A Treason of Truths Page 9

  She wore a sheath of brocade the precise shade of green that turned the amber in her eyes to molten gold. A sweeping tunic and slim silk pants. Her hair had been dried and styled into a severe chignon. Lyre found herself preferring the memory of it earlier: wet and heavy on her shoulders, the tiny hairs at her temple plastered to her bronze skin in delicate curls.

  Not that the diplomats should have the honor of that image. This was right. Sabine cut an imposing figure, sovereign and impeccable. The green complemented the garden around her, but the gilt embroidery marked her as no mere pretty flower—if those gathered in the solarium were the flowers of this garden, Sabine would be the sovereign rose.

  Yes, Sabine was masterful at making an entrance.

  The gold slippers on her feet were sturdy, at least. Kitra had followed Lyre’s instructions. No heel, arch support. Probably the only sensible shoes in the Imperial wardrobe.

  “Empress Sabine, please have a seat if you will.” Sylvere was the picture of graciousness, pulling out the chair as Sabine descended into the bowl of the solarium and took her seat across from the Syndicate delegation. Kitra took up guard behind her, sparing Lyre a short nod before Khait began to speak.

  “I know it’s been a long day for everyone, and I hope you all find the guest quarters to your liking.” He grimaced. “Because I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to stay here a while longer.”

  The Syn delegation made noises of complaint at that. Not Cian. The prime minister only slit his eyes further and continued tapping at whatever held his interest on his pulse feed.

  “What did you find out about Orric’s death?” Alais prompted. The question pulled the group back to silence, and Khait gave a heavy sigh before making a flicking motion toward the table.

  The gesture brought the surface to life. A three-dimensional model sprang up into the air above the meeting table. Some kind of nano model was all Lyre could assume, from the tiny clusters of numbers radiating off the model of some kind of chemical compound. This, at last, caught Cian’s attention. The strange Syndicate man swiped the mist on his lenses away and leaned forward, hawk-like eyes squinting behind silver glasses.

  “We’ve confirmed the presence of foreign nanobot agents in Lord Orric’s blood,” Khait said. “That, combined with the necrotic decay of key compounds and the presence of rapid helix damage, says they were the instigators of his cause of death.”

  “Have you identified the source then?” Sabine asked.

  “The nanobots are...unidentified.” Khait looked uncomfortable and hurried to explain. “They aren’t Vault make, of course. All Vault nano agents have specific markers with dedicated serial numbers embedded into their programming. These were blank.”

  “So you know nothing.” Alais sank back in her seat.

  “Not at all.” Khait exchanged an uncomfortable look with Sylvere before clearing his throat. “The agents in Lord Orric’s blood share some...functional similarities to Vault creations. Enough that we’ll be able to take an educated guess on their capabilities.”

  “The agent staggered the boy’s cardiovascular system. Swift, before any illness could be detected. But looking at the compounds, we suspect it could be diverted to cause a number of delayed effects across an infected body,” Sylvere explained smoothly and seemingly not distressed by the news. “Across a long-range signal. From the state of the nanobots we found, we suspect Orric was infected shortly prior to dinner.”

  “Impossible. Timing.” Cian blinked when the attention shifted toward him. He shrugged and returned to frowning at the 3-D model. “For a nano infestation such as this to cause sudden cardiac dysfunction, it would have had to populate the cardiovascular system. Days, perhaps.”

  “I wish that were the case, Prime Minister.” This time Sylvere spoke up, though he didn’t appear as apologetic as his words. “This agent is...innovative. The way it’s composed leads us to believe it was only in the victim’s biology for a matter of hours.”

  “Then he was poisoned here.” Alais was suddenly on her feet. “After arriving at the Vault.”

  A grimace sank into Khait’s expression and he was slow to answer. “Regretfully...it seems that is the case.”

  The suspicion that turned toward Sylvere and Khait was only fleeting. The Syn and Imperials had too much vested interest in hating each other.

  “The Syn was already here when we arrived,” Alais said.

  “Factual, but irrelevant,” Cian responded. “Victim spent far more time with Imperial guests.”

  A frost developed where Sabine sat. “Are you accusing me of assassinating my own vassals?”

  “Negative. An accusation would require more data.”

  “Orric was no threat to the empress,” Alais said. It would have been more persuasive if she hadn’t sounded like she was trying to convince herself of the fact.

  “Animosity is well documented between the Imperial Houses of the Ameranthine court and the Houses of land-owning nobles in northern provinces,” Cian began helpfully. Someone needed to cut him off. Before he helped them over the cliff of an international incident. “Historical records dating back to—”

  “What does Vault intelligence say?” Lyre said.

  “Our people are investigating, of course,” Sylvere said. “But the origin of the nanobots is unknown at this time. We’ve been able to identify a vector however.”

  “The banquet,” Khait supplied. Silence thudded over the group, so sudden that Lyre could hear the faint shiver of the hologram as it twirled above the table.

  Sabine broke the silence first. She hadn’t moved, but Lyre knew her well enough to detect the pallor in her cheeks. “How many of us were infected?”

  She held herself still, poised. Too poised. Lyre knew Sabine. Knew the flush of her cheeks, the lift of her fingers, the precise color of her eyes, the way brown flashed to gold when she was angry, black when she was distressed. She’d made a life study of it. Lyre knew Sabine the way a worshipper knew their goddess, tuned to the subtle moods that could move worlds.

  Sabine had a history with nanobots. She’d had her body turned against her before. In the recent rebellion, a noble traitor had used barbaric lockbots, militaristic nanobots from the Syndicate, to interrogate and torture his captives. Sabine had resisted but the memory of pain paralyzing every nerve, the memory of being a captive in your own skin, was still fresh. The scar across her eye was not the only reminder of the experience.

  “Analysis detects unknown nanobot colonies in every guest’s bloodwork,” Khait said gravely. “Save your retinue who didn’t dine at the table.” He made a gesture at Lyre, Kitra, and one of the Syn retainers.

  “Poisoned,” Sabine breathed.

  “Infected,” Cian corrected. He appeared unchanged by the news, but the clouded-over lens said he’d returned to his feed. His fingers began to drum over his pulse controls industriously. “However, no current symptoms of side effects. Indicates infection is inert at the moment and harmless.”

  “It wasn’t harmless for Orric.” Alais’s voice was low.

  “Prime Minister Cian is correct.” Sylvere took the reins of the conversation again. “The nanobots appear to be in stasis. Please rest assured that all of you appear to be in good health at this time. However, we do not know what—or who—could activate them. Until we can ascertain the nature of these nanobots and disable their programming, we will have to follow quarantine protocol and ask you all to remain in the guest wing for the time being. I understand it’s tight quarters here. The empress and prime minister have their own quarters in the solarium but we’ll house the rest of your retinue in neighboring guest quarters.”

  Lyre set her feet a little more firmly behind Alais and smiled. If anyone thought they were separating her from Sabine, they would be forced to reconsider.

  “Estimated quarantine time?” Cian asked, thin brow furrowed.

  “U
ntil we can ascertain and disable,” Sylvere repeated serenely.

  “We will need to communicate with our people.” Cian had begun to frown at his pulse display, his demonic tapping slowing.

  “Arrangements are already being made. A physician will be monitoring all our guests. For your safety, we’ve disabled inbound and outbound data streams. For all we know, that may be how these nanobot agents are getting their commands.” Sylvere rose from the table. “We thank you for your cooperation and hope we can continue a productive diplomatic discussion shortly.”

  “Provisions require—” Cian started, but Sylvere and Khait exited through the main doors. Lyre caught a glimpse of silver armor as the doors slid shut. Guards outside the solarium doors where there hadn’t been any before. Cian huffed. “How irregular.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Lyre muttered.

  Her attention was focused on Sabine. Sabs wasn’t the kind to be directed. Any exchange of power was usually a playground for her, even when the other participants didn’t realize it. But she’d faded to an unnatural quiet. Nothing outwardly had changed, but Lyre grew concerned with every measured, composed breath she took.

  Lyre weighed her odds, then ignored them enough to edge toward Sabine. She lowered her voice. “Your Majesty.”

  Nothing. The group was drifting apart with the departing of their hosts. They had a moment of relative privacy so Lyre risked it. “Sabs.”

  Sabine flinched. Her knuckles were white around the crumpled hem of her jacket. She kept them braced in her lap. Under the table, where no one could see the terror but Lyre. Sabine was staring straight ahead. Ostensibly at the projection, but at nothing, at everything.

  “Sabs.” Lyre made her voice hard. Hard enough to pierce through the controlled veneer of Sabine’s terror. “Look at your hands. No—damn it—look at them.”

  Lyre didn’t know what Sabine saw. She only knew how Sabine described it—shadows and light.

  It was another scar of the coup they’d survived. The lockbots that had tortured Sabine had been purged from her system during her recovery, but something had been left behind. Calcified in the scar tissue of her eye, her physicians had speculated. Inert but still interacting with faint signals. Sabine had low vision on that side, but when she tried, did just the right shift of mental gymnastics, she could—well, see wasn’t the right word.

  Lyre didn’t understand it, didn’t have to understand it. She knew when Sabine was doing it. The gnarled skin around her eye relaxed, and it was almost as if she was letting go. Relaxing the muscles that held her face so tight, so perfect. Putting aside some heavy mask of pretense.

  She looked at rest when she did it. It was a rare enough sight to be treasured.

  “You can see the nanites, there,” Lyre whispered. Sabine was staring at her hand with that distant look. Her tense shoulders began to creep down, so Lyre kept on talking. “Feel them, sense them, whatever. They are things. Not monsters, not ghosts. These are things. A problem that can be fixed.”

  “A problem,” Sabine repeated. She drew an unsteady breath and looked up. Stopped. “You’re empty.”

  Lyre’s smile twisted. “You honor me, Your Grace.”

  “No, I mean—” Sabine’s fingers reached out, absently drawing over Lyre’s face. It was like an electric shock. “You’re clear. Like the Vault said. You’re safe, you’re clean, pure.”

  Lyre laughed. “Pure something. No one’s ever accused me of—”

  “You’re pure, Lyre,” Sabine said. “To me.”

  The humor stuck in Lyre’s throat, snagging and clinging to the tender root in those words. Too earnest for the walls they’d raised against each other since she left. Sabine appeared to recognize it a split second after Lyre did, and she diverted her face to study her hands again. Stiff gold threads crinkled under her nails.

  “You’re right. It’s just a problem,” Sabine said.

  “Sabs—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Confirmed: Pulse unavailable.” Cian’s bland voice broke through the words Lyre should have said. Sabine rose swiftly to rejoin the others. Lyre cursed and followed.

  “Aetheric out of range as well,” Alais said, glancing at her slate. “Not that it’s any comfort with little killer hobgoblins crawling around our bodies.”

  “It’s not.” Lyre cleared her throat. Recovered. Yes, to business. “Vault creations like this could be signaled by anything. We’re just as likely to be killed by a change in temperature, a shortwave radio, anything.”

  “A sip of wine,” Cian offered helpfully, causing Alais to quickly put down her glass.

  “What we should be asking,” Lyre said, “is why Orric, of the present diplomats, was targeted first.”

  “He’s a minor heir of Vhehaden.” Alais frowned, concern flagged by still fresh grief. “Though I admit that doesn’t distinguish much in company like this.”

  “If someone wanted to disrupt Vhehaden, you’re a much more appealing target. And if they wanted to strike the Empire, well...”

  “Yet we are all still breathing.” Sabine was herself again. She plucked a flower from the table and turned it over in her hands. When its petals fluttered into the hologram stream, they became translucent, revealing tiny veins fletched with silver motes. Even the floral arrangements here were nano-infused. A shiver of repulsion twitched across Sabine’s shoulders, and she put the flower down.

  “Likely investigation should include uninfected individuals,” Cian said. “Your staff are likely suspects.”

  Lyre felt Kitra stiffen, and Alais made a dismissive noise. “Nonsense. Your own guard is more likely—”

  “Unlikely.” Cian frowned down at his pulse implant again, appearing discomfited. It must feel like a missing limb to a data addict like the prime minister.

  “Anyone can be flipped,” Lyre said.

  “Not,” Cian said, with a slow blink of pale blue eyes—calm, calculating and for a moment, cruel, “if certain practicalities are assured.”

  Blackmail. He was talking about blackmail. The guard at his side didn’t even blink, even as the Imperial side of the table fell silent. Of course, the Syn would have their own way to guarantee loyalty. Cian probably didn’t even need to bother to learn his guards’ names, as long as he had the names of their families and loved ones.

  “I am certain of their interests,” Cian said simply. “And their loyalty.”

  “As I am of my people,” Sabine said, recovering quickly. “Kitra is a knightsguard, sworn to the throne. And Lyre—”

  Lyre wanted to hear how Sabine would finish that sentence. Lady, did she want to hear what Sabine thought of her, now. After their arguments and that—confusing—moment in the baths. But Sabine stopped with a purse of her lips. “I do not appreciate the insinuation in your tone, Prime Minister.”

  This conversation was headed nowhere, and taking the scenic route. Alais had been quiet for a while, so Lyre took a risk. She drifted forward and pitched her voice low—not that anyone was paying attention to her, now that Sabine had her fire returned to her. “This quarantine is all wrong.”

  Alais didn’t turn in her chair, but her eyes slid to the side. “Which part, the dying or the impending declarations of war?”

  Sabine did look ready to push the first shiny red button she came across. Even Cian had worked himself up into a scowl, which was a fit of pique coming from him. Lyre cut to the chase. “If this was a true quarantine, they would have tried to separate the uninfected. Not to mention limited contamination—they brought us a damned dining room set. And Khait and Sylvere waltzed in here without masks. Someone knew they wouldn’t be at risk.”

  “Someone with the Vault, you’re saying.”

  “At the very least, someone has won the cooperation of the Vault. I need to find out who.”

  Alais tilted her head. “And I suppose it hasn’t occurred t
o you to ask nicely.”

  “I can get past the door without the guards noticing. Do a little looking around.”

  “Why does no one talk to each other anymore? Does that make me sound old? I feel old. You make me feel old.” Alais was doing a good job of not drawing attention. She looked broody and bored, drawing idle doodles on the holographic display.

  Though anyone who knew Alais would know that was suspicious. The Lady of Scandals never brooded.

  “We talk. We just don’t believe a word of it,” Lyre said. “Do I have your signoff, boss?”

  “It’s quaint that you’re pretending to ask permission. To break quarantine.”

  “Yep.”

  “And risk unleashing an unknown nano infection into a delicate ecosystem.”

  “To be fair, they said I was clean.”

  “And risk offending the Vault and receiving technology censures that would send our Empire back to the dark ages.”

  “Only if I’m a shit spy.”

  “If you were, wouldn’t both our lives be simpler?” Alais’s lips quirked, rueful. “Go then. I’ll try to keep our empress from punching anyone in the meantime.”

  “Sabs is more of a stabby type.”

  “And unforgiving of sedition,” Alais pointed out dryly. “You better be right.”

  “Sometimes I wish I weren’t.” Lyre waited for Alais to nod; the official one all nobles had, the one that said she sanctioned the initiative, behind the dry banter and reproach. No one noticed when Lyre slipped away from the table. Not the Syndicate delegation, too at a loss without their data streams. Not Kitra, with his attention fully centered on watching for danger. Not even Sabine, chin up, eyes blazing as she staked her legacy on a verbal wrangle with Cian.

  Lyre was unseen. Lyre was unimportant. It was the best lie of all, and it hurt enough that once in a while she indulged in believing it. Lyre lost herself in the greenery of the solarium and followed the faint buzzing until she found what she was looking for. A scuttle hub. Tunnels that fed through all parts of the flotilla, allowing the Vault’s hardworking nano-directed bugs and beasties to move freely where they were needed.