They found the Brandr in the main control room, guarded by a final half dozen troopers. The squad leader froze, his leveled rifle wavering, as Ume-Kai appeared at the head of the stairs. The other soldiers did the same, eyes locking onto something in the far distance, and Ume-Kai bent to trigger the final lock, ghosts laughing and calling behind him. At that moment, one of the soldiers gave a strangled cry, and swung her rifle blindly. Without thinking, Rehur lunged forward, knocking her against the wall. The shot went wide, leaving a smoldering circle on the far wall. The rifle clattered to the floor, and another ghost grabbed it leveling it at the rest of the desperately unseeing guards.
"Watch them," Rehur shouted, struggling to keep his hold. The sense of unreality was abruptly broken, and he was suddenly himself again. Another ghost lunged forward, pinning the soldier's arms, and Rehur allowed himself to relax his hold a little. "You're dead, woman," he said, almost conversationally. The soldier checked, startled, then went limp, her face contorted with silent, angry tears. The door opened.
The control room was already crowded, but more than a dozen ghosts forced their way in behind Ume-Kai. Rehur shoved his way to the minne's side, remembering at last to draw his blaster. Halfrid Brandr and perhaps half a dozen others stood at bay, trying not to see the ghosts that faced them. Ume-Kai was watching them, a cold smile on his face, drawing out the moment. He was waiting too long, Rehur thought; in another minute, they'll break the spell, someone'll move, and we'll all get killed. He stepped forward, momentarily displacing the minne.
"All right," Rehur said, pitching his voice to carry to the guards outside as well. "You're facing a metaphysical problem, sors and amas—one that may rapidly become a physical problem. We are ghosts, as you can plainly see—or rather, as you can plainly not see. But we can see you, and we are armed and extremely unhappy. If you don't back away from that control console, sors, you will die true-death." He smiled maliciously, deliberately borrowing Ume-Kai's style of speech. "Of course, if you do, you'll be ghosts. As I said, a metaphysical problem."
There was a long silence. Halfrid's face writhed as he tried to suppress his anger, and Rehur felt the insane desire to giggle. The others—he recognized the Jan Holder, and the Fira Holder, and he'd seen some of the others when the Kinships met for the Ship's Council—stood very still, apparently oblivious to his speech. Then, very slowly, Halfrid turned on his heel until he'd turned his back on the waiting ghosts.
"Ramaht!" he said, voice hoarse with strain. "Trigger the charges!"
Rehur lifted the blaster and heard, from behind his right shoulder, the harsh sound of a crossbow being drawn to full cock. The young man sitting at the control console hesitated, hands held well away from the keys.
"That's enough," an older man, blond and thin-faced, said sharply. "Ramaht, don't touch a thing."
Halfrid wheeled on him, face purpling. "How dare you interfere, Anath?"
"This has gone too far," the blond answered. "Stennet, Soem, Hesed, I put it to you that we've reached stalemate, and in honor the only thing left for us is to negotiate."
"I agree!" That was the Fira Holder, stepping quickly around the edge of a secondary console. "We've got to talk."
The Jan Holder hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I agree, too," she said.
"How can you do this to me?" Halfrid demanded. "Where's your loyalty to the Kinship?"
Soem Jan turned on him. "If you'd had any sense, this wouldn't've happened. Damn you, Halfrid!"
The third man—he had to be either the Erling or the Elgeve Holder, though Rehur was not sure which—nodded slowly. "All right, Anath, I agree."
Anath nodded. "Good. Olen, raise Madelgar. Tell them we want to talk." He paused, mouth twisting bitterly. "Tell them what's happened."
"You're dead now," Halfrid cried.
The communications technician bent to obey, ignoring the Patriarch's shout.
"You're all dead," Halfrid said again. Rehur took a step forward, the wild elation cracking into a monstrous anger, and seized the genarch by the collar.
"Oh, no, I'm not dead," he said softly, fiercely. "I'm very much alive. All of us are—and we're not going to play dead ever again." With a sudden effort, he threw Halfrid bodily away from him. The Patriarch stumbled against the nearest console, almost tripping over its chair. After a moment, he subsided into it, his expression almost childishly bewildered.
"Sor," the technician said. "Madelgar wants to know who's calling."
Anath sighed. "Tell them Anath Brandr," he said. "I speak for the Kinship now."
Rehur closed his eyes, not knowing, suddenly, if he should laugh or cry, wanting to do both. They'd won, they'd saved Destiny—but he'd changed everything. Nothing could be the same again, for better or for worse: the Necropolis, the world he'd loved best, had ended.
Chapter 15
Trey Maturin
The call from Destiny reached us just before the eighteenth hour. I started at the sound, almost dropping the glass of tea I'd been nursing for the past hour, and Alkres gave a little cry of alarm. Leith, who'd been asleep on a pile of cargo pads, sat up quickly, going from sleep to waking in one smooth movement. Before she could say anything, however, the technician whispered a curse, and turned the volume to full, his eyes wide.
The voice that boomed from the speaker was familiar—the same technician we'd been dealing with for the past six hours—but the words were not. "I am instructed to inform you that we are no longer in uncontested control of the power plant, and that we wish to discuss terms by which we may come to some peaceful settlement."
I drew a slow, shaken breath, wondering what had happened. At my side, Alkres gave a little bounce of sheer delight. Leith said, with startling calm, "Ask him to explain what he means by 'no longer in uncontested control.'"
Terend, who had ousted our technician from the seat in front of the console at the first words from Destiny, relayed the question. There was a brief silence, broken only by the whisper of static, and then the Brandr technician said, with audible reluctance, "The power plant has been entered by ghosts acting on behalf of the Halex, who are currently holding the main control room."
Leith whistled softly, and Alkres said, "That means they're dead, too, all the Brandr." His smile faded slightly, and he looked up at me. "Doesn't it?"
"The hell with that," Leith said. "They're willing to negotiate." She turned back to Terend. "That doesn't sound like Halfrid to me. Who's speaking for them?"
Alkres was frowning now, looking puzzled. "Aren't they dead?" he asked again. "And aren't we dead if we talk to them?" I could see the same question on the faces of the Halex around me.
I took a deep breath, searching for the words that would convince them all that the world had already changed, and that nothing would be gained by fighting it. "Under the strictest code, I suppose they would be, and so would we," I said, calling back the tricks I'd learned as an actor to project my voice to the farthest corners of the hull. "But the strict code has been broken so many times already that I don't think we can ask anyone to follow it now. Besides, the whole purpose of the code is to make sure that right is done, isn't it? I think talking now—before more people are killed, more things destroyed, which will happen if we don't negotiate—is the only right thing to do." I was counting on my medium's status to add force to my words. I watched the faces as I talked. There was less wholehearted acceptance than I'd hoped for, but there was a sort of agreement, the slightly shamefaced agreement of people who've been given a dubious excuse to do something they wanted to do anyway. But it was still agreement. Alkres nodded slowly.
"I see that."
"Trey!" Leith beckoned me over to the communications console. I muttered my excuses to Alkres, damning the woman for her bad timing, and moved to join her.
"Do you know anything about an Anath Brandr?" Leith asked. "He says he's speaking for the Brandr now."
I nodded. "That's maybe the best thing that could happen. He was a voice of reason at Ixora's trial, tried to s
top the whole thing. We're in luck, Leith."
Leith nodded back, and said into the pickup, "All right, Anath, we're willing to talk with you."
It took us until mid-morning of the next calendar-day to work out the details of their surrender and all the safeguards for our return to Destiny—and for their return to Madelgar—but by clock-noon, the first hour of Sunset, the first flyers lifted for Destiny.
There was still the larger question to settle—a question that had grown from a mere Halex/Brandr feud to something that involved all five Kinships. Here, almost too late, I was able to act as a mediator, nudging the genarchs toward a workable solution, smoothing over the last rough spots created by the code. Even Araxie Fyfe came to terms at last. Only Halfrid resisted, unable really to understand what was happening, and he was gently but firmly eased out of the Kinship government. The whole question was clearly too big for the Ship's Council, or for any existing governmental body. After weeks of talking, the genarchs agreed to create a new assembly, one that would represent ghosts and para'anin as well as the living. Ume-Kai, the minne who'd led the attack on the power plant, and the president of the Streetwalkers' Tong were the ghosts' representatives from the Halex Mandate. I looked for Rehur among their party—after all, he'd been a leader of their group, too, there at the last—but he was nowhere to be found. The other ghosts and para'anin were strangers, the latter drawn mostly from the various unions' upper echelons.
Once the assembly began to meet, there was little that I could do to influence its decisions. I was too closely associated with the Halex to be accepted as an independent voice. I was forced to watch from the sidelines, unable to act, while the discussions went on without me. It was intensely frustrating, made worse by the fact that Leith had somehow managed to become an acknowledged part of the assembly —in effect, its mediator. I told myself that it was just the differences of training and situation, but I couldn't help being jealous of her position. I knew then it was time to leave Orestes.
Alkres, acting now under the advice of the Ingvarr and Ansson Holders, as well as the new Rhawn Holder, Yslin's sister, agreed to release me from my contract on the proviso that I find another mediator to replace me. I agreed, glad of the work, and threw myself into those negotiations. Then, quite suddenly, it was over. Anë Emilat, an old acquaintance from Baldur, agreed to take the job, and I was left with nothing to do for a calendar-week until she arrived.
I tried to stay away from the assembly and from the people I'd known at the Tower—they were doing effective, important things, and I was left impotent—but it was hard to find any substitute for politics. The Necropolis, open now in the Day as well as the Dark, was wholly changed. The theater still functioned, except for the cross-talk companies, which were slowly dying, deprived of the spice of the forbidden, but the plays had lost the context that gave them edge and meaning. It would come back—I hoped—when things were settled, but for now it was the ghost of its former self. I could not find Rehur, or any of the members of Witchwood.
In the end, I found myself back at the stadthall where the assembly met, watching the debates from the visitors' gallery. Viewed dispassionately, things were changing for the better: already, there was a commitment to a written constitution that would explicitly supersede any social code, and the class of "ghost" was to be outlawed. The greatest debate was over what should be done about the para'anin—and, the reverse of that question, how much of code and Kinship could be retained. And much would be retained, as custom if not as law, that much was clear.
At the midday break, I followed the crowd from the gallery, but instead of heading outside to the dozens of vendors' carts drawn up in the Stadthall Square or to any of the restaurants nearby, I made my way through the side corridors to the Stadthall Garden. I'd discovered it almost by accident during the negotiations that created the assembly—a small, almost pitlike room lit by a massive stained glass rosette that was either a skylight or particularly sophisticated lamp. Nothing really grew in this garden; instead, the floor was spread with silver-white gravel, stones—crystal, faux-agate, goldstone, all the mineral wealth of Orestes and Electra—rising like islands from that severe sea, their colors changing in the glow of the rosette. It was a wonderfully serene place, and I felt the need of its calm.
I turned the last corner, pushing through the faded curtain onto the little balcony that ran the length of one wall before leading into the twisted stair that brought one down into the garden proper. I started along the balcony, and was suddenly aware of rising voices. Someone was here before me. I hesitated, knowing myself hidden by the balcony columns, and glanced cautiously down onto the well-raked gravel.
Leith stood there, hands on hips, confronting a taller, fairer woman. I hadn't seen Guil since Madelgar; for a moment, that memory swam before me, chillingly real. Then I shook myself, forcing myself to see the para'an as she really was. She had somehow changed since our flight to Electra, though I could not quite define how she was different. Her mouth still held the same stern line, and her eyes were still unreadable beneath the halo of straw-blond hair. Then I realized what it was: the feral wariness—the sense of something coiled and waiting, balanced on the edge—was gone. She was not as dangerous as she once was, and perhaps more vulnerable.
The two women had been talking while I stood there, their voices too low to carry to me. I started to back away, leaving them to their discussion, when Guil's voice rose suddenly.
"I don't know! Hell, I don't like myself any more!"
Leith took a step forward, holding out her hand. Guil shook her head and turned away, starting up the staircase to the balcony. Before I could make my escape, she'd brushed past me and was gone. I took a step backward, wanting to get away, and Leith called, "Trey?"
Reluctantly, I stepped forward, and leaned over the balcony rail. "Leith, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."
Moraghan shook her head and motioned for me to join her in the garden. "You didn't, really," she said. "Anyway, I've been wanting to talk to you."
There was no polite way to refuse her. Unwillingly, I made my way down the stairs and stepped out onto the sand, marred now by two sets of footprints. Leith seated herself on the nearest of the rocks, legs crossed, gloved arm held close to her body. She was wearing Oresteian clothes now, knitted to her size, but she still wore the long glove, hiding the maimed arm.
"I hear you're leaving soon," she said, after a moment.
"That's right." I sat on the edge of a great chunk of faux-agate the size and shape of a small tambour, waiting to see what would happen. I was still jealous of her, of her position on the planet, and fiercely embarrassed that I'd been so inept as to witness the scene between her and Guil. I did my best to stay impassive, knowing I was being unreasonable, but I was certain she'd see.
Leith looked away, staring at her booted foot, and I realized abruptly that she was almost as uncomfortable as I was. "I won't be leaving," she said, after a moment.
"You're staying with Guil?" I asked, involuntarily.
"Yes." For a moment, Leith glared at me; then, with an effort, she relaxed a little. "If and when she'll have me. But I'd've stayed anyway. I think—I know I'm needed here. I haven't been needed in a long time."
"But with Guil?" I asked, more gently this time.
Leith stared at me, visibly fighting back anger. "I want to. As for what she did—I don't condone it, but good God, I can understand it. The way they've treated her, the way they've treated all para'anin—" She broke off, and went on, more calmly, "I saw this kind of thing before, when I was with the Peacekeepers—people who didn't know just how angry they were until it was too late and they'd done something crazy."
I looked away in my turn. Leith was right, I supposed, though the images of Madelgar still swam in my mind. Guil's exultant face as she left that blood-smeared cellar was too clear for comfort. It had been a dreadful revenge. Guil knew what she had done, too—I don't like myself, she had said—and that wouldn't make things any easier for Leith.
But Leith was the Peacekeeper; as she'd said, she'd dealt with this sort of thing before. "What will you be doing?" I asked, trying to express an interest, a sympathy, I didn't entirely feel.
"I'll be a sort of grand arbiter," she answered, and gave a little, almost embarrassed shrug. "They understand the Oath, why I did what I did. And I understand the code."
I nodded, slowly, the envy draining away. She did understand the code, probably better than I ever could—she felt it, grasped instinctively the emotional nuances that had always defeated me—but she did so because she had been a Peacekeeper, and the Peacekeepers followed a code as demanding and complex, if more flexible, as the Oresteians'. I hadn't committed myself—couldn't commit myself, not merely if I was to remain a mediator, but also because it wasn't in me to give myself unreservedly to anything. I had done everything I could for Alkres, and for Orestes as a whole; the sad thing was, a mediator with Leith's temperament could probably have done it better. I sighed, recognizing a painful truth. "I wish you the best of luck, Leith."
"Thank you." She nodded, gravely. "We'll manage, Trey, I promise."
I saw Rehur a final time, the night before I was to leave. He was ill at ease in the Family townhouse, and, I thought, uneasy without the protection of the ghostmark. We made love again, because it was easier than talking, and afterward things were a little better, raising the memory of that first night in the Necropolis. He was going off-world himself, he said, as soon as Rowan and Ash could raise the final freight payment. Witchwood was planning to compete in the Lesser Dramatists', the month-long open competition on Dionysus. If they won, he reminded me eagerly, they would be allowed to enter the Greater Dramatists', competing against groups with Conglomerate-wide reputations. I knew the dream perfectly well—I'd left Athene myself in pursuit of it—and I'd learned the odds against it since then, but I wished him luck all the same. He had the potential to be a better actor than I had been, I suspected, and I hoped he would fulfill it.
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