David Weber - Worlds of Honor

This was a familiar game to her, one she played without needing to divert much of her conscious attention to it. Her interest was in the young Queen and those gathered around her. The new nominee for Regent would be a member of the Queen's family. All the signs pointed to that, although the speculation that eddied around her proved that others were not as adept at reading those signs.

Her satisfaction faded the longer she observed the royal group. Something was wrong, of that she was certain. Justin Zyrr hovered closer to the Queen than was his wont—over three centimeters closer on average than he had during the previous evening's vigil.

The Queen's treecat was edgy and alert—again, more so than it had been the previous night. Her computer reported that it restlessly scanned the crowd, as if searching for someone. At that moment, Marrou resolved not to join the line of those slowly filing by the casket, for it would take her too close to Queen and 'cat.

Catching something of the tension of those she observed, Jean Marrou remained only long enough to be seen, to trade platitudes with various colleagues, and then to plead exhaustion and retire. No one would think oddly of that. She had learned long ago that her blindness made people pity her and assume a fragility she did not possess.

Leaving the viewing, Marrou proceeded by a circuitous route to the rendezvous where she was to meet her co-conspirators. She would be early, but she could have a drink, compose her nerves, and review her records to find support for her growing conviction that the next candidate for Regent would be the Duchess Caitrin Winton-Henke.

Upon arriving at the hotel, she opened the door locks with a series of old-fashioned keys. Computer locks, while more complex and more secure, also kept records. Eschewing the grav lift, she walked up the stairs, still working on composing her thoughts. A small corner of her mind was debating whether to order a small meal rather than a drink as she put her key into the final lock.

As she pushed the door open, she became aware of voices in conversation. Eavesdropping had been a profitable pastime ever since she was small and discovered that adults tended to forget that a blind child was not necessarily deaf. Softly closing the door behind her, she waited in the entryway, her naturally acute hearing augmented by one of the units in her computer.

Even as her implant informed her that the people conversing were Marvin Seltman and Paula Gwinner, she recognized their voices. She quashed a small impulse to retreat and re-enter with more noise when she realized that what she was hearing was not lovers' banter but something much more interesting.

"Dover didn't show up for our rendezvous today," Seltman was saying. "I made some inquiries, and I believe he may be in disgrace. He may even be dead."

"Lucky for us," Gwinner said.

The clinking of ice in a glass made Jean Marrou smile slightly. Whenever she was nervous, Gwinner toyed with something. Her voice remained cool.

"I suppose that means that we can give up on our hope that he would succeed in replacing Zyrr."

"True," Seltman said, "but then that was never any more than a long-shot. Dover has fulfilled his purpose in our plans. Perhaps it's best for us that he was put out of the way before he could realize how futile his hopes were and decide to betray us."

Something about his inflection on the plural pronouns made Marrou's skin crawl. Seltman continued:

"Our allies wouldn't care to have the plot exposed. Rather than rendering the Queen vulnerable, knowledge that King Roger was assassinated would solidify support behind her—especially in the Commons. Normal folk love anything that makes them pity royalty for their lot."

Paula laughed. "True. No one assassinates bus drivers or factory workers. If Dover is truly out of the way, we are safer. Neither of the others will speak—they have too much to risk."

"I hope so," Seltman said. "Earl Howell is invaluable now—especially if he gets a place on the Regent's council. I worry more about how Jean would react if she ever realized our friends' part in King Roger's illness a few years ago. . . ."

"How could she?" Gwinner scoffed.

"There's something witchy about the way she plays with data patterns," Seltman replied. "I wouldn't underestimate her, not for a minute."

"Do we really need her?"

Marrou held her breath, waiting for the answer.

"Yes," Seltman said slowly, "especially at the start. Her popularity in the Commons makes her an ideal person to promote some of the policies that will create a favorable atmosphere for takeover."

Gwinner's ice clinked. "She's fairly Progressive in her point of view—we'd do better with a Liberal. Progressives have the sense to realize Haven is a threat."

Marrou, standing still as a shadow despite an urge to turn and run, bit into her lip to keep from gasping aloud. Suddenly, those cryptic pronouns were making terrible sense.

"We are creating an atmosphere," Seltman reminded Gwinner, "which will help slow the Manticoran military build-up. A Progressive can do that as well as a Liberal. Remember, Jean rather desperately wants our system to remain a private little archipelago in the cosmos. That impulse will fuel her eloquence in our cause."

Poised to run, Jean Marrou realized how foolish that would be. If she didn't show for the meeting, then the others would become suspicious. She must make an entrance, stay, talk calmly about issues, and only then, when she was safe, consider what action to take next.

Could she confide in Howell? Hardly. He would panic and do something foolish that would get them both killed. Nor did she feel up to blackmailing the two Havenite sympathizers—even if her own loyalty to the Star Kingdom would have permitted her to do such a thing.

Chewing the inside of her lip, she reached behind her. Opening the door, she let it fall shut behind her.

"Anyone here?" she called.

Earl Howell had not been happy with Marrou's prediction that Duchess Winton-Henke would be named Regent, yet he no more doubted her than a primitive would have questioned a shaman. His dreams had been full of himself as Regent, directing the young Queen, becoming her favorite, his influence extending for centuries. A place on the Regency Council was not large enough for such dreams.

He had kept the three of them late, discussing options, tactics, plans to stop this nomination as well. Marrou had planned and plotted with the rest, aware that her safety rested on her being needed.

Then, when the hour grew late enough that even Howell's fervor had diminished, she left. First, in case someone was watching, she went to her hotel. After waiting a few hours, she went to Mount Royal Palace. Dawn was not far off when she arrived.

"I need to speak with Queen Elizabeth," she told the astonished duty guard.

"The Queen is getting her much-needed rest," the guard said. "You may leave a message and if her schedule can accommodate you . . ."

"Please!" Marrou interrupted. "I must speak with her."

"I don't have the authority to awaken the Queen for anything less than an act of war," the guard said stubbornly.

Marrou played her trump card. "Please! This has to do with what happened with Padraic Dover early today."

Her blindness felt smothering. She wished she could see the guard's expression, but she forged on. Remembering the young man hovering at the Queen's shoulder that evening, she pleaded:

"If I can't talk with the Queen, let me speak with Justin Zyrr."