But Harthril had not forgiven the cubs for stealing his food rations. He was looking stern and hostile now as though he didn’t want Nashmarl along.
“Right!” Nashmarl said in excitement. “Then I’m going.”
Ampris put her hand on his shoulder. “Harthril must give you his permission first.”
Red flushed Nashmarl’s face. He looked at his mother, all his excitement crashing in his eyes. He did not look at Harthril. “You’re in charge, Mother,” he said softly. “You can tell him to—”
“No,” Ampris said in a clear, level voice. “I cannot.”
“Ask him then. Ask him! I want to go.”
All the adults sighed, and Elrabin looked away. He hated to see Ampris have to deal with this. Although she was up and around, she did not have her old strength back. She looked thin, and even Velia’s cooking could not always tempt her appetite.
“Nashmarl,” Ampris said in quiet reproof. “If you want to go you must ask Harthril’s permission.”
“It is not given,” the Reject said firmly, ending the discussion abruptly. He shot the cub a cold look, then glanced at Elrabin. “We go now.”
“Sure,” Elrabin said.
The Reject strode outside without another word. Elrabin stopped next to Nashmarl, who looked crushed.
“Hey, cub,” he said quietly, feeling sorry for the brat. “You and your brother sure helped me today. If Harthril had seen how you can handle ’em, he would have let you go.”
“No he wouldn’t,” Nashmarl said miserably. “He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Ampris said, drawing him under her arm. “But he is still very angry with you. It is hard for Harthril to forgive.”
Elrabin left her to comfort her son and gave Velia a quick lick on her muzzle. “Be back for supper, I hope,” he said. “Harthril on the hunting trail can be hard to stop.”
Velia sent him a look from her tilted, golden-brown eyes that made him smile. “You find another place to keep them before you come home,” she said sternly. “This one stinks enough.”
She had a point. Elrabin nuzzled her throat, then hurried out. He had some Skek hunting to do.
CHAPTER•NINETEEN
In the end, with other abiru pitching in, Elrabin and Harthril rounded up about three dozen Skeks, caged them, and loaded them into crates. A Kelth named Fashier worked in shipping at Vir Station Four. He processed the crates and slipped them into a shipment of supplies bound for the space station.
Ampris and the others hovered over the vidcasts, waiting to hear about the station’s newest problem. Nothing appeared on any channel.
“It didn’t work,” Velia declared. “I told you it wouldn’t.”
“Maybe the Skeks died in transit,” Nashmarl said sadly. Now that he no longer had the creatures to care for, he seemed lost and restless again.
Disappointed, Ampris rubbed her son’s head and turned away from the vid. They had left Jobul’s house and taken up residence in a tenement building condemned for demolition. It stood practically under a guidance sling for Vir Station Four, and the noisy landings and takeoffs of the shuttles went on constantly overhead. But the noise and commotion from the station provided a useful cover for their equipment use. With so many linkup signals clustered around the station, monitoring by Security was ineffectual, which gave them a great deal of freedom to get on with their work. Ampris now broadcast daily messages of hope and encouragement to the abiru population over a vacant channel. Every time Security managed to block the channel, they simply switched to another one. Ghosting, it was called. From all reports, her messages were getting through. The slaves were united as they had never been before. Many of them clustered in vacant lots and city parks, singing about freedom or chanting Ampris’s name until patrollers chased them away. Rewards had been posted for information on Ampris’s whereabouts, but no one betrayed her this time. Still, Ampris was staying off the streets. As Elrabin said, no point in taking unnecessary chances.
The building they had taken over also had a basement with access to a dry service tunnel, long abandoned and with empty conduits that had once held wiring. Members of the Freedom Network came and went that way, with Luthien’s gang guarding access. There was no outside activity to arouse the suspicions of the neighbors. Externally, the building was just a sagging, condemned structure with boarded-up windows and broken steps. Kelth lits and Aaroun cubs from the next tenement played gollooball in the street except when patrollers swept the area. But inside, the place hummed with activity and purpose.
Besides the recording equipment for Ampris’s messages, a machine that duplicated data crystals ran night and day, producing cheap copies of Ampris reciting the terms of the broken treaty between the Viis and Aarouns. Quiesl boiled the history of the Myals into a thirty-minute encapsulation and recorded it as a reminder to his people of their highly accomplished past. Even Elrabin, protesting and stiff with nervousness, was persuaded to mumble three Kelth poems of war, peace, and family life that Non taught him. The Imperial Archives were gone forever, but Non and Quiesl both had perfect recall and could recite for hours material that they had read and translated. These crystals were smuggled across the city, given free to anyone who would take them. The word was spreading.
Although no message came from Shrazhak Ohr, Ampris continued to proceed as though everything was on schedule. She was afraid to do anything else, afraid to admit how worried she was inside. The planned raid on Ehssk’s laboratory was successful, a clean, quick break-in. The professional thieves of Luthien’s gang brought Ampris fourteen vials of clear liquid, which now rested upright in a case labeled with dire warnings. Her staff and group leaders gathered around the case in awe, staring at the sealed tops of the vials.
“We could kill all the Viis,” Luthien said. “Just break these on the streets, and let the Dancing Death out.”
Ampris closed the case with a feeling of shutting the door on temptation. “Put it in the cooler,” she said to Elrabin. “Lock it.”
Harval growled. “You don’t trust us now?”
She met his gaze fearlessly. “I want no accidents. Nor do I intend to commit mass murder.”
“Ampris, we have the solution in our hands,” Harval said fiercely. “We can wipe them out, take Viisymel for our own.”
“And then what do we have?” she retorted. “A poisoned, polluted planet, stripped of its natural resources? I want Ruu-one-one-three, where we have a chance and a future.”
“Ain’t getting Ruu-one-one-three,” Luthien said sourly. His one eye glared at her. “Zrheli ain’t going to help us. Been over a week now since the Skeks should have been up there. We ain’t heard nothing. They don’t care ’bout nobody but themselves, the nasty—”
“Ampris!” called out Quiesl’s voice. He came pushing through the crowd, his gray-streaked mane wild and tangled, his eyes burning with excitement. “Ampris!”
“Let him through,” she said in concern.
The old Myal came pushing and struggling until he reached her at the front of the room. He was breathing hard, and his tail was coiled up rightly.
Ampris’s heart sank. “What has happened, my dear friend?” she asked, fearing the worst. Things had been going well for a time, but today the patrollers had swept through the ghetto, netting many abiru in unexpected arrests. Frenshala had been taken. Velia was almost captured. She hadn’t even come to tonight’s meeting. Instead, she was huddled upstairs in a blanket, with Tantha keeping her company. “Catch your breath, Quiesl, and tell us.”
“More arrests?” Luax asked. Harthril had gone out tonight to join a Reject raid on Zehava. Luax had been tense and silent all evening. “Are the patrollers coming here?”
Quiesl puffed and shook his head. “No, no, my good friends. Do not be alarmed. I bring good news.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Ampris looked at him in surprise. “What is it?”
“This message came through,” Quiesl said, handing her a docking ticket. “On the back.�
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Ampris turned it over in her hands and read the message that had been printed on the bright green card: SHIPMENT RECEIVED. WORKING. WILL ASSIST.
Her heart soared. There was only one place this could have come from. “Quiesl!” she said in excitement.
He was beaming, his broad mouth stretched in a smile. “Yes, yes. The message came through on the abiru shift. An abiru operator took it.”
“When did it come in?”
“Yesterday. The operator had to wait until her shift was over, and at the last moment she was assigned double shifts. She didn’t dare entrust it to anyone, and brought it to me.” He hesitated, then said with pride, “My daughter.”
Ampris clutched the ticket with both hands and turned to the others. Her heart was pounding too fast, but she didn’t care. “The Zrheli are going to help! The Skeks are on the station, and our plan is working.”
Elrabin yipped loudly, and then everyone was cheering.
Ampris stood there amid the noise, smiling foolishly, so happy and relieved she thought she would burst. A moment ago, they had seemed close to failure, with everything on the verge of falling apart, and now they had taken yet another important step toward their goal. She wanted to dance and sing with relief, but her mind leaped ahead and she felt suddenly shaky and cold. Quickly she clutched her Eye of Clarity and fought to keep her composure. Now they could go on, and that’s what frightened her.
“My friends,” she said at last, when she felt strong enough to speak. “My friends.”
“Quiet!” Elrabin shouted. He gestured and shouted until everyone fell silent and gave her their attention.
Feeling thankful and very serious now, Ampris faced them. “My friends,” she said, still clutching her Eye of Clarity, “it is time to begin phase three of our plan. This is the most difficult part of what we hope to achieve. It is the most dangerous. It will ask much of us. Not all of us will survive it.”
The room was deathly silent now. No one stirred or coughed or interrupted.
“Some of us will have to sacrifice our lives,” she said. “I will ask for volunteers only. I cannot choose any of you. I will not choose any of you. You must make the choice for yourself.” She paused, praying for strength, knowing she was asking innocent people to die, knowing she would have to live with that the rest of her life. “We will begin tomorrow. I ask that the volunteers come to me then. It is time to bring the Dancing Death to the Viis people and make them fear us.”
Fresh cheers broke out, making further speech impossible. Elrabin tried to quiet them, but Ampris gripped his wrist and shook her head.
“Let them celebrate for now,” she said. “The dying will begin soon enough.”
Israi was attending a party given by the patriarch of the Twelfth House. The villa stood right on the bank of the river, its architecture as old as the abandoned part of the imperial palace, but in much better repair. Magnificent gardens still in bloom despite the drought had the guests exclaiming in pleasure and delight. A near-invisible grid overhead spewed forth scented mist that lowered the temperature in the gardens enough to make walking in them pleasant. Israi sat on a dais beneath a canopy of pleated silk, nibbling chilled fruit soaked in wine and listening to a concert being performed in her honor.
Israi was in a very bad mood.
The sri-Kaa was ill tonight from some trifling chunenhal fever, and everyone who had made obeisance to Israi this evening had inquired about him. Not about her, but him. As though Cheliharad were more important than she. Israi’s replies had grown increasingly curt. She sat now, listening to the concert without enjoyment, and promised herself that if one more person inquired after the sri-Kaa’s health, she would order removal of the offending tongue.
A short female Myal was conducting the music with such enthusiasm that Israi surmised she must be the composer as well. Israi found it far too elaborate and intricate for her taste. The melody swelled in a great crescendo, and Israi toyed with her new bracelet of carved Gaza stones. The green jewels were now very precious indeed. The empire no longer owned the world which produced such exquisite stones.
She sighed. By now, most of her anger had faded, leaving her feeling petulant and bored. She was tired of these social appearances, scheduled to support morale among her subjects. Last night she had attended the symphony. Many seats in the concert hall were empty, which had displeased her. This morning she had listened to a report naming the owners of those empty seats and providing explanations for their absence. Almost half of them had allowed ownership to lapse because of financial difficulties.
Israi hated getting such reports. They depressed her.
Tonight, at least, in this magnificent home, there was no evidence of financial hardship. Lord Rakiel was in his otal cycle of life—quite ancient, in fact—but his mental powers had not yet failed him. He had been minister of finance before Israi’s father was Kaa. Some whispered that during his term of office, Rakiel had dipped deep into the public treasury to line his private coffers. Certainly he had not allowed his personal fortunes to fall with the imperial ones. Israi studied her host tonight, wishing she could persuade him to return to public duty. But no one in the otal stage of life could be asked to serve, not even by the Kaa.
She sighed again. It was a pity.
Oviel leaned over her. “Is the Imperial Mother unwell?” he asked softly.
She looked up at her egg-brother without affection. He had been well-behaved and quiet enough since his return to court. At Chancellor Temondahl’s urging, Israi had been persuaded to let Oviel join her entourage this evening. But she remained cool toward him, for she would never trust him or forgive him for his past treacheries. “We are well,” she said curtly.
Oviel bowed and backed away from her. His manners were perfect and gracious. He acted as though he only wanted to serve her as the others did, but just as he bowed his head, she caught a flash of resentment in his eyes.
At once she felt vindicated. No, Oviel was not the mealy-mouthed courtier he was pretending to be. She had been right to distrust him. In the morning, she would remind the Bureau to continue its surveillance on his activities.
The music swelled and soared in a complex, intricate passage. Israi wondered how long until it would end and stifled a yawn.
From his chair at the foot of the dais, Lord Rakiel immediately gestured to the conductor. The Myal shrank within herself but had the musicians cut abruptly to an abbreviated flourish. The music ended.
Slaves raced about to light lanterns hanging from tree limbs. The surprised audience broke into polite applause. Israi rose to her feet, grateful this ordeal was over at last. Had she liked the composition, it would have been customary to speak briefly to the composer and perhaps award her a small token of appreciation. Israi did not even look in the dejected Myal’s direction.
Lord Rakiel stood up with assistance from one of his house slaves. All of them wore broad collars of real gold and sleeveless livery with the crest of the Twelfth House embroidered across the back. Lord Rakiel found his balance and came toward Israi with a very slow but extremely graceful stride.
In otal cycle, most Viis were considered too ancient and ugly to be seen and hid themselves away from the public gaze. But Lord Rakiel had managed to preserve his fine looks despite his advancing age. He was still unstooped and lean, with the stored fat in his tail concealed by the skirt of his long coat. His rill—the skin still firm and elastic—lay arranged in attractive folds across a very tall collar. His jewels winked in the lights.
He bowed to her. “May I escort the Imperial Mother through my sabellia garden? I imported new varieties this year from Rantoon. They are exquisite, quite at the peak of their bloom.”
Israi was ready to go home, but to depart so early would be an insult to a powerful family. Lord Rakiel had donated many expensive sabellia blossoms to the memorial funeral rites conducted for Lord Commander Belz earlier in the week. It was a generous gift, indicative of the tremendous wealth he still possessed.
&
nbsp; She needed to find a way to persuade Rakiel to share some of that wealth with the imperial treasury. More important, she wanted to find out which cosmetic surgeon he employed. Rakiel looked so natural that she couldn’t tell whether or not he had been augmented and lifted. Which meant he had surely had it done.
She smiled and allowed him to take her hand. “We would be honored to see your gardens.”
They set out at a slow, stately pace along the white paths of crushed shells. Other guests parted to make way for them, bowing low to Israi. She was not used to walking quite so slowly, but Lord Rakiel was tall and very handsome. He had the grand, antiquated manners of Israi’s grandfather, and his great air of dignity and refinement pleased her. She found herself relaxing in his company. He told her charming little anecdotes, revealing a wit as sharp as it was wicked.
Israi laughed aloud, enjoying herself for the first time all evening.
The sabellia garden proved to be a tiny enclosed area filled with large, sword-leaved plants. In the light of lanterns bobbing in the cool, artificially created breeze, stalks of scarlet blooms as large as Israi’s head stood in stately formation. Their fragrance filled the air with heady perfume that made her feel slightly intoxicated. Oh, indeed, this was an exquisite garden, the perfect spot for a tryst with a lover. In the distance, more informal music now played, traditional rhythms throbbing through the warm summer night.
Israi leaned over to inhale the fragrance of a magnificent bloom just as one of her attendants came hurrying up.
Rakiel raised his head and his rill stiffened. He thrust out his gold-banded staff, planting the tip in the attendant’s chest and holding him back.
“What do you want?” he asked sternly.
Israi had closed her eyes, letting her senses swim in this perfume like no other. She moved her face closer to the giant flower, but the attendant said, “I bring the compliments of the Lady Lorea. She says the imperial litter is waiting to conduct the Imperial Mother to the palace at once.”
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