“For what purpose?” I replied. “Lynwyzc said the others won’t need me unless a hordling starts jabbering in Imperial. I’m less likely to get in the way down here. Why don’t you bring me the upgrade manifest, and I’ll look it over while Tilly and I watch the race?”
“Watch from where, Captain?” Wiktor asked as he flicked the information onto my datascroll. I shrugged, swinging myself into the saddle. Instantly, I felt in control of myself. I knew what to do on a steed, more than I did juggling a dozen supply requests from impatient officers, and far more than I did while dancing and negotiating with foreign dignitaries. I slid my feet into the stirrups, took a firm grip of the handlebars, and grinned.
“There’s got to be a rooftop somewhere from which we can watch the races. Tilly and I will perch there. Please make my excuses to the prince. Tell him I’m recalibrating Tilly’s hardware or something.” Before Wiktor could reply, I pressed my heels into Tilly’s thrust plates, and she shot forwards. We zipped through the open doors, and I pulled Tilly into a vertical climb, rolling over once we’d cleared the spires of the Crystal Palace. My training took over, and I scanned the ground below me. There was the racetrack, set within a hippodrome which could easily double as a coliseum should the need for blood sport arise. The Crystal Palace’sglittering pinnacles reached skywards. I saw several demonic guards observing me through holonoculars or the sights of long-barreled anti-material lancers, but none fired, and their posture was relaxed. They were being thorough, not actually treating me as a threat.
Slowly, I drifted towards a gently sloping roof and set Tilly down. She deployed her rear docking clamp and gently unfurled her two forelimbs for stability. Tilly rarely activated more than one clamp – it gave her a split-second improvement from her docked to airborne time. I knew that was important to her. I’d seen her practice.
As we sat on the rooftop, I alternated between watching the races and reading the upgrade manifest. The races differed, from simple lap races to straight-line drags to twisting obstacle runs, the racetrack’s nanomorphic terrain altering with each new event. Watching the races, I thought Tilly and I would not have been too badly embarrassed. The machines all vastly outclassed Tilly with her two-generation-old milspec parts, but the riders were of varying quality. There were a few skilled riders – Princess Marie-Christina made it to the finals in nearly every event, and several demon princes on their oversized hoversteeds were remarkably agile and swift, especially the huge Count Gerasimov. However, the majority of the riders seemed more accustomed to military parades than cavalry actions. The half-dozen Commonwealth officers rarely made it past the semifinals. Most of the League representatives seemed confused not to be on a dressage course. Some Federation nobles were decent fliers, but most looked like they would have preferred a glitzy skycar. The standout failures, though, were the Despotate officers. Although they made up the majority of the race lineup, their entire ensemble routinely brought up the rear in a giant pack quickly left behind by the rest of the racers. Several Despotate lords commander fellfrom their mounts. Had I been the Despotess, I would have been embarrassed to have them represent me. On the other hand, considering her military’s pitiful performance in the war, perhaps these were the best she could offer.
By far the best rider was Archduke Darius. He looked like he’d been born in the saddle, instinctively accelerating and decelerating to perfectly balance speed with control, cutting corners so close I swear his shields sparked against the terrain features. It was an impressive feat of flying, and one I could never hope to master.
Almost as eyebrow-raising as the archduke’s flying was the list of upgrades the Royal Guards Armory had prepared for Tilly. I knew this sort of technology existed, and respected that replicator limitations prevented their inclusion on military hoversteeds, butdamn. These were the sorts of hovermotive parts I’d drooled over as a teenager. I was fairly certain the R-600 tractorgrip was pulled from the Thunderbolt-III Racing Steed poster which graced my bedroom wall, and the Mag-18 thrust coil was hotter than anything on the civilian market.
I flicked the specs to Tilly. She’d been observing the races, but I could tell she was considering the upgrade list by her drooping flight vanes. I patted her cowling. “See, Tilly? You could be as fast as those racers down there.”
Tilly gave it a moment’s thought, then warbled dubiously. I knew what she was worried about. Tilly had operated for weeks in the wild without a repair facility and came out carrying myself and three wounded soldiers to safety despite losing half her thrust plugs. She prided herself on her sturdy construction and reliability.
I gave her cowling another affectionate pat. “These are Royal army parts, not civvy racing hardware which needs tuning every five thousand yards. I’m certain they’re just as robust as what you have now.”
Tilly was silent again, and I could sense her apprehension in the way the magfield restraints tightened around my legs. I guessed at her worry and said, “I’ll be honest, these installations might be beyond me.”
Tilly gave a disbelieving exhaust cough. I chuckled. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but these parts are seriously complex. I might need help.” Tilly gave a negative blat, and I soothingly stroked her instrument panel. “But I promise, I’ll be right there beside the mechanic, helping put the parts in and making certain they’re not a secret saboteur.”
A polite smattering of applause floated up from below as Archduke Darius won another race, a jumping track this time, followed up by two Imps and, surprisingly, a Commonwealth sky marshal. As the clapping faded, Tilly gave a quiet, hesitant, but positive chirp.
“That’s my girl,” I said, gently squeezing her handlebars. Then I flicked open my commlink. As expected, Wiktor had already uploaded his number to my unit. I tapped his profile and initiated the call. It did not finish the first ring before the manservant answered.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Could you have the upgrade kits brought to Tilly’s stable? I’ll install them myself, or with a mechanic’s aid if needed.”
There was a slight pause before Wiktor said in a disapproving voice, “Captain, won’t that interfere with your official duties?”
“I’ll do it during my downtime,” I snapped. “It’ll give me something useful to do at this summit rather than downing drinks and hiding in the background.”
“Very good, sir.” I disconnected from Wiktor and considered. It looked like the prince would have little use of my services, which frustrated me to no end. I didn’t know exactly what I could do, but certainly my past relationshipwith the Emperor should be of more use than just an opening display or distraction. More use than translating for hordlings anyways. Still, I served at the prince’s leisure, and should he choose to ignore my abilities, then far be it from me to press myself upon him. I’d rather work on Tilly than try seducing the woman who’d broken my heart once before anyways.
My eyes swung to the royal box. I spotted Aureli immediately, his white tunic trimmed in royal scarlet and gold shining as he leaned over, narrow glass of something pale and bubbly in his hand, pressing into the Emperor’s space, pointing towards the track. The Emperor was resplendent in her black dress, opera gloves, and platinum crown. However, for a moment, when I looked her way, I could have sworn her holonocs were not pointed at the race.
I would have bet good money that, until I looked her way, her holonocs were pointed at me.
NOCTURNAL PRELUDE
I STOOD NEXTto a crystalline pillar, sipping a coupe of post-opera champagne as I observed Prince Aureli chatting amiably with a Federation magnate. Lady d’Lyre hung happily on his arm. I waited to appear at his elbow should he fall into conversation with an Imp, but hid out of sight, not wanting to draw further ire. After the races, I’d found Aureli and asked if he required additional assistance.
“If it’s like the assistance you offered me this morning, don’t bother.” It seemed my advice had been misplaced. The Emperor had preferred speculating on hoversteed specifications rather than discussing the riders’ capabilities. I reminded the prince that my information was twelve years old, and some preferences were bound to have changed. Aureli’s response was cold. “Yes, well, if you prove useless to me here, we can always send you back to the star front to get some use out of you.”
The afternoon had been an exercise in frustration as everyone played cards and conversed while liveried demonssummoned various notables to tea with the Emperor. I was too low-ranked to warrant a summons, and Prince Aureli had not chosen to bring me along, so I hadn’t had a chance to speak with Astrid again. I saw her at dinner, seated at her raised table, and again at the opera in her Imperial box, but her eyes had never drifted my way. Maybe I was wrong and the brief spark we’d shared while dancing last night was nothing more than friction, but dammit! It had felt so much like the warmth we’d shared back at the Academy.
Someone leaned against the pillar behind me, sending a cascade of rainbow ripples flashing around its surface. “Quite a performance, don’t you think?”
I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see a couple talking among themselves. To my astonishment, there was not an amorous pair, but Archduke Darius, his glittering green eyes staring into mine as he sipped something pink from his own coupe glass.
Deciding he actually was addressing me, I replied, “I’m afraid my mastery of the Imperial dialect is rather rusty, and never that good to begin with.”
Sliding forwards to stand beside me, the archduke smiled. “That doesn’t matter. Could you not feel Tanasha’s anguish when she had to declare vengeance against her beloved? The stunning interplay between love and hate, as she is, in turn, drawn to and repelled by Dorukan’s behavior?”
I sipped my champagne again. “To be honest, I didn’t get that. Imperial opera relies too much on the aria, and one round of soulful wailing sounds much like the next when sung in a foreign tongue.”
