The Thrones of Kronos (32 page)

Sebastian Omilov made a negating motion with one hand. “At
some point they will release the vid of this to the DataNet. So this function
is not aimed at us on Ares, but at everyone else in the Thousand Suns—including
the Rifters.”

“It will make it impossible for Rifthaven to go back on
their word, and it will sow dissension among those still allied to Dol’jhar,”
explained Osri.

Below, Eloatri stepped aside and Brandon began speaking to
Jep.

Fierin asked, “Do you think the military let Nik Cormoran’s
group find out about his visit?”

Osri shook his head. “No. We would have preferred to keep it
secret.”

Fierin watched Jep’s lined, cruel face and Brandon’s hands
as they spoke. From the sudden smiles of the others, he had made some kind of
joke. “The Panarch doesn’t just want a patched-together alliance, he wants some
kind of new structure that both sides can live with.”

Fierin bit her lip, watching the four walk down an aisle
through the midst of the spectators. Her mind skipped from fact to fact, and
she said, “So . . . Ares 25 got their facts from someone else? From whom—the
Rifter triumvir?”

Osri opened his mouth, but his father forestalled him,
saying easily, “Who knows where they got them? What matters is that they did.
Shall we adjourn to my quarters for lunch?”

Fierin took Omilov’s offered arm and walked next to him,
with Osri at her other side, his face sober, hands behind his back.

They threaded their way at a leisurely pace through the
crowd, talking of inconsequentials until they reached the peaceful garden of
the Cloisters.

Fierin had been there once before, with Osri. The way the
building was designed—the way the garden was laid out—imbued the place with a
sense of timelessness. Even the air seemed different, which she knew was
absurd: it shared the air of all of Ares. It was the subtle blend of scents
breathing from the plants, and light diffusing through the leafy greenery, that
created the effect.

As she sank down onto a carved bench, tension of which she
had not been aware drained away.

Osri sat next to her, and Omilov across from them, his
fingers steepled. “We can discuss this further, but I thought it better to do
so here—and for our discussion to remain here.”

The tension spiked again. Fierin said, “It’s about Jes and
his crewmates?”

Father and son exchanged looks, and Osri transferred his
gaze to the ground.

“In a sense,” Omilov said slowly. “In a sense. But before we
consider this matter more deeply, may I put some questions to you? You need not
answer any that seem . . . inappropriate, I need hardly add.”

Surprised, Fierin threw her hands wide. “I don’t know anything
inappropriate—but yes, do ask whatever you wish.”

“My questions,” Omilov said as he rose again and paced the
short distance to a complicated wall of shrubbery, “concern the Panarch and
Vannis Scefi-Cartano.”

Even more surprised, Fierin waited.

Omilov said, “Have they discussed the question of the Rifter
alliance before you?”

“No.”

“Any politics?” Osri spoke for the first time since their
arrival at the Cloisters.

“Never.” Fierin looked from one to the other, then said, “I
trust you are not going to put these questions to me and then refuse to
explain.”

Osri jerked a negative, and by his stiff posture, Fierin
knew he was highly uncomfortable with the subject.

Omilov’s demeanor gave no hints; they might still be making
small talk. “It is not that we mistrust your discretion,” he said, his brow
furrowed as if he chose his words with care. “Indeed, you seem to have been
forced into skillful assimilation of numerous dangerous secrets during your
short life—”

“An unenviable claim,” Osri said, scowling at his father.

Omilov bowed, hands in reservation-of-judgment mode. The bow
indicated he did not consider himself fit to judge, a silent testament to his
own life of secrets. Fierin’s heart crowded her throat. In her life since her
parents’ deaths and Jes’s disappearance, there had been few people who had made
her well-being a priority.
That’s
probably why I mistook Srivashti’s abuse as protection
, she thought, and
rubbed the chill from the outsides of her arms.

She lifted her chin, catching the tail end of an exchange of
glances, and belatedly she understood: Osri had challenged his father on what
might have been construed as condescension—and the gnostor responded by
dismissing his own authority with a gesture, and establishing them all as
equals.

More than equals. As
family
.

Her eyes burned, but she fiercely controlled the reaction.

Omilov went on: “They talk of inconsequentials, then?”

Fierin nodded.

“Polite, friendly, perhaps deferential?”

“Before me,” Fierin said, able now to trust her voice. “I don’t
know how they are alone, except—” She frowned, thinking rapidly, then said, “I
don’t believe—of late I’m very sure they aren’t alone. It’s either the three of
us, or a very great party, or else Vannis and me. I haven’t been alone with him.
He’s too busy.” She shook her head. “Does this have to do with the Rifter
alliance and the welcome of this Houmanopoulis person today? We were talking
about how Ares 25 had done stories about him being here, which forced this
welcome ceremony today. Why does our discussing this have to remain secret?
Might Houmanopoulis himself have released this news, in order to gain some kind
of advantage?”

“Oh, it’s possible, but unlikely,” Osri said. “I don’t think
he would have come all this way—a first for Rifters—just to mire negotiations by
double-dealing.”

“So who, then?” To Osri, she added, “Can’t you find out?”

“Novosti are even more tight-lipped than the military when
it comes to protecting their sources. They won’t tell, not if they expect the
source to come through again.”

“Who, then?” Fierin asked.

“Perhaps it might be better to set that aside for now and
consider why,” Omilov said.

“Why is easy,” Fierin said. “The obvious reason is to spike
the Rifter alliance.”

“That would be a part of it,” Osri said, his voice so low
she could scarcely hear him.

“Well, what would the person gain if the alliance is ruined?
We lose the war—but that would be the action of an enemy!”

“Whoever gave that story to Ares 25 seems to have made
certain that the Rifters would be presented in a positive light,” Sebastian
Omilov said.

“That hasn’t stopped 99, though,” Fierin said with a
grimace. “They’ve been putting out all that old gas about atrocities and broken
alliances, just as they did during Jes’s trial.” She looked up. “I see what
you’re saying. The source could just as easily have given the data about
Houmanopoulis to Ares 99. Or any of the other newsfeeds.”

“Precisely,” Omilov said. “The choosing of Ares 25 is as
much a message as was today’s ceremony.”

“A message?”

“Or a weapon in a silent duel,” Omilov said.

Fierin gazed up at him, mentally assessing the odd course
the conversation had taken. Then, without warning, it all fell into place. “You
mean Vannis—don’t you? Vannis and Brandon?”

Neither of the others spoke, but they didn’t need to.

Kyvernat Juvaszt stood before the viewscreen and watched
the
Fist of Dol’jhar
receding
sternward. The sensor array on the little shuttle was soon struggling to
resolve it, and the image began to fractalize.

Not ordinarily an introspective man, Juvaszt was aware of his
anger at being taken away from his command for this tedious journey, plus
whatever time he’d be forced to linger on the Suneater for this strategy
meeting. What if the Panarchist attack began while he was on the station?

Why was his physical presence required? Anger flared anew at
the blandly polite refusal of Anaris’s secretary to explain anything. Still,
assuming this was Anaris’s idea, and not further meddling by the Avatar in his
boredom, there might be a good reason. The Heir’s quickness to realize the real
goal of the Panarchist Navy’s attack on Arthelion had impressed Juvaszt. Since
then, the few orders Anaris had issued regarding Rifter unit operations had
made it apparent that while he thoroughly understood strategy, he was content
to let leave tactics to Juvaszt. As was proper.

Could it be related to the strange, unprecedented noise the
hyperwave had emitted a few hours before he was ordered to the Suneater? What
if the Panarchists had obtained one after all? That would explain both the
summons and the lack of explanation.

A chill settled in Juvaszt’s gut as he realized how much his
plans had relied on the assumption that their enemy had no access to their
communications. The chill deepened as he considered how the Avatar might react
to this news, and how much he himself might now depend on the Heir for survival,
despite his years of service.

I am just a game piece
in the struggle for the succession.
Aware that his thoughts were tending in
a dangerous direction, Juvaszt forced himself to leave the pilot to his job and
walk back to his cabin. That took him past the garishly dressed Rifter and his
Barcan companion in the seating corridor.

A protective movement of the Rifter toward the long case set
next to his feet sparked Juvaszt’s interest, but not long enough to
investigate. The fact that the Rifter and his companion would be spending very
long hours in seats not designed for comfort barely registered in his mind. Had
they been of the True Men, such concern would have been beneath them; as they
were not, it mattered even less.

Of more interest to him was considering why Barrodagh brought
this Rifter, Hreem the Faithless—whose records were a repulsive mesh of
self-indulgence and of lawlessness—and the Barcan Riolo to the station. Like
all Catennach, Barrodagh never did anything for a single reason, so it was not
simply because of the Ogres they had obtained for the Avatar.

A chill prickled his skin as he thought of the bulky,
humanoid shapes packed into the shuttle’s cargo bay. They were the very image
of the
kipango
, among the most
terrifying of the karra that infested Dol’jharian legend. Had the Barcans known
that, or were these standard Panarchist Ogres and their appearance a mere
coincidence? Juvaszt shook his head. That, and whatever else Barrodagh had in
mind, was for Chur-Mellikath, the Tarkan commander on the Suneater, to worry
about.

By the time he had established himself in the cabin, the
sensors had lost the
Fist
except as a
bright star against a stellar backdrop that hid the gathering enemy. For a
while longer the ceaseless stream of information coming down the tight-beam
from his ship kept him occupied. But as the EM lag from the
Fist of Dol’jhar
lengthened, rendering
him merely an observer of the actions taken by his second-in-command, Juvaszt
became increasingly impatient. The sense of impotence the erosion of real-time
communications caused was foreign to his nature. He had never forgotten the
caustic Rifter comments about him occasioned by that depraved hyperwave of the
two women during the Battle of Arthelion.
“Juvaszt
kim Karusch-na bo-synarrach, gri tusz ni-synarrh perro-ti! “

The memory made him shift in his seat with fury; the Rifters
seemed to find amusement in the discovery that equating one’s performance in
the wars for progeny with masturbation was perhaps the worst insult possible in
Dol’jharian. He’d never found the Rifter who had said that, shielded as they
were by the anonymity of the hyperwave.

The fury gave way to frustrated anticipation. The tides of
Dol’jhar pulled at him as the Karusch-na Rahali commenced, but now he would be
among strangers.

Safe in his solitude, Juvaszt permitted himself a grimace of
distaste. He’d have two days to study the roster of the Suneater, which he had
DL’d into his compad. Why not begin the task now?

He activated the device. Surely among the Tarkans in the
Avatar’s service there would be a worthy opponent. His lip curled at the first
name to catch his eyes: so-Erechnat Terresk-jhi. He certainly would not choose
her. Although he knew the Rifter vid had not really been the communications
officer’s fault, he could not forget her role in that affair.

The annunciator chimed.

“Enter.” His voice was harsher than he had intended.

The hatch slid open, revealing the junior officer assigned
to service on the shuttle, bearing his midday meal. The young woman—Tiademet
was her name, he remembered—was strongly built; he eyed her appraisingly, but
she would not meet his eyes, impassive in correct subordinate behavior, and he
lost interest. Instead, a different sort of appetite awoke, and his stomach
rumbled as the savory steam curled up from the dish of steamed gob she
uncovered.

Curiosity and boredom moved him to speech as the evosznat
saluted and turned to leave.

“The Rifter. What is he doing?”

“Complaining about the food,” she replied. Then, to his
surprise, she met his eyes, and a trace of humor deepened her voice. “He
demanded entertainment.”

Juvaszt raised an eyebrow.

“I gave him a
dhosz-Tathnu
chip.”

Juvaszt considered this. “Does he understand True Speech?”

She shook her head, her lips twisting.

Juvaszt laughed. The highly stylized liturgical drama with
its ninety-nine Postures and thirty-three Significations was unlikely to appeal
to anyone not of Dol’jhar, even if they understood the language. He wondered if
the Rifter would even recognize the sexual energy informing the ritual, which
was performed only in the season of the Karusch-na Rahali.

Tiademet was subordinate, but she was obviously not stupid.

“Sit,” he commanded, and pushed a dish toward her. “Eat.
Strength for the struggle.”