Vortex (Sten #7). Allan Cole

Sten shook it, then came to attention and saluted — even though he was in mufti. Very smartly he about-faced and headed for the exit. No parting glass, he thought absently. But he was more intent on what his mind suggested the Emperor had said, when his back was turned: “So everything changes . . .”

      The Emperor held his ceremonial smile until the doors closed behind him. Then he dropped it. He stood for a long moment looking at the door Sten had gone through before reseating himself and keying the chamberlain to allow the next catastrophe to enter.

      * * * *

      Sten stopped at Arundel’s Admin Office long enough to have them issue orders transferring Mason to the Victory, and to tell the Gurkkhas’ CO that the volunteers’ request had been approved and that they should pack their kit and report aboard the next day. Then he headed for his gravsled in a truly sour mood. Hell. He should have told Lalbahadur Thapa to go sit on one of Nepal’s eight-thousand-meter peaks until his pubes froze, and take his twenty-six friends with him.

      And having somebody slither around and find out that he and Cind were not sleeping solo — not that they’d kept their building relationship particularly secret — he didn’t like that, either.

      Sten knew that the Emperor had survived as long as he had by keeping his Intelligence the best available. He knew that every retainer in the Imperial household had had at least some intelligence training, and most of them were ex-specialists. And he guessed it made sense to know whether your ambassador plenipotentiary was available, booked, or in area-wide lust.

      But he did not like it.

      As he went down the broad steps to the parade ground, he automatically touched his forehead, returning the salutes of the posted sentries. Too many goddamned nosy people in this world, he thought resentfully. He suddenly snickered. He guessed spooks never did like it when somebody looked under their sheets.

      There was another gravsled waiting beside his, a nearly exact duplicate. That was strange . . . Sten’s transport was a sleek, stretched, blazingly white luxury item that reeked official muckety, from its assigned driver and guard — one of Cind’s Bhor — to the small ambassadorial flags mounted on each corner of the vehicle, to the phototropic bubble roof. Not uncommon on Prime. But Sten’s diplo-yacht was emblazoned with the Imperial crest on a solid red slash on either side of the vehicle’s doors.

      The other gravsled lacked only ambassadorial markings to be a clone of Sten’s. The door came open . . . and Ian Mahoney stepped out.

      Mahoney was ex-head of Mercury Corps, ex-head of Mantis Section, the man who had plucked Sten off the factory world of Vulcan and recruited him into Imperial Service. Mahoney had gone on to command the elite First Imperial Guards Division, then to become overall commander for the final assault on the Tahn. Then, when the Emperor had been killed, Mahoney had begun the drive to destroy his assassins, the privy council.

      The Empire regained, Mahoney had been given an assignment much like Sten’s: to be one of the Emperor’s roving troubleshooters, with ultimate authority.

      The task of trying to piece the ravaged Empire back together was enormous. So Sten and Mahoney had only seen each other twice during the intervening years, and even those two occasions had been briefly seized moments.

      Mahoney mock-scrutinized Sten’s shoulders. “I can’t make out the epaulettes,” he said. “This time, do I outrank you, or do you kiss my ring?”

      Sten laughed, and wondered why he suddenly felt so good. He realized there were very few people he could talk to openly, let alone consider a bit of a mentor, even though he had pulled Mahoney’s butt out of a crack as many times as Ian had saved him.

      “Damfino,” Sten said. “I’m not sure what pay grade I’m getting this time around. Let’s stick with me calling you ‘sir’ — that way I won’t have to be apologizing for old habits. Time for a drink?”

      Mahoney shook his head. “Unfortunately, the path of duty calls, and it is a stony path indeed. I am due to make a rather more meaningless than usual speech before Parliament shortly. And much as I’d love to stomp to the podium, belch stregg, and start by damning all politicians’ nonexistent souls to the Pit, I think the boss” — Mahoney jerked a thumb up at the Emperor’s apartment — “would have words with me.”

      “Clot,” Sten said. “You and I fought the war to end wars, and they still won’t let us do any malingering.”

      Mahoney frowned, seemingly deep in thought. “Why don’t we kill a few minutes before my speech? It’ll give us a chance to talk, plus get a little exercise, which we both could use. Have these poor excuses for politicians’ hearses meet us over there — if you have the time.”

      “I have the time.”

      * * * *

      “Wasn’t it around here,” Mahoney said, “where the Emperor had his workshop? Building . . . what were they?”

      “Guitars,” Sten said.

      “Wonder why he never rebuilt the shop, after . . . his return?” Mahoney asked.

      Sten shrugged. He had really wanted to blow some steam off, but so far Mahoney had kept the conversation relentlessly trivial.

      “Those were some days, weren’t they . . .” Then Mahoney’s casual tone changed. “Damn, but you take hell’s own time tracking down, boy. Keep the smile on the face. We’re just beyond parabolic mikes now, but there’s a long-range eye that’s up on one of the battlements. It can read lips.”

      Sten’s bobble lasted for only a microsecond. Then he became the total professional. “How do you know we’re clean?”

      “I have a copy of all security plans — and changes — to Arundel. Woman in the tech department owes me a small favor.”

      “What’s going on?”

      “Damn, Sten, but I wish I could answer that straight on. Or that we had more than two minutes before we’re in range of the next pickup. Because I’m not all that sure. But things . . . just aren’t right. Haven’t been, as far as I can see, since he came back.” Mahoney grunted. “Or maybe I’m just becoming a senile, paranoiac old man. But the fault, from my seeing, is the Emperor.”

      Sten almost slumped in relief. There it was — somebody else saw something.

      “And if I try to give you specifics, you’ll think I’m past it,” Mahoney went on. “Because . . . It’s all little things. Little things that lead to big things.”

      “Like the new Guys in Gray,” Sten wondered. “This Internal Security?”

      “That’s a bigger thing. Still bigger is that they don’t answer to Mercury or Mantis. And it’s strange that the closer they get to the Emperor himself, the more they look like they’re his damned sons or something. Time!”

      “Right. Just getting tired. But lately, retiring back to Smallbridge has sounded better and better,” Sten picked up smoothly. “Let the world go by and all that.”

      “I always said you lack ambition,” Mahoney said.

      “And lacking it more the older I get.”

      “Clear,” Mahoney said. “Have you spent any time around court?”

      “Not really.”

      “It’s being taken pretty seriously these days,” Ian said. “It used to be a place the Emperor had to stash obnoxious or stupid people with money or clout. Give them a title, tuck them here on Prime, and they can’t stir up any trouble back home. Most of them now are still prancing peacocks. But it seems that the Eternal Emperor spends more time in their company. Plus there’s starting to be some people here who aren’t popinjays.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “I don’t know,” Mahoney said.

      “Have you noticed the Emperor’s temper’s on a short fuse these days?”