In the Hall of the Martian King (27 page)

He could see why Sib had liked it here.

There was a soft ping from his purse and it said, “The representatives of the Paxhaven Fighting Academy are here.”

“Dilate the door.” Jak turned. The two men who came in were in their late teens or early twenties, younger than Jak but not
much younger, and dressed in what Jak thought of as the “Paxhaven uniform”: a soft shirt in a bright color (both wore a vivid
deep blue), the jacket, pants, and belt of an ancient martial arts gi (on both of these men it was in pastel blue), and a
long cloak (black) over it. The smaller of the two men said, “Hello, I’m Rej Waramez, and this is my partner Maruk Sebaskawa.
We are here on orders of our teachers, partly as a matter of compassion and pity, but also as trainees, to acquire the story
of a fallen warrior of our school.”

“It is the belief of our teachers that you need to and we need to tell the story of your uncle and we need to listen to it,”
Maruk added.

Jak nodded. “Well, I need to talk, and I suppose students always need to listen. Shall we sit down? May I offer you anything?”

“We were going to suggest that it’s a beautiful day,” Maruk said, “and you’ve been in this room for a long time. Perhaps it
would help to get out and walk a bit?”

When they had told him they thought they might walk around a farm for a while, he had had visions of something like the farms
he had visited in Africa, on Earth, or that perhaps this would be one of those dreary countries where they want you to look
at the sewage-to-hydroponics plant. He had not expected that it would be a tremendous array of brick planters, wedged against
the natural rock into every possible crevice, and linked by catwalks, all over the seaward side of the island. It was a calm
day, and the big, slow, low-gravity swells came in from the southeast as if their procession might grind to a halt at any
moment. The sunward side of the island was if anything steeper than the lagoon side, and the catwalks were narrow, but since
his companions seemed comfortable, Jak resolved to let himself get used to the height … though looking twenty meters straight
down into the heaving, chopping, foaming water, this was easier resolved than done.

The many planters were crowded with broccoli, tomatoes, endive, and many plants that Jak was sure he had eaten but wouldn’t
happen to recognize. After a time they came around to a wider ledge with benches, where brightly colored flowers bounced in
the sea breeze. “Nasturtiums,” Maruk said. “They’re edible, but I prefer to think we overproduce them just because they’re
pretty. That would explain why we’re always getting a couple on the plate at every meal at every restaurant, and why now and
then I find that some bartender has dropped one into my martini.”

Jak chuckled. “That seems strange. Somehow the clothing, and the setting, and so forth, made me think this place would be
ascetic.”

“Only to the extent that it brings us pleasure,” Rej said, grinning.

“I speck I dak some of what Sib loved about this place.”

“That’s very flattering,” Maruk said. “Well. We won’t be interrupted here (we’ve reserved this platform for an important official
duty) so I suppose we should get started, if you’re ready.”

“I’ll never be ready, but we can start.” Jak looked out at the far horizon, where the blues of the sea and the sky joined,
and up at the high cliff above him, where dozens of people wandered about the catwalks, one by one or in chattering groups,
and then at the sun on the great banks of nasturtiums, and said, “So what is it, exactly, that we’re doing?”

Rej nodded and said, “Well, part of our training is to know the stories of those who went before us. Our school is now a few
centuries old and we think it’s good to have legends about our successful graduates in oral memory. The way we do that is
that each of us who is training to become an advanced master must learn, in precise words, the stories of ten fallen warriors
of our school, and at least one of those stories must be one that we collected and composed ourselves. So we are here to collect
the story of Sibroillo Jinnaka, and your testimony will be one important source for us. Then at his memorial service, each
of us will recite our composition of his history.”

Jak nodded. “Did Sib have to do this?”

“The requirement was imposed almost a century after his time,” Maruk explained. “We evolve, develop, and change.”

“And we make a distinction between those three,” Rej added, “which is why we try to have plenty of stories to tell and examine.
Now, just talk about your uncle … we’ll ask you questions … and don’t worry about trying to get everything, as we will be
talking to many others.”

For four days, one or the other of them walked with Jak along the catwalks of the farm, or through the narrow alleys between
the natural stone buildings, and Jak looked out at water and talked about Sibroillo, and Maruk and Rej asked questions, gently,
almost shyly. The last day, Rej joined Maruk and Jak for the last couple of hours, and mostly they asked, “Would it be fair
to say that … ?”

Then they told him that the funeral service would be in four days, and that after that there would be a small ceremony for
Kawib, and the day following Jak and his party would be presented to the King.

At the end of that day, when Jak returned to his room sad and drained, there was a message from Dujuv: if Jak was ready, would
he have dinner with Dujuv, Pikia, Shadow, and “another friend”? Jak had his purse send an immediate affirmative. He showered
and changed and went to see them, if not happy, at least feeling better.

When Jak arrived, everyone was already seated, and a lively conversation was already under way. He started to say hello to
his trusted toves when he realized who else was at the table. “Myx!”

Myxenna Bonxiao was one of Jak’s oldest and closest friends, in addition to being a fast-rising star at Hive Intel. He had
known she was coming to Mars, and would be catching up with his party, of course, but in the chaos and misery of the last
few days, he had lost track of it; now he was delighted to see her. She jumped up to hug him, spilling the pitcher of beer
on the table, and somehow it was the funniest thing that ever happened for everyone there.

When they had gotten a clean table, more beer, and an order in for food, Jak sat down and said, “Well, I’ve been going through
the interviews with the warrior-trainees or whatever they’re called.”

“So have we,” Dujuv said, “but it didn’t take up as much of our time. A lot of my time has been spent being a presence at
the Royal Archive. That’s where they put the Nakasen lifelog. So I sit there, or Xlini does, and we keep asserting that it’s
ours. And they keep politely pointing out that that remains to be settled and that anyway, whoever’s it may be, they’ve got
it. It’s a pleasant little ritual that doesn’t take ten minutes a day. Once that’s completed, we do the fun part.”

“Which is … ?”

“I read the Paxhaven histories and look at their documents. Jak, do you know what an amazing place this is? First of all,
there was a major town here within a hundred years of the first landings on Mars, way back in the Middle Ages—if you can believe
it, this town was founded by people from Europe, back before the glaciers buried it. It was the northern summer home for the
Old Emperors before the First Rubahy War, and the ruins of the resort town are under the lagoon—apparently there’s a great
scuba tour of it. When the Boreal Ocean re-formed during the Bombardment, they moved up here onto the crater rim and rebuilt—but
basically this is one of the three or four oldest towns still occupied on Mars.

“And you know how people say that the King of Paxhaven would be the closest thing to an heir to the Old Emperors? Well, he’s
a lot more than
close.
The King really is the heir to the Old Empire. DNA-authenticated and the whole whacking djeste! He’s actually a lineal descendant,
always at least at the level of a prince, of the last Old Martian Emperor, and he has a separate line of descent from both
dynasties of the Second Empire, too. Not to mention that also he’s probably descended from a Chicagoan Catholic Papal Concubine,
a Grand Mufti of Luna City, a Japanese Emperor, and two Presidents of the United States.

“Going so far back that one of those was even elected,” Pikia put in. “I’ve been sort of watching over Dujuv’s shoulder.
And
King Dexorth is a distant cousin of Paj Nakasen, a fairly close one of Ralph Smith, and the great-grandson of Elora Qanaganser.
I don’t think there’s room for him to have a more distinguished bloodline; everybody in his ancestry is somebody.”

Dujuv nodded. “It really looks like Paxhaven went out of its way to combine all sorts of interesting bloodlines, over and
over, so they would always have that claim available. Oh, and one other detail—his mother was Scaboron of Greenworld’s older
sister. Dexorth is Shyf’s first cousin.”

“Well,” Jak said, letting his stomach roll over for a moment, but enjoying it, “at least we know his bloodline isn’t
perfect.
”

“Seriously, though,” Dujuv said, “why have we never heard much about Paxhaven? This is also the place where they invented
the Disciplines, and Maniples, and half a dozen other major things. A tiny little place where that much brains and talent
make that much happen? It ought to be as famous as Athens, Florence, Weimar, Santa Clara, or Tycho City.”

Shadow bobbed his head emphatically. “We Rubahy study your people and your customs very carefully (it is a matter of survival
for us), and while we do not have an exact equivalent to your universities, you could probably fairly say that I hold a scholarly
distinction something like your masters degree, in a field that would translate as ‘human studies.’ And I had not realized
until this week that Paxhaven was of any particular importance whatever. I shall be careful in revealing what I have learned
about this, for we have a conspiratist faction that would argue, from the fact that you have hidden it so well, that this
entire city must be the home of a human secret weapon—and I would be loath to have a place so beautiful become a target, even
hypothetically.”

Dinner ran long; it was the sort of occasion when old friends need to visit and reminisce, and new friends need to be welcomed
into the circle, and Myxenna seemed to take to Pikia as much as Shadow on the Frost and Dujuv already had. Jak noted after
a while that Myx and Duj hardly spoke to each other, though they occasionally filled in a detail in an old story for each
other. The had been lovers once, bitter with each other, friends again … and now, apparently, just slightly sore spots in
each other’s lives.

It was late but the sun was still out; there would be no true dark tonight, here at nearly seventy-eight degrees north. At
last everyone split up to walk back to their quarters. Myxenna seemed to be going the same way as Jak—or, he suspected, to
have Hive Intel matters to discuss with him. If so, she was taking her time about it; they went up to his room, and she gave
him a bath and a backrub (without suggesting they renew their off-again on-again affair), and finally she said, “Jak, my bosses
have no idea what to do with you or about you. I am supposed to exercise my judgment and understanding, which, I suppose,
is a way for them to say that I’m supposed to decide, and if it works out they’ll take credit for giving me my head, and if
not, they’ll be able to pin the failure on me.”

He rolled over on his back and looked up at her; when had she undressed? She was sitting cross-legged, looking back down at
him, so that from his viewpoint her face was upside down. He thought for a moment and said, “I don’t know what to say, Myx.
I’ve failed at pretty nearly everything I’ve tried, and I’ve hurt a lot of innocent people. I had four assignments Hive Intel
gave me—get the lifelog for the Hive, make sure Clarbo Waynong gets credit, preserve my cover in PASC, and keep their channel
open to Shyf. A reasonable assessment of my performance is total failure at all four. Paxhaven has the lifelog. Waynong is
the only person on this mission who looks like a bigger idiot than me (and as idiots go he’s a talented professional to my
gifted amateur).
Everybody
knows I work for Hive Intel. And Shyf might have finally lost interest in me, which is a good thing but does mean I don’t
even make a good
passive
spy.”

Myxenna nodded. Her dark, wavy hair fell around her face in curtains. Jak couldn’t read her expression. “That’s not a bad
assessment at a first whack, old tove, but you’re overlooking how close you’ve come and how bad your circumstances have been.
It is the opinion of Caccitepe—”

“Him.”

“Yes, him. He’s on your side, believe it or not.”

Jak made a face. “Let’s go with ‘or not.’ ” Caccitepe had nominally been the Dean of Students at the Public Service Academy
when he, Myxenna, and Dujuv had been there, and had actually been the recruiter/organizer for Hive Intel, cherrypicking the
talented students into deep-cover placements in other agencies. Jak owed his present position to Caccitepe, which was reason
enough to hate him; but there had been a couple of peculiarly nasty, creepy meetings with Caccitepe as well—meetings in which
the Dean of Students had seemed determined to rub Jak’s nose in just what sort of a human being he was, and why an agency
that specialized in assassination and corruption would want Jak. During his senior year, Jak had made a ritual of showering
after every meeting with the Dean; it hadn’t helped.

Myxenna rested her hand lightly on Jak’s cheek. “Jak, I can’t let you say anything more than that. It will make a mess of
a lot of things if I do.”

“All right, I don’t like Caccitepe, but what does he have to say?”

Myxenna leaned down, very close, as if she were going to kiss Jak, but turned her head to barely breathe in his ear, “Well,
to me, he usually says, ‘Take off your clothes,’ and I do.” She sat back and looked into Jak’s eyes. His heart crumbled inside
him. He knew Myxenna was from a nobody family, ordinary middle-class people on the mid decks of the Hive, and he’d always
known she’d do whatever it took to succeed. He just hadn’t thought much about what it would take. He nodded, though, to show
her he understood. Anything her purse picked up might be relayed to Caccitepe, who was spiteful and a monster of ego; she
could be blamed for not objecting to what Jak said.