Battle Cruiser by B. V. Larson Page A

to an elderly, white-haired lady in a fur robe.
    I froze in recognition. The robed figure was none other than Gwen Astra, the head of the House.
    Almost without conscious thought, my hand reached out to push open the door another dozen centimeters. A creaking sound resulted, and the two looked in my direction.
    Gwen caught herself quickly. She clapped her leathery hands together and beckoned for me enter.
    “There you are, young Sparhawk!” she said. “Come inside and warm yourself by my fire.”
    I was by no means chilled, but I did as she asked. I followed her to a circular arrangement of chairs and sofas in the midst of which was a roaring fire as tall as a man. I glanced upward, but saw no obvious means by which the smoke was being removed from the chamber. Perhaps the fire was an illusion, although it gave off a great deal of flickering light and heat.
    “Sit, sit,” Gwen insisted, waving me to a settee, which I perched upon uncomfortably. In contrast, she stretched out like a Roman empress.
    It was all I could do not to stare at her. She was a member of a select group known as “oldsters.” She’d been alive at the cusp of the longevity revolution, from a time before science had perfected the process.
    Oldsters were people of great age who were among the first humans to have the wealth and foresight to begin taking the treatments when they were first made available.
    The reason for my scrutiny was the strangeness of the result. Oldsters were hale and healthy, even physically powerful at times. But they looked old. their hair hung thin, white and lank, as did their sallow skins. The drugs hadn’t been able to freeze the aging process until it had taken a dreadful toll.
    Seeing an old person wasn’t what made a man stare at them, however. Among the poor, plenty of aged persons existed. What was alarming was the horrible vigor these oldsters possessed.
    Gwen had feet like those of a pale frog. Her eyes looked too big for their sockets, and her skin appeared stretched over the bones beneath. For all that, she moved with energy. She smiled broadly, and I could see the sharp wit trapped within her ancient skin.
    How old was this woman? I could have looked it up, but I hadn’t bothered. If I had to guess, I would have said she was past the two century mark. Most of the oldsters were.
    “Madam,” I began, “I’m sorry to trouble you at this late hour, but I’m afraid a serious crime has been committed tonight.”
    “Really?” she asked, reaching out and grabbing a bunch of grapes from a nearby table. “You must be talking about that dreadful business at the ballroom. As I understood it, no great harm was done.”
    As Gwen spoke and I watched, she popped tiny purple fruits, one at a time, into the air. She caught each grape with her mouth, demonstrating alarming dexterity. I was left with the impression she did this often.
    “No great harm?” I demanded, forcing my voice to sound even with a conscious effort. “That’s hardly the case. I was slightly injured, and my father was nearly killed.”
    “You have my heartfelt sympathies,” she said. “But I’m not quite sure what I can do to help you.”
    “There are certain questions I’d like to ask, madam.”
    “Is this, then, a formal affair? You are wearing the uniform of a guardsman, after all.”
    “Yes, it is,” I said. “I’ve been assigned to investigate the assassination attempt.”
    “That reminds me,” she said, making a fluttering gesture with her fingers. Each of them was tipped with a long, pink nail. “Please do not take offense, but the customary path for a guardsman when entering a Great House for an official visit is through the back entrance. It’s a trivial matter, but at House Astra we do prefer that traditions are maintained.”
    My eyes hardened. I said nothing, as I could not trust my words to be civil at that moment. When I felt I could speak in an even tone, I answered her. “As you say, a trivial matter. Now then, can