“This is insufferable! I am not on trial here. I demand—”
The Janus interrupted him, and Vannis wondered if he left the augmentors on by accident or not.
“Be silent, Torigan! Here justice alone may speak unbidden and all others only at our let. Sit down!”
Torigan abruptly collapsed as though someone had struck him. He swiveled, sending a desperate glance at Srivashti and Hesthar, which Vannis thought as revealing as Ixvan’s dry recitation.
They ignored him.
The Janus switched off the augmentors, but his voice was still commanding. To either side of him his fellow jurists sat impassively. “Jesimar vlith-Kendrian, stand forward for the execution of justice.”
Kendrian stepped down from the box and walked slowly to a position directly before the bench. His expression was dazed, as though what was happening had not penetrated yet. He stopped before the bench, his long, thin fingers pulling at the hem of the ritual harlequin tunic.
As Vannis watched, the old man looked at each of his fellow jurists in turn; then he lifted up the golden two-faced mask that gave him his title, rotated it about, and settled it down upon his head. Kendrian looked up into the smiling aspect of the mask.
“The justice of the Mandala has proved you. You stand before us innocent of murder,” said the Janus, his voice hollow from within the shining metal hood.
The Career and the Manumit rose. The choleric Judge of the Binding bowed mutely to Kendrian, then remained standing. The Manumit spoke, not bowing. “We loose your bonds and restore your natural state to you, a free man.”
With a violent movement Kendrian tore the harlequin tunic asunder and flung it to the floor, then turned around, his face nearly as bleached as his rumpled prison shirt. He leaned against the judges’ bench as Fierin jumped up from beside Brandon and ran to him.
Brandon stood, stilling the rising comments of the audience.
“The Mandala recognizes the Phoenix House,” said the Janus, removing his mask and setting it aside as all three jurists seated themselves again.
“The Phoenix House petitions the Mandala for a Writ of Nescience against Stulafi Armagent Provan Weston Y’Talob, presently Archon of Torigan,” Brandon stated in a carrying voice.
“So ordered,” the Janus said. “Let his ears be stopped and his voice unheard, let him be returned to the state of nature, his senses unaided by the system he has abused.”
After a short, tense pause a shockingly loud ululation exploded from the Archon’s boswell. It flashed brightly as he shouted with pain and tore it off, flinging it viciously at the Janus. He was now permanently cut off from the DataNet, and his own databanks would soon be ripped open and thoroughly inspected for other crimes.
He must have had the neural induction on; Torigan would have a terrible headache for days, but that was the least of his worries, thought Vannis as the bailiff and two sergeant-executors stepped forward to take him into custody. The Archon now stood alone as his former adherents withdrew in every direction.
The hum of comment rose again as Torigan was led from the room. Vannis became aware of a grumbling roar, distant but growing louder. Others heard it, too. Some Polloi tapped at their handvids uselessly, tension apparent in many wrists on the Douloi side.
That will be my aid, Captain Vi’ya. The rest is up to you, Vannis thought as she turned her gaze toward the tall, black-haired Dol’jharian .
The huge double door trembled to a heavy blow. Shouted words carried: ”Murderers! Traitors! Kill them all!”
Following the shouts came the sharp popping z-z-z-i-i-p of neurojacs, then, suddenly, shockingly, the louder report of plasma weapons. The roar outside retreated, but inside, someone screamed, “They’re coming to kill the Rifters!”
And pandemonium erupted.
The Janus banged on the gong, then stopped as he looked down at the console.
“The court of Mandalic Justice is adjourned,” he shouted over the uproar, and the three jurists vanished out the door behind their desk.
Brandon flexed, activating an override on the suppressors.
To erode someone’s social prestige took only smiling questions, hesitations of deference, and maybe a frank talk or two in the Whispering Gallery—at the hour when it was most crowded.
But to take down political figures required a conflagration. You thought I was a political innocent, all of you, Vannis was thinking as she sat watching. That threshold has been crossed, and here is my true Enkainion.
Abruptly Brandon started toward the double doors, shaking off the guards, the counselors, the hangers-on who tried to stop him, or to hustle him to safety through the exit the judges had used.
At the front on the Polloi side, Kendrian and his sister were locked in an embrace. His crewmates crowded around them. Only the tall woman turned her head, watching.
As Brandon made his way through the crowd toward the doors, he gave some orders, and Vannis saw Srivashti and Hesthar efficiently separated from the swarm of Douloi below the judges’ bench. Marines marched the two through a side entrance, as the Telvarna’s crew moved toward the back entrance.
Osri Omilov fought his way through the growing, surging crowd, and he was swallowed up with Fierin. Only the tempath was left.
Vannis watched Brandon’s head lift, his blue eyes staring across the human sea straight into Vi’ya’s gaze.
Then Vi’ya turned, and was gone.
Vannis’s vision began to sparkle around the edges. She released the breath she had been holding, and loosened her grip on the chair arms. She laid her hands quietly into her lap, calmed her breathing, and smiled.
THREE
‘They cannot arrest me!” Torigan moaned, clutching his head, his face shiny with sweat. “I am an Archon! Do not touch me!”
Hesthar edged away in distaste as the sergeant-executors grasped his elbows and pulled him out of his chair, provoking another scream of rage. Flecks of spittle flew from his twisted lips. He stank sharply of fear-sweat. Of course Stulafi would be the first to lose control, Hesthar thought in loathing.
Precedence vanished into the chaos of a growing crowd trying to get at Torigan as he was taken away. Voices sharpened into angry shrillness. A meaty arm knocked into Hesthar, forcing her into the pillowy curve of someone’s breast. Hesthar jabbed viciously with her elbow, gloating at the trespasser’s gasp of pain.
She looked about for the judges. They’d sensibly withdrawn. But then a tall Marine appeared before her, weapon held at the ready across her chest. “Come this way,” she said.
Hesthar stepped forward, rather than back, endeavoring to intimidate, but it didn’t work. Then she heard another Marine say to Srivashti, “This is for your own protection.”
“I demand to have my bodyguard with me,” Srivashti said hoarsely.
“As you like,” was the response, and Felton silently appeared out of the crowd.
Hesthar sighed in relief. That idiot Brandon Arkad had to have sent them. Perhaps he was worth something, after all.
Of course she must be protected, as benefitted a member of the Privy Council. But why would that extend to Srivashti?
Her assumptions faltered when the Marines opened the door to a small room, where they found Torigan standing, fists on hips. The door shut on the four of them, and Torigan sank onto the best chair in the room, sighing with relief. “A fine thing,” he growled, “when an archon can be arrested like any common fool.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Hesthar said between her teeth. It was a direct insult to take the best chair—she had the precedence, as a Privy Counselor. And he knew it.
Torigan swung about and glared at her. “For you, too, you smirking bint—”
“Shut up. Both of you.” Srivashti had gone to the wall, fingers working rapidly at the keypads of the small console. This room lay outside the suppressor fields.
The screen flickered over the newsfeeds, stopping on Ares 25.
Hesthar was about to protest that she didn’t want to be
harassed by novosti screaming about the Telos-chatzing trial, when she saw a picture of herself, and the words turned to acid in her throat.
Herself. In the Ivory Hall.
Backing away, just before the bomb went off.
“Fierin,” Srivashti breathed.
“She had it all along,” Hesthar screamed. “You weak-minded, sentimental nullwit—”
Srivashti’s his eyes narrowed to slits. “Shut up,” he said softly. “Or I will strangle you.”
“No!” Torigan screamed. “No, no, no!”
Hesthar and Srivashti swung around; black sports danced across Hesthar’s vision as Nik Cormoran, his voice sharpened by excitement, laid out in damning detail her dealings with Eusabian.
“What’s this?” Srivashti demanded. He turned on her, his face distorted with rage. “You sold the Suneater to Eusabian? You witless, greedy fool! What did you think he would do with it? What did he promise you that could—” He broke off in disgust.
“I had phages all over that data,” Hesthar whispered.
“That was Cheruld’s datapacket,” Srivashti said, exerting himself to recover control. To think. “Someone found another replicate before your phages did and shepherded it through to Ares.” He stalked two paces away, then froze. “Thetris,” he hissed. “Has to be. Betrayed us all.”
“We’re dead,” Torigan keened, head in his hands. “We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dead—”
Hesthar gave in to long-withheld desire and slapped him hard across the face. “Get control of yourself,” she snarled, pleasure spiking her anger at the tears of pain in his eyes. She raised her hand to strike him again, but he cowered away. At least Srivashti was being a realist.
Srivashti’s hair drifted across his forehead, his face haggard. “This is not protection, this is an arrest,” he said. And to Felton, “Get us out of here.”
Felton bowed, his lank hair swinging forward to hide his face. He moved to the door and knocked.
The door opened, and a Marine poked her head inside. Then she fell to the ground, choking. Felton stomped across the back of the spasming woman’s neck, then stepped close to the other guard, who got off one shot, but it went wide because he, too, had made the mistake of breathing. Five seconds later he was as dead as his partner.
Srivashti and Hesthar raced out, Torigan struggling at their heels. They made it down two hallways before pounding footsteps sounded from an adjacent corridor. A second later they came face-to-face with a crowd of Polloi, some waving sticks broken off furniture, and others wielding improvised clubs.
“That’s them!” a woman screamed. “That’s the traitor Gessinav!”
“And the murderer Torigan!” shouted a man.
“I demand—” Torigan never got any further.
Srivashti met Hesthar’s gaze and reached. She also reached. They took hold of Torigan by the arms and shoved him directly into the crowd, who fell upon him, screaming obscenities.
Hesthar and Srivashti ran off in the opposite direction, but not fast enough to escape the horrible, wet ripping noises and agonized screams that died away in bubbling agony.
Screams and shouts echoed from several directions; when Srivashti and Hesthar reached corners, they dashed away from the noise. Once they emerged into an open area, but a quick look around showed no one about. The Kamera, like the civilian port, lay near the south pole of Ares. They spotted lifts across the plaza from where they had emerged.
Srivashti wiped his hair back with a shaking hand. “This rabble knows where we live. They’ll go to our territory first. Easier access. We’ve got to get to my shuttle. That’s Dock 9.”
“Fastest way is through the spin axis,” Hesthar said, activating her boswell. “The transtubes go around, and they’ll be swarming with Polloi.” As they ran, Hesthar heard a faint noise, like a rushing wind.
“Hell,” Srivashti muttered, looking upward.
Hesthar’s neck tightened. She forced herself to look up—but it was only a nuller bubble pacing them.
“I wish I had a jac,” Srivashti said grimly. “Felton?” Srivashti asked as they fell into a lift.
Felton shook his head, opening his palms. Hesthar knew his only weapons were his hands and his breath, as demanded by the strict code of the Ultschen, and the nuller’s bubble was likely proof against the latter.
“It’s merely that senile nuller,” Hesthar said, turning her shoulder to the others as she activated her boswell again. “He can’t do anything.”
“Even an old scorpion can sting,” Srivashti said grimly as they ran into the lift.
Hesthar activated an override code and they all caught their breath as the lift accelerated savagely upward on its curving path. Soon enough it opened to an empty concourse. They hurriedly applied the sticky soles to their feet to counteract the infinitesimal gravity. Then the nuller gee-bubble appeared, spinning end over end. Hesthar’s stomach lurched. She abhorred null-gee.
“Ho!” the nuller cried. “Scuttling spiders. And the flies are swarming.”
Srivashti said between his teeth, “If he gets close, Felton, kill him.”
“You tried that in the Hall of Ivory,” said Tate Kaga. “I was there at the climax of your crimes. I am here for their punishment.” The nuller bubble spun away, laughter floating behind on the hot wind it left.
Another loose end, thought Hesthar in disgust. Why had she ever thought Srivashti a worthy ally? He was as incompetent as Torigan.
“He’ll tell them where we are,” Srivashti muttered. “Damn it.”
“But it’ll take time to get here. More, if we jam these lifts,” Hesthar retorted. “It is time to use our wits. Not lose them in useless complaints.” She relayed more codes to their boswells.
Srivashti and Felton each moved to the consoles of a lift, but Hesthar hung back, activating her boswell for the third time.
An answer pinged at last. (What is it?)
Hesthar smiled, enjoying the hatred Arret ban-Mandiz did not try to hide. Gnostor of Ochlology, highly respected member of the Council of Pursuivance, Mandiz was one of the many whose sentimental weaknesses rendered them prey for those with stronger wills.
Mandiz hated Hesthar, but she had to take her orders.
(There’s a mob chasing us. Counter it,) Hesthar commanded. (Send them after the Rifters.)
(It’s not a mob, it’s a baiting crowd,) Arret responded. (They are not controllable. If we try to redirect them, there’s the danger of complete riot—)
(I don’t care if the damn station burns or gets vented to space, just as long as I make it where I’m going,) Hesthar cut in. (If I don’t—)
(You will have your riot.) Mandiz cut off then.
Hesthar smiled as Srivashti and Felton finished their tasks. “Now. Which way to D9?” she said.
o0o
Jaim had never before seen such a transformation as Lokri wrapped his long arms around his sister, holding her tightly. All the anger, cynicism, the detachment, was gone from his smile, as if swept away by the cataract of tears coursing down his thin cheeks.
From beyond Lokri’s shoulder Vi’ya signaled Jaim by a sideward glance, and started backing away.
Time was short.
“Jes,” Fierin cried. “I always believed—I wouldn’t take—wardship, Srivashti . . . oh!” She gasped, looking up at him, midway between laughter and tears. “I’m not making any sense! But when you come back to Torigan, the business—”
“Is yours,” Lokri said, lifting his palms to either side of her face. “I’m not going back to Torigan. Except to visit you,” he amended quickly.
“But, Jes, you can’t just decide that—”
“Just?” Lokri gave a dry laugh that echoed his old self. “I’ve had little else to think about these past weeks. It was either that or compose death elegies.” He looked over her head at Jaim and winced slightly, then he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And I am no poet. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, but right now I have a promise to keep.”
<
br /> “But, Jes—”
Lokri looked around, his brows lifting. “And I have to admit I don’t like the sound of whatever is going on outside this building.”
Jaim let out a relieved breath at the sight of Osri Omilov pushing his way determinedly through the crowd. Fierin saw him, motioned him over, then turned back to Lokri. “Osri knows how to get around safely in this area. Maybe we’d better meet later, Jes—”
“We will,” Lokri said, kissing her hands, then letting go. “Soon as I can.” He turned quickly and followed Marim. Jaim went after, pausing near the adit to look back.
Vi’ya had lingered. Jaim could only see the back of her head, but he knew that she was watching Brandon. A surge in the crowd made it impossible for Jaim to see anything.
“Where is he? Where is he?” someone roared from the other side of the room.
“They took them out!” a woman screamed.
“Let’s find them!”
Vi’ya stepped up to Jaim, her face grim. “Let us be quick.”
People crammed the hallway outside the courtroom. Once or twice the word Rifters! rose as a battle cry, Jaim braced against rough shoves and elbows as he tried to get through without force. But when the Eya’a appeared as if from nowhere, with Lucifur prowling along between them, the thick crowd melted miraculously.
Sedry Thetris emerged from the crowd, her plain civilian clothing awry, her face tense. She clutched a small bag tightly to her side.
She said in an urgent undervoice, “Srivashti and the others are in custody. The government has petitioned for a Writ of Nescience against him and Gessinav.”
“Then let’s move,” Vi’ya said. “We are done here.”
Montrose said, “I’ll go along with you now, but I am going to hear that Writ proclaimed before I leave this station.”
Vi’ya wasted no time arguing. They ran until they reached an open concourse, but on their entrance they met a huge mob that seemed to materialize from nowhere.
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