Rosecrantz Hotel was an opulent building at the wealthy center of Port Havre station. Boasting a lawn of grass — real grass — and built from perfectly-polished steel glimmering in the soft evening light. A room at the Rosecrantz was nearly 100 commonwealth jade each night, an extraordinary luxury for all but the wealthiest of POLIS citizens.
On this particular evening, the Convention Hall in the center of the Hotel boasted dozens of such citizens, many of whom had travelled from the far reaches of the Tzannic and Terran territories, to celebrate this momentous occasion.
Momentous for all but one.
What was so momentous about being moved out of her comfortable palace with her comfortable bed and real daylight, being forced to take up residence in a small station halfway between the Tzannic and Terran territories, being trussed up in this ridiculous foreign formalwear, all to marry some stuffed Terran ambassador looking to climb the Council’s social ladder…
…Kella didn’t know.
She also didn’t understand a single thing the ridiculous peacocks seated around her at her betrothal dinner were saying. Having never stepped foot off the Tzannic Moons in her life, other than to travel between the four, Kella had never seen fit to pay much attention in her Terran lessons.
She’d also never expected to be married off to one, until a string of unfortunate deaths — sickness, carriage accident, food poisoning, and another sickness — had left her as the oldest marriageable child of any member of the Tzannic Council.
Kella tilted her head at the woman next to her, an older lady with deep frown lines and a feathered headdress so tall Kella thought it might tip her over into the pudding. She was saying something in that squawkish voice of hers, then she stopped, as if expecting Kella to respond.
Kella smiled, and nodded.
That seemed enough, as the woman nodded and continued speaking.
Kella sighed inwardly, glancing down the room. She sat on one end of the 50-foot grand dining table and her husband sat on the other.
Graham Vilter was a poised man two years her junior and ten years her superior (or so he liked to act), with a quaff of brown hair and a restrictive tie that Kella had never seen him loosen. Then again, she’d barely spent three minutes alone with the man, and neither of them spoke the other’s language.
This was a marriage of politics — not that anyone in the room thought otherwise. After the Tzannic Moons suppressed Major Bonna and his attempt to take over the known territories, there had been much unrest among the Terran states. The Council’s solution?
Put Terrans in judicial power, and marry them to Tzannans. Thus, the Tzannic Council might create the laws, but the Terrans enforced them.
And so here Kella was, a pawn for political profit.
Or slaughter, she thought wryly as she stared down the giant stuffed pig at the center of the table.
At the far end of the table, Graham Vilter chatted amiably about nothing — as the high elite were wont to do at such events as these. They discussed the decor, the Rosecrantz, the latest high fashions-
“Tell me, Vilter, how has your father been since the end of the war?” came the loud question from halfway down the table.
The entire room went quiet. Kella, who had been contemplating if she could somehow sustain a fork-related injury to escape the rest of the meal, looked up at the sudden silence. Her husband-to-be held the table’s attention, and he did not look happy about it.
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“My father?” Graham Vilter frowned, his demeanor icing over. He offered the questioner a tight smile. “What are you implying, Martial Jones?”
Martial Jones, an older woman with a stiff upper lip, smiled just as tightly. “Simply that the General had much… stock… in the war. I can’t imagine it has been easy on him, readjusting.” She tilted her head. “Or you.”
Vilter wiped two fingers across his tie. His spine sat ramrod in his high-backed chair. “On the contrary,” he supplied stiffly, “I have been at the forefront of the movement to suppress Bonnic sympathizers since long before the war ended. In fact, I will swear it here and now,” he cleared his throat and raised his voice to ring across the room, “on my honor as Consulate Judge of Port Havre, I vow to punish any Bonnic sympathizer that passes across my desk with swift and unrelenting severity.”
He set his knife down with more force than needed.
A beat of silence followed his words, then a ripple of approving murmurs.
Graham Vilter took a deep breath, and relaxed ever-so-slightly back into his chair. He pasted on a plastic smile as the gentleman to his left postulated on the latest trends in artificial vitamin lighting.
A small cough sounded at his right elbow. “Sir?”
Vilter pulled his attention to the young uniformed woman, now leaning down.
Across the table, Kella watched as the courier murmured something to her fiancé. Surprise rippled over his face — in the last several weeks of living in unfamiliar territory, she had gotten very good at reading the subtleties of body language.
Her fiancé was not happy. He pushed from the table, said something to the surrounding guests, and strode from the hall. Not once did he spare his wife-to-be a single look.
Kella glared down at her utensils.
A fork-related injury was looking rather wonderful right now.
***
There was a man already waiting in Graham Vilter’s office by the time his steel carriage trundled up the courthouse drive. He strode through the grand columns, paused briefly to pull on his official robes and admire his reflection in the darkened window.
One hand brushed an errand strand of hair back into place. Satisfied, he strode into his office.
“Mr. Henry Moore,” he said, more by way of identification than greeting. While he had clearly heard of the affluence businessman, the two men had never met before, and Vilter could think of no reason they should meet now. “You have my apologies, but I have a pressing matter to attend to-”
“I believe I know the matter,” Mr. Moore interrupted. He removed his hat and gloves, and sank into the visitor’s chair.
Graham Vilter muffled a sigh and — never one to eschew courtesy — settled behind his own desk.
“I am here on behalf of Davi Edmara,” Mr. Moore began. “She was arrested earlier today, though I cannot imagine why.”
Vilter’s interested gaze clashed with the other man’s concerned one. “You know Ms. Edmara?”
“She is the primary engineer on my finest ship,” Mr. Moore supplied. “She was about to be promoted to captain, and I have only the finest opinion of her character.”
Graham Vilter frowned. Flipped something on his desk. “That is a fine reference, indeed. I will take it into account when deciding a verdict.”
“May I ask her crime?”
“No, you may not.” Vilter’s words were final. He stood, and Mr. Moore stood. “As her employer, I will keep you informed of her fate. Please-” An open hand gestured to the door.
Mr. Moore stood, still frowning. His hat returned to its delicate perch atop his head. “Whatever it is, I am sure this is a misunderstanding. She’s seventeen for stars’ sake.”
“Mr. Moore, please. I don’t tell you how to do your job, please trust me to do mine.” When the other man still didn’t move, Graham Vilter continued. “I am a servant of the law. If she is innocent, as you say, you can be assured she will be judged accordingly.” Vilter held out his hand. “On my word.”
The two men shook and, finally satisfied, Mr. Moore took his leave.
Graham Vilter watched him go.
If she is a Bonnic sympathizer, he thought, straightening his robes and striding into the adjoining courtroom, the stars may show her mercy.
Because I will not.
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