The Consort leaned onto her elbows. Swiped the screen, once and again, and frowned. “It seems odd, Rupert, that a minor minister would be signing termination orders for Science and Research personnel and projects.”
“It does, your Gr—Samur.”
“And it seems unlikely that, even disappointed by their terminations, these individuals would all decide to conspire to assassination, particularly since the King did not terminate their projects. Regicide is a capital crime. If they had conspired, one imagines they would have left Tadeshi space already rather than accepting this exile. And—hm.”
The Consort had just noticed, as the Vizier himself already had, that all the accused had been relocated to a half-frozen moon orbiting a gas giant denied any official moniker more personalized than an alphanumeric string. The colonists called the moon Perdition, the planet, Judgment, and the system’s star, Sheol. It was, on record, a mining outpost, although not a particularly prolific one.
There were two possible destinations for ships leaving Perdition. One was solidly in Tadeshi territory. The other was Kreshti. This mattered for two reasons. The first was that should those scientists choose to flee that accusation of regicide, Kreshti was their only option. If the Kreshti did grant asylum, then it looked like they approved of—or at least did not mind—the crime of regicide; and given Kreshti’s relationship with the Thorne Consortium, and that the Consort was herself Kreshti, it looked as if that regicide might be politically motivated.
And second, Tadesh (before it had collected any Free Worlds) had been sniffing after Kreshti’s planetary resources for most of the two hundred years since Kreshti had fought its way free of the Merak Horde. Kreshti had a breathable atmosphere, liquid water, and a relatively hospitable biosphere. While the Thornes were still terraforming dead red planets in the home system, Kreshti were earning their skill with battle-hexes—skills that reminded the Tadeshi in the occasional skirmish that those planetary resources would cost them more than the planet’s worth. But as the Free Worlds accumulated, the Tadeshi grew bolder and more certain the cost would be worth it.
It had been the Kreshti’s formal alliance with the Thorne Consortium, in the person of Samur, that had guaranteed Tadeshi good behavior. And if Kreshti could be accused of harboring King Sergei’s assassins, well. The Free Worlds of Tadesh might be willing to risk an invasion and apologize later. No one liked a suicide bomb, after all, particularly at a birthday party.
There was one final document. The Vizier leaned forward and flicked the screen. “And then there are these, your Grace.”
“Requests for asylum to Kreshti. With my aunt’s approval already stamped.” The Regent-Consort side-eyed the Vizier. “Are these official documents, Rupert?”
“They are.”
“Does Urse keep records like this on the public access systems? Because I know that Kreshti does not.”
“No, your Grace.”
“Rupert. Are you a secret hacker?”
“It is a . . . hobby.” The Vizier caught a smile sneaking onto his face. To his surprise, the Consort smiled back. She had a dimple on her left cheek.
“Well done.”
This time he knew the heat on his cheeks was visible. And the damned fern turned deep yellow.
The Consort sat back, then, and abandoned her smile. She sighed a little and rubbed the nine-month moon of her belly. “Are you aware, Rupert, why I married Thorne?”
Not the King. Not my husband. Not Philip. The Vizier hesitated. As a point of fact, he did know the details of the marriage contract, having helped his Majesty with the finer points of law and Kreshti custom. After a moment’s hesitation (and the traitor-fern turning just the slightest bit orange), he said so.
“It was a political alliance, your Gr—Samur. To win your mother and sisters an ally—”
She sliced him silent with a gesture. “My mother used her daughter to buy an ally, so that I could, in turn, buy alliances and peace with my children, so that we could all avoid war. It’s what sovereigns do. But now—now, we have one king dead, and one dying, and these documents suggest that the man who is now Regent of the Free Worlds both provoked dissent and relocated the dissenters a convenient tesser-hex from the one tiny planet that would, and in fact did, grant them sanctuary, which just happens to be allied to the Thorne Consortium by marriage. Furthermore, you have informed me that the Urse system is full of warships. Would you be willing to wager that the Regent of the Free Worlds killed my husband and his own king, and now he is preparing to declare war on the Consortium?”
“I would never bet against you, Samur.”
A ghost of the former smile haunted her lips. “Good to know, Rupert. I will count that a promise. Because I’m not waiting for him. We are going to war.”
CHAPTER FOUR
War, Death, And Birth
Those who do not record history often labor under the misconception that it is easy: events happen, one after the other, fitting together like a well-crafted plot in which the characters do precisely what they must, when they must, to make the story turn out as it should. This is rarely the case. More often, significant moments overlap, crowding each other like geese around grain, each pushing the others aside for primacy. The death of the King of Thorne, the birth of the Prince, and the Consortium’s declaration of war against the Free Worlds of Tadesh comprise a trilogy of such magnitude that it is difficult to discern which of them had the greatest impact on the little princess. A conventional recounting of Rory’s life might prioritize the dramatic loss of her father, and the more subtle loss of her mother, as formative influences in what was to come.
But in truth, it was Grytt’s absence that affected Rory most keenly. Before the explosion, Samur had insisted on daily breakfasts with Rory, and when possible, lunch and dinner as well. Even during her pregnancy, when she was not interested in, or capable of, eating, Samur would sit (complexion waxy, jaw locked and set) at the table with Rory, listening more than she spoke (for fear of what might happen if her jaw were unlocked). But the shift in duties from Consort to Regent-Consort meant that breakfasts became hurried affairs during which Samur stuffed toast into her mouth at a pace that would have drawn criticism, had it been Rory doing the gobbling. Then she was out the door, gone before Rory had got halfway through her own toast—chewing before swallowing, little bites, as she’d been taught. At least before, she would have had Deme Grytt for company, should her mother be struck unexpectedly busy.
But now, after the explosion, Deme Grytt was not there, having been wounded and whisked into the medical facility beyond Rory’s reach. She had tried to visit. The medic at the front desk had been very firm in her insistence that Grytt could have no visitors, not even the Princess, but that she had been
badly hurt
a little banged up, your Highness, and that she