Free A Prison Unsought by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge

shoulder, the tension of wrist that
indicated intent.
    Other patterns began resolving out of the stylized dance.
The most noticeable was the segregation of Downsiders from Highdwellers.
Downsiders required more interpersonal distance than Highdwellers, so that
mixed groups naturally tended to break up. Only Highdwellers lingered along the
low balustrade fronting the vid of Ares—the Downsiders were apparently less
comfortable with the illusion.
    Jaim sighed. It seemed so futile. Even were there not the
grievances between Downsiders and Highdwellers that, according to Vahn, the
late Aerenarch Semion had encouraged for political gain, something so simple as
a psychological preference could divide people.
    Those who see naught
but a single road have no choice in where it takes them, Jaim’s mate, Reth
Silverknife, had once said.
    The most subtle pattern was that caused by the flash and
glitter of the signet on Brandon’s finger, beginning with Vannis’s reflective
gaze. Others noted the ring, then glanced away to meet other gazes. Jaim could
not read those looks, but he sensed a question spreading among them.
    Ah. Brandon’s intent: the Naval officers, dressed in full
uniform.
    The massive form of Ares’s commander, Admiral Nyberg, was
instantly identifiable from novosti coverage, but who were the rest of
them? He bozzed Vahn a query.
    (Tetrad Centrum Douloi, attending as members of their
class,) came the answer. Then Jaim became aware of the Douloi movements,
subtly at odds with what he understood of Naval rank. A kind of space was
opening up around a tall, slender officer whose dark good looks were flattered
by the white uniform. He stood to the right of Nyberg, face impassive, his body
still with tension.
    As Brandon approached, the surrounding Douloi gazes
flickered covertly from his ring to that officer.
    Another query.
    (That’s Commander
Anton vlith-Faseult. Chief of Security.) Ah. Brother and heir to the Archon
of Charvann who, the elder Omilov had said, had died at the hands of Hreem the
Faithless, and whose heraldry was on the ring now drawing every eye. Neural
induction could not hide Vahn’s tension.
    Before Jaim could frame his next question, a tall,
silver-haired, bearded man crossed the room with consummate assurance to
intercept Brandon and Vannis. His spare frame, clothed in dark blue, conveyed
the impression of great physical strength, as the sheath of a rapier implies
its edge; Jaim knew here was another Ulanshu master . (Vahn?)
    (Archon Tau Srivashti.
Head of one of the most powerful Downsider Families.) The rhythm of Vahn’s reply hinted at danger—as if
Jaim could not sense it on his own. Jaim edged a foot forward, flanking
Brandon. He tried to be subtle, but the Archon’s slack-lidded gaze flicked his
way, then narrowed in amusement before his lined face smoothed into urbane
Douloi politeness.
    “Welcome, highness,” the Archon
said, his voice a husky murmur just above a whisper. “After weeks of grim
tidings, your restoration to the living has been welcomed as a miracle.”
    “Thank you, your grace.” Brandon briefly
touched the offered palms.
    (Used the honorific
for Archon, not his territorial name,) came Vahn’s voice. (Srivashti lost
control of his planet Timberwell, forced to withdraw to the Highdwellings.)
    Srivashti was taller than the Aerenarch. His light eyes, a
curious yellow-flecked light brown common to his family, narrowed slightly, and
Brandon said, “Thank you for the loan of your tailor.”
    “She did not please you?”
    Brandon smiled. “She nearly killed herself in her efforts to
finish a truly memorable design—” Jaim wondered if the hesitation he heard
before the word “memorable” was really there, or only his imagination. Brandon
gestured deprecatingly down his length and added, “But I believe the
circumstances warrant a private mourning.”
    “Ah.” Srivashti bowed low.
“Entirely correct.” He cast an amused glance at Vannis, who bowed.
    Brandon also