Steve White - Emperor of Dawn

Emperor of Dawn

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Emperor of Dawn

by Steve White

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

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Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57797-2

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, May 1999

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER ONE

Santaclara (Iota Pegasi A IV), 4325 C.E.

The primary sun was breaking over the rim of the world below, flooding the observation bubble with

light that banished the distant red-dwarf companion star. Corin Marshak stood silhouetted against that

blaze as the steward cleared his throat.

"We've established orbit, sir. We can begin transposing passengers down shortly, and you have top

priority."

"Thank you." Slowly, as though reluctant to take leave of the view, Corin turned around to face the

steward. He stepped forward with the limp that had grown less pronounced in the course of the voyage.

Away from the star-glare beyond the transparent armorplast, details emerged: a tall, slender, youngish

man, dark of hair and complexion, prominent of nose. He wore his maroon civilian jumpsuit like a

uniform.

"Thank you," he repeated a little less abstractedly. "I'll be ready shortly. Tell them not to delay anyone

else's departure on my account."

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"Very good, sir." The steward gave a small bow and departed. Corin looked around. People were

drifting away, leaving only a few in the observation bubble. He turned back to the spectacle outside.

They were approaching the terminator, and Santaclara's day side stood revealed. A hot young F5v star

such as this had no business possessing a blue cloud-swirling life-bearing planet. . . .

"Think we'll see a Luon?"

He started at the voice and turned to look at its owner. He'd noticed the auburn-haired woman before,

but had never been presented with an opportunity for self-introduction that met his rather exacting

standards in such things. Now she herself had finally made the move, and was giving him a gaze of frank

appraisal with clear blue eyes that suited a complexion fair enough to be potentially inconvenient under

this sun. And, to his annoyance, he found himself struck most by the way she'd paralleled his own

thoughts, which had been leading him by a natural chain of association to the ancient terraformers, now

dying out, who had bequeathed worlds like Santaclara to their human successors.

"Probably not," he replied. "I've heard that some people here claim to have seen one, still alive in the

mountains. But stories like that are usually just imagination and alcohol. Nobody sees the Luonli unless

they want to be seen."

"You mean . . . the stories about them being mind-controllers?" Like a cloud shadow on a windy day, an

uneasy frown crossed her face. Those features were too strongly marked for conventional prettiness, and

too expressive to mask her feelings. Once seen, they lingered in the memory.

"That's probably a little strong. As I understand it,influencing the mind is about the extent of their

telepathic capacity. And they've never shown any inclination to use it except to preserve their privacy as

they quietly dwindle toward extinction." Corin decided he was waxing altogether too serious, and that

self-introduction was in order. "By the way, I'm Commander Corin Marshak. I had to use civilian

transportation for the last leg of my trip to this system because—"

"—the Fleet is swamped at this end of the Empire as a result of the preparations for the Emperor's visit

to the Cassiopeia frontier," she finished for him. "Yes, I know. I'm Major Janille Dornay . . . sir."

Corin extended his hand. The Marine major returned his handshake with a grip whose strength didn't

surprise him. It went with her lithe leanness. Still, civilian clothes looked better on her than on him. . . .

"So, Major, you must be in the same position I am."

"Yes . . . except that I haven't come nearly as far." She hesitated, unable to think of a graceful way to

refer to his limp. "I've heard talk that you saw action against the Ch'axanthu—that you're only just back

from there." She paused, inviting reminiscences.

"Yes." He realized the monosyllable had come out more curtly than he'd intended, and sought to perform

conversational salvage. "Actually, I wasn't thinking of the Luonli just now," he lied, indicating the

planetary panorama unfolding below. "I was thinking of all the history this world holds."

"History?" Her brow crinkled with puzzlement, then cleared. "Oh, yes. I remember now. Many centuries

ago, the Iota Pegasi system was part of the New Human rebels' state, whatever it was called."

"The `People's Democratic Union,' " Corin supplied. "And it was four and a half standard centuries ago,

to be exact. But I was thinking of what happened after that. This was where Basil Castellan declared

himself Emperor."

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Her eyes widened. "You mean . . .the Basil Castellan? And his friends Sonja Rady and Torval

Bogdan?" Her eyes strayed to the planetscape of Santaclara. "Right here?"

He could understand her incredulous astonishment. The New Human rebellion against the old Solarian

Empire was a matter of dry history, but the trio she had named belonged to the realm of legend, beyond

any tedious fixity of time and place. He might as well have told her that Old King Cole had held court on

the planet beneath them, or that the Argonauts had sailed its seas.

"Right here," he affirmed. "They really did live, you know—even though they've been so mythologized by

now that it's hard to separate the facts from the fables. After he broke with Yoshi Medina, Castellan

established himself in former rebel space, where the people saw him as the hero who'd freed them from

the New Humans. He only reigned a little while, before he was defeated by treachery."

"Is it true," Janille asked, eyes still on the planet that had suddenly taken on a whole new aspect for her,

"that he and Rady disappeared afterwards? That their bodies were never found?"

"That's right. On the backwater worlds of these sectors, they still say that he never died, that he's in

cryogenic suspension somewhere, and will return when the people need him."

She laughed nervously. "Cryo suspension for four hundred years? I don't think so. Besides, it's for

damned sure he didn't come back to save the Empire from the Zyungen, or from the rabble of Beyonders

who followed them." She couldn't quite sustain her scornful tone to the end of her last sentence. "I

wonder," she resumed after a moment, as much to herself as to him, "what it was like to live in those

days?"

"You mean Castellan's lifetime and the generation or so after it? The age of romantic high adventure?"

Corin gave a short sound that held too little humor to be called a laugh. " `Adventure' has been defined as

somebodyelse having a horrible time hundreds of years ago or dozens of light-years away. It was an age

of nonstop civil war and murderous intrigue—just the kind of age that makes for great historical fiction."

He gazed moodily through the transparent armorplast. "The real question is, what would Castellan think

ofour age?"

Somehow, he could feel her stiffen from across the few feet that separated them. "What do you mean?

There's only one way he could see it. Why, within our lifetimes, the Empire has finally been reunified. The

dream he gave his life for has come true!"

An idealist,Corin thought sadly.Like me, you grew up on the news stories of Armand Duschane's

reconquest . . . no, more like `triumphal march' after he'd established the only real power base in

Imperial space. And, like me, you went into the military to join the grand and glorious parade of

the Renewed Empire.

And, unlike me, you haven't just returned from the Ch'axanthu war. . . .

His mind flashed back to his Academy days, and the words of wisdom Tristan LoBhutto, the class

lady-killer, had condescendingly dispensed to his envious fellow cadets. "The object of a conversation

with a woman is neither to enlighten nor to persuade. Nor is it to score debating points. It is to get laid."

Of course, Corin had outgrown that sort of thing by now. Of course. Or perhaps he had simply reached

the end of his ability to hold his bitterness inside.

"Yes, the Empire has been reunified. But it isn't the first time that's been done since Castellan's death.

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Medina's old military henchmen of the Marvell family did it when they kicked out his grandson and

founded their own dynasty."

"But that dynasty's reunification was just a false start. It only lasted . . . how many years?"

"Less than forty. But it remains to be seen whether we'll do as well."

Her eyes flashed blue fire, but then they strayed involuntarily in the direction of Corin's left leg. And

when she spoke she sounded almost contrite, remembering where he'd been. "Yes, I know—not as well

as you, of course—that the Ch'axanthu have handed us a setback—"

"The third in as many standard years," Corin interrupted drily.

"—but they show no inclination or ability to follow up on it," she finished doggedly. "They can't bring us

down like the Zyungen did the Marvell dynasty."

"You're right about that. I don't think aliens like the Ch'axanthu or Beyonders like the Tarakans are going

to do us in. Actually, we're doing such a good job of it ourselves that it would be superfluous."

This time her stiffening was visible. Her blue eyes met his brown-black ones and silently asked the

question she couldn't put to a superior officer:If you feel that way, then—

"What am I doing in the Fleet?" he finished aloud for her. "Maybe I'm an idealist too, Major. Or, more

likely, maybe I prefer anything to passivity—even futility."

"But . . . Look, I know there's a lot of unrest and resentment around, but—"

"I doubt if you know just how much." Corin thought of the Ursa Major frontier region from which he'd

come, and which—as was always the case with the worlds nearest the seat of an interstellar war—had

borne a disproportionate share of the burden. His convalescence had kept him out of the "police actions"

as minor rebellions had flickered through those sectors. But some of the things he'd heard . . . "Or how

justified they are."

A moment's silence passed as she visibly clamped control down on her features. "Excuse me, sir, but I

need to prepare for departure." She turned on her heel and marched from the observation bubble.

Corin turned back to the transparency, but this time he was looking at his own reflection in the

armorplast.Ass , he thought dispassionately in its direction. Then he departed from the now-deserted

dome.

* * *

"Well, Commander, your record speaks for itself." Vice Admiral Julius Tanzler-Yataghan looked up from

the hardcopy and gazed across his desk at the newly arrived officer. "Yes, very impressive indeed. And

you've certainly come quite a distance."

"I have that, sir," Corin replied. The Ursa Major frontier was on the far side of the Empire. It had been a

journey of almost two months. "At least it gave me time to adjust to my new leg."

"Ah, yes. I would hardly have realized it was regrown if your record didn't describe the circumstances

under which you lost it." The admiral indicated the citation which contained the description. Fleet uniform

regulations prescribed that decorations be worn only with full dress. Corin was wearing the gray tunic

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and trousers of planetside service dress. So his chest was bare of the medal the citation had

accompanied. "It must have been an appalling experience, Commander. You're certainly due for

reassignment to a quiet sector like this one. Of course," he added with a little too much emphasis, "we

here also do our part. We're not far from the Cassiopeia and Perseus regions, where the threat of a

Tarakan incursion can never be ignored. Indeed, you might say we were standing guard against different

aspects of the same threat. As His Imperial Majesty has explained, it is necessary to prevent the

Ch'axanthu from joining forces with the Tarakans and presenting us with a . . . yes, a second front."

"Yes, sir." There wasn't much else Corin could say, for the admiral was reciting the official line. But his

mind leaped across a light-century and contemplated the beings he'd fought: compact bipeds little more

than half human-average height, with huge dark eyes. In addition to high intelligence, they had

astonishingly dexterous hands with two mutually-opposable "thumbs" almost as long as the five "fingers,"

and it was unsurprising that they were master technologists. They had colonized several systems before

humankind had left its homeworld. But those colonists had traveled at the slower-than-light rates

permitted by ordinary physical laws, for by some fluke the Ch'axanthu had never discovered the

time-distortion drive on their own. And, having acquired it from some Beyonders or other, they'd shown

no interest in using it to expand their sphere much beyond its long-established limits. They'd merely

consolidated their already-colonized systems—systems of which they'd made far more intensive use than

humans would have.

And that was why three invasions by the incomparably larger Empire had failed so dismally.

Long before the first interstellar probe had departed from Earth, it had been recognized that Homo

sapiens' muscles, bones and immune system would not allow indefinite relinquishment of weight. Until the

advent of artificially generated gravity fields, long-range space voyaging had required dodges like spinning

a portion of the ship to produce angular acceleration. But not even that had permitted realization of the

old dreams of colonizing asteroids and deep-space habitats . . . for the colonists had lost interest in

reproducing.

Humans, it seemed, had a psychological need for Earth or a planet like it—a need unsuspected by the

early space-colonization enthusiasts. At a minimum, they needed such a planet floating huge and blue in

their sky. They mined and garrisoned flying mountains, and had for millennia, but they never called them

home.

The Ch'axanthu were different. They'd evolved on a planet more or less similar to Earth, but their bodies

and minds could adapt to microgravity environments. And by now the great majority of them lived in a

myriad such environments, spread throughout the systems they had made their own.

And that, Corin reflected (not for the first time), was the problem: their lack of vulnerability.

Humanity had learned what vulnerability was in the early fourth millennium, as the gentlemanly limited

warfare of the Age of the Protectors had given way to the Unification Wars. When total, high-intensity

war was waged with interstellar-level technology, the populations of Earthlike planets survived only by

grace of their economic value to potential conquerors. And the few Ch'axanthu-inhabited planets were no

more survivable in the face of antimatter warheads—and the far cheaper relativistic rocks—than human

ones.

But the Ch'axanthu could afford the loss of those sitting-duck worlds. The habitats where most of them

lived were too numerous, too scattered and too mobile for convenient destruction. And they could wage

a kind of spaceborne guerrilla war that had never been possible for humans. It had taken three disastrous

campaigns for the Empire to learn the lesson—still publicly unacknowledged—that the Ch'axanthu were,

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as a practical matter, unconquerable.

Equally belated, and equally unadmitted, was the realization that they'd never posed a threat in the first

place. . . .

Taking refuge from the thought, Corin let his eyes stray to the virtual window behind the admiral's desk.

This office was deep within the sector headquarters. Tanzler-Yataghan preferred a more picturesque

view than a simple transparency would have afforded, and the holo image showed the suburbs of the city

outside the base, as though seen from a tall building. It was spring in Santaclara's northern hemisphere,

as—by sheerest coincidence—it also was on Old Earth, whose standard year was the ordinary measure

of time, however ill-fitting it might be in terms of local seasons. Hills, cloaked in subtropical vegetation

whose species had originated on Earth or the unknown Luonli homeworld, stretched away toward distant

smoky-blue mountains. Among that bright-flowering greenery nestled villas in this world's traditional style,

with red-tiled roofs and fountained courtyards. The classical Old Earth cultures the early interstellar

colonizers had sought to preserve had been diluted beyond those colonizers' recognition by centuries of

population movements—both the spectacular forced variety and the ongoing process of individuals

"voting with their feet"—but they had left a legacy of distinctive planetary and regional styles. The element

of Old Earth's heritage that the histories characterized as "Hispanic" hadn't totally failed to leave its

imprint on Iota Pegasi and the other sectors of the old "People's Democratic Union." There had been so

many such cultural forms and textures on the planet of humankind's birth. Too bad, what the Zyungen had

done to it . . .

Corin dismissed the always-depressing thought and turned his attention back to his new commanding

officer. His name advertised his descent from the Sword Clans—partial descent at any rate, for there

were few unmixed ones left by now, almost two and a half centuries after their return from their doomed

world. That ancestry doubtless hadn't hurt his Fleet career. But he certainly didn't fit the lean, hard-faced

stereotype of the military aristocracy the Sword Clans had bred by intermarriage with the old Imperial

elite. His expensively tailored uniform couldn't conceal his pudginess, and self-indulgence had left its

marks on his face. Corin had heard rumors about the ways he'd augmented his personal fortune during

his tenure as Sector Admiral of Iota Pegasi.

"Yes," the admiral was continuing, "this sector may seem out-of-the-way. But don't be deceived." He

manipulated controls, and a multicolored display floated in midair between two holo plates set into the

floor and the ceiling. Corin instantly recognized the very rough spheroid as a representation of the

Empire, its sectors in bright translucent colors. As per convention, it was oriented in terms of Old Earth's

ecliptic plane, just as regions were still described by the names of the mythological persons and beasts

that some ancient Greek—doubtless after ingesting too muchretsina —had thought to see among the

stars.

Tanzler-Yataghan touched more controls, and two vaguely outlined expanses of sinister slate-gray

appeared outside the bounds of the gaudy spheroid, like obscene growths. The smaller and less vague of

them clung to the outer edge of the turquoise Xi Ursae Majoris Sector, beyond the bright beacon of

Denebola, on the right of the display as viewed from where Corin sat and about a fourth of the way

"north" from its equator. The larger and less sharply delineated one seemed to slouch against the crimson

and yellow expanses of the Beta Cassiopeiae and Theta Persei Sectors, about forty percent of the way

around the spheroid and considerably higher. Still further around to the left, but at the same "latitude" as

the smaller gray blotch from which it was diametrically opposite, a blinking light indicated the position of

Iota Pegasi, in the azure of the sector that bore its name.

"As you can see," the admiral intoned, pointing to a purple shape that lay between the azure and the

crimson, "only the 85 Pegasi Sector separates us from the sectors directly threatened by the Tarakans."

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He glowered at the ill-defined gray smudge polluting his side of the display. "Naturally, that represents

only the Inner Domain. We don't know enough about the Outer Domain's extent to accurately depict it.

Anyway, it's the Inner Domain that's the immediate threat."

Corin wondered what the Tarakans themselves called the two Domains, each ruled by its own Araharl,

into which they'd schismed shortly after the great Zhangula had unified them and made them masters of an

unprecedentedly large expanse of extra-Imperial space. Almost certainly not the Empire-centered terms

"Inner" and "Outer." But, he reflected, that had always been the problem. To its inhabitants, the Empire

was by definition the sole source of civilization and political legitimacy in the human universe, the lawful

trustee of Old Earth's legacy. The humans who occupied an unknown percentage of the galaxy outside its

frontiers were simply "Beyonders"—dwellers in outer darkness, sometimes dangerous, sometimes to be

employed as mercenaries, but never to be taken seriously. Curiously enough, this attitude had survived

the Empire's reunification by descendants of the Sword Clans—technically Beyonders

themselves—because by then those descendants had become more Imperial than the Imperials. For the

really curious thing was that the Beyonders themselves mostly accepted the Empire's self-estimate, and

sought to buy into the assumption of superiority it entailed.

But the attitude also carried a penalty: chronically wretched intelligence concerning the Beyonders. In

normal times, this could be lived with. The innumerable Beyonder states, few of which comprised more

than a single planetary system, seldom posed more than a localized threat. And whenever a larger

political unity arose among them, it could be overawed by Imperial prestige, bought off by Imperial

money and, eventually, broken up by Imperial diplomacy.

Only . . . the first, at least, didn't work with the Tarakans. Zhangula must have been more than a mere

military genius. He'd been that far rarer thing, a lawgiver—the creator of a nation. No one knew from

what scraps of human history or legend he had rummaged up his ideology. (Or was it a religion? And did

the distinction mean anything?) The point was that the Tarakans, in their own minds, ruled their clutch of

subject peoples by a right which wasnot conferred by the Solarian Emperor.

Shrewd old Armand Duschane had recognized that his reunified Empire faced something new under the

suns. He'd made it his business to play the two Domains against each other. His instinct hadn't always

been infallible; on at least one memorable occasion he'd outsmarted himself in a fashion that had

necessitated an embarrassingly abrupt change of sides. But, like so many of Armand's initiatives, it had

worked out well enough to leave his successor in an advantageous position.

Too bad that, in this as in so much else, Oleg Duschane had been congenitally unable to leave well

enough alone. . . .

"No doubt the Emperor will set the Cassiopeia/Perseus frontier to rights when he arrives there," Corin

said aloud.

"Of course. The expedition he's leading there has been in preparation for months."Preparations the

Empire could ill afford after last year's expensive failure against the Ch'axanthu, Corin reflected.

But Tanzler-Yataghan was hitting his sycophantic stride. "Still, no amount of tonnage and firepower can

be as impressive as the Imperial presence itself—the fact that His Imperial Majesty himself is

condescending to take personal command! It will be like his previous visit to those sectors, before . . .

ahem!" The admiral hastily faked a cough to cover his narrow avoidance of a faux pas. Six or seven

years before, Oleg had conducted a kind of Imperial progress through Cassiopeia and Perseus, a

showing of the flag to a neighbor rendered complaisant if not precisely friendly by his father's patient

maneuverings. Now he was coming to shore up a threatened frontier. But one couldn't very well verbalize

that fact without opening the door to unsayable conclusions concerning the reasons for the change.

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"Well, Commander," the admiral hastily changed the subject, "that's enough talk for now. I'm sure you're

tired—always fatiguing to adjust to a new planet, isn't it? Take the rest of the day to settle into your

quarters. Tomorrow will be soon enough to report to Captain Yuan, my chief of staff."

"Thank you, sir." Corin rose from his chair, came to attention, and turned on his heel to leave. He was

halfway to the door when the admiral stopped him with a throat-clearing noise.

"Ah, Commander Marshak, I believe you weren't the only officer who arrived here aboardCanopus

Argosy. A Marine officer was also en route here."

"Why, yes, Admiral. A Major Dornay."

"Indeed. She's already reported to Brigadier General Toda. But, as per routine procedure, I've seen her

records. Including her picture." The tip of the admiral's tongue briefly appeared to lick his lips. "Since you

and she were fellow passengers, I couldn't help wondering if you had . . . well, if you can give me any

insights concerning her."

Corin knew precisely what sort of insights Tanzler-Yataghan had in mind. He kept his voice bland.

"Sorry, sir. I only met her at the very end of the voyage. So it was a very brief and superficial

acquaintance. My chief impression is that she's very strong-willed."

It was hard to tell from the admiral's expression if he'd taken the hint, or if he was merely disappointed

that he wouldn't be getting any specific pointers as to technique. "Ah, well. I suppose it can't be helped.

Dismissed, Commander."

"Sir." Corin departed. Outside, under the dazzling light of Iota Pegasi A, he took a deep breath of fresh

air.

CHAPTER TWO

The Beta Cassiopeiae Sector, 4325 C.E.

DM +63 137—a dim K7v orange star—wasn't much like Iota Pegasi. And the rust-red planet it was

peeking over wasn't at all similar to Santaclara. But Roderick Brady-Schiavona was gazing through the

transparency at it in a way that made him resemble Corin Marshak to a remarkable degree, given that

they didn't look in the least alike.

In fact, he wasn't looking at the local astronomical scenery, but at the ships that reflected the dawning

sunlight as they orbited in company with the titanic orbital fortress from which he gazed—the sector

military headquarters, and therefore the natural location for the ceremony that was about to commence.

He turned from the transparency and looked around him. He stood on a mezzanine that overlooked the

fortress's vast docking bay where a Marine honor guard, like the row of dignitaries at right angles to it,

faced a dais. That dais filled the space which would have accommodated an arriving shuttle, and it was

unoccupied—for now.

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Roderick moved to the railing and looked down, watching for a moment as Marine noncoms dressed

the honor guard's lines to an even higher degree of exactitude. Then he glanced to right and left along the

railing, at others who, like him, were of rank insufficiently exalted to be with the reception committee

below.

"Why, Roderick!" The familiar voice was in bantering mode. "I expected you to be down below with the

rest of the social elite."

Roderick turned around, and his moody expression dissolved into a grin that wasn't quite as dazzling as

its wont—he'd been away from the light of any sun long enough for his face to lose the accustomed ruddy

tan that went well with his chestnut-brown hair and provided contrast for his white teeth and blue-gray

eyes. He greeted the civilian-clothed figure the way a man who is leaving youth behind greets his mentor.

"You must be joking! A mere captain? You have to be flag rank, or a damned highly placed civilian, to

get anywhere close to that receiving line down there."

"A captain, true . . . but hardly a `mere' one," Jason Aerenthal demurred. "After all, as the Sector

Admiral's son—"

"Now Iknow you're joking."

"Of course I am. Anything smacking even remotely of favoritism would be anathema to your father. He

is unique in my experience: a man with anaccurate public image of probity and rectitude. Besides . . ."

Aerenthal didn't need to complete the thought. In the four and a half centuries since the First Empire had

begun to unravel, familial ties had waxed in significance as societal ones had waned. The urge to advance

one's own blood had assumed an importance it hadn't seen since Old Earth's unimaginably ancient

preindustrial days. Even if Admiral Ivar Brady-Schiavona had harbored any dynastic ambitions, he would

have been well advised to keep them concealed in the presence of his master the Emperor—holder of

the Empire's soleofficially hereditary office.

Roderick needed no coaching on the subject of forbidden topics—he'd spent part of his youth at the

Imperial court on Prometheus. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist asking the question that had been

uppermost in his mind since he'd seen Aerenthal. "But why aren'tyou down there? Surely you ought to

be."

"Hardly. As you know, I prefer to avoid the limelight." Roderick did know it. He reflected that every one

of the officers around them knew about the results of Aerenthal's exploits, but only a few of them knew

the name of the man responsible—and of those, not one recognized the civilian sharing the railing with

them as that man. The celebrity secret agent of popular fiction exists there alone.

"Yes, I know you've raised inconspicuousness to a fine art. You cultivate it like a banker cultivates

conservative respectability—and for much the same reasons. But still . . ."

"There's more to it than that, at the moment."

Roderick's face clouded. "It's totally unfair! You were just carrying out a policy—"

"—with which I disagreed. Softly, please." Aerenthal smiled in a way for which the term "world-weary"

would have had to be invented had it not already existed. "But, you see, if I'm not to blame, then who is?"

He let the question hang suspended in silence for a heartbeat, then nodded. "So the point is, it's necessary

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Steve White - Emperor of Dawn

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