The Ruby Dice (23 page)

Jaibriol felt ill. They were going over reports from the guilds that bred and trained providers. Before he had claimed his throne, he had served in the Dawn Corps of the Allied Worlds, which had helped newly freed worlds recover after the war. He had seen the pavilions where Silicate Aristos "designed" providers, the labs and examination tables, the discipline, memorization, testing, erotica, and isolation rooms. He had met providers huddled in their cubicles, slaves his own age or younger, staggeringly beautiful. The collars and cuffs they wore extended picotech into their bodies until the threads became so interwoven with their neural systems, it was impossible to remove them without surgery.

None of those providers had a name. None knew their age. None could read or write. An inventory had listed them by serial number. That night, Jaibriol had walked out among the whispering trees and been violently sick in the beautiful forest the Silicates had grown to adorn their pavilion. He had leaned over with his arms around his stomach and retched again and again until he felt as if he were tearing out his insides.

The Trade Minister sitting here had no idea of Jaibriol's reaction. Sakaar didn't consider his job abhorrent. He went over the files on the trillion-dollar industry as if he were reporting on inanimate objects. Jaibriol could tell the meeting disturbed Robert, whose father had been "trained" in a Silicate facility. But his aide accepted it as part of Eubian life. He had never known anything different. The other aides didn't think about it at all; they were simply doing their jobs, recording files and organizing statistics.

As Finance Minister, Tarquine tracked Silicate corporations and ensured they followed accepted business practices, at least as defined by Aristos. She hid her response behind the icy façade she had perfected, but Jaibriol caught the truth from her mind. The meeting revolted her. It was why she had altered herself so she could no longer transcend; late in her life, she had developed a trait shared by no other Aristos he knew except Corbal and Calope Muze. Remorse. His empress might be one of the most prodigiously crooked human beings alive, but she wasn't brutal. She could no more bring herself to inflict pain on providers than could he.

Yet sometimes in the sultry hours of the night, when Tarquine held him in her arms, he felt the hunger within her, her memory of transcendence. Deep within, a part of her wanted to hurt him, and that darkness chilled Jaibriol.

At the moment, she was frowning as she studied a holofile Sakaar had handed to her, a copy of the one he gave Jaibriol with reports on various Silicate facilities.

"This entry on the Garnet sale during the third octet last year," Tarquine was saying. "It appears less eminent than the predictions of my Evolving Intelligence codes."

Jaibriol blinked. "Less eminent" sounded like her way of saying the profits were lower than expected. Outwardly, the Trade Minister seemed unaffected by her observation. When Jaibriol concentrated on his mind, though, he realized Sakaar was hiding an unease greater than such a minor comment deserved.

"It is difficult to estimate eminence with elevation," Sakaar said.

Jaibriol almost laughed at the bizarre phrasing. Sakaar had a point, though; such predictions often weren't accurate.

Tarquine scanned another holopage. "And here, under the Mica Class Three-Eight product line, the fifth octet subprofits margin is only one-third as eminent as one might foresee."

Jaibriol wasn't even certain what she had said. Whatever it was, though, Sakaar didn't like it. With his mental barriers at full force, he could tell only that Sakaar was uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable. Her comments didn't sound threatening to Jaibriol, but the Trade Minister thought otherwise.

Jaibriol had long ago learned the value of letting his people probe and strike while he listened. Among Hightons, whose discourse branched like verbal fractals, an emperor who spoke so little frightened people. It could be useful; they often attributed more intrigue to his silence than it warranted. In his first years as emperor, when he had been a desperate teenager totally out of his depth, the silences had protected him, hiding just how thoroughly he had no idea what he was doing. Now they had become a tool.

"Claims of inconsistency would be premature," Sakaar said.

That
caught Jaibriol's attention. It sounded as if Sakaar had warned Tarquine to stop accusing him without proof. Among Aristos, where appearance and reputation were everything, an unsubstantiated accusation ranked as a crime worse than marrying outside one's caste. Which of course turned such accusations into valued currency, but only if the accuser could make them stick. If not, the accuser suffered censure, loss of reputation, even legal penalties if the accused went to the courts. Sakaar's reaction was way out of proportion to Tarquine's comments, which made Jaibriol suspect his Trade Minister far more than if Sakaar had said nothing.

"Perhaps they would be premature," Tarquine answered, her voice smooth. "But premature development is no longer a danger with so many advances in modern science."

"Unless the development is itself flawed," Sakaar said.

Watching Tarquine, Jaibriol suspected she had evidence of some Machiavellian scheme Sakaar had concocted, and she wanted him to sweat. Either that, or she was bluffing the hell out of the Trade Minister.

Robert's wrist comm beeped. An instant later, Jaibriol's buzzed, Sakaar's pinged, and Tarquine's hummed.

"What the blazes?" Sakaar said.

Jaibriol lifted his comm. "Qox here," he said. As soon as he moved, the others responded to their pages.

Corbal's urgent voice came out of the mesh. "Jai, turn on the Third Hour broadcast. You'll want to see this."

Puzzled, Jaibriol nodded to Robert, who had somehow managed the feat of simultaneously being attentive to the emperor and answering his comm. Robert flicked his finger through a holicon above the mesh film in his lap, and a holoscreen activated on the wall across from Jaibriol. As the others turned around to look, images formed in front of the screen. It was a Skolian transmission. The Eubian translation scrolled beneath it in three-dimensional glyphs, but he didn't need them; he was fluent in Skolian Flag.

The broadcast showed the Cathedral of Memories, a building of sparkling white stone, windows of blue glass, and flying buttresses that were works of art. A tall man was striding with four guards along a concourse to a huge arena. His dark skin had a disquietingly familiar gold sheen.

". . . must be his son," a newscaster was saying, her voice taut with excitement. "It's the only way he could walk in the Promenade
after
the Ruby Dynasty, but before Imperator Skolia.

A chill started at the bottom of Jaibriol's spine and crept upward. Did she mean Kelric Skolia's son?
What
son?

"Who the flipping hell is that?" Sakaar demanded.

Jaibriol had no doubt that normally some Aristo would have responded with a veiled barb at the Trade Minister's lapse of language. But the only other Aristos present were Tarquine and himself, and he was far too riveted by the broadcast to give a flaming jump about what Sakaar said.

If he understood the broadcaster, the next person to walk the concourse would be Kelric. It meant the promenade was almost done; only the Ruby Pharaoh and her family followed the Imperator. But when the cathedral doors opened, a girl with gold skin walked out onto the top of the steps, the wind blowing back her distinctive gold hair.

"This is incredible!" the newscaster said. "A
second
child has appeared."

A man spoke, apparently another commentator. "I don't think much doubt exists as to her parentage, with that coloring."

"Why aren't they announcing her name?" the woman said.

Jaibriol was wondering the same thing. Didn't Kelric know his own children? The girl stood waiting, her head held high. He could tell what she felt, though, even if sensing her mood was impossible across interstellar distances. After a lifetime of associating emotions with people's behavior, and ten years among Hightons, whose language was as much gesture and posture as words, he read body language like a book. She was scared.

A new voice spoke, what sounded like the official announcer at the Promenade itself. "Roca Miesa Varz Valdoria—" The man inhaled deeply. Then he said, "Skolia."

"It can't be!" Sakaar shouted.

"Gods forbid," Tarquine muttered. "
Another
one of them?"

Jaibriol stared at her, his hands clammy. "Did you know?"

"I had no idea," she said. "But they must be legitimate heirs. He was wearing marriage guards when I bought him. He told me his ex- wife gave them to him."

This was news to Jaibriol; none of ESComm's files on Kelric included anything on an
ex
-wife. "Why was he still wearing them?"

"He said he loved her."

Jaibriol tried to fathom her reaction. If what she had just said bothered her, it showed on neither her face nor the surface of her mind. With Sakaar in the room, though, he couldn't let down his barriers enough to be certain.

The broadcasters continued talking, excitement spilling into their words. Jaibriol tuned them out, his focus solely on the scene. The doors of the cathedral opened again—and the Imperator walked out. He towered, broad of shoulder, long in the legs, massive in physique, huge and gold. His square chin, chiseled features, and close-cropped hair enhanced the effect, as did the grey at his temples. When Jaibriol had met him ten years ago, Kelric had been dying. Even then his presence had overpowered. Now he stood like an indomitable war god surveying his realms.

Nor was he alone. A woman stood at his side, nearly as tall as Lord Skolia. Fiery hair was upswept on her head, and her eyes blazed, fierce and flooded with intelligence. She was one of the few people Jaibriol had ever seen who could match the sheer force of personality that Kelric projected.

And this time Jaibriol
felt
Tarquine's reaction. It jumped within her, so intense it burst past his barriers.
Anger.
In her mind, she owned Kelric, though he had attained his freedom ten years ago. To see him with another woman violated her sense of balance at a level so deep, it burned within her. In that moment, Jaibriol didn't want peace with Kelric's empire, he wanted to obliterate the Imperialate.

The Promenade announcer said, "Kelric Skolia, Imperator of Skolia, and Ixpar Karn, Minister of Coba."

"Minister?" Tarquine raised an eyebrow. "It seems you and the Imperator have something in common."

Jaibriol felt as if she had socked him in the stomach. The Aristo edge to her sarcasm came from her anger at discovering Kelric had a wife again—this one astonishingly formidable—and Jaibriol couldn't bear to see how much it affected her. He had one thing in common with Kelric: Tarquine. He couldn't reply, he could only stare at the broadcast as Kelric and his long-legged wife strode down the concourse.

Then the Ruby Pharaoh and her consort walked out onto the cathedral steps. The first time Jaibriol had seen a Promenade, seven years ago, they had appeared alone. Today their son accompanied them, a boy of eight. They had named him Althor, in honor of his uncle, who had died in the Radiance War.

Normally their heir would go first, as Kelric's had done. But not this child. Jaibriol knew about him from the ESComm files. The pharaoh and her consort were too closely related; they carried the same deleterious mutations in their DNA. The boy had been born without substantial parts of his body, including his legs. Hightons would never have allowed such a birth, but Althor's parents had cherished him. Over the years, surgeons had worked on the boy, giving him biomech limbs and organs, and an internal web more extensive than even for a Jagernaut. He appeared normal now, tall for his age, though thin. He walked slowly with the stiff gait of someone unused to his limbs, and his parents stayed with him. But he walked.

An exhale came from the crowd at the sight of the pharaoh's heir. The Promenade had served its purpose, assuring the Skolian people that their leaders were strong and well, and that their ruling house would thrive for generations to come.

Jaibriol wished he could stop the broadcast. He felt as if he had eaten from the bitterfruit tree of Aristo mythology. He lived a nightmare day after day, with no reprieve and no hope of escaping the pain or fear. He had to sit here and watch his family, knowing they shared the Ruby bonds forever denied to him, that they would always have the joy of that love. He would never know those gifts they took for granted. He couldn't even risk siring an heir with his own wife.

Jaibriol stood up abruptly, knocking the holofile on his lap to the floor. He had to leave before his crumbling defenses fell apart. Everyone scrambled to their feet. He nodded curtly to Robert and his guards, indicating they should accompany him.

Without a word, Jaibriol strode from the room.

Kelric stood with Ixpar at a starburst window in a tower of the Sunrise Palace on the planet of Parthonia. Outside, the mountains stretched in every direction, rolling in swell after swell of green, with blue-violet sky above and lowering dark clouds misting their peaks. Late afternoon sunrays slanted across Ixpar's face, silvering her grey eyes.

"Shall we?" Ixpar murmured.

Kelric took a breath. "Yes. I'm ready." It had taken years for this moment to come, and he had thought it never would happen. He would wait no longer.

She touched his arm with a gesture he remembered, as if she were simultaneously offering support and assuring herself he was real. Then she flicked her finger across the panel of the wrist comm he had given her this afternoon. It was odd to see her with Skolian technology, which had been forbidden to Cobans for so long. Even after only a few hours, she used it with ease. It had always been that way with her; sometimes she seemed to pick up ideas faster than he could articulate them.

A deep voice came out of her comm mesh. "Najo here, sir."

Ixpar quirked her eyebrow at Kelric and mouthed,
Sir?

"
He thinks you're me, because it's my comm." Kelric motioned at the device. "Go ahead."