The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  “No danger of that.”

  Archonei Inesset’s fastidious phrase private life had been delivered in the tone of voice usually reserved for the discovery of a sixteen-legged sleggishin in one’s after-dinner mousse.

  “I must say, I am relieved to hear it,” the Archonei went on. “You will send your personal phaeton for Phaelia and me? We three can dispatch a holocom to the Aerenarch before we depart for the ceremony. I know well how much it would please him, and therefore your esteemed father.”

  “One moment,” Brandon interrupted gently. He paused then continued. “Excuse me, the com from my brother has arrived at last.”

  “Very well. We await confirmation of his plans.”

  Brandon terminated the communication, but immediately the console’s inhuman voice spoke, with the typical redundancy of machine communications. “Holocom queue: from the Panarch Gelasaar hai-Arkad, recorded, urgent, released 12-16-65 Standard en route to planet Lao Tse; from Krysarch Galen ban-Arkad, recorded, urgent, released 12-13-65 Standard from planet Talgarth.”

  “Execute,” Brandon said.

  Deralze said quickly, “Highness. Do you want to view these in private?”

  Brandon looked up from his bath, his gaze blue and cold. “Why? These messages weren’t made in privacy.”

  Surprise, anger, all dissolved when the holo of the Panarch appeared before them. Deralze had not seen the man in person for twelve years, and he had avoided him in image. The effect of the short, slim, and dapper figure in his faultless white uniform, his silver beard neat, was profound.

  A surreal sensation imbued Deralze with old memory and newer words reviewed: always in the past the Panarch had reminded him of a sun, remote yet benevolent, but also, like a sun, removed by unimaginable distance from the affairs of individuals.

  The Panarch gazed out at them through blue eyes very much like Brandon’s. The back of Deralze's neck prickled and he was glad he was still standing. Though this was only a holocom, and days old at that, the effect of the Panarch’s presence was strong.

  “Welcome, my son, to the ranks of those who serve.” The Panarch’s lined face was transformed by a sudden smile, one of humor and regret, that made the man look younger—emphasizing the resemblance to Brandon.

  For a moment it seemed as if he really did look across time and space to smile at his son, and again Deralze sustained that preternatural tingle through his nerves.

  “I will forbear making a long preachment. I expect you will get your surfeit and more of well-meaning speeches today,” the Panarch went on. “I wish I could be there. I wish tradition did not dictate that you must face your peers alone. But so it is, and there is a reason for this tradition. This may be the last time you are granted the precious rarity of time to reflect.”

  Brandon’s mouth tightened.

  “You will receive many gifts today, most of them costly and some of them even useful. I will leave you with two intangibles. The first, the words my mother spoke to me by holocom, on the eve of my own Enkainion: When you stand before your peers to speak the vows of Service, remember the Phoenix, ever consumed by the demands of Service, ever regenerate from the flames. Remember also the Polarities of our ancestor Jaspar Arkad.”

  Brandon shut his eyes. “What does he mean by that?”

  “The second thing, from me, from my heart: remember my love, and your mother’s love, which is eternal. I have faith in you, and so I hope to tell you when we see one another before long.”

  The holo winked out. Brandon stilled, unbreathing, then tabbed the wall console with unnecessary violence, using his fist. “And what did he mean by that?” He tabbed the console again. “Call through to Steward Halkyn.” When the comm chimed, Brandon said, “Hal?”

  “Sir?”

  “My message to my father. Any update on when it might have reached him?”

  There was a brief pause. “No, sir. Best estimate is still on or about the 16th.”

  “Thank you.” Brandon leaned over and pressed the cancel pad, leaving his hand in place, his face pensive.

  What was his message to his father? Deralze wondered. Had the Panarch not yet received it before composing the message just delivered, or received and ignored it? That would have been a significant rebuke.

  Brandon’s fingers tensed, the tendons standing out, then he called up the next message in the queue.

  Krysarch Galen appeared in holo, tall, thin, and dark-eyed. There was tension in Galen’s high brow, though his smile was gentle.

  “Brandy,” Galen said, “I hope you enjoy your Enkainion. My own was filled with music and poetry—”

  “I remember your Enkainion,” Brandon muttered. “And what it was full of.”

  “—though nothing was as splendid as the sunbird you and I used to try to catch out in the sequoia gardens. Remember that?” He shifted position a little, to a more formal pose, and Deralze’s interest sharpened. A code, that about the sunbird. Both Galen and Brandon expect Semion to view this holo himself. I wonder who the sunbird is?

  “I composed a poem for you, a ghazal in five couplets.” Galen’s long hand, so much like Brandon’s, flashed up in a poetic gesture as though Brandon needed to count the fingers.

  At first Deralze concentrated closely for key words or phrases, until distracted by Galen’s fingers flickering as he touched his chest. Fingers. Deralze remembered the hand codes that some Douloi used, mostly the older generation. The young consider it rude, Deralze had been told during one of his many briefings on Tetrad Centrum Douloi manners. It was popular during the days when court was expected to know a lot of poetry, and most of the codes were just signals about each other.

  The poem was ending. Galen’s hand stretched out in appeal. “... in closing, my best wishes to you today, and I hope we will see one another soon.” The holo winked out.

  Deralze exhaled slowly. Galen and Brandon use the hand code. Why? Galen would know that Semion would see this, so I will wager anything there has to be double meaning for every gesture. Which means they must have had their own code as boys.

  That directly contradicted what the recruiter for the Poets had said: “Galen is sequestered by Semion against his will, with the full support of Brandon, who intends to take his place as Galen is forgotten.”

  What really happened at Galen’s Enkainion? Deralze wondered as Brandon walked into the spacious wardrobe.

  Deralze followed slowly. He and the other Poets were risking their lives to put Galen on the throne. Semion’s death promised, a coin more precious than mere gold, and Brandon to die for the greater good. So why did the contact lie?

  “Let’s end this,” Brandon said, and Deralze looked up sharply.

  But Brandon did not see. He said, “Holocom to Krysarch Galen on Talgarth... Wait... N-no... cancel. I’ll call him when she’s free.”

  “She?”

  “That would be the best surprise, and if he doesn’t know, Semion can’t—”

  His assumptions smashed, Deralze waited as Brandon once more struck the wall console with his fist. “First, let’s hear what my beloved brother has to say. You remember Semion?” Deralze had never heard that bitterness before. He would not have recognized Brandon’s voice.

  Brandon met Deralze’s gaze across the width of the wardrobe, and said, “You and Markham disappeared, Deralze, and Semion won yet again. But it’s taken me ten years to figure out that I can’t fight him within the system, so I have to do it from without... Except—” He stared at the holopad where his father’s image had stood. “Is the system worth saving, Deralze?”

  “Is the system worth saving?” That decision is out of your hands, Krysarch, Deralze thought, and for the first time, the inexorable weight of the justice he’d actively worked for pressed on him. Not justice. Vengeance— Vengeance? Where had he heard that, as a title—

  Again he saw that tall, cruel-faced young man called Anaris, son of Eusabian of Dol’jhar, who had lived right here in the Mandala as a hostage for some eighteen years. Deralze wa
s thrown back to the day he met Brandon, a weedy young teen, bruised and bandaged after the much bigger Anaris had attacked Brandon, his intent to rape and then kill him, in accordance with some Dol’jharian ritual.

  You are not to refer to the incident in word or report, Deralze had been told by Meliarch Youssef, head of the Arkads’ personal security detail. This is by the Panarch’s own wish. Anaris is still to be treated as one of the Panarch’s own sons. You will see to it that Anaris and Brandon, if they meet, are never alone.

  Brandon had never referred to the incident, though the bruises took weeks to heal. Deralze, who’d escaped the violence of his early life by taking the Panarch’s coin and becoming a Marine, had not been able to understand how these civilized Douloi could go on as if nothing had happened.

  His feelings then had been as unsettled as they were now. Brandon, too, seemed unsettled as he gazed at the splendid tunic and trousers hanging next to the wall-mirror. The suit was royal Arkadic blue—with gold stitching on collar, cuffs, and down the seams of the trousers. Jeweled decorations lay on the low table below, along with Brandon’s elegantly plain boswell, reflected darkly in the flawless obsidian surface. On another table sat a pair of beautiful single-seamed boots.

  Brandon stepped to the side of the mirror and touched a control. The mirror slid silently into the wall, revealing rows of neatly hung clothing ranging from formal to everyday. He flung aside the towel and pulled out a plain shirt, a well-made tunic bare of decoration, and some dark trousers, and tossed these on the table over the medals.

  “Comm,” Brandon said. “Run the holocom from Semion. Freeze.”

  He turned toward the slender inlay-patterned table by the door. A miniature projection of the heir to the Panarchy appeared. Deralze studied the hard face, well-shaped lips with sarcasm ingrained at the mouth corners, the heavy-lidded blue eyes. An angry face. Semion looked older than his mid-forties as he stood stiffly, his image frozen by the comm, the decorations glittering on his formal black tunic.

  “Proceed.” Brandon turned away as the image began speaking and went on with his dressing, slowly, thoughtfully, one item at a time, as he listened.

  “Brandon, today you will make your formal entrance into the Douloi, the Ranks of Service, embarking on what will be a lifetime of commitment. I wish, of course, to congratulate you on your new status, and to express the wish that you enjoy the festivities arranged in your honor. It is not appropriate for any of us to be there...”

  The irony in Semion’s voice caused Brandon’s chin to come up. What was that about?

  “... for you must face your peers alone. That is tradition. However, I desired Vannis to be there as my representative. Perhaps you have heard from her by now.”

  Brandon gave Deralze a comical grimace. “There’s one I haven’t heard from—Semion’s wife. I wonder to what I owe that stroke of luck.”

  “You will no doubt be receiving a congratulatory message from the Panarch our father. He has indicated to me in private communication his pleasure that you have at last chosen to assume your responsibilities. I understand you desire private audience: perhaps, after you have accustomed yourself to the demands of your duties, a meeting will be arranged.”

  Brandon’s mouth tightened, and Deralze thought, Brandon really is a prisoner. The messages to his father, everything, goes through Semion. The question is, does the Panarch know it?

  And an even deeper question, How far does the plot really extend?

  Brandon went on with his dressing as Semion’s holo resumed lecturing, “One way to gain his favor, and thus your interview, would be to comply with our wishes and accompany Krysarchei Phaelia to your Enkainion, signifying the approaching marriage. But you should have completed the treaty weeks ago.”

  Brandon laughed softly. He rummaged in a drawer, lifted out some socks, then sat down and slowly pulled one on as his gaze remained on the holocom of his brother’s face.

  “I should like to add a word about your personal and private life.”

  “By all means!” Brandon waved the other sock in a regal gesture.

  “You must learn to keep your private and public lives separate. Though our father made a romantic marriage, and we all regret the demise of our mother, too many breaks in the careful structure of tradition is dangerous, especially these days. We need this alliance with Inesset. I remind you that you need never see Phaelia except on public occasions, and the demands of your personal friends would be effectively silenced. Court expects to see Vannis Scefi-Cartano with me when my duties permit me once again to attend court functions...”

  Deralze remembered the Aerenarch-consort, though he’d only seen her half a dozen times. Now there is a supreme fisher.

  “...as tradition decrees. My wife also serves as my deputation at those public affairs that I cannot attend.

  “My private life is confined to my private residence, which effectively limits political fallout. It is vital, Brandon, that you perceive the distinction for the reasons I just stated, but we will have the leisure to discourse more fully on this subject when we see one another next.”

  Brandon’s lips thinned.

  “I await confirmation from you and Archonei Inesset. Have an enjoyable evening.”

  Brandon smiled faintly as the hologram disappeared. He pulled on the expensive boots, then stood up to face Deralze. The humorless smile tightening the corners of his mouth increased the resemblance between him and Semion. Brandon must have seen something of Deralze’s reaction, for the expression deepened for a second, then disappeared as he laughed ruefully. “I trust you will favor me with the unvarnished truth with which you benefited me ten years ago, and tell me whether you wish to take the money and run, or to come with me.”

  “To?” Deralze asked, his heart beating in his ears.

  Brandon tipped his head. “I thought you knew that.”

  Deralze could not hide his surprise.

  “You do know how to find Markham, don’t you? Wasn’t that why you came? Markham’s message. What better way to answer it than to join him?”

  “Yes.” Deralze expelled his breath. “He has a base on a moon called Dis in the Charvann system.”

  “Charvann?” Brandon repeated, his brows up.

  But Deralze ignored that, for he was thinking of the jac in his sleeve, the knife in his boot, and the biostasis sack in his belt pouch. He spoke slowly. “What I said that day...”

  “I was in shock. Not in compliance.” Brandon dropped his gaze to his empty hands. “You vanished. Not that I blame you. I suspect you would have been made to vanish permanently, because you were the only witness who could testify that while Markham and I bent the rules, it was no more than anyone did. We never broke them. You know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And neither of us ever cheated. You know that, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Brandon’s palms turned out. “In my interview with Semion, while Markham had to stand up before the entire Academy to be formally cashiered, my brother made it clear that I could do nothing. He laid out for me in excruciating detail just how helpless I was, how anything I could say or do would worsen the disgrace for us both. Deralze, I didn’t know what...” Brandon shook his head. “We can talk over every step of that hellish day later. Though there is probably no use in it. It’s past. There is no going back.”

  His gaze shifted to his boswell lying on the low table. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand. “There is no going back,” he repeated. “The question now is, how safe is this?”

  Certainly no Downsider or Highdweller would leave their lodging without that indispensable link to memories, obligations, and as much computer access as one’s money or position could buy. Not even Rifters.

  Safe? While Deralze arranged for the ship, he’d also done some digging into the other Poets. No such group was ever airtight. The Poets were no exception. Leveraging his key position, he’d found out that it was hired Rifters who had made the Ivory Hall into a deathtrap, not local tal
ent. But not Markham’s group. His request seemed random, but was it? Again I see a circle—but not a thousand years across this time, merely two years.

  Brandon shrugged and dropped the boswell back on the table. “There’s nothing in there that would do me any good out there, anyway,” he said.

  He keyed open the concealed drawer in the table and removed a huge sum in medium-denomination AU, and another in large, this last which he handed to Deralze, who stared down at the bills. They were the fashionable new Archaic Style notes from the Carretta Mutual Assurance Sodality; the visage of Brandon’s ancestor, Jaspar I, founder of the dynasty, stared back at him. Some trick of the engraver’s art imbued the formal portrait with the hint of a grin.

  “You know the Polarities of Jaspar I, don’t you, Deralze? Begins ‘Ruler of all, ruler of naught, power unlimited, a prison unsought.’ My well-meaning father has never seen that those are polarized between his offspring: Semion has claimed the first and third, leaving Galen and me gripped by the other two.” He shook his head. “Anyway, I find it singularly appropriate that it’s one of old Jaspar’s Unalterables that will help us leave no trace.”

  Deralze said, “The right of sophonts to untraceable monetary exchanges shall not be infringed.” Otherwise the boswell would long ago have made cash obsolete, rendering one’s every move visible to the authorities. And would have made it easy for Semion’s coverts to catch up with me. Deralze drew in a slow breath. “So you want to leave? Now?”

  “There isn’t a better time, is there?” Brandon countered. “Every one of my guardians is at the Palace Major, and none of them know what I’m doing—”