The imminent wedding and investiture had pushed all the other news off the holo screens, which was just as well, because all the other news seemed to be uniformly bad. The Shub armada and the awful vessels of the Recreated were still bearing down on Golgotha. Diana Vertue had gone to meet Shub in the Deathstalker’s Last Standing, but first reports of their confrontation had not been encouraging. Elsewhere in the Empire, Ghost Warriors and Furies, Grendels and insect aliens and Hadenmen, fought dreadful battles with human armies on hundreds of worlds, and good news was hard to come by. There was no shortage of bravery or great feats of valor, but the odds against Humanity were perhaps just too great this time.
So Parliament brought the Royal wedding forward by a week. As a distraction for the general populace, it worked fine. People seized on the forthcoming spectacle with a desperate joy, glad of an excuse not to have to think about ... other things. It helped that Robert and Constance’s arranged marriage was also clearly a love match. They obviously adored each other, and it seemed that the whole Empire wished them well. (No one mentioned Constance’s first proposed husband and potential monarch, Owen Deathstalker, still missing and presumed dead. If anyone thought of him at all, it was to curse him for not being around to save Humanity, when he was needed most.) There were a few who muttered about the cost of all these celebrations, or insisted on spoiling the general good mood with cries of doom and imminent destruction, but no one listened, or at least no one who mattered. The people wanted this wedding, this distraction. In fact, they wanted it so much that the ceremony had practically taken on a life and impetus of its own, irrespective of those involved, and would not be denied.
The marriage and investiture of the two Royals was to be held on the floor of the House of Parliament. It was the only suitably important, prestigious, and historically august site that everyone could agree on.
It was ten o‘clock in the morning, a good four hours before the ceremony was due to begin, but already the great antechamber leading onto the floor of the House was packed and swarming with people. The huge double doors giving onto the House were still securely locked, but the antechamber was fast filling with invited guests, determined to seize the most advantageous positions. There was no arranged seating or even standing; first through the doors got the best spots from which to watch the wedding. (This had become necessary when the first negotiations over seating precedence had led to open rioting.) Jostling for position was rife, and only a heavy presence of armed security guards kept the constant arguments and name-calling from degenerating into pushing matches and fistfights. None of the guests were allowed to bring weapons in, of course. So far, the worst incidents had been limited to cutting remarks about who had done what during the rebellion, and the occasional head-butting, but the guards had strict orders to eject anyone who even looked like getting out of hand, and no one wanted to risk that. The words
high-spirited
were used a lot as relatives quickly hustled bloody noses out of the sight of approaching guards.
Of course, the moment any of the many holo news cameras passed through, everyone was immediately all sweetness and light. No one wanted to be seen to be souring the mood. Everyone who was anyone, or at least those left after all the many crises of recent times, had come to see and be seen, and if at all possible to be
noticed,
by the new King and Queen. From such small beginnings, whole careers and futures could be forged.
On the other side of the locked double doors, on the floor of the House, the chaos was if anything even worse. Bringing everything forward a week had thrown everyone’s plans out of joint, and they were all scrabbling heroically to be ready on time. No one wanted to go down in the history books as the one who’d let down the Royal couple. Reputations were on the line here. So the caterers were going crazy in the adjoining kitchens, screaming abuse into their comm units over undelivered goods, the chefs were screaming at the cooks over last-minute changes to the menus, and everyone was shouting at the flustered kitchen staff, who did all the real work, and were taking it in turns to throw hissy fits and slope off to the toilets for a quiet sit down and a smoke. Cartloads of food arrived every ten minutes, and then had to wait ages while they were checked inside and out by security. Chefs wept and cooks pleaded for essential items held up in the queue, but Security refused to be hurried. One of the official tasters caused near panic by suddenly complaining of chest pains, but it turned out to be just wind.
Meanwhile, entire animal carcasses were turning slowly on spits, whole rain forests of vegetation were being sliced and diced and carved into interesting shapes, and serious deserts of appalling sweetness and stickiness were being plotted by serious-looking men in silly hats. Clear soup and cloudy wines stood by in barrels, while hundreds of fish in great tanks looked on nervously. The heat in the kitchens was unbearable, the noise was appalling, and the mingled scents were powerful enough to intoxicate lesser mortals. Alone in the depths of the great freezer, isolated in his pressure suit, the ice sculptor was furiously turning out a series of delicate ice creations, and cursing his apprentice for going down with the flu.
On the floor of the House, political and social advisors were screaming at each other over points of tradition, precedence, and etiquette, and regularly having to be forcibly separated by the amused security guards. And they hadn’t even got to the order of presentation of the more important guests to the newly crowned Royal couple yet.
The bridesmaids, twenty-four beautiful young ladies of the highest good character, dressed in acres of frothy pink, had finally rebelled against the endless wedding rehearsals, and had retired to a relatively quiet corner to get loudly and ostentatiously drunk. They’d been chosen by lot, from among all the suitable young ladies of the Clans, and it was supposed to be a great honor for them. (Traditionally the bridesmaids should have come from the bride and groom’s Families, but since Clan Wolfe had pretty much wiped out Clan Campbell in a very hostile takeover, not all that long ago, it had been tactfully decided by all concerned to forget that particular tradition.) When the bridesmaids had first been selected, they’d been delighted at being part of such an auspicious occasion, but that was before they’d spent days being drilled in close formation, to carry out the slow-motion dances, approaches, and withdrawals dictated by the Royal ceremony. The young ladies were far more used to giving orders than taking them, they hated being shouted at when they got it wrong, and their feet hurt. But they couldn’t back out now, because they knew their Families would kill them if they did. But the instructor had criticized their deportment just once too often, and they were now taking comfort in bottles of champagne purloined from the kitchens, and trying to chat up the security guards. So far, none of them had weakened. Or at least, not when an officer was watching.
If only because they, like everyone else, knew they were always under the cold, watchful gaze of Chantelle, the Mistress of Ceremonies. Chantelle got the job partly because everyone knew she’d be good at it, partly because no one else wanted it, but mostly because no one could say no to her. Chantelle had been around for what seemed like ages, not a part of any Clan or clique, but nevertheless an essential part of the social Scene. She was that particular brand of celebrity; famous for being famous. No party was complete without Chantelle, sparkling and laughing and spreading witty confusion wherever she went. Her put-downs and barbed bon mots were legendary, but you were no one until Chantelle had deigned to notice you. She was one of those mysterious people who always knew who and what was In and Out before anybody else did, and she could be merciless with overconfident arrivistes and insufficiently arrogant artists. But for all her potential venom, she was always the life and soul of every party, and the heartiest chatter and loudest laughter always come from the crowds and gatherings of which she was a part.
Scandals followed her like so many dogged shadows, but somehow none of them ever really stuck. She’d had affairs with everyone who mattered, and as a result had influence in high and low places. She’d never married, never had any children (that anyone knew about), and her own family background remained a mystery, despite many determined investigations by the holo chat and gossip shows. Chantelle had been heard to boast that she created herself, and many believed it.
She was tall and fashionably slender, with long honey gold hair, and her heart-shaped face wore just enough makeup to look like she didn’t need any. She was dressed in full-length shimmering gold, bold enough to attract the holo cameras without being blatant enough to distract from the bride. Her eyes were an icy blue, capable of sparkling with mischief one minute, and cutting someone dead the next. Her smile was wide, her teeth perfect, and she had a laugh that could start a party all on its own. She was beautiful, graceful, droll, and everyone adored her. If they knew what was good for them. Chantelle never forgot a slight, and gloried in revenge. She was a star, and took it as personal affront if anyone sought to shine more brightly than her.
How fitting then, that the queen of Society should be in charge of creating the new Queen of the Empire. And the King, of course.
She bustled back and forth across the floor of the House, barking instructions, solving problems and averting crises, and bringing together opposing factions by sheer charm and charisma. Where reason didn’t work and charm failed, she settled for simple intimidation. It wasn’t wise to get Chantelle mad at you. She knew things. Often very embarrassing things. No one could dominate High Society for as long as Chantelle had, and not know something about absolutely everybody. (Her diaries were kept in a locked vault, under armed guard.) In the meantime, she had a plan for the Royal wedding and investiture, and by God and all his saints, everyone was going to follow it. She glared the bridesmaids into sullen obedience, sorted out matters of precedence with icy logic, and lowered the noise coming from the kitchens just by poking her head around the door. Chantelle in full flight was like a force of nature, not to be diverted or denied by any mere mortals.
Unless, of course, you were Adrienne Campbell. A force of nature in her own right, and twice as violent. Adrienne and Chantelle had both swept through High Society on their own terms, blazing a path through sheer unrelenting force of personality, but whereas Chantelle had gloried in her position, Adrienne had been famous for not giving a damn. Chantelle dominated her peers. Adrienne never admitted that she had any. The two women had never been friends, though they had shared a number of highly placed lovers, who all had enough sense to keep their mouths firmly shut about certain matters, but they’d never really been rivals either. It had been simpler, and safer, for them to simply smile in passing, and occasionally kiss the air near each other’s cheeks, and then go their own way, rather than risk starting a war neither felt entirely sure about winning.
And so things went, with two suns in the firmament, and endless orbiting followers, until Clan Campbell was suddenly brought down by Clan Wolfe, and the surviving Campbells had to run for their lives. Adrienne had to call in every favor she was owed just to survive, and with her husband Finlay a declared outlaw, her position became increasingly precarious. All her old friends deserted her, her enemies sneered openly, and creditors pursued her from one squalid bolthole to another. As far as Society was concerned, Adrienne was Out, as well as down, and nobody would help her. Chantelle went around saying she’d always known Adrienne was trouble, and they were all far better off without her. When Adrienne contacted her anyway to ask for help, driven by desperation, poverty, and fear of what might happen to her two young children, Chantelle laughed in her face, gloried in her downfall, and told Adrienne to go straight to Hell, by the express route.
Of course, the wheel always turns, and now Adrienne Campbell was In again, welcomed back into Society with open arms, all bad feelings forgotten. Partly because of her social and political links with important rebel leaders, and partly because she was King Robert-to-be’s favorite relation. Aristocrats could be remarkably pragmatic, when they had to be. So once again Adrienne was courted and acclaimed, and welcomed into every salon and private function. Old hurts and turned backs were laughed away, forgotten and forgiven, because in the end they and Adrienne knew the score. You don’t blame sharks for doing what sharks do. But somehow Adrienne had never forgiven Chantelle. Because if anyone should have understood and helped her, it was Chantelle.
Eventually, inevitably, the two women ended up together, face to face. They nodded and smiled, and all around people began surreptitiously backing away. The two women studied each other, as intent as two gunsling ers on an empty street. The security guards looked purposefully in other directions. They weren’t being paid nearly enough to deal with Adrienne and Chantelle. There wasn’t that much money in the Empire. They were there to handle lesser problems, like armed terrorists and alien invasions. They could handle those. The noise in the great Hall died almost completely away, as everyone watched with bated breath to see what would happen. And then the two women leaned forward and embraced each other with fixed, unwavering smiles. There was a loud sigh as a large number of people let out their breath simultaneously. Peace, of a sort, had been declared. The noise level gradually resumed its normal din as everyone went back to panicking, shouting, and running around in ever-decreasing circles.
“So,” said Chantelle to Adrienne. “All is forgiven. Friends again?”
“We were never friends,” Adrienne said sweetly to Chantelle. “And we’re not now. I just don’t want anything to spoil Robert and Constance’s big day. But afterwards ... all gloves are off. I will see you utterly destroyed, Chantelle; including your reputation, your fading looks, and all your finances down to the very last penny. I’ll see you crawl in the dirt and beg for drink, and I won’t even lower myself to piss on you.”