Mark abandoned the children and joined her and Zabb at the ice’s edge. “What’s up, Doc?” he asked.
Tis winced. Fortunately no Takisian was struck by the absurdity. “My cousin has a mind to celebrate. There’s to be a ball, dancing and music, food and fripperies—”
Mark turned serious eyes on Zabb. “Seems kind of wrong to be dancing when so many people are dying.”
“I wish to celebrate that we’re not in the latter category,” Zabb said. “It will reassure our people. It will thumb our collective nose at Blaise, and…”
“And,” Tis prompted suspiciously. She accepted her boots from Gena and pulled them on.
“I have a reason for us being impressive right now.”
“The Network,” Mark supplied.
“Very astute, groundling. The Master Trader’s demands are becoming more pointed and less diplomatic with each passing day. I’m going to invite him to join us.”
“You are out of your mind,” Tis said. “I suspected it before, but now I am convinced of it. It took a war to throw them off eight thousand years ago. Now you’re inviting them back?”
“One. To a dance.”
“It violates one of our most deeply held traditions.”
“Sort of like Festival peace?” Zabb inquired, and Tis felt the blood rush into her cheeks. “Tis, we’ve broken so many traditions, laws, and rules, what’s one more?”
They had taken Hastet for questioning and had left Illyana with Jay, apparently on the theory that a woman would be upset to be separated from her newborn infant and thus would talk more freely and willingly. Jay didn’t know why they bothered. They were telepaths, all they had to do was open their heads with a can opener, and the little charade was over. So maybe they left the baby behind just because they were assholes, and they liked to torment people. Jay reassured himself that rape was not a practice on this strange world—he just hoped Blaise hadn’t taught them that Earth concept along with large-scale killing.
After all that struggle and effort, they were back in Ban. Illyana was screaming her hunger, and Jay could tell the noise was starting to get to his guard as well as himself. At times the ground sloth was so cute, it hurt. Other times … it was said that your baby’s shit don’t stink—unfortunately this one wasn’t Jay’s.
Jay glanced about and wondered what the man had been like who decorated this vividly painted room. His legacy was a bloodstain on the floor now.
The door opened, and a clear young voice called out. “Jay Ackroyd, what a wonderful surprise. I should have realized when Grand-père vanished at Festival that you were responsible.”
Blaise walked in. Durg trailed him, silent and morose as ever, festooned with weapons like an apocalyptic Christmas tree. The breath jammed in Jay’s chest, and he emitted a sound that was half squeak, half moan. For one wild moment he considered thrusting Illyana beneath his chair. Instead he pinned a tattered grin to his face and stood.
Blaise was dressed in his trademark black, but the skintight jumpsuit had been augmented with a high-collared jacket. The heels of his high black boots had been encrusted with diamonds, and more of the jewels formed military-style bands on the sleeves and breast of his jacket. More diamonds had been plaited into the long braid that fell between his shoulders, and the diamonds and jet set into his face flashed and flickered and held the eye like the gaze of a snake. He also carried himself with an assurance far beyond his years.
Jay braced for the attack. Instead he was pulled into a crushing and exuberant embrace. “Jay, my dear, dear old friend. How are you?”
Hearing English almost made Jay forget his fear and the danger in which he stood. “Can’t complain.”
“What are you doing in Ban?”
His mind was racing furiously, and Jay reminded himself of the old adage. Lie with enough of the truth to sell it. And since Blaise wasn’t a telepath, Jay just might pull it off—assuming no real telepath was brought in to verify his story.
Jay continued. “I got involved with this lady, and she’s had some problems with the Ilkazam. They tried to tell me I had to stop seeing her, and…” He shrugged.
But Blaise wasn’t interested in Hastet. “Remember that awesome night in Atlanta?”
Blaise settled into a chair with the air of a man prepared to stay and reminisce. Since that counted as probably the worst night of Jay’s life, his response was perhaps a little sharper than it should have been.
“No, no, Jay,” Blaise demurred. “I learned a lot that night. Grandfather, when he kept trying to psychoanalyze me, said the course of my life had been set that night. I think he was right. And I’m very, very grateful to you.” He smiled winningly. “Look at this. From frightened teenager to planetary potentate. Not bad, huh?”
The transitions from flowery Takisian to exuberant adolescent had Jay grabbing for the safety bar on this mental roller-coaster ride. Blaise stood and circled Jay. His eyes were on the baby. Jay swallowed panic. Blaise plucked Illyana from Jay’s arms. Her wails increased in intensity.
“What a pretty, pretty little girl.” Blaise glanced inquiringly at Jay.
“She’s Hastet’s. Her husband knocked her up, and then got killed in a raid. That’s why she’s so down on the Ilkazam too,” Jay babbled, and felt like an idiot.
“Really?” Jay nodded. “I don’t think so.” Blaise laid the screaming child over his shoulder. “We read your Hastet, so I know this is my daughter.”
Jay began bringing up his finger. Then Blaise was in his head, and his hand froze at waist level.
“Read him,” Blaise ordered the captain, and Jay felt as if a rake had been taken to his cortex. Two mentats cavorting in his brain didn’t seem to leave enough room for Jay. His head exploded in pain. Eventually it ended, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat and betrayal. Jay apologized to the baby, and to the distant Tachyon.
“Jay, I’m very appreciative that you brought me my daughter, and you and your girlfriend must consider yourselves my honored guests. But I’m afraid you might take it into your head to send my child away, so while it pains me to inconvenience you in any way”—a little smile, a slight shrug, and a regretful sigh—“I’m afraid I must.”
Blaise outlined his plan to the captain. It served no purpose other than to set Jay struggling so hard that he broke into a visible sweat. Jay had a feeling that was the effect Blaise had been seeking. The pleasure of feeling a captive mind battering to no avail. Blaise tweaked, and Jay walked obediently over to the desk and spread his hands, palm down, on the stone surface. Blaise held out a hand, and Durg laid a very long, very wicked, very sharp knife in it.
Maybe Blaise really did like Jay—he didn’t saw. A hard chop, and the right index finger went hopping across the desk as if propelled by the font of blood. Jay screamed. The knife fell a second time.
Chapter Thirty-seven
AFTER HER RELEASE FROM Rarrana Tisianne had rejected overtly female dress. No one seemed to notice except her, and the ambivalence that gripped her was both alarming and infuriating. For some reason a return to pants and boots full-time was almost as uncomfortable as those first weeks in Rarrana when she adapted to the confinement of skirts.
Then three days before the ball, a parade of relatives began marching through her suite, and she discovered they had noticed. It began with Mark and an overly casual “Are you gonna wear something pretty to the ball?” Then Taj demanded she wear something appropriate. Zabb had ordered her. Tis in a fury had informed him she wouldn’t attend at all. And it all culminated with Roxalana, who had simply taken matters into her own capable hands and had a gown made.
It was a beautiful dress with layers and layers of petticoats, and a wide, sweeping skirt made from multicolored panels. The worst aspect of the gown was the neckline, which plunged deep over the breasts and left her shoulders and much of her back bare.
“Wow. You’re, like, beautiful, man,” Mark said as Tis frowned at her image in the full-length mirror.
“After months of looking
like an overstuffed ottoman, anything would be an improvement. Gena, bring me a lace shawl.” The girl obeyed, and Tis arranged it around her shoulders and tucked it into her décolletage. Gena pinned it in place with a corsage.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Mark objected.
“Shut up.”
There was a chime at the door. A guard scanned and opened it to reveal Roxalana in the company of two of her bodyguards. She circled Tisianne critically.
“Very nice, but this will not do.” She quickly unpinned the corsage and twitched away the shawl.
“What is this? Do you think the sight of my bosom is going to so move the Master Trader he will drop his demands?”
“No, I just hate to see the lines of a fine dress ruined by prudery.” Lani pinned the flowers in Tis’s elaborate upswept hair.
There was another chime. Taj stuck his head in. “I’m off to collect the hawker.” He nodded. “Very nice, but you need jewelry.”
He was gone again before Tis could formulate a really crushing reply. A sound suspiciously like a chuckle emanated from Mark’s direction. “Would you like to make any comments?” Tis asked with razor-sharp sweetness.
“Uh, I think I’d wear gloves. You know, those real long ones.”
The chime sounded again. “Ideal, is this Grand Central?” Tis exploded. “Maybe I should put in a revolving door?”
Zabb entered. Tis spun in a circle, affording him a good look. “Does this meet your approval, my lord?”
Zabb kissed Roxalana on the cheek. “You look lovely as always, vindi.” She did, in her red-and-amber gown. Zabb surveyed Mark. “And you look … remarkable.”
And that also was the truth. The ace wore a long swallow-tailed coat of pale blue, a knee-length waistcoat in bright crimson, both of which accentuated his great height and thinness. The ensemble was completed with knee breeches in blue, crimson stockings, and green ankle boots.
Zabb cleared his throat and turned to face her. Tis realized he was nervous. She mentally tensed.
“Weeks ago I offered you your mother’s jewels. You refused.” Zabb removed a long, flat box from an inner pocket. “I hope this time you’ll accept. You should be properly adorned for the ball, as befits an Ilkazam princess.”
Tis had frozen at the sight of the blue-and-orange box with its embossing of moonstones in the design of flowers. A memory held her. Tisianne standing on his mother’s lap. Ts’ara heedless of the damage his muddy shoes were doing to her dress. Pressing and twisting the pretty gems with tiny child’s fingers. She had told him that they were a ship’s tears. He knew better now. Ships don’t cry. Tisianne wanted to.
Tis accepted the box and snapped it open. Rings, eartips, necklaces, bracelets. A riot of glittering, sparkling color. She lifted out a five-strand choker of pearls. Frowned.
“Wait,” she said. Zabb paused, almost out the door. “There’s a mistake, these weren’t hers—”
Without looking back he said, “They’re yours. I had them made for you. Wear them for me.”
Tis sank speechless into a chair. Stared at the closed door.
Roxalana lifted the pearls from her nerveless fingers and clasped them about her throat.
“Enjoying yourself?” Zabb inquired, handing Bounty and Tis iced silamums.
Tis accepted the drink gratefully. The windows of the ballroom were fogged, trapped as they were between a room full of bodies, and the snow-buried gardens outside, and she was finding conversation with a Master Trader to be emotionally draining. Oh, the creature was everything charming and proper, but she couldn’t control the skin creep that told her this was the enemy.
“Most assuredly,” Bounty said. “I’m measuring my experiences against the memories of the last Master Trader on Takis.”
“Eight thousand years,” Zabb said, a pointed reminder.
“Have the Takisians changed much?” Mark asked.
“Yes and no. Technologically they’re a good deal more advanced.” Bounty paused and watched the intricate dance unfolding in the center of the ballroom. “Their family affiliations seem to have become far more rigid. There used to be more flux between families. Overall it’s still a warrior culture overlaid with the trappings of civilization.”
“Are you implying we are not civilized?” Zabb asked.
“I’m saying it’s only skin-deep.”
“Why?” Tis asked.
“Your highest loyalty is reserved for the vow between individuals, usually within your own clan. That’s a hallmark of a primitive society.”
“It’s worked rather well for us,” Zabb said.
“But has it?” the Master Trader mused. “You’ve never really managed to forge long-term and broad alliances that would enable you to undertake colonization projects, exploration.” Bounty set his empty glass on the tray of a passing Tarhiji waiter. “Well, I think it’s time to talk business.”
“You don’t let up, do you?” Zabb asked. “And there is nothing to discuss. I will not return.”
“I think your vaunted Takisian honor is a sham if you can violate your promise to me.”
“Bluntly, you’re not worthy to receive my sworn word.”
Mark suddenly snapped his fingers. “I finally figured it out. What you guys remind me of. I thought Renaissance Italy, and Saudi Arabia, and a little samurai stirred in, and there are facets of all of that, but mostly you’re like the Mafia.”
Zabb and the Master Trader were looking confused. Tis knew her face was a study in embarrassment because Mark was absolutely right. She laughed. “Oh, Ideal, what does that make me? A Mafia princess?”
“Of Mars,” Mark added, and laughed. “It’ll be the next Hollywood hit.”
“Raiyis, I don’t wish to fight,” Bounty said. “But—”
A sudden thought struck Tisianne. “Bounty, when my cousin was found, he was adrift in a dying ship. Life support was dying with Hellcat. He had to sign that contract. Which makes it duress, which makes it unconscionable, which makes it illegal.”
“No, that’s not duress. Duress is if I held a gun to his head and said I’ll kill you if you don’t sign. His own misfortune is not my fault.”
“But you’d take advantage?” Tis asked.
“Of course, that’s business.”
“Oh, man, you’re making corporate America look benevolent.” Mark sadly shook his head. “Maybe you guys aren’t so groovy.”
Bounty frowned. “Where are you from?”
“Oh, I’m an Earthman.”
“Interesting.”
Zabb pulled the Master Trader back from his thoughtful contemplation of Mark. “I don’t want trouble, and it’s no secret I can’t afford a fight with you right now. So what will it take to make you go away? Money, jewels, pharmaceuticals?”
“Your currency is worthless to me. Your jewels and drugs I can synthesize.” Bounty considered. “I want another pilot.”
“I can’t force any of my people to serve you. I’ll give you a Tarhiji.”
Bounty shook his head. “I want a telepath.”
“What about art?” Tis suggested. “That’s unique.”
“Personal service or real estate. That’s what I prefer.”
“You’re doomed to disappointment,” Zabb said, and tucking Tisianne’s arm beneath his he drew her away. They walked in silence for several moments, then Zabb said, “Thank you, cousin, for speaking up on my behalf. I was a little surprised, but thank you.”
“Sorry it didn’t do any good. They really are the most awful barbarians.” He was staring at her so intently that she could almost feel the pressure of his eyes on her skin. Nervously she changed the subject. “You know, other than my usurpation this room was the site of one of the most humiliating moments in my life.”
“Again delivered courtesy of me.”
“Naturally.”
“Sixty years ago, wasn’t it?” Zabb asked.
“Something like that.”
“Well, let’s see if I can make it up to you.” Zabb bowed and vanished
into the crowd. Tis leaned against a wall and watched the dancing. Eventually Mark found her.
“I’ve discovered the source of my sensual pleasure in the sound of these skirts.” She shook hers. “It’s a child’s memory of his mother. All I can really remember is her perfume, and the whisper of her elaborate clothing.”
“It’s, like, really romantic looking. Doc … maybe I shouldn’t say this, but Zabb is, like, really—”
“I know. I realized the signals I’ve been sending are very much damsel distressed.” She looked up at the human. “Mark, I need a therapist. I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my self.” His fingers tightened comfortingly around hers.
The music intruded into her reverie. A melody she recognized. Tri’ava and Pandasala swooped down on her like diving parrots, each grabbing her beneath an arm, and began tugging her toward the center of the ballroom.…
“Come,” Panda said.
“He’s waiting,” Tri’ava said.
“You’ll never believe,” Panda burbled.
“What he’s done,” they finished in chorus.
Alarmed, Tis went rushing ahead. Zabb was indeed waiting. There was an unholy light in his gray eyes as he held out a pair of crystal-heeled slippers. As the heels struck, the air was filled with a sweet chiming. Tis started retreating, stepped on her hem, and went down in a welter of skirts.
Zabb grinned down at her. “Tis, you’re looking like a clumsy oaf again.”
“No!” She fended him off with both hands. “Oh, no.”
“Let’s see if you can get through ‘Crystal Flowers’ this time without making a fool out of yourself,” Zabb said, removing her dancing shoes.
“You fiddled with my shoes. Wrecked the tones.”
He struck the heels together again, playing an ascending scale. “I haven’t this time.” He slipped her foot into a shoe.
Wild Cards X: Double Solitaire Page 33