Chapter Twenty

Deep Space

The surviving pirate warship dropped out of jump at a random set of coordinates far from any star system, a tiny island of life alone in the vast darkness. The pirates didn't intend to stay here long; this place was technically within the borders of the Dozen Stars but had no material or strategic value; it had been selected merely for its isolation. After all, the ship couldn't risk discovery while dropped out of jump in order to receive communication.

The Commander stood alone in his private chambers, facing the holoprojector that stood brooding and patient in one corner. A light flashed on its control panel, signaling an incoming call; the Commander tapped a button lightly to receive and then as a shimmering holofigure flickered into existence he went down on one knee, saluting over his heart in Imperial fashion.

He had never seen his patron's true appearance, nor heard the man's true voice – he wasn't, in fact, entirely certain that his patron was a man. The holoimage itself was an avatar designed to give nothing away, a blurry, shadowy silhouette of a humanoid figure that stood with its hands behind its back, featureless save for a pair of burning white eyes in an otherwise blank face. This was the only image the patron had ever shown, and so long as he – or she – kept providing payment and resources, the Commander was content to allow him – or her – his privacy.

"My lord," the Commander said. "How may I serve you?"

"Commander," the patron said in a garbled, mechanical voice. "I am disappointed in you."

"Disappointed, my lord?" the Commander asked. "I evaded the trap the regent set for me, have convinced him that I am dead. Despite our recent losses, I remain in a position to strike when he least expects it…"

"And you have done so for the price of almost your entire operation, the lives of a significant portion of your forces and millions of denarii worth of equipment!" the patron snapped. "Even my resources, extensive as they are, have limits; this is not a loss I can easily absorb. I had thought you had matured from the brute you were in the Alaelam Wars under my guidance; it seems I was mistaken."

The Commander bowed his head. "Forgive me, my lord," he said. "The regent and his allies brought forces greater than I felt I could reasonably defeat; I thought it wise to let him think he'd won while I withdrew, to serve you better by preserving my own life and that of my most elite warriors…"

"Spare me," the patron said. "You sought to save your own life because you have no desire to die; the benefit to me was a secondary concern. Consider yourself fortunate, however, that your selfishness is not without benefit in this particular instance. I have another task for you, and a chance for you to find some measure of redemption."

"Command me, my lord," the Commander said.

"The rulers of the Dozen Stars have determined that they shall fill their vacant throne by means of a tournament at arms, to be held at the turning of the year on Carann," the patron said, distaste evident even through the garbled quality of the voice. "I do not intend to allow a new monarch to ascend, and this tournament offers a unique opportunity for us."

"Do you… intend that I or one of my elites enter, my lord?" the Commander asked. "I could see the benefit in such a course, but I think that the odds of succeeding at it are low enough that I would not think to attempt it unless it is at your command…"

"Of course not; don't be a fool," the patron snapped. "You aren't one of their nobles, and I don't have time to sufficiently ingratiate you with a guild in order to earn their patronage. No, the tournament is only an excuse – it means that, for the first time in decades, all, or almost all, of the titled nobles of the Dozen Stars will be gathered together in one place." The patron's eyes glittered. "I think you can understand the opportunity this presents for us."

The Commander felt his breath catch and was certain that his heart would have missed a beat had it not been replaced with a sophisticated mechanical pump years ago. "My lord," he said slowly, "if you're suggesting what I think you are, it would be the greatest blow we have struck against the Dozen Stars since killing the queen. Greater, perhaps."

"Yes," the Patron said. "This is my command to you – go to Carann when the time comes. I can arrange for you to be granted clearance that will get you to the planet's surface, and I will trust your stealth technology to do the rest. You will enter the palace and, at the final round with the eyes of the entire Kingdom on you, you and your soldiers will kill the contestants and every noble of rank in the audience. The Dozen Stars will watch in horror as its entire ruling class is decapitated, along with their hope for the future. If you succeed, the Kingdom will splinter and soon fall, with minimal further effort. And even if you fail, the damage you do to the duchies' succession will be catastrophic. At long last, the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars will be finished either way, and your labors of the past two decades will not be in vain."

"I will not fail you, my lord," the Commander said, clapping his fist over his heart once again in salute.

"Of course not," the patron said. "But as a reminder…" he raised his hand and made a gesture in the air; the Commander knew that he was tapping keys on a control panel on his end which the holo didn't show. A moment later, the Commander collapsed, screaming, his cybernetics sending out waves of unbearable pain through his body, pain so great that it seemed that a few minutes of it would be enough to destroy him entirely… and then it was over, and he was left panting face down on his floor.

"Succeed or fail, I have the power of life or death over you," the Patron said calmly. "I had you remade, Commander – I could just as easily have you unmade. Attempt to betray me again, or to save your own life at the expense of my plans and know that what I have given you just now is but a taste. I dislike invoking the lash, but your recent performance makes the reminder a necessary one. Don't make it necessary again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the Commander gasped.

"Good. I look forward to watching your performance at the tournament." The holoimage flickered and vanished.

The Commander lay on the floor for several more minutes, and when he felt he was recovered he stood and pressed a button on his wrist-comm to summon Two immediately. Moments later, she entered the chambers and saluted. "Listen well," the Commander said. "We have new orders, and much to prepare…"

/

The great doors to the royal palace's tournament hall creaked open, and Mardoban stepped inside, surveying his surroundings with faint distaste. No tournament had been held here since Aestera had died, and the practice hadn't been common on Carann for some decades before that. The hall was dim, and dusty from disuse, but its grandeur couldn't be denied, nonetheless. It was a great, semicircular arena, surrounded on three sides by the bleachers where a thousand spectators could sit. Above the stands were the alcoves where the recording mechs perched, waiting patiently for the time when they would be called back into service – it was their job to transmit the tournament across the entirety of the Dozen Stars. Facing the audience was the dais where the judges – which, for a tournament this important, would be Mardoban and his fellow dukes – would sit. In the center of the floor was a raised square platform where the contestants would face one another – the central focus for everything that was to transpire here.

What a way, Mardoban thought, for a throne to change hands – assuming, of course, that the crown would find whoever won the tournament, or more likely, the head of their house, worthy. Of course, even if it didn't, some of the dukes might still manage to use such a victory as leverage to get their preferred candidate into power. Though just as likely, the odds of a tournament of such high stakes leading to no legitimate monarch would lead to civil war at long last. That was the possibility Mardoban dreaded the most, and a part of him feared it was the most likely.

Well, he would deal with that when the time came. The regent gestured over his shoulder and a small group of cleaning mechs glided into the room behind him. "Get to work at once," he ordered. "I'll need this place spotless by the time the tournament begins – they'll never let me hear the end of it if I leave so much as a speck of dust." The mechs didn't have expressions that a human being might read, one reason why people often found them so disconcerting, but their eyelights flashed once in acknowledgment and they began to drift through the hall in a geometric pattern, cleaning limbs extended as they set to work.

The sound of human footsteps echoed behind Mardoban, and he turned to see the High Prelate enter the hall, flanked by a pair of younger priests. The old man inclined his head when he saw the regent, enough to be respectful without placing himself, and by extension the Church, in a subordinate position, and Mardoban returned the gesture before walking to his side.

"When I said that the Dozen Stars needed a leader, Mardoban," the High Prelate said, "I have to admit that young nobles dueling for the crown was not what I had in mind."

Mardoban chuckled darkly. "Nor I," he said. "But the council has spoken, and therefore I must abide by their judgment. Besides, as I've explained to the honorable Imperial Ambassador, dueling is an honored tradition of our Kingdom. I supposed you could say we're just being true to our heritage."

"That may be," the High Prelate said, "but I am a man of the Lord, not a man of war. As distasteful as I may find the process, it isn't the place of the Church to dictate secular policy. Still," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "I doubt this is what our mutual friend had in mind when he left us that crown. If rule by the strongest warrior was what he wanted, he needn't have bothered, I think."

"I agree," Mardoban replied in the same tone, "but if I told the council I wanted to base the running of the Kingdom on an eccentric old mystic who half of them considered a fraud and the other half a madman, they'd strip me of my title faster than I could say his name. Better to let them think that that crown is a ploy by one of their own – or even a sign from the Lord. It's easier that way."

"I suppose," the High Prelate said, though he was clearly unhappy with the situation. "Still, I once told you that I would bless the coronation of whoever that crown found worthy if it meant restoring some unity to the Dozen Stars, and I stand by that – and I suppose I can extend it to the winner of this tournament." The elderly priest stepped back and looked around, rubbing his hands together. "Now, to the business at hand. There was a time when the Church was expected to bless all transfers of power; the practice has largely fallen off these days, but I think that if we're really going through with the tournament, it needs all the legitimacy it can get. Otherwise some of the dukes might get… ideas."

"That makes a certain amount of sense," Mardoban said slowly; though he respected the High Prelate personally, he didn't much care for the Church's intrusion into the political realm. "What do you intend?"

"At the moment, just to bless the arena," the High Prelate said. "Later, perhaps, to lead a prayer at the opening ceremonies. I don't intend to do much – as I said, it isn't my role to dictate policy. But the census estimates that upwards of eighty percent of the Dozen Stars holds to the Church in some capacity and invoking the Lord's blessing on the procedure could help smooth over any… potential uncertainties."

Mardoban was silent for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "You may place your blessings and say your prayers, but promise me you'll stay neutral and not imply, even vaguely, that you're endorsing one duchy's contestants over another's. Religious conflict can be a nasty thing, and I ask you not to open the door to that even a small amount. For the good of the Kingdom."

The High Prelate nodded. "Of course," he said. "The Church has traditionally been neutral in Kingdom politics, and I intend to keep it that way while it remains under my watch. For the good of the Kingdom, and the honor of the Lord. My purpose is to lessen strife among humankind, not to add to it."

Mardoban smiled. "Well," he said, "I'm glad at least one person here thinks that way."

/

The regent watched the priests begin their ritual blessing. Four more of them had entered, bearing tall staves that ended in braziers that burned with orange flames – the Light of the Lord's Wisdom, the Canon called it. The staff-bearers moved to the edges of the hall and held their torches aloft, while a pair of holy sisters who had entered behind them opened their large, ornate Canons and began to recite their prayers in the sacred language that had been carried from Lost Terra. The High Prelate stood in the center of the room, supervising; he looked back at Mardoban and the two men exchanged another nod.

With the priests' ritual well under way, and the cleaning mechs still scrubbing the chamber itself, and neither seeming like they needed much in the way of Mardoban's oversight, he excused himself politely and made his way to the throne room. It was empty, as was usual these days when the council wasn't in session; he nodded at the guards as he walked inside and approached the throne slowly. There, on its lap, was the crown, which had been placed there once again after Respen had hurled it aside when it had rejected him.

Mardoban picked up the crown but didn't move to place it on his head. Instead he simply turned it in his hands, regarding it carefully. It was a simple thing, as such objects went, a golden circlet set with small sapphires along the rim – blue and gold, the colors of House ast Carann. Royal colors. There was no sign of the sensors or circuits that Mardoban knew must be somewhere inside that band, and of course, if the Professor had used his Adept's skills on it, there was no way for Mardoban, an ordinary man, to recognize that handiwork. And yet this simple piece of jewelry had struck down an arrogant duke, and on it the whole fate of a nation that spanned star systems might turn. The regent suddenly felt very small holding it, and very, very weary.

"Father?" a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Pakorus standing there. The boy – no, Mardoban reminded himself, he's almost a man now -was regarding him with concern in his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, son," Mardoban said, placing the crown back on the throne and sighing. "But if anyone ever tells you that power brings you happiness, they're either lying or they're insane. Power, if you use it right, is a burden, not a privilege. And I've carried my burden for too long, now."

Pakorus looked confused, and Mardoban could tell he didn't understand, not really. Still, he stepped forward and put his hand on his father's arm. "I believe in you," he said quietly. "I believe that you'll be able to bring the Dozen Stars through all of this and see someone worthy put on the throne, and then you'll be able to put that burden down. It won't be too much longer – I hope. But I'll be there for you."

Mardoban stood still for a long moment, then grabbed his son and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "I know you will," he said. "Thank you, Pakorus. I love you, son, and I want to make certain you know that, in case… well, in case." He pulled back, blinking a few tears from the edges of his eyes. "Now, is there anything you need?"

"Yes, actually," Pakorus said, doing his best to appear professional now. "Ambassador Preas is here to see you. Can I tell her you're available?"

"Well, duty calls," Mardoban said, sighing. "Send her in." Pakorus nodded and hurried from the council chamber; a moment later, Ambassador Ceana Preas swept into the room. She was a stately woman of Mardoban's generation and carried herself with a regal dignity, though he knew from experience that she could had no tolerance for fools and could be decidedly acerbic. She represented the Realtran Kingdom, another nation which had broken away from the Empire as it had weakened; not nearly so powerful as that ancient and still-mighty regime, but still a significant political consideration.

Ceana and Quarinis despised one another, of course – not unsurprising considering the contentious history between their two nations. Mardoban had learned long ago that it was wise not to meet with both of them in the same room if one had any desire to get anything constructive accomplished.

Ceana approached the throne, looked down at the crown and sniffed disdainfully. "So, this is it," she said. "I heard that you all were finally planning to put someone in charge after fifteen years. A sensible system would have prevented this, you know."

"True enough," Mardoban said with a respectful bow. "Unfortunately, we can't all be as wise as the Realtrans." Realtran was technically a hereditary monarchy, but the king or queen was elected by their parliament and though he or she served for life, the position would not pass on to their heir without the parliament’s blessing. Even in cases where a monarch had died without heirs, or those heirs had been deemed unworthy, Mardoban had never heard of the Realtran throne standing empty for longer than a month.

"Isn't that the truth," Ceana muttered. "Well, I have my reservations about the way you're going about doing things, but it's your country and your traditions. I suppose I have to live with them. I am here to say that Realtran intends to stand beside whoever ends up taking your throne. A stable Dozen Stars benefits all of us, and I don't think I'm revealing any state secrets to say that our parliament hasn't been happy to watch you fracturing since poor Aestera was killed. Though I have to say, whoever gets your throne, I dearly hope it isn't Respen." The Duke of Aurann's military buildups had long been a cause for concern for neighboring nations, who feared he might seek out war with them in order to demonstrate his power; privately, Mardoban wouldn't put it past him. "Is it true this thing nearly killed him?"

Ceana gestured at the crown, and Mardoban shook his head. "I think 'nearly killed' is overstating the matter," he said, "but let's just say that whatever Respen's idea of his claim's validity, whoever created this crown didn't appear to agree with it. The experience of wearing it was… less than pleasant for him."

"Well, I think there are elements in my government who'd say it was better than he deserved," Ceana said. "In any case, best of luck on finally getting your succession sorted out. Lord knows it's time for it. And I think it's none too soon." She regarded Mardoban darkly. "There's a grim feeling on the air, regent. I've felt it, and I think you have too. Something is coming; I don't know what it is, but I'd rather face it with allies than without. Get your country sorted out, old friend, before it's too late."

"I'm trying, Ambassador," Mardoan said with a resigned air. "Unfortunately, my country and I don't always see eye to eye."