Chronicles of the Invaders 1: Conquest (9 page)

“How?” asked her father. He seemed barely able to utter the word.

“An embolism. It appears that he died in his sleep.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Three weeks! Syl was amazed. News from Illyr often took a long time to get to outlying planets in the Empire, but such important information could have been communicated to Andrus sooner. A system of transmitting stations linked Illyr to the various wormholes. Her father could have learned of Rydus’s death in days, rather than weeks, but Gradus had kept it from him. Even Syl could figure out what that meant: Gradus and the Corps had full control of the transmitters, and had deliberately prevented news of Rydus’s death from reaching Andrus on Earth.

“I decided to inform you in person, as a mark of respect, instead of allowing the news to come to you through other channels, perhaps polluted by hearsay,” Gradus added.

“What kind of hearsay?”

“You know just as well as I that when a senior figure dies in such circumstances, the rumor mill begins to grind out untruths. There will always be those who whisper of plots and dark dealings, but I have brought with me the reports of the physicians. I will have them sent to your secretary, but you will see that there can be no doubt about how Rydus died.”

Syl watched her father swallow his grief as he began to take in the implications of what Gradus had told him.

“And what of the presidency?” he asked. “I assume that you have put yourself forward as a candidate. Or has it gone beyond that, and you have already taken office?”

It was widely known that Gradus desired the position of president for himself, but had resigned himself to waiting a long time to ascend to it since Rydus was only six sessions into his term of office, and had shown no signs of ill health. Long living was common in his family, or had been until now.

“You misunderstand me, Andrus. It is true that I might have had such ambitions in the past, but as I grow older, I have come to realize that the burdens of the office far outweigh its benefits. I have decided to leave it to one better suited to these demands.

“With that in mind, I have instructed the Corps not to take advantage of Rydus’s sudden and unexpected demise. We have not sought to have a Diplomat candidate installed. Instead, we have agreed that the Military should continue to hold the office. Rydus should have enjoyed a much longer hold on the presidential throne. It seemed unbecoming to profit from his mortality and create the impression that the Corps was interested only in furthering its own ends. We, like you, have only the interests of the empire at heart.”

If Andrus had been taken aback by the news of Rydus’s death, this latest revelation seemed more shocking still. It went against all he had believed, or suspected, of Gradus’s nature that the Grand Consul should decline to extend the Corps’s influence by assuming the presidency himself, or at the very least ensuring that some Diplomat puppet of his choice took office while Gradus pulled the strings.

“So who is now president?” asked Andrus.

“We are fortunate that General Krake was willing to put his name forward, and was unanimously approved by the governing council. Long may he live, and wise be his rule.”

Andrus’s eyes did not leave Gradus, but Syl saw Balen glance from the governor to the still, silent form of Syrene. Krake had been one of the few Military officers to ignore the unofficial, but widely accepted, rule about keeping the Sisterhood away from the Military, and had taken one of the sisters as his bride. Her name was Merida, and she was a favorite of Syrene, who had mentored her since early childhood.

All were silent for a time. Andrus and Gradus appeared locked in some unspoken conflict of their own. Gradus was smiling, as if inviting Andrus to voice his suspicions in the presence of the Archmage.

But now Syrene lifted her veil so that it fell back in delicate folds to reveal her face. Her skin was intricately tattooed, filigree and strange animal forms spilling down from her skull and across her forehead, adorning her cheeks—each of which was decorated with a red eye like that on the side of the shuttle—and framing lips so full and red that they seemed on the verge of bursting. She was paler than most Illyri, for little light penetrated the deepest recesses of the Marque, where the Sisterhood hid their secrets.

She surveyed the room languidly, her eyes wide and cool. Suddenly Ani put her hands to the sides of her head, kneading her temples as though she were in pain.

“Ani?” said Syl. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you feel it?” said Ani. “Don’t you feel
her
?”

Syrene’s gaze alighted on the fireplace, and the ghost of what might have been a smile crossed her face. Ani moved her right hand from her temple to her mouth, wincing as if in pain, biting hard on her knuckles. Syl put an arm around her, concerned, but Ani didn’t respond.

Syrene turned to Syl’s father, cocking her head to one side, and the eye on her left cheek appeared to blink once as she spoke. “Are you quite sure that we’re alone here, Lord Andrus?”

“Of course we are, Archmage,” he said.

“I see. How very interesting.”

Syrene stood and pulled her veil over her face once more, hiding her searching eyes.

“Come, husband,” she said. “His lordship is in shock. We will continue our conversation later. Let us leave him to mourn all that he has lost. . . . ”

“Yes, of course,” said Gradus, rising to his feet to follow the Red Sister.

“ . . . and all that may yet be lost,” concluded Syrene.

Gradus stopped briefly, and seemed about to say something more to Andrus, but then merely chuckled and strode away, having clearly decided that Syrene’s parting shot was better than any he could muster.

They all understood the truth of what had transpired, even if none was willing to say it aloud: there had been a quiet coup on Illyr.

The Sisterhood had made its move on the presidency.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
ni and Syl allowed a safe amount of time to elapse before they left the spyhole and returned to the Governor’s House. There was to be some respite from the confines of the castle, though: Althea, who had a gift for providing solace to those in pain, whether physical, emotional, or psychological, had volunteered to help with the wounded at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital on Morningside Terrace, and had convinced Governor Andrus that Syl and Ani should be allowed to attend with her. Empathy was a quality strongly valued among the Illyri; those who understood the reality of pain and suffering were likely to do their best to avoid inflicting it on others. So Syl and Ani held the hands of the injured, both Illyri and those humans who were willing to accept consolation from any source.

Illyri technology had brought huge advances in human medical techniques. ProGen artificial skin was routinely used to treat burns, replacing the need for skin grafts. Diseased internal organs were replaced with organs grown on artificial “scaffolds”—animal organs that had been stripped of their living cells, leaving only a basic framework of blood vessels, and repopulated with cells from a patient’s own body. Gene therapy cured genetic defects. Nanoparticles and stem cell therapies targeted everything from diabetes to cancer. Even human aging could be slowed. There were still some humans who objected to such treatments on religious grounds, and others who spread stories that all such efforts were part of a secret Illyri plot to undermine the human race. But most recognized the benefits of being able to easily replace damaged or worn internal organs, and human life expectancy had already increased significantly as a result.

Syl and Ani were exhausted by the time they returned to the castle, and went straight to their respective quarters to wash, change, and eat.

•••

A small group had gathered in the governor’s private chambers. Lord Andrus himself was there, as was Balen. General Danis lay back in an armchair, his legs stretched before him, his feet crossed. The last arrival was a young female wearing a mix of human and Illyri clothing, her hair short but unkempt, her eyes dark and watchful. She stood by the door, and although she seemed to be relaxed, there was about her the sense of an animal tensed and ready to spring. Her name was Meia, and she was Lord Andrus’s chief intelligence officer.

Balen served wine. Only Meia declined.

“Why don’t you ever drink?” Danis asked.

Meia pondered the question. “I can, but it disagrees with my system,” she said at last. “And I prefer to keep a clear head.”

“Very wise,” said Danis, taking a deep draft from his own glass. “I hope to be as wise as you someday, although your choice of jewelry raises questions about the extent of that wisdom.”

He gestured with his glass at Meia’s neck, where a cross hung alongside a Muslim crescent moon, a Hindu aum on an amulet, and even a Shinto torii, or gate. Meia quickly hid them away.

“I have no difficulty accepting the concept of a creator,” said Meia. “Why should you?”

“Because—” Danis caught himself, and swallowed whatever he had been about to say, choosing instead an alternative track. “Your views on the nature of the universe are fascinating, I’m sure, but I’m more interested to hear you explain the purpose of a Military intelligence service that couldn’t warn us of the arrival of the Grand Consul and his witch-wife until they were on our doorstep telling us about dead presidents!”

His voice had risen steadily throughout this sentence until it was virtually a roar. The room was soundproofed, and had been swept for listening devices before the meeting, but it was hard to believe that there was anyone in the immediate environs who did not now know that Danis was unhappy.

“My orders are to monitor events on Earth, not keep an eye on the activities of the Corps in the wider universe,” said Meia. “If you wish me to do that, General, I may have to hire an assistant.”

“First Birdoswald, and now this,” said Danis. “Perhaps it’s not an assistant you require, but a replacement.”

“One might say the same about you, General,” said Meia. “How goes the War on Terror? Have you crushed the Resistance yet, or did I miss that while I was watching body parts being collected on the Royal Mile?”

Danis rose from his chair. It wasn’t clear what he planned to do, but it did seem to involve some harm to Meia. The object of his anger remained motionless. She was more than a match for Danis, and she knew it.

Lord Andrus raised a hand. “Stop it, both of you. We have enough enemies in the castle without adding to them from our own number.”

He sipped his wine, and frowned. The taste of it, usually so pleasant, now seemed like vinegar on his tongue. The events of the day had ruined his appetite for many things. He put the glass aside, and steepled his hands upon his desk.

“What are our esteemed guests doing at the moment?” he asked Balen.

“The Grand Consul is dining in his room with two of his aides.”

“And his wife?”

“She requested separate quarters, and chose to dine alone. Only her handmaid attends her.”

“Maybe she and her beloved are not getting along,” said Danis. “One of them might come over to our side and tell us what’s going on.”

“Have they made any attempt to contact the mothership?”

“None. Nor have we received a request for a communication channel.”

“Could they have brought equipment of their own?”

“It’s possible, but we’re monitoring the rooms for any signs of electronic traffic.”

Andrus looked to Meia. “I sense that you have something you’d like to say.”

Meia nodded. “Why did the Grand Consul choose to arrive today, in the aftermath of twin bomb attacks so close to the castle?”

Andrus glanced at Danis. Danis shrugged. “Why not? Maybe he’s come to mourn his nephew.”

“The Grand Consul is known to be zealous about protecting his personal safety, but he is equally careful, if not more so, about looking after his wife,” said Meia patiently. “The Sisterhood would be most displeased if some harm were to befall Syrene. She is destined to become Mage upon the death of Ezil.”

“There’s no sign of the old bitch dying yet,” said Danis. “More’s the pity. Then again, she may already be dead, given how long it’s been since anyone caught sight of her. Good riddance to her if she is.”

“Go on,” said Andrus, ignoring his general while also silently agreeing with him on the subject of Ezil.

“So, it was out of character to risk a landing here while the smoke from bomb attacks was still rising above the city,” said Meia. “But the Grand Consul is always consistent in his character, at least in this regard. Therefore we have a contradiction.”

She moved closer to the fire, and to the other three Illyri in the room.

“The members of the Resistance too are consistent in their actions. They do not endanger their own civilians. They are careful to limit their attacks to Military installations and personnel. When possible they’ll also target the Diplomats and the Securitats, although the Corps prefers to conduct its business from behind walls and shields, so they have more opportunities to strike at us. It is completely inconsistent with the Resistance’s patterns of behavior to plant devices in an area like the Royal Mile, which hosts human businesses and extensive pedestrian traffic. We lost ten soldiers today, and three Securitats, but four humans also died, and dozens more on both sides were injured.”

“Could the Resistance be stepping up its campaign, or changing its tactics?” asked Andrus.

“I don’t believe so. If a decision like that had been made, news would have reached us. We’re not entirely without our sources within the Resistance, and its leadership here is quite clear in its methodology: no civilian casualties.”

“A splinter group, then,” said Danis, “one that doesn’t believe the Resistance is radical enough.”

“Again, the Resistance has its own ways of dealing with dissenters,” said Meia. “Warnings are usually enough. After that, there are always limbs that can be broken. It’s never had to go further, but anyone who chose to kill and injure civilians as a protest against the Resistance’s leadership wouldn’t last very long. No, I don’t believe the Resistance planted those devices.”

“Then who did?” asked Danis. “Us?”

“No,” said Meia, “not quite.”

She waited. Eventually, Andrus said what they were all thinking.

“The Diplomatic Corps? The Securitats?”

“It would explain why the Grand Consul was not concerned about landing in the aftermath,” said Meia. “He knew that there was no danger of further attacks.”

“But why?” asked Danis. “To what end?”

“To undermine the governor and, by extension, the Military rule on Earth. A new president has come to power on Illyr, one who, despite his Military credentials, is probably under the sway of the Sisterhood. The Diplomatic Corps wants complete control of this planet. It does not want to share it with the Military. What better way to demonstrate the Military’s failures than by having bombs exploding on the doorstep of the planet’s senior governor, or to prove the bravery of the Grand Consul than by his willingness to land despite the threat?”

“You seem very certain of this,” said Andrus.

“Not certain, but it fits with the available facts. Then there is the matter of the suicides,” she added.

“Suicides?” said Danis.

“I know that you’ve been looking into what happened to the Grand Consul’s nephew Thaios at Birdoswald. The evidence suggests that he killed himself rather than be captured. There was a similar incident in Iran last month, also involving a relative of Grand Consul Gradus.”

“I had asked Danis to look into the death of Thaois,” said Lord Andrus. “It seems that you might have spared him the trouble. Do you have proof?”

“An eyewitness in Tehran. A senior sub-consul, a cousin of Gradus, was cornered near a mosque after his convoy was ambushed. Rather than be captured, it seems that he activated an infrasonic grenade. The consequences were . . . messy.”

Andrus considered what had been said. “Find out more,” he told Meia. “I want to know if there’s a connection between these two deaths and Gradus’s arrival on Earth.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Rupe, the sergeant who had earlier helped Syl and Ani in their confrontation with the Corps, was standing outside.

“I gave orders not to be disturbed, Sergeant,” said Andrus, and there was no mistaking the unhappiness in his voice.

Rupe, though, didn’t blink. He had been with Andrus for many years, and he knew when the situation called for the exercise of a little personal discretion.

“My lord, I thought you might forgive the interruption on this occasion,” he said. “The Archmage Syrene has sent a message. She’s asking to see your daughter.”