“Very good, Lord Gareth. Ask him to copy any comments to me.”
“I’ll do that.”
A subtle smile played about Lord Chen’s lips. “Blow up the ring,” he said, half to himself. “The idea has a certain barbaric vigor.” He rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several clients waiting.”
Martinez pushed back the chair, made of a long spiral of wire, and stood. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Chen waved off the inconvenience with a movement of his hand. “I was happy to oblige your brother. Give him my best wishes when you next see him.”
Martinez turned at the sound of soft footsteps on the gravel walkway. He saw a young woman holding a tray with teacups and a teapot. She was tall and black-haired and wore a soft, nubbly suit of an autumnal orange, with a white rosette and its dangling mourning ribbons pinned with pleasant asymmetry to one shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said in a soft voice. “But I heard you had company, and so I thought…”
She made a subtle movement that called attention to the contents of her tray.
“That was very good of you,” Chen said. He turned to Martinez. “May I present my daughter, Terza? Terza, this is—”
“I recognize Lord Captain Martinez, of course,” she said. Her dark eyes turned to Martinez. “Would you like tea, my lord?”
“I…” Martinez hesitated. His meeting with Chen was clearly over, and it seemed absurd to stop for a cup of tea now.
“I can’t remain,” Chen said, “but if you’d like to share a cup with Terza, by all means stay.” He looked at Terza. “I have Em-braq waiting in the office.”
“I understand.” She turned to Martinez again. “By all means stay, if you have the time.”
Martinez agreed to remain. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. He had no idea who exactly had died, but there were many Peer families who were wearing white after Magaria.
She poured tea, the movements of her hands pale and elegant in the shadowed courtyard.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m told that he was very much admired by his crew.”
“I’m sure he was, my lady,” Martinez said.
“I see from the morning reports that your sister is marrying Lord Oda. Please give her my congratulations.”
“Oh. Do you know Vipsania?”
“Of course. Our families have been acquainted for some time now, while you’ve been off-world making your name.” She smiled. “Under the circumstances, we can’t expect you to know all your sister’s friends.”
Martinez raised the fragile tea cup with its leafy decoration—Sula would be able to tell him its lineage, he knew—and breathed in the smoky fragrance of the tea. He was about to remark that he hadn’t seen Terza at last night’s party, then realized she wouldn’t have attended, she was in mourning.
He sipped the tea to give himself time to think of an appropriately neutral remark.
“Lovely tea,” he managed.
“From our estate in the To-bai-to highlands,” Terza said. “It’s a first cutting.”
“Very nice.” He sipped again, the tea warming him in the growing chill.
Martinez left after half an hour with a vague memory of pleasant twilight conversation with a graceful, soft-voiced woman amid the fragrance of smoky tea and sweet lu-doi blossoms.
Had he met Terza a year ago, he reflected, he would have made a point of calling on her again. But now, as soon as the door of the Chen Palace closed behind him, his mind turned at once to Sula.
He had made plans to join Sula for dinner, then a show or a club. After which they would return to her apartment, the bed, and the scent of Sandama Twilight.
Once back at the Shelley Palace, Martinez started the water steaming into his bath, added a hops-scented bath oil, and then remembered that he intended to send a message to Squadron Commander Do-faq. Since there was a degree of urgency involved, he thought he’d better turn to the message immediately.
He brushed his hair and buttoned his uniform tunic, and faint alarm rang through him as his fingers missed the disk of the Golden Orb from its place at his throat. He checked his pockets, then remembered where he’d last seen the disk—dangling on its ribbon from the erect phallus of one of the Sevigny figures arched over Sula’s bed.
Well. It had seemed funny at the time.
Martinez decided to send the message without the medal. He sat at his desk and activated the camera set into the mirror, and composed a deferent, mildly flattering message to go along with the plan. “We would be interested in any comments you may care to make,” he said.
He watched his words print themselves across his desk, and he made a few changes, then rerecorded the whole thing, without the hesitations and with more polished phrasing. He appended a copy of the plan he downloaded from the sleeve memory in his tunic, then sent the message on. It would take three or four hours for the transmission to reach Do-faq where his squadron was zooming around the other side of Shaamah, and that there would be no reply till morning at the earliest.
His duty toward the salvation of the empire complete, Martinez stripped and settled himself into his bath. The scent of a hops floated to his nostrils. Steam rose. Heat soaked into his limbs.
He thought of Sula, the candlelight glowing on the curves of her body. The touch of her lips. The fine, mad frenzy in her eyes as she helped him draft the operational plan.
He wondered if it were possible to live any longer without these elements in his life.
The comm chimed, a two-tone effect in his bedroom and bathroom both. Martinez thought about answering, but didn’t. He decided he deserved a few peaceful moments in his bath.
The chime ceased. There were a few moments of silence, and then his sleeve comm chimed, a higher-pitched tone than the room comm. Martinez decided that whatever the message was, it wasn’t worth climbing out of the bath, let alone getting his tunic sleeve wet while answering.
There were another few minutes of silence. Martinez told the tap to turn on again and added more hot water to the bath. He’d closed his eyes and was on the edge of slumber when the heavy teak door of his room slammed open. The house trembled.
“Damn it, Proney, I’m in the bath!” he roared in his captain’s voice. These interruptions from Sempronia were becoming annoying.
If she started throwing things again, he thought, he’d make a fine sitting target in the tub.
“I’m not Sempronia,” said a frigid voice. Martinez looked up in surprise from his bath to see Vipsania standing in the door.
“Don’t you ever answer a page?” she demanded. “There’s an urgent family conference downstairs. It’s a crisis—a bad one.”
Vipsania turned and stalked away. “Marriage contract not going well?” Martinez asked after her, but there was no reply.
He toweled, threw on some casual clothes, and bounded down the stairs to find Roland, Vipsania, and Walpurga in one of the parlors. Roland turned his head as Martinez entered. His expression was grim. “Close the door behind you,” he said. “I don’t want anyone outside the family hearing this.”
Martinez slid the heavy door shut and dropped into a plush chair. Vipsania and Walpurga sat on satin cushions on an ivory divan, and Roland sat like an uncrowned king in a massive, hooded leather armchair. Vipsania turned to Martinez.
“I’ve just got a hysterical call from PJ Ngeni,” she said. “He’s received a message from Sempronia that she’s broken the engagement and run off with another man—with the man she loves.”
Martinez felt the slow, cold toll of doom sound through his blood. “Did she say who?” he managed.
“Apparently not,” Vipsania said. “We’ve been cudgeling our brains trying to think who it might be.”