Domus Publica
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A View of the Stars
Kren Blista-Vanee sniffs — not his usual sniff of contempt, but because that’s how one takes the more refined varieties of spice, you see
— and delicately closes his gorgeously decorated spicebox. He doesn’t take the addictive, psychotropic spices popular in the lower
classes, of course. Not because they’re illegal — for a man like Kren Blista-Vanee, telling him that he’s committing a Class Two offense
is like telling him that he’s conjugated a verb incorrectly: there are absolutely no penalties or repercussions involved, and he’d very likely
fix you with that supremely blasé look of his and say nothing, his bored silence answer enough.
No, Blista-Vanee doesn’t dabble in those spices simply because doing so is stupid; he’s gotten to where he is now by using his brain,
and he has no desire to ruin it with drugs. Ethics doesn’t enter into it.
He smacks his lips a bit in boredom as he stares up at the vast hemispherical viewport of the cruise liner’s observation deck. Not even a
pinch of spice can make hyperspace interesting, he reflects. Well, there’s nothing for that. The Emperor likes to have the Serenissimus
ride circuit at least once a month, and what the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets. It must be nice to be able to pretend to be a god, Blista-
Vanee thinks idly. He smiles at this thought; actually, he knows it is, because he does it on a regular basis.
But if Kren Blista-Vanee is a god, he’s somewhat lower in the pantheon than his august Master. So here he is, wasting valuable time —
literally; given the sheer bulk of Blista-Vanee’s yearly income, whatever he does must take in more than a thousand credits per second or
it’s quite simply not worth the time it takes for him to do it — wandering around the Inner Rim, ooh’ing and ahh’ing between yawns,
pretending to be interested in what Moff Whatshisname or Governor General Notworthremembering has to say about local affairs.
It’s all quite dreadfully boring.
“May I join you, Your Eminence?”
Ordinarily Blista-Vanee says ‘no’ to this question as a matter of habit; for one thing, commoners are supposed to stand in the presence
of a peer of the Empire. But a lifetime of politics — especially at the Emperor’s notoriously prickly Court of Courts, where a wrong
word can (and has) caused a man’s ruin and death — has taught him to reconnoiter before he strikes. Never wound if you can’t kill, you
see. He glances at the speaker.
“Of course, Inquisitor. I didn’t know you were aboard,” he says languidly. Everything he does is languid when he’s not on Imperial
Center.
The Inquisitor smiles and lowers himself into the seat opposite Blista-Vanee’s sofa. He takes a moment to adjust the fall of his
distinctive black vestments, and then smiles again. “Of course you didn’t, Eminence. Nobody expects an Imperial Inquisitor. No, I’m not
listed on the manifest. Nor are you, for that matter. The Inquisitorius and the Serenissimus are not in the same line of work, but we are
not so different in our methods at times.”
Blista-Vanee smiles wanly. To say that the Emperor’s Jedi hunters and his Ruling Council are ‘not in the same line of work’ is a bit of an
understatement. An Inquisitor with a sense of humor is always a pleasant find. He quotes a line from Ulic Qel-Droma — the Emperor’s
favorite tragedy (earlier in his career he’d written what is still considered the definitive biography of the man himself) — to the extent
that fishes don’t fly and birds don’t swim, but they both breathe.
“Actually, Eminence, that particular preposition takes the subjunctive rather than the conditional,” the Inquisitor corrects. “It’s an
archaic construction. It has the telltale vowelling of a Jedi aphorism.”
“Ah,” Blista-Vanee says, frowning. “My High Galactic is classical rather than ecclesiastical.”
“What brings you to the Cingetorix Sector, Eminence? It’s no barbarity, but it’s no Coruscant, either.”
“I’m not Coruscanti, actually,” Blista-Vanee says idly, languidly reaching for his spicebox.
“Oh, I know, Eminence. Your accent is distinctly Hieran.”
Blista-Vanee stops cold, his hand hovering over the spicebox. “You can hear my accent?”
“Oh, yes, Eminence,” the Inquisitor says easily. “The way you pronounce the voiceless alveolar fricative, for example, but especially in
the alveolar trill.”
Blista-Vanee has spent years working on his accent, replacing the distinctive Hieran/Colonies accent with the more indistinct Received
Pronunciation that is universally recognized as the accent of the Core Worlds. Very, very few people can hear his accent, even fewer can
place it.
“I... congratulate you, Inquisitor. You have an excellent ear.”
“Thank you, Eminence. How long has it been since you’ve last seen Moff Powellyne?”
“Oh, I saw him at the Galaxies about a year ago — wait, how did you know I know him?”
“Your spicebox,” he says, gesturing toward it. “I recognized the handiwork. Moff Powellyne has a similar cigarra case from a visit to
Hesperidium a year and a half ago. That particular metalsmith only accepts clients who are graduates of Teodule University, and you’re
only a year or two older than Moff Powellyne. You both have honors graduate rings — Economics and Political Science, mu? — which
means that you attended the same school at the same time.”
“I say, Inquisitor,” Blista-Vanee says, fingering his ring and feeling more than a little self-conscious about what it is that he says, “you’re
nothing short of remarkable.”
“Thank you, Eminence. Coming all this way for a social call, Eminence?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Blista-Vanee says. “Strictly business. Our august Master wants an inspection done of the security arrangements
throughout this part of the Rim, and it happens to be my turn to ride circuit.”
“Ah.”
A chime sounds, announcing imminent reversion from hyperspace. The Inquisitor and the Ruling Councilman stand. The blue mottle of
hyperspace recedes into starlines and then becomes realspace. The cruise liner shudders, enough that the Inquisitor loses his footing and
actually bumps into Blista-Vanee.
“Idiot pilot,” the Inquisitor growls. “Do not trouble yourself, Eminence. I will have a word with the man myself.”
He offers a bow, and then leaves. Blista-Vanee nods and departs the observation deck; the idiot pilot probably won’t walk out of his
interview with the Inquisitor. That is satisfactory. He smiles; the Inquisitor actually managed to make the last leg of the trip bearable.
He returns to his quarters and grumbles at his manservant, who’s taking an unduly long time helping him change his clothes to something
suitably sure to remind the backward Cingetoricians who he is and what he is. He’s heard that the weather on Pemberly is generally
rainy, so he’s sure to insist on his portable rain field. He doesn’t bother to see to the arrangements of his effects; that’s what servants
and slaves are for, isn’t it?
He yawns his way through the tedious welcoming reception. Powellyne’s at least got the good taste to send a deputy to handle the
matter. Deputies don’t generally make speeches as long as their bosses do, Blista-Vanee has noticed. Probably because they lack the
power to protect themselves from Ruling Councilmen who don’t feel like sitting through lengthy speeches. He makes the necessary
courtesy calls, greeting the local notables as protocol demands, not really paying attention to any of their names.
The first thing worth remembering since the Inquisitor’s departure is his dinner that evening with Powellyne.
“Pleasant trip, Eminence?” Powellyne asks.
“Pleasant enough,” he says. “Strictly business, I’m afraid. I’m to inspect your security arrangements.”
“Oh? I already have a security expert, courtesy of the Central Office,” Powellyne answers, frowning with a gesture toward the blonde
whiteshirt pensively hovering about near the maître d’hôtel’s podium. She’s trying to get his attention, but he waves her off. Special
Agent Chambertin can wait, he decides.
“The one is more than I can handle. Do you mind if I have a look at your orders?” He says, shaking his head.
Blista-Vanee’s right eyebrow rises. “Do you doubt my word, Josef?”
“Not at all, Eminence,” he says. “I simply wonder what it is that the Emperor is looking for.”
“Oh, very well,” Blista-Vanee says with a long suffering sigh. He reaches into his robe and removes a datapacket and hands it over.
“Locked, of course. I take it my code cylinder won’t open it?”
“Of course it won’t. You haven’t got the authority to unseal the Serenissimus’s packets.” He reaches into his pocket and frowns.
“Is there something the matter?”
“That’s odd,” he says. “I thought I’d put my code cylinder in this pocket.”
— and delicately closes his gorgeously decorated spicebox. He doesn’t take the addictive, psychotropic spices popular in the lower
classes, of course. Not because they’re illegal — for a man like Kren Blista-Vanee, telling him that he’s committing a Class Two offense
is like telling him that he’s conjugated a verb incorrectly: there are absolutely no penalties or repercussions involved, and he’d very likely
fix you with that supremely blasé look of his and say nothing, his bored silence answer enough.
No, Blista-Vanee doesn’t dabble in those spices simply because doing so is stupid; he’s gotten to where he is now by using his brain,
and he has no desire to ruin it with drugs. Ethics doesn’t enter into it.
He smacks his lips a bit in boredom as he stares up at the vast hemispherical viewport of the cruise liner’s observation deck. Not even a
pinch of spice can make hyperspace interesting, he reflects. Well, there’s nothing for that. The Emperor likes to have the Serenissimus
ride circuit at least once a month, and what the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets. It must be nice to be able to pretend to be a god, Blista-
Vanee thinks idly. He smiles at this thought; actually, he knows it is, because he does it on a regular basis.
But if Kren Blista-Vanee is a god, he’s somewhat lower in the pantheon than his august Master. So here he is, wasting valuable time —
literally; given the sheer bulk of Blista-Vanee’s yearly income, whatever he does must take in more than a thousand credits per second or
it’s quite simply not worth the time it takes for him to do it — wandering around the Inner Rim, ooh’ing and ahh’ing between yawns,
pretending to be interested in what Moff Whatshisname or Governor General Notworthremembering has to say about local affairs.
It’s all quite dreadfully boring.
“May I join you, Your Eminence?”
Ordinarily Blista-Vanee says ‘no’ to this question as a matter of habit; for one thing, commoners are supposed to stand in the presence
of a peer of the Empire. But a lifetime of politics — especially at the Emperor’s notoriously prickly Court of Courts, where a wrong
word can (and has) caused a man’s ruin and death — has taught him to reconnoiter before he strikes. Never wound if you can’t kill, you
see. He glances at the speaker.
“Of course, Inquisitor. I didn’t know you were aboard,” he says languidly. Everything he does is languid when he’s not on Imperial
Center.
The Inquisitor smiles and lowers himself into the seat opposite Blista-Vanee’s sofa. He takes a moment to adjust the fall of his
distinctive black vestments, and then smiles again. “Of course you didn’t, Eminence. Nobody expects an Imperial Inquisitor. No, I’m not
listed on the manifest. Nor are you, for that matter. The Inquisitorius and the Serenissimus are not in the same line of work, but we are
not so different in our methods at times.”
Blista-Vanee smiles wanly. To say that the Emperor’s Jedi hunters and his Ruling Council are ‘not in the same line of work’ is a bit of an
understatement. An Inquisitor with a sense of humor is always a pleasant find. He quotes a line from Ulic Qel-Droma — the Emperor’s
favorite tragedy (earlier in his career he’d written what is still considered the definitive biography of the man himself) — to the extent
that fishes don’t fly and birds don’t swim, but they both breathe.
“Actually, Eminence, that particular preposition takes the subjunctive rather than the conditional,” the Inquisitor corrects. “It’s an
archaic construction. It has the telltale vowelling of a Jedi aphorism.”
“Ah,” Blista-Vanee says, frowning. “My High Galactic is classical rather than ecclesiastical.”
“What brings you to the Cingetorix Sector, Eminence? It’s no barbarity, but it’s no Coruscant, either.”
“I’m not Coruscanti, actually,” Blista-Vanee says idly, languidly reaching for his spicebox.
“Oh, I know, Eminence. Your accent is distinctly Hieran.”
Blista-Vanee stops cold, his hand hovering over the spicebox. “You can hear my accent?”
“Oh, yes, Eminence,” the Inquisitor says easily. “The way you pronounce the voiceless alveolar fricative, for example, but especially in
the alveolar trill.”
Blista-Vanee has spent years working on his accent, replacing the distinctive Hieran/Colonies accent with the more indistinct Received
Pronunciation that is universally recognized as the accent of the Core Worlds. Very, very few people can hear his accent, even fewer can
place it.
“I... congratulate you, Inquisitor. You have an excellent ear.”
“Thank you, Eminence. How long has it been since you’ve last seen Moff Powellyne?”
“Oh, I saw him at the Galaxies about a year ago — wait, how did you know I know him?”
“Your spicebox,” he says, gesturing toward it. “I recognized the handiwork. Moff Powellyne has a similar cigarra case from a visit to
Hesperidium a year and a half ago. That particular metalsmith only accepts clients who are graduates of Teodule University, and you’re
only a year or two older than Moff Powellyne. You both have honors graduate rings — Economics and Political Science, mu? — which
means that you attended the same school at the same time.”
“I say, Inquisitor,” Blista-Vanee says, fingering his ring and feeling more than a little self-conscious about what it is that he says, “you’re
nothing short of remarkable.”
“Thank you, Eminence. Coming all this way for a social call, Eminence?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Blista-Vanee says. “Strictly business. Our august Master wants an inspection done of the security arrangements
throughout this part of the Rim, and it happens to be my turn to ride circuit.”
“Ah.”
A chime sounds, announcing imminent reversion from hyperspace. The Inquisitor and the Ruling Councilman stand. The blue mottle of
hyperspace recedes into starlines and then becomes realspace. The cruise liner shudders, enough that the Inquisitor loses his footing and
actually bumps into Blista-Vanee.
“Idiot pilot,” the Inquisitor growls. “Do not trouble yourself, Eminence. I will have a word with the man myself.”
He offers a bow, and then leaves. Blista-Vanee nods and departs the observation deck; the idiot pilot probably won’t walk out of his
interview with the Inquisitor. That is satisfactory. He smiles; the Inquisitor actually managed to make the last leg of the trip bearable.
He returns to his quarters and grumbles at his manservant, who’s taking an unduly long time helping him change his clothes to something
suitably sure to remind the backward Cingetoricians who he is and what he is. He’s heard that the weather on Pemberly is generally
rainy, so he’s sure to insist on his portable rain field. He doesn’t bother to see to the arrangements of his effects; that’s what servants
and slaves are for, isn’t it?
He yawns his way through the tedious welcoming reception. Powellyne’s at least got the good taste to send a deputy to handle the
matter. Deputies don’t generally make speeches as long as their bosses do, Blista-Vanee has noticed. Probably because they lack the
power to protect themselves from Ruling Councilmen who don’t feel like sitting through lengthy speeches. He makes the necessary
courtesy calls, greeting the local notables as protocol demands, not really paying attention to any of their names.
The first thing worth remembering since the Inquisitor’s departure is his dinner that evening with Powellyne.
“Pleasant trip, Eminence?” Powellyne asks.
“Pleasant enough,” he says. “Strictly business, I’m afraid. I’m to inspect your security arrangements.”
“Oh? I already have a security expert, courtesy of the Central Office,” Powellyne answers, frowning with a gesture toward the blonde
whiteshirt pensively hovering about near the maître d’hôtel’s podium. She’s trying to get his attention, but he waves her off. Special
Agent Chambertin can wait, he decides.
“The one is more than I can handle. Do you mind if I have a look at your orders?” He says, shaking his head.
Blista-Vanee’s right eyebrow rises. “Do you doubt my word, Josef?”
“Not at all, Eminence,” he says. “I simply wonder what it is that the Emperor is looking for.”
“Oh, very well,” Blista-Vanee says with a long suffering sigh. He reaches into his robe and removes a datapacket and hands it over.
“Locked, of course. I take it my code cylinder won’t open it?”
“Of course it won’t. You haven’t got the authority to unseal the Serenissimus’s packets.” He reaches into his pocket and frowns.
“Is there something the matter?”
“That’s odd,” he says. “I thought I’d put my code cylinder in this pocket.”
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This short story was originally published in October 2005. It was republished on 1 February 2007.