“I have an idea for a new patron of Rol-mar,” Martinez said.

  Rol-mar, a newly discovered world, had under its current patron, Lord Gonihu, fallen into insurrection, and with the rest of the empire busy with a vast civil war, it had managed to retain its precarious independence.

  “Rol-mar will require an enormous initial investment,” Roland said. “And the previous two patrons failed. Who did you have in mind?”

  “Walpurga.”

  There was a long silence while Roland contemplated the suggestion. “Our father’s already patron to three worlds,” he said. “The Convocation might be reluctant to give the family a fourth.”

  “Is there a better candidate?” Martinez asked.

  “Another issue is that Walpurga has no children,” Roland said. “So there’s no one to leave the job of patron to.”

  “She could adopt. Or get married. Or just appoint someone. In any case, it’s a problem for the future.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Roland decided.

  “Spannan could go to a Ngeni,” Martinez said.

  “I’ve been talking to Lord Ngeni about that,” Roland said. “We’ll talk some more.”

  “Be careful,” Martinez said. “Lady Distchin might not be the only Peer who wants you dead.”

  Rivven’s haughty gray face hovered over the far end of the table. “I hope we can get through the hearing quickly,” he said in his melodious Daimong voice, “while memories of the incident are still fresh.”

  Sula leaned back in her chair. Headache battered at her temples, and her ears were still singing from the explosion the previous afternoon. When she closed her eyes, she could see the bomb sending the guards’ car skyward, smell the combined odors of propellant and blood, hear the thunder of the bomb that blew the doors inward . . . The faint scent of Rivven’s rotting flesh did nothing to help her suppress the memories.

  “Let’s begin,” Sula said, “and get this over with.”

  “I would like to introduce a note of caution,” said Serdar Gunaydin. He sat on Sula’s right at the Commandery conference table. “I am Lady Sula’s personal physician. She has been exhibiting signs of a possible concussion, and if she becomes fatigued, or if her condition worsens in any way, I will bring this hearing to an end.”

  “Very good, Doctor,” the defector said. “Under the circumstances, I do not wish to stress Lady Sula unduly.”

  The three were alone with a clerk/recorder in the monumental conference room, designed to accommodate the towering Shaa. Murals of warships and planets filled the walls. Rivven signaled the recorder to trigger his instrument, and turned to Lady Sula and asked his first question.

  He led Sula through the ambush, the bomb, the firefight at the Martinez house. He concluded by asking Sula if she had any idea who was responsible for the attack.

  When she’d finally had time to think rather than react, Sula had first blamed the manager at the Rose and Dagger Club, who might have invited her to the derivoo competition with the intention of ambushing her, but she’d later reconsidered. The derivoo competition had been widely publicized, and the attackers had enough time to plan the attack once Sula’s appearance had been announced.

  Sula said that she had no idea who might have been responsible. “But I have made enemies in my career,” she added.

  “Those who uphold the Praxis,” Rivven said, “will naturally make enemies among the weak and disloyal.”

  With that sententious statement, Rivven signaled the recorder to stop. He turned to Sula and his inner mouth parts writhed prior to speaking again, when he was interrupted by his sleeve display. He answered.

  “This is Gareth Martinez, my lord.” The name still had enough impact to send a jolt through Sula’s nerves. “I’ve just been informed that the attack on Lady Sula was organized by Lady Distchin.”

  Another jolt of electric fire crackled up Sula’s nerves.

  “That is very surprising!” Rivven said.

  “The attack was driven by personal animosity,” Martinez said, “and apparently had no political dimension.”

  “To think that such a grand Peer would so lower herself as to plan a sneaking assassination!” Rivven proclaimed.

  “The Peer’s grandeur came from plundered wealth,” Sula said, “and if it weren’t for all that grandeur and money, she’d have been tossed in the Blue Hatches Prison long ago.”

  Rivven’s frozen face managed to seem even more indignant than normal, as if he were offended on behalf of the whole Order of Peers. What? Sula wondered. You haven’t yet worked out that we’re just a bunch of brigands?

  “Ask if Distchin’s been arrested,” Sula said.

  Rivven repeated the question, which Sula was certain Martinez had heard perfectly well. “Not yet,” he answered. “The constables are still putting their raiding party together.”

  “I’ll meet them at the Distchin Palace,” Sula said.

  “Be careful not to warn Distchin and her crew!” Martinez said in sudden urgency.

  Sula laughed. “I know how to call the shots on an ambush,” she reminded him. She turned to Rivven. “If we’re done here . . . ?” she asked.

  Rivven’s black-on-black eyes turned to her. “Yes, my lady. I think we have everything we need.”

  Sula turned to Dr. Gunaydin. “Are you coming?”

  He gave her a wary look. “It seems I am.”

  Sula had her guards equip themselves with armor and weapons from their vehicles before setting out, and then approached the Distchin Palace along the Boulevard of the Praxis before turning onto a side street, where it was possible to view the palace from across a park. Even though a cold winter sun shone in a clear sky, white snow from the previous night’s fall still crusted windowsills and outlined the dark iron pickets of the palace wall. The palace itself had an imposing façade of red-veined marble in the Devis mode, but Sula could see Tanyl-style windows hidden away beneath gables, and elements of elaborate Nayanid stylings tucked away in obscure corners, and so had the impression the palace was remodeled every generation or so into the most up-to-date and fashionable style. Apparently this was the sort of thing the Distchins spent their stolen money on.

  Sula waited on the edge of her seat, her eyes narrowed as she looked into the blank windows of the red-veined palace. Then she straightened as a low burnt-orange limousine drew up to the front of the building. Several people came out the front door, and Sula recognized Lady Distchin less by her appearance—she was swathed up to the neck in an indigo-colored winter coat and had darkened bubbles over her nocturnal eyes—but Sula knew her by her arrogant carriage and the way the others in her party deferred to her.

  “Alert!” Sula said. “The target is moving!”

  Gunaydin stirred uneasily at her side. “Isn’t someone else supposed to deal with this?”

  Sula looked at him. “Do you see someone else here?”

  Adrenaline sped through her on a river all aflame. She turned to Macnamara in the driver’s seat. “Turn around,” she said, “and prepare to intercept.”

  Macnamara spoke on his circuit to the other drivers, and the three vehicles turned in synchrony across the side street toward the Boulevard of the Praxis just as the burnt-orange limousine drew away from the curb.

  “First car cut them off,” Sula instructed, “third car keep them from reversing. Everyone stay alert.”

  “I am suddenly aware,” said Gunaydin, “that not only do I carry a pistol I’m not trained to use, I’m the only person in this vehicle without armor.”

  She put her hand on his knee. “Get into cover right away,” she said.

  Gunaydin barked a laugh. “You promised me your life in Zanshaa would be dull.”

  The guards remembered that three of their number had died yesterday and were highly motivated to get this right. The lead car slid in front of Distchin and braked, and the rear car cut off her retreat. Macnamara drew to a halt alongside. Doors rolled up and Terrans with guns tumbled out. Sula got her feet onto the pavement, crab-stepped to the rear of the vehicle, and leveled her rifle over the trunk. Astringent winter air chilled her cheeks, her fingers. She was aware of Gunaydin hovering nearby, holding his pistol in an uncertain hand.

  “Everyone step out of the car!” she said. “Hands in the air!”

  Please resist. The voice whispered in a corner of her brain. Please resist, and then we can riddle you and leave you dying in the gutter.

  No resistance was offered. Lady Distchin stepped out of the vehicle, her proud carriage now slumped, her hands high. Sula grinned at Gunaydin.

  “Humiliation now,” she said, “flaming fur later.”

  “I’m sorry, princess,” said Naveen Patel. “We knew about it, but we didn’t think it was political.”

  “They didn’t recruit from any particular unit in the police or the Legion or the Steadfast League,” said Julien Bakshi. His pointed face turned wry. “Someone from this group, another from another group. We thought they were going to do some kind of crime, a hijacking or something.”

  “Also,” said Patel, “a couple drawn from the Legion. That was interesting.”

  The commission would demand a share of any big crimes committed in its territory, Sula knew. And if they discovered any member of the Legion involved in criminal activity, they would certainly take advantage of that, demanding information about Legion operations.

  There was potentially a big payday involved. Sula wasn’t surprised that they’d seen what they wanted to see.

  “We called it wrong,” said Julien. “I’m sorry about it.”

  “Well,” said Sula, “I wouldn’t have guessed either. Lady Distchin raising a private army as part of a personal vendetta? I suppose it’s not something you’d look for.”

  They were in Julien Bakshi’s private office, a place of brass and red leather above the restaurant he owned off Harmony Square in the Lower Town. The air stank of the cigarillo stubs crowding Julien’s ashtray. He politely refrained from smoking in Sula’s presence, but the reek of tobacco was so strong that it hardly mattered.

  The leather-padded door opened, and one of Julien’s associates put his head in. “Mr. Sagas is here.”

  Julien automatically reached for his packet of cigarillos, then withdrew his hand. “Might as well go to dinner,” he said.

  They rose from their chairs. Julien winced, then pressed a hand above his left hip.

  “Shrapnel still bothering you?” Sula asked.

  “Shrapnel’s taken out,” Julien said, “but I have what the doc calls adhesions.”

  “Good luck with all that,” Sula said. “Just keep telling yourself it could have been worse.”

  They began to descend the narrow back stairs. Cans and boxes of food supplies were neatly stacked on one side of the staircase, and they had to descend in single file as it narrowed.

  Cooking smells floated up the stairway. A sudden need for alcohol settled into Sula’s bones.

  “Let’s stop by the bar first,” she said.

  Julien looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Picked up a new vice?” he asked.

  “I do, every decade or so,” Sula said. “It keeps me young.”

  Midwinter was a season, Severin thought, of weddings and executions. Lady Distchin died first, strung up and disemboweled at the Blue Hatches Prison, and then the leaders of the old government were killed on the ring after their lives had been so fully mined for scandal that there was nothing left. Gruum died with dignity, Tu-hon screamed about how she was no worse than anyone else, and Minno looked as if he’d stopped caring long ago.

  Lord Pa Do-faq, back on Harzapid, was granted a more merciful death, being merely shot in the head.

  As for weddings, a great many had followed the end of the war, and Severin’s would take place in a few weeks. Now his future in-laws were hosting a celebration at the Baldpate restaurant in the Petty Mount. The Bellanti family weren’t prepared to wait for the wedding before imposing themselves on Zanshaa—they were reviewing every contract the Exploration Service had open, in hopes that Severin would help them win the bids, and because they were using the Martinez family as a model, they were in the process of shifting every young, single member of the family to Zanshaa, in hopes of matching them with High City families. Severin thought they were going about this in completely the wrong way, but they outnumbered him and were very insistent.

  They were also vexed with him that he wouldn’t let them buy him a colossal palace in the High City to serve as the headquarters for their operations. Severin was insistent that he wasn’t going to be a Peer, and that he would live off the Old Park in a modest part of the Lower Town.

  At least his fiancée, Alaya, was in accord with his wishes.

  Martinez had described her as a pleasant person, and truly she seemed pleasant enough. That she was a widow made things simple—they could plan their marriage in the same way old veterans might plan a campaign, without illusion or undue sentiment.

  He didn’t love her, but perhaps some form of love would come in time—though he thought it was fine if it didn’t. Lady Starkey had left a hole in his heart so vast that no one else could ever fill it.

  The scent of roast Hone-bar phoenix rose from the buffet, a regional treat for the Bellantis, who hailed from the Hone Reach. Severin received congratulations from the premiere lieutenant of the Expedition, Chungsun Cleghorne. “She’s quite a peach, my lord!” Cleghorne said. “Quite the peach!”

  Severin would have described her more as a plum, with her deep brown hair, turned-up nose, and dark complexion, but Cleghorne’s compliment was kindly meant, and he thanked his lieutenant, then turned to Martinez, who followed Cleghorne up the buffet line.

  “I see you’re a fleet commander again,” Severin said.

  “And about time,” Martinez said.

  The Convocation had just passed an ordinance stating that any promotions made under the authority of the Restoration government in exile were made permanent, with seniority dating from the day of commission, and now Martinez was again wearing the insignia that Wei Jian had insisted he remove.

  Martinez brandished his plate of Hone-bar phoenix and almost shot his breast fillet back onto the buffet. “Do you know what I’m doing with my advanced rank?” he said. “Planning Wei Jian’s parade! That’s all my battles and years of service are good for!”

  “Come now,” Severin said. “You turned the Fourth Fleet into a weapon. That was your real accomplishment—building a machine so perfect that Wei Jian adopted it without making a single change.”

  Martinez was mollified by Severin’s praise. “But still,” he muttered, “a parade.”

  “It’s a compliment to your planning skills.” Severin smiled. “Take comfort from the fact that you predicted Jian would opt for the parade and for the rank of Supreme Commander, and you were right.”

  Martinez smiled. “And I was right about Alaya, wasn’t I?”

  Severin looked over his shoulder in the direction of his fiancée, who was chatting with some of her woman friends and a few officers from the Exploration Service. “You were right, mostly,” he said. “Though her family is a good deal more insistent than you led me to believe.”

  Martinez gave a wry smile. “That’s families for you.”

  “It turns out that Alaya is a fan of my puppet shows,” Severin said. “She wants to see more, so apparently I’m a puppeteer again.”

  “There’s still plenty in our world to satirize.”

  “I suppose so.” Severin looked up as one of his soon-to-be in-laws approached. “Speaking of families . . .”

  There were a lot of Bellantis and Severin couldn’t quite remember this one’s forename. Bellondo? Benegal? Something like that, anyway.

  The young man didn’t wait for Severin to address him by name. “Nikki,” he said. “I was wondering if you could introduce me to Lady Atasi Sukhija? Her brother is in charge of procurement for the Second Fleet at Magaria, and . . .”

  “Yes, certainly,” Severin said. He turned to Martinez. “If you’ll forgive me, Gareth?”

  “Of course.” Martinez seemed amused by the avaricious family he’d unleashed on Zanshaa, and on Severin.

  Severin let Bellondo/Benegal take his arm and guide him toward Lady Atasi and the hoped-for contract.

  Light shone on the party guests from the clerestory above. The tart citrus savor of her brandy sunflower flooded Sula’s tongue. She swallowed and felt the alcohol burn its way down her throat.

  “Of course I’ll recommend you whenever possible,” she said. “But I’m not involved with procurement in any way.”

  “I’m sure your recommendation would be treated with respect,” said Sempronia Shankaracharya. Her eyes narrowed as she looked across the room at her brothers, Gareth and Roland.

  Sula was amused at how the party was dividing itself into camps. The Martinez family and their friends had claimed a large swath of the dining room. Sula, Sempronia, and Nikkul Shankaracharya were at the center of another grouping. The Bellanti family formed another group centered on Alaya, and they raided other groups in hopes of plunder. Meanwhile, Nikki Severin wandered from one group to another, amiable in his blue uniform tunic and Explorer’s Medal.

  “We have a new upgrade for our sensor suite,” Sempronia said. “Nikki has already placed an order, though the paperwork is caught in the bureaucracy for the present. We’d like to sell it to the Fleet if the Chen-Martinez wall isn’t too insurmountable.”

  “I’ll introduce you to Supreme Commander Jian,” Sula said with an inward smile. “She decides these things, not your brothers.”

  “Well in that case,” said Sempronia, “we have more things on offer than the sensor suites.”

  Nikki Severin ambled toward them, a drink in his hand. “May I hide among you?” he said. “I need a refuge from my future in-laws.”

  “The very last thing an arriviste family should do,” Sula said, “is to actually act like an arriviste family in public.”

  “I told them they were doing it wrong,” Severin said, “but they wouldn’t listen. They’re lower-middle-middle, they can’t act as if they were home in Hone-bar.”