Rules of Conflict (39 page)

“Do you believe we’re going to be there more than four hours?”

Hals paced in a tight circle. The casuals accentuated her plump
roundness—she looked like she should have been carrying a trowel and a flat of
seedlings rather than a scanpack and the weight of an entire department.
“Burkett’s been good about making sure our time isn’t wasted. According to what
I’ve been told, we’re just supposed to validate the provenance of some survey
grids and maps being used in the talks.”

Jani ran the toe of her shoe along a hairline fissure in the
walkway. “Hold off for now. If it looks like our visit will run over, we can
call. It shouldn’t take them long to get there. All they have to do is blow the
chip out with a magburst.” She peeked around the mover just in time to see the
amused sergeant who would serve as their driver amble down the walkway.

Two orderly lines formed in front of the vehicle’s fore and aft
doors. Hals hung back, gesturing for Jani to remain with her. Ischi bustled
past them, recording board tucked under his arm, eyes shining at the prospect
of diplomatic derringdo. “We’re going to Camp Ido!” he sang as he leapt aboard
the mover. “We’re going to Camp Ido!”

Vespucci approached them, white knees flashing in the sun.
“Everything’s airtight, ma’am.” He remained with Hals, waiting pointedly until
Jani broke away and headed for the mover.

Jerk
. Jani took a seat near the rear, one row up from where
Hals and Vespucci would sit. As they pulled out of the charge lot, she glanced
out her window. Lucien sat alone on a bench beneath a stand of trees, a place
hidden from view from the charge lot, but visible now. He looked up just as the
mover passed by, a morose expression on his fallen-angel face. He wore
summerweights. And a packed holster. Jani watched him track the vehicle until
they floated around the corner of an Admin building and out of sight.

Everyone seemed relaxed as the trip began. Ischi even
tried to organize a sing-along, but as soon as the mover passed beneath the
Shenandoah Gate, the first verse of “All Around the Campfire” dwindled to a few
halfhearted warbles. Then one of the civilian techs said, “Shut up,” very
softly. Ischi shot her a hard look, but kept his protests to himself. Jani
looked over her shoulder at Hals, who stared back, face set.

The nervous backward glances started as soon as the mover ramped
onto the Boul. Jani felt them like gnat bites, and did her best to ignore them.
But the growing tension managed to wend around her calm—she started when
Vespucci touched her shoulder.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Kilian.” He tugged at the neck
of his T-shirt as though it choked him.

“This was
Eiswein’s
call, Major.” Hals’s voice was tight.
“Kilian may have suggested, but it was Eiswein’s call all the way.

Vespucci’s mouth opened, but one glance at Hals and it snapped
shut.

Jani turned around to face the front. Everyone else did, too.

The mover traversed the same route as had Burkett’s skimmer.
Through the Bluffs, then onto the Boul artery that ran within view of the
lakeshore. Soon, the Chicago skyline filled the windscreen; some of the older,
reflective-glass towers flashed the light of the rising sun.

Temporarily blinded, Jani didn’t spot the demiskimmers at first.
But as the mover veered toward the lake and her viewing angle changed, she saw
them glide over the water toward the city, metal skins gleaming. They banked in
groups of three, first rising, then swoop-landing out of sight amid the
buildings lining the shore.

“I’ll bet my ’pack they’re coming from HollandPort,” Vespucci
said. “That’s the shuttleport on the eastern shore that’s set aside for idomeni
use.”

Idomeni, coming to their embassy.
Jani counted the
demiskimmers, and lost count after thirty.
Lots and lots of idomeni.
Important idomeni, to command demis. Along with the rest of FT, Jani watched
the graceful craft bank and glide.

Whatever it was, it looked big, and she hoped like hell that it
had nothing to do with her.

The fingerprinted courtyard felt almost cool, sheltered as
it was from the morning sun. Quiet, too, like the vestibule of a church.

“By the way,” Hals said to Jani as she stepped down from the mover,
“keep your fists to yourself in there.”

Jani nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

They fell into their rank-line and walked up the short flight of
steps and through the door. Six Vynshàrau diplomatic suborns bookended the
entry this time instead of the single female who had stood for them before.
Three males on one side, three females on the other.

Oh . . . shit.
Jani looked past them down
the hall, where even more suborns lined the way. Five on each side, lined up by
sex. A total of eight paired escorts, one for each major god. Her mind stumbled
over itself as she tried to determine the reason for the formality. So intent
was she, she didn’t feel Vespucci nudge her until he prodded her aching arm.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Jani nodded, her stomach roiling. “Someone plans to offer
challenge.”

“
À lérine
?” He surprised her by pronouncing the term
properly. Ah lay-reen, with a trilled r.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Someone who had arrived in one of the demis,
perhaps.
But whom would they fight?

They passed through the silent gauntlet to find Burkett waiting
for them by the documents-room entry. Even dressed in casuals, no one could
mistake him for anything other than highly polished brass. “Morden nìRau Cèel
is here.”

The Oligarch?
A vague image of lanky height and dark hair
formed in Jani’s mind. She had never seen him in person, even though he had
studied at the Academy at the same time she had. He didn’t like humanish then.
He still didn’t.

“Just flew in from the Death Valley Enclave.” Burkett’s eyes were
on Jani. “The PM is here with half the Cabinet. They’re playing catch-up
because no one can figure out what Cèel’s doing here. He and Tsecha holed up in
the main altar room as soon as he walked through the lakeside door—no one’s
heard a word from them since.” He turned to her, his dislike swamped out by his
need to know. “It’s a challenge, isn’t it, Kilian? A big one.”

“Yes, sir,” Jani replied tiredly. It figured that the knives and
fighting part of the idomeni philosophy would be the part Burkett would get
right.

“Think Cèel challenged Tsecha?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“That would explain the number of demis, though—a formal bout
between the Vynshàrau’s secular and religious dominants would definitely draw a
crowd.” Burkett stood tall, hands clasped behind his back. “Not to mention
precipitate an intrasect rift that would cripple the Vynshàrau’s power and
influence over their affiliated sects.” His nostrils flared, giving his narrow
face a snorting-stallion cast. Confusion to the Vynshàrau held definite appeal
for him.

“You may think you want that, sir, but you don’t.” Jani caught a
glimpse of Hals, who stood behind Burkett, mouthing an emphatic “shut up.”
“Nema has fervor on his side, but Cèel has forty years. Their mutual enmity’s
ground in the bone. À lérine may technically be ritual fighting, but knives
have been known to slip. The Vynshàrau are the most pro-humanish born-sect,
thanks to Nema’s influence. You don’t want anything happening to him.”

Burkett looked down his nose at her. “Don’t presume to know my
mind, Kilian.”

“I was in Rauta Shèràa the night it fell to the Vynshàrau. I
repeat, you do not want anything to happen to Nema!”

“
I hear my name!
”

They turned as one toward the voice.

The overrobe churned less vigorously, befitting the formality of the
occasion. “I find my nìa arguing with you again, General.” Nema’s face split in
a ghoulish grin. “Such habitual disputation—you should declare yourselves. We
have blades you may borrow for the task.”

Burkett’s face reddened. “We don’t handle disagreements that way
in the Service, nìRau.”

“Ah.” Nema cocked his head to the left as he cupped his right hand
and raised it chest-high, his tone and posture indicating question of yet
another aspect of humanish behavior. His eyes met Jani’s, and he bared his teeth.
“Nìa,” he said, touching a fingertip to her chin. Then he looked at each of
them in turn, examining them from head to toe one after the other. He reached
into his overrobe as he did so, and removed a battered black ovaloid that
twinned Jani’s scanpack. His handheld, however, functioned as a
Vynshàrau-humanish dictionary. It held French, English, and Mandarin, formal
and foul, idiomatic and slang. The occasional amusing muck-up occurred, but
Nema’s research and extensive cross-referencing would have impressed any
linguist.

He tapped at the worn unit’s touchpad. “We have been
cooking
you in your skins
.” He shut down the handheld and bared his teeth again.
“And you have accepted challenge. A glorious thing. My compliments, General,
for finally waking up.” He thrust his hand toward Burkett and nodded vigorously
as the man gingerly shook it. “Now, let us work, for we have much to do.” He
swept down the hall, the members of Foreign Transactions playing butter to his
Sìah blade. “Come! Come! Much to do!” he cried as he vanished around the
corner.

Burkett watched him, mouth agape. “He’s a goddamned Pied Piper.”

“And he’s the only idomeni who can pipe a tune you can dance to,”
Jani said. “Remember that the next time you wish a knife in his ribs.” She
waited for Burkett’s face to flare anew before she turned her back on him and
walked slowly into the documents examiners’ meeting room.

Jani braced her hands on the U-shaped table for balance
and leaned back in her three-legged easel seat.

So where are Hantìa and company?
Foreign Transactions had
been validating documents for almost forty minutes, and the Vynshàrau had yet
to make an appearance.
Only a couple of hours left.
Jani felt the
muscles in her right forearm twitch. They knew what would happen if the princess
didn’t leave the party on time.

She looked at the others. Vespucci turned away as soon as she
glanced uptable at him. She had caught him eyeing her several times, beetle
brow knit in consternation. And dripping sweat.

She breathed through her mouth as Ischi leaned close to spread a
set of nautical survey maps before her. His deodorant still worked. Barely.
Wish
I could remember what we used in Rauta Shèràa.
A colonial brand, formulated
for above-average temps. Limited distribution. Odds were it wasn’t even
manufactured anymore.

Wonder who could find out?

Well, there are my parents.

She imagined the dead comport light, and busied herself scanning
the maps.

“How are you holding up, Captain?” Hals, seated next to her, asked
for the umpteenth time. “There’s ice water and electrolyte replenishers in a
supply vehicle just outside the embassy perimeter.” The easel seats, like all
Vynshàrau daytime furniture, weren’t designed for comfort. They also weren’t
designed for the average human—the one-four Hals was having a hell of a time
keeping stable in a seat designed for a one-nine Vynshàrau. “We can break at
any time—our mover can get us there in five.”