Maurice Chen waved at a friend across the lobby. “Dreadful accent the man’s got,” he said.
“Both brothers. The sisters’ voices are sweeter, but more insistent.”
“You’re marrying PJ to one of them, aren’t you?”
Lord Pierre shrugged. “PJ’s got to marry someone. A Martinez is probably as high as he can hope.”
Lord Chen guided Pierre into the lobby lounge, where legislators, meeting clients or family, were thick on the deep pile carpet before the bar. He caught the eye of one of the waitrons and signaled for two of the usual.
“The Martinez family’s very wealthy, I understand,” he said.
“And they’re doing their best to display it while they’re here.” Sourly.
“They don’t seem vulgar, though, from what I’ve seen of them. I haven’t seen them making the mistakes the newly arrived usually make.”
Lord Pierre hesitated, then agreed. “Nothing gauche,” he said. “Except their accents.”
“Lord Roland spoke to me of his plan for the opening of Chee and Parkhurst.”
Lord Pierre looked at Chen in surprise. “He only spoke to me of it a few days ago. I’ve barely had time to consider the scheme.”
“The scheme seemed fairly complete to me.”
“He should have let me present it to people, once I’d had a chance to review it. The Martinez clan are always in a hurry.” Lord Pierre shook his head. “They have no patience, no sense of occasion—everything’s a rush with them. My father tells me it was the same with their father, the current Lord Martinez.”
“Lord Roland has only a limited time on Zanshaa. I’m sure he’d like to get things in train before he leaves. And he’s certainly done his homework.”
Drinks arrived. Lord Pierre raised his glass to his lips, then hesitated. “I say, Lord Chen,” he said, “what’s your interest in Roland Martinez?”
Lord Chen spread his hands. “Just that he seems a very…thoroughyoung man. He’s looked into a number of schemes that have got jammed up one way or another, what with uncertainty and inertia and the death of the Great Masters. Including the station at Choy-on, which should have been expanded to a full-scale antimatter ring ages ago.”
Lord Pierre’s pebble eyes gazed unblinking at Maurice Chen. “You have shipping interests at Choy-on,” he said.
“And I also have ships that could be leased long-term to help settle Chee and Parkhurst.”
“Ah.” Lord Pierre took a long, deliberate swallow of his drink, and seemed to chew it on the way down. “Since you’ve taken such an interest in Clan Martinez,” he said, “I wonder if you might consider helping Lord Gareth.”
“Lord Gareth needs help?”
“Lord Gareth needs promotion. I really don’t have any family remaining in a position to help him, not since my great-aunt retired.” His lips tightened in what might have been a smile. “Butyou , I seem to remember, have a squadron commander in the family.”
“My sister, Michi.”
“And your daughter is marrying a captain, I seem to remember.”
“But Lord Richard can’t promote anyone to command. He has no command himself, at present.”
“Your sister can, and does.”
“Possiblymy sister can,” Lord Chen qualified. “I’ll inquire and see what she can do.”
“You’ll have my gratitude.”
“And you already have mine. For letting me bore you with this subject.”
“Not at all.”
Later, as he left the lounge, Maurice, Lord Chen reflected on the conversation and decided that things had, for a change, gone very well.
Now if only he could get out of Oceanographic and Forestry and into something more useful.
Sula raised her glass to the newly commissioned Sublieutenant Lord Jeremy Foote, and toasted his good fortune. Foote had insisted on filling the glass with champagne despite her protests. She moistened her lips with the wine and put the glass down.
“Thank you,” Foote said. “I appreciate you all turning up for my farewell dinner.” He unleashed a bright white smile. “I wonder how many of you would have shown if I hadn’t been paying for it.”
Sula allowed herself to smile as the predictable laughter rolled from the guests.
It would have been impolite to refuse Foote’s invitation. The Fleet hadn’t found her employment, other than to run messages in the Commandery, which put her in the cadets’ lounge every day. After a few straightforward attempts to get her into bed, and some equally unsuccessful tries at bullying her into doing his work, Foote seemed to accept the fact that she wasn’t interested in playing his games, and then treated her with a brotherly familiarity calculated to annoy her. But they had survived the time in the cadets’ lounge without actually plunging daggers into one another, and Sula supposed that was worth a toast or two, especially as she’d never have to toast him again.
She had to admit that Foote looked fine in his new white uniform with its dark green collar and cuffs, his sublieutenant’s narrow stripe bright on his shoulder boards. He hadn’t actually done anything so unfashionable as to pass his lieutenants’ exams: his uncle, as a senior captain commanding theBombardment of Delhi , was allowed to raise two cadets to a lieutenancy every year provided he had vacancies in his own ship, and Foote had long been marked for one of these. Tomorrow Foote would take up his post asDelhi’s navigation officer, where well-trained subordinates and a computer would doubtless assist him in not diving the heavy cruiser straight into the nearest star.
Foote had thrown a splendid party. He’d rented a private dining room in the 1,800-year-old New Bridge restaurant in the High City, and provided entertainment as well, a raucous six-piece band that had the floorboards throbbing beneath Sula’s feet. The food arrived in fourteen courses—Sula counted—and the drinks were unending. Cadet Parker seemed to have ordered up a woman to go along with the food and drink—at least, Sula hadn’t yet met any woman who dressed that way for free—and Sula wondered if Foote was paying for that as well.
After Foote started grabbing his guests and shoving them under the long table so they could sing the “Congratulations” round fromLord Fizz Takes a Holiday, Sula slipped from her place, opened one of the tall doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. Drunken chanting echoed behind her as she braced her arms on the wrought-iron and polished brass rail and gazed down at the night traffic. Peers walked or drove on their usual evening round of parties and dinners and meetings; servants slumped along to the funicular that would take them to their homes in the Lower Town; and groups of young people half danced their way to a night of adventure.
It had been a while since she’d been part of such a group, on her way to such an adventure. She wondered if she missed it.
Sometimes, she decided. Sometimes she missed it very much.
She had spotted Martinez once, at the Imperial, at a performance ofKho-So’s Elegy , which was about the most exciting sort of entertainment permitted in the month following the Great Master’s death. Sula had been in the Li family box with Lady Amita and some of her friends, and saw him in the stalls below in the company of a woman with an astounding hourglass figure and glossy dark hair.So that’s the kind he likes , she sneered, and immediately sensed the injustice of her thought—Martinez had seemed to like her well enough until she’d ruined everything.
She didn’t think he’d seen her at the theater. She’d stayed in the box through intermission, chatting to Lady Amita, and delayed their departure as much as she could.
A pair of arms encircled Sula from behind. She found herself relaxing into them, then Foote spoiled the illusion by talking.
“You looked lonely,” he said. “This party isn’t your sort of thing, is it?”
“It was, once,” Sula said. “Then I turned seventeen.”
“There’s been talk about you.” Foote nuzzled her hair to one side and spoke at close range into her ear. “We’ve been wondering if you’re really a virgin. I bet the others that you aren’t.”
“You lose,” Sula said. She detached his arms from her, turned to face him, and felt a fierce inward satisfaction as she thought,Good. Open season on you, then .
Foote brushed invisible lint off his new tunic, then glanced out at the city. “That’s your old home by the funicular, isn’t it? The one with the blue dome.”