Mrukk said nothing, merely inclining his head in mute assent. He turned and stalked away. Jamrog watched him go and then called his hagemate to him, pulled her close, and kissed her violently. “More souile!” he shouted, pushing her away. “I must celebrate. More souile!”
Giloon Bogney strode through the ruined Hageblock. His cloak—the cloak Tvrdy had given him—was thrown across his shoulders to sweep along behind him like a wing. His nasty face was matched with an equally nasty frown. The diminutive ruler liked the appearance of enhanced power which the strangers gave him before his people. But dealing with the loathsome interlopers was beginning to wear on his goodwill. The Old Section positively reeked with their presence.
It was one thing to tolerate them, but quite another to have to suffer their incessant badgering. Tvrdy’s men were at best a continual pain in the lower belly. The Dhog was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to the arrangement in the first place.
“Why Giloon not knowing more Tanais and Rumon coming?” he demanded, bursting through the doorless arch of the ground-floor room he had given the Tanais as a command post.
The leader of the Tanais contingent, an exact man named Kopetch, was as unbending and precise as the levels and plumb lines he’d handled most of his life. His engineer’s love for accuracy had made him a formidable disciplinarian: implacable and unforgiving. Tvrdy had assigned him the unenviable task of creating some kind of order within the Old Section, readying the place for its coming transformation into an armed camp—the first step necessary to begin forming the Dhog rabble into something resembling a fighting unit.
If he was unbending and unforgiving, he was also fair. And not easily shaken or roused. He moved with an inexorable and patient logic in all matters of heart and mind. Glancing up unconcernedly as the Dhog leader flew into the room, he said, in words measured and sure, “If you care to explain what you are talking about, I will be happy to listen to you. If you go on gibbering, I will ignore you. There are important arrangements to be made this morning—I assume it is morning.”
Bogney ground his teeth and fumed, his face livid through the grime. “Things happening and Giloon not told.”
“As you are speaking of them now, I assume you must have been told about them. Therefore, your anger is irrational.”
The Dhog leader stomped toward the Tanais engineer menacingly, who turned to regard the threat with a calm, equable expression. “Dhogs not needing you, Tanais. You go away!”
“And how would that help the Dhogs become a Hage?”
“Grrr-rrr!” Bogney ground his teeth at the man. “Trabant take you!”
“To answer your initial question, you were not informed because there was no time for advance warning. Rather than waste precious time sending messages back and forth—messages which could have been intercepted by Invisibles—the Tanais and Rumon came directly upon receiving our all-clear.” Kopetch paused and, out of concern for his mission, offered, “If this disturbs you in some way, accept my apologies.”
“Giloon say who coming to Old Section.”
“They came on Tvrdy’s order. Would you countermand his order?”
“Giloon Bogney not under Tanais hand.”
“We are both under Director Tvrdy’s authority—as are the Rumon—until the Purge is over.”
The Dhog glared at his erect and unperturbed adversary. He was not used to being talked to this way. It stung and rankled. Bogney was still searching his vocabulary for a suitable expletive when the Tanais said, “Our leader has sent you a special gift. I was about to have it brought to you. As you are here, perhaps you’d like to have it now.”
“A gift for Giloon?” His eyes swept the room crammed with supplies and weaponry.
Tvrdy was right, thought Kopetch. The Dhogs were like children still in creche. “He thought this might be of use to you.” The Tanais reached into a fold in his yos and brought out a slim, tubular object with a flat handle.
Bogney reached out and took the metallic thing, pleased with its dull, blue-black color and its cool weight in his hand. He hefted it and then took it by the handle, which just fit the palm of his hand. He waved it around, pointing, aiming. “This weapon?”
“A projectile thrower. Very old, but still lethal.”
“Tanais sending this to Giloon?” The Dhog smiled happily, eyes glittering at the sight of his new prize. No one else he knew of had ever possessed such a thing.
“He thought you might have need for it one day soon and wanted you to have it.”
“Giloon accepting Tanais gift, but Director talks to Director, not to underman.”
“That might be sooner than you think,” replied Kopetch, moving back to his work. “The Tanais bring word that the Purge has begun. The Directors may not remain in Hage much longer. Also, Hyrgo may be joining us soon.”
“Hyrgo!” Giloon was about to protest the further invasion of his realm by yet another disagreeable horde.
Kopetch headed him off by suggesting, “Of course, with your permission, they will want to begin setting up hydroponics and food processing centers.”
“Food,” said Giloon, rubbing his filthy beard.
“We must become self-sufficient as soon as possible.”
“Dhogs making Old Section good place for growers. Giloon seeing to that.”
“You are steps ahead of me,” replied Kopetch, picking up a map from the stack of papers on the table. “If I might suggest this area here …” He pointed to a place on the map. “Donner Heights I think it’s called.”
Bogney squinted and studied the map, fingering it with his greasy fingers. “This place ruined,” he announced at length, shoving the map back. “Old map.”
“Yes, so I assumed. But since we have so little time, and the Hyrgo will need a place to begin food production …”
Bogney thumped his chest. “Giloon seeing to it. No making noisy guts on that.”
“I knew you would see the potential,” said Kopetch dryly. “Was there anything else, Director?”
At the engineer’s use of the title, the Dhog leader felt a shiver of delight quiver through him. He smiled importantly, eyes round and gleaming. “Much to do. You be wasting good light talking.” With that he swept from the room, leaving only a lingering odor in the air to suggest that he had been there.
Kopetch returned to his work of reordering the Old Section. When his Hage Leader arrived, he wanted everything to be ready. Now, having placated the loathsome Dhog for the time being, it appeared he would have a good chance of getting something accomplished.
Still, he had to wonder whether there was no other way—to join the Dhogs of all things! Who would have imagined it? All they needed now was time. The best plans took time. Patience and time—they would need plenty of both.
TWENTY-SIX
The day slid by easily as the ship carved the smooth water, tugged along by the steady breeze. They lost sight of land a little past midmorning; silver water shimmered on every side, broken only occasionally by shoals of leaping fish, whose bright fins burst through the surface, scattering light in shining fragments. The sky remained clean and cloudless and remote in its blue solitude.
To Yarden it was a magical day. The send-off, as Pizzle called it, provided by the Fieri had cast its spell over her heart, and she felt enchanted still. She strolled the decks wrapped in the gentle glow of a soft inner radiance that made everything she saw seem new-made and charmed. She felt as if this day, this very instant, her life was beginning, that all that had passed before was merely a prelude to this moment.
The other ships—twelve of them stretching out in a staggered line behind, the last one almost too distant to see clearly—plied Prindahl’s deeper waters with solemn majesty, sails puffing proudly, painted hulls glistening, graceful outriggers slicing the low waves. Yarden thrilled to the sight; the procession reminded her of something out of the Arabian Nights or the Tales of Sinbad, and she found herself time and again, on one of her rounds of the deck, simply standing, staring out at the long string
of boats sliding over the platinum sea.
Pizzle found her standing at the aft rail, her hair streaming in the breeze, eyes glazed in wonder. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
“Umm,” was all she said.
“Haven’t seen much of you—I thought we might talk.”
With an effort she turned her eyes away. “What about?” she asked dreamily.
“If you’re busy, I can come back.”
“Busy?”
“You want to be alone?”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “The air is so fresh!” She gazed back out at the colorful sails of the trailing barges. “So beautiful.”
“I’ll come back.”
“How have you been, Pizzle?” she asked absently. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“Is that so?”
She turned to him again with a questioning glance. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you seem a little preoccupied right now. I guess you’re thinking about Treet, huh?”
“Who?” She appeared genuinely puzzled.
“Orion Treet? A friend of ours—yours. Tall guy with lots of hair everywhere, likable, if a little poached topside. Remember him?”
“Treet …” A look of sharp vexation crossed her features. “I don’t want to remember—to talk about him, I mean.”
“Huh? I thought you two were real close.” Pizzle wagged his head in amazement at female fickleness. “What happened? Lover’s tiff?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Pizzle was quiet for a moment, and Yarden thought he had gotten the message. “I guess he was probably too bullheaded for his own good,” he said after a while. “Imagine, him going back there—back to Dome, I mean. I can’t figure it. I didn’t think he’d really do it.”
“How dare you inflict him on me!” Yarden snapped. “I told you I don’t want to talk about him. You’re ruining everything. Just leave me alone.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two had scrapped it up. I was just wondering, okay?”
“Go away. Just … go away.” Yarden turned abruptly, setting her jaw.
“Right, I’ll see you later,” said Pizzle, shuffling off.
Curse that Pizzle, she thought. Everything was beautiful until he’d mentioned Treet. I don’t want to remember. I won’t remember him. She pushed herself forcefully away from the rail—as if she were shoving away his memory. She continued her stroll once more around the deck, determined to regain the magical mood that had, like dew in the desert sun, evaporated at the drop of Treet’s name.
“I told you that he was not to be left alone—not even for a moment,” said Ernina, raising an accusing finger at the slacker. “Where were you? Answer me.”
“I just stepped out for—”
“I don’t care. I don’t want excuses, I want obedience. Someone is to be with him at all times. Understand?”
The first-order physician nodded ruefully.
“All right.” The flinty old healer softened somewhat. “I know you are tired; I will send someone to relieve you soon.” She studied her newest patient as she placed the fingers of her right hand against his throat. “I don’t want anything to happen to him,” she muttered.
“Is he someone important?” asked the young man.
Ernina delivered her answer with a look of reprimand in her quick, green eyes. “Everyone who needs our help is important.”
“More important, I mean?”
The old woman evaded the question. “He has a mental disorder that requires constant attention. Should he awake, I wish to be notified at once.” She turned on the young physician again. “When was the last time you read his aura?”
“Green, stabilized,” he answered at once, “some shrinkage in the red, passing to yellow. His blue is still well below range.”
Ernina nodded. “Any black showing?”
“Transient flares—nothing stable.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at the man in the suspended bed. “He speaks aloud.”
“It’s to be expected.”
“He speaks of his mishon. What is a mishon?”
Ernina shrugged. “Perhaps he will tell us when he is again in his right mind. Anything else?”
“Just muttering—nothing coherent.”
She nodded and said, “I’ll send your relief at once.” Ernina left the room. This patient had a good chance to recover if his will to live was strong enough. Time would tell. She had done all she could for the moment.
How he had come to appear at her door, she didn’t know. But she recognized Hladik’s handiwork readily enough. The tortured man was a Fieri—that she also knew the moment she had seen him lying there shivering. Now that he was here, she was determined to protect him at all costs.
The news of Hladik’s assassination had shaken the Hage. Not that she cared for the licentious Director, but his death augured ill for the future. Jamrog was, if possible, a worse tyrant than Sirin Rohee. And if, as the rumor messengers suggested, Hladik’s death was the beginning of a Purge, her choice was clear.
Her patient could not be moved now—maybe not for a long while. But as soon as he was able …
In the meantime, there was so much to be done, so much to get ready before that eventuality.
She smiled grimly to herself; she had been given another chance to save the life of a Fieri. I lost the first one, she thought. One that I pledged to protect. I will not lose this one.
Cejka climbed the steps of the communications tower which rose like a spearhead from the center of Rumon Hage. He paused to look out over his domain, peaceful in the hazy midday light. Clumps of trees in a long sinuous line marked the banks of Kyan; low, blue-tinted Hageblocks, scattered among green quadrangles, stepped up from the river’s edge.
Rumon was not large, but its people were fiercely loyal—a fact Cejka had always appreciated and never abused. Within Rumon’s neat borders, Hagemen came and went without fear and spoke their minds freely, for Rumon priests were not given to greed and petty malice as were most others. Cejka saw to that, keeping the bloated priesthood in check just as he kept his rumor messengers quick and subtle.
Under Cejka’s leadership rumor messengers had become the main, often the only, source of reliable information for the common Hageman. Consequently, there was not a single Hageblock in all of Empyrion where a Rumon rumor messenger was not welcome. The swiftness of the network contributed to the messengers’ high stent among the people of the various Hages, who for the most part considered rumor messengers on a level with magicians, so quickly did they appear and vanish.
The Rumon Director was now grateful for the speed and efficiency of his beloved network. He had known within seconds the precise moment that Mrukk had set foot in Rumon. Even though the Mors Ultima commander had appeared in disguise as a Rumon Hageman, he was instantly recognized and reported, his movements since then carefully observed.
There could only be one reason for the assassin’s sudden appearance, and Cejka knew what it was: Jamrog had ordered his death, no doubt in retaliation for his remarks in the Threl session the day before. Now Cejka had two choices and a decision to be made quickly.
Reluctantly he turned his eyes away from the deceptively calm landscape before him. Death waited out there. He hurried inside the tower and rode the lift to the top, where he had established the heart of the rumor network. Subdirector Covol was waiting for him when he entered.
“Where is he?” Cejka came into the large, machine-crammed room. As always it was humming with activity, but today there was an edge to the excitement. Hagemen glanced up briefly as the Director walked by and then returned to their tasks, many of them staring into glowing screens or speaking softly into microphones; others, their heads encased in remote viewer helmets, sat motionless, their fingers twitching on the lighted panels before them. And everywhere magicians scurried, tending the machinery, keeping it going.
“Still on Riverwalk level,” answered Covol. “He a
ppears to be working his way toward Hage center, slowly; he is in no hurry.”
“Has he attempted to contact any of the known Invisibles within Hage?”
“We have detected no contact. None of the Invisibles are near him at present.” Covol regarded his chief. “What is your decision? Should we try to apprehend him?”
Cejka clasped his hands and bowed his head. When he raised his face again he said, “No.”
“He is alone. We can take him.”
“It would be too difficult and the loss of life too great. If we fail, we will have shown Jamrog the strength of our network.”
“We can take him,” insisted Covol. To Cejka’s quick dismissal he said, “At least let us kill him. We can have him surrounded by weapons carriers within two minutes.”
Cejka considered this. It was tempting. Yes, they could have Rumon snipers within range in minutes, and at least one enemy would be eliminated. But it wouldn’t stop Jamrog. Losing his prime assassin would drive the Supreme Director into a killing frenzy; he would order a massive strike on the Hage, and thousands would die.
“No,” he said.
Covol heard the finality in his leader’s voice and despaired. “Do you propose to do nothing to protect yourself?”
“Where I am going, Covol, I will be well protected.” The Subdirector stared. “What’s wrong? We have planned for this day. The time has come, sooner than expected perhaps, but it has not caught us unaware. Are you ready to assume the Directorship?”
“You’ll still be Director,” pointed out Covol.
Cejka nodded. “Yes, yes, but since I will not be here to take care of them, our Hagemen will look to you for leadership. Jamrog may even have you formally installed.” He silenced a quick protest. “You know what to do. We have agreed on the plan, and we will follow it.”
“Yes, Director.” Covol squared his shoulders.
“Good. I will leave with Hyrgo tonight. Now, alert Tvrdy; he must be informed of my plans at once.” Cejka took a last look around the busy command center he had worked so hard to create. It was possible that he’d never see the place again.
He pushed the thought from him. The Purge was just beginning; many decisive battles remained to be fought, and Cejka meant to see Jamrog’s head on a bhuj in Threl High Chambers before it was over. That, he considered as he disappeared into his private rooms, was a prospect worth further contemplation.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 16