Orion's Price (Loralynn Kennakris Book 6) Read online

  Like Caneris, Heydrich wasn’t a Member of Council by virtue of his military rank, which is why he led the militarists and not Van Diemens who, as Chief of the Supreme Staff, stood at the pinnacle of Halith’s military while Heydrich was not even a field marshal. By tradition, the Council reserved five or sometimes seven places for hereditary lords (the number varied and was once as many as nine) who were elected from eligible families of the Civitas (the upper house of Halith’s mostly, but not entirely, rubberstamp parliament). Although there were hundreds of eligible families, the same few tended to have their members elected over and over. Caneris, as Lord OverHallin, was from one of these families and Heydrich was from another.

  Tristan Heydrich’s personal position was, however, anomalous. His late brother, the admiral, had been Lord Meremont, a very old distinguished Halith title that rivaled the OverHallin pedigree. Combined with being chief of Halith military intelligence, that put Christian Heydrich in an extremely formidable position.

  But General Heydrich was not Lord Meremont. When the admiral was killed at Asylum, the title passed to his son, Percival, who at the time had been twenty-eight. Halith Law did not allow anyone under the age of thirty to serve on the Council of Ministers, but an heir of legal age who was not old enough to sit could appoint a proxy, so Percival had selected his uncle to serve in his place. Percival had been mere weeks away from being able to assume his seat when he goaded Caneris into their duel. Caneris suspected that the true reason behind the duel was that Percival didn’t want to face his father’s old adversary across the council table.

  On Percival’s death, the title passed to Admiral Heydrich’s second son, Reynard, who was only nineteen, and thus not even in his majority. But Reynard Heydrich was afflicted with a severe and violent mental instability that rendered him a twisted caricature of his notably sadistic father. When his father had been killed, Reynard murdered six house-servants in a crime so abhorrent it shocked even Halith’s permissive society. He’d been under a polite sort of house arrest ever since while a fierce internal battle raged in the family over what to do with him. That battle pitted General Heydrich against the boy’s sister, the admiral’s other surviving child.

  Joaquin Caneris was well-acquainted with Lady Gwyneth Devere-Heydrich. She was tall and blond, a beautiful girl—she’d inherited the full measure of the Heydrich family’s celebrated good looks—polite, if a bit quiet; intelligent, well-bred and a good deal sharper than the world in general knew. Nor was she soft, whatever her demeanor—the Heydrich family did not breed softness.

  Only twenty-four, Lady Gwen, as she insisted on being known, was already a widow. Her husband, Lord Malcolm Devere, had gone up with IHS Orlan at the Battle of Wogan’s Reef. It had not been a happy marriage: Lady Gwen mourned no more than the absolute minimum propriety demanded and had resisted all suggestions that she remarry. In the normal course of events, this would have happened once official mourning was over—young Halith widows of such distinguished families were not typically allowed to roam free—but with her father’s death before the end of official mourning, there was no one to press the issue except her mother, a delicate, pretty and weak-willed woman that Lady Gwen kept entirely under her thumb—so entirely she’d successfully vetoed her mother’s own plans to remarry.

  That Lady Gwen did not get along with her younger brother was a gross understatement. Caneris had no doubt that if she had her way, young Reynard would be ruled incurable and permanently debarred from holding the family title or anything else. Indeed, he did not foresee him enjoying a normal life expectancy should his sister prevail. The details of Reynard’s crime had been made unusually public; the information leaked was quite specific, lurid and gruesome, and there were very few people who could have been the source. Gwen had been close to one of the victims and Caneris, for his part, had no doubt she could have, and would have, arranged the leak. He also suspected she’d largely stage-managed the investigation itself.

  None of this endeared her to her uncle, and Lady Gwen returned his dislike in full measure. Now that Percival was dead, control over the family’s assets had effectively fallen to her, pending a final determination of her younger brother’s mental state, which would not come up for another year or so. That meant the decision of who occupied the family’s Council seat was Lady Gwen hands, and she could—in principle—remove her uncle at will. That she hadn’t done so indicated the internal battle must be far from one-sided. But it certainly couldn’t be improving the general’s mood.

  At present, by count of heads, Heydrich held the strong hand with the Council. But head counting was misleading. First off, the chief of staff was Heydrich’s superior officer, just as he was Caneris’, but the Prince Vorland Fleet, which Caneris commanded, was more critical to him than the POW system, which Heydrich ran. Further, Heydrich had never held an operational command and senior line officers were apt to dismiss him as a mere jailer. Van Diemens and Caneris rarely saw eye-to-eye, but Van Diemens wanted Caneris curbed, not destroyed, and his connection was more to Heydrich’s family than to Tristan Heydrich himself. If put to it, his support for the general might falter.

  Next, the War Minister was a powerful ally and if his support for Caneris was also a little soft, he still outweighed Heydrich’s ally the Minister of Heavy Industry. Nor was Lord Gregor a great asset to Heydrich, however fervent his support. His influence was small, his gifts limited, and he was more likely to alienate the wavering council members—particularly the Minister of Public Security—than entice them to support Heydrich’s position. If Heydrich was wise, he would keep his friend muzzled and on a short leash.

  Finally, there was the uncertainty looming over Heydrich’s seat on the Council. Lady Gwen was likely to appoint someone much more moderate to fill it if she could, and that presented the other members of the militarist faction with the prospect of isolation, should she outmaneuver her uncle. Here, Caneris must walk soft, lest he undermine her position, but it was just possible that, through the proper intermediaries, he could find some way to assist her in the matter of her brother (Danilov often proved invaluable in these situations) and if Geris could be assured that Heydrich’s days on the Council were numbered then he might become more amenable.

  All this increased the importance of Lord Geris, with whom Lady Gwen was known to be friendly. Geris was also something of an anomaly. Although his family was quite old and distinguished, Geris was considered a ‘new man’ because no family member had served on the Council for generations. His election had been a surprise. Geris was in a delicate position because he lacked a natural power base. Inevitably, he had to chart a difficult course between Caneris, Heydrich and Jerome, and for the time being, his friendship with Lady Gwen offered as much danger as support. If there was anyone on the Council who was sitting beneath a Damoclean sword, it was Nigel Geris. Caneris had made some guarded overtures to him and Geris had guardedly rejected them. Which was exactly as one would expect up to this point, and undeniably prudent.

  Thus Caneris was presented with a complicated array of options. If he could gain the support of Geris and his centrists, he could largely control the council unless Jerome threw his weight firmly behind the militarists—a risky thing to do. But Geris would not commit himself unless Heydrich’s position was weakened. The most obvious course—trying to reach a rapprochement with the Chief of Staff—was chancy right now. Van Diemens was a ticklish fellow. The fact that he ranked below Caneris on the social scale made him rather overbearing when it came to asserting his military superiority. If he was to withdraw his support from Heydrich, it would have to be events, not argument, that led him to it.

  Here, Caneris held what a Terran would call ‘an ace in the hole’ and a Halith, ‘a king in shadow’: Commander Rafael Huron. Regardless of the League’s oft-stated policies to the contrary, they would go to extraordinary lengths to get him back. Most especially if it were done quietly. Not only was Huron privy to a vast number of secrets, both official and (better yet) unofficial, h
is capture was a propaganda coup that would repair the damage done by the loss of Captain Jantony Banner and the foolish debacle that followed. The League would pay dearly to avoid that, and in the peace negotiations that were now all but inevitable, having the heir to the Huron family would be a bargaining chip of incalculable worth. Caneris could think of any number of concessions the League might grant in such a case.

  But timing was everything and until the time was ripe, it was imperative that Huron’s capture not be revealed. As a full admiral and a leading peer, Caneris had the prerogative of selecting POWs to employ on his estate as workers. He’d used this privilege to hold Huron and his companion in his personal custody, causing them to be entered into the POW registry with anonymous IDs. Thus, the official record showed only that he’d taken custody of two POWs (far below his quota for the operation), but not who they were.

  Commander Kennakris, he’d selected partly for her obvious attachment to Commander Huron, as a useful politic gesture, but mostly because he had genuine esteem for her. Such a gifted adversary should not be subjected to the brutalities of the POW system or, he thought gravely, come to Heydrich’s attention as long as he could do anything about it. That she was still entered into the general’s odious breeding program was a deplorable circumstance he could do nothing about, beyond the obscurity afforded by identifying her with only a serial number.

  Caneris directed his attention across the table again to the Van Diemens. He probably would benefit the most from Huron’s capture—an event that could possibly convince him to abandon Heydrich—but that also might be a poor use of his ‘king in shadow’. Huron had enormous potential value to Jerome, but here the concern was strengthening the Princeps hand too much at this critical juncture. Heydrich would obviously like to have him in custody, too, and if he became aware of Huron’s presence, he could make an issue of Caneris holding him. That would bring matters to a head far too quickly, as being more likely to induce Jerome to make a deal with the general, rather than with Caneris himself . . .

  The Principal Secretary cleared his throat. “And now, gentlemen, that concludes the minutes, but before we proceed to business, the Minister of War has a statement to deliver. Minister Ramsey?” An aide standing by handed a sheet of hardcopy to Lord Lothar Ramsey. The minister accepted it, straightened his thick body in his chair and cleared his throat volubly.

  “The Ministry of War, in consultation with the Princeps, wishes to place before this body a motion that the Council recognize the actions of Admiral Joaquin Caneris, Commander, Prince Vorland Fleet, for his exemplary conduct and leadership in the matter of Amu Daria, just past, in bringing the operation to swift and victorious conclusion with minimal loss of life and matériel. Should this motion be carried, we further move that a Writ of Approbation be sent to the Civitas with a recommendation that they adopt it and issue a declaration of a Day of Thanksgiving to be held—ah, hmm . . .” Here he flipped over the page, but the date he sought must have been neglected. “To be held on the first auspicious opportunity.” And he cleared his throat again, double chin vibrating, and slid the paper onto the table.

  Silence. Geris looked over at Lord Ramsey alertly while down the table, Heydrich came up straight and stiff in his chair and Lord Gregor’s already darkened face began to turn plum-colored.

  “Hear, hear,” the Princeps said clearly into the vacancy of sound and reached out deliberately to pick up the document. He held it up, scrutinizing it down his patrician nose with a mild smile shaping his lips, then replaced it on the table and pushed it over in front of Caneris. “I endorse the Minister’s sentiments. Has anyone anything to add?”

  The Minister of Foreign Affairs leaned forward, his long pale saturnine face showing an unusual smile; whether triumph or sincere congratulations, Caneris could not tell. “I too should like to remark my sense of the Admiral’s achievement. I support this motion.”

  “Does anyone wish to speak against this motion?” Jerome’s voice was mild and his eyes were fixed at the far end of the table where Heydrich remained rigid, Van Diemens inscrutable and Valendingham on the edge of apoplexy.

  “I should like to say,” Heydrich began in a voice so tight it creaked, “well done, Joaquin. Richly deserved. I . . . support the motion.” The use of his given name might be construed as a mild insult in such formal surroundings. Caneris did not choose to notice it but inclined his head in acknowledgment. Valendingham let go a breath that was very much like a snarl and covered it with a trio of coughs.

  “Very well,” said Jerome. “I hold this motion to be carried by acclamation.”

  Chapter 11

  OverHallin Estate, outside Halevirdon

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  Knit one, purl two. Kris looked down at the long, thin needles in her hands and the unlovely snarl of yarn between them. What is this shit?

  “No!” Her overseer’s voice was laced with a simmering scorn, bordering on contempt. “This is simple. Now watch.”

  Tightening the hold on her temper another couple notches, Kris resigned herself to pay attention. They’d been at this for over an hour. Yes, being assigned to Admiral Caneris’ household staff, instead of the more mundane brutalities of the Halith POW system, was supposed to be an improvement. No, it probably wasn’t the admiral’s “tender mercies” as much as his political sensibilities: Rafe was far too valuable to let out of his grasp and if that meant keeping Kris in his personal custody as well, so be it. Besides, as the victor at Apollyon Gates, Kris knew she had some value herself.

  By rights, she ought to feel grateful. Here, Rafe at least was getting decent medical care—as decent as Halith could provide anyway. Yeah, it probably saved his life. Fine. And now he was out of danger and recuperating. Terrific. But getting bossed around by this twerp? She’d rather take her chances with camp goons. She knew how to handle them.

  Bastard's gonna owe me for this . . .

  “I said watch!” That voice again, pitched high in exasperation, pierced her darkly wandering thoughts. Kris blinked and shot her a glare. The overseer, Caneris’ granddaughter Arianna, a skinny little thing like young reed with ginger hair and gray eyes, shot it right back. The admiral’s steel has bred true there. Kris nodded.

  “All right.” The girl picked up two knitting needles. “Hold the needles like this. Get your wool, tie a loop knot and slip it over the left needle. Now, take the right needle and push it through the wool to the back of the needle with the knot on. See? Your needles will be crossed with the left one on top.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” This was the third time Arianna (such a sweet name for such a serious girl) had given her this demonstration.

  “Now, take your long piece of wool and wrap it around the needle on the bottom so it's between the needles. Pull the bottom needle through and make a loop. Pull the wool so it's loose. See? Now slip the left needle into the loop and move the wool back to the left needle. That’s a stitch. Keep doing that until you have the number of stitches you need on your needle. Then you repeat the whole process to knit rows. See? It’s simple. Now, here. You do it.”

  Suppressing the urge to sit on her hands to keep from throttling the kid, Kris slowly accepted the offered needles with their neat rows of stitches. Taking the needles and the mangled skein of yarn from Kris’s lap and dropping it to one side with a fine show of adolescent disgust, Arianna leaned forward to follow Kris’s every hesitant move.

  “That’s right,” she coached. “Through the wool to the back of the left needle. Around the back and in between. Pull the bottom needle through. Make a loop. Left needle through loop. Now repeat. One more time. Again. You dropped a stitch.”

  With a tight-lipped grimace, Kris dropped her hands as Arianna leaned back and folded her arms.

  “You’re hopeless”—adding an exaggerated huff to punctuate her verdict. “Is there anything you’re good at?”

  “Ask your grandfather about that.”

  Whether it was the way Kris’s hands tightened on the knitti
ng needles or her tone or the change in her eyes—or all three—Arianna uncrossed her arms and eased her posture a bit.

  “I don’t think this is getting anywhere”—looking out a tall arched window with affected disregard. “It’s nice outside. I’d like to go for a run. You’ll come with me.”

  Kris, following her gaze, agreed it was nice outside. A brilliant day, the bright azure sky entempled with puffy white clouds. “Okay. Where do we run?”

  Arianna did not miss the emphasis. “On the grounds, of course.”

  “How far is that? I mean, how far do you run?”

  “It’s sixteen kilometers to do the whole circuit. But we can stay to the paths near the house. That’s only eight.”

  “I’m good for sixteen.” Actually, that might be an open question. Kris hadn’t been able to exercise the way she was used to for weeks. But she’d be goddamned if she backed down on this.

  Giving Kris a pointed look, Arianna stood up. “I have to get changed. Wait here. I’ll bring you something to wear.” Turning without waiting for an answer, she stalked off with a reasonable approximation of an imperious strut.

  Now that prospect of spending the rest of the PM knitting had been averted, Kris could indulge a private smile at Arianna laying it on a trifle thick. Since she arrived, there’d been these trials at finding something for her to do. Caneris did not indulge the fetish for handwork that so many Halith aristocrats fervently embraced. His estate was lightly manned compared to most, but the level of automation was still modest compared to most any League Homeworld. Meals were all prepared by human chefs and their assistants; the charming gardens near the main domicile were attended by human gardeners, and there were many craftsmen who plied their various trades in shops and studios around the periphery of the compound. From what little Kris had observed, they were a contented if rather dour bunch and most, if not all, were tenants, not guest labor, as the Halith euphemistically termed their slaves. She knew nothing about those who tended the outer grounds: the olive groves (a sign of the admiral’s exalted status, as only the loftiest aristocrats could afford to grow true Terran olives), orchards and grain fields. But aside from harvesting the newly ripened olives (which had to be done by hand to preserve their quality), she had seen machines at work along with men and women, and none of the backbreaking labor she’d been told about.