Resolution (26 page)

I’m no politician. Never was.

None of Tom’s proposals even passed initial screening. He had tried to put forward several motions, from fully arming a strike force against a renewed threat of Anomalous incursion, to merely slowing down the demobilization process - sending soldiers back to their families in phases over the next two years. None of his proposals made it as far as the holodisplays of most attendees.

Meanwhile, every resolution regarding increased taxation of freemen and strengthening astymonia arsenals had been passed with minimal opposition. Those who agreed with the thinking of the Circulus Fidus were getting their way.

Why am I here?

Nearly three thousand Lords and Ladies, from minor Lords-sans-Demesne to the Archduke Xildran whose realm was greater than most sectors, sat in the tiered concentric circles and voted on the final issues.

Then they reviewed the private noble appointments which were being granted: some deputized to subsidiary committees, others discussed and decided upon here in full session. Two hundred and thirty-seven names were upon the list of candidates—

Elva. What am I going to tell her?

—but Tom’s was not one of them.

I’ve failed.

As far as the Convocation was concerned, Tom Corcorigan did not exist.

Tom left early, while the tall curved corridors surrounding the congress hall were still empty, or nearly so. Up ahead, by an arced sweeping buttress, Jay A’Khelikov and Renata were engaged in a conversation which was just finishing. Renata was withdrawing; seeing Tom, she gave a small smile and a nod, then touched Jay’s sleeve once more, nodded, and walked away.

‘Jay, my friend. How are you?’

It was inane; but there was nothing else to say. They clasped forearms.

‘Numb. Stumbling through the motions.’ Jay looked away, seeing his own thoughts. ‘Cord and I... We were just beginning to hope for some more permanent arrangement, you know. Sort out our lives so we could live close to each—’

His voice caught.

‘Corduven was the best,’ said Tom.

‘Yes.’

‘How have your family been?’

‘They’re all right. My mother...’ Jay produced a wan smile. ‘... is very ... understanding. I’m still the heir.’

Tom thought how precarious noble lives could be, despite the enormous privilege. They had luxury and the power of life and death over servitors, but they could not rest easy.

I
can survive without wealth.

‘You’re going back to your mother’s realm?’

‘Yes, after the ... After everything’s done. Mother’s talking about stepping down, relinquishing the reins of power as Shinkenar has done.’

‘Renata seems to be coping well.’

‘I think so,’ said Jay. ‘And ... don’t worry about Avernon. Cord had him working on something. That’s why he couldn’t come.’

But Tom’s thoughts were sour.

Avernon still should have been here.

Jay was trying to converse as normal but just then a shudder passed through his body. It was obvious to Tom that if Jay did not rest soon he would simply collapse.

Tom gestured to the Palace control system, assuming there were sensors here - they were at the very edge of the Palace proper - and ordered a levanquin. Immediately, an apparently solid marble wall puckered and opened. A gleaming one-person vehicle slid out.

‘Fate, Tom.’

‘I think you should get on it.’

‘No, I ... All right.’ Jay reached out to where Tom’s left arm would have been, hesitated, then patted Tom’s side instead. ‘Thank you.’

Tom helped him climb into the seat. Jay leaned back and sighed as it morphed to fit. Silent tears began to run.

Tom’s command had caused servitors to be notified, and some eight men in V’Delikona livery were rushing from a doorway. They took up positions around the levanquin.

‘My Lord A’Khelikov needs to rest a while,’ Tom told them. ‘His apartment would be best, I think. Or if there’s room in his mother’s—’

‘We’ll see to it, my Lord.’ The chief servitor bowed.

‘Wait.’ Jay held up his hand. ‘Tom ... Back here, on Ahdimday. We’re meeting for ...
Be here.
Please. Snapdragon Hour. I’ll send a servitor to ... remind you.’

‘I’ll be here, of course.’

‘Good, I...’

But Jay’s voice trailed off then, and Tom watched as the levanquin rose. It moved off amid its escort of servitors.

Sounds of conversation rose up behind Tom - other Lords leaving the Convocation - and he whirled away, snapping his cape, and strode off into a long corridor which stood empty, with none to see Tom Corcorigan’s bitterness or shameful failure.

Three strata down, Tom found himself outside a blue-shadowed establishment called Taverna na’Lethe, where the air was heavy with sweet ganja scents escaping from the masks. Along the tavern’s shelves stood row upon row of crystal bottles and decanters that glistened and called to Tom.

The dragon, the one that was always there, coiled and hissed inside his mind.

Tom walked in.

Aquafire was well named. When the drink came it was bright orange with tiny flames licking the meniscus of its surface. Tom held the glass up. His hand did not shake.

Elva, I’m
—

Fire rose inside him. A glow. Joy, singing along his nerves.

Everything that happened after that was inevitable.

Shards of perception, fragments of memory. Hand resting in a cold puddle. Shivering as he slept on stone.

Vomiting, and the later stink of it.

And the swaying, as ribbons of the world swam round his head, when strong hands picked him up and carried him, and the cosmos darkened and dwindled in all directions without ever quite disappearing.

Lying on a couch, Tom groaned his way into consciousness, and the sight of a hard-eyed man leaning over him.

‘Huh!’

Tom snaked his hand up, going for the throat - too slow - but the man was already moving back, and then Elva’s voice said: ‘This is Dr Varin, Tom. You’re well enough, don’t worry.’

‘Chaos.’

Tom sank back, and closed his eyes.

Oh, Fate.

Then, squinting, Tom levered himself up, swung to a sitting position with feet on the floor. ‘Bath chamber,’ he croaked.

‘Come on.’ Dr Varin helped him stand. ‘This way.’

There was a glint at the doctor’s hip, a graser weapon, and again Tom tried to react but too slowly. Then he realized: medical treatment cost credit and they had none. The weapon was Elva’s, or had been.

Reduced to bartering.

The doctor helped Tom to undress, tossing aside the rank, puke-smelling tunic. Then he lowered Tom into an aerogel bath, submerged him.

‘Rest.’
The voice sounded odd through the gel.

Tom closed his eyes.