But pleasure was inching up Tatiana's torso from her groin, a pleasure that was nearly sexual in nature as the unblinking woman squirmed without moving.
"Yes, I see. Well, we must do what we must. Of course, in a case where a girl proclaimed by the College to have visionary powers is concerned, one must tread carefully."
"Indeed. But tread one must." Anastasi turned the knife in the belly of Exeter's inquisition. "Else all other parties under interrogation should be freed in a general amnesty, because then the process will be seen to be flawed and riddled with favoritism."
Kiss our collective asses, you childless, heartless, loveless old bitch.
"And I suppose you'll oversee this . . . investigation personally?" Exeter, gathering her wits, riposted at last.
"By my ancestors, no," Tatiana said fervently, looking suitably shocked. She placed a hand on her breast. "Why would we become involved? The Justiciary basement has too foul a reputation, at this moment, as a dungeon of injustice and partisanship, for us to venture down there. Neither of us have any intention of entering the Justiciary basement— for any reason—until all this . . . investigating . . . is just a poorly-remembered dream. After all, we've never been interested in ruling by fear."
Which was as bold an insult as Tatiana was willing to risk. And as open a threat. She was breathing hard now, as if she'd run a long distance.
But Anastasi was still fresh: "We also think you should know that the Nev Hettek embassy passed an official complaint to my office on the unwarranted detention of one of their citizens, a Thomas Mondragon. We heartily recommend that you release this person forthwith, into the hands of a suitable custodian, unless you have some clear and certain reason to continue to hold him."
"I see," said Exeter. She seemed to have grown smaller, or sat back farther than the stuffed chair behind her desk would allow.
Snakes curl up, arch back before they strike, Tatiana reminded herself. For one instant of vertigo, all the possibilities of failure and loss hiding in this moment were clear to her, yawning like hungry beasts in a chasm that suddenly opens underfoot.
But it was too late to turn hack now. It had been too late, once she and Anastasi had solidified their plan.
And Exeter said, "If the Nev Hettek embassy petitions me, I will take their plea under advisement. Until then, let's hope this Mondragon person stays alive."
"Let's hope he does," Tatiana said. "I'll gladly give you extra blacklegs to protect him. The last thing we need now is an international incident." She looked pointedly at Anastasi.
And her brother said, "Well, I'm feeling better." He stood up and held out his hand to Tatiana. "I hope you feel better too, Cardinal Exeter, in the wake of our little talk."
Tatiana took Anastasi's hand and stood up. "We must be going. We do have an appointment with our father, as we mentioned. Have a good night, m'sera Cardinal. And a happy tomorrow."
Tatiana certainly would. The look on Exeter's face was inconclusive, but the unblinking eyes seemed so sunken as the cardinal watched them leave her chambers that Tatiana was sure that Cardinal Exeter was going to have a very unhappy tomorrow.
And nothing, at that moment, could have made Tatiana, or her brother, happier than that.
Kenner reached up as if to take the line from the retainer in order to secure the boat, and pulled the man into the boat.
The retainer hit the decking with a muffled cry and a thud, and Michael Chamoun blinked at the liveried figure writhing on the deck near the bow with a knife in his belly and Kenner bending over him.
Then Kenner stood up and Michael saw that the Sword of God agent had slit the retainer's throat as well as his belly.
The man's mouth opened and closed like a fish's mouth, but nothing came out of it save a thin trickle of blood that, as Michael watched, turned into a torrent.
Blood was streaming from his neck, too, down over his livery—black blood in the light of the garde-porte.
"Go. Out. Now," said Kenner, still crouching over his prize.
Kenner cast off the line with bloody hands—into the water, where it dangled.
Michael nearly crashed the boat against the stone of the water-gate as he steered it out into what was left of the night.
Somewhere near the Ventani Bridge, he vomited over the side, watching Kenner throw the lifeless, nearly bloodless body of the retainer overboard.
"Blood!" Michael nearly screamed over the engine. "Kenner, what about all the blood?"
Kenner waved a hand at him: Don't worry.
They bailed and scrubbed until Chamoun's hands nearly bled before they got the boat clean enough to bring back to Boregy House.
By then, everyone was awake and too worried to notice them—worried about Cassie and Mikhail and the men who'd come looking for Cassie only to hear that she wasn't at home, but at Mikhail's.
Even without the evidence of the flashlight, Michael realized, Chance had gone ahead with his plan when they hadn't appeared on time.
But of course, Chance would. The missing retainer, when he was discovered dead, would only further support the story of a burglary.
But Michael was the one that had to go to Vega, despite Chance's premature move.
And then he found out that Exeter's henchmen hadn't come because of Chance at all.
Vega Boregy, Cassie's worried father, said, "Go to your friend Magruder, Michael. Tell him I hold you two responsible for introducing advanced technology into this household. Tell him that if Cassie is harmed or frightened in any way, I'll make it clear to the cardinal that the flashlight was Cassie's betrothal gift from you."
Vega's black hair was falling out of its club. He brushed it away irritably. "Well, boy, what are you standing there for? Go!"
So he went, with Kenner as a dishonor guard, to the embassy, as everyone called the trade mission, and there Chance was waiting.
In the kitchen, while Kenner wolfed a steak nearly raw. Chance said, "Don't worry, Michael. Just Tatiana jumping the gun."
As he talked, Chance was continuing to make bullets for his 10 mm side arm. He had the bullet molds and the powder and the lead and the brass spread over the kitchen table. He also had a little bottle.
Kenner picked up the bottle, shook it, looked at it critically, opened the top and smelled it. Then he grimaced and nodded. "Mercury. Nice touch."
Mercury tipped bullets were deadly. Bullets with hollows into which a drop of mercury was placed before the slug was settled in its casing were pure poison.
"Expecting trouble?" Chamoun said to Magruder. "Never can tell," said Magruder. "Actually, I'm expecting Mondragon. It's sort of the same thing."
Mondragon, in his cell, was certain of nothing. He was somewhere he'd always been. The rest of his life—everything he remembered—was but a dream. There'd been no girl who'd fished him out of the river—no river.
He was waiting for Karl to come and finish him. At least Karl could have the courtesy, because of their years of friendship, to do it personally.
Then there'd be no more bug-infested, moldy straw, no more questions coming from lights that talked in the dark, no more answers that begot more questions.
One thing Mondragon had learned in five years spent in Karl Fon's jail—or was it five months, five minutes, five decades, five lifetimes?—was not to give a talking light an interesting answer.
You could never tell when the lights were hallucinations, or actual lamps behind which inquisitors lurked.
They'd fed him today. Someone had. When they fed him, he always had a session with the talking lights.
Sometimes he thought they drugged his food. Since he was hungry, he ate anyway.
You had to keep up your strength. He had to keep up his strength. He'd get out of this. He'd get out of Nev Hettek. He would. It was just a question of time.
The talking light appeared. First it was a flicker that could have been something on the inside of his retinas. Or could have been the light men say they see near death.
It came closer
like that light.
Funny, Mondragon had never expected to die in prison. Karl wasn't the sort to let a man off easy. The revolution needed villains. It was short on heroes. To make heroes, you had to have villains.
The light came closer, but it bobbled as it did. Did the light at the end of life bobble? Everybody who'd seen it said it was beautiful and steady.
There was nothing beautiful about this light. After so much darkness, looking at it made his head ache. His left eye began to tear, then to run.
He rubbed it. It hurt. He saw two lights, now, but that was only a result of rubbing his eye.
The eye was swollen; it was tender to his touch. The upper lid wouldn't open all the way and the lower lid felt as if it were twice its normal size.
In the face of the light, the eye closed of its own accord and he could feel tears running out of it. Sticky tears, not the salty tears of fear or sadness or repentence.
Of course, whoever was behind the light couldn't know that.
He lay his head back on the straw and ignored the light.
It said, "Thomas Mondragon, what day is it?" "How should I know?" "How old are you?"
"Old enough to know better. But I don't."
"Know better than what?"
Got to be careful. Sometimes, defiance just got you into more trouble. "Better than to think you're anything more than a hallucination. I don't talk to hallucinations. Go away. I'm asleep."
"You can sleep after you've answered our questions."
"Our questions? More than one hallucination? Funny, I only see one." Hallucinations didn't editorialize. At least, he didn't think they did.
He crooked an arm over his eyes. Pressure from his arm would keep his left eye from throbbing so. It would also keep it from popping out of its socket, which was what it felt like it might do any second.
"Can I have my regular eye back? The one that fits my head?" he asked the hallucination.
"Ah, um . . . if you speak the truth," said the hallucination.
"Speaking the truth was what got me in here. I may be foolish, but I'm not crazy." Not? Talking to hallucinations wasn't a sign of sanity. But sanity wasn't a sign of survivability, not in a situation like this.
"Speaking what truth?" the hallucination wanted to know.
"That there's no justice," Mondragon said. "Then you do know where you are. And why. Say why you're here, Mondragon. Then food will come."
"I just ate." How long had it been? Hours? Days? It couldn't be weeks, or he'd be in worse shape even than he was. It could have been minutes though—he really wasn't hungry.
"Who are your accomplices?"
"In what?"
"Who are your accomplices in treason?"
"Oh, that." Mondragon nearly chuckled. "Well, let's see . . . there was Karl Fon—you'd know him. He's a bigwig in the new government. As a matter of fact, he is the new government. Then there was . . ." Maybe he ought to shut up. He'd been about to give Chance Magruder's name, and Dani Lambert's name, and a host of other names. Better watch it. He was too tired to play a game of wits, even with a hallucination.
"Do you want to walk out of here under your own power?" The hallucination was losing its temper. "Do you want to walk, ever again, under your own power? We can use physical means, you know. And we're getting tired of waiting. Very tired."
"I'd actually like to stay here until I die. If you don't mind. It's quiet, peaceful. I like the bugs in here. Every one of those bugs has his own story to tell. It's really quite fascinating—"
Something came out of the darkness and slammed his lips against his teeth and his skull into the stone beneath the straw. He spat blood.
"Tsk. Tsk. Mustn't lose your temper," he said when the colored lights which obliterated the single light hovering over him had finally faded.
So it wasn't an hallucination: hallucinations couldn't hit that hard.
"Who are your accomplices?"
"My mother; my father; my dog, Spot; my—" Whack.
"Where is your allegiance?"
"To Nev Hettek, where it's always been. What do you think, fool? You think anybody ends up like this who doesn't believe in something?"
"So you admit you're a Nev Hetteker."
This was really crazy. "Of course. Born and bred. My papers are available to anybody. Ask Karl. Ask Chance. Ask—"
"Chance who?"
"Come on. Chance Magruder."
"And you would be content to be released into this Chance Magruder's custody?"
"Sure thing. Any time. Right after I tell you what you want to know—except I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
The light was hobbling closer and closer to his face, as if inspecting him.
He probably could have kicked at whomever was holding the light, if there really was someone holding it over him in the dark. Maybe he could have kneed that someone in the groin. But he was too tired to fight, too tired to endure any more pain simply because pain cleared your head and made you know you were still alive. Sometimes he used the inquisitors to make himself angry enough to last another day.
But today he really didn't care. He didn't care at all.
"Again—why not?" the voice behind the light said.
Exasperated, Mondragon shifted his legs—and felt a contact. There definitely was somebody standing over him. He wished he could see better. His night vision was shot to shit.
"Again why not what?" he demanded, almost coming up on one elbow. But it hurt too much. He slid back. "For an interrogator, you're pretty poor, you know that?"
"Why can't you tell us what we want to know?"
"Because I don't know what you want to know. I'm beginning to think that you don't know, either."
The light receded. He thought he heard a shuffle as a foot misstepped in the dark.
From a greater distance, the voice behind the light said, "If you were free, what would you say about your stay here?"
He had to turn his head to the left to face the light. That was where the door was. "Nothing. What's to say? I don't even know how long I've been here, let alone what's real and what I've been dreaming."
He had no hope for it, but he tried anyway: tried to cooperate; tried to grasp the straw of a chance he thought he saw.
"You've been dreaming. Yes. Dreaming. We think you've been too ill to realize that you're in a clean hospital bed. Is that so?"
"You got that right."
"If we were to release you to your friend Magruder, you would realize that you've been in a clean hospital bed, tended by professionals, and that you just keep falling out of bed and throwing yourself into walls in your delirium, but that no one has harmed you."
"I know that. I always knew that." Don't believe them. It's a trick.
And it was a trick, because the light went away then. It extinguished itself with a click and he was alone.
His eyes were tearing again. Now it was both eyes. He tried to sink back into his uncaring somnolence, but it didn't work.
Every time he heard a noise, his heart would leap. His gut would tighten. His ears would strain with expectation.
They were going to come turn him loose. Chance was going to come and get him. Chance had always been the best of the lot. Chance had finally talked Karl into realizing that Mondragon had never betrayed him: Mondragon had just been following his conscience, and the letter of the revolutionary code.
Chance would come and take him away and they'd go up into the hills and fish the way they used to do.
He'd see all his—
The door opened, bringing with it a flood of light that made him groan and cover his eyes with both arms: this light came into the room completely, filling every corner of the windowless cell.
He thought there might have been a man in the light, but he wasn't sure.
This was death, then: not a little bit of light, but a whiteout. As if he'd fallen and then been covered with an avalanche that was weightless, warm snow covering him. . . .
"Up. Let's go."
/> He couldn't see anything but green light when he opened his eyes.
Someone had hands on him. Arms supported him.
He was too weak to fight them. Anyway, you fought with your mind, not with your hands, if you wanted to win.
But standing alone would be nice. Having legs that could hold you would be nice. Going out into the Nev Hettek sunshine once again would be nice.
But it was dark, wherever they took him after they dressed him and hooded his head.
It was dark and damp and he could smell the salt air and rotting vegetation.
Someone steadied him against a rough wall and said: "Stay here. Somebody'll come for you."
Somebody did.
Chance Magruder did.
It was Chance's voice in the dark that said, "Easy, son. I'm going to take that hood off your head. Then I'm going to untie your hands. Then we're going to put you in a boat and take you over to my place, where you'll be safe. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," he said, very quietly, in case it was yet another dream.
"Here we go."
He felt the hood come off. He felt the strong hands, untying him.
Chance took hold of his arm and slipped under it. Chance's shoulder was supporting him. "I can't see . . ."
"You will. Don't worry. You're not permanently blind. It's night."
"Good. Night. Thanks." They started to move, using Chance's strength and Chance's eyes. Mon-dragon's ankles felt like they were made of jelly. His feet slid around as he tried to use them.
"Don't thank me. I need you. Step down. Three steps."
"Are we going to Karl's?" Down meant into a boat of some kind. Or else it was a wagon and Mondragon's concussion was going to make him vomit.
"You're going to the Nev Hettek embassy—in Merovingen. Remember Merovingen?" "A bad dream."
"You could say that, yeah. But you're stuck in it. So are we. You're in my custody. Sit."
Magruder's support came away. His back was against a curving wall—definitely a boat, then. He leaned his head sideways and his cheek rested against a bench. A bad dream in Merovingen.
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