“In every sector,” High Marshal Dhahabu replied. “All armies, on all worlds, in every star system. Commonwealth, Despotate, Federation, League, doesn’t matter who they were fighting, the Imps stopped advancing. Dug in. Started holding ground.”
High Marshal Fedha took over. “Ten hours later, the Royal Palace received a message over a clandestine Imperial-Commonwealth diplomatic channel which has been silent since before the war. That message contained this.” Rotating his arm, he pressed a key on his chrono, and a holographic message sprung into the air between us. Silently, I read:
You are cordially invited to celebrate the 12th Anniversary of our dread sovereign’s rule.
Royal accommodations shall be provided for you and your retinue.
Celebratory events shall precede and follow the main event, beginning with an opening ball.
“We’ve confirmed with our allies – they’ve all received these as well,” Marshal Fedha said. “The Empire invited all major unwed heirs on our side of the war to this jubilee, including five major Noble Federation houses, three Despotate lords commander, several League princes and archduchesses, and our very own Duke of Lynwyzc, fourth in line to the throne.”
“What does this mean?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
The grand marshal spoke up. “Considering that the Emperor will also be there, we hope this is a clandestine offer of peace.”
The marshals fell silent, giving me a moment to process that information. I was thunderstruck. “With all due respect, I think I could use another drink.”
Marshal Dhahabu smiled. “I’ll get one for you. Eire whiskey on ice?” I nodded, and the high marshal walked to the bar.
“For the last seventy-three hours, we’ve been assembling the best diplomatic team we can find. We don’t know what the Emperor wants, but if this is a secret peace conference, we will be ready,” Marshal Fedha said.
I accepted the drink from Marshal Dhahabu and took a hearty sip, stunned by the idea that I might survive this waryet. “This is nothing short of miraculous. However, I still fail to see how I fit in.”
“What do you know about the new Emperor?” Marshal Dhahabu asked.
“Very little. He came to power in a violent coup, or defeated one following his rise to power, or won a civil war following the old emperor’s death, about twelve years ago any which way.” Just after Astrid had left me. She’d never written after the troubles. If she hadn’t died then, she must have perished in the war. “Then he launched the blitz against us. We’ve been fighting since.”
Grand Marshal Olgolny stepped forwards. “Due to your unique experience with the Imperial nobility and the former Baroness Astrid, we wish to include you in our diplomatic envoy.”
Does that mean Astrid’s alive?A brief flare of joy quickly guttered and died in my chest. If Astrid had survived, she clearly had abandoned all attachment to me. “I’m flattered you think I could contribute,” I said, “but I’m a supply officer. I have no diplomatic training. What would I do at an interstellar court function?”
For the first time since I had entered the room, there was a noise from the corner, a slight ‘hem-hem.’ Immediately, all three marshals turned to face the corner, and I tried to freeze into a statue. The Queen leaned forwards in her chair and, her shining eyes staring merrily into mine, said, “Considering who the new Emperor is,CaptainBoylan, you ideally would help end the war.”
A knot of worry began squirming in my gut, but I managed to martial up the courage to ask, “Who is the new Emperor?”
The Queen smiled. “Iyulya Romula Augusta Astridur.”
I managed not to stagger, managed to keep hold of mydrink, my mind consumed by the pre-war fantasy which had sustained me through countless campaigns.
Astrid.
She lived.
DRESSED FOR SUCCESS
“OH, NO. THISwon’t work at all.”
I looked up, rainwater dripping from my hair and nose. Standing between my footlocker and hoversteed Tilly, holding my green dress tunic before him like a particularly odious soiled rag, was a middle-aged man in the royal household’s black and white livery. His oiled black hair and lily-white skin matched his uniform as if he had intentionally coordinated it.
My head spun. There was no time to process the news of Astrid’s survival and enthronement before the grand marshal called an adjutant to whisk me away. The Imperial festivities were scheduled to begin in less than twenty hours, so there was not a moment to spare. After receiving directions to the Royal Guards barracks, I’d hustled through the rain to find all my worldly possessions had preceded me and been put on display by this servant.
“That’s my dress tunic,” I snapped. “It’s standard-issue. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s standard-issue,” the man, who I assumed was a valet,replied. “No self-respecting officer wears standard kit.” The Guards officers around the room chortled in agreement.
Tersely, I said, “No self-respecting soldier puts accessories before winning the war.”
Instead of the admonished silence I’d hoped for, I received more chuckles. “Some of us can fight a war and look good doing it,” one officer said. I felt my face redden but kept my upright posture. I would not cower before these guardsmen. I’d dealt with bullies like them before.
