An intuition flashed along his nerves. “You were drinking then?” he asked. On their last disastrous outing she'd told him that she once had a problem with alcohol.

  There was a hesitation before Sula answered. “Yes,” she said. “There are things in my past that I'm not proud of. You should know that.”

  Martinez kissed the top of her head and contemplated her history and his own responsibilities. Her parents had been executed-skinned alive-when Sula was on the verge of adolescence, her family's homes and wealth confiscated by the State, and Sula herself had been fostered out on a remote provincial world. Certainly any one of these incidents constituted a traumatic enough shock to send her reeling toward the erratic solace of alcohol and sex. It was a tribute to her character that she'd been able to draw herself out of the sink of despair into which she'd been swept.

  But that meant that her only knowledge of love was confined to drunken adolescent couplings, perhaps with boys who had deliberately made her drunk for the particular purpose of coupling with her. Sula had apparently never known the ease and pleasures of bed, the give and take, the gift of laughter and the fire of a proper caress&

  Did not know love at all, he realized.

  And the boy, she said, was probably dead. So even that attachment, whatever it was, had ended badly.

  Martinez took a long breath. She did deserve his best. He would have to try to give it to her, in that big bed of hers.

  And then a realization struck him and he laughed.

  “What's so funny?” Sula asked.

  “I'm just realizing that I've lost one of my chief weapons,” he said. “I can't slip you a few drinks to get you relaxed.”

  Her laughter rose bright in the air. He kissed her ear, and they sat for a while, her head on his shoulder, while mountains rose on the other side of the window and danced jagged along the horizon, then fell away again. They chatted of entertainments, of a video they had shared, the comedian Spate in Spitballs! They laughed over their memories of Spate's famous Mushroom Dance, and rejoiced in their mutual taste for low humor.

  Martinez ordered a meal, and the attendant arrived to set the small table in place, adding white linen, silver, a small vase with flowers, and-to judge by Sula's expression-some rather inferior porcelain. Sula sat opposite Martinez, her tunic properly buttoned. With the meal, Martinez shared Sula's bottle of mineral water.

  The train raced on, through forests and over broad rivers; its flanges, placed with precision along its flanks, pulsing out interfering sound waves that canceled its sonic boom. More mountain ranges rose and then fell behind, and the train began slowing as it approached its destination.

  Sula and Martinez embraced, kissed, and watched as Zanshaa's Lower Town, the huge expanse radiating on all sides of the High City, sped past the window. After the machine came to a halt in the station, Martinez folded Sula in his arms one last time before leaving the privacy of the compartment.

  The terminus was within easy walking distance of the funicular railway that took them to Zanshaa's acropolis. As they rose to the High City, Martinez looked through the funicular's transparent walls at the blue stained-glass dome of the old Sula Palace, lost now to the Sula heir, and wondered what passed through Sula's mind when she viewed it.

  “Why don't you take me home in your taxi?” Sula suggested. “That way you'll know where I live.”

  If Martinez hadn't been so weary, he probably would have thought of that himself.

  To his delight, Martinez found that Sula lived just behind the Shelley Palace, the colossal old pile his family rented in the capital. He suspected that was not an accident.

  “When you have a free moment,” Sula said, “come up and see the bed.”

  She kissed him quickly on the cheek and slid from the taxi before he could put his arms around her. Martinez restrained the impulse to lunge after her, and instead let the Cree driver swing around the corner to halt in front of the Shelley Palace, where Martinez's family were waiting.

  Martinez's brothers and sisters had realized that he would be exhausted, and hadn't planned anything more elaborate than a simple family supper for the night of his arrival. Roland, his older brother, placed Martinez at the head of the table, in the place of honor. He was pleased to be wearing civilian dress for the first time in months. Vipsania and Walpurga, handsome and impeccably dressed even on this informal occasion, sat next to each other on Martinez's right hand, one in a red gown, the other in sea-green. The youngest sister, Sempronia, sat next to Roland on the left.

  At the far end of the table, next to Sempronia, was her fiancé PJ Ngeni, a cousin of Lord Convocate Ngeni, whose family represented Martinez interests. PJ was suspected of having lost his money in a series of debaucheries, and his engagement was a stratagem on the part of Clan Ngeni to relieve themselves of an expensive and useless relation. One stratagem deserved another, Martinez had felt, and had devised a plan of his own. Sempronia and Lord PJ were engaged, to be sure, but the engagement would be a long one-there would be no marriage as long as Sempronia stayed in school, and Sempronia would be in school for as many years as was necessary for the Martinez family to use the access granted by the Ngenis to wedge themselves into Zanshaa's highest strata of Peers. And once that happened, PJ would be returned to whence he came, there to remain a debit on the ledgers of his clan.

  PJ had not yet realized, apparently, that the engagement was nothing more than a ruse, and throughout supper he paid Sempronia a series of elaborate courtesies, courtesies to which Sempronia replied with a graceful inclination of her head and a kind, condescending smile, a smile that vanished whenever she glanced down the table at Martinez.

  Sempronia hadn't forgiven Martinez for shackling her, even temporarily, to this human debacle. Especially when her affections appeared to be genuinely engaged by Nikkul Shankaracharya, Corona's former lieutenant.

  Martinez found himself uninterested in Sempronia's problems. She, after all, only had to put up with one imbecile. He had the whole Fleet Control Board.

  “You'll be decorated and promoted in two days' time,” Roland said. “At the same time your victory at Hone-bar will be announced throughout the empire.” He gave a sardonic smile. “It'll be Do-faq's victory officially, and he'll be promoted and decorated too-but the people who matter will know who's really responsible, and since Do-faq is still with his squadron, you'll be the one seen on video in the Hall of Ceremony&.” Roland gave a pleased nod. “After that, we can start pressing to get you a command. It will seem special pleading until everyone realizes you're the only officer in the Fleet to be decorated twice for actions against the enemy. Then giving you a real job will only seem good sense.”

  Martinez, who personally thought that the special pleading should have started ages ago, nodded as if he agreed, and then realized that his brother had no post whatever within the Fleet or the government, and shouldn't be aware of any of these details at all.

  “How do you know this?” he asked.

  “From Lord Chen. He and I have been&associated in an enterprise.”

  Martinez looked at his brother. “So how porous is the Fleet Control Board?”

  Roland shrugged. “ Everything's porous. If you're on the inside, you can find out anything you want.”

  “And you're on the inside now?”

  Roland looked down at his plate and drew his knife delicately across his filet. “Not quite. But we're getting there.”

  “If you're so well connected,” Martinez said, “perhaps you can let me know why I don't have a new command now.”

  Roland paused with his fork partway to his mouth. “I haven't bothered to inquire. But I imagine it's the usual story.”

  “Which is?”

  “You're better than they are.” While Martinez stared in surprise Roland popped the filet into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “You know the tale-Peers are supposed to be, well, peers. Equals. When one stands out above the others it demonstrates that there's something wrong with the system, and the people in charge of the system don't care for that. Remember, the nail that gets hammered down is the one that sticks out.

  “You see,” reaching for the wine and refilling Martinez's glass, “while you were at the academy preparing for your career as a hero, father and I put our heads together and worked out why he failed when he came to Zanshaa. And the answer seemed to be that he was too rich and too talented.”

  “He's richer now,” Martinez pointed out.

  “He could buy the whole High City and barely notice the loss. But it's not for sale&to him.” Roland gave his brother a significant look. “He was the nail that stuck out. He got hammered, and the people here dusted their hands of him and forgot that he ever existed. So now his children are here, and we're being a lot more quiet about our gifts than he was.” Roland filled his own glass and raised it, glancing over the dining room. “We could have our own palace here, a brilliant house built and decorated in up-to-the-instant tastes, first-rate all the way. But we don't, we rent this old heap.”

  He gave Martinez a penetrating look. “What we need to avoid aren't so much errors of judgment, but of taste. We could have a ball every week, and sponsor concerts and plays at the Penumbra, and I could wear the latest cravats and our sisters the most extravagant gowns, and we could get into the yachting circuit and sponsor charities and&well, you know the sort of thing.”

  “I'm not sure I do,” Martinez said. “I'm only the nail that sticks out.”

  Roland smiled thinly. “But you're sticking out in wartime-and that, I think, is all right. The family can move fast now, because the war is so big that no one's paying attention to the likes of us. And when the war is over, we'll be a part of the structure here, and that will be all right, because we'll have got in without anyone noticing us at all.” He frowned. “There may be a backlash after the war, of course. We'll have to be prepared to ride that out. That's why you'll want all the rank and honor you can achieve now, while they still need you.”

  Martinez glanced down the table at PJ, who was as usual paying elaborate court to Sempronia, and presumably unable to hear the low conversation at the opposite end of the table. “Clever of you to use Sempronia the way you did,” Roland said in Martinez's ear. “And PJ is, well, so perfect in his way&”

  PJ apparently heard his name spoken, and he looked up-long-headed, balding, dressed with perfect taste, and on his face an expression of amiable vacuity. Roland smiled and raised a glass.

  “So glad you could come tonight, PJ,” he said.

  A bright smile flashed across the table, and PJ raised his own glass. “Thank you, Roland! Happy to be here!”

  Martinez raised his own glass and pretended he couldn't see the face that Sempronia was making at him.

  It was Sempronia who took his arm just after he'd excused himself and began trudging up the main stair to his bed. He turned to her with pleasure: she was his favorite sister, with fair hair and gold-flecked hazel eyes, features so unlike the dark hair and brown eyes of the rest of the family. She was lively and outgoing, unlike her sisters, who had adopted a premature gravity that made them seem older than they were.

  “Haven't I been good to PJ tonight, Gare?” she asked. “Haven't I been a good girl?”

  Martinez sighed. “What do you want, Proney?”

  She looked at him brightly. “Can't you take PJ off my hands tomorrow?”

  He looked at him. “I've just got back from a war, for all's sake. Can't you get someone else to do it?”

  “No, I can't.” Sempronia leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. “You're the only one who knows about Nikkul. He just got back from a war, too, and I want to be with him.”

  Through his weariness he managed a glare. “What if I have an assignation of my own?”

  She gave him a look of amazement. “You?” she asked.

  No man, Martinez reflected, is a hero to his sister.

  “You just lost points, Proney,” he warned.

  “Besides,” Sempronia said, “PJ wants to see you. He admires you.”

  “Enough to give up an afternoon of your company?”

  She squeezed his arm. “Just once, Gare. That's all I ask.”

  “I'm very, very tired,” Martinez said. Which was why, in the end, Sempronia beat him down. A few minutes later, he called PJ's number from his room and left a message asking if PJ would like to join him tomorrow afternoon for, well, whatever.

  “I was so glad you called,” PJ said cheerfully. “I'd been hoping to speak to you, actually.” He and Martinez were dining in the Seven Stars Yacht Club, one of the three most exclusive yacht clubs in the empire.

  The club was the sort of place that would almost certainly have blackballed Martinez had he attempted to join, but which accepted PJ without question even though he'd never once flown a yacht. In the foyer was a glass case containing mementoes of Captain Ehrler Blitsharts, the yachtsman that Martinez and Sula had attempted to rescue- had rescued, though Blitsharts was dead by the time Sula finally grappled to his Midnight Runner. Among the pictures, trophies, and oddments of clothing was a studded collar belonging to Blitsharts' celebrated dog, Orange, who had died with him.

  The club's restaurant was famous, fluted onyx pillars supporting its tented midnight-blue ceiling, its surface perforated by star-shaped cutouts behind which gold lights shimmered. Scale models of famous yachts hung beneath the side arches and gleaming trophies sat in niches. The waitron, a Lai-own so elderly she shed feathery hairs behind her as she walked down the lanes between the tables, visibly shuddered at the sound of Martinez's barbarous accent.

  “I thought seriously about becoming a yachtsman,” Martinez told PJ, glancing at the gleaming silver form of Khesro's Elegance as it rotated beneath the nearest arch. “I'd qualified as a pinnace pilot and was doing well in the Fleet races. But somehow&” He shrugged. “It never seemed to happen.”

  “I'd put you up for membership if you ever changed your mind,” PJ said. “That would have to be after the war, of course. No races being held at present.”

  “Of course,” Martinez said. He doubted any amount of heroism and celebrity could offset the disadvantages of his provincial birth. If he couldn't even impress a waitron&

  He looked at PJ. “So how did you become a member? You haven't raced yachts, have you?”

  “No, but grandfather did, ages ago. He put me up for membership.” PJ sipped his cocktail, then swiped at his thin little mustache with a forefinger. “And it's useful, you know,” he nodded, “if you like to wager. Listening to the conversation in the club room, you can pick up a lot of information about which pilot is off his game or who's having a run of luck, who's just had his maneuvering thrusters redesigned&”

  “Did you make a lot of money that way?”

  “Mmm.” PJ's long face grew longer. “Not much, no.”

  The two contemplated PJ's financial state for a moment, one gloomy and the other lighthearted, and then the elderly waitron brought their plates, the meal that would have been called “dinner” on a ship but was “luncheon” here. The summery flavor of a green herb-Martinez didn't know which one-floated up from his pâté. The waitron departed, leaving behind a cloud of floating hair.

  PJ dipped into his soup, then brightened and looked at Martinez.

  “I wanted to say that I think you're just the most brilliant person,” he said.

  Martinez was surprised by this declaration. “That's good of you,” he said, and put a bit of the pâté on a crust of bread.

  “You've done wonders in the war, right from the first day. From the first hour.”

  Martinez straightened a little as vanity plucked up his chin. Praise from an ignoramus was, after all, still praise.

  “Thank you,” he said. He popped the bread into his mouth. The colossal fat content of the pâté began to melt thickly on his astonished tongue.

  PJ sighed. “And I'd like to be a part of it somehow. I'd really like to do my bit against the Naxids.” He looked at Martinez, his brown eyes wide. “What do you think I should do?”

  “You're too old for the service academies, so the Fleet's out,” Martinez said, hoping very much that this was true-the thought of PJ in the Fleet was too alarming. They'd probably give him command of a ship or something.

  “And I'm not qualified for the civil service,” PJ said. “And the civil service isn't exactly on the front lines of the war, anyway. I thought for a moment about becoming an informer&”

  “A what?” Martinez was thunderstruck.

  “An informer.” Fastidiously, as he dabbed his mustache with a napkin. “You know, the Legion of Diligence is always urging us to inform on traitors and subversives and so on, so I thought I'd join a subversive group and try a bit of the informing line.”

  Martinez was enraptured by the idea of Lord Pierre J. Ngeni, Secret Agent. “Have you told anyone of this plan?” he asked, smearing sauce on bread.