by Martha Wells
He threw her a look though it was too dark to read expressions. He had noticed before that she thought of people in terms of tactics, like a warleader gauging an enemy force. Not a bad way of thinking during a battle, but he had had the feeling for a long time that Tremaine had been at war before the Gardier ever appeared. But if they had to deal with Pasima, that could be helpful. “Not now that you’re here,” he told her with a shrug. “Otherwise, she could try, since she’s related to the Andrien by marriage.”
Tremaine was looking down at the deck, her face in shadow. “Nicanor’s marriage to Visolela?”
“Yes.”
Tremaine nodded. “Who here can Pasima order around? Besides the people she brought with her.”
Ilias cocked his head, thinking it over. “Nobody, really. Gyan’s been married once, so he’s on his own. Arites doesn’t have a family, but he’s more or less attached to Andrien, so he wouldn’t have to obey her.” He tried to think of a way to describe Arites’ method of cheerfully agreeing with someone like Pasima but somehow never really aligning himself with her. “He might anyway, but not if it interfered with something he really wanted to do. Besides, he likes you better.”
“He does?” Apparently surprised, Tremaine considered that. “What about Kias?”
“Kias is Ranior’s sister’s son.” At her blank silence, he added, “He’s your cousin now.”
“Oh.” Tremaine sounded a little overcome.
“What’s your family like?” Ilias winced, hoping the question didn’t sound as wary aloud as it had in his head. Considering what Tremaine had said of her father, that she had a wizard for a foster father, and that the god that lived in the sphere now had been her uncle, it was a tricky question. The only remotely normal one in the bunch seemed to be the canny old man they had met just before leaving the Rienish city, and he had been some kind of warleader.
But Tremaine just shrugged. “There aren’t any more Villers, and the Denares—that was my mother’s family—all lived out in the country around Lodun, and we never had much to do with them. Except my great-grandmother, but she died a long time before I was born. The Valiardes did sort of start speaking to me for a while there, but Nicholas chased them off when he found out. They never came to Vienne much, anyway.”
They reached the end of the deck, where a terraced balcony looked down on the two open sections of deck below and the stern. The ocean seemed bigger here, without the bulk of the ship at their side. Ilias wandered across the open space, fascinated by the perspective. The churning white of the wake was visible on the dark water, a wide trail that stretched across the sea back toward Cineth. He couldn’t believe how far they had come already. Shaking off the entrancing effect, he turned to see Tremaine standing on the open porch of a rounded structure projecting out onto the deck. Narrow windows lined the walls, and Ilias went to one, trying to peer inside, but the dark was impenetrable. “What is it?” he asked.
He saw her enigmatic smile in the moonlight. “A surprise.” After fumbling with the keys for a time she got the door open. Ilias followed her, standing just inside and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room.
Moonlight poured in the myriad of windows that faced the stern and stretched back along the port and starboard. It gradually revealed silver-banded walls and glass etched with strange designs that seemed to float in a pool of night. “What…is it?” Ilias repeated, a little cautious.
Tremaine shut the door, further sealing them in darkness. “It’s called the Veranda. It’s just another place for eating, really. And dancing. It’s a little hard to tell with the tables and chairs missing. The musicians would sit on the upper level.” She moved forward, and he realized the glass bars sectioned off a raised dais across the back of the room. The dark pool below was just an effect of the deep black of the floor covering. He took a careful step forward, surprised that it felt soft underfoot. A deep carpet, not wood.
Squinting, he could see the pale light from the windows touch painted figures between the broad bands of silver on the wall, all of them leaping and dancing. Tremaine trailed a hand along the silver-and-glass banister. “There was a silver grand piano there once, but it’s gone now, probably in storage somewhere. If the warehouses survived the bombing. And the invasion.”
“Oh.” He heard the note in her voice that meant she was thinking too much about her home, about what the Gardier were doing to it. He stepped up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and rubbing his cheek against her hair. Just from the brief walk along the deck, her scent was blended with the sea air. “You people like to eat in fancy rooms a lot, don’t you. There must be a hundred of them on this ship.”
“Not that many, but yes.” She turned in the circle of his arms and slid her hands into his hair. “Oh, by the way, I’m terrible at relationships, but this part I can do.”
Chapter 8
I was told you lost contact with our launch base on the western coast,” Adram said, his brow creased with worry as he shut the door behind him. The quarters of Benin, the chief Scientist, were plain, though the wood furniture was of good quality and the worktable well lit. It was warmer than the passage outside, which was lined with masonry and always held the dampness from the often rainy weather.
“Not all contact, fortunately.” His brief smile at Adram’s entrance fading, Benin took another glass out of the cabinet and poured a share of amber liquor into it. It was like drinking raw grain alcohol, with a whiff of fuel oil, but Adram accepted it anyway. “We know what happened.”
“You do?” Adram lifted his brows, inviting further explanation. Benin was the chief of the Scientists in Maton-devara, and there were few here he could speak to as an equal.
These people had once called themselves the Aelin, but they seldom used the word anymore. It was a thing of their past, like the small villages that had once dotted the land and the careful craftsmanship that had constructed this city. Their future was in the airships and their other stolen bits of knowledge. Part of that future was the strict divisions of Scientist, Command and Service, which allowed no casual contact between the castes, and the hierarchies within each were equally strict. Adram, as a nocaste, appreciated Benin’s patronage as much as he knew Benin appreciated the company. “I hate to think they would escape after wreaking such destruction.”
Benin’s face was serious. “It was a terrible thing. An entire stronghold wiped out, as far as we can tell, and the patrol ship that arrived soon after.” He took a seat in the single armchair, grunting as he stretched his right leg to ease the pain of an old injury. “But we managed to place a presence aboard their ship.”
Adram frowned, taking the other chair. He absently swirled the liquor in his glass despite its lack of bouquet. His command of the language was excellent, but he didn’t understand why Benin had used the word presence rather than agent. He knew Benin would explain if he was permitted to, and the fact that he hadn’t indicated the information was important indeed. “One of the native ships you spoke of? Surely they were too primitive to be of much use, even to the Rien.”
“No. A Rien ship. Not a warship, some sort of converted transport craft. It’s odd to think of so much resource wasted on a ship just for pleasure travel, but—But I don’t have to explain it to you.” Benin smiled ruefully. “Sorry, I’m too used to using small words and simple diagrams to try to impart these concepts to the Service officers. Not to mention the Command.”
Adram’s mouth twisted slightly in amusement as he acknowledged the truth of that. “The Rien are trying to reach Parscia by traveling through the staging world?”
“It’s hard to get information at the moment. I should know more when I get the report from the gate.” Benin’s expression sobered. “No matter how well the advance through Rien territory is proceeding, we can’t let this group evade us.”
Adram let his breath out. “Yes. I can tell you, these people can be tenacious. And vicious.” He shook his head slowly, letting his eyes go dark as if with painful memo
ry. He added, almost absently, “Do they still have the device you told me about?”
“Yes.” Benin leaned forward, intent. “You understand—it’s only conjecture—but if we could discover how it works, and add such a device to the prototype, it would be—” He looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “But I won’t burden you with my hopes.”
Adram gestured, palm open. There were still many questions about the Aelin’s power that he didn’t understand, that Benin and others simply refused to explain, and every scrap of information was important. “It’s no burden—”
The door opened without a knock or a word to announce the visitor, as was their custom. Adram saw it was Disar, the head of their Command division, and got to his feet, quickly schooling his features from annoyance at the interruption to blandness. Benin’s rank allowed him to show his annoyance, though he obviously knew it would be pointless to say they had been speaking privately or that he was off duty.
Disar fixed his cold gray eyes on Benin. He had been a young man when Adram had first met him more than three years ago, with well-cut features and dark hair. He had prematurely aged, the flesh of his cheeks lined and sagging slightly, his cropped hair sprinkled with gray. The cause of the change was visible in his left temple, where an irregular lump of rock crystal an inch across protruded. The scarred flesh around it was tinged with green, and Adram didn’t think the man would last much longer in his position as Command Liaison. Disar said to Benin, “Your attention is required in council.”
Benin nodded grimly, glancing at Adram. “Perhaps this is the report I’ve been waiting for.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m on my way.”
Disar’s eyes went blank as, message delivered, the force living inside the crystal released him. Disar blinked, threw a stony glance of contempt at Adram, then pointedly stepped to the door, holding it open for Benin. The chief Scientist finished his drink and set the glass on his worktable. “We’ll speak later,” he said to Adram.
Adram nodded, following them out of the room and into the dimly lit stone passage. He pulled the door shut behind him as Benin strode down the hall. As he turned to go the other way, a grip on his collar spun him around, pinning him against the wall. The punch caught him in the cheekbone, snapping his head back against the stone. He tasted blood, and the dim corridor light went black for an instant; he let himself sag bonelessly. Disar dragged him up and Adram opened his eyes to see the Command officer glaring into his face. Adram kept his eyes away from the crystal, though it was like being forced to confront a suppurated boil or an open plague sore. “You take up his time,” Disar said through gritted teeth.
“I’m working with him. It’s my duty.” Adram kept his voice even, though the heady desire nearly overcame him to smash Disar’s face in and pound his head into the floor until the crystal popped loose from his skull in fragments.
“The Rien who destroyed the launch base will be found by Command,” Disar said thickly, eyes narrowed with rage. “They’ll die or be processed as avatars or go to the labor pens, and the credit will be ours, not yours.”
Adram dropped his eyes, to hide the bitter smile that threatened to twist his bloody lips. “I do my duty,” he said softly. “As do we all.”
Disar released him with a shove, turning away to follow Benin. Adram pushed off the wall, lifting a hand to his throbbing jaw. We’ll see who finds them, he thought, watching Disar’s back, this time letting the small cold smile reach his eyes. And we’ll see if he still wants the credit then.
Chapter 9
Tremaine woke when Ilias nuzzled her temple, his beard stubble rough against her skin and his breath warm in her hair. He said quietly, “Someone’s here.”
“Hmm?” She yawned and blinked vaguely as Ilias rolled off the couch, shaking his hair out and grabbing for his pants. Dawnlight flooded the Veranda, and she had a good view of the two long strips of scar tissue that ran down his back. They stretched from the inside of his shoulder blades to just below the base of his spine. Ilias hadn’t said how it had happened, but she suspected it was a souvenir of his and Giliead’s last deadly encounter with Ixion. Ilias hadn’t said much about that either, except that Ixion had used a transformation curse on him and that Giliead had thought he would have to kill Ilias. We are going to have to do something about Ixion, she thought, eyes narrowing in speculation. Something permanently fatal, preferably. She shook her head, putting it aside for later.
They had spent the night on the long black couch built against the bandstand’s balustrade, facing the windows that looked out over the stern. In the moonlight the Veranda might have been some pocket of the fayre world, but it was a nightclub after all and the silver-banded walls, etched-glass balustrades and the matte black carpet should have looked tawdry in the dawn. Blinking as she gazed around, Tremaine saw that it had obviously been designed to be beautiful all the time. The early graying light cast the black and silver in shadow and picked out the bright dabs of color in the mural of entertainers. The leaping figures were all risquély garbed ballet, opera and music hall performers, with Parscian scarf dancers and Aderassi tumblers mixed in.
Tremaine sat up, scratching her head and fondly watching Ilias struggle into his pants. Last night, thinking of the silver piano’s fate had sparked a poetic image of the Ravenna as carrying away the last vestige of Ile-Rien, the last living remnant of a way of life and a history and a people. But it was a remnant trapped in time like an insect in amber, never to change. It had been much easier to think about something else. Pulling his shirt over his head, Ilias eyed her thoughtfully. “You didn’t hear what I said, did you?”
“What?” Then Tremaine realized she could hear someone fumbling with keys in the door to the right of the bandstand, the one that led to an inside corridor. Cursing violently, she snatched her shirt up off the floor. Ilias threw her a grin.
He was leaning against the balustrade regarding the door suspiciously when it opened. Giaren, Niles’s secretary and assistant in the Viller Institute, stepped inside. He was a slightly younger version of Niles, with the same sleek tailoring, though as far as Tremaine knew the two men weren’t related. He spotted Ilias first and stopped, uncertain, saying, “Is Miss Valiarde here?”
“Yes.” Still barefoot but having managed to get her pants on too, Tremaine waved to him over the glass rail behind the couch. “What is it?”
Giaren advanced into the room, taking in the situation with a slightly embarrassed frown. “Gerard sent me to find you. He needs to speak with you immediately.” He cleared his throat, and couldn’t help adding in exasperation, “You couldn’t go back to your cabin?”
“My in-laws live in my cabin. How did Gerard know where—Wait.” Tremaine picked up her boots, examining them suspiciously. One of the brass grommets was missing from the right one. “Damn it.”
“What?” Ilias demanded, glancing back at her.
She explained in Syrnaic, “That locator spell Gerard used to follow us around the boat when we were searching for Ixion. He took a piece off my boot so he could do it at any time.” Sometimes having sorcerers for friends and relations was damned inconvenient. She switched back to Rienish to ask Giaren, “What does Gerard want?”
“There’s some sort of problem with the Gardier prisoners.”
The Isolation Ward where the prisoners were kept was just a few levels below the Veranda on the A deck. It wasn’t accessible from the interior corridors and to reach it, one had to go out on deck and then down a set of steps to a little well that sheltered the entrance from weather and the view of strolling passengers. Now a brisk morning breeze made the well cold despite the bright sunlight. The metal door, which had been in pristine condition when Tremaine had passed through it yesterday, now looked as if it had been hit by a battering ram. Except there’s no room to get one down here, she thought, studying the situation critically and with some alarm. This is…going to be a problem. Whatever had struck the door had driven in a dent several inches deep, and the edges of the impact were blackened with
what seemed to be soot. Ilias sat on his heels to examine it more closely, shaking his head at the depth of the damage.
Gerard eyed the door grimly. He had changed into a tweed jacket and trousers and white shirt, though he hadn’t bothered with a tie. His clothes were slightly rumpled, but he had shaved. With his face sallow from exhaustion, he looked like a man who had just recovered from a three-day drunken debauch that he had not particularly enjoyed. He said, “The guard detachment heard absolutely nothing.”
Ilias snorted. “Lucky for them.”
Gerard grimaced. “Yes, I don’t like to think what would have happened if one of them had opened the door. But they had no idea anything was wrong until their relief arrived at dawn.”
Giliead nodded slowly, contemplating the damage with folded arms and a thoughtful expression. “It was stopped by a curse? I can’t feel one on the door.”
On the open deck above them, Tremaine heard Colonel Averi shouting orders at someone. The outside of each deck had been patrolled regularly last night, but the guards had apparently seen nothing unusual. From the sound of it, Averi was not happy with that report.
“A ward,” Gerard corrected. “The ship is riddled with old protective wards, cast when she was first launched. To guard against theft, fire, to strengthen seals around watertight doors, to strengthen the hull. It’s common practice on Rienish ships. Or it was, when we had ships.” He absently cleaned his spectacles, using them to gesture toward the door. “This was a ward meant to prevent forcible entry. I’m not sure if it was specifically intended to guard the Isolation Ward, or if it was cast on all doors to crew areas. It wasn’t meant to harm anyone attempting to force the door, just to keep the locked door sealed until it was unlocked from the inside.”