A Choice of Treasons (18 page)

“Lieutenant.”

York looked over the rim of his glass, found a small, thin man standing squarely in front of him. The man wore dour, dark colors, and his face was completely devoid of expression, though as their eyes met a nearly imperceptible smirk formed at the corners of his mouth. “You’re Ballin, aren’t you?”

York swallowed some of the punch, suppressed a nasty remark. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to meet you. I was one of the people you rescued on Trinivan. I heard you were injured. The eye?”

The smirk—York wasn’t quite sure there had been a smirk—disappeared from the man’s face. “And you’re curious?”

Now the man smiled openly. “Well yes, a little, but mostly I wanted to thank you. I’m Arkan Dulell,” he said proudly, waiting for York to react in some way.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dulell.”

Dulell’s mask of control returned and he shrank as if he’d been expecting York to recognize his name. “Please. Call me Arkan. And I’ll call you York. That’s a lot better than Butcher Ballin, isn’t it?”

York cringed.

“Oh,” Dulell said. “I see you’re sensitive on that point. Well you shouldn’t be. They owe you their lives, and if they can’t appreciate that then they’re all petty fools.”

York swirled the punch in his glass, looked at it unhappily. “Punch might as well be water.”

Dulell nodded, looked about carefully, then reached into his coat and withdrew a small flask. He removed the lid, extended the flask toward York’s glass, but York stopped him. “What is it?”

“It’s just
alc-trate
,” Dulell said, frowning. “I never attend one of these functions without it. Be careful, it’s undiluted.”

York tried to gage the size of the flask. “Should be enough
trate
in there to get a dozen of them drunk.”

“I try to be prepared.”

“Thank you, but no,” York said, shaking his head. “I have to stay sober.”

Another voice interrupted them. “Are you sure you should do that?”

Sylissa d’Hart stepped out of the crowd like a phantom coalescing from the air, a disapproving look on her face. “Seriously, Lieutenant. Don’t you think you should avoid that?” She nodded at Dulell’s flask, which disappeared suddenly into his coat.

York wanted to tell her he’d turned the
trate
down, but he could see she’d already formed her opinion, so he let the incident pass without comment. He looked at her gown; it was very fashionable: long, touching the floor, clinging to her, must have cost half a year’s pay. “Your gown is quite beautiful,” he said. “Quite a change from shipboard fatigues.”

It worked. She smiled and the tension disappeared. “Yes. Quite a change.”

A splash of color in the crowd behind the d’Hart woman caught York’s eye, a young woman dressed in a gown that clung so closely to her body she might as well be naked. And what little material she did wear was, for all intents and purposes, almost transparent.

York caught himself staring at the curve of the young woman’s breasts, realized she was aware of his gaze and lifted his eyes to look into her face. She wore a many-colored mask, and her eyes seemed to be laughing at him. She crossed the few feet between them, stopped with her chin only inches from his chest. “You’re Ballin, aren’t you?” she asked in a sensual whisper.

York tried not to stare at her breasts, though he was exceedingly conscious of them in the press of the crowd. He looked instead at her face, and realized her mask was actually no mask at all, but carefully applied makeup, beginning around her eyes with radiating lines of color that extended down past her cheeks, neck, and shoulders, and ended on her upper chest and arms, blending with the low cut gown that only just covered her breasts.

York forced his eyes back to her face. “Yes I am. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She spoke to Dulell, but she kept her eyes on York. “Arkan, sweetheart. Introduce us, please.”

Dulell gave her an unpleasant smile. “Now Sabine, I’ve never been your sweetheart.”

“Well introduce us anyway.”

Dulell nodded. “This is Lieutenant York Ballin. York, Lady Sabine Dubye.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she said, smiling, sticking out her hand, and her breasts.

York took the hand, kissed it lightly, wanted to do the same to her breasts. “My pleasure.”

“Sabine,” Dulell said. “Your fangs are showing.”

“Oh, Arkan! You say the naughtiest things.”

“Only to the naughtiest people.”

She stepped forward, pressing one of her breasts against York’s arm. “We must talk later,” she said in a whisper, “You and I. When you’re not so . . . occupied.”

She looked at Dulell, “Arkan,” then at Lady d’Hart, “Sylissa.”

The d’Hart woman smiled, though it looked forced, and as Lady Dubye walked away the smile morphed into a sneer.

Archproverb Rhijn, with poor Canticle Thring in tow, stopped next to Sylissa d’Hart and greeted each of them, “Lady d’Hart. Lieutenant. Dulell.”

Rhijn leaned toward the d’Hart woman’s ear and whispered a question York was not meant to hear. “Her Majesty is ready. Is he sober?”

York also heard her whispered reply. “I believe so. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

Rhijn leaned away from her, stood up on his toes, looked across the room and raised two fingers in some sort of signal. The servant at the entrance to the ballroom struck a large, ornate staff loudly three times upon the floor, then paused while a hush fell over the crowd. When there was absolute silence he announced, “Her Majesty, Cassandra, Duchess de Lunis, Queen of the nine beasts, beloved empress of the Lunan Empire.”

The main entrance to the ballroom opened onto a long cascade of stairs, and now, near the top of the stairs, a woman about York’s age paused. Flanking and backing her were a number of elaborately dressed people, all of whom held the regal bearing of the noble, or the rich, or the influential.

York suddenly remembered his etiquette, dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

“Please,” Cassandra said. “Rise. All of you. I’ve been looking forward to a respite from the formality of court, and I certainly didn’t mean to bring it with me.”

Slowly the individuals in the crowd stood and the murmur of conversation returned, though it was now somewhat subdued. The empress started down the stairway followed by Aeya—with the usual pout on her face—and a much older woman, probably the queen mother. Cassandra’s descent, entourage and all, was a lesson in practiced informality. She paused on each step, spoke casually with someone waiting there, and suddenly York realized how carefully the situation had been choreographed, with no modicum of chance allowed to determine who might be on the stairs at that moment, nor on which step they stood.

The Lady d’Hart touched his arm. “You have a funny look on your face.”

York spoke without looking away from the empress. “Nothing’s been left to chance, has it?”

“Exactly.”

“Including,” he continued, “your presence here next to me, to make sure I don’t screw up, eh?”

She frowned, looked uneasy, and lied. “You’re imagining things.”

The empress completed her descent of the stairs and moved carefully through the crowd. Rhijn and Dulell got into some sort of argument about the religious implications of direct church involvement in military matters. Thring kept his mouth shut for the most part, though Rhijn occasionally looked to him for support, and the young canticle always deferred to his superior.

The empress had a ring of sycophants surrounding her at all times, and of course there was the carefully chosen bodyguard of uniformed marines. But it was the plain clothed AI goons that stood out most, perhaps because of their amateur attempts at appearing to be part of the crowd.

York drifted about, managed to lose Dulell and Thring and Rhijn, though the d’Hart woman never left his side. If he hadn’t understood her true purpose, he might have believed she had some interest in him. He kept his distance from the empress, knowing that when the time was right for her to present his decoration, they’d see to it he was in the right place at the right time. But then after a couple of hours she excused herself and was gone.

Sylissa d’Hart then excused herself politely and left. York stood there alone, wondering why the change in plans.

Maggie, arm in arm with Dulell, approached through the thinning crowd. “York, this party’s boring.”

Dulell shrugged. “I could have told you to expect that, Miss Votak.”

York demanded, “Where’s Frank?”

Maggie waved a hand back toward the crowd. “He’s taking care of Geara.”

“What’s wrong with Geara?”

“He got a little drunk.”

York looked at Dulell. “I need a drink, something a lot stronger than this punch.”

Maggie handed him hers. He took a sip and his eyes watered. He finished it in a single gulp.

“Making up for lost time?” Dulell asked.

Maggie swayed a little and York spotted Mayla Joyson crossing the room toward them. “Straighten up, Maggie, or you’ll catch hell.”

Joyson didn’t try to hide her disapproval as she stopped beside Maggie. “Good evening, Mr. Ballin. Miss Votak. Mr. Dulell.”

“Ma’am,” York said stiffly.

Maggie tried to say something but fumbled it, wisely chose to say no more.

Joyson ignored her, said to York, “About Her Majesty . . .”

“We changed our minds, eh?”

That put Joyson off balance. “Ah, no. In fact Her Majesty made it clear you would definitely receive
the cross
.”

York respected Joyson, liked her, knew it was unfair to take it out on her but he couldn’t stop himself. “But not from her hands, eh?”

Joyson sighed. “Her schedule has changed.”

York shook his head. “You owe me better than that. She got worried about how it might look and talked herself out of it. Or someone else talked her out of it, right?”

At least Joyson met York’s eyes. “Yes. That’s basically right.”

Joyson was suddenly all business again. “You’re all on leave for the next three days. While you’re here at the embassy keep your people somewhat sober. And you too.”

“I am sober.”

Joyson nodded, glanced side long at Maggie. “And her?”

“I’ll take care of her,” he said.

“See that you do, Mr. Ballin.” Joyson turned, walked away.

A servant stepped in front of him, bowed and held out a small silver platter containing an even smaller piece of paper. “Sir, I have a message for you.”

York took the piece of paper, unfolded it:

Lieutenant Ballin:

We’ve not met, but I believe we should.

Martin Andow

The seal of the imperial senate lay beneath the signature. The servant said, “You are to follow me, sir.”

York looked at Dulell, nodded at Maggie. “Take care of her.”

Maggie protested, “I don’t need taking care of.”

Dulell smiled. “Of course.”

York turned back to the servant. “Lead the way.”

CHAPTER 9: DAMNED

The servant led York out of the ballroom through a nondescript side entrance. They passed down a long corridor, then up a flight of ornate stairs, down another long corridor with innumerable doors, and though each was indistinguishable from the last, the servant chose one, opened it, and waited for York to precede him. “If you please, sir.”

York stepped into a small room with books along one wall—real books he noted, not readsheets and memcards—a couch along another wall, two straight-back chairs and an unoccupied desk cluttered with equipment.

“Please wait here, sir.”

The servant stepped around him, through another door on the opposite side of the room. York waited, felt the drink he’d just gulped starting to cut away the sharp edges of his anger.

“Sir.”

The servant was back, holding the door open. “This way, sir.”

York stepped into the next room, dimly lit by a single lamp on an enormous desk made of, what looked like, real wood. Behind it sat a man whose features were obscured by the shadows from the lamp, but York got an impression of black hair with salt-and-pepper gray at the temples; handsome, distinguished. The man stared intently at the screen of a compsheet in his hands, and he didn’t look up as York entered.

Behind the man, and to one side, the queen mother sat in a large ornate chair, her features completely hidden in the shadows. And in some intuitive way he imagined her staring at him, glaring with a malevolence he couldn’t explain.

The man behind the desk looked up from the compsheet. “You’re Ballin?” he asked, not bothering to offer York a chair. He consulted the screen for a moment. “York Ballin? Lieutenant? 213596837?”

“That’s me,” York said. “And you’re Senator Andow?”