At Empire's Edge (21 page)

Now, as the Legate’s latest guest arrived, Nalomy found herself looking at a man with a receding hairline and large, expressive eyes. The meetings between Usurlus and his previous visitors had been rather boring to say the least, a fact which was reflected in Nalomy’s listless manner, and her choice of words. “So, who is this? Someone interesting I hope. The earlier meetings were dull, dull, dull.”

Pasayo consulted a printout. “His name is Hason Ovidius, Highness. He owns a small furniture factory located in The Warrens. His record is clean, but according to the information supplied by my agents, he’s rather nosy. Citizen Ovidius has made a number of inquiries regarding government auctions, but has yet to purchase anything, which raises the question why? Because he lacks sufficient funds? Or for some other reason?”

Nalomy had pocketed millions of Imperials by declaring government property surplus, skimming money off each sale, and sending the rest to Corin for the Emperor and his toadies to waste. So the report was enough to make Nalomy sit up and take notice as the men on the screen embraced and took seats opposite each other. The dog produced a squeaking sound as it was unceremoniously dumped onto the marble floor. “A furniture maker . . .” Nalomy mused out loud. “I’ll be interested to see why an Imperial Legate would meet with such a man.”

 

 

“So,” Usurlus said, as Ovidius took a seat. “What’s it been? A year or so?”

The businessman nodded soberly. “Sixteen standard months. But it
feels
like two years.”

Usurlus nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it’s been difficult. So, has Procurator Nalomy been earning her pay? Or been paying herself?”

“The latter I’m afraid, sir,” Ovidius replied earnestly. “It’s just as you suspected. With the exception of the militia, which Nalomy needs to keep the population in line, she is systematically robbing Dantha’s citizens of all the things they are entitled to. A lot of government property is surplused before it even sees service, and money is skimmed off each transaction. The strategy enables Nalomy to make money for herself, and curry favor with influential citizens who buy the goods at submarket prices,
and
refund significant sums to the Imperial government! Which, up to this point, seems happy to receive it.”

“Yes,” Usurlus agreed darkly. “The Senate is always happy to receive and spend money. But do you have hard evidence? Because if I charge Nalomy, and the charges fail to stick, it would be embarrassing for the Emperor. . . . Not to mention myself.”

“That’s a problem, sir,” the spy admitted reluctantly. “Even though it’s obvious that the Procurator is stealing from the government, no one wants to testify to that fact for fear of retribution, and written records, if any, are all under her control.”

“I was afraid of that,” Usurlus said bleakly. “But we can’t afford to let the situation continue as is, so I may have to pull the plug on Nalomy, even though her father is bound to raise hell in the Senate.”

“That’s when the necessary witnesses will come forward,” Ovidius predicted. “Once you remove her from power. Believe me, there are lots of people who will support your actions, and among them they have a great deal of information.”

“I hope so,” Usurlus said. “Please tell them to be ready on Founder’s Day.”

“I will,” Ovidius promised.

“And one more thing,” Usurlus added. “Don’t give up on trying to find hard evidence. I’m sure it’s out there. All we need to do is find it.”

Ovidius swallowed. He’d been trying to do that for months without success. And to push harder could easily cost him his life. But Usurlus knew that, or should have known that, which left him with nothing to say. Ovidius bowed his head humbly. “Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can.”

 

 

The wall-mounted video screen shattered as Nalomy hurled a heavy vase at it. “I’m going to kill you!” she screamed, as the picture of Usurlus flew into hundreds of pieces. “I’ll ship you to the Emperor in a box!” And with that, the Procurator stormed out of the room.

The slave who had been massaging the Procurator’s feet only moments before had collected her tools and was backing away. Her eyes were on the floor, and she was striving to render herself invisible. Centurion Pasayo sighed, drew his sidearm, and shot her in the chest. The body hit the marble, and left a bloody mark on the otherwise-pristine floor, as it skidded to a stop. There were advantages to Pasayo’s job, but cleaning up after Nalomy wasn’t one of them, and there were times when he wondered if what he stood to gain was worth it.

Cato had been hiking for three hours. Though well below the snow line, that particular portion of the trail was high enough to be cold at night, and as the sun began to sink in the west, Cato could feel a nip in the air. Having arrived at a point where a small pile of rocks marked his turnoff point, he paused to scan the darkening skies for Lir scouts.

Fifteen minutes after the escape from High Hold Meor, the air car’s engine had given out for good, and since the tubby little aircraft had the glide characteristics of a rock, the fact that Phelonious had been able to drop it into a small clearing was nothing short of a miracle. Lir warriors were searching for the threesome by then, but by covering the vehicle with tree branches, the fugitives had been able to avoid notice.

After a cold night spent without a sleeping bag, Cato set out for Donk’s Well, where he hoped to purchase a heat exchanger for the air car. A part that, if Phelonious was correct, would bring the vehicle back to life.

But Lir scouts had been circling high above, searching for the aliens who had attacked their fortress, and Cato had been forced to hide for hours at a time waiting for the airborne warriors to go away. Finally, after a long, nerve-wracking hike, Cato made it to Donk’s Well and the sprawling junkyard located just north of town. Predictably enough, the proprietor didn’t have a VH3BT47 heat exchanger. But he did have a VH3BT48 heat exchanger, which was identical to the part Cato was looking for, except that the mounting flange was set up to receive four bolts rather than
six
.

However, by drilling two additional holes, the junk merchant swore he could make it fit. Cato had very little choice but to go along with the plan because the alternative was to hike all the way to Solace while Lir warriors sought to track him down.

Now, having hauled the part plus some much-needed supplies back into the foothills, Cato wanted to make sure that no one was following him. So he spent a good five minutes examining both the sky
and
his back trail before stepping off the main track and scrambling up a steep embankment. A trail of half-broken branches led Cato through a stand of bristle trees to the clearing beyond.

The carefully camouflaged air car was right where he had left it, but his companions were nowhere to be seen until Phelonious stepped out from behind a tree and Belok popped up at the center of some rocks. The Kelf was clutching two energy pistols, which he shoved into the waistband of his britches. “It’s about time,” the diminutive alien said disrespectfully. “Did you get it?”

“Yes, no thanks to you,” Cato replied, as he shrugged the pack off. “It isn’t the same part, but it should do the trick, assuming the guy who modified it knows what he’s doing.”

“We’ll see,” Phelonious intoned cynically. “The citizens of Donk’s Well aren’t the brightest bunch.” The robot was eager to install the heat exchanger before the sun dropped below the western horizon, and immediately went to work. Fortunately, the installation went smoothly, the engine caught right away, and the air car was ready for takeoff. However, that led to a
second
problem as Phelonious closed the engine compartment. It was dark by then, and they were still in the foothills. “Do you think you can fly us out of here?” Cato wanted to know.

“Sure,” Phelonious answered confidently. “And this is the best time to do it. When the Lir can’t see us.”

That made sense, or seemed to, except that it was pitch-black and Cato was more concerned about what
Phelonious
could see. Still, it was a chance that they were going to have to take, so all Cato could do was strap himself in and hope for the best. The engine roared, the air car lurched into the air, and the only thing he could do was pray.

It was nearly noon by the time Usurlus awoke, which was typical for a man who normally either worked or played until 3:00 AM, although given his lifestyle it was often difficult to tell one activity from the other. Especially since sex was a good way to secure important relationships, parties were ideal situations in which to start rumors, and information obtained in the senatorial baths was frequently more reliable than the pap that was available from the news combines.

Having rolled out of the huge bed, Usurlus made his way into the palatial bath and spent the next hour showering, shaving, and otherwise grooming himself. It was an exacting process in which unwanted hairs were plucked, trimmed, and in some cases chemically removed. Then, after reviewing every inch of his body for potential flaws, it was time to apply a selection of lotions, creams, and gels—all of which were calculated to tone, tighten, and conceal tiny imperfections.

Finally, having prepared his body for the day ahead, Usurlus ventured into the suite’s huge walk-in closet, where all of his clothes had been hung on identical hangers. The fact that they were grouped by both function and color made it that much easier to assemble an outfit quickly. In the present circumstances, that meant a loose-fitting set of daytime pajamas made out of gray synsilk. They shimmered subtly as Usurlus made his way out into the formal sitting room.

It was a beautifully furnished space and well lit thanks to the sunshine that streamed in through a well-placed skylight. The resulting light reflected off a small fishpond and danced across the ceiling. A breakfast table had been set up in front of a bank of curved windows. And there, beyond the projectile-proof glass, the blue waters of Lake Imperium sparkled as if lit from below. It was a pleasant scene, and made even more so by the presence of a very comely slave girl, who introduced herself as Alamy. Not the sort of creature one could take to a party on one of the inner planets, Usurlus thought to himself, but well worth taking to bed, should the opportunity present itself. The chair sighed softly as the Legate put his weight on it and took his napkin off the table.

As Alamy opened the warming cart and began to serve breakfast, Usurlus noticed a box positioned on the chair next to his. “What have we here?” Usurlus wanted to know, reaching over to take possession of the neatly wrapped cube. His name had been hand-printed across the top in block letters. “A gift perhaps?”

“It arrived half an hour ago,” Alamy replied, as she placed a basket of freshly baked pastries on the table. “One of the housekeepers brought it. She told me a man gave it to one of the soldiers at the main gate.”

The contents of the box weren’t very heavy. Usurlus shook the package experimentally, but wasn’t able to hear any telltale noises, which deepened the mystery. What was in the box anyway? Usurlus took hold of a knife, and was about to sever the string that held the wrapping paper in place, when a well-honed sense of caution reasserted itself. Were Nalomy’s people on the ball? Had the package been scanned? Assassins were theoretically everywhere. Even on Dantha. “Summon my chief bodyguard,” Usurlus ordered, as he put the box back on the chair. “And pass that pot. . . . I could use some tea.”

Alamy said, “Yes, Excellency,” and having passed the tea-pot, pushed the cart across the room.

Vedius Albus was never far from his master’s side and entered the room a few seconds later. He wore civilian clothing over light armor and was carrying a number of concealed weapons. “Yes, sire. You called?”

“Yes,” Usurlus replied, as he made use of his napkin to dab at his lips. “I did. What, if anything, can you tell me about that box?”

Albus eyed the object in question. “An unidentified person left it for you, sire. . . . Procurator Nalomy’s security people scanned the package before allowing it into the palace, and it was rescanned by my team when a slave brought it upstairs. No traces of explosives, toxins, or other threats were detected.”

Usurlus nodded and put his cup down. “Thank you, Vedius. I assumed as much—but it never hurts to be careful. Place the box on the table please. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Albus lifted the container, placed it on the table, and produced a wicked-looking flick knife. There was a decisive
click
as the weapon locked into the open position, and the string parted under the supersharp blade. The wrapping paper rattled as it was removed. That was when Usurlus noticed a peculiar odor and frowned. But the scent was so faint that he might have been mistaken. So Usurlus kept the observation to himself as he stood up and came around to peer over the other man’s shoulder. He was the first to react once Albus removed the lid. “Oh, no,” Usurlus said sadly. “It’s Hason Ovidius.”

Albus had to agree. It
was
Ovidius, or part of him anyway, since there was no mistaking the spy’s face or the head that was wedged inside the box. The odor of rotting flesh was stronger now, and Albus wrinkled his nose as he replaced the lid.

Perhaps another man would have fainted, or become sick to his stomach, but—like most of his political peers—Usurlus was no stranger to bloodshed. Because the give-and-take of death was a constant within the upper reaches of Imperial Society, and anyone with a weak stomach wasn’t likely to last long. And, even though he hadn’t worn a uniform during the past few years, he was a military officer.

So rather than call for help, or waste his time bemoaning the spy’s fate, Usurlus jerked his head toward the doors that led to the veranda. Being no fool, Albus knew what Usurlus was thinking. Given the reason for his employer’s visit to Dantha, and the nature of the spy’s activities, it seemed logical to suppose that Procurator Nalomy was responsible for Ovidius’s death. But how could she know? The answer was obvious.