"Fabulously jealous, all of them. But what can they say? Nothing but nice things to my face, oh yes. Now, behind my back…well, I really could not care less about their twittering. Now, dear, tell me how you've fared today in my so-grand house. Did you get good service from whomever you saw? Did they serve you tea? Doctor of what, exactly?"
"Xeno…xenoarchaeology, ma'am." Gretchen was suddenly sure the woman wasn't exaggerating when she said my house. She could only be the Imperial Legate's wife. "I'd come to see the attachй of Antiquities about a permit…"
"Ah, Soumake is a dear, isn't he? Such a serious young man, though. I'm sure he told you no quite firmly, even with such beautiful golden hair and sweet features. No matter, he's terribly married and you've children of your own to see after – no sense in gallivanting around after a career officer like him, oh no. Well, he was right to send you on your way, though I'm sure you're just disheartened by the whole sordid business."
Mrs. Petrel shook her head and Gretchen felt suddenly chastised, as if she'd forgotten her sums in front of the entire class. She also felt dizzy. Trying to keep up with the older woman's turn of conversation was wearing her out.
"There is only one sure cure for such things, my dear." Mrs. Petrel tucked a stray tendril of Gretchen's hair back into place and pressed a handwritten card – shimmering green ink on creamy realpaper – into her hand. "I'm having the smallest gathering possible at the summer house in a few days. You come and sit with me and we'll have a bite to eat and some tea. Perhaps I can see if Professor SГє can find a scrap of decency in his black, black heart and let you work under his permit. But no promises!"
Mrs. Petrel swept out of the sitting room, head high, the two white streaks merging to make a V-shape in the heavy fan of hair across her shoulders. Gretchen stared in surprise at the handwritten card in her hand. The front read: "Mrs. Gretchen Anderssen is invited to my party" while the back had an address – also in green ink and the same crisp hand – a date and time.
"How…did she know I have children? How did she know my name?" Anderssen stepped out into the hallway and caught sight of Mrs. Petrel sailing past a quartet of armed guards, the tall, thin shape of a manservant following quietly behind. Seeing him, Gretchen realized he'd been in the background the whole time, silent and as much a part of the paneled walls as the wood itself. "Well."
She laughed, feeling tension ebb from her chest. "I should say, I never. I think I'd better sit down for a minute and get my breath back. What a bracing person."
The chairs were far more comfortable than they looked and Gretchen took a moment to key "Court of the Yellow Flagstones" into her comp. Good lodgings – and she was certain the White Lily was excellent and probably reasonably priced – were worth more than a woman's weight in quills in this business. She couldn't help but smile.
I hope Maggie and Parker are doing all right. Oh, bother! I'd better call them about the hotel.
A Nondescript House Near the Tomb of Gharlane the Mad, Parus
Lachlan's image turned sideways, alarm plain on his young face. "An unexpected hyperspace transit, mi'lady." He tapped a glyph on his end and Itzpalicue watched with interest as a navigational plot unfolded on a spare display. "A relatively small ship…'casting Fleet ident codes…here we are, an Astronomer-class light cruiser, the Henry R. Cornuelle."
The old woman bared her teeth moodily. "A late arrival for Battle Group 88?"
"Not on the squadron list," Lachlan replied, scratching the edge of a stubbled jaw. Like Itzpalicue, work had replaced sleep on his schedule. "Fleet records say…the Cornuelle is assigned to deep range patrol in the Hittite sector. One zone to core from here. Commander of record is Mitsuharu Hadeishi, a Nisei from New Edo on Angehuac…"
The old woman grunted and sat up a little straighter.
"…graduate Fleet Academy, this is his third deep space command, no notable clan affiliation, sponsor list is…empty?" Lachlan frowned, looking up at her. "How did he get an independent cruiser command?"
"Consider his service record, child." Itzpalicue stifled a yawn. She had been working long hours, racing to keep ahead of the Flower Priests. Spyeye deployment had gone well, but high levels of acid rain were causing intermittent problems with the relay grids. She plucked a maguey spine from her sleeve – one of dozens carefully pinched through the cloth – and pricked her cheek. A stab of pain cleared her mind, leaving a tiny crimson dab on a cheekbone serrated with a closely spaced pattern of puckered scars.
"…sixteenth in his class at the Academy," Lachlan was reading, growing more puzzled with each entry in Commander Hadeishi's personnel jacket. "Fourth in tactical exercises, second in overall efficiency, high marks from his science instructors, winner of the Graymont Exercise three years in a row, very good rating in engineering, management skills, composure under fire."
"Yes." Itzpalicue had already scanned the records herself. "Do you see the note from the senior chief petty officer of the Shoryu concerning his first tour of duty?"
Lachlan flipped to the appropriate page, green eyes searching through the records.
"Sho-i Hadeishi," he said slowly, digesting the passage, "is as fine an officer as I've had the honor to serve with aboard any ship of the Fleet." Lachlan leaned back in his seat, staring at the old woman. "High praise from a thirty-year joto-heiso on a Fleet heavy carrier. But he has no friends noted at Court, or on the Heavenly Mountain, no heavyweight pochteca backing him up, he's not married to an admiral's daughter…he's no one at all."
Itzpalicue nodded, a pleased smile beginning to seep into her wrinkled old face. "He is an exemplary officer, Lachlan-tzin. An honorable credit to his family – though by their surname they are not of noble birth, so perhaps they do not care – and to the Fleet. You see why he is here?"
The Йirishman nodded, biting his lower lip. "Ship's been two years out of refit or a Fleet base. Must be worn down to the nub. Hmmm…four recent engagements with 'hostile elements.' Three confirmed counter-privateer kills, including a Tyr-class refinery ship. Five stationside or colony disputes settled by force of arms. Greeting squirt to Admiral Villeneuve reports his ship is at seventy percent capability due to crew casualties and mechanical attrition. Well! The commander has been keeping busy out in the big dark."
"Battle group 88 has a Fleet mobile repair dock assigned?" Itzpalicue was considering a picture – now several years out of date – of Hadeishi. A thin little man with an intelligent face, narrow beard and pencil-thin mustache. She imagined he would laugh easily, sitting around a low table with his friends, drinking sake and listening to a samisen player. The edge of her thumb, polished sharp and reinforced to razor sharpness with layers of rebonded polytetrafluoroethylene, tapped slowly against a list of 'associated persons.' The list was not part of Hadeishi's public Fleet jacket.
The Mirror took care to watch the activities of ship commanders, even ones who barely existed from a political point of view. At some time in the past, a 'mouse' had observed Chu-sa Hadeishi speaking in a familiar way with a certain person. An individual Itzpalicue knew and detested, not solely because he was an Imperial Judge – a nauallis – or what the credulous would call a sorcerer. Unlike everything else in the Empire, the activities of the nauallis were kept well hidden from the Mirror. Of course the rival organizations took great interest in one another's doings. The old woman's lips tightened in remembered anger, considering the name.