The shuttle crests past the towering, shaggy treeline and descends into the valley beyond. Its shadow dances across hedgerows and vineyards in shades of orchid and lilac on its way to the mansion at the valley’s center, a massive and silvery temple jutting from the grounds like a shard of carved bone.

Grant isn’t sure exactly what to call it, the architectural style on Taiikar. It’s antique and new at the same time, somehow. The buttresses and towers and arches have a gothic sense of majesty, but with an oddly geometric bent and planes of brutalist simplicity. Sort of art deco, he guesses.

Sykora steers them into the shuttleport at the edge of the complex, past a statue of a Taiikari woman gazing across a sextant upward, into the sky. One familiar thing about fancy Taiikari stuff is the artistic nudity; the statue’s flowing robe allows one finely carved boob out.

The shuttle’s shocks hiss and the gangplank extends, clacking against the bay’s concrete floor. Sykora leads Grant out of their shelter into the vast chamber beyond, whose other occupants are a few leisure speeders, an egg-shaped golden sky yacht, and a manservant, dressed in sleek black. His only ornamentation is a black cuff around one wrist. He steps forward with practiced smoothness. “May I take your coats, Majesty and Consort?”

“It’s Majesties,” Sykora says. “And no, thank you.” She adjusts the epauletted shoulder of her topcoat. “We will not be long.”

He bows at a deep 90 degrees. “Very good, Majesties.” He straightens, and steps away with clockwork stiffness. “When you arrive at the main house, follow the ivory carpet. The Marquess Palatine’s office is at the end.”

Sykora frowns deeply after him.

“News hasn’t spread about me, I guess.” Grant rubs her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“Hmm? No. It’s not that.” Sykora catches his hand where it rests on her and squeezes it tight. “That man’s indentured, Grantyde. He’s property of the Marquess Palatine.”

“Fucking hellfire.” Grant double-takes back to the departing wraith as he opens a servant door and disappears into the bowels of the estate. “How can you tell?”

“The black bracelet.” Sykora encircles her own wrist, where a braided and bejeweled golden band sits. “It’s fused metal. Not possible to remove without power tools. His citizenship is lost, along with his freedom. He’s either serving punishment for a crime, or he suffered from such severe poverty there was only one thing left to sell. If he’s found in anticomps, his term doubles.”

They move along a terrace toward the main house. Intricate stone mandalas under their black Navy boots. “How long is his term?” Grant asks.

“I couldn’t say,” Sykora says. “The minimum term is a decacycle. But it can last much longer. It can last your whole life.”

Grant doesn’t know what to say to that. That was supposed to be him.

They arrive at a tastefully discreet side door. A blast of cool conditioned air greets their entrance to the main mansion.

“It used to disquiet me,” she says. “Before I met you. Now it disgusts me. The one time I did it, I had cause to greatly regret it.”

Grant steps onto the ivory carpet, as directed. “Well, it ended up okay in the end.”

“Pick me up,” Sykora says.

“What?”

She extends her arms. “Pick me up, dove.”

He does, with confusion. He brings her up into a bridal carry.

Sykora cups her mouth and whispers into his ear. “I don’t want our minder hearing much more of this. It could damage us. And I don’t know how to say it in English.”

“Minder?” Grant turns, in confusion.

“She’d be a fool not to have an invisible guard on us right now,” Sykora whispers. “Someone with a signature keyed to her infrascopes, trained to step in if we move off the path. I imagine they’re doing their best to listen in on us, but they need to keep a certain distance, and any wearables to help them monitor would show up. They might have implants, but I’ll risk it.”

He tightens his grip on her. “What did you want to tell me?”

“That I still regret it,” she whispers. “How I treated you. How I owned you.”

“It was just one night of enmity.” He relaxes a little as he realizes this isn’t mission-critical stuff they’re talking about. “And a tenday of sexual frustration.”

“It was.” She curls tighter against him. “And it’s kind of you to downplay it. But until the day I die I’ll remember how you looked at me. And how deeply I deserved it. I have my life to make it right. That’s my consolation.”

She rubs her thumb across one of the rings Grant has started wearing. He’s dutifully begun paying closer attention to the particulars of his appearance, and accepted her offered gifts of jewelry as long as he’s able to keep the rings and bracelets plain un-etched gold. The offers to pierce his ears he’s fended off.

“I keep thinking I’m calibrated for this stuff,” he whispers. “And then I find out something that twists me back up.”

“You’re calibrated for the void.” She scratches the back of his neck. “For the frontier. This is the Core. You can put me down, dove.”

“Would it be okay if I didn’t?”

She nestles against his chest. “It would be very okay.”

They follow the ivory carpet along a balustraded walkway, which is tipped here and there by posts bearing the heads of snarling beasts cast in brass. It curves through an arched door that Grant doesn’t even need to stoop through. After cycles aboard the Pike he’s used to feeling oversized, finds it somewhat comforting now, even. Now that he’s traveling through the echoing edifices of Taiikar, it’s the first time in a while he’s felt small.

In an entrance hall bracketed by vaulted, violet-skied windows, the carpet stretches toward a twisting double-staircase, its steps inlaid with amber cityscape frescoes. By the steps stands another black-braceleted Taiikari. His eyes are fixed on the floor as a woman paces in front of him. Her uniform is similarly black and sleek, but there’s a yellow stripe along its collar. Grant surreptitiously deposits Sykora back onto the floor as they approach the stairs.

“What am I seeing here?” The woman’s got a platinum serving tray in her hand. “Would you like to tell me?”

The man’s voice is stripped and whispery. “Rings, ma’am.”

“Why would I be seeing those if you’re doing what you’ve been told?” She holds the tray up on the flat of her palm. “If you’re holding this level, like this, why would any tea escape to form rings?”

“It wouldn’t, ma’am.”

“That’s right. It would not.” She sets the tray on a side table where a bone china tea set waits, and loads the cutlery and kettle back on. “How are you going to fix it?”

He continues to stare at the floor. “I’ll wash the tray, ma’am.”

“I don’t mean fix the tray. I mean fix you. Here’s what we’re going to do. Look at me.”

He obeys. The woman’s eyes flash.

“You are going to keep your arms out like this.” She demonstrates, sticking her arms straight out, and he follows suit. “And you are going to hold this.” She picks the tray up and perches it in his hands. Another flash. “And you’re going to keep doing that until I return and tell you to stop.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares into the middle distance like a statue and holds the tray. The woman turns on her shiny black heel. They clack-clack-clack as she strides away and leaves him there.

“This is fucked,” Grant murmurs.

“This is the Core,” Sykora says. They start up the stairs. “I am not living here and I am not raising a family here. Inadama can stuff it. And whoever is following us can tell her so.”

Behind them, there’s a chittering clatter of cup on saucer. Grant glances over his shoulder.

The servant’s arms have started trembling.

***

“So lovely to play host to you, Princess Sykora. You have been breathlessly expected.” Inadama beams from behind her vast desk. The piece is at odds with the rest of the study—it’s a broad, blackened, and aged slab of wood, the clawfoot legs burnished with age. “I heard the news. The fantastic news.”

Sykora parks herself in a cantilever chair before Inadama’s desk and supplies a tight smile. “You’re pleased, then.”

“Of course, Majesty. For your happiness. And for the honor that falls upon me, too, of course. To be mother of a Princess—a true Princess. And a true mother. To welcome you and your family into the halls of Clan Taiikar. Uh—you may use that one, Grantyde.” Inadama points to an overstuffed wingback chair in the corner of her study, nestled by a crowded bookshelf. “I’m afraid my other perches may lack the structural integrity.”

“Of course, Marquess. Thank you.” Grant picks it up and carries it over to the desk. It’s still too small, but he isn’t worried about any sort of collapse.

Inadama refocuses on her daughter. “I’m sure we could find you a penthouse here and an estate on a pastoral world to raise your children. My grandchildren.” She looks to the corner. Her eyes flash. “Tea for our guests, Zarr.”

“That is a kind offer, Marquess. But not necessary.” Sykora flicks her hand dismissively at a servant who bends to fill her teacup; when he lifts it from the saucer anyway she twists her face upward and flashes him. “No, thank you, Zarr,” she says.

He bows and moves phantomlike away. Grant waves him off with a muttered “All good, man.” Zarr, at least, isn’t wearing that black metal cuff, and he has that same yellow stripe on the collar. Grant guesses that his lack of anticomps is a prerequisite of Inadama’s employ.

“The Empress has agreed to name me a Princess-Margrave,” Sykora says. “In such capacity, I’ll continue rulership of the Black Pike and its sector. No need to make room for me on Taiikar. I’ll be departing at the conclusion of the Void Convocation.”

“Ah.” Inadama tilts her head. “No. No, I think not. Have no fear, Majesty. We’ll sort this out.”

Sykora’s smile freezes over and smashes on the flagstones. “No?”

“No.” Inadama takes a serene sip of her tea. “I will speak with the Empress. A voidship is no place to raise children of the Imperial Family. What good is a legitimized title while you remain in exile? Never fear, Sykora.” She pats her daughter’s white knuckle. “I’ll see you’re brought home.”

“The Imperial Core is not my home, Marquess.” Sykora moves her hand from Inadama’s reach into her lap. “The Pike is. Its sector needs me. I have no stomach for dereliction of duty.”

“The sector will be parceled,” Inadama says. “And given to your peers. Have no fear. Your subjects will have their protectors. Narika will ably manage much of it, I suspect.”

“Marquess.” Sykora’s sharpening. “You’re not hearing me. I refuse.”

“You refuse.” A thin smile traces across Inadama’s face. “Then I do, too.”

“Excuse me?” Sykora’s voice is a gleaming razor edge above a whisper.

“You require my blessing to be made a Princess Margrave.” Inadama sips a measure of clay-scented tea from her cup. “And I will not give it.”

“The Empress—”

“The Empress has already informed me that the exact nature of your return from the Void is not her concern. I told her of my intention; she has professed no preference.” Inadama has the chiding tone of a schoolmistress. “I will happily see you made a Princess. A Princess Palatine, even, though I wonder whether this temperament you show would agree with the position. But if you want my blessing, you will return to Taiikar, and you will receive it as my daughter. The Pike is below you, now. Your duty must be to your Empress, your clan, and your children.”

Sykora’s eyes flare. “You know nothing of duty to your children.”

“Perhaps you could show me, then.” Inadama blows across her tea. “You seem quite self-assured.”

“You will hear from my majordomo in this matter. She will represent me in my dealings with you, from now on.” Sykora stands. “This meeting is finished.” Her tail thwips as she turns sharply and strides from the room.

Inadama tsks, takes a brief sip, and places her tea back on the desk in front of her. “It appears I must appeal to you, Prince Consort. If you wish to have children—”

Grant scrapes his chair back. “Prince.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m a Prince,” Grant says. “Not a Prince Consort. Please refer to me properly, Marquess Palatine.”

“Of course.” She half-bows. “Prince.”

“You’re being cruel to her,” Grant says. “I want to know why.”

“I’m not being cruel,” Inadama says. “I am being the mother I ought to have been. I have the opportunity to reclaim my daughter from the frontier. To bring her home after nearly a kilocycle without her. I want my daughter back. You want your heirs? I want mine.”

She drums her gilded nails along the pitted surface of her desk.

“Do you really want to spend your Imperial life aboard that dreary voidship? Do you not want your wife to have her own estate, her own home, her own land? Her own planet, if she wanted it. All to herself. For you and for your children. Your offspring could have every advantage, the finest academies and tutors, illustrious peers.” She scoffs. “Surely you don’t prefer that to an overcrowded ZKZ daycare with the marine brats and outcasts.”

“I don’t know the first thing about raising a Taiikari,” Grant says. “So you’ll forgive me if I’m slow to vet advice.” He leans forward. “May I be frank, Marquess Palatine?”

She favors him with a chilly smile. “I do believe we’ve arrived at that point in our acquaintance, Prince.”

“Sykora and I have stood up in front of the entire Empire to make this happen.” Grant rises to his full height, a move which threatens the integrity of Inadama’s ornate chandelier. “You will not be what stops us.”

He leaves the office before she can reply.

Sykora is waiting outside, her expression tempestuous. Her ear is doing that twitching thing it does when she is battling for calm.

“Fuck that,” Grant says. “We’ll find a way.”

“We’ll find a way,” Sykora repeats.

He rests his hand on her back. The end of her tail loops over his forearm.

In the main hall, the servant is still standing with the tray in his outstretched hands. It’s shaking so badly now that one of the cups has tilted off its saucer. A look of stoic agony is on his face.

Sykora’s tail whips out and sends the tray flying. It clatters across the floor. The tea set shatters breaks with a discordant chime and spills its steaming contents across the tile. Sykora’s eyes flash. “Put your arms down,” she says. “Tell your mistress it was Princess Sykora of the Black Pike.”

She sweeps past the boggled servant. Grant hurries after.