Across a Star-Swept Sea fdsts-2 Page 5

  “By the way,” came Justen’s voice from the other side, “your friend gave me a message for you. The one with the blue hair?” His tone dripped with disdain. “She said she took your packages straight to your tailor.”

  More good news. Persis slumped in her bath, allowing a small smirk at the thought of the league’s medic, Noemi, being called a tailor. Noemi would hate that. But she would know what to do for the children. Persis leaned her head back as the heat soaked into her aching muscles. “Thank you.”

  Thank you, Justen Helo. Persis covered her face with her hands and groaned. Her whole life, she’d imagined what it would be like to meet a member of that famous family, perhaps when she went with Isla to one of Queen Gala’s parties. But it had never happened. Instead, this was what happened: Justen Helo had saved her life, and she’d thrown up on his shoes. So much for the elegant, charming Lady Persis Blake.

  There was silence for several minutes on the other side of the screen, long enough for Persis to contemplate falling asleep again. But Justen couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Lady Blake? Do you plan to be very long in there?”

  “Am I keeping you from an appointment, Citizen Helo?” She knew the Scintillans servants would have seen to all Justen’s needs, not only because he was Persis’s guest but because of his famous name. Regs would do anything for a descendant of the Helos. Justen was no doubt considered a model citizen back home.

  And that’s why letting him wander around out there unattended might not be the best idea. With a groan, Persis pulled herself up to a sitting position in the warm, soothing water. She’d soak her bones later. For now, she needed to deal with the Galatean revolutionary standing in her bedroom.

  She dialed in the instructions to her bath, which promptly responded with a flow of frangipani-scented water. Rinsed and perfumed, she emerged, dried off, and garbed herself in an ocean blue kimono that covered her from neck to foot. Properly armed, she exited the bathroom only to be greeted by an empty space. She looked around in confusion, and spotted Justen outside in the garden, near a table set with breakfast for two. He was kneeling on the vibrant, manicured lawn, while Slipstream balanced on his hind legs, his long neck stretched up as he begged for the bit of manguava cake Justen dangled over the sea mink’s glossy black nose.

  “He’ll balance treats on his nose if you want,” she said from the steps, squinting as the full sunlight hit her face.

  Justen tried it and sat back on his heels, impressed. “Very well-trained pet you have.”

  “That’s what my father paid the gengineers for.” Persis turned her attention to the sea mink. “Slippy, end!” Slipstream flipped the cake off his snout and caught it in midair as Persis stepped off the stairs and onto the soft, loamy earth of the lawn. “Ever seen a sea mink before?”

  “We don’t use gengineering for personal pets in Galatea,” Justen said, rising to his feet, “just for stock animals, guard beasts, stuff like that.”

  Stuff like mini-orcas to feed your enemies to. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now. Not when Justen had been so kind as to save her life. Not when she was in the midst of showing him what a shallow socialite she was.

  “Slipstream is an excellent guard beast,” she replied as the animal scurried to her side. “I’ve never had my yacht stolen even once.” A servant had set out a breakfast she wasn’t quite prepared to tackle until the tsunami in her gut died down. Instead, she poured herself a cup of jasmine tea and sank into the cushioned chair. “So, Citizen Helo, have you been enjoying my estate?”

  “Justen is fine, Lady Blake.”

  She smiled at him over the cup. “So is Persis. After all, we’re good friends now that you’ve spent the night at my place.”

  His gaze flickered away from her then, and Persis’s smile grew wider. She’d have answers from him yet. He might be handsome and famous and smart, but she was Persis Blake.

  “So, what brings you to Albion . . . Justen?”

  “Just a vacation.” He shrugged, but he still wasn’t quite meeting her eyes. “You visited my country for fun.”

  “I can’t imagine your wanting to leave Galatea when things are going so well for you back home.” Persis crossed her legs, allowing the silk of her robe to part past her knees as Justen did his best to ignore the sight and busy himself with the teapot. The Galatean was hiding something.

  Justen poured himself his own cup of tea, then took a long draft. After a moment, he looked at Persis again. “No, not really. No true patriot of my homeland would relish the violence happening now. I am a regular, I am a Helo, but I do not condone what is being done to Galatean aristos.”

  His words hit hard. Persis swallowed and fought the urge to pull her robe closed. Maybe he wasn’t hiding so much as seriously disturbed by the horrors in Galatea. “I’m happy to hear that,” she managed.

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting the hospitality of any aristo without explaining my objections to my government’s tactics.”

  Persis longed to ask him why, then, if he was a Helo, he didn’t use his influence to stop them? Why was he not fighting to help his countrymen, the way his grandmother had when she’d invented the cure? Persis was fighting. What was wrong with the rest of the world?

  But that wasn’t the sort of thing Persis Blake asked anyone anymore. Not the Persis Blake who’d spent the better part of the year convincing everyone that she was empty-headed and ornamental and absolutely indispensable to the glittering court of Princess Isla. Those sorts of questions were reserved solely for the Wild Poppy these days, and the Wild Poppy was out of commission—at least until Persis recovered from Tero’s mistake.

  “What is it you wish to do while you’re here?” she asked instead. “I must say, you’ve fallen into excellent hands—though you might not think so after yesterday. I’m rather popular at court. I’m sure I could get you an invite to a party there.” In truth, the entire court—aristo and reg—would salivate for a glimpse at a Helo. Bringing him would only cement her ranking at court.

  But somehow, Persis had trouble imagining Justen would enjoy it.

  “I’d like that, thank you,” he surprised her by saying. “Do you know the Princess Isla at all?”

  What did he think “popular at court” meant? “I’m her chief lady-in-waiting.”

  Justen looked nonplussed. “Like a maid?”

  Persis smiled indulgently. “It’s how royals say ‘She’s one of my best friends.’”

  Justen blinked. “Really? Oh . . . good. Because I’ve come to Albion to meet her.”

  Was that disappointment he was not quite able to hide? Why would he be disappointed to have fallen in with such a well-connected aristo? And what did he want with Isla? Persis narrowed her eyes. This required further observation.

  As did Justen Helo.

  BY THE TIME THE aristo had done her hair, her clothes, and her makeup, Justen had gone through the entire catalog of her gengineered rodent’s parlor tricks and wandered around the grounds of her sprawling estate twice. No one could deny the place was as beautiful as the girl who lived here. Perched on a high cliff at the southernmost edge of Albion’s western peninsula, the house seemed like a cliff flower itself, blossoming in shades of brown and black from the earth. Most of its rooms lay open to the sea air, covered only by vast, petal-shaped roofs that swept overhead, supported by thin, translucent columns of onyx or crystal. Justen could see slits in the external walls, hinting at screens that could be drawn to protect the interior during the rainy season.

  The water surrounded them on three sides, vast and glittering beneath the sun-drenched sky. From up here, you could barely hear the surf, and the sharp, living smell of the water faded into a simple salty freshness. Justen paused at the western cliff edge and stared at the endless ocean. Once, long ago, before the Reduction and the wars that had broken the very heart of the world, there’d been other lands, other people. People who lived and breathed democracies, people who’d accomplished their goals without spilling a single drop of b
lood. The Galateans had failed at this. Justen had failed.

  All he’d ever wanted was to help people, like his grandmother had done. And now, when things had gone so wrong he had no choice but to escape, the only place left to go was Albion. The only mercy he could hope to get was from another monarch.

  That was, if Persis Blake ever finished getting ready.

  Everywhere he went, he felt the eyes of the estate servants on him. He grew tired of their obsequious attempts to bring him things—snacks, perfumes, changes of clothes in monstrously garish colors. Most of all, he hated the way every last one of them called him Citizen Helo. They probably meant it as a mark of respect, or even support for the Galatean revolution, but if anything, that made him feel worse.

  “Citizen Helo, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you—to thank your family—for their gift to the world.”

  “Citizen Helo, both my parents were born of the cure. Bless you and yours.”

  “I hate to bother you, Citizen Helo, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it. It is such an honor to be in the presence of someone descended from Persistence Helo. Everyone here at Scintillans is overwhelmed. Is there anything I can get you?”

  This last one planted a notion in his head, and he stopped the servant, a blue-haired butler. “Pardon me, but the lady of the house . . .”

  “Lady Heloise Blake? She and Lord Blake are away at the moment.” The servant eyed him. “Oh, you mean Persis.”

  But Justen already had the information he needed. He snapped his jaw shut. Heloise. Persis. He should have seen it before. Those names were no accident. And yet, why would aristos bear them?

  “Citizen?” the servant prompted.

  Justen shook his head. “I was just wondering how long she’d be.”

  The older man laughed. “Yes, she does like her clothes, our girl. These days, it’s all she seems to care about.”

  Our girl. Now, Justen examined the estate with new eyes. He’d been too concerned for his patient’s welfare when he’d arrived yesterday afternoon, and last night and this morning he’d been busy trying to make a plan for the future, but now he finally began to take in the details of this aristo estate. The little fishing village nestled at the base of the cliffs was filled with neat, tidy houses, not ramshackle cabins like one often saw on the plantations in Galatea. Happy, plump children ran about the lawns of the estate itself. The servants practically whistled while they worked. Were things so very different in Albion?

  He knew that the Reduction’s end had been handled differently in the two nations of New Pacifica. In Albion, mandatory education for regs and fair wage laws had been passed. There’d been reg representatives on the Royal Council for more than a generation. But that couldn’t have made a true difference, could it? As Uncle Damos said, they still had a king calling the shots. One only had to look at the way they treated the women of Albion, the way aristos like Persis led such decadent, useless lives, to see how rotten the system must be.

  But then again, those names . . . something was strange about Scintillans.

  “Are you ready to go?” came a voice at his back. He turned to find Persis in a sari the color of sunset. Jewels sparkled along the hem and neckline. Her hair was piled on top of her head again, in a fashion he was sure was exceedingly intricate but looked to him like nothing more than an osprey nest. On top of it all perched a ridiculous fascinator shaped like a bird of paradise and made entirely from real feathers. Her skin was clear and golden, glowing with a vitality one would never have guessed possible for a girl so recently recovered from genetemps sickness. Her light-colored eyes were winged with kohl, and her wide cheekbones and full lips were the same sparkly rose color. Perhaps her complexion was being helped along by a good deal of Albian cosmetics, then.

  The sea mink, its glossy red coat set off by a jeweled coral collar, frolicked at her feet.

  The aristo frowned at him, as her gaze traveled down his body and over his simple black shirt and pants. “Oh, you didn’t change, I see.”

  “Where did you get your name?” he blurted.

  Her eyes snapped back to his face. “Where do you think?”

  “From my grandmother.”

  “Well,” she said, with a tilt of her head that sent the feathers shaking. “I see you have at least some of her smarts.”

  “Your mother—”

  “Is a reg, yes,” she said, her tone clipped. Was she . . . embarrassed by that fact? Justen couldn’t tell. He had never known a half aristo before. Not a legitimate one, anyway. Not one who was friends with royalty.

  Persis tapped at her gloved left hand, then seemed to remember she was still recovering. “Well, let’s go. The royal court of Albion awaits.”

  And now Justen realized he had no idea what to expect.

  Five

  JUSTEN HAD TAKEN TWO sea voyages with Persis Blake so far but had yet to see her touch the controls. On the way back from Galatea, she’d been unconscious, and now she left the yacht on autopilot while she downed palmport supplements and stationed herself at the cabin’s wall port to exchange what were apparently rather urgent messages with her tailor.

  The autopilot’s docking mechanism was somewhat shaky. Justen went below to call to Persis, who rolled her eyes in frustration at the interruption. “The Daydream won’t sink,” she said with a wave of her hand. The image of a keyboard hovered before her, its letters flashing. “Now leave me alone. I’m a bit rusty at this wall port business. I can’t believe it actually makes you type. With your fingers. Like some kind of primitive.”

  The yacht commenced banging its sides into a slip.

  What kind of girl, Justen wondered, possessed such a gorgeous vessel as this and treated it with all the care of an old shoe? The same kind whose papa had purchased her a personalized pet, Justen supposed. If she did end up sinking her yacht, Justen had no doubt her aristocratic father would just buy her another, and another, and another still.

  If Persis weren’t the quickest way to gain access to Princess Isla, he would have found a way to ditch her by now. But he didn’t have a better plan for getting into court, and he had to admit that before the docking procedure, the trip around the point of Scintillans and up the west coast of Albion had been picturesque—all blue, sunlit sea and wind that smelled of salt and fire. Justen had remained on deck, enjoying the view of the cliffs receding into the smooth slopes that characterized the outer shores of Albion, watching the sea mink frolic in the wake, and wondering if maybe, all things considered, he hadn’t been spending a bit too much time in his lab.

  At first glance, Justen decided the royal court wasn’t so very different from the stories they told about it in Galatea. The water organ was gorgeous if ostentatious, the outrageous clothes nearly blinded him, and the appallingly decadent flutternotes whizzing every which way were apt to give him a headache if he remained in their midst for too long. He’d learned about their operation during his medic training and had always been relieved that the craze hadn’t caught on in Galatea. Parasitic biotechnology that drained the body’s own nutrients to operate? It was foolish and unnecessary. Why couldn’t the Albian aristos use oblets, like everyone else? He fingered his own precious oblets, still hidden away in his pockets. Their smooth edges clinked against each other, solid and reassuring. He may have left his homeland and his sister, but at least these would be safe . . . and out of his uncle’s hands.

  Thankfully, he saw no fellow Galateans in the crowd of the courtyard. Though anyone in the Albion court would probably be an enemy of the revolution, he didn’t need a report of his whereabouts to reach Uncle Damos so soon. Even more thankfully, his host ushered him quickly through the throng and into a small, white, orchid-draped antechamber to await an audience with the princess regent. Persis had walked into the palace with her sea mink like she owned the place, and had to brush off several courtiers along the way. And she’d managed to bring him to the princess straight off, too. Persis must have been telling the truth, then, that they were frie
nds.

  And, yet, she was the daughter of an aristo married to a reg. Would wonders never cease?

  The princess, too, looked just like the images he’d seen of her. She was a few years younger than he was—about Persis’s age, with silvery hair and an all-white gown that seemed almost practical after the rainbow of colors and iridescence he’d passed through outside, even if it was covered in waves of floating feathers and crystals that tinkled as she moved.

  One of the standard complaints about the old Queen Gala had been that she’d acted like an Albian woman rather than a Galatean one. Shallow, silly, and more interested in parties than politics, in clothes than in culture. Justen could only hope that Isla defied expectations. Her friendship with Persis boded ill. He’d heard the princess didn’t wield much in the way of true power in Albion. And with an airhead like Persis as her lady-in-waiting, perhaps there was good reason for that.

  Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Greetings, Galatean,” said Princess Isla, spreading her arms in a gesture of welcome. “My friend Persis tells me I’m about to be bowled over by you. But given the number of Galateans that wash up on my shores these days, I wonder what she finds so impressive this time.”

  Persis looked at the princess and scowled. Isla smiled serenely. The aristo favored her princess with the ghost of a curtsy. She was holding yet another half-empty bottle of supplement drink. Justen imagined her tongue must be just about curdled from the sugar overload by now. She obviously couldn’t wait to get back to her palmport. Why anyone would subject their body to that kind of punishment when an oblet could run off its geothermal battery for weeks at a time was beyond him.

  “You two go ahead and have your little chat. I think I’m recovered enough to boot this up again, right?” Persis waved her left hand at Justen.