“And the Archon of Archons agreed to this change,” the lieutenant said cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Because you hit him a few times,” he muttered.

Nobody was as important as this one young officer, and that’s why she stopped and looked at Sondaw, staring until he grew uneasy enough to throw his gaze at an empty wall.

“I struck him in front of his son.”

“Yes, madam.”

“I don’t know what King is. I can’t say that he’s a new species or something that the Creators forgot in their ovens. But ritual violence is King’s breath. A one-sided fight would accomplish considerable good. That’s what King believes, in his blood and spines. List was ashamed to be on the floor, and his adopted son was horrified by his father’s lousy showing, and because I had every advantage, at least for a few moments, the fleet is ours.”

“As long as we aren’t at war,” Sondaw said.

“We’ll be at peace tomorrow,” she said, walking again.

From two steps behind, her aide said, “But the Archon won’t let this stand.”

“He won’t,” she agreed.

“Madam,” he said. “I know how a beaten man thinks.”

She slowed. “From experience?”

“Every man knows,” he said.

Women knew it too, but she let that declaration pass. “The risks are smaller this way,” she insisted. “List is pushed aside temporarily. And as you pointed out to me, thank you, King might well have played a role in the various treacheries. Minimizing him is another blessing.”

“Yes, madam.”

She slowed, and the lieutenant had no choice but catch her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one else. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

Flustered, he said, “Of course, madam.”

“Three days ago, you didn’t exist. Not in my world. But here you are, helping your mother carry home the groceries.”

The lieutenant glanced at the folder in his hands.

“The rain’s nearly finished,” she said. “Come with me.”

The man took one step and stopped.

“Now what’s wrong?” she asked.

Sondaw surprised her. With a hard gaze and stern tone, he said, “I don’t believe this. List wouldn’t simply hand over his fleet.”

“Yet he did.”

“No.”

They stood alone in the hallway.

“What do you think happened?” she asked.

“You struck him, and in front of his son, you knocked him down. But that wasn’t enough.”

“No?”

“In the end, I think you made a deal with the man.”

“A deal,” she repeated.

“You come from a trading family. Traders know how to make agreements, and that’s why you gave him something, and I think you gave him more than that one chance to hit you in the face.”

“What could I possibly offer the Archon?”

Sondaw’s face flushed, and he said, “Diamond.”

Prima placed two fingers across the young man’s mouth. “This is the trader’s secret, Lieutenant: I would have done that anyway. Really, after the carnage at home, after so much death, how can we pretend to anybody that our little District might ever keep that boy safe again?”

ELEVEN

High-hands rode on top of warrior-class fletches. Selected for their sharp vision and sure reflexes, they were the key protectors on any ship. Nothing outflew the papio wings. But wings were expensive and lacked endurance, and one man riding astride a well-calibrated autocannon, if he had the necessary gifts, should be able to kill a wing before it finished its first attack. And that was why the papio would run out of wings, and that’s why they were sure to lose the next war.

High-hands deserved to be the elite among their ranks.

Of course wars only lived in history books and wherever confident generals played their intricate, well-practiced games. For a very long while, the military had fought only skirmishes with the papio, and the Jugular had never done even that. A middle-aged fletch, in fine repair and with a well-trained crew, it had made a thousand patrols without delivering any killing shots. Three high-hands were riding on top, each inside a gun bubble. Quyte had earned the primary seat over the bow. His eyes were first to spot Bountiful. That long forest-colored machine was emerging from the wilderness, pushing hard toward the reef. Calling down to the captain, Quyte gave the target’s position and apparent speed, and while he spoke, his hands reflexively checked his weapon, making certain that the first explosive round was ready in the breech.

Then he had finished talking and finished loading, and that’s when Quyte realized he was gasping, and the rapid, rattling of his heart made his entire chest ache.

The young man had never been political or subject to religious passions. In temperament, he was considered, if anything, too mild for his critical post. There was no pattern to his friendships, except that he was close to almost everybody on the roster. He had no great failings of character. While he knew what the old books said about the Creators and perfection, he didn’t think much about the lessons of faith and humanity’s place in the world. What was important was that he had great respect for Prima and for the military. As it happened, Quyte had seen Diamond many times in the past. The boy lived close to Shandlehome—a buckwood tree where Quyte’s family to live. Quyte’s father had spent a portion of his savings to acquire the same fine quality telescope that high-hands used in their bubbles. Every time the high-hand visited the old home, he spent some moments looking at the landing that wore a big net and that big window where Diamond could be seen playing children’s games, or playing with his monkey, or doing nothing but sleep.

Shandlehome fell two days ago. Quyte’s parents were presumed dead, along with both his sisters and their husbands and a newborn nephew.

In that, the high-hand was the same as many others.

Everybody had suffered. Almost every citizen in the District and onboard the Jugular had spent the last two days wishing miseries for their enemies. Of course some of that hatred had to be aimed at the boy. Diamond was the target of this attack, and there was always extra rage that needed someplace to gather, and why not throw obscenities at the creature that brought this rain of carnage and waste? Yet Quyte never mentioned any of those deep feelings, assuming that everyone was the same. What’s more, the gunner had fine reasons to honor his uniform and his District. He was married to a beauty he had known since school, and his wife was still alive, living near the Jugular’s primary dock, which was as far from the mayhem as possible. Also, she was fifty days pregnant. The future had become a very dangerous tangle, and it was important for Quyte to play the role of the loving, reliable husband. Two days ago, he promised his sobbing wife that he would be careful and smart, and he promised that nobody wanted war, and he meant those words when he spoke them and he believed them as well as he could believe anything. But the gunner’s nature was to have very little faith in great callings, and he was even less introspective than most of his peers, and perhaps those were reasons why he was vulnerable to wild, unpredictable shifts of mood.

Quyte saw the corona-hunter and called to the fletch’s captain, and he made his cannon ready for things that wouldn’t happen.

Then his hands weren’t busy anymore, and they started to shake. His entire body trembled. Time was empty, leaving him with all sorts of vivid thoughts, and he rolled into the next moment and the next, and ideas kept bubbling up, leaving him nowhere to escape.

The Jugular’s captain had clear orders.

Finding and intercepting Bountiful was his primary mission, and if that was accomplished, then the Archon wanted that every power short of brute force should be employed in bring the missing ship home again.