“Not sorcery. Damned good biochem. Better than ours.”
“All right, biochem. Bad stuff whichever way you look at it. But I never did understand what the Mages got out of the whole deal.”
“An example,” she said. “Think about it. After Sapne, most of the single-world polities quit putting up any resistance—whenever the raiders hit, they’d just try to absorb the losses as best they could. Ilarna was building up its fleet and starting to look for alliances, and Ilarna got hit hard and ripped open while their warships were still blueprints in a shipyard comp file. And now it’s Entibor’s turn.”
Gala watched as Brehant absorbed the implications of her statement. She could tell when the full impact hit him—he turned as pale as his dark skin would permit.
“So you think that the Mage ships are leaving—”
“—because there isn’t any work left here for them to do. Entibor’s going to be the example that convinces Galcen and Gyffer and Maraghai.”
Brehant’s shoulder’s slumped. “You know, people are going to ask why we bothered to fight the Mages in the first place.”
“Because we’re the only fleet that’s even come close to hurting the bastards, dammit!”
“I know, I know. But if the homeworld’s a write-off, what are we going to do?”
I wish I knew, thought Gala. She picked up the holocube of the beach hut and put it down again. I thought I was in luck the day Jos Metadi pulled me out of detention and gave me the whole ball of string to play with. Maybe I’d have been better off if he’d left me there.
“We fight the Mages wherever we can find them,” she said at last. “And we keep the plague out of the Fleet.”
Brehant nodded. “I understand. Your orders, Admiral?”
“Lift all ships. No personnel transfer between vessels, effective immediately. The Fleet will operate out of Parezul for the duration, and anybody who’s dirtside at noon tomorrow headquarters time, stays on-planet for good.”
Perada waited until Nivome had left the hall of light before she buried her face in her hands. She wished she had the energy left to howl and scream and pull her hair out of its braids. Tomorrow. I have to give him the answer tomorrow. And there’s only one answer left to give.
“Don’t do it.”
The voice was a familiar one. Perada jerked up her head and stared. Errec Ransome was only a few feet away, plainly visible in the sun-filled room.
Warhammer’s copilot had changed since the last time she’d seen him, when he’d paid a brief, restrained visit to the palace shortly after Ari’s birth. Today he wore a plain black tunic and trousers instead of his usual coverall, and for the first time since she’d met him on Innish-Kyl, he carried an Adept’s staff—no makeshift this time, but a length of polished wood tall enough for him to lean on as he stood. Belatedly, she realized that he had entered the palace without disturbing any guards, human or electronic.
“Errec,” she said. “How long have you been standing there listening?”
The half-accusation didn’t seem to disturb him. “Long enough,” he said. “The Minister of Internal Security is trying to force your hand. Don’t let him.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “It’s not my hand that he’s trying to force. And if you’ve been standing there for that long, you know that he’s already succeeded.”
“Listen to me, ’Rada,” he said. “If you dismiss your consort and repudiate the treaty with Maraghai, the Mages have won. Not just Entibor, but everything.”
Perada saw that he meant it—his voice had the certainty she’d heard before when Jos Metadi asked him about the beacons in the Pleyveran Web. She looked down at the tabletop.
“What Jos did … taking Ari away like that … I was very angry with him.”
“He knew that you would be. He was afraid of it, I think.”
“I see.” She was silent for a while, remembering how Jos had been when they met in the garden—tense and edgy, not triumphant as befitted someone bringing home an alliance that might see the Mages defeated for good—and she knew that Errec was right. “What’s it like on Maraghai, Errec?”
“You probably wouldn’t like it very much.” He actually smiled a little. “But a child growing up … Ari will be happy there, I think. And safe.”
“I’m glad.” She paused. “You know Jos. Do you think he’s going to come back?”
“Yes.” Again that note of flat certainty. “But not soon.”
“Then it’s no good. I can’t put off Nivome do’Evaan any longer.”
Errec said nothing.
Perada looked at him-standing there, and thought about how he had walked in past the guards without triggering an alarm, and how he had waited unnoticed until she was alone. Jos’s copilot had always been quiet and gently-spoken around her, with none of Nivome do’Evaan’s overbearing presence, and as far as she could tell he had no ambitions at all. And he was—she was morally certain—an Adept.
“Errec,” she said. “Are you afraid of the Minister of Internal Security?”.
“No.”
“There was a story I heard on Galcen.” Her voice took on the remembered rhythm of the storyteller at the heritage park, talking to a class of third-year students from the Delaven Academy. “A folktale, from up in the mountains. About a king who needed an heir, and asked his chief counselor, who was an Adept, what he should do about his wife’s barrenness. And the Adept said, ‘All will happen according to your desire.’ And when the spring came, the king had an heir.”
“There are stories like that on every planet.”
“Yes. But are the stories true?”
One corner of Errec’s mouth turned up in what might have been a fleeting smile. “You’d do better to find a reliable biolab.”
“I can’t,” she said. “No Domina has ever done it that way—Veratina tried it once, and the people never forgave her. Besides,” she added, “there isn’t time.”
“How long do you have?”
“You heard Nivome. I’ve promised to give him an answer tomorrow, at the public audience. If I can announce, instead, that I’m expecting a second child …”
There was another long silence. Perada couldn’t tell what Errec was thinking. His eyes were shadowed and remote, as if he gazed at an inward vista that she could not comprehend.
“Yes,” he said. “That way is open.”
Perada exhaled carefully. “Attend me tonight in my chambers.”
In the sitting room of the Orgilan Guesthouse, Master Guislen stood once more at the window, looking down onto the street. The rain that had lashed against the panes all the day before had stopped during the night, and the sky outside had the deep, clear-washed blue of autumn. A few feet away, at the desk, Ambassador Oldigaard frowned over his afternoon session with the textcomms.
“Bad news?” Guislen asked.
“Contradictory reports. Our ships quote Entiboran Fleet gossip as saying that Jos Metadi brought home an alliance with Maraghai; but our agent at the palace says that Metadi has fled Entibor in disgrace, and that Her Dignity will soon repudiate him altogether.”
Guislen shook his head. “Excitement without letup. If the issue stands in doubt, it may be necessary for us to intervene.”
“A Selvauran alliance would be fatal,” Oldigaard said. “Given ships and engineers from Maraghai, Entibor would have no need for a treaty with Galcen.”
“Let us be honest among ourselves, at least. There are no Centrists here; and what Galcen wants is no ordinary treaty. You’ll need more than sweet words to make Entibor into one of your client worlds.”
“Criticism is easy,” said Oldigaard. “Do you have any practical suggestions?”
“As it happens, yes. Go to the Summer Palace at once, before Her Dignity makes a final decision on the matter. Remind her, subtly, that there are other sources of ships and pilots besides Maraghai—offer full cooperation without preconditions, if need be.”
“The Council would never agree to it.”
“Th
e Council doesn’t have to agree to it,” Guislen said. “Once they are dependent on our fleet, Entibor will have no choice but to ally itself with Galcen on Galcen’s terms.”
. Oldigaard thought about the possibilities. At last he smiled and nodded. “Excellent. We can charter an airhop at the port, and be there tonight.”
The textcomm beeped to alert Oldigaard to incoming news. The ambassador broke off the conversation to read it—one eyebrow going up as he did so.
“New developments?” asked Guislen.
“Oh, yes,” Oldigaard said. “The newsfiles report six unexplained deaths this morning in Elicond Province.” He read aloud. “‘Elicond Public Health denies emphatically that the so-called Sapnean Plague is the culprit, and says that there is no immediate cause for alarm.’
Master Guislen smiled. “Didn’t I tell you that we could trust the Mages to do our work for us?”
“I’ve done a lot of things for the greater good of the galaxy,” Vasari said, “but this is a first.”
“Just be ready at the landing field.”
It was dusk at the Summer Palace, and the two Adepts stood in the shadows underneath the trees that bordered the formal garden. Vasari suppressed her amusement with some difficulty—it was barely possible, she conceded, that Errec Ransome didn’t find the evening’s proposed activities as humorous as he might have—and said, “How long should I wait?”
“If I’m not back by dawn—”
“—I should assume she’s cut your throat and tossed your body into the nearest well?”
“More or less.” Errec sounded serious. “Or that I’ve been taken away by the Interior Ministry.”
“What should I do if that happens?”
Vasari wasn’t afraid of Internal Security—but in her experience, getting mixed up with surveillance agencies was always a bad idea. They made unreliable friends and unpleasant enemies, and their outlook, as a rule, was deplorably parochial.
“Nothing,” Errec said. “The Guild hasn’t heard from me since Ilarna. And you never set eyes on me at all.”
She nodded reluctant agreement. “That’s probably best. I’ll be waiting with the vehicle, then.” She hesitated, not knowing quite what else to say to him under the circumstances, and settled for, “Take care.”
“I will,” he said, and faded off into the shadows.
She waited for several minutes, then turned and began the long hike downhill to the landing field and the rented aircar.
The field at the Summer Palace lacked most of the amenities of a commercial establishment. A small building camouflaged by a stand of ornamental whipgrass housed the landing beacons and other necessary equipment, and provided an out-of-the-weather spot where visitors could wait for the arrival of a hovercar from the palace. Vasari avoided the building’s interior on general principles—there was no point in hanging around under bright lights where anybody who showed up could see her face—and found herself a seat on the shadowed ground outside.
For some time, she sat there undisturbed. Far off, at the edges of her awareness, she could sense what was going on at the palace—Errec Ransome’s familiar, if elusive, presence, and, through him, the Domina like a bright blue flame. Vasari was not one of those Adepts who could trace the patterns of the universe and predict their change, but sometimes the currents flowed and eddied so strongly that anyone with the Adept’s gift could see them.
If I know what’s good for me, she thought, when this is finished I’ll forget that I was ever here.
The night went on. Vasari quit thinking about the passage of time. A light breeze came up, rippling the plumes of whipgrass around the small building. Errec Ransome emerged from the shadows to stand beside her.
She rose to her feet. “Does the Domina have an heir?”
“The Mages on Entibor work against her,” Errec said. “I saw the pattern clearly: as long as she stays on this planet, she’ll never conceive a daughter.”
“And the reigning Domina never leaves Entibor.” Vasari sighed. The Selvauran alliance seemed to recede even further into the impossible distance. “So what do we do now?”
“Nothing,” said Errec. “The Domina isn’t carrying a girl—but she never asked for one, either. What she asked for was time, and now she has it.”
“A boy, then.”
“Yes.”
“Will that be good enough?”
“For a while,” said Errec. “That’s all anyone can ask.”
The rumble of an aircar’s engines overrode his voice as he spoke. Vasari looked in the direction of the sound, and saw a midsized commercial charter craft coming in from the direction of An-Jemayne. The charter glided onto an approach course and settled down in a nullgrav-assisted landing. Instinctively, Vasari moved farther back into the shadows.
The last thing we need right now is for some late-night diplomatic flunky to spot us tiptoeing out the back door.
The passenger-compartment door of the aircar swung open and a ramp extended down to the field. Light streamed through the open door of the compartment and silhouetted the figures of two men coming out. Even from a distance, Vasari could see that one of the men carried an Adept’s staff. The two men started across the field toward the building—most likely to wait for somebody at the palace to come down with a hovercar, since the distance on foot was a long one for anybody not more interested in discretion than in comfort.
She heard a sharp intake of breath from Errec Ransome. When he spoke, it was in a low tone scarcely distinguishable from the sound of the wind in the grass.
“Do you know those people, Vasari?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, in the same low tone. “The Adept’s nobody I recognize.”
“Just as well,” said Errec. “Because what I’m about to do is for the good of the Guild. Don’t try to stop me.”
“Stop you from what?”
But Errec wasn’t there to listen to her any longer. He was moving out of the shadows, stepping forward into the path of the two men and barring their way with his staff.
“Master Guislen,” he said. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” said the Adept. His voice held a courteous puzzlement, nothing more. “Should I?”
“You should,” Errec said. “Because I remember you. And I remember Amalind Grange.”
Vasari expected Guislen to say something—a denial, maybe, or a question—but instead he brought his staff up to guard. Red fire flowed around him like an aurora of blood.
Errec took a step forward. The staff in his hands began to glow—first a pale orange, then a blinding white as Guislen struck out at him and he blocked the blow. Errec brought the end of his staff up in a trail of white sparks. Guislen blocked, and the air flared up in red and yellow where the two staves met.
Vasari moved hastily out of range. She and Errec Ransome had never practiced fighting together, and now was not the time to start. Instead, she made a wide circle around the patch of ground where Guislen and Ransome attacked and parried and attacked again, so that she came up behind the third man, the unknown who’d come out of the aircar with Guislen.
He was portly and well dressed, after the fashion of a high public official or a substantial man of business. More to the point, as far as Vasari was concerned, he’d pulled out a pocket comm link and was about to key it on. She stepped forward and put her hand against the side of his throat.
“Don’t move,” she murmured in his ear. She let him feel the touch of Power against his mind, enough to keep him quiet and imply the possibility of worse things in the offing. “And don’t say anything. You aren’t seeing this.”
The duel ended as she spoke. A staff thudded to the ground, and when she looked—still holding the man silent—Errec Ransome was standing over the fallen Guislen.
“Cry for mercy,” he said.
“Mercy … I can explain … .”
“I’ll give you the mercy you showed to us at Amalind. You don’t deserve more.”
Before Guislen could speak a
gain, Errec brought the heel of his boot down hard on the other Adept’s chest. Ribs broke with sudden sharp cracks. Guislen arched backward in a massive convulsion, and pink foamy blood spewed from his mouth. A second convulsion, and he was dead.
Vasari let go the man she was holding. The commands she had laid on him, of silence and forgetfulness, would keep him from summoning help for a few minutes, but no longer. And the pilot of the chartered aircar would have seen the whole thing.
“Come on,” she said to Errec. “We’ve got to get you to a spaceport. After everything you’ve done tonight, this whole planet’s going to be too hot for you.”
ERREC RANSOME: ESCAPE
(GALCENIAN DATING 970 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 34 VERATINA)
IT TOOK Errec Ransome ten days to make the journey from his prison house to a working spaceport. He’d walked without a destination at first, seeking only to put as much distance behind him as possible. Then on the second night he saw, beyond the horizon, the rising fire-trail of a massive surface-to-orbit ship lifting off, and turned his face in that direction.
Next day the temperature dropped and it began to rain.
He kept on walking. The broken ground—full of precipitous downslopes, thorny tangles, and grotesque piles of tumbled rock—slowed his progress and often forced him to turn aside from the straight bearing to the port. Patches of fog rose up from every dip and hollow, so that a sudden drop-off or a leg-twisting jumble of stone seemed to hide wherever he looked. And always, at the edge of his vision, moved shadows not cast by any natural part of the desolate landscape, persistent reminders that the dead walked with him.
The rain fell all that day and into the evening. About midnight a cold wind sprang up; it caught at his sodden garments and slapped them against his body with stinging force, then pulled away the cloth to slap at him again. By daybreak he was chilled to the bone and shivering without letup. He pressed his fist against his mouth to keep from answering the voices that spoke to him out of the shadows. And he kept on walking.
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