“We’ll bring in a nice dinner,” PJ continued amiably, “and open a bottle of wine. Oh—sorry—I forgot you don’t drink.”
“PJ,” Sula said, “what are youdoing here?”
PJ shrugged. “I volunteered to stay behind and guard the family’s interests on Zanshaa,” he said. “Not that there are very many interests left, barring some property. But we still have clients here, and some old servants that we’ve pensioned off, and I’m doing my best to look after them.” He looked at Sula, then glanced over his shoulder at Macnamara. “Do I know your friend?” he asked.
“I don’t believe so. Call him Starling.” Which was Macnamara’s code name.
PJ was amiability itself. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Starling.”
Macnamara gave a terse nod. “My lord.”
PJ hesitated as he peered along the street. “If I’m going to give you dinner,” he said, “we should be walking in the, ah, theother direction.” He pointed the way they had come.
“You’re staying in the Ngeni Palace?”
“The palace is closed. The servants have been dismissed, and the pensioners sent to our place in the country. I’m in a guest cottage.”
“No cooks? No servants?”
“Someone from an agency comes in to clean. And I either eat at one of my clubs or call for delivery from a caterer.”
Sula looked at Macnamara, who gave her an equivocal look.Up to you, Sula read.
“It sounds safe enough,” she ventured. She turned to PJ. “Go ahead of us, please. If we walked together it would look odd.”
PJ was bemused but led the way. He passed his smoking club again and then crossed the boulevard, where he led them past the Makish Palace. Sula tried to amble casually along, and as she passed the palace she paused to shift her toolbox from one hand to the next. She paid as much attention to the abandoned palace next door as she did to her target. From the name inscribed in a sunburst over the doorway,Orghoder, Sula assumed the empty building had been built by a Torminel clan.
The Ngeni Palace wasn’t on the Boulevard of the Praxis, but several streets behind, backed against the gray cliffside for a stunning view of the Lower Town. The palace itself was tall, faced with veined pink marble, and nearly a cube, with a huge glass-fronted, barrel-vaulted hall visible from the street. PJ didn’t enter the palace, but took them around by a side entrance, then past a huge old banyan tree that looked as if it might have been standing on the High City since the dawn of time.
His “cottage” was three stories tall and probably had twenty rooms, but PJ seemed only to be living in a small part of it. He ushered his guests into a parlor, one with a view of the flagstone terrace that overlooked the Lower Town. PJ went to the comm unit concealed in a dramatic commode of arculé wood, ordered dinner for three from a caterer who seemed to know him, then closed the commode and turned to his guests.
“Well!” he said brightly. “So you’re alive after all, Lady Sula!”
“Yes.” The laugh that had been struggling to escape from her finally broke free, and she indulged it. “I hardly expected to see anyone I knew.”
“That’s lucky, isn’t it?” PJ seemed pleased. “I’m glad I’m able to be of service.” He reached for the drink trolley. “What may I give you to drink? Whisky, Mr. Starling?”
Sula looked at him. “Whatever you’ve got that doesn’t have alcohol. And what did you mean ‘service’?”
PJ looked at her. “You’re obviously in, ah, straitened circumstances. You can stay here with me, of course, and I’m good for any tailor’s bills you may run up.” He patted his pockets. “Do you need any ready money?”
Sula’s laugh rose again, unstoppable, and went on for some time. PJ hesitated, a half-hurt expression coming over his face. Sula controlled the laughter.
“PJ, you’re wonderful!” she cried, and his expression turned from hurt to pleased. “We don’t need money,” she told him. “We’re just dressed this way because, well, we’re just taking a look around, and we don’t want people to look atus. ”
PJ nodded, then hesitated again. A massive, startling thought worked its slow way across his face. “Oh!” he said. “Oh! I understand!” He pointed a finger at his two guests. “You’re here on amission! You’re doing something for the secret government!”
Sula wondered if she should tell PJ that, so far as she knew, shewas the secret government.
“Actually,” she temporized, “we’re just taking a look around. We’re not on an assignment or anything.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do,” PJ said, “anything at all, you’ll be certain to let me know.” He looked at Macnamara. “That was whisky you wanted, was it, Mr. Starling?”
Macnamara looked at Sula. “Feel free,” she said.
PJ poured whisky for himself and Macnamara, and gave Sula a Citrine Fling. He pulled his armchair closer to Sula and leaned toward her.
“Lady Sula,” he said, “I want you to know that I’m completely at your disposal. Ever since the war began I’ve wanted to volunteer, I’ve wanted to prove myself worthy of…well,” he hesitated, “a certain person.”
So he was still in love with Sempronia, Sula thought, even after she’d run off with another man.
Don’t feel so superior,she told herself. PJ wasn’t the only person in the room to make the mistake of falling for a Martinez.
“I’ve tried to think of something I could do,” PJ said. “I’ve racked my brains. But I have no military skills, and it’s too late to establish a career in the civil service. I even thought about becoming an informer or a spy.”
Sula tried not to show her astonishment at this last revelation. Sothat’s what he was talking about, she thought as she remembered a drunken monologue from PJ at a reception.
PJ settled back in his chair, a sunny smile breaking onto his face. “And now it’s come true. I can beyour informer.Your spy. I can seek enemy secrets right here in the heart of the capital.”
Alarm rose in Sula. “No,” she said quickly. “Don’t try to spy out anything. You’ll get caught and killed and put the rest of us in danger.” At PJ’s downcast expression, she added, “Just live your normal life. Youalready possess considerable knowledge that’s of value. Tell me what you know.”
PJ seemed uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“What’s the news? What do you hear at your clubs? What are the Naxids doing?”
“Well,” PJ shrugged, “they’re all over the place, aren’t they? Taking over the High City. They claim that they’re bringing everything back to normal, the way it was under the Shaa, but that’s not true.” He took a sip of his whisky. “They’ve got their own people in charge of all the ministries, all the departments.”
“So how do people feel about that?”
“They’re angry, of course. But…baffled.” He shrugged again. “Nobody knows what to do. Like Van, who I was talking to in my smoking club. Lord Vandermere Takahashi, I mean.”
The Citrine Fling stung Sula’s tongue. “Go on,” she said.
“He’s in the Meteorology Department,” PJ said. “He’s got a new Naxid supervisor, and he doesn’t know how to act. He’s loyal, of course, but could he be charged with treason if he followed her orders?”
“He might be shot if he didn’t,” Sula said.
“Probably not in the Meteorology Department,” PJ allowed, “but if he were in anyplace critical, like my friend Sun is at the Ministry of Police, that would be different. He’s got Naxids asking him for information all the time, and he doesn’t know what they’re going to use it for, whether it’s an ordinary request or something they could use to prosecute loyalists. And of course he’s had to take the oath of allegiance to the new government—does that make him a traitor or not? Will he be prosecuted or killed after we win the war?” He blinked. “The former government—thereal government, I mean—was quite vehement about cooperation with the Naxids. And Van’s worried too, because even the Meteorology Department will have to take the oath sooner or later.”