The Consuming Fire (The Interdependency #2)(65)

If there was a little love thrown in there, that was fine; Attavio VI, as an example, was known to have been excessively fond of his consort Glenna Costu, whom he married because the House of Costu had bailed out his mother, the infamous Zetian III, from some ruinous personal investments that would have bankrupted the imperial private accounts. But in an empire that was aggressively dynastical, the only way for a house to move up was to marry into the House of Wu. Every marriage was political. And in the political arena, if Nadashe was tossed to the side, so was the House of Nohamapetan.

In the end the problem solved itself when Rennered rammed his car into a wall during that race, before he could formally announce that he would not be moving forward with his engagement to Nadashe. He was dead and there would be a different emperox, and given what was known of the mousy, indifferent creature that was Cardenia Wu-Patrick, it would be highly unlikely that Nadashe would be the imperial consort. But the House of Nohamapetan was still first in line to marry into the throne.

Nadashe had always been impressed with how well her mother had managed that assassination. It had been flawlessly executed, done so well that even those with suspicions, which would have been the entire Imperial Guard and the Ministry of Investigation, could find nothing suspicious in the wreck. The countess had not told Nadashe she was going to do it, or how it was going to be done, or when it would happen. The countess had not even been in the system at the time.

Nadashe had been as shocked and horrified as anyone when Rennered died. For five minutes. After that she had wondered how it had been done. She had been smart enough until just the last few days never to outright say to her mother that she knew her mother had done it. The only reason Nadashe had said it at all was that she was meant to be dead herself. It couldn’t hurt.

And her mother was all, Of course I did it. It had to be done.

The point was, from the moment that Nadashe pointed herself at Rennered Wu to the moment he crumpled into that speedway wall, she had been a full participant in events. She was aiming to be a wife. But she was the one doing the aiming.

This time, she was just being offered up.

“Stand straighter,” the countess said to her daughter as they stood, waiting for their visitors.

“I am entirely straight,” Nadashe said.

“You look like you’re slouching.”

“Does it actually matter, Mother? I’ve already been bought and sold, have I not?”

“Yes, you have,” the countess said. “But you haven’t been taken home yet. You could still be returned. It’s happened before. So straighten up.”

Nadashe sighed and overextended her back ever so slightly. The countess, satisfied, returned her attention to the door.

Jasin and Deran Wu were about five years apart in age, but looking at the two of them Nadashe would have thought there was a decade or more between them. Jasin, more than a decade older than Nadashe, was heavyset and untoned, with a face the consistency of dough and a haircut that could only be described as brusque. His face showed intelligence but not curiosity. This was a conservative man, Nadashe could see, and not in the useful way of being cautious but practical and deliberate. He simply wanted things done the way he wanted them done, which was the way they had always been done. Nadashe expected in bed he would be a sodden lump.

Deran’s hair was great, in a way that was cared for but not overattended. His suit fit well and he fit well into it. His face was intelligent and also engaged; Nadashe watched as his eyes took in the room and the details of it, not neglecting herself and her mother. He had energy in his step. He was also a conservative man, it was clear, but his conservatism had a method and ethos to it beyond “this is just how it’s done.” Deran, Nadashe was sure, would be happy to be flexible on methods if the results were the same, and what he wanted, which would be the status quo, with him on top. Nadashe expected that in bed Deran would get her off and then get his, making sure always to get his.

And of course I will be stuck with the lump, Nadashe thought.

The countess welcomed both of the men to the room, Deran warmly but perfunctorily, and Jasin with more effusion. It was clear to anyone who looked which of the two the countess had decided was the more important. Deran, for his part, seemed to be amused by this.

“Jasin, this is of course my daughter, Nadashe,” the countess said, and Nadashe took her cue to walk up, hand extended. Jasin took it in a very businesslike grip.

“Lady Nadashe,” he said. “I am delighted.”

“Wonderful to see you, Lord Jasin,” Nadashe said.

“I, uh, wanted to apologize to you, Lady Nadashe,” Jasin said.

“What for, sir?”

“While you were in prison, one of my associates—”

“Oh, yes. Right. The spoon murderer.”

“In retrospect, not the best decision I could have made.”

“Lord Jasin, you were acting in what you believed were the best interests of your house,” Nadashe said. “As you are doing now. I can honor that sentiment, even as I can say I’m grateful that your associate was not as competent as you might have hoped for at the time.”

“Even so, you have my apologies.”

“My dear Jasin,” Nadashe said, dropping the “lord” to give the appearance of fond familiarity. “If we are to be emperox and consort, then the first things we have to let go of are the trivial matters of the past. There is nothing to apologize for. There is only what we can accomplish moving forward.”