Treet groaned. “Not Tvrdy and Cejka?”
The physician nodded gravely. “Tanais and Rumon, yes. You know them?”
“I—ah …” He paused to rephrase what he’d been about to say. “Yes, I was helping them—we were trying to prevent the Purge. But then Hladik caught me.”
“He won’t catch you again, nor will anyone else. I will see to that.” She stood and took his cup, then placed an experienced hand against his throat. Treet felt comfort in the gesture. “Rest now. We will talk again soon and make plans. You are safe here for now. Rest and grow strong.”
“All right, I’m all yours,” he said. He was tired of talking anyway, and she had given him more than enough to think about for a while. Treet settled back and closed his eyes.
In the room adjoining Treet’s, the young physician replaced the broken tile near the floor and crept from behind the multicolored Bolbe hanging. His breath was shallow and his feet unsteady as he moved off. A Fieri! his mind shrieked. The patient was a Fieri!
No one, not even the Nilokerus, who contacted him and persuaded him to become a lipreader, could have guessed he would discover anything this important. His Nilokerus instructor would be pleased. But should he tell?
Yes, that is what his training had been for. And think of the shares he would earn. But who would pay the most for this information? The priests? The Hage Leader? The Supreme Director himself?
The boats lay motionless, the water making little licking sounds as it lapped between the hulls. Laughter echoed from the rafters of the pavilions scattered around the bay as stories were remembered and recounted. Firelight glittered through the clustered groves, and music sighed on the soft night air.
The white sand beneath his feet shone blue in the starlight as Pizzle wandered the beach, lost in the enchantment of the night. Starla walked beside him, humming now and then as snatches of tune caught her fancy. The Empyrion sky was alive with stars, and their winking faces were mirrored in the calm deep of the lake, and in Starla’s eyes.
“Tomorrow we start upriver,” said Pizzle absently.
“Taleraan,” replied Starla just as absently.
“What?”
“The river’s name—”
“Right. Preben told me.” They walked on in silence a while longer. “Too bad Jaire couldn’t come along.”
“She chose to remain at the hospital with the children.”
“I know.” He put an arm around Starla’s shoulders and drew her to him. “I’m glad you’re here, though. I wouldn’t have wanted to experience this without you.”
“I have spoken to my brother,” she said.
“That’s nice,” said Pizzle absently. “What did he say?”
“He said he trusted me to make a wise decision.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I’ve decided to ask the Preceptor.”
“Good.”
“She will know how to advise us.”
“Advise us?” Pizzle replayed their conversation back in his mind. “Starla, what are we talking about exactly? What did you ask your brother?”
“About our marriage.”
Pizzle stopped and held her out at arm’s length. “You what? Marriage?”
“Out of respect for her parents, a woman seeks their wisdom regarding her marriage. But my parents are with the Infinite Father. Therefore, I asked my brother. Vanon likes you. He still talks about the story you told him—what was it?”
“The Rune Readers of Ptolemy X,” sighed Pizzle. “It was one of Z. Z. Papoon’s best efforts.” He wondered what ol’ Z. Z. would have said to the notion that the plot of one of his novels would endear a woman’s family to the idea of marriage to an alien on a world eleven light-years from his home in Mussel Head, Massachusetts.
“Yes, that was it,” continued Starla. “He allowed me to make my own decision. I think, though, it would be wise to ask the Preceptor to advise us.”
“In case there’s a regulation against someone marrying an alien, huh?”
“The Preceptor would know.”
Pizzle reflected on this for a moment. “Are you saying you want to marry me?”
“You spoke of marriage. You haven’t forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I thought you had.” Now what was he going to do? He looked at her standing before him in the starlight, watching him expectantly. She was beautiful, desirable, a joy to be with and behold—what was he waiting for? Still, there was something holding him back, and he knew what it was. How could he tell her? Well, see, Starla, it’s nothing really major, it’s just that I’m from another planet and all.
“What’s wrong, Asquith?” she asked softly.
“N-nothing … well, it’s just that … we’re different.”
“I know that. I love you, Asquith. I believe you love me, too.”
Pizzle looked at her and melted. “Oh, I do, Starla, believe me I do.” He drew her close and held her for a long time.
Yarden sat alone, her back against a tree, watching the firelight shift the shadows of those gathered around the campfire, enjoying its warmth and light. She heard the songs and stories, heard the laughter, but felt herself slipping further and further away from those convivial sounds into a barren and lonely place.
And it was all because of Treet.
One way or another, Treet was behind her unhappiness. Therefore, one way or another, he was responsible.
Yarden had never been one to show any dependence upon men. Why all of a sudden she should be mumbling and fretting over someone she didn’t even particularly like, confused and upset her more than she cared to admit.
Sure, there had been a time when she thought she was in love with Treet. But likely as not, that had merely been a physical infatuation: two people surviving a harrowing experience, glad to be alive and eager to show it—that sort of thing. Had she, in her heart of hearts, ever had any genuine feelings for Orion Treet? At all?
Well, maybe. But whatever she felt—if anything—had flown right out the door the day Treet decided to go traipsing back to Dome on his lunatic crusade.
She still believed that she had been right to cut off their relationship right then and there. To sever it cleanly, once and for all. That was the best way. The only way. She wouldn’t live with the anxiety of not knowing where he was, what he was doing, whether he was in trouble or hurt, alive or not—any of a jillion things a lover could find to worry about.
But we aren’t lovers, Yarden insisted to herself. Not now. Not ever.
No.
She would not change her mind. In spite of everything Ianni might say, she had chosen her course and Treet had chosen his. There was nothing she could do about him anyway. He was back in Dome—the very word filled her with sick dread. There was no way she would go back there, and nothing could make her. Yarden had felt the evil of Dome, felt it most powerfully. She knew it for what it was. And because she knew, she would not go back lest the same power seize and overtake her as it very nearly had the first time.
If no one else could understand that, too bad. No one—not Ianni, not the Preceptor, not the Infinite Father himself—was going to make her change her mind.
THIRTY-ONE
Saecaraz Subdirector Osmas stared at the two Nilokerus before him. Two Saecaraz underdirectors, their faces pursed into identical scowls of authority usurped, stood behind. “What do you mean coming here like this?” he demanded. “Application must be made—”
“A matter of utmost urgency, Hage Leader,” replied the more intrepid of the two. The other, a young man, hung back with an expression mingling awe and fright on his beardless face.
“It must be if you expect me to disturb the Supreme Director at this most inconvenient hour,” Osmas growled. “What is it?”
“That, I think, we must wait to tell the Supreme Director.”
“Wait you will—he sees no one at this hour.”
The Nilokerus looked at one another. The brave one said, “Tell him that it—” He hesitated
, choosing his words carefully. “That it concerns an escaped Fieri.”
Osmas eyed the two suspiciously. “What are you saying? Explain yourself!”
The Nilokerus only shook his head slowly.
“I can have your poak erased.” The Subdirector’s voice was taut, but the threat brought no response from the Nilokerus. “You insist on meeting with the Supreme Director? All right, I warned you. Wait over there.” Osmas pointed to a long bench against one wall of the anteroom, turned, and disappeared into the convoluted corridor leading to the cluster of kraams and chambers making up the Hage administration center beneath Threl High Chambers.
The Subdirector returned a few minutes later, bothered and anxious. “Come with me,” he said and led them back into the cluster, where they entered a lift and rode up several levels to the Threl Chambers. Osmas said nothing, but his dark glances let the two Nilokerus know that he was not at all pleased with this development. Without ceremony he ushered them into the cylindrical meeting room and brought them to stand before a disheveled-looking man flopped in the Supreme Director’s chair who frowned drowsily at them and demanded, “What’s this about an escaped Fieri?”
Osmas nodded to the foremost Nilokerus, who stepped forward cautiously.
“Well? You have dragged me from my well-deserved sleep to hear this lie—” He yawned. “Let’s hear it.”
“I am a Nilokerus trainer, security section—” the man began.
“Yes, yes, we know all that. What about this Fieri?”
The Nilokerus turned to his young companion and said, “Tell him what you told me.”
The young man crept forward timidly, although the Supreme Director appeared more sleepy than fierce. “There is a patient in Hage who claims to be a Fieri—I’ve seen him myself …”
Jamrog glanced at his Subdirector. “You brought me here for this?”
Osmas sputtered. The first Nilokerus spoke. “He’s nervous, Supreme Director. I can speak for him.”
“Then do so!”
“He is a lipreader—a first-order physician on Starwatch level.” The young man nodded to authenticate the detail. “Yesterday he discovered that one of the patients in their care was a Fieri spy—escaped, apparently—who had come seeking help from the physicians.”
“Escaped?”
“Apparently.”
“How? Escaped from where?” These questions were directed to the physician.
The young Nilokerus plucked up his courage and said, “We found him one morning—many days ago now. He was wearing a Nilokerus yos, but was unconscious, unable to move. Believing him to be one of Hlad—” A terrified expression blossomed upon the young man’s face as he realized what he was about to say.
“One of Hladik’s prisoners?” Jamrog supplied the words equably.
“We took him in,” the physician continued, “and stabilized him. He improved. Yesterday Ernina came to talk to him. She was the one who discovered he was a Fieri. She told him she knew—he didn’t deny it. She told him she has vowed to protect him.”
“Protect him from what?”
The young man glanced at his companion, who winced. “I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly.
The Supreme Director’s eyes narrowed. He clasped his hands and leaned forward. “A Fieri among Nilokerus physicians,” he said thoughtfully. Yes, it came back to him now. The fugitive caught in the Archives—thinking him one of Tvrdy’s agents, Hladik had wanted to condition him. A Fieri?
According to Mrukk the Fieri had all escaped—aided, of course, by Tvrdy. Jamrog remembered the debacle well. It was Rohee’s handling of the Fieri fiasco that had convinced Jamrog the time had come for him to seize power. If I had been in control then, considered Jamrog, the matter would have been handled differently. Huh! It would be just like Hladik to bungle the conditioning. Luckily this lipreader had some sense. Perhaps now he would have another chance to discover the truth about these Fieri agitators.
His head snapped up. “I would see this Fieri, Osmas. Send for Mrukk.”
The Subdirector hurried away to summon the chief of the Invisibles. Jamrog sat nodding in his chair. “I suppose you think you deserve a reward?”
“It has been said that the new Supreme Director is most generous,” replied the Nilokerus instructor uncertainly.
Jamrog sneered, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Most generous.” He staggered from his chair, clutching his wrinkled hagerobe. “Go now. Wait below, and I will have Osmas bring your reward.” The Supreme Director lurched off, leaving the two Nilokerus gaping.
They found their way back to the lift, dropped down to the main level, and returned to the bench they had occupied before, there to wait in squirming anticipation.
At the sight of the Subdirector both men leapt to their feet. How much would it be? A thousand shares? Two thousand?
Osmas came toward the waiting men, Mrukk treading softly beside him. “I have brought your reward,” he announced when they had drawn close to the waiting Nilokerus.
The instructor flashed a quick, greedy smile at his pupil. “Our thanks, Subdirector.”
“Three thousand apiece.” Osmas produced a poak imprinter from his yos and raised its glowing point. “The Supreme Director wishes to demonstrate his unquestionable generosity to those who aid Empyrion. Tell your Hagemen.”
He held the stylus up and took the first Nilokerus by the arm.
“Allow me,” said Mrukk, suddenly stepping close.
No one noticed the naked blade as his hand flicked out and up.
Blood cascaded down the Nilokerus’ yos, and a look of astonishment appeared on his face. His mouth worked, and his hands fluttered to his neck, trying to rejoin the rent in his throat as he toppled to the floor.
The young lipreader cried out and turned to flee. He dashed a few steps and stopped, arms twisting backward, hands grasping, clawing at a spot between his shoulderblades where Mrukk’s knife had suddenly appeared, buried to the hilt in his flesh.
Osmas stared at the carnage, horrified. “What have you done?”
The chief of the Invisibles stooped to retrieve his weapon, and wiped it casually on the clothing of his victim. “I have saved the Saecaraz treasury six thousand shares.”
“When Jamrog finds out about this—”
Mrukk laughed. “You think he doesn’t know?”
“But the reward …”
“Keep it for yourself. A bonus.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Then give it to someone who knows what to do with it.” Mrukk laughed again and pushed up the sleeve of his yos. Grimly, Osmas set the imprinter and pressed it to Mrukk’s muscled arm. “Now then,” said Mrukk, stepping over the body of the Nilokerus at his feet, “let’s go find this Fieri.”
Just a little east of the tranquil bay, pastel green hills slanted up from the northern shore of Prindahl, to march away into the shimmering blue distance. The hillsides were covered by small round trees with leaves so dark they appeared blue in the morning light, making the hillsides look dotted with miniature balloons ready to take flight on the first breeze. Through these hills wound the deep waters of Taleraan, upon whose broad back the Fieri boats would embark this day.
The glass-smooth lake reflected a high, cloudless sky of chromium blue and a sun rising white into a new day. The ships floated in the crystalline water, painted hulls gleaming, rigging glinting like silver tracery in the sunlight. Atop the tall masts several rakkes had taken residence, holding their wings out to warm in the new sun.
On shore, the travelers awoke to breakfasts of fresh fruit, tea, and flat loaves of sweet bread. They talked excitedly while they ate, some of the younger Fieri slipping off to swim one last time before boarding. In all, it was a leisurely start to the day. Although everyone expressed eagerness to depart, no one appeared in any hurry to leave—a fact Pizzle found slightly maddening. Even if no one else cared to start, he was ready—had been ready for hours before sunrise. In fact, he had not actually slept the night before: he
’d been too excited.
After saying good-night to Starla (a process that took well over an hour), he had wandered the beach aimlessly, his head filled with thoughts of love and marriage and family. Then he’d scooped a shallow depression in the warm sand and laid out under the stars contemplating the harmony of the universe.
Now he was anxious to be off, but first he had to locate the Preceptor and request an audience. He lingered near the first ship, the one in which she traveled, hoping to be in the right place at the right time when she appeared. He was not disappointed.
Pizzle was standing at the water’s edge, looking hungrily at the happy breakfasters in a nearby pavilion when he turned and found the Preceptor standing on the deck of the boat behind him, watching him.
“Good morning, Preceptor,” he called. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Good morning, Traveler Pizzle,” came her reply. “I have just come from my devotions and have not eaten yet. Will you join me? I would like to speak to you.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” He waded out to the gangplank to meet the Fieri leader. She had changed her white chinti for one of amber yellow, and her hair was braided and tied in a sheer yellow scarf. She came gracefully down the gangplank and entered the water. Pizzle met her and offered a hand which she accepted regally, allowing herself to be escorted to the beach.
A place was made for them at the table inside the pavilion and food was served at once. Most of the Fieri were finished eating and vanished discreetly. “Actually,” Pizzle said after the Preceptor had asked a blessing over the food and they began to eat, “I wanted to speak to you, too. I would like to have an audience.”
“Oh, yes?” The Preceptor looked at him curiously, her amethyst eyes bright with interest.
Pizzle nodded, picked up a small, red plumlike fruit, and bit into it. Juice ran down his arm. “Yeah,” he said with his mouth full. He swallowed and then added, “If it’s not too much trouble. It’s for myself and Starla.”
“I see.” The Preceptor continued to gaze at him—for such a long time that Pizzle became uncomfortable.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 19