In the Courts of the Crimson Kings by S.M. Stirling Read Free Book Online Page B

dust and silence and fading legends. If the empty ones were fewer than they had been in the year of his accession, then the credit was his, the long struggle against entropy.
    “Attend me,” he said to the guard-commander, and led the way into the Chamber of Memories.
    A flick of a finger brought attendants who left essences and a bowl of smoldering stimulative and then withdrew. Sajir sa-Tomond sat in a lounger that adjusted to his frail length and began to administer warmth and massage. The room was neither very large nor very grand, except for the single block of red crystal shaped into a seat against the far wall; there was only one other like that in all existence, in the Hall of Received Submission.
    He stared moodily at it as he sipped. The essence gave him the semblance of strength, and he closed his eyes for a moment to settle his mind. A game of atanj lay on a board before him, each piece carved from a single thumb-sized jewel or shaped from precious metal: ruby and jet for the Despots, black jade for the Clandestines, tourmaline for the Coercives, gold fretwork and diamond for the Boycotts.
    “Sit,” he said to the Coercive. “Unmask. Refresh yourself. You have not made a move today.”
    The commander did, raising the visor of his parade helm with its faceted eyes and golden mandibles. When the Tollamune opened his own eyes once more, sorrow pierced him to the heart at the sight of the face beneath, the steady golden eyes and the bronze hair in its jeweled war-net. So like, so like . . .
    The Thoughtful Grace moved immediately; a Transport leaping a Boycott to deliver a cargo.
    Ah! Sajir thought, daring, yet clever. I will not win this game in less than twenty-three moves now .
    “I have a task for you, Notaj sa-Soj,” he said softly.
    “Command me, Tollamune,” the man said.
    The voice was different from hers , a little deeper, a little older—Vowin sa-Soj had been only fifty at the beginning of her long and bitter death. Notaj sa-Soj was her sire’s youngest brother by another breeding partner, and at a century young for his post. His eugenic qualifications were impeccable, and his record of action matched it.
    “To recapitulate that which is universally known but rarely expressed: I have no heir,” Sajir said. “None of more than one-eighth consanguinity, and none of sufficient genetic congruity to be accounted of the Lineage or to operate the Devices. With me, the Crimson Dynasty ends, after eighteen thousand years of the Real World, and all hope of restoring Sh’u Maz in its true form.”
    “This is true, Supremacy. With you will perish the significance of our existence and such meaning as sentience has imposed on mere event. There is little consolation in it, but the line of the Kings Beneath the Mountain will at least end with a superior individual.”
    The nicating membranes swept over Notaj’s eyes, leaving them glistening. “I will preserve your life as long as event and randomness permit, your Supremacy,” he added, his voice firm.
    Despite everything, Sajir sa-Tomond felt himself smile at the harmonics that underlay the flat statement. The voice of a Thoughtful Grace purebred could rarely be read for undertone by anyone but a Tollamune.
    “At least, the official perception of matters is that I have no heir of closer than one-eighth consanguinity,” Sajir said, and saw the other’s pupils flare and ears cock forward.
    Their breed had been selected for wit, not merely deadliness. They had been generals and commanders once, as well as matchless Coercives on a personal level. The implications and possibilities needed little restating.
    “Vowin’s offspring survives?”
    “Correct, Captain. Concealed here until relatively recently. When she matured, traces of the Tollamune inheritance became unmistakable.”
    They shared a glance that said: And then she must be hidden and exiled, for what crime is more reprobated than the theft of the Tollamune genome? But now, perhaps, the balance of