A Matter of Trust

Amira strode across the ornate polished stone floor of her father's private sitting room and into his study. "You wanted to see me, father?"  

Prince Fedor Hezkurin looked up from the paperwork on his desk and scowled, his gaze flicking over her. "Amira, my dear, I wish you wouldn't wear those peasant clothes. They don't become you." 

"They're very practical for my work with the Tuchaska." She pulled off the clasp that tied back her ponytail and shook her head, sending her hair dancing around her shoulders. 

Hezkurin sighed. "That doesn't become you either. You should not be wasting your time with aliens." 

Amira pulled over a chair and sat facing him. Yes, she probably did need a shower, and a change of clothes, too. Her boots had probably left a trail over her father's floor. But she wasn't going to apologize. "It was their planet before we took it over." 

"Yes, my dear and we've been the rulers for two hundred years."  

"They provide the labor for your estates. If somebody doesn't help them you won't have a labor force at all." They'd had this discussion before. He didn't care about mysterious illnesses that only affected the Tuchaska. As far as he was concerned there were enough of them to get the work done. Without her intervention their physician wouldn't have been able to obtain sufficient drugs to treat the sick. Today she'd helped the doctor move two patients from their home to his clinic. 

He nodded absently. 

Her fingers beat a staccato tattoo on the arm of the chair. He was up to something. She could always tell. His eyes became shifty, darting around, and he fiddled with the objects on his desk. "Well?" 

Prince Fedor shifted the picture of his wife one more time and took a deep breath. "I've been talking to Baron Ghaurondo." 

Ghaurondo? Big fat, ugly, loathsome Ghaurondo. She cocked an eyebrow. "How nice for you." 

"He's a very powerful man, Amira." 

"Only in the Arondean Hegemony." 

Her father frowned. "Which is ten systems and where we live."  

"Yes, fine." Amira crossed her legs and folded her arms. Her heart beat a little faster. This wasn't sounding good. "So what?"  

The Prince scratched absently at his neck above the ornate collar of his uniform. Goodness, that was a very bad sign. This wasn't going to be good at all. 

"As you know, we've not had the best of seasons. And we're very dependent on the Arondean Hegemony... to buy our harvest, anyway. They've found other places to supply their agricultural products." Fedor paused and licked his lips. 

"What has that to do with me, father?" 

"Baron Ghaurondo has always admired you." 

"Him and a few others." Her pulse galloped. She had an idea she knew where this was going. 

"He's asked for your hand." 

"Sorry, I need both of mine." She wished this was some sort of ridiculous joke. Or maybe she'd wake up in her own bed. "Father, you can't be serious. He's a bag of fat on legs. He's got body odor." 

"Amira, darling, don't make this difficult. It's time you married again. He's rich and powerful-" 

"He's twice my age and disgusting. No." Anger boiled in her belly. So he thought he could order her about like a teenager, did he? She should never have come back here. "And why do I have to marry again anyway?" 

"Christoph's been dead for a year now and you're not getting any younger." 

"Don't give me the grandchildren story. I don't want to hear it." She stared at him, a horrible thought insinuating itself into her mind. He couldn't mean...? Surely not. But his face was composed, the sort of look her father gave his estate manager when he'd made up his mind. "Oh, how obscene. With that... that..."