The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [52]
“Then don’t,” the supreme leader advised him. His attitude softened. “Take it on faith.”
Stepping back smartly, Vaako bowed sharply. His participation in the strategy session was over. He was fortunate, he realized as he retraced his way out of the chamber, that that was all that was over.
She was waiting for him in the quarters they shared. As befitted his rank, it was comparatively spacious—private space being a luxury even on a vessel as commodious as the Basilica. At the moment, she was applying makeup, a ritual unchanged among humankind since self-consciousness first appeared among the species. Befitting the culture to which they belonged, such artificial epidermal enhancements were more foreboding than cheerful or illuminating.
Casting off bits and pieces of his duty uniform, he paced furiously behind her. Though aware of the emotions surging through him, she did not pause in her work. Like sweat, the anger and uncertainty he was clearly experiencing would soon evaporate.
“It’s a fool’s run, suitable for a mid-level officer and a squad or two of Elite. Why the need to assign a Commander of the Faith to supervise? For that matter, why care about one man, one breeder? A good fighter, to be sure. Quick and fearless. But still only one. And a full alive, at that. No mysteries there, no hidden threats.
“Meanwhile, we have a war to plan, a faith to spread, a stubborn system to subdue, and here he’s ordering me off to—” A new thought made him pause. He stared over at her. “Am I falling from favor? I have done all that has been asked of me, both personally and professionally. What could I have overlooked that would lead him to treat me this way?”
Dame Vaako continued to apply her maquillage. Cloaked in the calm tone of reassurance, her actual words were disquieting. “He’s always been unsettled, the current Lord Marshal. Unsteady. There are more whispers than you can imagine. Some say he’s too artistic for the job. Others that his ambitions exceed his abilities. Megalomania, and worse. Of course, extremism in the service of the faith is no vice, but when it threatens to overwhelm good judgment . . .”
Judgment. Was her use of the word just a coincidence? How could she know of what had transpired in the strategy room? He did not pursue the question. Long since, he had learned to value and respect the innate cunning of his current partner, and to make use of it without examining her methods too closely.
“In such situations,” she was saying, “one never knows what will happen. What the immediate future may bring. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone promoted him soon—to Full Dead.”
That was going too far. To voice such a thought, even in the privacy of their own supposedly screened and secure apartments . . .
“Take care what you say.”
She turned to him. Her beauty was legendary, her sensuality overpowering, her intelligence tangible. He was reminded, yet again, why he had partnered with her. “Should I say it softly?”
Was she teasing him? He muttered a reply. “Sure, say it softly. So it sounds more like a conspiracy.”
She rolled her eyes. She was not teasing him, then. He felt a combination of embarrassment and inadequacy. In all Necromonger society, only she, only this one woman, could make him feel like that.
“Why is it that if you so much as breathe about the demise of him on the throne, everyone assumes a conspiracy? Why isn’t it considered prudent planning? If he’s as profoundly gifted as everyone insists, isn’t it the sort of thing he would be expecting and preparing himself for?”
“He is occupied with other concerns.” Vaako’s defense of his superior was unquestioning and admirable, even though no one else was present to hear it. “The business of eventual succession is a complicated one. By this time in a lord marshal’s career someone has usually moved to the fore and positioned himself, whereupon any other pretenders accept the reality and retire any personal ambitions they might hold in that regard. That has not yet happened, nor has the Lord Marshal given any indication