The Diabolic

  I found myself staring at him, struck by the way his pale eyes glittered in the light of the floating fires. What an odd person he was, who so gladly assumed an obligation and responsibility for trillions—not only those now joining us, an ever-increasing number of dancers launching aloft into zero gravity, but for the faceless strangers across the galaxy, multitudes who would never speak his name. Indeed, most of those who did speak it cursed him as a madman. Yet still he wanted to better their lives.

  An odd feeling swam through me then. With my entire being, I yearned for his conviction. It was the same conviction—I realized now—that Senator von Impyrean had felt for spreading the sciences. There are things more important than whether one person lives or dies.

  The Senator’s faraway words drifted back to me as Tyrus’s thumb stroked my cheek. It was a display, of course, for everyone looking upon us who could not possibly guess the true nature of our association, the true content of our discussion.

  Tyrus believed in a cause and wagered his life for it. And he invited me now to do the same, even knowing I was a Diabolic. It was hard for me to understand what it was to have a cause, to have belief. But I wanted to know.

  I began to catch eyes upon us, so many eyes, and past me danced Elantra Pasus and Gladdic Aton. She looked at me piercingly and smiled when I caught gazes with her, but there was a trace of anxiety in her face at seeing me with the Successor Primus. She had good reason to be nervous.

  “This is vengeance for you, too, isn’t it?” I said to him suddenly.

  I thought of his family, dead at the hands of his uncle, his grandmother. Two Helionics, firm believers in the current system. Yet Tyrus meant to ascend and undo everything they’d fought to protect.

  “In a sense.” His lips curved. “I can’t say I haven’t considered that a side benefit.”

  When the first strains of the Frog and the Scorpion began to play, I recalled learning this dance with Sidonia. A rush of grief swept through me, and Tyrus must have seen it in my eyes.

  “Are you well?”

  I swallowed it down. “I know this dance.”

  “You dance with incredible skill.”

  “Of course I do.”

  He laughed. “I find your modesty most delightful.”

  His tone was teasing, but I saw no use in feigning modesty. I was the physical superior of every person in this room, and zero-gravity maneuvering was all about balance, coordination, and grace. This came easily to me.

  We lapsed into silence as he danced the frog to my scorpion, throwing me, propelling himself to where I was, as I slid down his body, as I spun about him, the twining flaps of our clothing tangling together like anemones.

  “Do you know this parable, then?” he said breathlessly as we drew together again. “It’s an old fable, the tale of the frog and the scorpion.”

  It came time for the harsh, discordant beats in the song, and I lashed at him. Tyrus reared back, catching my arm and spinning us both. The dancers rotated in my vision like hundreds of spokes on a vast wheel. When we were back together again, my back pressed to Tyrus’s chest as we spun in circles, he told me the story.

  “A scorpion needs to cross a stream. He asks a frog to carry him across on its back. The frog asks, ‘How do I know you won’t sting me?’ The scorpion assures him that if he does, they’ll sink under the water and they’ll both die. That’s reassurance enough for the frog. The frog agrees to carry the scorpion. They get to midstream, and then the scorpion stings him.”

  He reeled under another lashing movement from me, and as part of the dance, each blow produced spins of less energy, the chords of the music growing weaker, dying out. The scorpion was stinging the frog to death, condemning them both to die. Tyrus and I faced each other again, ready to drown beneath the waters of the river together.

  “The frog asks the scorpion why it stung him,” Tyrus finished. “And the scorpion replies, ‘It’s my nature.’”

  We fell silent and dipped down, drowning together as the music died away.

  Later our heaviest outerwear was removed and we took a rest in one of the refreshment rooms, enjoying the return of gravity. Service bots brought drinks our way. Before us, the dome still hummed with dancers against the crystalline windows and the expanse of space, many of the lesser Grandiloquy permitted to join the floor now too.

  Tyrus ran a finger around the rim of his glass, his blue eyes narrowed as he surveyed the dancers. Then he spoke. “Tonight was the first step. For them to see us together. I told you the frog and scorpion fable for a reason.”

  I looked at him. It seemed like Tyrus did little without a reason.

  “Nature does not simply reform.” He tapped the edge of his glass. “A lion does not grow stripes, nor does a cheetah sprout horns. A scorpion does not cease to sting. If I am to shift my image before the galaxy, there must be an explanation for the shift that makes sense to people. It has to be you, Nemesis.”

  “Me?”

  “You will be the moderating influence on me in public. We need a ready explanation for my changing ways, and that reason will be you gentling my character. As the Senator von Impyrean, you’re already an ideological focal point. This will merely take that a step further. What I need is some occasion to do something significant to demonstrate I am changing . . . a moment to offer people a glimpse of how the Empire might be under my command when I am influenced by you.”

  I said nothing. This wasn’t my way of planning, of thinking. He was the deliberate person full of far-reaching schemes. I knew how to act in the moment. “What do you intend to do?”

  “I have to think of something significant to demonstrate our new dynamic. Something that will be spread widely, discussed, repeated.” He drained his wine and rose to his feet, adjusting the white of his tunic over his muscular arm. He held out a palm to me. “We should return to the dance.”

  I set aside my goblet and took his hand, felt the strength of his grip as he pulled me up.

  Tyrus searched my face intently, a cool, detached young leader, as alien to me in his calm and calculated manner as my instincts and inborn aggression were to him.

  “The next time we’re together publicly, I’ll need to kiss you. I thought I should tell you this in advance so you’re not startled. I wouldn’t like a broken neck.”

  The idea did startle me. For a moment, I almost protested. But my own unease puzzled me. His logic made sense. Why should I mind such a trifling piece of showmanship?

  Nevertheless, I thought to warn him: “Affectionate gestures that come instinctively to most humans don’t come naturally to me. I’m not sure I’ll know how.”

  “Nemesis, if you can dance so well as you do, you can kiss.” Tyrus’s mouth quirked, his eyes tracing my lips. “A kiss is just about adjusting to the movement, the rhythm of another person. I suspect you’ll find it more natural than you could ever dream.”

  For some reason, I felt suddenly unable to hold his gaze. Outside, in the dome, long lines of dancers twined together like glittering vines, and the beauty of the dance made a fine excuse to turn away.

  27

  THE NEXT few days were a dizzying whirlwind of activity. Just by appearing at the gala with the Successor Primus, I achieved a new status at the Chrysanthemum. It began as soon as a decent hour rolled around the next morning. Suddenly my intercom began announcing an array of visitors, higher and lesser Grandiloquy both.

  “Credenza Fordyce for Sidonia von Impyrean.”

  “Ivigny von Wallstrom for Sidonia von Impyrean.”

  “Epheny Locklaite for Sidonia von Impyrean.”

  And the announcement was always followed by some prominent personage along with their entourage, who’d dip themselves into the chairs of my villa and openly stare at me, at my Servitors, at my possessions, while they made inane conversation. Small talk wasn’t an easy skill for me, so I mostly focused on not staring
fixedly back at them in a way that would make them uncomfortable. They seemed too focused on promoting themselves to notice any behavior on my part.

  “You do recall that social forum three years ago, don’t you, my Grandeé, when I remarked on your fine avatar?” said Grandeé von Fleivert.

  “Such a sturdy, handsome group of Servitors,” said Credenza Fordyce. She had made a point of snubbing me until now and seemed stiff in her new role as acolyte. “You really must tell me what you feed them.”

  “Food,” I replied. “They eat food.”

  “Food. How interesting!” she trilled.

  I looked at her. She looked at me. The silence thickened.

  “I must give mine far more food,” said Credenza, her smile brittle.

  But those visits weren’t nearly so awkward as the moment Senator von Pasus called on me, trailed by Elantra, a poisonous, limpid smile on her lips.

  “. . . pleasure to make your father’s acquaintance, oh, twenty years back. Or was it twenty-two?” spoke the Senator von Pasus, his stentorian voice booming through the room.

  “It was twenty-two, Father,” said Elantra. “You’ve told me as much.”

  “Yes, twenty-two years back. We both ascended to leadership of our families at the same time.” Senator von Pasus’s face relaxed into a smile. “I was quite sorry to hear what happened to him. Believe it or not, I rather enjoyed our clashes in the Senate. It’s my deepest regret we opposed each other on the fundamental issues of our day. We could have done great things together in different circumstances.” He cleared his throat, stroking at his short, neatly trimmed beard. “My point is, my dear, I know when to let old disputes pass. It can be difficult to feel without the guidance of a parent.”

  Elantra’s smile was like plastic. “My father and I are happy to lend some help.”

  “Indeed,” her father added. “You are still very young, dear. You can’t possibly have had time to learn all the niceties of holding office.” He paused. “For instance, dealing with the Excess in your territory. You simply take for granted they’ll learn from your example and see things your way, but oftentimes they can prove tricky. Why, at the oddest times, some rascal among them might goad his fellows to defy his betters—to convince them they are entitled to more say in matters. . . .”

  “Like Viceroy Sagnau?” I said pleasantly.

  He stuttered into silence. Elantra’s eyes flashed spitefully toward her father, as though she’d warned him in advance this would happen and he’d disregarded her.

  I didn’t care that I’d just broken a taboo by calling the Senator and his heir’s attention to the Viceroy who’d defied them in their own territory . . . the woman who had ended up being killed along with the Emperor’s Grandiloquy enemies.

  That could only have been Senator von Pasus’s work. The Emperor had no reason to strike out against a mere Viceroy, whatever her views. Neveni’s mother could have posed no threat unless Senator von Pasus specifically asked for her inclusion in the great purge.

  Senator von Pasus straightened, recovering his dignity. “That province, Lamanos—”

  “Lumina,” prompted Elantra sweetly.

  “Lumina. Always troublesome. A rocky planet with an unusual ability to self-sustain, so their leaders grow egos. That Sagnau woman was a demagogue misleading her people. The majority of the Excess are too blinded by propaganda or simply ignorant to see how much they require the Empire, and how they profit from Grandiloquy patronage.” He leaned closer to me, his gaze sharp and cold in the lighting of my atrium. “But they have been taught a grave lesson. There is no planet so safe or hole so concealed that it can escape the Grandiloquy’s reach. Strength is the only thing the Excess respect, and they will be cowed after this, you mark my words.”

  Days later I was invited to my first private dinner with the Domitrian family.

  Tyrus pulled out a chair for me at the table in the Emperor’s presence chamber. The Emperor had yet to join us. His chair at the head of the table stood empty.

  As I settled next to Tyrus, I felt the sharp weight of his grandmother Cygna’s harpy gaze, assessing me. She’d been born to another branch of the Domitrian family back when the Domitrians were more numerous, less inclined to die young. It had been the wrong branch of the Domitrians. They sported the black hole sigil rather than the six stars of the royal Domitrians.

  Instead of having a chance at the throne herself, Cygna had to resort to marrying the heir. When her marriage to Emperor Lotharias grew turbulent, she sought to rule through her favored child, the current Emperor. She was also the person who’d masterminded the disposal of Randevald von Domitrian’s rivals for the throne.

  To my displeasure, Cygna was joined tonight by Salivar and Devineé, both recovered but not quite in top form. They both offered polite smiles, but their faces looked pale and slack, their eyes clouded, as though they didn’t truly see the room before them. Drool trickled from the corner of Salivar’s mouth. A Servitor stepped forward to dab it away with a silken handkerchief.

  Tyrus leaned toward me, making a show of toying with the jewel hanging from my ear. I felt the warmth of his breath against my ear as he whispered, “They remember nothing. Devineé can’t speak clearly. Salivar still forgets his own name.”

  “So severe?”

  “Scorpion’s Breath has to be used in moderation. Any higher dose and it becomes a potent neurotoxin.”

  I felt a wave of cruel satisfaction as I looked at the Emperor’s niece and her husband again, remembering what they’d had in mind for Sidonia, what they’d done to Neveni. They fumbled clumsily with their utensils, fighting with their own food, struggling to scrape it from the plate.

  Tyrus gave a light flick to my earring. “Try not to enjoy it so visibly. Grandmother misses nothing.” Then he eased away.

  Indeed, when I looked to Grandeé Cygna, I found her eyes pinned to me. She hadn’t missed my pleasure.

  “Does it amuse you to see the condition of my granddaughter and her husband, Senator von Impyrean?”

  I spoke hastily. “Never, Your Eminence. If I smiled, it was merely because I recalled how kind they were to me before . . .”

  “Before their affliction and your total memory loss.”

  This woman had killed her own less-favored children. I had no doubt she’d kill me if she ever suspected what I’d done to Salivar and Devineé.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” I murmured. “Such a tragic night.”

  Grandeé Cygna gave an impatient tug of her mouth. “How did you and my grandson come to associate, then?”

  Tyrus covered my hand with his own. There was a subtle tension in every line of his body. “I’ve told you this story, Grandmother—”

  “I wish to hear the enchanting tale from the young lady herself.”

  For a moment, my mind was blank. Then I recalled the idle excuses Tyrus had provided me for our new association.

  “I was distraught after the events of late, as surely you understand.” I sipped my wine to give myself time to recall Tyrus’s story. His hand still rested over mine, his thumb rubbing back and forth over my palm, small theatrics to evidence his supposed affection. I found it distracting but fought the urge to withdraw my hand into my lap—for that, too, would not escape Cygna’s notice. “His Eminence encountered me in my distress and led me to the Alexandria. He diverted me with these beautiful antiques called books, and one thing led to another.”

  Then I thought to punctuate this anecdote with a smile at Tyrus, hoping no one noticed my cold, empty eyes. He smiled back.

  “Ah, of course,” remarked Cygna. “The library won you over. Tyrus keeps those on hand for stars know why, but clearly you share your father’s love of knowledge, then.”

  The words were dangerous. She was trying to catch me making a mistake. “No, learning is not my passion, Your Eminence,” I said quickly. “The books were simply . . . very
pretty.”

  “Ah, but that content inside can prove most dangerous.” She sipped at her wine. “All this desire to learn . . . I don’t understand it. Learning is an absurd use of time, if you ask me, especially when one can simply consult a computer. You should be very careful, Senator von Impyrean. You wouldn’t wish to fall for the same wayward philosophies as your father.”

  I clenched my fist beneath the table. “No, Your Eminence, I would not.”

  “What surprises me,” Cygna went on, “is that my grandson has become enamored of an Impyrean. I had no idea he had such leanings. I believed he gathered those books as an eccentricity, not due to an appreciation for intellectual curiosity.”

  It was a dangerous inquiry, and Tyrus handled it well. He chuckled, then leaned back to gaze up at the ceiling. “Well, Grandmother, in truth I have no desire to read those books. I simply thought they might hold the answers as to why I am so elevated above the ordinary man. I have so many questions. Why does everyone watch me without being blinded by the gleaming light of my transcendent nature? Why do I have access to the divine wisdom of the Cosmos when others cannot hear the same voices I do? What is it about my humble form that makes me so much more than an average man?” He drew my hand to his mouth then, eyes on his grandmother. His lips were startlingly warm against my skin. “Though here Sidonia von Impyrean has quite provided the answers for me.”

  A thin eyebrow rose on Cygna’s false-youth face. “Oh?”

  “Indeed. She states that I am not in fact the Living Cosmos expressing its will through my humble human form, but rather a product of Cosmic creation like any other person.”

  “I have told you this numerous times,” snapped Grandeé Cygna.

  “But, Grandmother, it is so much more convincing in her sweet voice.” He reached out and stroked a thumb across my bottom lip. “Haven’t I told you so, my darling?”

  Did he need to keep touching me like this? But as I met Tyrus’s eyes, I understood that he was only carrying out his plan: he was painting me as a moderating influence on his madness. Grandeé Cygna gaped at him a moment, her wineglass in midair. “Well.” Recovering herself, she sipped delicately. “Well, Tyrus, you can count me all astonishment.”