The Vizier forbore a comment that the King was, in fact, beyond inconvenience or scandal at this point. He also forbore to point out that the minimum time between a Tadeshi monarch’s death and his funeral was five days, five, and that waiting for the Queen’s return would in no way scandalize anyone.
Instead, what he said was, “I see.” He allowed his hands to flutter like nervous birds.
The Minister of Energy noticed those fluttering hands, and his lip curled just the slightest bit.
The Vizier, in turn, noticed that smile, and his gut coiled into a cold knot, one part fear, two parts anger. Protocol and his good sense said he should wait to be dismissed: the Minister clearly considered himself the ranking official, in possession of both royal seal and royal pronouns, and making an enemy of him would be both easy and dangerous.
But then the Vizier thought about the Princess Rory, who, but for her own disregard for protocol, might have been within the blast-radius when the body-man detonated himself, and he straightened. “Thank you again for your time, Minister.”
The Minister of Energy raised one fine, blond brow. “Thank you, Vizier.”
And so the first, and last, audience between the Vizier of Thorne and the Minister of Energy came to an end.
* * *
• • •
The Vizier was a cautious man, fond of evidence. And so he spent the next few days before the funeral making use of the diplomatic access available on the Thorne embassy’s turing, and of his considerable skill with arithmancy when that access proved insufficient.
It was because of what he discovered that the Vizier was alone among foreign diplomats and dignitaries who attended King Sergei’s funeral to be unsurprised that Minister Moss took charge of the event, and the only one to notice how very close the Minister of Energy stood to Prince Ivar during the funeral and how he hovered, not so much protectively as possessively. Nor was he surprised when reports came that the Queen’s shuttle suffered an inexplicable power surge that sent it diving into the sun. Instead, the Vizier quietly arranged for passage back to the Thorne Consortium and departed Urse the same day that Vernor Moss was named the Regent of the Free Worlds by unanimous vote of the ruling Council.
This time, the Vizier spent his journey organizing his notes and observations, and rehearsing his eventual report to the Consort in front of a mirror in his quarters until he was certain of every syllable. It was not his first time acting as Thorne’s official representative, but it was his first time doing so for the Consort, and he wanted to impress her with his attention to detail. The old King would have deferred that report for several days. The Vizier suspected the Consort would not, and indeed, she summoned the Vizier to her office within an hour of his return to Thorne.
And so the Vizier found himself delivering his report to the Consort almost exactly as he’d rehearsed it. He stood in front of the desk, which he’d planned; and he had his hands clasped behind his back, which kept him from picking at his cuticles. But he could not stare at his favorite stain on the desk, because the Regent-Consort had covered it with a small pot, in which grew a Kreshti fern. Its silver-blue fronds sampled the air, sifting for pheromones, sending out some of its own, in an attempt to attract unwary insects.
The Vizier recalled that the apparent delicacy of its fronds and stems was an illusion. The only way to kill a Kreshti fern, as the Kreshti farmers well knew, was to tear it out by its roots and burn it. The Consort had been born and raised on Kreshti, and he suspected she and the fern shared that tenacity.
The Vizier finished his report. “That’s all, your Highness.”
Ordinarily the King would say, “Thank you, Rupert,” or, “That will be all, Rupert,” or sometimes, a muffled “mrrzzz,” at which point the Vizier would wait exactly one minute before leaving quietly so as not to wake his sovereign.
The Consort also said nothing, but she was not snoring, and so the Vizier did not move. Instead, he stared so hard at the little fern that it stretched four of its five fronds toward him and turned a remarkable shade of vermillion.
“That was a fine report, Rupert. Now tell me what you actually think.”
The Vizier jerked as if someone had jammed a pin into his leg (which Rory had, once, in her early childhood, shortly after Grytt became her body-maid). His gaze bounced off the fern and landed on the Consort. She had made a little steeple of her first two fingers and rested the point of her chin on the apex. It was a surprisingly disarming gesture, and deceptive, because it meant that she was thinking. A thinking monarch was, in the Vizier’s experience, always dangerous. He wished he’d sneaked out while he had opportunity. He wondered if he ever had an opportunity. He weighed the wisdom of answering honestly against his experience with the King, who preferred brevity. And, out of reflex, he stalled.
First, clear the throat. Then, raise the brows. Then, adjust both sleeves. And then, “Your Grace?” in the most innocuous tones possible.
She stared at him, night-dark eyes unblinking as a singularity and as impossible to escape.
“Rupert. Sit down. And tell me. What. You. Think.”
The Vizier sat. Shot a nervous glance at the fern, which had turned vivid scarlet, and decided on honesty.
“The Minister offered neither accusation nor apology when I met with him. He did not act like a man surprised or bereft by Valenko’s death. I think he’s responsible, your Grace, for all of it.”
“Go on.”
“The popular choice for Regent of the Free Worlds was the Minister of Commerce. She declined. So did the second reasonable choice, the Minister of Defense. Together, they nominated Moss, and with their support, the rest of the Council approved his appointment without even a cursory debate.”
“Are you suggesting bribery, Rupert? Or conspiracy?”
“It is unclear which, your Grace. Perhaps both.”
The Consort raised one half-moon brow. “Samur, Rupert. When we’re in private, call me Samur.”
The Vizier bowed slightly and hoped the heat crawling up his neck and cheeks didn’t show up as red on his face.
“As I said. I have no proof of bribery or conspiracy, nor did I feel it my place to inquire too deeply. Moss had, by the time I departed, already issued warrants for the arrest of individuals he believed responsible for the alteration of the body-man’s implants. He is very dramatic, and very persuasive.”
“And are those individuals guilty?”
“Perhaps, although I do not believe that is likely.” The Vizier tapped his tablet and turned the screen to show the Consort. “Note that they are all former employees of the Science and Research Department. Note, too, that they all either lost their funding in the past two years, or were replaced on their project teams for reasons which seem rather contrived. And note whose authorization is on all of the orders.”