Sweep of the Heart

8

When we last left the inn, extensive renovations were afoot, permits for banned species obtained, the Assembly (finally!) deigned to increase Gertrude Hunt’s rating and our gracious hosts were preparing for an inspection.

Let’s take a peek inside.

The Seven Star Dominion spread across nine star systems, five of which had more than one habitable planet. The Dominion was a powerful force. Their economy was robust, their scientific research and development was well-funded, and their military was disciplined, trained, and equipped with the latest weaponry. If they ever took over our solar system, within three hundred years Mars would be terraformed, Mercury and Venus would be on the way, and the Moon would sport a massive colony.

The Dominion incorporated four main species, with the human-like sislaf holding a 67% majority. The sislaf ran taller than humans and leaner, with square faces that had wide cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and defined jawlines. Human skin started losing elasticity after we reached our 20s, but that loss was slight. We developed wrinkles and discoloration due to other factors – sun exposure, pollution, tobacco use. The sislaf had long ago conquered that extrinsic damage. They aged more slowly, and they didn’t look anywhere as worn as we did.

The man who strode out of the portal was likely in his eighties, middle aged for a sislaf, but he could’ve passed for a forty-year-old human who had been taking good care of himself. His hooded eyes were too green, the line of his jaw was too sharp, and his features were too symmetrical, but overall, the differences between our two species were minute. If you met him in passing, you’d think he was a celebrity who’d gone a bit overboard with plastic surgery. Except for his skin, which was an even taupe with too much gray undertone to allow him to pass for a local.

He stepped onto the polished floor of the arrival chamber and paused. He was seven feet tall and made even taller by an asymmetric gray headdress that jutted half a foot above his left ear. A gray and white robe hugged his lean frame, cinched at the waist with a wide black belt. His hair was black and cut short.

Chancellor Resven, the Sovereign’s right-hand man for “all affairs involving domicile and family.”

The portal swirled with pale green, and the second person came through. Also seven feet tall, she was broader at the shoulder, with a powerful build and a particularly even skin tone the color Behr Paint Company called campfire gray. I had just tinted the columns in the Sovereign pavilion that exact shade last night. Her platinum-white hair was short and thick, and her cobalt-blue high-tech armor fit her like a glove. No weapons, tall boots, and a layered navy and white cloak, clearly ceremonial rather than functional, that spilled from her left shoulder in tasteful pleats.

That was an excellent fold for curtains. I would have to remember to tag the footage the inn recorded later.

The two visitors started toward me. Resven walked with the trademark sislaf fluidity, but the soldier strode forward. There was something else in her genes besides the sislaf, and I placed my bet on the Holy Anocracy. The sislaf had been treating their own genotype as a template to be redesigned and modified for generations.

Sean rose out of the floor next to me. He wore a dark blue robe and his “business” face. Nothing about his expression looked specifically threatening. You just knew by some sixth sense that aggravating him was a terrible and potentially painful idea.

Resven blinked. The soldier didn’t seem fazed. She must’ve stayed at an inn before.

“Greetings,” I told them.

“Greetings, innkeepers. I’m Capital Prefect Miralitt,” the soldier introduced herself. “This is Chancellor Resven.”

The Sovereign had sent both his chancellor and the head of his personal guard.

“We’ve met,” Resven said dryly.

Technically, we interacted via a communication screen, so we hadn’t actually met, but I didn’t correct him.

“Welcome to Gertrude Hunt,” Sean said.

Resven looked around the arrival chamber. A large domed room inlaid with weathered brown stone, it housed a portal ring grown by Gertrude Hunt from its striated wood and nothing else. Eight arched doorways led to separate hallways branching off into the depths of the inn.

Normally, placing the portal inside the inn wasn’t an option due to security concerns. No innkeeper worth their salt would allow random guests to teleport into the inn. But in this case, we had to make an exception. Having three hundred beings, some of them clearly inhuman, troop across our back yard was out of the question. It would take too long, draw too much attention, and neither Sean nor I wanted to add to our list of many problems. We would get everyone into the inn in a single massive procession and shut the portal off.

“It looks… basic,” Resven said.

Miralitt raised her eyes for a fraction of a second. “It looks strategically sound. No place to hide. One group at a time?”

Sean nodded. It was a simple plan – we would welcome each delegation and channel them down the appropriate hallway into their chambers, sealing it behind them.

“How long do you need between the groups?” she asked.

“Fifteen minutes would be ideal,” I told her.

“We can do better than that,” she said. “I can give you an hour between each party.”

“That would be greatly appreciated. Please follow me,” I told them.

We started across the chamber toward the main door.

“Why stone?” Resven asked. “Why this particular shade?”

“Because it’s radically different from anything found in the Dominion’s capital,” I explained. “It will immediately reassure the guests that the transition has occurred, while its perceived age will command a certain respect.”

“How old is it?” Resven asked.

“I made it yesterday,” Sean told him.

We entered a stone hallway. Tiny constellations of lights flared as we approached, illuminating the way.

“The Sovereign is very particular when it comes to his accommodations,” Resven said. “Sophistication. Refinement. Dignity. Those are the key concepts of the Capital design. Have you familiarized yourself with Lady Wexyn Dion-Dian?”

“Yes,” I said. Lady Wexyn was one of the spouse candidates.

Resven turned to me and paused, so I would understand the full gravity of what he was about to say. “The opposite of that!”

“Lady Wexyn is a free spirit,” Miralitt said.

“She is an agent of chaos and entropy,” Resven said. “The woman has no decorum, tact, or restraint.”

“It is my understanding that Lady Wexyn is sponsored by one of the White Rose Cluster Temples,” Sean said. “Which one?”

“Was that not in the summary?” Resven asked.

“No.”

“She’s sponsored by the Temple of Desire,” Miralitt said.

Nothing changed in Sean’s face, but I knew him better than they did. The name of temple was important, and it clearly meant something to him.

“The theme must be one of elegant opulence,” Resven said. “Graceful, restrained, tasteful, never ostentatious, yet also not cheap. Nothing vivid like the otrokar’s barbaric decorations. Nothing drab or blood-soaked like those favored by the Holy Anocracy…”

I chanced a quick glance at Miralitt. Her upper lip rose a fraction betraying a glimpse of a fang. Yep, vampire blood.

“Nothing garish. Nothing vulgar. Nothing…”

We stepped into the main ballroom. The floor was a soft cream with just a touch of sheen. The same shade tinted the walls and against that backdrop silver geometric patterns climbed and twisted in a trademark Dominion mosaic, accented with drops of gold and aquamarines in the corners, as if a ghost of luxury had floated by and brushed them with her phantom hand.

Tall windows interrupted the walls, their angles crisp, spilling sunlight into the space. Between them, at a height of ten-feet, square planters dripped vines with leaves carved from pale green chrysoberyl. The vines bore clusters of delicate golden flowers Gertrude Hunt had shaped from pale amber and berries of golden pearls.

At the far end of the chamber a raised rectangular platform rose, accessible by five steps. On the platform stood the spire throne, an asymmetric, ergonomic chair, formed from the same material as the floor and the walls. Strands of gold slipped through it, with flecks of aquamarines winking here and there. The throne looked like it had grown from the chamber itself, an unmovable part of it.

Resven clicked his mouth shut.

“It’s almost as if they know what they are doing,” Miralitt said.

“Domicile of the Sun,” I said.

Sean moved his hand. The floor and walls darkened to a deeper purple blue, bringing the geometric pattern into focus. Astronomical symbols of the Dominion ignited above the throne in pale turquoise. A glowing constellation of nine stars – the replica of the Dominion itself – descended from the ceiling, illuminating the chamber in soft white glow. The massive purple moon of the Capital slipped onto the darkened sky on the left side.

“Domicile of the Moon,” Sean said.

Miralitt clapped quietly. “Respect.”

“You are too kind,” I said and turned to Resven.

The chancellor looked about for a few seconds. His gaze met mine.

“I suppose this will do,” he said.

Sean settled deeper into the couch and stretched his legs, and the inn thoughtfully grew an ottoman under his feet before they had a chance to hit the floor. “Resven is going to be a pain in the ass.”

I slumped on the soft cushions. We were in the small break room we had made off the grand ballroom so we wouldn’t have to walk too far. It was furnished with couches that felt like clouds and I loved them to pieces.

“He manages the entirety of the Capital palace, all 20 million square feet of it. Being a pain in the ass is in his job description.”

My feet hummed. It wasn’t even an ache, it was this odd throbbing vibration. I was so tired.

“I thought the half vampire would stab him,” Sean said and smiled. “That would have been fun to watch.”

“It didn’t even occur to him that she would take offence.” I leaned my head on the back of the couch. “The sislafs are convinced that their genetic material is inherently superior. Not in a bigoted way, but in ‘it will express itself no matter the odds’ way. As long as you have at least 12.5 % sislaf blood, they consider you to be sislaf. The insult half-breed is literally absent from their language. To Resven, Miralitt is a sislaf. Her vampire blood is an asset, but in terms of her loyalties and her place in society, it’s irrelevant. If you tried to argue that she was as much vampire as sislaf, you simply couldn’t make him understand or accept that.”

“The blood runs true sort of thing?”

“More like blood is thicker than water, and to them the blood of all other species is water. You’re right, Resven will be difficult. He’s professionally pedantic, and he hates surprises. As long as we can keep him from being shocked, we will be fine.”

“He’d be a great 1^st Sergeant.”

“I’ll take your word for it. What’s the significance of the Temple of Desire?” I gave him some side eye. “How do you know about it? Have you visited the Temple of Desire? Was it everything you hoped, and more?”

He raised his hand, palm toward me.

“I’m sorry, are you telling me to talk to the hand?”

“I’m buying time while my exhausted brain figures out how to explain.”

“I’ll wait.”

The White Rose cluster in Cassiopeia, otherwise known as NGC 7789, adorned the Northern Milky Way. A beautiful open cluster of about three hundred suns, it resembled a rose when viewed from Earth, a white blossom with a yellow border on its petals. It glittered with diverse civilizations, and it was famous for its Temples, with entire moons devoted to the worship of universal aspects. The Temple of Kindness, the Temple of Rage, the Temple of Grief… The Temple of Desire explored exactly that, the urge to obtain something beyond your reach at any cost. Within its walls and gardens, the priests and supplicants pondered the exact nature of desire, whether it was inherently selfish, whether it was just, if it could ever be pure and selfless.

Of all desires, the need for the love of another being was considered the highest and most unobtainable. The quest for power, wealth, and enlightenment hinged primarily on those who embarked on it. Their success or failure was almost entirely up to them. But no force could compel another creature to love you of their own free will.

“It’s not a brothel,” Sean said.

I lost it and laughed.

He sighed. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“I’ve visited.”

Sean sat up straighter and pivoted to me. “When?”

“Before we met, when Klaus and I were looking for our parents. I had questions. I was exhausted and desperate. I spent two weeks there, while Klaus was checking other neighboring Temples.”

A little evil light shone in Sean’s eyes. “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“It was memorable.”

“Care to elaborate?”

I shook my head. “You still haven’t told me why it’s important to you.”

“The Merchants are some of the Temple’s most generous contributors,” he said.

It made sense. The Merchant clans of the lees, who ran vast financial syndicates, desired things themselves and made their money by catering to the desires of others.

“Clan Nuan?” I asked.

“The second biggest contributor.”

He would know. During his time on Nexus, Sean was part of Nuan Cee’s inner circle. The shrewd little merchant never planned on letting Sean go. I had wrenched Sean free against all odds. He knew the kind of secrets Clan Nuan would kill to keep.

“Do you think Lady Wexyn is backed by Clan Nuan?”

“Let’s say I strongly suspect. I’ll know more when I put eyes on her. If Nuan Cee is involved in this, we need to know what he’s playing for.”

“Does Clan Nuan have business interests in the Dominion?”

“No. It’s Clan Sai territory.” Sean grimaced. “This worries me.”

The trade wars between the Merchant Clans were fought in secret with shocking ferocity. If a war between Clan Nuan and Clan Sai was brewing, we didn’t want any part of it, and we could not let it happen here, on our watch.

“How did it go with Caldenia?” he asked.

I put my fingers into my ears and said in my best imitation of Her Grace’s voice, “I am not listening, I am not listening!”

“What has gotten into her?”

“Somehow this became less about me warning her than about her independence. No matter how comfortable we try to make her, she never forgets that the inn is a prison where she put herself.”

“It keeps her from dying. Well, from being killed.”

“True. But a prison is still a prison. I gave up. It will blow up in our faces or it won’t.”

“Maybe. It all,” he waved his hand to indicate everything around us, “could blow up in our faces. This whole thing could end up being a giant shit show.”

“Regrets?”

He shook his head. “I know why I’m doing it. I just want to tell you how much it means to me that you know all this and you’re still doing it.”

I got up and sat next to him. “I know.”

He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder. Of all the places in the galaxy, this was the best one for me.

The inn chimed, announcing an incoming communication. The two of us groaned in unison.

Sean waved a screen into existence. A man stood bathed in the sunshine of Baha-char. He was short, with almost impossibly broad shoulders and the kind of build that promised overwhelming strength. He wore a white shirt with wide sleeves, dark pants, tall boots, and a short cloak hanging at an angle off his broad back. He’d left the collar of the shirt unbuttoned, revealing the segmented white space marine armor underneath. It clung to him like a second skin, climbing up his thick neck. A dark musketeer hat with a huge feather, white at the base and transitioning into yellow, then red, then green, completed the ensemble. He was carrying a huge gun that rested on his shoulder as if it were a toothpick.

The man raised the brim of his hat with his fingers. Silver eyes stared at us from a tan face with the kind of heavy jaw one usually saw on grizzled male vampires. He wagged his jet-black eyebrows and grinned, showing serrated teeth. The effect was slightly terrifying.

“Gaston!”

“In the flesh,” he assured me.

George had two people who watched his back. His brother, Jack, was one, and Gaston was the other. The three of them had been recruited by the Arbitrators from a pocket dimension where an alternative Earth existed with its own magical rules. I had visited it once. George and I snuck back to his homeworld to invite the fourth member of their strike team, Sophie, to join them.

Gaston wasn’t altogether human. I never quite figured out what exactly he was, but he was smart and deadly in a fight. He was also a self-proclaimed expert in “skullduggery.”

“I’ve come to assist in any way I can,” Gaston said.

“Where is George?” Sean asked.

We had both assumed that George would at least be present to observe. If you cut George, he would bleed pure intrigue. This whole affair with high political stakes would be irresistible to him.

“George can’t come. He sends his regrets, however. And me.” Gaston winked.

“I thought he settled things with the Valkkinians,” I said. I had given him a sure path to victory.

“Oh, he has. It’s not the Valkkinians. It’s his wife.”

“His what?” Sean and I said at the same time.

“His spouse. His much better half. Perhaps I could come in and explain in detail? Over a beer and a bite to eat. I have rushed here from across the galaxy without much to sustain me on the way. Still, as eager as I am to get inside, I must warn you that there is a female werewolf watching me from the roof of the building directly behind me. I’m reasonably sure she will pounce the moment you open the door. Forewarned is forearmed. Please come and fetch me at your earliest convenience.”