Endgame (29 page)

“Wuntoi greeted you.” Scriabin's eyes held surprise and a sharpness akin to envy. “The Pathen dominant. What does it mean?”

“I think it means that he accepts the possibility that an idomeni had Tsecha killed. He referred to an ungodly idomeni whom we all need to worry about. Was he speaking in general about the unknown idomeni who killed Tsecha, or was he just trying to turn us all against Cèel?” Jani leaned against the alcove entry, longed for nothing more than a comfortable seat on a shuttle, a chance to breathe. “I don't know where he learned humanish doublespeak, but he's damned good at it.”

“I wonder if Cèel knows his feeling, or if it will take him by surprise?” Scriabin pointed down, in the general direction of Shèrá. “I doubt seriously that he will be expecting it.”

“Assuming that's the case.” Niall relaxed a little, and even managed a grin. “Cèel is going to start shitting little green apples any time now.”

Scriabin's lip twitched. “He's made of fairly stern stuff, Colonel.”

“Then it'll hurt that much more.” Niall took Jani's elbow and steered her toward a walkway that led them back into the humanish concourse. “Let's go. Our shuttle received expedited clearance, which I swear comes courtesy of your new friend Wuntoi. Everyone else has boarded.”

“Welcome back to Shèrá, Niall,” Jani said under her breath.

“Maybe.” Niall shook his head. “I may not understand cultural differences, but I know a power struggle when I see one. Your new friend drew a line in the sand, gel, and you're it.”

Jani eased out of Niall's grip as they reentered the humanish concourse. Shivered, and blamed the coolness of the air.

Jani walked out of Rauta Shèràa shuttleport's humanish section and gasped as though someone had punched her in the stomach. It was just past the height of summer, and the heat was as she remembered, a palpable oppression that seemed to close in on all sides, a challenge even to her hybrid tolerance. The sky, cloudless and milky blue, played home to the errant drift of seabirds and the more focused streakings of the swallow and hatchlike birds that called the city home and built nests in eaves and gutters. In the distance she could see the same spires and towers, the domes of the Trade Board, Council, and Temple.

The air smells the same.
Walk anywhere in Rauta Shèràa, and you'd smell flowers. Near the port, the blooms of choice had always been
camalas
, fist-sized clusters of pink-trimmed white trumpets with a scent that always reminded Jani of cinnamon. She walked over to one of the shrubs, which had likely greeted her during her first arrival, twenty-five years before, and sniffed.
Still cinnamon.
A little sharper than she recalled, and maybe her hybridization was to blame.

The shuttleport itself, a cottage version of the orbiting station, also looked much as it ever had. She'd walked its corridors as a callow teenager, a Spacer and diplomat, a flee
ing war criminal.
Now I'm back to diplomat.
Technically. She knew some who would argue the designation, herself included.

“What do you think, gel?” Niall drew up next to her. He held his nicstick case in one hand, ready to light up as soon as he entered the refuge of one of the embassy triple-lengths that abutted the curb. “Stuff of nightmares?”

“When I first came here, I thought it was one of the most beautiful cities I'd ever seen.” Jani watched as Scriabin and Ulanova slipped into a skimmer bearing the ambassadorial crest on the door. They were followed closely by John and Val, who boarded a vehicle branded with the familiar caduceus. “Then reality started chipping away.”

“The only things that struck me were the heat, and that I couldn't smoke outside the enclave.” Niall nodded toward a Service blue skimmer. “Roshi got here a day ahead.” He guided Jani toward the vehicle as though afraid she'd bolt.

Jani stepped into the passenger cabin, shivering as the chill, dry air washed over her. Sat on the edge of the bench seat and let her eyes adjust to the comparative darkness.

“Glories of this strangest of days. I fear Wuntoi is a master of understatement.” Mako regarded her from the opposite bench.

“Understatement of the year.” Major General Callum Burkett, commander of the Service Diplomatic Corps, snorted a laugh. “We've been in damage control mode ever since that damned article of yours reached us. Then we watched the arrival, which will henceforth be capitalized in all reports and formal précis. Morale did a one eighty within minutes. That little thing with the sword got a nice round of applause.” He glared at Jani from his seat in the opposite corner of the cabin. “Is it ever easy with you?”

“Hi, Callum.” Jani smiled. “How's Jeanina?”

“My lady wife is just fine, thanks, and don't change the damned subject.” Burkett was the image of the middle-aged officer, tall, rangy, and sharp-featured, a darker tan and older eyes the only outward signs of time's passage. He and Mako
wore the same uniform as did Niall, dress desertweights replete with cooling cells and special seaming to permit ventilation. “If your plan is to keep Cèel off balance, you're doing a helluva job. If your plan is to keep the rest of us off balance, stop it right now.”

Conversation ceased as the front passenger gullwing opened and a familiar figure slipped in next to the driver. “All luggage has been scanned and loaded, sir.” Lucien just had time to glance over his shoulder at Jani before the darkened privacy barrier slid into place.

The skimmer pulled away from the curb, then gradually accelerated, driving Jani back against her seat. She took in the view through her window, the wide avenues of the central city, the blockish buildings of white and tan stone, walkways filled with crowds of bornsect and Haárin.

“The reliquary just arrived at the Haárin enclave.” Burkett emitted a grumbling sigh. “He was one of the most irritating beings I ever had the misfortune to meet, and I wish I could have told him how much I—” He turned his face to the window. Swallowed hard. “You had to like him, didn't you? You couldn't help yourself.”

“Someone could,” Mako muttered. After that they fell silent, the only sound to reach them the announcement by their driver as they approached the gates of the humanish enclave.

 

Burkett poured himself coffee from a large upright brewer, then returned to the couch. “We expected Cèel to be challenged by Wuntoi sometime in the last month or two, but Tsecha's death caught the Pathen completely off guard, as it did all of us.”

After entering the humanish enclave, they had been taken immediately to the embassy, a four-story expanse of tan stone that dominated the enclave's central cul-de-sac, which like the other buildings in the place had been constructed according to idomeni protocols. Only the triple-wide entryway broke the smoothness of the facade. Windows were reserved
for the rear views, which looked out over a series of gardens laced with artificial streams and surrounded by high brick walls. The feeling was one of enclosure, of shuttering away, which couldn't have been a coincidence given Cèel's opinion of humanish.

Jani sipped coffee. After their arrival, they had been deposited in one of the larger sitting rooms, there to wait for the others in their group. The decor had been chosen by someone who shared Anais Ulanova's taste in furnishings: brocade-upholstered couches and chairs, dark woods, and silk and velvet-covered walls. No reds or burgundies, since those shades would have conflicted with idomeni religious prerogative. But there were plenty of other rich tones to make up for the omission, jewel shades of blue, green, and purple, with a gold mine's worth of gilt thrown in to provide contrast.
Winter colors.
The sight of them combined with the humanish room temperature to make Jani shiver all the more, as though they'd brought with them the stiff winds and dry, cold air of a Chicago winter.

“Wuntoi is biding his time now.” Mako had eschewed coffee and, despite the early hour, gone straight to the liquor cabinet and the vodka. “Too much news tumbled in too quickly. First the death, then the news of assassination and the rage at humanish when the news proved true.” He sat sprawled in a corner lounge chair like a disgruntled bear and stared into his frosted glass. “Then came your article, and the fallout, both expected and…not so.” He regarded Jani with the same sharp wonderment that Scriabin had at the station. “None of us believed the idomeni would have ever accepted the possibility that one of their own could have done the deed. Not a one.”

“Tsecha's influence.” Burkett sat back, eyes fixed on nothing. “I sensed the strength of it increasing with every passing day, especially among the Haárin.” He glanced down at his cup, then frowned and set it aside. “But the Haárin don't have the power around here—that's Cèel and the Council and Temple hardliners, and they're hammering on the rest to
dissolve diplomatic relations with us, recall the Haárin from their humanish enclaves, and seal their borders.” He rose and walked to the liquor cabinet, pulled another frosted glass from the tiny cooler and filled it to the brim with vodka. “Wuntoi would love to accuse Cèel of planning Tsecha's assassination, but first he needs proof, and human-style criminal investigation methods are in their infancy here. Service Investigative has reported that they've fielded a few hesitant probings, but nothing has come of them, and when we try to reach out, the idomeni pull back, lock down.” He raised his glass, studied it for a time, then sipped. “Which means that, unfortunately, we are forced to sit, and wait.”

Silence claimed them. After a time, Jani shifted in her seat as the stares shifted to her. “How is Cèel responding to the undecideds?”

“With some old-fashioned threats.” Mako tossed down the last of his vodka. “He's said that he will win any civil war—the Vynshàrau are the most populous sect in this region, numbering twelve million or more, and as head of the warrior skein, Cèel commands a fighting force of over a million, not including Haárin. He'll treat those who fought him as he treated the Laum years ago. Pathen, Oà, Sìah. Every sect that questioned him would be wiped out. It would make the Night of the Blade look like a playground melee. He'd decimate his people, and call it the will of the gods.”

Jani looked to the door and drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch. “So what's our ambassador's opinion of all this?”

“Dear Ava Galina.” Mako sneered. “In over her head and sinking fast. Takes her direction from Cao, who so far is doing her usual fine job of ignoring the obvious.”

“So now she's closeted with Scriabin, who may be trustworthy, and Ulanova, who damned well isn't. What are they discussing? Escape plans?” Jani looked to Niall, who had taken a seat in the far corner as soon as they arrived and had remained still and silent ever since. “Do you have escape plans?”

“Coordination with Fort du Lac and Phillipa Station. We have combat shuttles squirreled away down the road, on what passes for our base, and the
Ulanov
twiddling its thumbs just beyond Shèráin space. We would bypass Rauta Shèràa Station entirely, of course.” Niall straightened, his air of gloomy introspection dissipating now that he had a definite problem to focus on. “Given the quality of Shèrá's orbital defense array, which is unfortunately damned good, and assuming Cèel's normal level of vindictiveness, I'd say we'd be lucky to evac ten percent of the enclave.”

As that bit of news settled over the room like a dark cloud, the door opened and Scriabin lumbered in. “You all made it here—good. I gather from the general air of despondency that you've been apprised of the situation.” He walked to the liquor cabinet and became the third customer for the vodka. “Ava had little to add. No official statement from Cèel concerning your arrival, but he supposedly called in the Haárin dominants for an emergency conclave as soon as the images hit the displays.” He grinned at Jani. “The dominants who were here, at any rate. Most of them were at the station, welcoming you.” He leaned against the cabinet and raised his glass to her. “So, Cèel is rocked back on his heels for the first time in a long while, and to that I say,
Nazdrovya
.” He gulped the vodka, then hefted the empty glass, eyes fixed on the fireplace on the other end of the room.

Jani set aside her coffee and wished she were still humanish enough for liquor to have the desired effect. “I'd have Service Investigative talk to ní Galas, Feyó's security dominant. Station and enclave Haárin are much more advanced than the locals when it comes to criminal investigation, and they've had over a month to investigate the assassination.”

“I filled in Callum concerning the missing Nahin Sela,” Mako offered. “He believes that the Rauta Shèràa Haárin enclave investigators, however backward, are withholding information.”

Burkett's face darkened. “It would certainly shed a great deal of light on some of the oddness that we've seen these last few weeks. If they suspect that Nahin Sela is being hidden somewhere in Rauta Shèràa…”

“It's their humiliation. If one of theirs killed Tsecha, they want to solve it themselves.” Jani stood, tense muscles protesting every movement. “If I could beg your indulgence, I would like an hour or so to settle in. I'm guessing the day's schedule is pretty well packed.”

“We're all within a stone's throw of one another, in any case.” Burkett downed the balance of his vodka, then set the glass upside down on the table. “We'll talk to Feyó's investigator and go from there.” He looked to Jani and blew out a sigh. “One hour at a time. That's what we're down to.”

“Maybe I should develop a taste for vodka.” Jani acknowledged the scattered weak laughter with a short bow. Only Niall, who knew her best of all, eyed her unsmiling, with the wary stare of a man who knew that somewhere there was a shoe teetering on the brink.

 

By the time Jani reached her suite, a three-room corner expanse with views of the gardens, her luggage had been deposited and was in the process of being unpacked by a pair of officious aides. She grabbed her duffel before either of them could put their hands on it and headed down the hallway in search of the nearest stairwell.

“Hello.”

Jani froze in mid-stride at the sound of the unfortunately all-too-familiar voice, then slowly turned.

Lucien had arrived at the embassy the same time she had. Yet judging from the crispness of his dress desertweights and the fresh-scrubbed shine on his face, he'd already showered, changed uniforms, and performed whatever other ablutions served to eliminate every trace of long-haul fatigue.
When Cèel bombs the enclave, he'll die with his mirror-finish boots on.
“You're staying here?” She
looked past him down the hall and tried to divine from which room he might have emerged. “I thought you had to stay at the base.”

“No room. It's just a dink place—provides embassy security and some firepower, and that's about it. Between Mako's people and Pierce's crew, they're hanging from the rafters.” Lucien shrugged. “Such are the sacrifices we make when called upon.”

Jani felt the heat move up her neck as his innocent look sharpened and altered into something focused and…not so innocent. She turned, started back down the hall. “I have to go—”

“You're all everyone's talking about. Your entrance. Your unspoken announcement to one and all that you're taking up where Tsecha left off.” Lucien hurried past her, then stepped in front of her, cutting her off. “They're replaying the images over and over and over—”