Friends Like These

December 487 I.C., Iserlohn Fortress

Reuenthal had not kept much with him in the way of personal property on his flagship, which made packing it all up easier. He had never thought of himself as a sentimental man, but, as he walked the halls of the Ostberlin for the last time, he found himself standing in doorways, peering into empty rooms, feeling a tug in his chest. The ship, which was at the end of its service life, was set to be used as a training vessel for a few years, and then scrapped. It and the Westberlin had been some of the last ships in their class to be in service, and it had only been a matter of time before the two ships would be retired. Now that Reuenthal and Mittermeyer were being transferred back to Odin, that time had come.

He walked off the ship one last time, carefully not giving it a single backwards glance until he was far enough from it that no one was paying attention to his moment of weakness. He looked at it through the long windows that overlooked Iserlohn’s drydock, felt strange, and hurried away to the bar where Mittermeyer was waiting for him. They would both be on a passenger transport back to the capital in a few hours, but there was time before then to drink and talk in the semi-privacy afforded by a corner booth at a bar. He wasn’t sure how much time they would be able to spend together while en route— and, besides, Mittermeyer always got antsy in the few days before he was to leave Iserlohn; Reuenthal found it hard to believe that this trip would be any different.

The bar was crowded and dark. Although it was one meant only for officers, this didn’t make it any less busy. It was the time of the month when personnel reassignments were going out, and so there were a higher number of people than usual inside, doing exactly as Reuenthal and Mittermeyer were: celebrating or mourning transfers. Paradoxically, the more crowded the bar was, the easier it was for their conversations to remain private.

Mittermeyer was already sitting in the back of the bar, and had already gotten drinks for himself and Reuenthal. There were two untouched beers in front of him, and shoved one over to Reuenthal as he sat down without saying a word.

Reuenthal raised his glass silently, and they had an unspoken toast.

The beer took his mind off the desolate Ostberlin , as did seeing Mittermeyer, his flaxen hair reflecting the dim yellow lights of the bar.

Reuenthal finally said,“I won’t ask you if you’re pleased to be leaving.”

“At least our punishment is over.”

“Is it?”

“Well, I won’t have to do any more patrols, at least,” Mittermeyer said. “And I’ve never heard anyone else say that a do-nothing job in the capital is a punishment. Most people think it’s a vacation.”

“Having my flagship scrapped seems like a punishment to me.”

Mittermeyer frowned into his beer. “Don’t remind me.”

“Yours isn’t even being used for training is it?”

“No,” Mittermeyer said. “She’s headed for the scrapyard immediately. Unless they use her as target practice first. She got too beat up when I had to go pull Leigh out of the corridor.”

Reuenthal gave a dark chuckle. “And I crashed your car— you seem to have some bad luck concerning vehicles.”

“I’ll make a note to never buy a yacht when I retire, in case you or Leigh need me to scuttle it for some reason.”

“Sound choice.”

Mittermeyer sighed. He fished around in his pocket for something, and pulled out a little metal emblem: the Westberlin ’s symbol, wrought in bronze, which he had clearly pried out of the door to his office on the ship. He tossed it to Reuenthal. “There’s your memento.”

Reuenthal reached into his own pocket and pulled out the matching one. They were sister ships, and the two emblems mated perfectly, forming an old city map of a place on Ancient Earth that had once been split in two. He laid them together on the table for a moment, just looking at it, then flicked the Ostberlin ’s emblem towards Mittermeyer, who picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

“It’s not a punishment,” Mittermeyer said. “You know it’s political.”

“Of course.”

“After what Leigh did with the Artemis Necklace, Muckenburger’s got his eyes firmly fixed on Iserlohn. He couldn’t just let us stay here.”

“Leigh wouldn’t need us to sabotage it from the inside,” Reuenthal said. “Muckenburger should know that.”

“He probably does, but it’s still smart for him to reassign us. And Leigh’s friend Oberstein— you’ve met him, right?”

“Yes.” Reuenthal couldn’t quite hide his distaste.

“He’s out, too. I’m honestly surprised we weren’t all kicked out to the frontier.”

“Taking away our fleets makes us powerless. Having a fleet but being far away would still mean that we posed threats. I don’t think Muckenburger has a choice, except to give us a ‘vacation’.”

“Do you know if any of these other shufflings are for the same reason?” Mittermeyer glanced around at the busy room. “You know the people here better than I do, since I’m out on patrol all the time.”

“I don’t know. There’s not anybody that Leigh mentioned, but I don’t keep an exhaustive list of Braunschweig’s allies. And it might only be fair to kick out anyone from Littenheim’s camp, too. I don’t know if Muckenburger wants to look like he’s favoring them.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.” Mittermeyer finished his beer, and flagged down the waitress to get a new one. “Well, we’ll just have to make the best of our time on Odin. I’m sure if Leigh needs us, he’ll find us something to do.”

“Do you really want to work for Braunschweig?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You already know what the answer is.” Under the table, Reuenthal slid his foot up Mittermeyer’s leg, which elicited no reaction other than Mittermeyer shifting subtly in his seat, allowing Reuenthal to press the heel of his black leather boot into the softest part of his thigh. It was dangerous, but no one could see them, and they were about to leave Iserlohn anyway, so he didn’t care. Through his heel, he couldn’t feel anything of Mittermeyer except the resistance of flesh, but it was enough to ground him in the moment. He drank his beer, too frothy and sour for his taste.

“It’s been a long time since I had a post on Odin,” Mittermeyer said, changing the subject. “It will be nice to be in the same place as Leigh.”

Failing to mention his wife didn’t do Mittermeyer any favors. It was almost worse when she hovered unmentioned in the edges of the conversation. It made it so there was almost nothing that could be discussed: the illicit was forbidden here in the bar, and the licit was avoided to spare Reuenthal’s feelings.

“Before he gets married, you mean,” Reuenthal said, picking a knife to twist.

“And after, I’m sure.”

Reuenthal let out a dark laugh. “I’m sure.”

“Are you planning to go to the wedding?”

“I’m planning on it.”

“But plans might change.”

Reuenthal looked at him cooly, perfectly cognizant of the position of his heel, and the warmth of Mittermeyer’s legs against his own. “I’ll go,” Reuenthal said.

“That’s good.” He looked away. “I suppose it’s not for a few months, anyway.”

“Leigh can enjoy a little more time as a free man.”

“Like I said, I don’t think marrying will make him any less free.” But he smiled. “The funny thing is— he wrote to me and told me all about how much he was trying to avoid all the trappings of being a count, but as soon as he goes through with all of this, he’ll be living in her mansion anyway.” Not saying Magdalena’s name was probably another accession to Reuenthal’s feelings.

“Leigh considers being rich the cruelest turn of fortune’s wheel,” Reuenthal said. “I’m certain his fiancee is happy about it.”

“Why do you say so? It’s not like she was after his money,” Mittermeyer said with a laugh. “If it’s ‘for richer or for poorer’, she agreed to marry him when he was definitely ‘poorer’.”

“She told me once that there’s always a use for money. I doubt she’s the type to turn up her nose at it.”

“To be fair, I don’t think I would turn up my nose if the Kaiser decided to make me a count,” Mittermeyer said. “Leigh has a stronger backbone than I do, to hate it.”

“Is that so?”

“You sound like you’re surprised. I thought you’d say something like ‘the most middle-class of dreams is the dream of being rich.’” Mittermeyer laughed. “I suppose it is pretty middle class of me. Besides, it’s never going to happen, so it’s a funny thing to imagine.”

“Maybe,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you saying that you’d turn down the money and title?”

“I have no real desire for a heritable title. Even if I wanted to be lavishly rewarded by the Kaiser and join the ranks of the nobles, which I have no desire to do, I’m not going to have a child to pass the title down to. So it would be pointless. Passing titles down only ensures that someone incompetent will hold them, anyway.”

The mention of children, or lack thereof, was a sore spot for Mittermeyer, as Reuenthal was well aware. But Mittermeyer could give as well as he got. “And you think that Leigh is going to have a child?”

Reuenthal’s mouth twitched in displeasure. “I doubt it. Westpfale doesn’t seem like the type.”

“The type?” Mittermeyer asked. “It’s not like it takes a certain kind of personality. And she’s probably been told since birth that she’ll have to pass down her title.”

“So, you think they will?”

“Up to them. I don’t know.”

Reuenthal had succeeded in making them both miserable, it seemed. This was what always happened when leaving Iserlohn. The fortress, with its artificial and regimented way of life, kept its occupants safe from the encroaching troubles of the natural world and polite society. For someone who fit into the natural order of the world, who fit into politie society, leaving Iserlohn for a safe desk job on Odin was a vacation. For Reuenthal, it was a kind of punishment.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Reuenthal said. “I don’t think Leigh would want to even think about it until after everything is resolved.” As part of his concession, he shifted his foot to relieve some of the pressure on Mittermeyer’s leg, but Mittermeyer, below the table, rested his free hand on his ankle, continuing to welcome it.

“You’re right.” Mittermeyer said. “This would be a bad time to have a child.”

“Not that much worse than any time in the past hundred years.”

“True.” Mittermeyer shook his head. “Life keeps going on for everybody, even soldiers, I guess.”

“Until it doesn’t.”

“Don’t be morbid.”

“I’m not— I’m just being realistic.”

December 487 I.C., Odin

Reuenthal settled himself back in his home on Odin without the least bit of fanfare. He wanted to see Yang, but this seemed to involve passing through a gauntlet by the name of Magdalena, who, having learned through Mittermeyer’s wife that Reuenthal was back on the planet, invited Reuenthal to dinner with herself and Yang before Reuenthal could get a chance to speak to Yang on his own. On some level, it was his fault for having the bad habit of always trying to sneak back onto the planet— but he blamed Magdalena for the annoyance nonetheless.

They met at a restaurant, a place that was very upscale but was pretending that it belonged on Phezzan rather than Odin. It had neon lights of flickering blue and green, and the music was by a live band, something jaunty with a wailing singer whose lyrics Reuenthal attempted to tune out. They sat at a small, round table right near the stage, Magdalena having picked the spot. She kept smiling up at the singer, who was distractingly moving in and out of Reuenthal’s peripheral vision. The whole atmosphere set his teeth on edge.

“Isn’t the music good?” Magdalena asked, after they had gotten their drinks.

“I don’t know anything about music,” Yang said.

“That’s another thing that I suspect I’ll have to fix about you pretty quickly,” Magdalena said. “You could use a broader education in the arts. It’s vital.”

“You sound like my father,” Yang grumbled. “He would always tell me that art and business are the only things worth studying. So, as an ungrateful son, I took the greatest pleasure in not studying either of them.”

“Hmph,” Magdalena said. “Well, we’ll have to make up for his failures in imparting good taste.”

“It’s a pity that your life has followed the wrong trajectory,” Reuenthal said. “What is it people say? ‘I study war so that my son may study business and diplomacy, and my son studies business so that his son may study art.’”

“Men have been studying war since the dawn of time,” Magdalena said dismissively. “If a generational progression like that was even possible, it would have happened long before now. I simply suspect that there are too many men who prefer to study war rather than art.” She curled her lip at Reuenthal. “Or am I wrong about that, Oskar?”

“I can hope for peace in this generation,” Yang said. “Even if it’s a short lived one, I’d like it. Some children should get to grow up without war.”

“A pleasant fantasy,” Reuenthal said. He picked up his menu and studied it, rather than looking at Yang or Magdalena, or the wailing singer. Although he had said to Mittermeyer that Magdalena would not want children, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Yang might. “But I suppose every child on Phezzan has grown up without war for many years. So, maybe it is possible.”

“That’s true!” Magdalena said. “Studying business and diplomacy seems to have done well for them, in that respect. Too bad that’s all their sons want to study, too.” She laughed.

“I don’t think it’s true that people on Phezzan grow up without war,” Yang said. “Their whole way of life is shaped by it, if indirectly.” He frowned down at his own menu. “Working hard to pretend something doesn’t exist is also a kind of acknowledgement that it does.”

This cast a pall over the conversation.

“Is becoming acquainted with art something that all the nobility has to do?” Reuenthal asked Magdalena. “Or is Leigh’s art education a personal vendetta of yours?”

“Oh, there are plenty who don’t,” Magdalena said. “I’m sure you’re aware of them all. But they’re all such boors, and hard to make conversation with. Hank is already at a disadvantage at parties. I have to make sure I’m not leaving him at further disadvantage socially by neglecting to give him a handful of safe conversation topics that he can choose from. Unfortunately for Hank, I know a lot more about art than I know about sports, or business.”

Yang continued to scowl down at his menu.

“So, no love for art for art’s sake. It’s all a social game?” Reuenthal asked.

“Everything is a social game, darling. You’re lucky to know me, since I’m honest about that fact.”

“I have to wonder what other indignities you’re going to force him through. It surprises me that you haven’t completely thrown out his wardrobe.”

“We can take things one step at a time. Everyone in the capital, at least who I care about associating with, understands that these things will take some getting used to. And we’re busy planning our wedding, you know how it is. But I’m sure once we’re married—” Her voice was light, but her face was sharp.

“You don’t have to make me into a project, Maggie,” Yang said, but he sounded resigned.

“It’s for your own health and safety,” Magdalena said bluntly. “I’m sure even Oskar understands that.”

“‘Even Oskar’?” Reuenthal asked. Magdalena just laughed. “And who are these supposed members of the nobility that you actively want to associate with?”

“Oh, there’s plenty. I couldn’t possibly name them all right now.” She tilted her head in a very predatory way. “But Oskar, I’m glad you brought up the subject, and I’m glad you’re back on Odin.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh?”

“She’s been off Odin for several years, but she’s finally made it back home. I think you’d get along with her.”

“I have no interest in meeting your friends.”

“Oh, she’s not a friend.”

“Then why would I care?”

“Because I want you to,” Magdalena said. “Are you going to the solstice party at the capitol?”

“If I’m invited, it’s mandatory.”

“She’ll be there. I’ll tell her to be on the lookout for you.”

“I don’t like this asymmetry of information,” Reuenthal said, which made Magdalena laugh again.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“And what are you hoping to get out of this?”

“Nothing,” Magdalena said. “This is out of the kindness of my heart. For you and for her. I’m sure you’ll understand when you meet her.”

“The fact that you believe that introducing me to a woman is a kindness makes me think—”

“Oh don’t bother finishing that sentence, Oskar. I know what you think of me already.”

“And what is that?”

Magdalena just smiled. And then she turned to Yang. “What are you having for dinner, darling?”

Reuenthal ground his teeth. Yang looked uncomfortable. He had been sinking down into his chair during the whole exchange between Reuenthal and Magdalena, and now he seemed reluctant to say a single word. It was unfortunate that Magdalena had chosen a restaurant for them to meet in, Reuenthal thought. They hadn’t exactly gotten along at dinners at their private residences, but in private, they could at least speak openly. And Magdalena would have felt less ownership over Yang— she might have him in public, but in private it was a different story. As if she could read his mind, she reached over to Yang and tucked some of his hair behind his ear, and then raised her glass at Reuenthal in a cheeky little toast.

The whole meal was deeply frustrating, and it was made worse by Yang becoming quieter and quieter as the night wore on. As Yang paid the bill, Reuenthal asked, “Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

“Please,” Yang said, with some relief in his voice.

When they went out into the parking lot, Magdalena gave Yang a kiss goodnight, and she thankfully stopped short of trying to kiss Reuenthal’s cheeks as they stood out in the snow. She left for her own car in a swirl of petticoats and furs, leaving Yang and Reuenthal standing next to his car, the old one that had used to belong to his father. Without speaking, Reuenthal and Yang got in, and Reuenthal turned them towards Yang’s apartment. The snow was falling gently, but the roads were still clear. Reuenthal drove in silence for a while.

“You’re not taking me back to your place?” Yang asked, when he finally caught sight of a landmark that let him know which way he was heading.

“I said I would drive you home.”

“Alright,” Yang said. “As long as you don’t mind my landladies. Your house does avoid that, at least.” He laughed, but it was just to break up the strange atmosphere, and it sounded anechoic and muffled in Reuenthal’s ears.

“It surprises me that you haven’t moved into a larger house yet, now that you’re a count. You inherited some property in the capital, didn’t you?”

“I guess,” Yang said. He rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going to be moving in with Maggie in a couple months, so there isn’t really a point in me uprooting my whole life before then. I like my apartment, anyway.”

“I see.”

Reuenthal turned towards the highway, and they sat at a red light, just watching the snow swirl in the empty intersection, counting the seconds until the light changed.

“Is something the matter?” Yang finally asked.

“Of course not.”

“You’re not good at pretending that something isn’t wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Reuenthal said.

“Alright.” Yang wasn’t going to press, and he just leaned his head on the passenger window, watching the snow land in wet flakes on the glass as Reuenthal drove.

“Can I ask you a question?” Reuenthal asked, breaking the silence once again.

“Of course.”

“You’ve been given a lot of money.”

“That’s not a question.”

“You could use it to pay off your debt, go back to Phezzan, get away from all of this. Free yourself. Live under your own name again.”

Yang was silent.

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Yang said. It took a long time for him to continue, and when he did, his voice was rough and strained. “I feel responsible for things here. I keep telling people that I’m a servant of the whole Empire— the ordinary people, not just the Kaiser. If I don’t do something to take their lives into account, nobody else will. Or at least, nobody who’s in a position to do anything. I can’t leave.”

“I see.” Duty— that was all.

Yang was silent again for a long time. “And I’m a very selfish person,” he said. His head was pressed against the glass of the window, and his eyes were closed.

The solstice party in Neue Sanssouci was one that Reuenthal thought that he shouldn’t have had an invitation to, but on paper, there was no reason for him not to get one. Every flag officer in the capital who was part of the Reichsflotte — not belonging to a private noble’s fleet— had been invited, along with sundry nobility and other court functionaries who Prime Minister Lichtenlade considered to be harmless enough. It seemed ridiculous that he and Mittermeyer had been invited, since they had just been kicked out of Iserlohn for their associations with Duke Braunschweig, via Yang, and Reuenthal wished that someone had realized this and scrubbed his name from the invite list. He had no desire to be here, but it was mandatory.

When he complained to Yang about it, Yang just gave him a sympathetic smile and said, “Well, try to think of it as part of your paycheck. Besides, Mittermeyer will be there.”

Of course, Mittermeyer being there meant that Mittermeyer’s cheerful wife was hanging onto his arm as they stood together in the dance hall. She and Reuenthal were doing their best not to acknowledge each other too much, but it was difficult. They stood near some pillars at the edge of the room, watching dancers narrowly avoid collision in their swirling dresses and crisp uniforms. Due to the more military nature of the party, the gender ratio was imbalanced, and there were plenty of single officers like Reuenthal who stood around the edges and simply watched the dancers. Not everyone had a wife to bring like Mittermeyer did.

The party was sumptuously decorated and packed with people, though the mood remained strangely somber despite the cheerful music and energetic dancing. Perhaps it was due to the conspicuous lack of the Kaiser’s presence. The party was in the capitol, and at the front of the ballroom an elaborate seat was set up for the Kaiser, but there was no way he would make a showing. This was Lichtenlade’s party, and everyone knew it.

“Leigh’s lucky to be in Braunschweig’s camp,” Mittermeyer said. “He’s missing out.”

“I’m sure he avoided becoming a flag officer for so long just so that he would have the ability to avoid these kinds of things,” Reuenthal said. “He hates parties.”

“This one could be worse,” Mittermeyer said, looking around. “I don’t see anyone I particularly hate.”

“There’s always time to make new enemies,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you planning on making enemies tonight?” Evangeline asked, looking around.

“I hope not,” Mittermeyer said.

“I won’t try to,” Reuenthal said. “But it’s a good opportunity to learn what’s been going on in the Lichtenlade camp these days.”

Mittemeyer nodded. “Listening to who is speaking to whom is always valuable, I suppose, even if no one could possibly be stupid enough to talk about their plans at a public party.”

Across the room, Reuenthal could see Fleet Admiral Muckenburger, speaking with High Admiral Ovelesser. Neither of them looked particularly happy with the other, but those were two men who wouldn’t cowed— either by one’s rank or one’s physical stature. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Reuenthal said, and he nodded over at them. “I wonder what they’re discussing.”

Mittermeyer raised his eyebrows. “Dissention in the ranks?”

“Maybe. Do you know if Braunschweig is particularly friendly with the high admiral?”

“No idea. Do you want him to be?”

Reuenthal scoffed. “You forgot what happened at Kapche-Lanka so quickly.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m just more willing to forgive.”

“What happened at Kapche-Lanka?” Evangeline asked. “Did High Admiral Ovelesser do something to annoy you?”

“Oh, er, it wasn’t much,” Mittemeyer said. “Just some tactical decisions that Reuenthal disagreed with.”

There was a moment of awkward silence between the three of them. Evangeline opened and closed her mouth, clearly aware that Mittermeyer was hiding something.

“It was a long time ago, Frau Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said.

Mittermeyer coughed. “Right, it was. Can I get you both a drink?”

Of course, if Mittermeyer escaped the tense moment, that would leave Reuenthal and Evangeline standing there next to each other. This was something that neither of them wanted, but neither could refuse.

“Yes, thank you,” Reuenthal said. “Wine, or something.”

“One of those—” Eva pointed at someone who walked by carrying a thick looking mixed drink. “Whatever it is.”

“Sure,” Mittermeyer said, and vanished into the crowd.

Evangeline looked around for a second, clearly searching for a conversation topic and not finding one until the silence between them had already become unbearable. “Are you doing anything for the New Year, Herr Reuenthal?” she asked.

“No,” Reuenthal said. “I’m not planning on anything.”

“You’re welcome to join Wolf and I. We’re not doing anything special, but I’m sure he would like your company.”

It would have been hard to name anything less pleasant sounding than a night spent with Evangeline Mittermeyer’s pity. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “I appreciate the invitation.”

She looked across the room, trying to find Mittermeyer in the line at the bar, but he didn’t stand out in the crowd, and so was invisible.

“May I ask what did happen on Kapche-Lanka?” Evangeline asked. “I know Wolf doesn’t want me to worry about things, but it was so long ago, I can’t really worry about it retroactively.”

Her words brought him back to three years ago, tumbling around with Mittermeyer in the snow that was so cold that it squeaked underfoot, with air that froze the tears at the corners of the eyes and the moisture in the breath.

“What did he tell you about it?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He just said that his base came under attack, and that he was very lucky you were close enough to come reinforce him before the main forces on the planet arrived.”

“I wasn’t close,” Reuenthal said. “I was a day’s drive away.”

“Oh.”

“But I had to go, because Ovelesser wasn’t going to send any reinforcements. He was going to leave him to die. I disobeyed the overall strategic plan to do it, and got a black mark on my record for it.”

“Why?” Her voice was high and thin.

“Because he wasn’t worth the resources to the Imperial Fleet.” But he had been worth it to Reuenthal. “A half constructed mine, and a nobody commander with a single battalion of workers. Not worth committing anything to, until I forced their hand.”

“He should have told me so that I could thank you myself,” Evangeline said. “I’m very grateful that you are Wolf’s friend.”

Reuenthal didn’t say anything for a second. He could see Mittermeyer coming back through the crowd, drinks in hand. “You should tell your husband to stop keeping secrets from you,” he said.

As Evangeline’s face twisted like she had been hit, Mittermeyer made it back over. Reuenthal took the offered wine from his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

“Oh, I—” Mittermeyer began, but Reuenthal was already gone.

He left the two of them with some relief, and headed through the crowded sides of the party, listening to chatter and pushing his way through the crowd. He had a vague intention of trying to get closer to Ovelesser and Muckenburger, just to give him something to do at this party other than stand next to Mittermeyer. Unfortunately, by the time that he made it up to the front of the room, Ovelesser and Muckenburger had gone their separate ways. Ovelesser was standing by one of the refreshment tables and filling a glass with ice cubes, which he then proceeded to eat one by one. Muckenburger had vanished. But it wouldn’t have been useful following him anyway— Reuenthal knew he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. It was only Ovelesser who might have been tempted to say something in anger.

But now Reuenthal was standing at the front of the room, looking around like a hawk at everyone for no reason. His eyes settled on the table where Prime Minister Lichtenlade was sitting, along with a bunch of other nobles. They clearly weren’t military, and more than half of them were women, most of them with the same shade of blonde hair— it must be a group of his extended relatives. Most of them were talking and eating quite pleasantly, but there was one young woman— probably in her mid twenties— who was staring out at the party with a glare that could have frozen water into ice. As Reuenthal’s gaze roved across the table, he couldn’t help but smirk at her miserable expression. But, as he did so, her eyes landed on him, and he was caught in her death glare.

She had nothing to do with him, so it wasn’t losing face to turn away and leave that area of the party to go look at other guests.

Reuenthal wandered around alone for a little while. There were some people he knew, or at least recognized, aside from Mittermeyer, but he wasn’t in the mood for socializing, and kept checking the time to see when he would be allowed to leave the event. He caught the occasional glimpse of Mittermeyer across the room, who was introducing his wife to various people he happened to know. Evangeline was smiling and laughing, and this made Reuenthal lose interest in going back over to rejoin him. He ended up standing near one of the tall glass windows, looking out over a snowy garden, and drinking another glass of wine.

He had lost his supposed interest in eavesdropping on the other guests at the party, and he had also lost some of his situational awareness. So, when he heard someone’s voice directly behind him, he didn’t register that he was being addressed until she spoke his name.

“You must be the one I was told to find, Rear Admiral Reuenthal.”

Reuenthal turned on his heel. There was the woman who had been sitting at the Lichtenlade table, standing a few feet from him, tilting her head to the side. She had long, blonde hair and was shorter than he was by a fair amount. Although she was slim and didn’t look like she would present much of a danger to anyone, her eyes were cold and hard, ice blue. It was this open meanness that gave him pause. She was wearing an emerald green dress that contrasted with her blood red lipstick, and her tongue flicked out to lick her lips as she waited for Reuenthal to answer her.

“I assume the Baroness Westpfale told you to hunt me down,” he said.

“Did she tell you to find me? I saw you were staring, earlier.”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “She told me someone would be looking for me, but she refused to say who. I suppose because you are a member of the Lichtenlade clan, she thought I would be prejudiced against you.”

“Hah.” The woman laughed, but it was a cold sound. “And why would that be, Herr Reuenthal?”

“Unless something changes over the next few months, it seems like I’m destined to be your enemy, or at least your family’s.”

“Then let’s be enemies.”

“I was told not to make any new ones at this party.”

“That’s a pity.” She glanced behind herself at the table where her family sat. One of the older women was watching her every move.

“Why do you say that?”

“Baroness Westpfale said— and if I’m wrong, please do not take this the wrong way— that you and I are very similar people. She has told me in the past that I am not capable of holding any warm feeling in my heart other than the heat of anger.” She smiled. “If I’m incapable of a warm love, a burning hatred will have to satisfy me. And I’ve been very bored, recently. If you want to be my enemy, it might make things more exciting.”

He stared at her, and she met his eyes without flinching. “Let me get you a drink.”

“Poison, if you want to prove your best intentions,” she said.

His lips curled, and he headed off to the bar to go get her something. He glanced behind himself as he went, and saw her lean against the windowsill, watching him watch her. At the bar, he procured drinks for both of them— there was a nasty cinnamon flavored bottle of spirits that the bartender was putting into eggnog as a holiday drink, but Reuenthal asked for it straight. Drink acquired, he went back to her at the window and held out one of the glasses.

“To warm your heart,” he said.

“I’ll take the other, thank you,” she said, and reached for the glass in his right hand instead of the one he was offering.

“I thought you wanted poison,” he said, but let her have it.

“What kind of enemy of yours would I be if I didn’t also try to make you drink poison?”

“I’ve poisoned both glasses.”

She lifted hers to her lips, smiled, and knocked it back at once, not flinching even a little. Reuenthal drank his just as fast. It burned on the way down, cinnamon and high proof alcohol. It tasted disgusting.

“Delicious,” she said. “Invigorating. Let’s dance.”

“You like dancing?”

“Very much so,” she said. She grabbed his arm, and pulled him towards the dance floor. He went willingly, but she seemed nervous about something, her fingers digging into his arm. He saw what it was immediately: one of the women who had been sitting next to her at the Lichtenlade table had gotten up and was walking purposefully towards them. To avoid this encroaching presence, she flung herself into Reuenthal’s arms, and they hid themselves among the swirling, seething mass of dancers, becoming one with the motion of the crowd. The first song they danced to was bright and fast— heavy on the horns from the band at the front— and there was a prescribed dance that went along with it, one that Reuenthal had to search the depths of his memory to find the steps to.

She was a very good dancer, but the nervousness didn’t leave her, even as they moved body to body. When they turned, she would whip her neck around like a ballerina, but she was scanning the crowd, and at times would try to take the leading step in the dance to move them both further into the room. This annoyed Reuenthal, and instead of letting her, he gripped her more tightly, feeling the thin strings of muscle move beneath her skin. She stopped trying to move after that.

“How do you know the baroness?” he asked as the song changed to something that would allow for conversation, a slower dance that pushed them more tightly together.

“We went to school together,” she said. “And you, how do you know her?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll have to assume that you’re a jilted lover, then. Now that she’s marrying someone else.”

“And she’s trying to set me up with a replacement? Does that seem like something she would do?”

“Of course. She loves to play that kind of game with people. The only problem comes when she learns that she’s not the only one capable of playing it. And that the rules aren’t ones that she gets to write herself.” Even as she spoke, she kept her eyes on the side of the crowd. When she flinched, Reuenthal too glanced at the woman who was trying to push through the crowd towards them, and spun them through into the deepest mass of swirling dresses.

“For a friend of hers, you have a low opinion of her.”

“That’s because she’s not my friend,” the woman said, rather viciously.

“What is she to you, then?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me, or I’ll stop dancing with you. Your family can have you back.”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked.

“Because I want to know why the baroness was so insistent that we meet each other. What could we possibly have to gain— or what could she have to gain?”

“She owes me,” the woman said. “This is for my sake. Though I’m sure she has her reasons for choosing you, rather than some other man she knows. Gods know she’s familiar with plenty of men.”

“And I have to be a man, for whatever scheme is going on?”

“Obviously.”

“And what is it that you want, here? What’s your goal?”

“I want to win.” She stared into his eyes as she said this, and he didn’t doubt that she was telling the truth. But they turned, and he could see the older woman on the edge of the crowd, her expression cold.

“And what will happen to you if you lose?” he asked.

“I’m not going to answer that question,” she said.

It was unfortunate that this was her answer, because the song ended at that moment, and Reuenthal dropped his hands and released her. She tried to grab him again, to keep dancing, but he said, “You should have answered my questions. Too bad.”

He started to walk off the dance floor, and she followed him. “Wait—”

But it was too late. The woman who had been watching from the sidelines came up to the both of them, as soon as they left the crowd.

“Efriede,” the older woman said, “what are you doing?” Her glare had fallen away, replaced with a concerned, motherly impression. It was vaguely sickening, to contrast with the former expression. She stepped towards Elfriede controllingly, but the hand she laid on her arm was feather light.

Elfriede’s whole manner changed. She made her tone light, and her smile sickly. “I’m dancing, mama.”

“With what gentleman?” the older woman asked, turning to Reuenthal.

“One who’s leaving,” Reuenthal said. “Goodnight, Fraulein.”

He left, but as soon as he was far enough away that he didn’t think anyone was watching him, he turned back to look at Elfriede and her older relative. Elfriede’s face had twisted into something bitter, and her mother— Reuenthal had to assume it was her mother— was digging her nails into her arm and pulling her away, back towards their family table. As she was dragged along, she turned her head like an owl, scanning the crowd, and she looked directly at Reuenthal, bitter anger in her gaze. Reuenthal cocked his head to the side. What was she going to do to him? He deliberately turned away.

Reuenthal got himself another drink. He was tempted to go find Mittermeyer again, but then he spotted him, dancing with his wife. He leaned against the window and watched them, drinking his wine and speaking to no one. They wove into and out of sight, just like every other pair of dancers, and Reuenthal stared, and stared. He doubted that Mittermeyer saw him— he wasn’t as observant of these things as Reuenthal tended to be.

He spared an occasional glance at the Lichtenlade table. Just as he was watching the Mittermeyers, Elfriede was watching him, with just as cold an expression on her face. On his fifth drink, not sure what he was motivated by other than drunkenness, he raised his glass to her across the room. She had no response. He downed his drink, and then decided that he couldn’t bear to be at this party any longer, even if the alcohol was free.

He left, but he stopped in one of the bathrooms first.

Beyond the noise and heat of the party, he was suddenly cognizant of the ringing in his ears from the sudden cessation of noise— the faint strains of music and sounds of voices still carrying through the dark and empty hallway of Neue Sanssouci, but they were difficult to hear over the buzzing in his head— and the sweat that suddenly cooled on his forehead from leaving the sweltering crowd. He was drunker than he thought, too, and he swayed on his feet as he shoved open the bathroom door.

It was blessedly empty, and he was washing his hands and staring into his reflection when he heard the door open behind him. He caught a glimpse of emerald green in the glass, and he turned to find Elfriede right behind him, her disdainful gaze roaming over the urinals.

“What are you doing here?” Reuenthal asked.

“I don’t give up that easily.”

“So you followed me into the bathroom? You must be particularly stupid, or trusting, or lack some aspect of self-preservation.”

“That’s what my mother says.”

“Maybe you should listen to her and develop one,” he replied. “Get out of here.”

“No, I won’t.”

Reuenthal took a step towards her. “You’ve made a fundamental error: you don’t want me anywhere near you.”

She didn’t flinch at all, and she stared directly into his eyes. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” she said.

“Saying something like that would make a lesser man want to try.”

“That’s the goal,” she said. “The only way you could hurt me is by ignoring me. And I won’t let you do that.”

“Why do you think that you’re going to get whatever it is that you want out of me?”

“Maggie told me that you have a house,” she said, changing the subject completely.

“And what else did she tell you about me?”

“That you were my ticket, that I could get you to do whatever I needed.”

“I don’t know what gave her that impression. It’s a wrong one.”

Elfriede reached out towards him. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, but he grabbed her wrist, yanking it upwards so that she was forced to step towards him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body and smell her perfume— something musky and vaguely masculine. He had pinned himself against the sink onthe other side,and she bore down on him, leaning forward.

“You want something from me, too,” she said.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

But his body betrayed him as her other hand crept between his legs, tracing its way up towards his belt. He was too drunk to think properly. He should have pushed her away, but instead he grabbed her chin, his grip far too strong, maybe even enough to bruise. He tilted her head up to face him, and pressed his thumb against her lips, smearing her lipstick. Her breath came out through her teeth.

“She said that you wanted someone to hate.” Now she was breathing rapidly. “You can hate me. But I need to get out of here.”

“You want to be hated?”

She opened her mouth enough to bare her teeth, and Reuenthal let go of her chin to slip two fingers inside her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he hooked them into the soft flesh of her cheek and pulled, making her beautiful face twist into something ugly by his hand.

“It’s better to be hated than ignored,” she said, garbled past his fingers. Her roving hand had made it past his belt.

“Not here,” he said, and pulled his fingers out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Your mother knows we were talking. She’ll know where you went.”

“But she won’t be able to hold me.”

And she smiled, knowing that she had won.