What was he thinking? She might refuse to see him, and even though his impulse had been to rush to her side, he knew that it would be a very unwise thing to do.

  He wanted answers first.

  He saw that Chandra was observing him with care, concern showing in her long dark eyes. Like the entire Fourth Fleet, she knew about his affair with Sula, and like the entire Fourth Fleet doubtless wondered what had caused their split. She had known him a long time and might make a shrewd guess as to his divided feelings. He spoke carefully.

  “Nothing to be done, I suppose,” he said. “But Jian’s making a mistake, considering how effective a commander Sula has proven herself to be. And she’s made a bigger mistake if she thinks that Lady Sula is going to forget this. She’s a member of the Convocation, and she might be in a position to put a spike in Jian’s projects.”

  “If she does, I’ll be cheering from the sidelines,” Chandra said.

  Me too, he thought.

  Sula gave a farewell address to Division Nine and told them how brave and brilliant they were, and how proud she was to have led them into battle. The words were conventional, but the feelings behind them perfectly genuine. In spite of the inexperience of so many of the crews, Division Nine had done well against veteran opposition, and they had earned Sula’s admiration.

  For the losses the division had suffered, Sula blamed Wei Jian for demanding an engagement, and Martinez for not sending aid, and instead going for glory and the credit for delivering the decisive stroke against the enemy.

  To hell with them both, Sula thought.

  Sula gave a farewell dinner to the surviving captains of Division Nine and was pleased that they were furious on her behalf. She had fought hard and won, and was now to be replaced by one of Wei Jian’s staff officers who had never commanded anything larger than a frigate, and that in peacetime. The other captains found her supersession outrageous.

  Captain Mazankosi offered to let Sula use her hunting lodge in the To-bai-to Highlands once she arrived on Zanshaa.

  Sula thanked her, but rather thought she’d be doing her hunting elsewhere.

  Sula viewed Pride of Parkhurst from over the rim of a cocktail glass. She had come aboard with Macnamara and Spence, her communications specialists Ricci and Viswan, her cook, and the engineer she’d brought aboard as one of the four orderlies she was allowed, but who she’d promptly loaned to Splendid’s engineering staff. Now the man toiled in Parkhurst’s engine bays.

  The Combined Fleet began their heavy decelerations and outpaced Pride of Parkhurst, which was following at a prudent 1.2 gee, calculated not to overstress the vast ship’s frame. Sula would arrive at Zanshaa weeks behind the warships.

  Sula had very little to do, because Parkhurst already had a captain named Devindar Suri, who had commanded the ship on behalf of the Martinez family before being co-opted into the military. He seemed an intelligent and efficient officer and knew the ship much better than Sula did, so Sula adopted an attitude of noblesse oblige, and other than conducting a few inspections let Suri run things.

  She did usurp his quarters, however, a luxurious suite intended for a rich passenger. Suri then took the first lieutenant’s quarters, and the first lieutenant that of the second lieutenant, and so on down the line.

  Dr. Gunaydin had also been ordered to shift to Parkhurst, which had surprised him and Sula both. The Combined Fleet had no shortage of doctors, and someone had decided that, since Parkhurst was being left behind, it should have a physician of its own, so Gunaydin shuttled to the big transport, and Sula’s replacement brought his own physician with him.

  Sula sat with Gunaydin on the promenade overlooking the ship’s huge concourse. Below, she saw uniformed Fleet crew strolling or sitting in the concourse—many fewer than the disorderly mob that had thronged the deck when Parkhurst first set out, for most of that mob had been transferred to other ships. Those who remained had very little work now that the battle had been won, and so they spent their time in pleasant relaxation. Very much like Sula, in fact.

  She sipped her cocktail—grain alcohol, citrus, and some indefinable herbal scent—and she looked at Gunaydin and wondered if he had been sent as a spy, with orders to keep her under observation and confine her to a health ward if possible.

  She was inclined to think Wei Jian was too straightforward to come up with such a plot, but Jian had people on her staff, more devious perhaps, who might think it was in their own best interests to knock down Jian’s rivals.

  Gunaydin touched his mustache. “I’ve reviewed all the data concerning your episode, and I’m inclined to look more closely at the vagus nerve. The vagus affects the parasympathetic control of a goodly number of your organs—your heart, lungs, blood pressure, speech, stomach, degree of sweating, and even your transverse colon. It’s been known to be responsible for vasovagal syncope—that’s fainting due to a drop in cardiac output and blood pressure, and it’s believed to be caused by emotional stress—and I doubt there’s anything more stressful than combat.”

  Combat stress plus every other damn emotion in the book, Sula thought. “It’s only happened the one time,” she said. “What if it never happens again?”

  “Then you’re lucky.”

  “Can you certify me fit for combat?” Sula asked.

  Gunaydin hesitated. “Not yet,” he said. “Best to be cautious.”

  “Are there any more tests you can do?”

  Since their transfer to Parkhurst, Sula had survived a whole battery of tests that had failed to detect anything wrong with her.

  “Tests?” Gunaydin said. “There’s nothing new I can do here, but I can refer you to a specialist once we return to Zanshaa.”

  Sula took another sip of her cocktail. “Nothing to do but enjoy ourselves, then.”

  Wei Jian had made herself invincible with her victory at Toley, even if all the planning and preparation had been done by others.

  But invincible, Sula thought, only in the military sphere. Now that the battle had been won, other spheres might start to become important again.

  Maybe, she thought, I should change my uniform.

  The next day she changed into the wine-red jacket that marked her as a member of the Convocation, the empire’s highest legislative body. She’d had the jacket cut like a military tunic, and wore her medals, shoulder boards, and the disk of the Golden Orb around her throat. From the communications center aboard Parkhurst, she sent a message in the clear to the entire Combined Fleet.

  “I am Captain the Lady Sula. As a member of the Convocation, I wish to make myself available to anyone dealing with, or anticipating, civil or political issues. Anyone with problems, or ideas for solutions, should feel free to contact me.”

  And now, she thought, for the caveat.

  “I should make it clear that if your issue concerns the military, solutions should be sought through proper military channels, and not through me. If your issue isn’t to do with the military, I will look forward to any communication.”

  She had tried to make it clear that she wasn’t challenging Wei Jian in her own sphere—though, in fact, that’s exactly what she was doing, bypassing Jian’s supreme position in the Fleet by shifting her ground to the political arena. Whatever Jian’s merits, Sula thought, no one could claim she was a born politician.

  Though Jian proved politician enough to recognize the threat. A response came within the hour, and Sula found herself staring into Wei Jian’s emotionless face and unblinking gaze.

  “Lady Sula,” she said, “you have not asked or received permission to engage in political activity within the Combined Fleet—and indeed I forbid any such activity from this moment. You are aboard Pride of Parkhurst in order to recover your health, and for no other reason.”

  Sula saw that little familiar flicker behind Jian’s eyes as she shifted from one topic to another. “I see that you are wearing the disk of the Golden Orb. As this decoration was not authorized by the appropriate authorities, I insist that you remove it. End message.”

  Sula smiled as the orange end-stamp filled the screen. Jian had responded exactly as she had hoped.

  She sent for tea while contemplating her reply. Parkhurst’s communication center was enormous, built to provide service to the thousands of immigrants the ship carried to newly settled worlds, and there were several rows of matte-black consoles spotted with silent screens, with only a few of them occupied by Fleet signals techs. The comm center was lightly used even though Parkhurst had a large crew, as they were cut off from most of the empire and were unable to communicate with their friends and families—and of course any communications were subject to military censorship, which put a damper on things.

  Sula was tempted to send her reply in the clear, but decided that would be too great a provocation and sent it instead using the command cipher, which meant it could be read only by Wei Jian, commanders of the four Grand Divisions, and their signals crews—and the signals techs, Sula knew, often collected interesting signals and shared them among their friends and one another. It was illegal, and the penalties were ferocious, particularly if the messages were classified as Highly Sequestered, but it was done anyway, and largely accepted.

  Sula waited for her tea to arrive, then poured in a long stream of honey. She inhaled the sweet floral aroma, then sipped and felt a rising sense of well-being. When she recorded her message, she tried to match Jian in her unblinking gaze and expressionless face, though she knew she couldn’t equal Jian’s careful schoolteacher enunciation.

  “Lady Wei,” she said, “I am a member of the empire’s supreme body, and so far as I know, I am the only convocate in the Combined Fleet. It is both my duty and my privilege to engage in political activity, and I will do so whenever I see fit. I have already stated that I will not intervene in military affairs, but will confine my activities to their proper sphere. When we arrive in Zanshaa, we will be facing many political challenges, and it is best to be prepared.”

  She allowed a touch of amusement to show at the corners of her mouth. “As for my Golden Orb,” she said, “I’m sure you are aware that this award is granted not by the Fleet but by the civilian government. My Orb was awarded me by the government of the Restoration on Harzapid, and if I removed it, I would subject the Restoration to a grave insult.

  “The Praxis states,” she continued, ”that we owe our firm and undivided allegiance to our civilian government. We of the Combined Fleet are obliged to consider the Restoration the legitimate government of the empire, and to follow their instructions insofar as they are consistent with the Praxis. If we disregard our government and the Praxis, we proclaim ourselves no better than pirates or bandits out only for our own benefit, and I reject that description utterly. End message.”

  After the message was sent, the signals techs in the room burst into applause. Sula grinned and waved her teacup in acknowledgment, then sipped while awaiting a reply. As no reply came, she rose from her chair and joined Lord Nishkad in the owner’s suite, where he offered her a very fine dinner.

  Terza’s serene, lovely face was framed perfectly by the combination of a high-collared black velvet gown and the large chignon into which she’d pinned her long black hair. Gloves secured by silver buttons reached nearly to her elbows, and she wore a belt of silver links low on her hips. Martinez had to take a breath when he saw her, and a ghost of her vetiver perfume drifted through his senses.

  “I’m dressed for tonight’s victory ball,” Terza said, “for which we may thank you more than anyone. I wish you could attend, but there will be more victory balls once we reach Zanshaa.”

  She stepped closer to the camera so that she could address him more directly. Her dark eyes gazed directly into his. “The Restoration government will be departing in a few days on the Corona,” she said. “Since so much of the original crew has been dispersed into the Fleet, we’ll be crewed by newly made Fleet officers and crew, and carrying out a hundred or so replacements fresh from the training schools. We’ll be escorted by a new frigate built in the yards on Earth, so if the enemy tries again to sneak in some new-built ships from Antopone, we’ll have some protection.

  “At the same time, Walpurga, Girasole, and Mei-mei will be heading to Zanshaa on the Ensenada, so in three months or so our family will be reunited in our house in the High City.”

  She gave one of her poised, unruffled smiles. “I’ll be looking forward,” she said, “and I’ll make sure to save you a dance at the ball. End message.”

  The orange end-stamp filled the screen, and Martinez leaned back in his office chair. With a wave of his hand, he turned off the display and stared at the sea creatures painted on his office walls. His bones ached for a reunion with his son and daughter, and now he would have to wait another three months.

  At least, he thought, he’d made sure his family was out of danger. Even when his sole command consisted of the unarmed yacht carrier Corona, he’d managed to destroy an enemy cruiser in defense of his son. The Fourth Fleet and the Combined Fleet had stood like a wall between his family and the enemy, and in the end the wall had prevailed.

  Now his task was to make sure Zanshaa was safe for his family by the time they arrived.

  Thanks to a combination of alcohol and derivoo, Sula’s night had been free of nightmare, and now that she was awake and freshly showered, she felt only lightly impaired as Shawna Spence brought her pastry and fragrant tea.

  “Get a cup and join me,” Sula said.

  Spence fetched a cup from the pantry, sat, and pushed her straw-colored hair out of her eyes.

  “So you got downgraded by another superior,” Spence said.

  Sula laughed. “My next command will probably be a pinnace.”

  Spence poured tea. “You destroyed five warships with a pinnace once.”

  Sula was struck by Spence’s bringing up that bit of her history, when she hadn’t drawn the connection herself.

  “Yes,” she said. “I did. I hope Wei Jian remembers that before she thinks to downgrade me again.”

  “I heard you put her in her place.”

  Sula shrugged. “She won’t stay there for long.”

  Spence held her teacup in both hands and brought it to her lips. She and Sula gazed at nothing for a while, and then Spence put her cup on the table with an emphatic gesture that suggested that her mind was made up.

  “What is it?” Sula asked.

  “Hm?” Spence seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You looked as if you’d made a decision.”

  “No. No decision at all.”

  Sula smiled. “We’re in a low-pressure environment. No decisions necessary.”

  Spence looked at her. “You think the war is over?”

  “The fighting is,” Sula said, “unless a few ships try to hold out in some corner of the empire—and if that happens, we’ll vaporize them.” She looked down at her pastry. “But the war—the war will continue, just in a different form.”

  Spence’s eyes narrowed. “That’s why you’ve gotten so political all of a sudden.”

  “In part, yes. In part because I’m trying to amuse myself.”

  “I hope you’re amused,” Spence said, “because I’m just bewildered.”

  “So am I,” Sula said. “But I’m trained not to show it.”

  Thoughts tracked slowly behind Spence’s eyes. “So this war that we won’t be fighting with the Fleet—who’s going to be in it?”

  “Let me think.” Sula took a bite of her pastry, swallowed, then chased it with a sip of tea. “Three contenders at least,” she said. “Those who want change for reasons that make sense to them, those who refuse to permit any change at all, and those who think change is inevitable whether it’s wanted or not. And there will be divisions in each of these categories, all of whom will be contending with one another.”

  “Sounds like—” Spence began.

  “Sounds like normal,” Sula said. “But there will be new players on the scene—players who may have been around for a while, but who will have more power and prominence due to the Restoration’s victory.”

  “The Martinez family, I suppose.” Spence’s voice was leaden.

  “Oh yes,” said Sula. “Along with their relatives, like the Yoshitoshis, the Ngenis, and the Chens. Our friend Lady Koridun is going to be pushed to the forefront, and so is Wei Jian.”

  “Hector Braga?” Spence asked.

  A soft shock pulsed through Sula’s system at the mention of Lamey’s name.

  “Very possibly,” she said. “Though currently he seems to be missing.”

  “Is he a Martinez ally?” Spence asked. “Or one of yours?”

  Sula contemplated her teacup. “Lamey’s alliances are strictly temporary.”

  “Nikki?”

  “I hope so. He knows how to fix things.”

  “I like his puppet shows.”

  “So do I.” Sula frowned down at her teacup. “I’m only guessing about any of this, of course, and nothing’s going to happen until we take the capital. We’ve got the entire journey to Zanshaa to work out who’s going to be in charge of what.”

  “Are you going to be in charge of anything?”

  Sula smiled as she raised her teacup to her lips. “I’m on the Court of Honor, remember,” she said. “And the court decides who stays in the Convocation, and who gets kicked out.”

  “Ah.”

  “I may not be able to get my friends into the Convocation, but I can surely return my enemies to private life.”

  “They could install a revolving door,” said Spence. “They put themselves in, and you bounce them out.”

  “It’s an attractive picture,” Sula said. She took a bite of her pastry and let the buttery sweetness melt on her tongue. She turned to Spence.

  “How is Macnamara faring, now he’s separated from his girl?”

  “He’s fretful,” Spence said. “The distance from Japutra to her husband is a lot closer than it is to us on Parkhurst.”

  “Is the husband—Todd?—is he trying to arrange a meeting?”