Crown Of Fire (4 page)

One tall, crimson-coated man opened the car door on Brennen's side. Freezing air swirled in. Firebird scooted off the seat and stepped onto a white-pebbled pavement.

Half gloved, all in scarlet, black, and gold, the redjacket towered over her. His neckscarved companion shut the car's side compartment. Carrying four large duffels, he strode along the building's front toward an entry in the private east wing.

Brennen followed, carrying that small black duffel.

Firebird's breath glittered as she mounted the steps. At that moment, a tour guide in scarlet-trimmed khaki emerged from the main door, leading a mixed-age troop through the gilt arch. Several reached for pocket-sized camera recorders.

Shuhr? No, tourists. Evidently the palace hadn't tightened security for her visit. She smiled faintly. A few of them smiled back.

Two House Guards in formal red-collared black stood at smaller doors farther on—this branch of service sworn to her family, not the Electorate. Each guard suspended one hand over a golden door bar. Firebird felt Brennen's attentive edge peak, then ebb away. Evidently, the House Guards felt safe to him, but she made it a point to glance around as if she were nervous before she followed Tel into a wide private foyer. Here, especially, they had to make it look as if Brennen had suffered crippling setbacks. Half the palace servitors were probably regency spies. Danton's plainclothes guards entered last.

High overhead, surrounding five ancient chandeliers strung with natural gems, ornate moldings decorated the walls and ceiling with swirls and flower petals. Portraits lined the lower walls. To her right, a staircase curved up to the living quarters. Left, a narrow hall led toward the sovereign's day and night offices.

Shel Mattason strolled forward and took a long look up the office hallway. Her large, wide-set blue-gray eyes did not blink. According to her resume, Shel held the Sentinel College marksmanship instructors' title, and she was highly qualified in three martial arts. Firebird was glad to have her at right-wing.

Firebird stepped up to the portrait displayed prominently on a screen in midhall. The artfully painted woman wore gold, her dark hair perfectly coifed. Hard lines surrounded her mouth, and her dark eyes had a depth that suggested wisdom. One eyebrow arched slightly.

"Mother," Firebird whispered. There in the eyes, there through the jaw, Firebird picked out her own features in those of the autocratic late queen.
Could I have become another Siwann?
she wondered. If she'd been firstborn, would she have learned to wield power in the Netaian way, disregarding all individuals beneath her station?

Giant white cinnarulias, Siwann's favorite flowers, filled a cat-footed marble table beside the screen. Their scent brought back sharp memories of living here—a proud life, full of pain and desperate striving, and the need to accomplish too much in too little time.

Thank you for taking me away from here, Mighty Singer,
she prayed.
But thank you for bringing me back, and for giving me a chance to save my people— from civil war, or Shuhr destruction
—

Quick footsteps echoed along the corridor. A man in Angelo service livery husded into view. Heavyset with tightly curled hair, he rubbed plump hands together over his white cummerbund. "My lady, let me show you to your apartments."

They followed him up the private stairway, its shortweave carpet muffling their footsteps. Ribbons of gilt edged the banister and floor moldings. A stairwell alcove displayed a bust of the first Angelo monarch, Conura I.

Instead of halting outside the rooms that had been hers as a child, the footman led farther along the balcony, into the crown princess's suite. The high, white-walled entry chamber, with its formal furniture and narrow windows, had been Carradee's sitting room when they were girls. Brennen walked slowly along one wall. She felt how badly he wanted to go to work checking for monitoring devices.

"You will find all the appointments in place," said the footman. "My name is Paskel, of service staff. I live in-house, and you may call for me at any time. My number is six-oh-six." He indicated a tabletop console near the sitting room's door.

The man seemed friendly in a distant, officious way. "Thank you, Paskel," Firebird said. "Should I request dinner a little earlier than His Grace plans to dine?"

"I shall bring dinner up shordy. That will give you time to prepare for the special session."

"Good thinking," said Tel.

The servitor made a full bow. Tel nodded.

Firebird almost laughed. She'd always despised all this nod-and-bow. Definitely, she was home.

"And your . . . personal escort?" the footman asked, glancing at Uri and Shel. "Shall I lodge these in servants' quarters?"

Whether or not Paskel reported to the regent, Firebird wanted it known that she and Brennen were guarded. "No, open the consort's suite that goes with this apartment."

"Very good, Your Highness. Tomorrow, I shall ensure your engagement list is posted to these rooms." Paskel turned toward the door. He closed it silently, without the resounding
boom
so easy to make with heavy doors and ancient, resonant walls.

Firebird stared. He'd
highness-
ed
her! She had asked Governor Dan-ton to see that the royal title wasn't used in official releases, but palace staff followed tradition. Was Paskel declaring himself a cautious sympathizer?

Turning his head, Brennen lowered his eyebrows as if he were bitterly frustrated. Firebird knew it wasn't all masquerade. "Uri," he said, "Shel. Please safe the room."

ELECTORATE

Firebird watched the bodyguards walk a slow circuit. Each one paused occasionally, raising a hand toward some innocent-looking object. They passed over the marble firebay and other obvious hiding places for listening and watching devices, reaching instead to touch wall panels, old bits of crystal, a jeweled window-filter. Reaching the far wall, Uri flourished one hand at a priceless, garish South Continent vase, then pivoted on his heel.

Most of those trinkets had been Phoena's, not Carradee's, and now that Firebird considered, that made sense. After Carradee took the queen's apartment, Phoena and Tel had lived in this suite. His Grace the Regent had probably left her Phoena's wardrobe for company.

What did standing in here do to her widower? She turned to eye Tel.

He pulled off his cock-hat and sank onto a pale gold velvette chair. "Here you are, Firebird. The lady of the palace."

Firebird remained standing in the middle of the carpet. She would not sit down until Uri and Shel checked every room. Uri, Shel, or Bren-nen could also pick up an assailant's focused tension before the attack, so they would have warning of any assassination attempt.

She hoped.

Staying in the palace did make a strong statement on behalf of the Federacy. Even as a transnational citizen, she belonged here.

Or did she? She already felt out of place in her plain gray traveling suit, while Tel's tailored outfit seemed appropriate. "This is more your room than mine, Tel."

"I live in my father's estate. This is a lovely suite, but..." He flattened his lips, then spoke again. "You need some time now. I'll be there to support you tonight."

"Thank you for all you've done for us."

Brennen raised his head. "Yes, Tel. You've been a friend where we didn't dare look for one."

Firebird's group assembled in Phoena's second parlor two hours later. The Angelo starred-shield crest decorated both of the study's doorways, and Phoena's furniture seemed oddly placed, with gaps where large pieces had been removed. As Firebird recalled, Phoena had run a resistance movement from this suite before she moved to Hunter Height.

Brennen, Shel, and Uri wore dress-white tunics that made their gold shoulder stars gleam, and the crystaces they normally hid in wrist sheaths rode on their belts. "You look splendid," she assured them.

"You," Brennen said, "look regal." He'd helped select the floor-sweeping skirt and snug velvette blouse, a statement in Angelo scarlet.

She smiled and checked the tiny time lights on her wristband. They should enter the electoral chamber in twelve minutes, at nineteen hundred sharp. Within minutes of that, she planned to interrupt the usual invocation of the nine holy Powers. She must show the electors she was no longer a dutiful wastling. Even the Federacy, which smashed her attack squadron and dismantled Netaia's mighty defenses, had been reduced to waffling against these belligerent aristocrats. Their economic control seemed unbreakable.

Her hand trembled. She stretched it out to show it to Brennen. "I can't look skittish. Touch me with prayer."

He covered her head with one palm. "Holy One, go with Firebird to face these people. Convince them of her wisdom and leadership, and protect her. So let it be." Their eyes met for an instant. "Be wary of pride, Mari."

The name was a private endearment, but she frowned at the warning. He knew what she planned to do. Sentinel College personality analysts had warned her she would always struggle with pride, willfulness, and impatience (Brennen had already known, of course). Still, this was Netaia, and tonight she had to startle the most complacent Netaians of all. "I can't shuffle into that chamber with my eyes on the ground."

"Of course not. Show Rogonin you were born for this. Defy the Powers." Brennen touched her shoulder. "But don't let them tempt you back to the old ways."

She raised her head and strode out.

In the corridor waited another pair of red-jacketed electoral policemen. Beyond them, two uniformed Federate guards waited at parade -rest, Danton's supplemental group. By now, there were probably Sentinels in the kitchens and corridors, looking for Shuhr assassins.

She descended the sweeping staircase, sliding her right hand along a banister and holding her skirt. At the foot of the stair, Paskel stood carrying a servitor's tray. He half bowed as she passed. Despite Bren-nen's warning, every proud Angelo instinct flamed in her heart and mind. Her adrenaline surged as if she were headed into combat.

Well, she was! Twenty meters along the next corridor, two more redjackets stood at each side of gold-sheathed doors. The doors stood open. Firebird drew a deep breath and walked through.

An elevated, U-shaped table rimmed in gold dominated this elliptical chamber, a room filled with memories. Along one curved crimson wall, beyond a bas-relief false pillar, she spotted a blocked peephole she used years ago to spy on the Electorate. A smooth gold floor medallion carried colder memories. It had felt icy through the knees of her Academy uniform, when she knelt with a redjacket at each shoulder. As a wastling, her birth had helped ensure the Angelo line's survival, but the family's need for her ended when her second niece was born, and so she was ordered to seek a noble death in the name of Netaia's traditions, and for its grandeur. "You are to be praised for your service to Netaia," First Lord Bualin Erwin had intoned the electoral
geis.
"On behalf of the Electorate, I thank you. But your service to this council has ended."

Firebird ground her shoes onto the medallion. She raised her head toward the elevated table.

To be Angelo was to be proud.

Twenty-six elegantly composed faces stared back. The commoners Carradee had appointed were all gone. Ten noble families ruled Netaia as benign despots, treasurers, and demigod-priests for the nine holy Powers of Strength, Valor, and Excellence; Knowledge, Fidelity, and Resolve; Authority, Indomitability, and Pride. Besides House Angelo, there were the barons and baronesses Erwin and Parkai, three ducal houses, and the counts with their countesses. For decades, they had controlled science and shipping, culture and resources, information and enforcement. As Brennen liked to say, their tentacles were everywhere.

At center table, a massive man sat on a gilt chair he'd stolen from her sister Carradee. Firebird half bowed to the regent and Duke of Claighbro, Muirnen Rogonin, but she couldn't keep her eyes from narrowing. "Good evening, Your Grace."
Grace
—
ha.
His Corpulence was neither gracious nor graceful. All in white with a sash of gold, he glared down through small green eyes.

She nodded left and right. "Noble electors, good evening." Shel remained three paces behind, at the corner of her vision. By protocol, the electors had to allow her one escort. Brennen and Uri remained by the golden door, between Danton's reinforcements and the red-jacketed door guards. The first time she'd seen Brennen, he stood in this chamber as an honor guard. Here they were again!

"Lady Firebird." Rogonin rested both hands on the high table. "You have been summoned by the people of Netaia. Deliver your greet-ing."

Glancing up, she spotted several miniaturized tri-D transcorders. Black velvette hoods shrouded them. Netaia's three newsnets would not carry this interview.

Actually, that was a relief. She could speak freely.

So could they, of course. . . .

"Your Grace," she called, "Noble electors, I am grateful for the honor of your summons to be confirmed. I am ready to serve Netaia."

Traditionally, that last line ran,
I am ready to serve Netaia and the Powers that Rule.
She expected whispers, and she wasn't disappointed.

Muirnen Rogonin spread his hands. "Then let us invoke the presence of Strength, of Valor and Excellence ..."

Now!
"Before you do," she called, "I have to deliver a warning."

It might not have been the most diplomatic way to get their attention, but it succeeded. Stunned faces glared down at her. Now she spotted Tel, sitting poised and expressionless. "Noble electors," she said, "the Netaian systems are in danger from inside as well as out in the Whorl."

No one answered, and she wondered if these people would ever respect her, under any circumstances. Reminding herself she'd been trained as a soldier, not a diplomat, she plunged on. "On Thyrica," she said, "under a pseudonym, I enrolled at Soldane University. Federate analysts have amassed an enormous database from all twenty-three contemporary systems and several civilizations that fell during the Six-Alpha catastrophe. I have been working toward a degree in governmental analysis."

Count Winton Stele, son of the Duke of Ishma—Dorning Stele had been one of her commanding officers at Veroh—cleared his throat. "What were your motives, Lady Firebird?" Count Winton managed to make her wastling title sound like an insult. "Your Academy education was in military science. We need the military now more than ever."

She frowned up at his sallow face. "I enjoy learning, Count Winton. Federate society embraces many local governments. Each one has a slightly different structure, suited to its own culture."

Bennett Drake, Duke of Kenhing, pressed to his feet. He resembled his brother Daithi, Carradee's husband, though Kenhing wasn't quite as tall. His hairline had the same widow's peak, and his face was almost as round.

Kenhing was also one of the few electors who insisted on being called by his old-style title. When fully dressed, he usually wore a gold dagger on his belt. He wore it today. "Well answered, Lady Firebird," he called. "However, we are most concerned about the danger from this world they call Three Zed. Did Governor Danton show you the Codex simulation?"

Surprised by Kenhing's compliment, Firebird felt her shoulders relax infinitesimally.
See?
she asked herself.
Tel isn't the only elector with some humanity.

"Yes, he did," she answered him. "Twenty-three other worlds are also desperate to find out where and when the Shuhr will attack again. Several Special Operations teams have been deployed to find out the Shuhr's intentions."
Including this one
—but she couldn't say so. Instead, she returned to her previous topic. "The movement of governments from feudalism to populism has been widely studied," she said. "When I discovered the topic, it intrigued me. The more I learned, the more I worried, because wherever that progression toward representative government has been delayed by force, the downfall of feudalism came by force."

Without pausing, she recited the histories she'd studied: star systems bloodbathed by civil warfare, nations subdued by outside forces. . .
that
gave her a chance to tie the Shuhr threat back in. She used every storytelling skill she'd studied at Hesed House, trying to make those tales compelling, explaining how the Federacy's Regional command could not intervene in cases of internal conflict. She wished she could add music. Mere words didn't convey the terrorized heartbreak of decimated worlds.

"Our people," she said, "appropriated Netaia's ancient mythology and made it a state religion. We adopted a strict caste system and penal laws and called it stability. We set up traditions that perpetuate the transmission of wealth and authority inside a few privileged families. The system has not failed. Our world remains rich in culture, heritage, and resources."

A few heads nodded. Other faces reminded her of blast gates, shut and shielded against her—Wellan Bowman, and young Daken Erwin. The elderly senior baron creaked to his feet. Netaian nobles wore youth-implant capsules under their skin, so First Lord Erwin's hair remained bushy and brown, but even the finest medical technology couldn't forestall aging forever. His formal blue nobleman's sash sagged on a stooped body. He cleared his throat.

That was her cue to stand down, and now she was pushing their tolerance. Instinctively she knew that if she relinquished command of the situation now, she would lose it for good. "For an independent project," she pressed, "I entered cultural and governmental variables regarding Netaia's current situation into a set of equations designed by Federate sociologists, economists, and political analysts. I ran the simulations dozens of ways, altering variables such as subpopulation movements, materials shortages, and shifts in standards of living. Please let me tell you what they predict."

First Lord Erwin made a show of raising both thin eyebrows and spreading his hands. He sat down.

Relieved, Firebird lowered her voice to a confidential tone. "There is a high likelihood of civil war here on the North Continent." Now that Erwin had ceded her the floor, she gave them a moment to picture the crisis. "Disenfranchised classes could take control of the military and our Enforcers, plunging our systems into a period even darker than the Six-alpha catastrophe. Soon. Within months."

"We assume," the regent called, sneering, "that you will now claim that the Federacy can save us."

"No," she said. "You control Netaia's fate, the Electorate here seated." Whispers followed her sweeping gesture around the table. "Without a miracle, there will be war. But you can create the miracle. According to simulations, cultural holidays such as my confirmation tend to preserve cultural unity for a while. But after as little as half a Netaian year, the rising could come. If that rising distracted the Enforcement Corps, Three Zed could seize this world."

"Your husband's kinfolk," said a shrill-voiced countess. "What are you—and he—doing to combat that menace? And where are your nieces? The queen and the crown princess?"

"The Shuhr," Firebird answered, "would threaten Netaia whether or not I had married General Caldwell." She couldn't let them sidetrack her even further, talking about Iarla and Kessaree. "Listen to my proposal. It is incomplete in many ways, but it could give you a framework for your own more thorough designs. You could save Netaia from anarchy, exactly the way our ancestors saved it thirteen generations ago."

The whispers quieted. Really, they couldn't expect her to know where Carradee's daughters had gone. Rogonin, as regent for Iarla, probably hoped they would stay missing.