Bones of Empire (13 page)

“Madam Faustus helped me cook the meal, and I'm having dinner with her,” Alamy temporized. “I'll be back to collect the plates later on.”

Cato looked doubtful. “Okay, if you say so. . . . But I was planning to tell Officer Shani some stories about our experiences on Dantha—and it's your job to keep gross exaggerations to a minimum.”

“Fortunately, I'm an empath,” Shani put in meaningfully, as her eyes locked with Alamy's. “So if Centurion Cato attempts to lie, I'll know. Enjoy your dinner.”

Alamy nearly burst into tears and fled below.

Shani cut into her steak, took a bite, and nodded approvingly. “It was a difficult day—but this is a great way to end it.”

“Yes,” Cato agreed contentedly as he propped his leg up on a chair. “There are times when it simply feels good to be alive.”

 

 

After weeks of reclusiveness, the Emperor was coming to work! Word of that miraculous event spread like wildfire, so that as Verafti stepped off the elevator and made his way toward the suite of offices located one floor below the Imperial residence, there were more people around than usual. All were hoping to catch a glimpse of Emor, so they could tell their friends and associates.

Verafti didn't know most of them, of course, but had learned that all he had to do was say something nice to keep most Umans happy, especially given who they believed him to be. So as he made his way across the elevator lobby and through the double doors into the reception area beyond, Verafti kept a smile on Emor's face and scattered greetings far and wide.

It was a very successful strategy, and one that allowed Verafti to breeze through the outer area and into his office without being sucked into the type of conversation that might give him away. He was intentionally ten minutes late, which meant that Rolari was there waiting for him, making it impossible for other officials to try to slip in. The office was at least three times larger than it needed to be, filled with all manner of expensive mementos, and organized around a massive desk that the real Emor actually used. Rolari was already on his feet and bowed deeply as the Emperor entered. “Good morning, Excellency, I hope you slept well.”

Though predictable, Rolari was no fool, and Verafti could feel the Uman's agile mind churning through theories that would explain Emor's extended absences. Was the question related to sleep a tangential way of addressing the Emperor's health? And the possibility that he wasn't feeling well? Yes, Verafti thought that it was.

There was something more as well because Rolari was clearly staring at him, as if searching for flaws. Did the Uman suspect? If so, the shifter was about to take part in a very dangerous conversation—and might be forced to fight his way out. Verafti managed to produce a smile as he circled the enormous desk to the thronelike chair stationed behind it. “I slept well, thank you, and that's why I'm late. Please accept my apologies.”

Verafti knew that any sort of consideration from the Emperor, no matter how minor, was sufficient to put most Umans in a good mood. And while probably incapable of being truly happy, even Rolari was susceptible to such manipulations. He produced a grimace that was intended to be a smile. “No apologies are required, sire. . . . I know how busy you are.”

The chair sighed softly as it accepted Verafti's weight. “So,” he began, “there is an urgent matter that you wish to discuss with me.”

Rolari was about to explain when a delectable-looking slave girl entered the office holding a tray. Just looking at the Uman made Verafti's stomach growl, and he hoped Rolari couldn't hear the noise. Six nights had passed since his last substantial meal—and it would soon be necessary to feed again.

Once the caf had been served and pastries laid out, the girl left, and Rolari had an opportunity to speak. “Forgive me if I sound somewhat awkward,” he began, “but the matter at hand is quite unusual—and I would understand if it were to upset you.”

Emor liked caf, and Verafti didn't, but he managed to swallow a mouthful anyway. He raised an eyebrow. “Never fear, my friend. . . . Whatever the mysterious matter is, I will resist the temptation to kill the messenger.” That wasn't entirely true, of course, since Verafti would gladly rip Rolari's throat out if such a thing was necessary, but the Uman smiled gratefully.

“Thank you, Excellency. The issue is this. . . . During the recent Emperor's Day processional, a variant named Cato was in the crowd and saw you.”

Verafti felt a stab of fear. Naturally produced stimulants entered his bloodstream, his heart began to beat faster, and it took an act of will to hold the cup steady. Cato! Of all people. . . . The one Uman he was afraid of—and for good reason. Because the Xeno cop was not only brave and tenacious but a little bit crazy. And it was that “I don't give a shit—take no prisoners” attitude that kept him in trouble
and
made him more effective than many of his peers. So the fact that he was on Corin, and had been in the crowd, constituted
very
bad news. “Thousands of people saw me,” Verafti said carefully. “What's your point?”

“Well,” Rolari replied awkwardly, “Officer Cato is an empath, and having seen you, he claims that you are a Sagathi shape shifter named Fiss Verafti. I checked, and there
is
such an individual, or was prior to his death on Dantha. A circumstance that casts considerable doubt on Officer Cato's claim.

“Still,” Rolari continued, “this Cato person has Legate Usurlus's ear, and he took the allegation to a police official, who brought the matter to my attention.”

“I see,” Verafti said gravely as he put the half-empty cup down. He knew Usurlus from Dantha—and had reason to fear the Legate as well. “So what do you propose?”

Rolari was still on his feet. He shrugged. “It's ridiculous, I know that, but if we don't put the matter to rest, rumors could begin to circulate. The opposition party would like nothing more than to raise doubts regarding your identity!

“So, to forestall that possibility, we could invite the police official and two of his Xeno cops to meet with you. I'm told that a single glance would be sufficient to establish your identity, so the whole thing would last no more than five minutes, and we could put the allegation behind us.”

Verafti had no intention of submitting himself to such scrutiny but couldn't say that, and rubbed his chin as if giving the matter serious thought. “It's annoying, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't, but you're correct about the rumors. So instruct Secretary Armo to schedule the meeting for a couple of weeks out. I'd do it sooner, but there's the Vord thing to consider—not to mention the tax bill.”

To the best of Rolari's knowledge, Emor hadn't done a lick of work on either one of those critical matters, but he couldn't say that, and didn't. “Yes, Excellency. . . . It shall be as you say.”

“Good!” Verafti said as he came to his feet and circled the desk. “I'm glad we had our little talk. . . . I plan to work from the residence today. Please inform my staff.”

Rolari, who had been hoping to get some real work done, bowed. “Yes, sire, please let me know if I can be of assistance.” But Verafti was gone by then—so the offer went unheard.

IT WAS JUST AFTER 3:00 AM, AND WITH THE EXCEP
TION of computer-controlled delivery trucks, the streets of Imperialus were empty of traffic as Senator Tegor Nalomy's shiny black limo carried him out of the government zone, through the corporate sector, and into the brightly lit
X
Quarter.

In contrast with the rest of the city, the
X
was not only open for business but vibrantly alive. The streets were crowded with dilapidated pedicabs, speeding unicycles, palanquins carried by slaves, angen-drawn vegetable carts, taxicabs wrapped in gently morphing advertising, drug dealers on roller blades, and even a few limos like Nalomy's. Most were occupied by successful criminals rather than politicians—however, some observers maintained that there wasn't much difference between the two.

Nalomy knew that he shouldn't like the
X
, that it was supposed to be beneath him, but the truth was that he gloried in the rawness of the quarter and missed the days when a younger version of himself had been free to stroll the streets, explore the bars, and purchase whatever type of sex he happened to be in the mood for. There had been less money back then, and no power to speak of, but he'd been happier.

The memories of that time caused Nalomy to roll the window down an inch or so. Just enough so he could inhale the rich bouquet of broiled meat, the harsh tang of charcoal briquettes, and the pervasive scent of incense that clung to the
X
like perfume on a cheap whore.

 

 

As Nalomy took in the sights, smells, and sounds of the
X
Quarter, his driver took a hard right turn and steered the heavy limo down a narrow street hung with colored lights and lined with small shops that sold everything from groceries to electronics. Then, consistent with the instructions he'd been given earlier, the driver took a left and was forced to brake as a pair of Urs came forward to greet him. Neither appeared to be armed with anything more than cudgels, but the driver knew that appearances could be deceiving. Especially given the loose-fitting leather jerkins that both ruffians wore. “Who you?” the Ur at the driver's side window demanded gruffly.

“That's none of your fucking business,” the driver replied haughtily, his right hand on the machine pistol resting next to him. “My employer has an appointment with Caliph Emsay—so open the door and let us in.”

It was obvious that the Ur didn't like to be spoken to in that manner, and his left hand was already drifting back toward the small of his back as he mumbled some barely audible words into the boom mike positioned in front of his thick, rubbery lips.

But apparently the answer wasn't what the guard had been hoping for because rather than pull whatever weapon was hidden in the small of his back, he was forced to wave the vehicle through instead. “You go,” the Ur said as he backed away. “But you be careful. I watch you.”

The driver laughed dismissively and took his foot off the brake as a corrugated steel door rumbled up out of the way. Seconds later, the limo was inside what had originally been a factory but had been put to a variety of other uses during recent years. Now it served as home for a Cloque criminal named Chavor Emsay.

 

 

As the door closed behind his vehicle, Nalomy felt something akin to lead trickle in to fill the bottom of his stomach. Because powerful though he might be outside of the building, Emsay ruled the interior and had a reputation as a cold-blooded killer. Which was why Nalomy was there to see him.

Nalomy waited for the driver to open the door, got out, and took a quick look around. The ceilings were two stories high, there were gloomy corners all around, and the floors were made out of oil-stained duracrete. Other vehicles were parked near his, large pieces of machinery crouched here and there, and the noise from outside was so muted as to be barely audible. “Senator Nalomy?” a female voice said. “My name is Zether. . . . Please allow me to bid you welcome on Caliph Emsay's behalf.”

Nalomy knew that the Cloque home world had been ruled by a succession of Caliphs prior to being brought under Imperial rule—which made the title Emsay had chosen for himself little more than an affectation. Did it have resonance with the local Cloque community? Yes, quite possibly, not that it mattered.

What
was
worthy of his attention was the crime lord's emissary. She was young, curvy, and dressed like the stripper she had once been. A look she had chosen for herself, or so Nalomy assumed, since a display of bare skin would be of little interest to a Cloque. Her clothing consisted of a gauzy shimmer provided by a field generator concealed inside the elaborate necklace she wore. The device was programmed to reveal various parts of her anatomy in random order. At the moment, her left breast and right leg were on display.

Zether saw the way Nalomy was looking at her, took pleasure from it, and offered an arm. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me—the Caliph is waiting.”

Nalomy took her arm and, with two bodyguards trailing along behind, allowed himself to be led through a maze of brooding machinery to the foot of a ramp, where a pair of heavily armed Ur stood waiting. “Your bodyguards must wait here,” Zether said as she brought the group to a halt. “I can assure you that there is no one other than the Caliph within.”

Nalomy directed a look to his security detail, gave a nod, and followed Zether up the ramp and into a room so palatial it would have done justice to Emperor Emor himself. Hundreds of yards of brightly colored synsilk had been artfully draped over poles that crisscrossed the high ceiling, previously drab walls were covered with Cloque tapestries, and most of the duracrete floor was hidden under expensive throw rugs.

And there, on the far side of the room, was what could only be described as a throne. Although the chair was a good deal larger than most thrones and had to be in order to accommodate Emsay's considerable bulk. Even though it was difficult to know what was hidden beneath the yards of gold brocade that covered the Caliph's body, Nalomy estimated that he weighed at least four hundred pounds. And, judging from the tiers of food arranged to either side of him, Emsay was destined to become even heavier. A fact that Nalomy took in and, like the politician he was, added to the growing store of data related to the crime lord. The fact that Emsay was fat meant he couldn't move freely and was dependent on his staff to carry out all of his wishes. A situation that rendered him potentially vulnerable.