Lord Rakiel never lowered his staff. “Who is this Lady Lorea? Does she have the power to summon the Imperial Mother? Begone with you! I’ll have your tongue for this interruption.”
Pretending to be totally absorbed by the flower, Israi buried her face in its petals again and smiled to herself. Oh, if only the messenger could have been Oviel, she thought. She would have loved to see his chest poked by Rakiel’s staff.
But the attendant did not withdraw as ordered. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but Lady Lorea told me to insist that the Imperial Mother return. A message has come from the palace. It is terrible news, I think.”
Now Israi did straighten. She turned to face the nervous attendant—a Viis male vi-adult of excellent family, sent to her service so that he might acquire court polish. Flicking out her tongue, Israi asked, “Are we to run home in a panic? This emergency can be dealt with by Lord Temondahl.”
The attendant bowed, looking as though he did not know what to do. Rakiel poked him hard with his staff. “Go!” he ordered.
“I beg the pardon of the Imperial Mother and of you, Lord Rakiel,” said Oviel, walking up through the darkness. A lantern bobbing overhead from a tree cast an uneven glow across his face. “It was thought best to give the Imperial Mother this news in the privacy of her litter, but if she will not come I must convey the news here.”
Israi glared at him. “Then say it,” she said impatiently.
Oviel bowed very low. “I regret that Lord Temondahl has called from the palace. The sri-Kaa is dead.”
Rakiel dropped his staff and turned to Israi with an expression of shock and profound dismay. “Oh, no,” he said.
Israi stood there, her hand suddenly crushing the stem of the sabellia bloom. For a moment she felt nothing at all and wondered why these three males should be staring at her with such expressions. Even Oviel showed no satisfaction, no triumph, but only regret.
“It was just a fever, a trifling affliction,” she said.
Oviel stepped forward. “Majesty—”
“No!” She whirled away from him, standing with her back to them all. She thought of Cheliharad, with his narrow, serious face and big eyes. His frail blue-skinned fingers had clung to her hand tightly only a few days ago when they’d stood in the processional for Lord Belz’s funeral. He had been so little, so fresh from the egg, so somber in his tiny coat of indigo blue and his jeweled sash of rank. Now there would be another funeral.
Regret touched her. She felt guilty for having chosen him as her successor so callously, knowing he might die, knowing she might have to choose another of her progeny. She had calculated it all so coldly, and now too soon it had come to pass. As though . . . as though she had wished it upon him. As though she had cursed her own son.
Her shock, however, lasted only for those few moments. Lifting her rill as she regained her composure, Israi turned to face Lord Rakiel.
“Forgive me,” she said, her voice cold and toneless. “We must depart at once.”
Rakiel bowed low. “Of course, majesty. May I offer my most sincere condolences—”
“Thank you.” With a gesture, she cut him off, in no mood to receive sympathy. She hated funerals and all their attendant mourning ceremonies. The public rituals of grief were a dreary business, and she was tired of conducting them. Turning to her egg-brother, Israi flicked her fingers impatiently. “Oviel, conduct us to our litter now.”
It was late at night and the warehouse stood deserted. Inhaling the powerful scents of kafalva beans emanating from the sacks piled nearly to the ceiling, Ampris pushed back the hood of her robe and tried to wait patiently while Elrabin finished rubbing finger oils off the container which had held the stolen viruses. He dropped it, eyed it a moment, picked it up, rubbed it carefully, and dropped it again. This time it landed on its side, and he seemed to approve. He unstoppered a vial bearing the distinctive yellow label of the Dancing Death and dropped it beside the container. The vial shattered, and liquid seeped onto the floor.
Elrabin glanced up, his eyes very serious in the dim torchlight, and met Ampris’s gaze.
She nodded back and thumbed on the hand-link. She used the correct codes to call straight into the palace, on Israi’s direct line.
Years ago, when she’d first been sold to another owner by Israi and Ampris had still been naive enough to believe it was all a mistake, she had called Israi directly. That time, she had not gotten through. This time, she believed she would. The hand-link had been programmed—at great expense—to connect with a coded, inner-palace channel not normally accessible to outside calls.
The hand-link beeped softly and a Viis voice said sleepily, “Who is calling, please?”
“Tell the Kaa that it is Ampris.”
There was silence, as though whoever had answered was too stunned to speak. Ampris waited, mentally counting off the passing seconds. She only had so much time before the trace would be made. Standing a short distance away, Elrabin did not move. He seemed to be frozen with tension. All the strain of this attempt could be seen in his eyes.
“The Kaa is unavailable right now,” said the voice at last.
“Awaken her,” Ampris said harshly. “Quickly!”
“How did you get this coded line?” asked the voice.
“You’re delaying me so a trace can go through, but it takes a long time to route the trace out of the in-palace loop and out into the city, which is where I am. Meanwhile, Israi is missing the opportunity to speak with me.”
“The Imperial Mother is in mourning and cannot be disturbed by—”
“Who is this?” a female voice said sharply. “I am Lady Lorea, chief lady in waiting to her majesty. You are—”
Muffled noises came over the line. Ampris lowered the hand-link and took some deep breaths. She was still counting in her head, feeling the time flashing by.
A faint series of little beeps sounded on the line. She knew then the tracer had left the in-palace loop and was now searching city channels. Only a few seconds were left.
“I have a message for the Kaa,” Ampris said clearly into the link. “Tell her the current troubles are just the beginning. She must let the abiru folk go free. If she does not—”
“Ampris!” Israi’s regal voice came on, cutting her off. “How dare you call us this way? How dare you threaten us? You—”
“I don’t want to threaten you,” Ampris replied. “I just want freedom for my people.”
“Your people!” Israi said angrily. “They are our people.”
“Not anymore. You’ve abused them, and that has cost you the right to be their mistress.”
“Ampris, you are a fool,” Israi said. “We know you are behind the current unrest and riots. We blame you. And we warn you that your location is being traced at this very moment. In seconds you will be arrested and shot on the spot for treason.”
“You’ve already condemned me to death,” Ampris said calmly. “The Bureau let me go.”
“You escaped,” Israi said, her voice sounding furious now. “But you can’t elude arrest forever. If you think the abiru have been oppressed, you are wrong. But now, you have condemned them along with yourself. We warn you of this. All the blame shall be on you.”
Elrabin stirred, running to the door of the warehouse and gesturing urgently. Ampris could hear the sound of a patroller shuttle approaching fast.
“No, Israi,” she broke in on what the Kaa was saying. “I’m afraid it’s your people who are doomed. I’m sorry it has come to this.”
She broke off and dropped the hand-link on the floor next to the torch and the broken vial. Elrabin was already running across the warehouse, gesturing for her to hurry. Ampris limped after him, struggling with her brace, and together they vanished through a trapdoor just as the main doors of the warehouse burst open and patrollers came running in.
An entire squad of patrollers entered the warehouse ahead of their officers, shouting for Ampris to come out of hiding. Two sniffers were activated and released into the ai
r. Clicking and whirring, they went floating through the large building in opposite directions.
By then, however, one of the patrollers was already kneeling to pick up the abandoned hand-link. “She was here, all right,” he called back to his sergeant. Then his gaze fell on the broken vial and the empty container with its biohazard warning labels.
The patroller jumped to his feet, running backward with a curse that brought others to him.
Too horrified to speak, he pointed at the vial. “The Dancing Death.”
The rest of the squad also backed away, breathing hard.
“What is it?” the sergeant called to them. “What is wrong with you?”
The patroller who had found the broken vial turned around to face him. “Sir, Dancing Death has been released in here. We have found the stolen—”
The sergeant shot him in mid-sentence, blasting a lethal hole in his chest.
Shouting in fear, the rest of the squad tried to scatter, but the sergeant shot them all in quick succession.
Behind him, a lieutenant came running in. “Sergeant, what is the meaning of this? Who ordered shots fired?”
“Sir, it’s the Dancing Death. The abiru have set a trap for us. I—”
The lieutenant shot him down, leaving the sergeant sprawled in the doorway of the warehouse. Stumbling back along the loading dock, the lieutenant found his heart beating frantically and his air sacs booming within the confines of his helmet. He snapped his visor shut in reflex, even as a corner of his mind told him that was no protection against the plague.
I didn’t go in, he told himself, trying to believe he had a chance. I didn’t get too close. I didn’t go in.
“Sir?” said another sergeant from the second squad which had just flown up. “We heard shots fired.”
The lieutenant stopped running, but his heart went on racing. “Report in to headquarters,” he said breathlessly. “The plague has been released. I have killed the others to stop it from spreading. The Bureau must be informed at once—”
The officer in charge of the second squad shot the lieutenant where he stood. “Back away!” he shouted, gesturing frantically. The shuttle reversed directions at once.
As it flew off, siren blaring, the officer called in a report, giving instructions for the street to be sealed off immediately. His tongue was a knotted coil in his mouth, and his air sacs seemed unable to inflate. Inside he was thinking, I didn’t get too close. I’ll be safe. My squad is safe. We didn’t get too close.
By mid-morning the next day, the street in question had been barricaded and the warehouse was burning down. A shuttle had flown overhead shortly before dawn and bombed it. Now scientists in bulky environmental suits were laboriously scanning the area, checking for contamination.
Israi’s council had convened, and the chancellors and ministers were all but in a panic. Temondahl was trying to calm them with his usual platitudes and assurances, but his voice had no effect.
Israi herself was in a rage. Pacing up and down, ragged after having had no sleep, she cursed Ampris from the bottom of her soul. “There is no plague,” she said furiously, silencing them at last. She glared at their frightened faces. “It is a trick, a cheap abiru trick.”
“The Dancing Death has been released,” Oviel said from where he was standing with the silent attendants. He was not supposed to speak at this meeting, but it seemed he had forgotten that. “And now the sri-Kaa is dead. Perhaps his fever was—”
“No!” Israi said, appalled that he would suggest a connection. “Be silent, Oviel. You know nothing about this matter. Your imaginings only make things worse.”
“Perhaps Lord Oviel is correct,” quavered Lord Brax. Normally puffed up with assurance and self-conceit, this morning he looked seriously shaken. “Perhaps it is spreading through us all—”
“You forget that we know the mind of this traitor Ampris,” Israi said icily, interrupting him before he could panic the whole room. “She would never dare—”
The door opened and Lord Nalsk entered. Garbed in black, his throat encircled by a plain brass collar, the head of the dreaded Bureau of Security came striding in unchallenged.
Israi faced him with relief. “Lord Nalsk, good,” she said. “We know you will put an end to the council’s fears.”
“The problem has been contained,” Nalsk said. His eyes, piercing and always suspicious, swept the room. “The warehouse is destroyed. No contaminants have been detected in the surrounding area.”
A sigh of relief passed through the room.
Israi shoved her own relief aside. She’d known Ampris wouldn’t carry out her threat. Ampris had always been soft-hearted. Oh, she might growl and show her claws, but she did not have a ruthless bone in her body. As a bluff, it had almost worked, but now the Aaroun would find out how costly her ploy had been.
“But, Lord Nalsk,” Brax said worriedly, “there seems to be a possibility that the sri-Kaa’s fever was this—”
“No,” Nalsk said firmly. “Forgive me for interrupting you, Lord Brax, but such a rumor is unfounded. The physicians examined the sri-Kaa carefully.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted momentarily to Israi’s stony face. “His heart had been weak since birth. It could not sustain him. The plague did not cause an imperial death.”
Murmurs swept the room, while Israi stood there with her hands clenched on the back of her throne. As soon as she could command her legs, she moved around the throne and sat down. Holding her head high, she glared at them all.
“Lord Nalsk,” Israi said, regaining his attention. “Although the scare has proved to be only a bluff, such a threat to the empire cannot pass unpunished. Have you arrested Ampris?”
“We have not yet found her, your majesty,” Nalsk replied. He made no excuses for his continued failure to smoke her out. It was not his way.
Israi’s rill stiffened, but she dared not berate him. “If you cannot find her, then turn your attention to the ghetto. All abiru there are to be deported immediately. Not just the troublemakers—anyone you find. If anyone resists or tries to flee, shoot them.”
“Very well, majesty.”
“But—but—” Lord Temondahl sputtered.
Israi glared at him. He always tried to meddle when she needed to be strong. “Yes, chancellor?”
“Does this edict apply to our servants as well?”
“The Imperial Majesty specified the abiru living in the ghetto,” Lord Nalsk replied for her. “Do your personal slaves habitually go there?”
“No!” Temondahl replied in affront, his normal composure slipping. “Of course not.”
“Then do not fear on their behalf. Have I the Imperial Mother’s leave to go?” Nalsk asked.
She nodded, grateful for his ruthless efficiency. She had already asked him in private to become the lord commander of the Viis army. He had refused, saying he had more power in his current position. She did not feel entirely easy about that, but for now he was her ally and she was satisfied.
As Nalsk left she faced her council. “There is nothing to fear,” she said. “Make sure the rest of our court does not panic.” Her gaze went to Oviel’s face and grew hard. “We need no more false rumors besetting us during our time of tragedy.”
Oviel dropped his gaze. His rill had turned pink, giving him away. Israi loathed him and wondered how hard she would have to negotiate with Lord Nalsk to arrange for Oviel’s permanent disappearance. As much as she wanted to demand the elimination of her despised egg-brother, she was leery of putting herself too deep into Nalsk’s debt.
The council rose to its feet at her dismissal. She let them bow to her, then walked out through their midst, heading back to where the mourning silks hung in her chambers and were draped across the door leading to the nursery wing. Lady Lorea was waiting for her to make a choice on the funeral arrangements, and Israi wished she could flee into her gardens and be lost for the rest of the day. No parent should ever have to arrange a funeral for a little chune, she thought; it made the world seem as though
all order had been turned upside down and nothing would ever be right again.
Israi was napping that afternoon, exhaustion having claimed her at last, when Chancellor Temondahl came and awakened her.
Confused and groggy, Israi sat up among her cushions, waving away the slaves who had been fanning her. Another came with a tray of wine and chilled fruit, but Israi did not want it.
“What is it now, chancellor?” she asked wearily, yawning and stretching her arms.
Temondahl did not look well. His rill was stiff behind his head, and his eyes held shock. “Terrible news,” he whispered as though his voice had failed him. “I regret to bring more terrible news to your majesty.”
Her head was aching. The room was too hot. Why had the slaves allowed the air to grow so stuffy? But even as the impatient thought ran through her mind, she knew the answer. Lady Lorea, still distraught over the death of little Cheliharad, had forgotten her normal duties and had not remembered to remind the slaves to keep this room cool.
“We are tired of receiving bad news, chancellor,” Israi said irritably.
“Forgive me.” He paused a moment, filling his air sacs. “Patrollers have come across three corpses in the abiru ghetto. A Kelth, an Aaroun, and a Myal.”
“Abiru die all the time there,” Israi said impatiently. She yawned again and beckoned to the slave who held the tray of wine. Sipping from her jewel-encrusted cup, she wished Temondahl would get on with it. “Just say what you have to say.”
“Their bodies were twisted and stiff. Clearly they died in terrible agony. Their eyes were frosted white.” His voice was unsteady and he paused to swallow. “The signs of plague are unmistakable, majesty. The Dancing Death has indeed been released in Vir by your former pet.”
CHAPTER•TWENTY
“Chaos has erupted across the Viis districts of the city,” the reporter’s voice said, tight and crisp. On the vid-screen, only the flushed color of his rill gave his emotions away. “Shops and businesses are closing. Please be aware that aristocrats have first right of way in all traffic situations. You must yield to their shuttles and litters. All citizens are reminded to remain orderly and to obey all traffic and transportation rules. Further information will be forthcoming in the following public announcement from Lord—”
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