266 HENRY MARTYN
of those whose dying screams already ceased to echo. It had been over with so soon. Man against man, woodsrunner against trooper—even given the Oplytes—it might have been a match. But humans, protected only by their courage, against flyers! She could see the trail they had left, spelled out in broken flesh.
It would not change what Lia had to do. Although she sometimes served interests at conflict with her beliefs—or made greater sacrifices—she was guided by what she felt were certain self-evident (or at least fundamental) principles. Liberty, for all the word had fallen out of fashion, was the inheritance of every individual. One thing was eflftcacious in defending it (no guarantee being given even then): uncompromising courage. If Robret's counter-stroke had failed, if he himself were killed or taken, even if he had taken this Skyan girl as his lover, as Donol gloated, and forgotten his "unwed-ded wife," she must continue his effort. If her role in life was to keep promises made by others, so be it. She would keep promises of her own at a better place and time, once the other was accomplished.
At the stairfoot, which she reached at long last, the clamor had not altogether died. Upon the contrary, the ground floor seethed with movement at cross-purposes, yelling and killing. Somehow the rebels had broken through, or perhaps had been within the walls all along among the servants. Someone had smashed a litre of some incendiary— "molo-tov" was the ancient word, another of Robret's practical revivals—against one wall, destroying a prized Shandeen tapestry and blackening the ceiling. Smoke filled the hallway even yet, the smell of the molotov —and of its victims—overpowering.
Taking advantage of soldiers who should have been upon guard and people dragooned out of offices, still coping with results of the fire, Lia slipped along a wall, heart pounding loud enough to distract her even above the noise, and crossed where lingering smoke was thickest. She entered the abandoned suite. Inside, the thrust-battered body of a rebel slumped over a table, half-buried in tatters of a large map upon which tactical projections and situation estimates had been marked with grease-pencil. The dead man had been in process of stripping it from a wall. In seconds, Lia was
across the room to the inner oj0&ce, the door of which had been left ajar, uncertain what she sought. Access to Morven's sanctum was not a thing to be depended upon twice. The threat represented by alien technology was of the highest priority.
Cursory examination of the room yielded nothing of particular interest. The maps outside were of greater value. She was about to give up, with a sense of peril survived to no good purpose, when, running her fingers beneath an edge of the desk, she heard a faint springing and a portion of the desk's surface slid upward. Inside a small cabinet, open upon the side which faced a person seated at the desk, was an unfamiliar-looking object, rather like a lantern lying upon its side, transparent or translucent (Lia was uncertain which) with metal ends, integral base, and what appeared to be a wire handle.
No chair stood behind the desk. Moving one from before it, she sat down. With one eye upon the door—which she had closed and locked—and a comforting (if purposeless) grip upon the yoke of her confiscated thrustible, she extended her left hand and seized the wire handle.
Chapter XXX: The Dungeon and the Tower
Robret lay strapped to a mechanical table, clothing removed and minor wounds from his capture dressed. He was conscious, watching Donol with clear, sane eyes which refused any reply save contempt. Upon his chest, a folded serviette had been placed. In its middle, lay a thille.
Feeling deprived of his due, Donol shook his head. Not wasting further words, he glanced about the room, so harshly illuminated as to make his eyes water. It was cleaner than he had ever seen these basement chambers; walls, floor, and ceiling scrubbed until they shone—in all probability sterilized, as well—the junctures of the graniplastic blocks.
268 HENRY MARTYN
bulging under the load they bore, sealed to prevent contamination. Upon one spotless wall a colorful poster had been affixed, portraying the distorted image of a human figure the proportions of which were altered to convey the relative density of nerve-endings in any given portion of the body. Donol thought it grotesque but of considerable interest. Upon another table nearby, identical to that where Robret lay, some thoughtful individual had left a portable thille reader.
"Excuse me.** With a cheerful nod for his brother, Donol picked up the thille, crossed the room, slid it into the device. The image was of Morven, seated at his desk. At his side stood Alysabeth. Donol kept the volume low. Once the message had finished, he turned, grinning, to confront Robret again. "Our hosts," he declared, "are generous beyond compare. At least with me. They find ways to provide for my future, they give me gifts. Presently they will offer me an advantageous marriage and, in due course, a Drectorhood."
Robret failed to answer.
"As you have no doubt guessed, a betrayer lurks within Skyan ranks and always has done: none other than your own brother. You may be interested to learn the visit from the Rimn ambassador was a hoax.*' He paused to allow reply, received none, and determined to continue. "Morven and I believed telling you of the Rii would draw you into launching your raid at a place and time of our choosing. If you judge that I have allowed myself to be lured from the righteous Skyan cause, dear brother, you judge correctly. Promise of unlimited wealth and power have that effect upon me, I confess.*'
"Like whatever dark charms that bitch offers!'* Robret raised his head with effort. "Daughter that she is to Father's murderer, and your stepmother, you incestuous bag of shit! You will wind up with some embarrassing disease. It is obvious you already suffer a severe case of blue—'*
"Articulate at last,'* Donol frowned, "and correct. Alysabeth's influence upon me is considerable, but of a different character than you might expect. Marriage to the daughter of the man the Ceo sent puts me doubly in line to inherit the title of Drector-Hereditary.** He moved closer to
his brother, put his hands together, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin upon them. "I have always coveted your position in the birth order, resenting at the deepest level of my soul the fact that everything, everything! — "
Donol paused, drawing a number of deep breaths. "Everything would have devolved upon you, a man constitutionally incapable of enjoying pleasure of any kind. Now all that has changed. The one person remaining in the path of my ambitions is a wheelchair-bound invalid who cannot live much longer and, with all his heart, wants me to possess his lovely daughter and to inherit his position. You see why I could not resist. Who might, given my place?"
Robret let his head fall to the table. Donol smiled. "As if this were not enough, Morven has made me another gift, of your death, which he means to be the most elaborate demise of its sort ever contrived. Technicians, lately arrived from Hanover, will join us when I desire." He indicated the ceiling above the table. "Look upon yourself, Robret, this mirror has been provided to that purpose. Morven is a connoisseur and means this as an example of his subtlest art. He left a message, in your care, as it were, so that even I, the merest amateur, might appreciate what he has ordered done."
At a leisured pace, Donol moved to the head of the table where large cylinders stood upon their ends against a wall, hung with transparent tubes, one ending in a breathing masque. "You will suffer no pain. The means by which some persons will themselves to death will be circumscribed. I believe this a prime feature of Morven's genius. You will experience no distraction from the concept of what is being done. This is an unconventional request, the normal course being to enhance pain. Your mind, your senses—eyesight, hearing—will remain functional, perhaps more so than ever."
In the mirror, Donol watched his brother's eyes widen at these words. "Your body will be opened." The eyes showed more fear. Donol smiled. "Each of your vital organs will be removed, replaced by the machinery you see about you. This, for example, insures that blood, suffused with oxygen, continues to circulate after the heart and lungs are gone. Your stomach, liver, intest
ines, all will follow in inverse order
270 HENRY MARTYN
of their importance, so that, at each stage, you will deceive yourself the procedure remains reversible.*'
Donol's smile vanished as he leaned toward Robret, hissing. "It will not be, for its irreversibility depends upon no petty mechanical detail, but upon my will to see you discomfited. Which is implacable."
The smile reappeared, Donol's tone approaching that of conversation. "You will find you are unable to refrain from imagining I might be dissuaded. Measures will be taken so that you continue capable of pleading, at first for reprieve, at last for swift, clean death.*' Donol rubbed his hands together and circled the table. "And, dear brother, you will see every moment of it! Oblivion will be denied you! We even possess means to keep you from closing your eyes! From the neck up, you will feel normal. From there down, you will be a hollow shell, sealed up again neat and tidy, dependent upon my will for whatever remaining days, weeks if we are lucky, you enjoy, if that is the word for it." Donol halted, eyes bright, and leaned into his brother's face again. "Never again will you eat, eliminate, draw breath, let alone participate in life's more gratifying functions. I have not been told whether you will sleep. I should not think you would want to. The dreams might be worse than reality. Dependent upon your attitude, you may be allowed, trailing tubes and conductiles, to arise and perambulate. By any practical measure, you will be dead, a biological curiosity. Long after you weary of such an empty—pardon the expression—existence, you may be permitted to finish dying."
For a moment, Robret's eyes were wild, with horror at what he had been told or with murderous anger at his brother. In an instant, they regained a normal, almost sleepy appearance. Donol became alarmed lest his victim faint, depriving him of further pleasure. He reached out and slapped Robret across the face. Ignoring Donol, Robret whispered the name of the girl he had loved and left behind. Donol laughed.
"I looked forward to this, fearing you had formed another attachment." Which would be a pity, Donol thought, considering that Fionaleigh Savage was neither among the prisoners nor the dead. "Pay attention, now. You will find what I have to say of some importance." He watched his brother's eyes.
"You see, while wooing Morven's daughter, I have, by his explicit invitation, had my way with your woman, as well. Every day! I force myself upon her, use her in every manner possible, hurt her, demean her, humiliate her, punish her, do you hear, for every advantage you ever enjoyed by virtue of your birth!"
A sick look colored Robret's eyes. Again he struggled to raise his head. "Every perverse appetite Alysabeth stimulates within you—and frustrates?"
Donol hurled himself from the table. "Have it your way," he shouted, "dead man! Hollow man! I shall give you a choice of what to watch when the technicians begin. I shall go to the tower this instant and take your girl again, enthilling it so you can watch, as they eviscerate you, what I shall continue doing to her long after you are wormfood!" Robret's head sank to the table, his mouth working with pain. Donol laughed. "While you wait here, knowing what I do, here is a thought to savor. I planned this a long time. The lots we drew, determining our fates—Arran to certain death, you to ignominy, me to power, wealth, the sweet bodies of your woman and my own—were contrived. You drew the stem I intended, do you hear me, Robret?" This time Donol received no response. His brother's eyes were closed. "Robret!"
Frustrated, Donol slapped his brother's face again. Robret's head rolled. From his open mouth gushed a torrent of scarlet fluid. "Robret!"
The eldest brother had bitten his tongue through, and was dead.
Light unbearable. Heat impossible. Sound, which hammered, not just at Lia's ears but at every square siemme of her body. In the focus of her field of consciousness, a multi-limbed figure moving, swimming, at home amidst the intense and brilliant hammering which was the heartbeat of a living star.
It spoke. "Acknowledgement, Lia Woodgate, Knowledge-Conveyor and Inheritor of the affiliance Islay upon the planetary body Skye, of mutual existence and psychological visibility. I am a pseudoresponsive communicale, within limits capable of answering questions. My outer envelope is neces-
272 HENRY MARTYN
sitated by differences between our environments. Without it, I would not survive exposure to your surroundings, nor would you survive exposure to me."
Lia heard herself speak. "Who are you? What are you?" "My enthilleur is Zerushaa, Thinker-Questioner of the nation-state Aahnaash, of the Rii. It is his voice and appearance you experience. He has enthilled me within the central regions of a medium yellow sun, not unlike the primary of your own stellar complex, to convey to you knowledge of his existence, and to propose a transaction of mutual bene-
fit..."
A chill seemed to pass through Lia's body. " *Knowledge-Conveyor' I understand. Why do you call me Inheritor?"
The communicale appeared not to answer her question. "It is essential that you understand I am more than just a message enthilled earlier in another place. I am also capable of drawing information from those I communicate with and, in a limited fashion, forming conclusions."
Every moral fiber she possessed was called upon as Lia framed her next question. "You draw a conclusion which leads you to call me Inheritor?"
"Ritual formula of regret, that my capabilities are finite and that additional limitations have been placed upon them by my enthilleur. You, Lia Woodgate, Knowledge-Conveyor and Inheritor, must adjudge for yourself whether I have obtained correct data and make correct inferences. If so, I have come too late to be of use to anyone else of your affiliance."
"Arran is truly dead?"
"Ritual formula of regret, I possess no referent — yes: insufficient data regarding missing Arran, third of the affiliance. You have become the appropriate recipient because you are affiliated, under the customs of your people, with Robret of the affiliance Islay, Drector-Hereditary-in-Exile upon the planetary body of Skye. It is he who is dead. "
Lia missed the next comments made by the communicale. Had she not been experiencing what seemed much like a dream, she might well have lost consciousness with the shock of hearing this, even from an uncertain source.
"... Morven, capable of any act in order to achieve what he desires. The daughter, Alysabeth, is strategically insignifi-
cant. Yet within her, at a tactical level, exists unlimited potential for evil. You are to be warned in her presence. She has already helped subvert the moral well-being of the entity Donol, second of the affiliance."
"You t-tell me nothing new. What of this proposition you offer?"
"/ was coming to that ..."
A shadow fell across her. The first sound Lia heard as her eyes swam into focus was the voice of the Black Usurper. "It would appear Mistress Woodgate has certain skills with locks we were not aware she possessed/'
Out of sight, Alysabeth tittered. Aware of her surroundings, Lia sat in the chair she had placed behind the desk—the communicale had vanished—head pillowed upon its surface by her arm, from which the thrustible had been removed. Lifting her head, she saw the weapon lying in Mor-ven's lap.
"Tell me, Lia, have you been enjoying my practical joke?"
"Joke?" She was groggy. The word came in a croak.
"Why, yes. I am learning to program that contraption, and fear you are a victim of one of my small hoaxes. Pardon me, if what I ask is personal, but from your bruises, it appears you have enjoyed an energetic session with young Donol. Is this why you disdain the comfort of your apartment?"
"The message was false?" Lia slipped sideways and fell to the floor, unable to move, sobbing into the carpet despite herself. Morven looked down at the disheveled mess she had become and back across the office, appreciating more than ever the angelic beauty of his daughter.
"Ceo, what a fuss! Call the guard, if you please, call two guardsmen! Get her out. Send her back to the tower and have her better restrained." Alysabeth left to obey. Morven looked down again at Lia, now weeping without noise. "I
shall have a word with Donol, once he is through playing with his brother in the basement. He must learn to take better care of his toys."
A bewildering complexity of feelings concerning his brother struggled within Donol as he climbed to the ground floor
274 HENRY MARTYN
from the foundations of the Holdings. He dare not examine them now, and likeliest never would.
Passing through the outer oflBce, he noted that although the staff had retired, the place still bore signs of attack. The door to the inner ofl&ce was ajar. Having suffered the rebels' rude attentions, the hinges had sprung and the catch no longer mated. He paused before entering, distracted by a flashing light upon a receptionist's console which proved no more than a minor failure of the mechanism itself. Lifting a weary, shaking hand to push the door aside, he heard Morven's wheeled chair whine for an instant. He stayed his hand, uncertain what to tell the Usurper of his brother's premature demise, knowing he would be held responsible. Thus, by accident, he overheard—and by chance did not interrupt— what transpired within.
"Alysabeth ..." The girl's assenting voice was to Donol's ear false-toned. He stepped to one side. Yellow-tinted light of late afternoon—the sun would set within the hour—flooded the inner oflSce, shadowing the crack through which he peeked. Morven was visible in profile. Alysabeth stood before her father's chair, eyes cast downward, one small hand in each of his. As Donol watched, she lowered herself gracefully to her knees, gazing into his face, her slender forearms resting upon his thighs. "Relieve me."
To Donol's horror, aloof and haughty Alysabeth, whom he desired above all women (yet who had, with infuriating consistency, evaded his grasp), loosened her father's clothing with swift, delicate fingers, dropping her head to his lap, demonstrating in the most unmistakable terms her subservience. Morven sighed, closed his eyes, rested his hands upon her pale curls.
Coordinated Arm 01: Henry Martyn Page 30