A Treason of Truths Page 5

  The room was frosted glass and antiqued silver. The sleek lines of columns were unbroken by cornices or engravings but ringed with antique lights. It struck a balance between Imperial tradition and Syn minimalism that, if intentional, spoke of a subtle cleverness by their hosts. A banquet had been set at the back of the room, though the present diplomats clustered where drinks and delicacies were being served nearer the front. There were not many, more staff in Vault colors than guests. Like Sabine, Cian had only brought a couple generic-looking bodyguards. The hired guards were even easier to identify by the lack of champagne in their hands and generally twitchy demeanor as they orbited around a slender, androgynous figure engrossed with tapping at the air above his wrist. A pulse UI. His appearance matched the small photo in Sabine’s dossier. Prime Minister Cian.

  Cian dressed in the same dark colors that Olivia preferred, but that was where the similarities between her sister-in-law and the prime minister ended. Severe lines of his suit spoke of luxury, not restraint, and the olive skin at his wrists was bare, signaling an expensive pulse implant rather than a cheap band. Strangely enough, a pair of fine silver glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. Sabine made a silent note of it. No one in the Syn wore glasses when implants and mods were so common. Not unless, that is, they had a reason. Khait and Sylvere had left her and made their way over to engage the Syndicate representatives in conversation. Khait did most of the talking, not Sylvere. Odd again.

  Sabine absorbed all this within the few stately steps that took her to where the northern lords, her own supposed people, had gathered. Alais had not travelled alone. It might have been reassuring, had she been told to expect any of them. She had no doubt that Alais was the ringleader in it, and her apologetic smile said as much as she clasped Sabine’s hand and repeated her greeting. “It’s good to see you again, Your Grace.”

  “It is a surprise to find you here, Lady Alais,” Sabine said, accepting the customary tilt of Alais’s head.

  “A pleasant one, I would hope?”

  “You would hope,” Sabine repeated serenely. Her displeasure was understood, though Alais was too good a politician to be thrown. The woman had plenty of practice displeasing people, after all.

  “Are you optimistic about the outcome of this summit then?” Alais nodded toward the cluster of dark suits at the other end of the room. “I had a chance to greet the prime minister earlier. He is...not what you’d expect.”

  Sabine wasn’t about to be thrown off by a dangling tidbit like that. “I’m more interested in your interests in the summit.”

  “Me?” Alais’s doe-eyed blink would have been masterful, if Sabine hadn’t already fought a war with the woman. “Why I don’t—”

  “I lack the time to humor you, Alais. No senators petitioned the crown to send representatives to this summit. So tell me what your game is here.”

  Her lip twitched, humor never fading from her sharp blue eyes. Alais finally inclined her head, a proper gesture of fealty this time. “It was a last-minute addition, and not of my own design, whether you will believe that or not. My mother asked me to accompany Orric—he’s here somewhere. Oh, Orric! Come here and be a dear.”

  A sallow young man answered Alais’s call. He was dressed in overly starched clothes and twitched like he still wasn’t used to wearing them. He was as tall and pale as Alais, but with a shock of red hair and brown eyes that avoided Sabine’s gaze studiously.

  “Bow when you greet the empress, Orr,” Alais prompted. The young man gave a jerky approximation of a bow, head tilted so hard it looked painful.

  “Your Highness,” he said to the floor.

  Sabine murmured the necessary acknowledgements to make the poor boy relax. Alais mercifully took over the conversation again.

  “Mother’s third nephew? Maybe you remember when he drove the shuttle into the trees at the winter ball—”

  “The point, Alais.”

  Sabine stifled a stab of impatience as Alais took the time to devise a sudden thirst and send Orric off for drinks, safely out of earshot. She ordered him to see to their staff too before finally returning her attention to Sabine.

  “Mother’s awarded him a minor title. Seeing as she’s begun to come around to the idea that I will not be marrying rich or wisely...” A brittle smile, like too thin glass, broke Alais’s train of thought before she continued. “She’s decided to seed the family fortunes into more than one basket. But Orric’s green. I’m here to lend authority and get his feet wet.”

  “But undermining the peace talks of your empress seems like a dangerous way to wet one’s feet to me.”

  Alais was not properly cowed by that. Dratted altus woman seemed almost amused. “Come now, Your Grace. I am here to support you just as much as my own dear cousin. Yes, the northern lords will see it as a win if we wedge our way into the proceedings, but my presence will be useful to you, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “What my security advisor tells me about this place.” Alais lowered her voice. “The Cloud Vault may have more interests in our politics than we were given to realize.”

  “Sounds as if your security advisor is merely telling you what you want to hear.”

  Alais’s smile, ever knowing, now veered into distinctly smug. “If only. In fact, she was a last-minute addition to our entourage. Entirely insistent to attend, made quite a fuss about it, she and Olivia.”

  “Olivia?” Sabine blinked, entirely surprised, for once. “What would she—”

  “Ah, Orric, yes, bring her along,” Alais interrupted and waved her cousin over. “I believe the empress is already acquainted with our security advisor.”

  Orric, happy to be told what to do for once, blocked her view for a few precious moments. Then he met Sabine’s frown, lost all courage and ducked to the side.

  The colors on her collar were all wrong, Imperial gold, but also the silver and blue of the northern provinces. Her hair was fixed in a bun. Even the small, delicate wisps of curls near her temple that Sabine could never get to lie right. She looked as stark and clean as an exposed blade. And Sabine felt her heart start to bleed again.

  “Hello, Your Grace,” Lyre said, and Sabine turned and walked away.

  * * *

  “That went well,” Alais said as they watched Sabine’s stiff back make a ridiculously elegant exit.

  She wasn’t even armed. And she came here with only one inexperienced guard? The Imperial shuttle hadn’t even stayed on standby. Like she’d abandoned the good sense the Lady had given her. Lyre’s mind spun with a thousand foolish errors that would need to be corrected. She barely remembered to acknowledge her supposed employer with a nod. “Depends on your definition of well.”

  “We weren’t exiled on the spot. I really didn’t believe you when you said she wouldn’t, you know.”

  “Then why on earth did you agree to help me?”

  “Curiosity, mostly. You and our new lady Liv rarely agree on anything, let alone a favor,” Alais said lightly. “I figured it was worth a spot of treason.”

  Normally, Lyre would have embraced Alais’s dark humor. Glibness in the face of disaster was her primary mode of survival. But not here; humor had no place at the Cloud Vault. “It’s not treason, technically. She released me from her service. And the Vault is neutral ground so I suspect she’d have to save her imprisoning and exiling until after concluding business.”

  “See, my security advisor is already teaching me things I didn’t know. Didn’t expect her to retreat like that, though,” Alais mused.

  “That wasn’t a retreat.” Lyre watched Sabine navigate the crowd, dipping into this eddy of diplomats and that awkward cluster of scientists gracefully. Until at last she came into the Syndicate delegation’s orbit. Shit. Her shoulders were too stiff, her hands too soft. “That was a lateral maneuver. But it’s not going to go well.”

  Alais raised a b
row when Lyre took her arm. “The empress is an accomplished player of this game.”

  “She’s a cutthroat champion,” Lyre allowed, but she was already moving, trying to make her away across the banquet floor without seeming to be in a hurry. Not an easy task. “But she’s upset, acting alone, and doesn’t know what we know about the Vault or Syn prime minister. We have to get over there.”

  Chapter Six

  Sabine the empress was a player of politics. Sabine the girl had been a painter. Both required seeing clearly. So when something fell in your gaze, a splinter, an irritation made to distract and bruise, you plucked it out. She thought that was what she’d done, dismissing Lyre, sending her away, far away from where she could cause more tears. Those were the last things Sabine could afford, tears.

  But Lyre was not a splinter; Lyre was a thorn, a burr of want and heartache. She was here, clouding up Sabine’s gaze and muddying her view of the field. The only thing she could do was turn away.

  No matter, this was politics; Sabine could navigate it in her sleep. The summit hall, not so much. It took a great deal of concentration to map out a new place in her mind, filling in what should be to her right. All she could perceive from her right eye was light and shadow, mostly. Hard to judge a person from a pillar, and the last thing Sabine needed was to be seen murmuring excuses to a stone arch.

  Her left side was easier to focus on, so she kept the minor diplomats who approached on her right, more easily distanced and ignored. A compliment here, a sympathetic comment on Meteore there. She’d already learned that the clear crystal shell in her right eye, with its cloudy silver appearance like a shattered star, was a fantastic judge of character. You could tell a lot about a person whether they avoided her gaze, or could look nowhere else. It would unnerve the already nervous and Sabine used the fact with mercenary precision, like she did everything else.

  Sliding through the crowd with grace took more focus than it once did, picking openings and probing her way out again. Every step she felt Lyre’s eyes on her back, and a quiet simmer was building. It wasn’t anger—she lacked the energy for betrayal—and it couldn’t be allowed to be loss, so she decided it was fuel. Fuel, filling up her chest, ready to ignite. And there was only one place to point it.

  The Syndicate Prime Minister was being entertained by one of Sylvere’s scientists, technically. In actuality, the tweedy scientist was telling an animated story to the top of Cian’s forehead—the rest of him was intently focused on the silver sheen of a pulse UI reflected in his silver glasses.

  Ignoring and arrogant. Anger simmered up in Sabine’s chest. Yes. This was what she needed. It wouldn’t take long. “Prime Minister Cian.”

  She’d come up behind his chatty companion, who jumped and turned. His face paled to a delightful shade of terror—gaze landing on her eye, always the eye. Really, Sabine would have taken offense if she hadn’t been perfectly comfortable terrifying men before she had the prosthesis—and excused himself, leaving Sabine alone with Cian and his Syn bodyguards.

  Cian didn’t look up from his tapping at the UI on his forearm. A power play then. Sabine had seen more clever men than him try it, put her in her place by making her wait.

  “One minute—no, imprecise.” Cian was mumbling. It took a moment for Sabine to realize he was speaking to her. “Not one minute. Eight seconds.”

  Sabine raised a brow.

  “Average understanding of social contract indicates I may delay this conversation for—ah, now six—six more seconds before it would be considered an offensive breach of etiquette. That is adequate time to finish my task.”

  He did, in fact, seem to be completing some complex action, fingers skidding over the interface above his wrist with alacrity. It was unusual for two diplomats to greet each other at dinner—at least, not without scads of press drones and handlers hovering over their shoulders. It was more unusual to be ignored. Sabine was surprised to feel her anger momentarily replaced by bemusement. “You have confidence in that estimate, do you?”

  “It falls within an acceptable range of accuracy,” Cian murmured, clearing his screen with a final swipe that seemed to make his bodyguards flinch. He looked up. “You’re not offended.”

  Sabine had to interrogate herself a moment to ascertain he was correct. She wasn’t. Yet. She knew how these Syn politicians sought to put you off balance and gain an advantage. Cian’s eyes were blue and so pale they bordered on gray, but they blinked at her with a direct kind of intelligence.

  Sabine decided on caution, for now. “I’m not. But I’m also not inclined to waste my time.”

  “Incorrect.” Cian’s eyes flicked back to his wrist.

  It was Sabine’s turn to blink. She mustered an impressive amount of royal disdain. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Incorrect. You’re present at this appointment; therefore, your statement was incorrect.”

  “You’re telling me that this peace summit between our countries is a waste of time?”

  “Of course it is. The Empire will not declare war on the Syndicate.”

  Oh really. “Why is that?”

  “The window of time when war ought to have been declared has passed. Ergo peace talks are not necessarily talks of peace, but negotiation of restitutions and future business relations.”

  Sabine found herself tipping from amused to annoyed. “If not for peace, then why are you here?”

  “Incorrect.” Finally, Cian turned his full attention to Sabine. He didn’t smile, but his eyes did. “The correct question is...”

  Sabine frowned as she landed on the conclusion. “If not for peace, then why were we invited?”

  For the first time, Cian’s expression warmed to something other than clinical distraction. He lowered his wrist and the lens in front of his eyes cleared. “You must be the Empress Sabine.”

  He knew that already. He said it not as if she’d introduced herself, but more as if she’d finally become worth his time. Sabine opened her mouth to say as much, but Alais’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

  “Ah! Our glorious leaders, already hard at work. Have we solved world peace yet?” Alais had her public face on, all sweeping cape and frivolous scandals. It was a good face; showy, irritating. Sabine only knew the edges of it from experience. She swept up to Sabine’s elbow, barely avoiding getting stopped by Kitra. Sabine made an “I’ll allow it” motion and stifled an internal sigh. Just when she might have begun to get somewhere with the Syndicate minister.

  Cian, for his part, was unruffled and squinted flatly up at Alais’s height like she was a particularly fascinating species of tree. “We have not.”

  “But we may be asking the right questions.” She expected a small acknowledgement from Cian, some crack in his coded calm. She didn’t get it. He blinked at her. Sabine couldn’t tell if it was an act or genuine confusion. Sabine could usually tell; how disconcerting.

  She turned her irritation on an easier target. “Prime Minister, this nuisance is the Lady Alais, one of my retainers of Vhehaden province.”

  “We met earlier,” Alais said with a proper bow of courtesy.

  A flicker of movement drew Sabine’s attention over Alais’s shoulder. Lyre had easily enough become the northern lord’s unnoticed shadow. The same way she’d been Sabine’s. Until yesterday. The feeling that rose in her chest was an ugly one, eating quickly at her calm. It was easier to turn it to anger—just as destructive, but Sabine could point that out rather than inward. If Lyre wanted to be someone else’s pet then Sabine could still make her heel.

  “All on your own? What an unusual honor,” Sabine said and smiled at Alais. The way Alais tilted her glass said she both acknowledged and was unswayed by the dismissal.

  A stray question about holographic survey uses in mining was all it took for Alais to steal control of the conversation as she and Cian delved into impenetrable technical talk. It was obvious Sabine would
make no more headway until she brought her own supposed retinue to heel, but that couldn’t be done here or now.

  Sabine sighed and finally allowed herself to acknowledge the growing headache that had started the moment they’d landed. She was tired of trying to hold her crumbling calm. She waited for an opportune break in the conversation to murmur her excuses. “I’ll see you at dinner, Prime Minister.”

  She saw shadows peel away from the wall as she made her way through the crowd, but a quiet word to Kitra was enough. Her guard ran interference enough to allow Sabine to slip through the hall doors without having to tolerate whatever innocent excuses Lyre had for her actions.

  Sabine wasn’t avoiding her, oh no, but she knew Lyre. And Lyre knew her. She would be picking the time and place for that little fight. Let Lyre spin her stories and excuses, the ruse was over. She’d left. The Empress had no time for traitors and Sabine... Sabine had no room in her heart for more ghosts.

  Chapter Seven

  Kitra ran average interference at best. Lyre had seen him peel off from Sabine early enough that she could have easily adjusted her path, avoided the intercept, or hell, put Kitra on his ass. He was young, talented but newly raised to the position of knightsguard. He’d learned crowd-control strategies from Lyre, for Lady’s sake. But it was a hall full of suspicious diplomats, and she was supposedly part of the Imperial retinue as Alais’s consultant. Dumping the empress’s personal guard into the buffet table might have given the wrong impression.

  Besides, the confidence boost was good for Kitra. Lyre humored him and took note of which door Sabine disappeared into, though she already knew where the Vault would likely quarter her. With heads of state for both the Syndicate and Empire in attendance, Sabine could only be put in the guest suites off the director’s solarium.