Crown Of Fire (11 page)

Not that she wanted to! She'd been homesick out in the Federacy. Netaia wouldn't like her moving out, either, unless some incident proved she was in danger.

Maybe that was why Rogonin held back. Maybe he knew he'd get only one shot at her, so he'd better take a good one. If only he knew how easily she and Brennen could destroy him!

She closed her eyes and turned inward. Holding her epsilon carrier, she probed the visualized wall, looking for that flaw. She grasped the carrier, looped it around her point of consciousness, and thrust at—not through—the tiny crevice's edge. A new crack appeared. She beat against it, widening it by a millimeter. If she hoped to really use the quest-pulse, she had to learn to create it without using this visualization. She had to-Gasping, she relinquished the turn. Brennen's voice filtered through the wall. He paused, then spoke again.

She centered her next thrust at the enlarged breach. The carrier's eerie gleam dimmed momentarily, and she thought she sensed a warm, smoky presence. When she opened her eyes, Brennen stood inside the doorway, clutching the hem of his shirt. With a smooth motion he pulled it off. "You called?" She heard delight in his voice. She felt it in her soul.

Progress at last! "What did you find out?" she asked. "Who did you contact?"

"House Guard. The calls originated outside, but they didn't appear on their switching monitor."

"So the House Guard claims."

Brennen sat down on the edge of the bed, then stretched out beside her. "Yes. So they claim."

Micahel Shirak smiled as he reentered his apartment. For now, it was enough to know that this afternoon, without any manipulation, Ro-gonin had provided the correct CT number for Firebird's rooms. The information itself was unimportant. More vitally, Rogonin was starting to cooperate. If he seemed to support them before they took his volition, the change in him would be less noticeable.

Micahel did hope he hadn't frightened the Caldwells out of attending tonight's ball. He'd found a wonderfully garish outfit.

Nineteen hundred arrived. Firebird tugged the shoulder seam of an electric blue gown, almost wishing she'd taken the couturier's suggestion and hired a personal girl to help her get it on, but she'd dressed herself for almost twenty years. Even when the Angelo fortune supported her, she hadn't rated a dresser. No ball gown was going to defeat her.

Finally, tonight, she would dance with Brennen. She matched her shoulder hems before setting the bodice stays. This really would be the perfect time to get a Shuhr in custody. Then she could enjoy her confirmation uninterrupted.

But one slip of attention tonight could leave her lying dead on a black marble dance floor. Danton would send half a dozen auxiliary plainclothes guards. She wondered how obvious they would look in a ballroom full of aristocrats in full finery.

She adjusted the chain of Brennen's bird-of-prey medallion around her neck. Shortened just... so ... it dangled dramatically, several centimeters over the gown's neckline.

A muffled step caught her attention, and Brennen's image appeared in her mirror. He looked princely in dress whites with the red-and-blue Federate slash on his chest, even with his plainer shoulder star. Before their marriage, she'd observed that he moved with a dancer's grace. With him, she'd done a hundred things beyond her childhood hopes. . . but this would be their first chance to dance together.

His more moderate sense of expectancy dimmed hers. Like Uri and Shel, he'd concealed his crystace and a dart pistol under his uniform. "Stay close to at least two of us," he reminded her, "until they make a move."

She slipped Tel's little blazer into a deep side pocket. If she managed to carry it in past door guards, who ought to be wearing weapon sensors, she could encounter others there who might be armed as well. "We'll do this," she said. "I intend to live to see Kiel and Kinnor again."

Behind her, Shel peered through the near arch. Shel had consented to wear one of Phoena's gowns, sorting with Firebird through still-full closets until they found a pale blue creation less formfitting than most.

"I'll be just a minute." Brennen headed into Uri's rooms, probably to finalize plans by interlink.

Firebird walked out to the study. Pausing in front of a mirror, she pulled her shoulders back to carry off the ball gown's draping. When she'd been younger, she had always felt more comfortable in her Naval Academy uniform than in fancy dress, and she often tweaked tradition at gala occasions. But tonight she represented the Federacy, Brennen's people, and even the Mighty Singer. She'd tried to gown up properly, had even called the palace tresser and submitted to a hurried coifing.

She stood a moment longer, studying the effect.
Just for tonight,
she'd told Brennen . . . but playing this role felt fabulous. With the red-brown waves of her hair chemically controlled, whisked up at the crown and swept low across her right eyebrow, she might have been mistaken for Phoena. It had happened more than once when Phoena was alive.

Guilt made her slump. What would seeing her like this do to Tel?

"Ready, Mari?" Brennen's image appeared beside hers, his shoulders broadened by his dress whites.

She smiled and whirled, trailing her stiff blue skirt on marble flooring.

Uri entered with Brenn, matching him in dress whites. Poised in his posture, urbane in his slight smile, Uri looked a noble escort to Shel, who wore Phoena's heavily embroidered gown with surprising grace. Shel's usual gait had no female sway. Firebird guessed that normally, if unconsciously, she tried to repel male attention.

Brennen looked hard at Uri, then Shel. "Stay with us until you spot a target. We'll draw him on. Don't be afraid to signal the backups for help. That's why we have them."

Uri nodded gravely.

Firebird took a last glance at her party. A thousand snares of etiquette awaited, but she couldn't drill them in inconsequential nonsense. Tonight was their first serious chance to catch a Shuhr. "Don't worry about fitting in," she said, drawing on her pale blue gloves. "You're expected to behave like offworlders. As long as you make it obvious that you're trying to observe the niceties, you'll please anyone who's willing to be pleased. There's nothing we can do about the rest of them."

A whiff of festive spices blew through the hall door. Paskel stepped through. "My lady, here is Prince Tel." As Tel strode past him, Paskel crossed the formal sitting room in his inimitable palace-staff strut. Tel swept off his indigo-plumed hat and bowed, holding the pose long enough to confirm Firebird's apprehension. "I'm sorry," she said, adjusting her gloves. "I can't help looking like her."

Laughing weakly, Tel drew a hand cloth from one pocket and dabbed at his face. "No, you can't," he said. Pocketing the cloth again, he straightened the ends of his gold-edged sash with a gesture so automatic she envied him. He replaced the cock-hat, then offered Shel his arm. "Are you ready?"

Firebird linked her hand around Brennen's arm. "Tel," she murmured, "there could be some excitement tonight."

"Again?" he asked, raising his head.

"Possibly," Brennen said. "Just be ready to dive out of harm's way, in case our visitors come back."

"Paudan will be there," Tel assured them. "I'm covered."

Paskel held the door open.

Arm in arm with Brennen, Firebird strode out the door, along the balcony, and down the long curving stair toward the main ballroom. Soft footfalls behind her assured her that Shel, Tel, and Uri followed.

Firebird paused as Tel left his hat with a scurrying servitor in the portrait hall. After that, rank and decorum decreed she must lead into the ballroom. A footman announced them, crying first, "Lady Firebird Angelo Caldwell and General Brennen Caldwell."

A hundred stares turned toward the door like targeting lasers. Firebird walked one step ahead, directly down the right side of widening stairs carved from gold-shot black marble, as the footman announced Prince Tel Tellai-Angelo, Major Shelevah Mattason, and Lieutenant Colonel Uri Harris.

His Grace the Regent stood at the foot of the steps, resplendent in a fully formal white brocade jacket, with his House insignia of three stacked platinum triangles pinned at his throat. His thin eyebrows arched regally.

Mindful of the press cadre, Firebird composed her face to respectful solemnity.
Here we are,
she thought at Rogonin . . . and the door guards.
Get a good, look.

No one moved to take away her blazer.

Muirnen Rogonin looked broader than life in brocade. Dark blond Esme stood at his side, a rich spring green gown artfully revealing her flawless shoulders. Until this trip, Firebird had only seen the girl from a distance. Her father's round face was softened through Esme's cheekbones by her mother's Parkai blood. Duchess Liona stood third in the receiving line—

Parkai..
. Chilled, Firebird realized she had killed the girl's grand-uncle at Hunter Height. It had been accidental, in self-defense, but no one here believed that.

It galled Firebird to curtsey to Muirnen Rogonin. Still, she dropped a full one, forehead to her knee, before bowing to Esme. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brennen give a full bow behind her. As she rose out of her obeisance, Rogonin smiled down with an expression she'd last seen on Dru Polar, testing director of the Three Zed colony— a greedy, deadly hunger.

"My lady," he said, clasping her gloved hand. "Let me ask privately, what are your plans for Netaia? Will you stay with us beyond your confirmation?" Through his white gloves and her blue ones, his hands felt unclean.

"I've come back only because the Assembly called, Your Grace. My future is with the Federacy."

"If Netaia covenants to the Federacy, all your troubles will end. Am I correct?" His breath already reeked of liquor and spiced hors d'oeuvres.

"I will never put my own convenience before my people's welfare. The risk of civil war is substantial. I would have sent my proposal, even if I couldn't have come in person."

Rogonin glanced past her right shoulder, and his eyes narrowed. She felt Brennen's disgust for the man who had twice tried to kill her.

The regent seemed to be enjoying himself, though. Still gripping Firebird's hand, he lowered his voice. "My Lady Firebird, if you will sign something for me, I will personally see you protected during the length of your stay, and I will ensure that you leave Netaia safely."

Was that a veiled threat? "What do you want?"

"A pledge. A promise that on your honor, and despite any public statement you may make, you will use your influence to free the Netaian systems from all Federate influence."

Her diplomatic resolve had almost run out. "Your Grace, that would be a disaster. The Shuhr would devour Netaia like a choice morsel if the Federates withdrew—"

"And who destroyed our defenses, Lady Firebird?"

"My mother did," she snapped, "by attacking Veroh. My pledge to you is that I will not interfere with the peace of your lawful rule." She turned her head and looked pointedly at Brennen, who stood waiting to pay his formal respects. She curtsied again, feeling too angry to offer any more pleasantries. The prim opening strains of a gavotte fell into her silence.

She shuffled to her left, gave Countess Esme the ritual kiss, and whispered, "Congratulations, Countess. You are beautiful tonight." She curtsied again and stepped to her left. "Duchess Liona."

Esme's mother glared.

Shel murmured in her ear, "Go ahead and move out. I'm at your back." She plainly felt Brennen at full-defense readiness. Glad to show the Rogonin family the gathered back of her skirt, she took Brennen's arm and led into the room. She sensed Uri and Shel falling in behind, each slightly to one side.
Just like flying in formation.
Were the Shuhr here yet? Were they watching?

As she walked she stared around the ballroom. Beyond the mural of Conura First's coronation, ranks of crimson curtains stood open. Brilliantly lit formal gardens showed beyond the porticoes, between lawns where she once played touch tag with other wastlings. The palace orchestra filled the dais, its conductor wearing the gold-trimmed black of a servitor assigned to public performance. His graying curly brown hair was caught back in a tail. The tip of his baton flicked toward Firebird in midsweep. He nodded a greeting.

She let her stare travel clockwise, picking out one of Danton's plain-clothes people, discernible by his conservative clothing and less arrogant face—and then recognized two Sentinels in Angelo livery, balancing trays full of wine goblets. They played the servitor's role surprisingly well.

Quadruple doors at the far end stood open. They admitted more tray-pushing, liveried servitors and a heavenly aroma. Glancing over the shoulder of one "servitor," actually a Sentinel she'd met shipboard, Firebird saw a refreshment table laden with crystal plates and bowls, and she spotted several of her favorite delicacies. Red gem tartlets, nut wafers, pastry wings with various spiced fillings. . . her mouth watered.

Not yet.
She stepped away regretfully.
Maybe not even later.

Slowly she crossed the ballroom, pausing to curtsey and exchange a few words with the nobles and high-commoners who were willing to tolerate her. Only one group tried to extend greetings into something like conversation. "Lady Firebird, is there any news at all about Carra-dee's daughters?"

"No news," she admitted, "but there are eight teams searching the Inisi system and surrounding space. The Federacy is committed to finding them."

The high-common woman flicked a strand of hair out of her face. "How long do they think that will take?"

"Frankly," Firebird said, "in an area that large, even if they can be found, it could take months or even years."

At an uncrowded spot near the tall windows, she was hailed by a man and woman, both tall and extremely thin, who carried themselves with aristocratic poise. Curtseying, she wracked her brain. She could have sworn she knew every member of all ten noble families. . . .

"Cometesse Verzy Remelard," the woman introduced herself, "and my husband, Comete Noche. Our home is on Luxia. We are ambassadors to Talk's."

Firebird had heard of the Luxian nobility, but these were the first she'd met. "Welcome to Citangelo," she said solemnly.

"Thank you. We have come to see you confirmed and to acquaint ourselves with our peers in the Netaian systems."

"You've had an opportunity to meet the regent, then," Firebird guessed. "As you entered."

They turned to each other. "Yes." The comete's mustache waggled as he spoke. "We weren't quite snubbed."

The cometesse turned to Brennen. "Has anything been heard about Her Majesty lark or Princess Kessaree?"

Distracted by a change of music, Firebird let Brennen answer. She seized a goblet of water from a passing servitor's tray. From this spot near the windows, she had a good view of the celebrants. Besides the occasional Sentinel infiltrator, she recognized many young nobles who had posed hazing threats to a wastling child. She had never felt truly safe from them until she enrolled at the Naval Academy. Heirs left military wastlings strictly alone.

The conductor's reedy voice caught her attention. "Noble electors, honored guests. We play tonight for His Grace, Regent for the Crown, and for Countess Esmerield ... a lovely young girl, and this night—a woman."

As a triplette began, and Firebird reached toward Brennen's arm, a huge man passed between Firebird and the conductor. Firebird set down her goblet and stared. She had never thought to see long-faced Devair Burkenhamn again. Once the First Marshal of the Netaian Planetary Navy, he'd stood as a witness when she vowed away her allegiance to Netaia.

He had also signed Netaia's surrender.

He headed straight for her. "Marshal," she said softly, half curtseying. She felt Brennen and Uri ease closer. Taller than anyone else in the room and heavy with muscle, Burkenhamn projected disciplined power.

He grasped her hand and spoke softly, though his posture never loosened. "My lady, welcome back. His Grace will not be pleased if he sees us speaking. Call on me in person tomorrow, on base, for a few minutes. My secretary will admit you at any time." He strode on toward the refreshment tables.

Dumbfounded, Firebird tracked him. She had admired Marshal Burkenhamn, and he always treated her with respect. "We need to talk to him," she told Brennen. Even if Burkenhamn gave her a dressing-down for her failures at Veroh, he might help their present cause.

She felt Brennen's amusement rise.

"What?" she asked.

He inclined his head toward the dance floor.

Out on the glimmering marble surface, Esme Rogonin minced through the triplette's sweeping steps, engulfed in her father's arms. He moved ponderously, without regard for the beat. "Rogonin couldn't dance a triplette if he had three legs," Firebird muttered.

To her surprise, the couple finished their triplette near Tel, who lingered with his sister Triona and her husband, Count Winton Stele. Esme and her father bowed and curtseyed to each other, then turned simultaneously toward Tel.

"Do you think Tel needs help?" Firebird pivoted half aside, not wanting to stare, not wanting to lose sight of them. Rogonin laid Esme's hand on Tel's arm and backed away. The orchestra started a bourree. "What is he up to?"

"Fishing," Shel suggested.

Brennen's eyes darkened. "Tel is under full voice-command," he reminded them. "He's safe from any 'fishing' attempts."

Firebird stared around the ballroom. Fifteen-year-old Grand Duke Stroud Parkai took the dance floor with Winton Stele's sister, Countess Alia. Lace cuffs drooped over the young dandy's hands, and a matching jabot cascaded down his shirt front. Near those two, the elegant Duke of Kenhing swept his duchess into his arms. Firebird glimpsed Ken-hing's dagger, this time with the slightest shudder. Muirnen Rogonin had tried to bring her just such a dagger when she'd been in protective custody on Tallis and the electors expected her to suicide.

She glanced over her shoulder at Shel. "Ready?" she asked.

Shel barely nodded.

She touched Brennen's arm. "The next triplette?"

He pursed his lips, then said, "You really want to do it this way."

She laid her gloved hand on his shoulder. "More than even you can imagine."

"All right," he said gently. "The next triplette. Until then, we need our backs to a wall, not a window."

Firebird nodded. She led the group to a section of floor between windows, again with a good view of the dance floor and Esme Rogonin.

Poor Tel.

Brennen winked, dimpling the scar on his cheek.

Tel couldn't escape the evening's honoree. This was too high an official obligation.

But perhaps it was a chance to chip at Esme Rogonin's shell, or at least to see how thick it was. He held her small hand with detached firmness.

She took his lead well, following through the bourree's quick, light steps. After half a minute, she blurted, "Your Highness, may I ask an impertinent question?"

Now he was glad for the secret moments with Caldwell. "I will answer if I can," he said, smiling to himself at the double meaning.

Her lips crinkled. "You probably think Father ordered me to ask half a dozen questions."

"It occurred to me."

"Oh, he did. But I know you won't answer any of those. When we spoke last night, I should have asked if those mind-crawlers ever did anything to your brain."

Tel raised one eyebrow. A sort of fatal curiosity gripped Citangelo's nobility, but no one else had dared to ask. He liked Esme's courage. "I assume you mean General Caldwell."

She nodded. Her steady gaze assured him she really wanted to know. . . had Tel's mind been violated?

Thinking back almost five months, he steered her out of the path of Kenhing and his full-figured wife. "When I first arrived on Thyrica," he said, "General Caldwell was naturally afraid that I might have come intending to harm Lady Firebird. He did examine my intentions. He is... was. . . highly skilled."

"Mind-access," she said, frowning.

Tel nodded.

"I'm told it's uncomfortable."

"Certainly that." But unavoidable.

Esme glanced toward the Caldwell party, virtually ostracized between the tall windows. "Is he really as badly crippled as we've been led to believe?"

"Yes." Tel couldn't expect her to understand how tragic that was. "The Sentinels aren't evil, Esme. They are committed to serving other people, just in an unusual way. Just as you and I both are committed to serve Netaia, though we have different opinions about how best to do it."

Esme's hair, loosely coifed, rustled as she tossed her head. "Lady Firebird seems civil enough. Father says she killed Grand-Uncle in cold blood."

"Accidentally."

"Of course she says that."

"I'm convinced," Tel said.

"You've seen her in battle, I'm told. Does she enjoy killing people?"

"Not in the least."

"Hmm," Esme said. Her skirt swirled on the polished floor. "But wastlings are all a little unbalanced, aren't they?"

"If they are, Countess, we made them that way."

Her nose wrinkled in perfect court coquettishness. "Perhaps you've hurt wastlings. I've done nothing."

"If your conscience is clean, Esme, count yourself fortunate. Mine gives me no such peace. By refusing to insist on their safety, I am as guilty as... others," he said, squelching distasteful memories. "What are our true motives in demanding their deaths? Have you spent time with your little sister and brother? Do you want to see them die?"

"I have been taught to look the other way," she said tartly, "and so have you. That is only common decency."