I suppose.”
Reynald dabbed his lips with a formal napkin. “I, uh, think I will endure my own problems of selecting a wife. I don’t envy
yours.” Servants whisked away the myriad untouched dishes when it was clear the two men were sated.
Jora’h clapped his hands. “It is time for our rememberer.”
A small, older-looking Ildiran entered the room, wearing loose robes. He wore no gems, no facial adornment, no jewelry on
his fingers or wrists. His face looked more alien than most of the Ildiran kiths, with fleshy lobes growing around his brow
and cheeks, sweeping back along his hairless head.
“Rememberer Vao’sh is a historian in the Ildiran court,” Jora’h said. “He has entertained me many times.” Vao’sh bowed, and
Reynald nodded a welcome, not sure how to receive a rememberer, whether with an outthrust hand or with applause. Jora’h continued,
“Our rememberers excel in performing portions of our
Saga of Seven Suns.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of your race’s legends,” Reynald said.
Vao’sh spread his arms so that the sleeves of his robe flowed. “Far more than just a set of scriptures and stories, the
Saga
is the grand epic of the Ildiran people. It is the framework by which we fit into the universe. Ildiran history is not just
a sequence of events, but a genuine story, and we are all part of its intricate plot.” He swept an outstretched hand toward
Reynald. “Even a human prince such as you is included. Every person has a role to play, whether as a minor character or a
great hero. Each of us hopes to live a life so significant that it will be remembered in the ever-growing saga.”
Jora’h leaned back in his chair. “Entertain us, Vao’sh. What story will you tell today?”
“The tale of our discovery of the humans is most appropriate,” Vao’sh said, widening his expressive eyes. He proceeded to
speak in a captivating voice, in a rhythm that was more than poetry yet less than song.
Vao’sh summarized the familiar events of how the deteriorating Earth civilization had sent out eleven enormous generation
ships that flew blindly toward nearby stars, each vessel filled with pioneers. Reynald was amazed at the tone of the historian’s
voice and at how his lobes flushed and changed color to display a palette of emotions.
“Such glorious desperation! Such hope, optimism—or foolishness. Yet the Ildiran Solar Navy found you.” Vao’sh folded his hands.
When Vao’sh finished the tale of the humans’ rescue, Reynald applauded loudly. Jora’h, delighting in the strange custom, clapped
his hands as well. Soon all of the courtesans and functionaries in the banquet hall slapped their hands together, making a
deafening noise. Vao’sh’s face colored, as if he didn’t know how to react.
“I told you he was a Master Rememberer,” the Prime Designate said.
Reynald gave a wry smile. “How ironic that Ildiran rememberers are the best ones to tell our story.”
T
hough he commanded all the ships in the Ildiran Solar Navy, Adar Kori’nh still felt his chest grow cold with awe whenever
he stepped into the presence of Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h. The deified ruler saw everything, knew everything, touching each Ildiran
through his tendrils of telepathic
thism
.
And still he wanted to see Adar Kori’nh.
The ceremonial septa of warliners had returned from Oncier after having observed the astonishing Klikiss Torch. He had already
transmitted images and reports, but now the Mage-Imperator wanted the words directly from his lips. Kori’nh could not refuse
the command.
Bron’n, the Mage-Imperator’s hulking personal bodyguard, moved behind the Adar. Since he was a member of the warrior kith,
Bron’n’s features were more bestial than those of other Ildirans. His hands sported claws, his mouth showed long, sharp teeth,
and his large eyes could detect any movement, any threat to his revered leader. Adar Kori’nh, of course, posed no threat,
but the chief bodyguard was incapable of lowering his state of alert.
The Mage-Imperator’s private antechamber was hidden behind opaque walls at the rear of the skysphere, the nucleus for the
Prism Palace’s many spires, domes, and spheres. Kori’nh stepped into the lambent illumination of blazers where the enormous
Mage-Imperator waited for him, reclined in his chrysalis chair. Bron’n sealed the doors. Despite his impressive rank, the
Adar had rarely spoken alone to the Mage-Imperator without an audience of advisers, attenders, bodyguards, and nobles.
Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h was like a male queen bee, a single being who could direct and experience his whole civilization from
within the Prism Palace. He was the focal point and recipient of the
thism
, which made him the heart and soul of all Ildirans. But often, as now, the leader needed more precise details and eyewitness
analyses.
Kori’nh clasped his hands in front of his heart in prayer and supplication. “Your summons honors me, Liege.”
“And your service honors all Ildirans, Adar.” The Mage-Imperator had already shooed away the constant diminutive attenders
who pampered him, oiled his skin, massaged his feet. His eyes were hard and impenetrable, his voice edged like a razor. “Now
we must talk.”
Nestled in his bedlike chair, covered in draping robes, the leader was large and soft. His fleshy skin hung in pale folds,
his hands and legs weakened from lack of use. After his ritual castration many decades earlier, Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h looked
vastly different from his handsome eldest son, Prime Designate Jora’h. By tradition, his feet never touched the floor.
Before renouncing the calls of the flesh, Cyroc’h had sired many children. As the paternal figure of the Ildiran race, he
maintained an extraordinarily long braid, the cultural symbol of virility. The braid hung down from his head, across his shoulder
and chest, draped like a thick hemp rope that twitched and flickered with faint nerve impulses of its own.
A Mage-Imperator could live for two centuries after he became the nexus of the
thism
and the repository of Ildiran knowledge. Cyroc’h had not deigned to walk for decades, allowing the rest of the Ildiran race
to be his eyes and hands and legs. He had too much self-importance to be bothered by such things.
Resting in his enormous cradle-chair, he directed his attention toward the Adar. Kori’nh adjusted his uniform again, glad
that he had taken the time to apply all the medals and ribbons, though very little could impress the great leader.
“Tell me what you witnessed at Oncier. I am already aware that the Terrans have ignited the planet, but I require your objective
assessment. How much of a threat does this Klikiss Torch pose to the Ildiran Empire? Do you believe the Hanseatic League means
to use it as a weapon against us?”
A thrill went through Kori’nh. “A war against the Ildiran Empire? I don’t believe the humans are such fools, Liege. Consider
the sheer size and power of our Solar Navy.”
The Mage-Imperator’s eyes gleamed. “Nevertheless, we must not ignore their ambitions. Tell me about Oncier.”
The Adar spoke in gruff sentences, giving clear facts with occasional opinions or interpretations. Kori’nh had been bred to
become a military officer, but he was not a rememberer, and his stories were simply recountings of what had happened, not
entertaining legends to amuse great men.
The Mage-Imperator lounged on his platform, listening. His intelligent face was doughy, his cheeks round, his chin little
more than a button swallowed in soft skin. His expression was beatific enough that some humans had compared it to the face
of Buddha. He wore a timeless look of peace, confidence, and benevolence, but the Adar sensed a hardness of necessary cruelty
hiding beneath the surface. “So the event went precisely as the humans anticipated?”
“Except for one mystery.” Kori’nh hesitated. “I must show you some images we acquired, Liege.” He removed a recording chit
from his uniform belt and inserted it into a portable displayer that he held in both palms. “While feigning minimal interest,
our warliners imaged every moment of the planetary collapse. Then, as Oncier was engulfed in stellar flames, we saw
this.”
Emerging from the deep cloud decks and racing away from the newborn sun, strange spherical objects glittered as if their skins
were made of diamond. The transparent globes streaked away from the flaming clouds, moving faster than even an Ildiran stardrive
could propel them.
The Mage-Imperator recoiled, his face expressing astonishment, even a glint of fear. “Show it to me again.” His dark eyes
were intent, hungry.
“These objects came from
within
the gas planet, Liege. They are unlike any phenomenon ever encountered in my experience, certainly not any sort of spacecraft.
I have read pertinent sections of the
Saga of Seven Suns
and scoured through other relevant records, but I have learned nothing. Do you know what this could mean, Liege?”
“I know nothing whatsoever about it.” The Mage-Imperator seemed angry, on the verge of an explosion, but he said nothing more.
Kori’nh had seen shock and recognition on the Mage-Imperator’s face, and he wondered why the great leader would hide such
information. But he also knew with utter certainty that no Mage-Imperator would ever lie to his subjects, so he dismissed
his doubts as a simple misinterpretation.
He bowed. “That is my full report, Liege. Shall I distribute images of these strange objects to my other officers, so that
we may better keep watch?”
“No. There is no need.” The Mage-Imperator’s voice left no room for discussion. “We must not overreact to a minor mystery.”
The leader stroked his long, twitching braid where it lay across his belly. He propped himself up so that he could look directly
into Kori’nh’s face, as if he had suddenly come to a decision. His tone became less intense, more conversational as he changed
the subject. “For now, I have another important mission for you—one that cannot wait.”
