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‘I’m his concubine. Do you know what that means?’

38

Mr Fiction did a sudden back flip and yelled, ‘Look at me, look at me!’

Thandiwe giggled. ‘They think I shouldn’t know but I do,’ she said. ‘They get very excited about some things. Watch.’ She turned to face Mr Fiction, who was bouncing up and down.

‘Shampoo!’

Mr Fiction looked stem. ‘Bad word. I’m going to tell Mama.

You said a rude word.’

‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ asked Genevieve.

Thandiwe shook her head. ‘This is the best bit. Mr Fact, what is the definition of the word shampoo?’

The spider scuttled to attention. ‘Shampoo,’ it said. Mr Fiction squealed with outrage and brushed his whiskers. ‘Noun, ancient American, a personal hygiene product designed for human hair.

To shampoo, verb, ancient American –’ This was too much for Mr Fiction, who turned on Mr Fact and started yelling, ‘Bad word rude word,’ over and over again.

Thandiwe stepped away and left the two robots to argue it out.

‘How long will they do that for?’

‘Until I ask them another question. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘Bad word, rude word, naughty word, I’m going to tell Mama.’

‘Very silly,’ said Genevieve. She indicated the painting. ‘Do you know who the other girl is?’

‘That’s my Aunty Roz,’ said Thandiwe. ‘She was an Adjudicator.’

Which explained why she wasn’t listed among the titled members of the family. As with the Landsknechte and Imperial Bureaucracy, an Adjudicator was required to forswear their family title upon joining the order. A supposed hedge against the aristocracy gaining too secure a grip on the levers of power.

Of the services, only the Imperial Space Navy allowed its officers to retain their titles – a reminder of a time when the security of the Empire rested directly on the shoulders of the great families.

An Adjudicator. That was more than she’d found out in a month. ‘What do you know about your Aunty Roz?’ said Genevieve.

39

‘Not much. She died before I was born. But Mama says I look just like her.’

At midnight, Leabie gathered her guests at the edge of the great balcony, looking down into the artificial forest below.

Artificial wasn’t the right word, thought Genevieve. The plants and the birds were as real as any you’d find on Earth. Even the gravity down there was Earth-normal, far cheaper than modifying the creatures.

The guests formed a long line along the edge of the balcony, leaning on the railing with drinks in hand, chattering. Spotlights were moving over the dark canopy of the forest. The Baroness had promised them all a surprise, something she could guarantee they’d never seen before.

Thandiwe had insisted on accompanying Genevieve back to the party. And of course Mr Fact and Mr Fiction had insisted on accompanying Thandiwe. The little girl was something of a celebrity, dukes and barons making a point of chatting with her under the watchful eyes of the kinderbots. Genevieve had caught Leabie watching her youngest daughter, smiling.

The rumour mill had it that little Thandiwe’s Aunty Roz hadn’t died, that this was a cover story for something far more interesting. Something with official scandal attached. There would be people talking about it at the party tonight, carefully out of the earshot of the Baroness herself. Genevieve had heard every imaginable rumour during her research. Perhaps she’d done something dashing, like joining the resistance. Perhaps she’d fled to an outer colony after being busted for tax evasion.

You couldn’t find out from Centcomp. There was a hole in the datascape. The closer you got to Roslyn Sarah Inyathi Forrester, the less you could find out, until right at the centre of the picture there was nothing. Someone had done an incomparable job of erasing all trace of the younger Forrester sister.

Duke Walid, for reasons best known to himself, wanted to find out why.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Leabie’s voice. She hovered above them on a comfortable AG seat, the spotlights flashing 40

across her in their twisting manoeuvres. ‘If you’ll direct your attention to the forest below.