Finn had been expecting it; even so it chilled him. "Now?"
"Right now. You'd better clean up."
He didn't want to. But after a moment he poured out fresh water and rubbed at the grease and oil on his arms.
Keiro said, "I'll back you about the woman. On one condition."
Finn paused. "What?"
"That you tell me what this is really all about."
"There's nothing ..."
Keiro threw the ragged towel at him. "Finn Starseer doesn't
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sell women or children. Amoz yes, or any of the hard cases. Not you."
Finn looked up; Keiro's blue eyes gazed straight back.
"Maybe I'm just getting like the rest of you." He dried his face in the gritty rag, then, not bothering to change, headed for the door. Halfway there Keiro's voice stopped him.
"You think she knows something about you."
Ruefully, Finn turned. "Sometimes I wish I'd picked someone less sharp to watch my back. All right. Yes. There was something she said ... that might ... that I need to ask her about. I need her alive."
Keiro moved past him to the door. "Well, don't sound too keen or he'll kill her in front of your face. Let me do most of the talking." He checked for listeners outside and looked back over his shoulder. "Scowl, and stay silent, brother. It's what you're good at."
***
THE DOOR to Jormanric's cell had the usual two bodyguards in front of it, but a wide grin from Keiro made the nearer grunt and step aside. Following his oathbrother in, Finn almost choked on the familiar sweet stench of ket, its intoxicating fumes heavy in the air. It caught in his throat; he swallowed, trying not to breathe too deeply.
Keiro elbowed through the pairs of oathbrothers, right to the front, and Finn trailed after his flashy red coat among the drab crowd.
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Most of them were halfmen. Some had metallic claws for hands, or plastic tissue in patches where the skin had gone. One had a false eye that looked exactly like a real one, except that it was blind, the iris a sapphire. They were the lowest of the low, enslaved and despised by the pure; men whom the Prison had repaired, sometimes cruelly, sometimes just on a whim. One, a dwarfish, bent man with wiry hair, didn't step out of the way fast enough. Keiro floored him with one blow.
Keiro had a peculiar hatred for the halfmen. He never spoke to them, and barely acknowledged they existed, rather like the dogs that infested the Den. As if, Finn thought, his own perfection was insulted by their existence.
The crowd fell back, and they were among the warband. The Comitatus of Jormanric was a shambling and feckless army, fearless only in its own imagination. Big and Little Arko; Amoz and his twin, Zoma; the frail girl Lis, who went berserk in fights; and her oathsister, Ramill, who never said a word. A crowd of old lags and brash big-mouthed boys, sly cutthroats, and a few women expert in poisons. And, surrounded by his muscle-bound bodyguard, the man himself.
Jormanric, as always, was chewing ket. His few teeth worked automatically, scarlet with the sweet juice that stained his lips and beard. Behind him his bodyguard chewed in unison.
He must be totally immune to the drug, Finn thought. Even if he couldn't do without it.
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"Keiro!" The Winglord's voice was a drawl. "And Finn the Starseer."
The last word was heavy with irony. Finn scowled. He pushed past Amoz and stood shoulder to shoulder with his oathbrother.
Jormanric sat sprawled in his chair. He was a big man, and the carved throne had been made especially for him; its arms were notched with raid tallies and stained with ket. A slave known as the dog-slave was chained to it; he used them to taste his food for poison, and none of them ever lasted long. This one was new, taken on the last raid, a huddle of rags and tangled hair. The Winglord wore a metallic warcoat and his hair was long and greasy, plaited and knotted with charms. Seven heavy skull-head rings were squeezed on his thick fingers.
He eyed the Comitatus with a hooded glare.
"A good raid, people. Food and raw metal. Enough for everyone's share to be plentiful."
A buzz from the room. But everyone meant only the Comitatus; the hangers-on would live on the scraps.
"And yet not as profitable as it might have been. Some fool annoyed the Prison." He spat out the ket and took another piece from the ivory box at his elbow, folding it carefully into his cheek. "Two men were killed." He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Finn. "And a hostage was taken."
Finn opened his mouth, but Keiro trod firmly on his foot. It was never a good idea to interrupt Jormanric. He spoke slowly,
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with irritating pauses, but his appearance of stupidity was deceptive.
A thin sliver of red spittle hung on Jormanric's beard. He said, "Explain, Finn."
Finn swallowed, but Keiro answered, his voice cool. "Wing-lord, my oathbrother took a great risk back there. The Civics could easily not have stopped or even slowed. Because of him we have enough food for days. The woman was a whim of the moment, a small reward. But of course the Comitatus is yours, the decision yours. She means nothing, one way or the other."
The of course was a silken sarcasm. Jormanric didn't stop chewing; Finn couldn't tell whether the needle-stab of such a veiled threat had even registered.
Then he saw the Maestra. She was standing at the side, guarded, chains linking her hands. There was dirt on her face, and her hair was coming undone. She must have been terrified, but she stood tall, her gaze on Keiro and then, icily, on him. He couldn't meet that scorn. He looked down, but Keiro nudged him and at once he forced himself upright, outstaring them all. To seem weak, to look doubtful here, was to be finished. He could never trust any of them, except Keiro. And then only because of the oath.
Standing arrogantly he returned Jormanric's glare.
"How long have you been with us?" the Winglord demanded.
"Three years."
"Not an innocent anymore, then. The blankness has gone
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from your eyes. You no longer jump at screams. You no longer sob when the lights go out."
The Comitatus tittered. Someone said, "He hasn't killed anyone yet."
"About time he did," Amoz muttered.
Jormanric nodded, the metal in his hair clinking. "Maybe that's so." His eyes watched Finn, and Finn stared straight back, because this was a bleary mask the Winglord wore, a bloated, slow disguise over his shrewd cruelty. He knew what was coming now; when Jormanric said, almost sleepily, "You could kill this woman," he didn't even blink.
"I could, lord. But I'd rather make some profit. I heard them call her Maestra."
Jormanric raised a ket-red eyebrow. "Ransom?"
"I'm sure they'd pay. Those trucks were heavy with goods." He paused, not needing Keiro to tell him not to say too much. For a moment the fear shivered back, but he fought it down. Any ransom would mean Jormanric would take a share. Surely it would sway him. His greed was legendary.
The cell was dim, its candles guttering. Jormanric poured a cup of wine, tipped a splash down for the small dog-creature, and watched it lap. Not until the slave sat back, unharmed, did he drink himself. Then he raised his hand and turned it outward to show the seven rings. "Do you see these, boy? These rings contain lives. Lives I stole. Each one of them was once an enemy, killed slowly, tormented in agony. Each one of them is
38
trapped here in a loop around my fingers. Their breath, their energy, their strength, drawn out of them and held for me, until I need it. Nine lives a man can live, Finn, moving from one to another, fending off death. My father did it, I'll do it. But as yet I only have seven."
The Comitatus eyed one another. At the back women whispered; some strained to see the rings over the heads of the crowd. The silver skulls shimmered in the drug-laden air; one winked at Finn, crookedly. He bit his dry lips and tasted ket; it was salty as blood, made blurs swim in the corners of his eyes. Sweat soaked his back. The chamber was unbearably hot; high in the rafters rats peered down,
and a bat flicked out and back into the darkness. Unnoticed, in one corner, three children dug in the pile of grain.
Jormanric heaved himself up. He was a huge man, a head higher than anyone else. He looked down at Finn. "A loyal man would offer this woman's life to his leader."
Silence.
There was no way out. Finn knew he would have to do it. He glanced at the Maestra. She looked back, pale, her face gaunt.
But Keiro's cool voice broke the tension. "A woman's life, lord? A creature of moods and folly, a frail, helpless thing?"
She didn't look helpless. She looked furious, and Finn cursed her for it. Why couldn't she sob and beg and whimper! As if she sensed him, she dropped her head, but every inch of her was stiff with pride.
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Keiro waved a graceful hand. "Not much strength for a man to covet, but if you want it, its yours."
This was too dangerous. Finn was appalled. No one teased Jormanric. No one made him look ridiculous. He wouldn't be so far gone on ket not to feel that thrust. If you want it. If you're that desperate. Some of the warband understood. Zoma and Amoz exchanged covert smiles.
Jormanric glowered. He looked at the woman and she glared back. Then he spat out the red weed and reached for his sword.
"I'm not as choosy as preening boys," he snarled.
Finn stepped forward. For a moment he wanted only to drag the woman away, but Keiro had his arm in a grip of iron and Jormanric had turned to the Maestra; his sword was at her neck, the sharp point whitening the delicate skin under her chin, straining her head upward. It was over. Whatever she knew, Finn thought bitterly, he would never find it out now.
A door slammed at the back.
An acid voice snapped, "Her life is worthless, man. Give her to the boy. Anyone who lies down before death is either a fool or a visionary. Either way, he deserves his reward."
The crowd parted hastily. A small man strode through, his clothes the dark green of the Sapienti. He was old but upright, and even the Comitatus moved aside for him. He came and stood by Finn; Jormanric looked down at him heavily.
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"Gildas. What does it matter to you?"
"Do as I say." The old man's voice was harsh; he spoke as if to a child. "You'll get your last two lives soon enough. But she"--he jerked his thumb at the woman--"won't be one of them."
Anyone else would be dead. Anyone else would have been hauled out and hung down the shaft by his heels while rats ate his insides. But after a second Jormanric lowered the sword. "You promise me."
"I promise you."
"The promises of the Wise should not be broken." The old man said, "They won't be."
Jormanric looked at him. Then he sheathed the sword. "Take her."
The woman gasped.
Gildas stared at her irritably. When she didn't move, he grabbed her arm and pulled her near. "Get her out of here," he muttered.
Finn hesitated, but Keiro moved at once, pushing the woman hastily through the crowd.
The old mans grip, fast as a claw, caught Finn's arm. "Was there a vision?"
"Nothing important."
"I'll be the judge of that." Gildas looked after Keiro, then back. His small black eyes were alert; they moved with a restless intelligence. "I want every detail, boy." He glanced down at the bird-mark on Finn's wrist. Then he let go.
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Instantly Finn pushed through the crowd and out.
The woman was waiting out in the Den, ignoring Keiro. She turned and stalked in front of Finn back to the tiny cell in the corner and he motioned the guard away with one jerk of his head.
The Maestra turned. "What sort of Scum hole is this?" she hissed.
"Listen. You're alive ..."
"No thanks to you." She drew herself up; she was taller than he was, and her anger was venomous. "Whatever you want from me, you can forget it. You murderers can rot in hell."
Behind him, Keiro leaned on the doorframe, grinning. "Some people have absolutely no gratitude," he said.
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4
***
Finally, when all was ready, Manor convened the council of the Sapienti and asked for volunteers. They must be prepared to leave
family and friends forever. To turn their backs on the green grass, the trees, the light of the sun.
Never again to see the stars. I
"We are the Wise," he said. "The responsibility for success is ours. We must send our finest minds to guide the inmates."
At the appointed hour, as he approached the chamber of the Gate, they say he murmured his fear that it would be empty. I He opened the door. Seventy men and women were waiting for him. In great ceremony, they
entered the Prison.
They were never seen again.
--Tales of the Steel Wolf
***
That evening the Warden held a dinner for his honored guest.
The long table was dressed with a magnificent service of silver, the goblets and plates engraved with linked swans. Claudia wore a dress of red silk with a lace bodice and sat opposite Lord
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Evian, while her father at the head of the table ate sparingly and spoke quietly, his calm gaze moving over the nervous guests.
All their neighbors and tenants had obeyed the summons. And that's what it was, Claudia thought grimly, because when the Warden of Incarceron invited, there was no refusal. Even Mistress Sylvia, who must be nearly two hundred, flirted and made mincing conversation with the bored young lord next to her.
As Claudia watched, the young lord carefully stifled a yawn. He caught her eye. She smiled at him sweetly. Then she winked and he stared. She knew she shouldn't tease him; he was one of her father's attendants, and the Wardens daughter would be far above him. Still, she was bored too.
After the endless courses of fish and peacock and roast boar and sweetmeats, there was dancing, the musicians up in a candlelit gallery above the smoky hall. Ducking under the raised arms of the long line of dancers she wondered suddenly if the instruments were accurate--surely violas were from a later period? That came of leaving details to Ralph. The old retainer was an excellent servant, but his research was sometimes hurried. When her father wasn't here, she didn't care. But the Warden was precise about detail.
It was well after midnight when she finally saw the last guests to their carriage and stood alone on the steps of the manor. Behind her, two link-boys waited sleepily, their torches guttering in the breeze.
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"Go to bed," she said without turning. The glimmer and crackle of the flames faded. The night was quiet.
As soon as they were gone, she ran down the steps and under the arch of the gatehouse to the bridge over the moat, breathing the deep stillness of the warm night. Bats flitted over the sky; watching them, she tugged off the stiff ruff and the necklaces, and from under the dress she stepped out of the stiffened petticoats and dumped them with relief into the old disused privy below the bank.
Much better! They could stay there till tomorrow.
Her father had retired earlier. He had taken Lord Evian up to the library; perhaps they were still there, talking money and settlements and discussing her future. And afterward, when his guest was gone and all the house was silent, her father would pull back the black velvet curtain at the end of the corridor and open the door of his study with its secret combination, the one she had tried for months to work out. He would disappear in there for hours, perhaps for days. As far as she knew, no one else ever entered the room. No servant, no technician, not even Medlicote, the secretary. She herself had never been in.
Well, not yet.
Glancing up at the north turret she saw, as she'd expected, a tiny flame in the window of the topmost room. She walked quickly to the door in the wall, opened it, and climbed the stairs in the dark.
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He thought of her as a tool. A thing he had made ... bred, was his word. She tightened her lips, her fingers groping over the cold greasy wall. Long ago she had come to know his ruthle
ssness was so complete that to survive she would have to match it.
Did her father love her? As she slowed for breath on a stone landing she laughed, a quiet amusement. She had no idea. Did she love him? She certainly feared him. He smiled at her, had sometimes picked her up when she was small, held her hand on grand occasions, admired her dresses. He had never denied her anything, had never struck her or been angry, even when she'd had tantrums and broken the string of pearls he'd given her, or ridden off for days to the mountains. And yet as far back as she could remember the calmness of his cold gray eyes had terrified her, the dread of his displeasure hung over her.
Beyond the third landing the stairs were cluttered with bird droppings. They were certainly real. She picked her way through, groped along the corridor to the bend, climbed another three steps, and came to the iron-barred door. Grasping the ring, she turned it softly and peered in. "Jared? It's me."
The room was dark. A solitary candle burned on the sill, its flame guttering in the draft. All around the turret, the windows had been rolled back, in a disregard of protocol that would have given Ralph kittens.
The observatory roof rose on steel beams so narrow, it
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appeared to float. A great telescope had been wheeled to face the south; it bristled with finderscopes and infrared readers and a small flickering monitor screen. Claudia shook her head. "Look at this! If the Queen's spy sees this, the fines will cripple us.
"He won't. Not after the amount of cider he sank tonight."
At first she couldn't even find him. Then a shadow at the window moved and the darkness resolved into a slender shape that straightened from the viewfinder. "Take a look at this, Claudia."
She felt her way across the room, between the cluttered tables, the astrolabe, the hanging globes. Disturbed, a fox cub streaked to the sill.
He caught her arm and guided her to the telescope. "Nebula f345. They call it the Rose."
When she looked in, she could see why. The creamy explosion of stars that filled the dim circle of sky opened like the petals of a vast flower, millennia of light-years across. A flower of stars and quasars, worlds and black holes, its molten heart pulsing with gaseous clouds.
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