That was truth. And more than truth, that was relief. He wanted them to go, both of them, very much and right now.
The body-man was afraid, too, except unlike Rory, he knew exactly why.
Rory tugged the prince’s dead fish hand.
“Come on. Let’s go now, Prince Ivar.”
Because he was a biddable boy, and accustomed to doing as he was told, Ivar came along. Quick steps at first, and then, when Rory made it clear she wasn’t slowing down, and that he could either keep up or be dragged, an all-out, clumsy run.
It was during that run that Ivar, who was not a natural athlete, tripped over his uncomfortable shoes, which were too stiff, and fell, and pulled Rory down with him. Ivar scuffed both palms and tore a hole in his trousers. Rory’s dress survived, but her knees did not. The tumble laid them both flat, and required some moments of recovery—much fast blinking and brave sniffing and no tears at all from Ivar, about whom Rory had harbored some doubt, and only a wince from Rory herself. But because of those moments, Princess Rory Thorne and Prince Ivar Valenko were essentially unharmed when Ivar’s body-man walked into the Thorne palace and detonated himself just past the front foyer.
The shockwave flattened several structures more sturdy than children, and tossed debris about with lethal consequences. The koi, safe in their pond, survived. Twenty human adults, including Ivar’s father, King Sergei Valenko of the Free Worlds of Tadesh, did not. Rory’s own father, King Philip Thorne, survived the blast for a time, although that was no kindness on the part of the multiverse.
The incident started two wars, one civil and one inter-planetary, and plunged several solar systems into piracy and lawlessness. It was also how Grytt came to have a few more mecha implants, and how the Consort added Regent to her title.
And it marked the end of Rory Thorne’s childhood, by whatever measure one employs.
CHAPTER THREE
Neither Apology Nor Accusation
The name the Free Worlds of Tadesh was misleading, as it did not describe worlds, but rather a far-flung string of colonies, mining outposts, and massive void-stations orbiting rich, inhospitable planets. Nor were the Free Worlds especially free, being instead a hereditary monarchy whose acquisition (and retention) of those far-flung colonies and mining outposts had come quite often as a result of military intervention and a certain suppression or suspension of freedoms.
The Vizier had much time to contemplate these facts on the journey from Thorne. As the Consortium’s official representative, he accompanied King Sergei Valenko’s remains (a more apt term than body in this instance) and the Prince on the Tadeshi ship that had brought them. It was not the Vizier’s first time acting as diplomat, nor even his first time to the Free Worlds of Tadesh. It was, however, his first visit to the Tadeshi capital, an ancient void-station called Urse that threaded an orbit between two massive gas giants, which, in turn, orbited an unassuming yellow star. The massive void-ships were too large to dock at any void-station, even one as large as Urse, and so visitors were obliged to travel by shuttle. Thus, after the ships arrived at the system’s gate, through which all tesser-hexing ships came and went, the royal remnants, Prince, and important visitors faced several hours of sublight void-flight before reaching their destination.
Ordinarily, the Vizier would have used the time to catch up on work, but he considered himself well-versed in the Free Worlds’ political disposition already. So he passed the journey by staring at the viewscreens, which piped in a steady stream of images from the shuttle’s exterior, and considering the marvels of planets, and the cleverness of humanity for traversing the void. He also contemplated the vulnerability of that clever flesh, defended from aetherless, unbreathable void and lethal cold by metal and arithmancy. And he considered, with considerably more concern, how very many Tadeshi warships there were crowded into the system. He knew there was a marine training base on one of the local moons, but these ships were, to his unmilitary eye, rather more than standard, in both number and disposition, than one would need for a training facility, or even for a King’s state funeral. They looked a bit like an armada.
The Vizier opened his tablet, without taking his eyes off the viewscreen, and made a note. Then, upon consideration, he added an extra layer of cryptographic hexwork.
He made still more notes upon docking at Urse. He noted that the coffin bearing the King was unloaded first, followed by the dry-eyed Prince, who was clutching a small stuffed animal, and that they were received by the security officers wearing dress uniforms and representatives of the Tadeshi Council. The Vizier, familiar with their names and faces from files and his aforementioned predilection to study, recognized the Ministers of Defense, Commerce, Education, and Foreign Affairs. He did not, at first glance, recognize the handsome blond man wearing councilor’s robes at the head of the delegation. He frowned and consulted his tablet. Ah. He frowned a little more deeply. That was Vernor Moss, the new Minister of Energy, which was a relatively minor position on the Council, and not the sort of person one expected to receive the body of an assassinated king. And if it seemed a trifle odd that Minister Moss would be among those to receive the King’s coffin, it seemed even more so that he took immediate, physical charge of Prince Ivar.
The Vizier felt a chill that had nothing to do with the dry, dockside station air, and entertained a momentary wish to turn round and return to the relative safety of the shuttle. Instead, he squared his shoulders and came down the ramp, one more functionary among many, and so unremarked.
That anonymity would not, however, continue. The Vizier expected a request for an audience in the near future. And indeed, that summons came the following morning: a note, real paper (which was its own communication: paper was expensive, and also private, immune as it was to hexes and hacking), folded and sealed, delivered to the Thorne embassy by a black-uniformed Tadeshi security officer. The contents were politically predictable: the Vizier’s presence was requested by the Council at such-and-such time, et cetera. The Vizier read it twice, and then started to fold it up. But something about the seal at the bottom struck him as, not exactly wrong, but—no, it was exactly wrong. He unfolded the paper and took the summons over to the desk, closer to the small, bright lamp standing watch over his tablet and the small pile of real paper that seemed to proliferate wherever the Vizier tried to do any work, and tilted the paper into light.
The state seal of the Free Worlds of Tadesh was an elaborate thing, curlicues and braids and a slogan written in archaic script in a dead language circling its lower edge. The royal Tadeshi seal was identical, except for a tiny set of crossed swords and a crown in what would otherwise be an empty patch just above that slogan. This summons should have come with a Council seal at the bottom—that is, the seal without the crown and swords. The Free Worlds had a clear line of succession. If a seated King died, his Queen—whether or not she came from the royal line—assumed the crown. Even without a formal coronation, the Queen was the head of state, and by all rights and rules was the only person authorized to use that seal.