Nightsword

by Margaret Weis

  The dragon gazed down at him with his solid black eyes. “Your response is outside of the protocol for this conversation, Tall Man—as you well know.”

  The man sighed with resignation, and picked up the litany once more. “I hear your admonition, Lord Master of the Port, and shall comply with your challenge of demand within the prescribed ten-day. Might I offer you and your clan my sincerest humility and groveling at your discountenance from my actions.” Damn, he thought, this is going to cost me a week’s pay. I wonder if I can get off-planet before then and save myself the trouble?

  The Tsultak dragon pulled his head back, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction. His words purred sweetly. “Your compliance is acceptable to us. We are appeased. We admonish you to continue with your duties at this time, that the clan may prosper and you may find fulfillment in your contribution to the collective.” The master of the port sniffed and shifted on his four clawed appendages. “I beg your pardon now as I have other duties to attend to. I shall return within the ten-day and see to your compliance. As your shift is nearly completed, I admonish you to complete your loading of this tree-ship at which point we do magnanimously release you from further labors for the duration of this shift. Live well, Tall Man.”

  Flynn watched the foppish dragon lumber off in the direction of the larger Tsultak fleet bays.

  New livery, he thought as he reached for another container on the cart. I’ve just got to get off this planet soon.

  “All I need is one good prize,” he grunted to himself as he lifted another large container. “Give me just one and I’ll be on my way.”

  Flynn exited the starport caverns, his livery alone being his passport back into the center shaft of the volcano. The crowds were heavy on the wrought-brass promenade that encircled the throat of the cone at the port level. He pushed his way across the wide platform to lean against the ornamental railing and gaze over the side. Despite the Tsultak’s generous offer of an early duty release, the Aendorian ship had taken too long to load and he found himself exiting at the worst moment during the shift change. He really didn’t have anywhere he had to be, and he preferred to get there without such a large crowd.

  Looking down over the edge, he could see the warrens below. His own billet was down there somewhere, he knew, though he rarely spent much time there. One could pretty well pass out anywhere in the myriad bars and taverns in the Pleasure Warrens and not attract too much attention. Hygiene was a factor that one could ignore for several days if one worked hard enough at it. He bathed when convenient. Truth was, it didn’t pay to be too clean in his line of work. Someone who was fastidious attracted too much attention on the docks.

  He leaned over the rail slightly. Darkness and distance obscured the depths of the shaft, but he could make out the seething red dome of the magma cap far below. The Tsultak wizards had woven that spell centuries ago and had continuously refined it since into something of a commercial artform. A column of deep-red energy rose from the top of the dome the entire length of the shaft. The man’s eyes followed it up above his head to its termination point—the massive Tsultak palace overhead. Seven huge support buttresses rose from the walls of the volcano, holding the palace directly over the shaft. It stood in the volcano’s original caldera. The towers of the mammoth structure shone in the sunlight that never reached the lower warrens.

  Light never gets down here, he thought, and it comforted him. It was time for him to find his way to somewhere a little darker and disappear from himself for a while. It’s bad when you don’t even like your own company.

  The crowds were thinning. He remembered the centaurs were going drinking and thought their brawling would make for a good show—at least for a while. He pushed himself away from the railing and headed for the Pleasure Warrens.

  Ophid’s was on the lower level of the pleasure warrens. It wasn’t fashionable but it was fairly well patronized. There was no entertainment except that which was provided by the clientele—and that was often well worth the price of a drink or two or twelve.

  Flynn passed through the large, rough-hewn entrance. The Pleasure Warrens were always in shadow and Ophid’s was a darker place amid the darkness. The man could barely make out the shapes of the long bar and the various alcoves situated around it. Hwnos and Whilm were already at the bar, bending down over their drinks and getting louder by the moment. Whilm was already starting to scrape at the flooring with his left front hoof, a sure sign that the argument was not going in his direction. Flynn figured he had about half an hour before the real fight began. Time enough for a few drinks, he decided.

  Flynn moved to a side alcove. An E’knari lay with his head down on the table. Evon pulled the small figure up by his collar, determined the creature to be passed out cold, and then calmly dragged him out of the chair and onto the floor. The E’knari never moved a muscle as the tall man slid into the alcove and sat at the table.

  The barmaid was a centaur, Flynn noted with satisfaction. It was a good thing since the female centaurs were generally much better in a fight than the males. She could, no doubt, handle his two noisy coworkers when the time came.

  “What is your desired beverage, sire,” the centaur asked, her voice gravelly and loud.

  “What have you got?”

  “Sartagon grog,” she responded. “We have hot Sartagon grog which isn’t that hot; we have chilled Sartagon grog that’s a bit on the warm side; we have spiced Sartagon grog though you can’t taste the spice all that well; we have …”

  “Ah,” Evon interrupted, “I think I’ll just have the Sartagon grog.”

  The female centaur nodded, her unruly mane shifting with the movement. “Glad to be of service,” she said as she clomped off.

  The grog did prove to be nondescript. Sartagon grog was something of a generic term. It didn’t refer to any particular recipe but more to a generic class of hard drink whose primary qualifier was to help the person drinking it into a blissful stupor with as little fuss as possible. Efficiency was the prime qualifier of Sartagon grog. Taste and enjoyment were factors that were somewhat down the list.

  By the second glass, Flynn had determined, first, that it was time for him to settle on a ship to leave this world on and, second, that this brand of grog was particularly efficient.

  “A ship,” he mumbled into the second, now-empty grog stein before him. His voice sounded back to him from the depths of the stein. “A ship; I’ve got to find myself a proper ship.”

  Flynn lifted the stein up in search of the last drop of the Sartagon grog. Through the glass bottom of the stein he could see the grog-shrouded form of a human male in a blue uniform approaching him. The uniform stepped across the still motionless body of the E’knari on the floor and stood before the booth.

  Flynn replaced the stein on the table and gazed up at the man, trying to focus on the uniform. “A ship,” he said at last, looking back into the stein, “I need to find a ship.”

  “Well, you won’t find one in there,” the uniform said. “But I think I might be able to accommodate you—if you’re the man I’m looking for. My name is Jeremy Griffiths. Someone needs your help.”

  Flynn looked up again from the stein, straining to make out the face above the uniform. “Who sent for me, Master Tight-butt Jeremy Griffiths?”

  “I’m not supposed to say,” Griffiths said, glancing around the dim bar. “She said to bring you back to the Brishan.”

  Suddenly, Flynn leaned back in the booth and slapped the table, pointing at Griffiths. “Merinda Neskat! Witch-queen of the universe! What in all the hells is she doing out here?”

  Griffiths leaned over the table and pulled the tall man out of his chair. He didn’t resist. “Evon Flynn, would you believe she’s come looking for you?”

  “Oh, how lucky for me!” Flynn said, just before his knees buckled and he fell unconscious to the floor.

  17

  Familiars

  The TyRen pulled Flynn’s head clear of the trough, spraying water all about the promenade.
Flynn gulped air as the mechanical warrior, all four appendages grasping the tall man at various points about the back, head, and shoulders, slammed him for the third time headfirst deeply into the murky water.

  “That’s enough, Seven-alpha-three-five,” Griffiths said, his arms folded across his chest as he eyed the scene critically. Griffiths stood somewhat toward the wall of the promenade. He was an astronaut who, ironically, could fly just fine but had a rather unreasonable fear of heights when standing on the ground. “Put him down.”

  Griffiths wasn’t sure, but the TyRen seemed to perform his bidding with some reluctance.

  Griffiths leaned forward as much as he dared. The volcanic shaft before him seemed to be beckoning him to his doom, and he didn’t want to get too close to its siren call. “You are Evon Flynn, are you not?”

  Flynn slid down to the ground, the water streaming off of him through the metal grating of the promenade sounding like a gentle rain. He shook his head, the shower of spray from his long hair creating a nimbus around his head. He immediately regretted the action, pressing both palms against his temples. He looked up.

  “I most certainly am Evon Flynn,” he said of himself from the large puddle in which he sat. “I am one of the finest Atis Librae ever known. A stellar researcher and an intuitive genius when it comes to unrelated data, legends, and lore who is currently employed as an I-don’t-give-a-damn spacedock bum—at your service. Thanks for the bath. Now, go the hell away.”

  “Glad to find you at last, Mister Flynn,” Griffiths said disdainfully. “TyRen?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  Griffiths winced. “You are to refrain from using that form of address with me until further notice. We are trying to keep a low profile!”

  “Yes, Your Magnificence,” the TyRen replied.

  Flynn thunderously belched his approval.

  Griffiths shook his head. “Whatever! Please take the heroic figure of Mister Flynn here up to the dock of the Brishan. Let him use his own feet, if he is capable; otherwise, I don’t care how you get him up there but do it.”

  “Yes, Your Immenseness.”

  “This is no way to start a relationship,” Flynn mumbled as the TyRen picked him bodily clear off the floor.

  “Merinda Neskat,” he said at last, smiling through the pain throbbing through his head. “It’s been a long time—but not long enough.”

  “Hello, Evon,” Merinda replied hoarsely from her bunk. “Great to see you again, too.”

  They were in Merinda’s small quarters aboard the Brishan. Indeed, the room seemed barely large enough for one person, let alone three of them at once. Griffiths found himself uncomfortably wedged into the corner of the space as Flynn knelt down next to the bunk. Flynn was tall to begin with and the dock work had apparently agreed with him; the muscles of his arms were obvious even when fairly concealed by the dockworker’s tunic he wore. More irritating yet, so far as Griffiths was concerned, was that his health showed through a remarkably handsome face with well-chiseled features. Flynn approached, if not attained, an Olympian ideal for the masculine form.

  Griffiths hated this man more every minute.

  Flynn shook his head slowly, smiling to himself. “Still the same old Merinda. Humility never was your strong suit.”

  “Responsibility was never yours, either,” Merinda responded, no sign of emotion in her voice.

  Flynn smiled sadly once more. “Ah, Merinda, you always did have a way of talking to men. Always had to put me in my place, didn’t you Merinda? Never much of a word other than criticism. Your reach was always longer than your grasp, Vestis. I’ve no use for the Omnet any longer—and it has no use for me. You want to play your little games and run everyone else’s empires like a god with puppets then, please, be my guest. Just don’t come around here with that Omnet-ethic attitude and expect me to roll over and whimper anymore.”

  “This is the guy we crossed most of the galactic disk to find?” Griffiths said incredulously. “This is the guy you’re turning to for help?”

  “Quiet, Griffiths!” Merinda snapped. The effort took more from her than she expected. She lay back against the pillows of the bunk, closed her eyes, and rested for a moment.

  “Relax, star-jock,” Flynn said sarcastically to Griffiths. “Just stand there quietly and enjoy the show. I know I am.”

  Griffiths seethed. “You muscle-brained asshole! Can’t you see the woman needs help?”

  “Since when did a Vestis need any help from anybody?” Flynn whined back.

  “Since now,” Merinda said quietly.

  Flynn turned back toward Merinda. “I’m nobody, Merinda. I’ve worked hard to become nobody and I intend to remain a nobody. You’ve come to the wrong guy, Merinda. It was you that taught me how wrong it was to tamper with the stars. I learned that on Tentris. The Omnet is no friend of mine—and I’m no friend to the Omnet.”

  Merinda reached up and grasped Flynn’s hand. A look of surprise crossed the stevedore’s face.

  “That is exactly why we are here, Evon,” she said as steadily as she could manage. “Listen to me, answer me! How long does it take the netcasts to arrive here from Central?”

  Flynn frowned, still suspicious of her. “The netcasts that reach us come by packet along the trade routes. They’re usually about twenty days behind the local calendars—why do you ask?”

  “Griffiths, how long have we been in flight?”

  “About twelve days,” Griffiths answered, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Then we’ve got about eight days before the news reaches court here,” Merinda said. “It might be less if someone is tracking us.”

  “Tracking you,” Flynn said, his eyebrows raising.

  “Evon … Targ tried to kill us.”

  “Targ? Targ of Gandri?” Flynn sputtered. “E’toris Prime who-runs-the-whole-drig-Omnet Targ? THAT Targ?”

  “Yes,” Merinda sighed, her words becoming slurred and disjointed the more she spoke. “I didn’t see it coming. I should have seen it but I didn’t. A Vestis assassin tried to take me out—not one of the Interion assassins from internal security but a Novus of the Inquisition. The boy was green but he was talented. He nearly took me out with a T/S kris. I think there may have been something coating the blade—I haven’t been able to get the wound to heal at all. I seem to be getting weaker although … although it could just be …”

  “Let me see,” Flynn said sharply.

  “What?” Merinda suddenly couldn’t seem to focus on the question.

  Griffiths realized that she hadn’t spoken this many words during their entire rushed flight here. “She’s tired, Flynn. She needs her rest.”

  “Where did he knife you?” Flynn leaned over the bunk, ignoring Griffiths. “I’ve got to see it.”

  “I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours,” Merinda said, tittering, her eyes bright but unfocused.

  “Very funny, Merinda,” Flynn said, a hint of anger in his voice. “Now be a good little Vestis, and show me!”

  “I told you, Flynn,” Griffiths said emphatically, “She needs to rest!”

  Merinda closed her eyes again and rolled over on her right side, tugging feebly beneath the covers. Flynn pulled over the bedding and gingerly lifted the heavily stained camisole. The smell was suddenly overpowering. Griffiths looked away.

  “By the Nine,” Flynn breathed.

  He turned quickly toward the water basin opposite the bunk and soaked a cloth. He began cleaning the wound, alternately turning back toward the basin. The water rapidly became dark and cloudy.

  “You, star-jockey!”

  “The name’s Griffiths!”

  “Fine! Whatever! What do you call the synthetic on this ship?”

  “Lindia, but …”

  “How may I help you,” Lindia chimed in at once, having heard her name voiced aloud.

  “Lindia,” Flynn said as he continued to clear the wound, “find that floating synthetic nightmare that nearly drowned me earlier and have him
go to my quarters.”

  “Please specify the particular floating synthetic nightmare to which …”

  “He means the TyRen,” Griffiths said sharply, feeling more and more helpless trapped against the corner of the room. Flynn was working between him and the door. There was no graceful way for him to make an exit.

  “Seven-alpha-three-five,” the synthetic confirmed, “has been located on the starboard deck three.”

  “Fine,” Flynn continued, his hands moving skillfully across the clotting of the wound and the discolored flesh. “Instruct that monster to go to my billet down in the warrens—sublevel Claw-breadth, billet Phalanx Prima Dorsal Scale. Have it ask any constable in a bright blue doublet what those directions mean—although they’ll probably run at the sight of it. The door isn’t locked so please ask him not to break it down. In the sleeping cavern to the left there is a shipping container. Inside it will find a black bag about twice the size of Griffiths’s head here.”

  The astronaut bristled.

  “Have the headless brute bring it back to me as fast as he can fly.”

  “Yes, Evon Flynn,” the synth answered.

  “Now, Lindia!” Flynn roared.

  “Seven-alpha-three-five is currently en route per your specifications,” Lindia answered evenly.

  Flynn reached up and pressed his fingers against Merinda’s neck. His face looked suddenly grave. He quickly tossed the soiled cloth back into the basin and clapped his hands together. Flynn’s lips began moving as his fingers moved rapidly in their clasped grip. Suddenly he spread the hands into a cupped shape, palms down. They seemed to hold a yellowish ball of light. Threads of gold, green, and brown seemed to lift from Merinda’s flesh, spinning and gathering inside the glowing yellow orb. Quite suddenly, the globe flashed with a thunderclap. Flynn was pressed backward against the opposite cabinet, rocking the basin.

  “Void Stars!” he cursed. “What a job they’ve done!”

  “Can you help her?” Griffiths’s words were urgent and pleading. “Can you heal this thing?”