by Sharon Lee
Chapter Twenty-Two
"What are you doing here?"
The one who demanded it was thin and small and sharp: a sliver-knife of a woman, with an ill-natured, sallow face. The tag on her shirt read "Aide".
Corbinye looked down on her—necessary, even from this body's diminished height—and lifted a shoulder.
"I am walking to the observation port," she said mildly. "The nurse had said it was in this direction."
"You're not allowed to walk the halls by yourself!" the little woman snapped. "Patients must be accompanied by a nurse or a therapist, and you must go at your assigned time. You can't just go to the sun room whenever you feel like it!" Suspicion sharpened her face further. "How did you get out of your room?"
"The door was open," said Corbinye. And so it had been, though briefly, as the nurse, he of the happily unobservant nature, had quit the room. The halls had been quite empty, due to the lateness of the hour; and she had begun to believe in escape.
All for naught, now; hopes broken on this grudging blade of a woman. Corbinye inclined her head, feeling the weariness etched into her bones and the beginning of deep muscle tremor, as will happen, when one has pushed oneself past sense and strength.
"I'll go back to my room," she murmured; "and ask my nurse to bring me, tomorrow."
"I'll take you back to your suite," the aide snarled, and Corbinye silently cursed her and the gene pool from which she'd been spawned. "What's your room number?"
Corbinye sighed. "Fourteen eighty-six."
The ruin of her hopes was nearly worth the opportunity to behold the expression on the little woman's face. "Fourteen?" she squeaked.
"Indeed, yes," Corbinye said solemnly; "fourteen."
"This is the ninth floor." Confusion blurred the sharp-featured face for an instant, and was replaced by determination. "What's your name?" she demanded.
"Corbinye Faztherot."
The aide thumbed a stud on her belt-comm, rapped out a request for room number verification on Corbinye Faztherot, and frowned quite blackly when a tinny voice told her, "Fourteen eighty-six."
"Patient found wandering on Floor Nine," she snarled. "Send a chair and a team."
"Indeed," Corbinye protested untruthfully, "I can walk back to my rooms. It's the merest step."
"Shut up!" the aide shouted, goaded past the limits of her patience.
Corbinye shut up and they waited, glaring silently at each other, for the arrival of the chair.
* * *
When they had gone, she got out of bed and went out into the antechamber in her sleeping-gown. The door would, of course, be locked. She tried it anyway, then went around the room, turning on the lamps.
This done, she sat down before the mirror and began to unbraid her hair, slanting sidelong glances at her reflection as she did. The face of the woman in the mirror held a certain fascination, though she had long since stopped looking for clues of Corbinye Faztherot in the high cheeks and smooth skin; or in the black, black eyes.
Tonight, a glimmer caught her half-glance, so that she looked up fully at the mirror—and saw the spider hanging there.
No ordinary spider, such as might be found in even the most pristine of Grounder homes. This was rather a large spider—perhaps the size of her new fist—and its eyes gleamed a friendly and interested yellow.
Corbinye drew a short breath—barely more than a dry sob against the tightness of her throat. The next went better, and she said, very softly, "Anjemalti?"
There was no answer, save that the spider shifted a bit and slid down-mirror, trailing a line of fine black silk.
Corbinye sighed and picked up her comb, sternly forcing trembling fingers to yield to her will and perform their function, weary or no. She glanced up again as she pulled comb through extravagant Grounder-length hair, and saw the spider cutting capers across smooth glass, describing spirals and lunges and—
GEM SENDS GREETING the black silk spelled. AND ASKS IF YOU ARE WELL
She stared, comb frozen; recalled herself and completed the stroke.
CORBINYE the spider spun. COUSIN
"I am well," she whispered, wondering how he could hear her; wondering if he could see her. "I exercise, Anjemalti; and grow strong."
THE VORNET REVOKES MY RIGHT TO VISIT the silken letters spelled. EXERCISE GROW STRONG BE BIDDABLE I WILL COME FOR YOU
"Saxony Belaconto says that she will kill you, cousin."
The spider described an arc, dropped down and wrote SHE MAY TRY
Corbinye grinned, and the woman in the mirror for a moment gleamed wolfish, before she sobered and asked the spider, "When will you come?"
TWO DAYS the spider spun out; and then, much more slowly TRUST ME
"I trust you," she murmured and suddenly closed her eyes, as fear and loneliness held him up before her mind's eye: young and comely and graceful, with his Grounder hair and his face that was the face of the Crew. She swallowed hard and hoped that he could not see her, and be ashamed for the weakness of her tears.
"I trust you," she whispered again and opened her eyes.
The spider had dropped even lower on the mirror. THIS IS NUMBER FIFTEEN WHO WILL STAY WITH YOU BE WISE GROW STRONG
"Yes."
COURAGE CORBINYE The silken letters conveyed not reprimand, but compassion and she felt her heart ease somewhat, that he was not, after all, ashamed of her.
I GO NOW
"Take good care, Anjemalti," she said softly.
The spider spun at the end of its lifeline; then danced back along the word-webs, swallowing its own silk until the mirror was empty except for the reflection of the exotic Grounder woman, patiently combing her hair.
Number Fifteen swung down to the vanity and picked its dainty way across the littered top. Corbinye lowered her comb to watch, and shivered as spider-claws minced across her hand, to her sleeve, and thence downward, until Number Fifteen slipped into the pocket of her gown.
Sternly, she raised the comb and finished dressing her hair for the night. Then she rose and went methodically around the room, turning off all the lights except for one. She tried the door again and went into the bedroom to lie down.
She closed her eyes and tried to will the body into relaxation, though tension sang through her, and longing, and a bone-deep weariness that pitched the mind past exhaustion and into hyperawareness. As she lay there struggling to impose a seemly discipline, she heard a scrabbling nearby and opened her eyes.
There, brave in the wash of the light from the room beyond, golden eyes glowing valiantly, Number Fifteen stood upon her pillow, guarding her rest.
Smiling, Corbinye closed her eyes. And, very shortly, slept.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was not in his house; nor was it in the warehouse at the port; nor at the fashionable UpTown office.
It was not in his mistress' lavish river-view apartment; it was not on the premises of any of the eight businesses of which he was part owner.
Gem ordered a cup of strong tea and stared out the window of the cafe, wondering for the nine hundredth time in six days where in the name of all demons Jarge Menlin kept the Bindalche Trident.
Six days gone. He had until First Dawn tomorrow to discover the thing, steal it and bring it safely to Saxony Belaconto. That she would then allow Corbinye and himself to depart peacefully he did not expect; yet it was impossible to form further plans until he had the Trident in hand.
And if the Trident did not come to hand? He shook his head and sipped the hot beverage. He had no doubt he could steal Corbinye from the Blue House; little doubt that Linzer Skot would hold Dart in readiness, once he claimed the message waiting for him at the port.
But he felt utterly certain that Saxony Belaconto would hunt them with her last breath and hold them up as an example of what became of those who dared to thwart the Vornet.
Out of the office building across the street came a fleshy, half-bald man in clothes too fashionable for him. Gem put aside his cup and slipped out of the cafe to
follow Jarge Menlin, wherever he might go.
He went all over UpTown; visited each of the eight businesses of which he was a partner; stopped briefly at Iliam's, rather longer at Korson's Jewelers; and no time at all, really, at the Flower Basket. Gem fidgeted and thought about the mistress' legendary temper and her passion for a certain exotic blossom; and cursed Jarge Menlin, the Five Telios of the Bindalche and the Vornet, in no particular order.
Jarge Menlin came out of the Flower Basket, turned right through the thickening crowds of Second Noon, and went with uncharacteristic vigor toward the River DownRamp.
At River Plaza, he hailed a cab and Gem swore and broke into a run. His elbow caught Menlin in the middle of his back as he began to bend to the cab, nearly overbalancing him. Gem grabbed the older man's arm, spouting apologies, brushing at the expensive clothing—
"Enough!" Menlin roared, one large hand flashing out toward Gem's throat. "Try to pick my pockets, will you?"
Gem danced back a pace, empty hands out and up, an expression of well-meaning vacuity on his face.
"No, then, sir, I was only meaning to help, since my clumsiness almost tumbled your honor straight onto your head! As to picking your pockets, sir—I'm not half clever enough to be a thief. Check and see if it's not so!"
Frowning, Menlin patted his pockets; pulled out a wallet and slid it back away; did the same with a flat velvet jeweler's box and a folder of keycards.
"All right, then," he said irritably; "but watch yourself. There's some not as easy-going as I am, who'd shoot you and then count their change."
"Your honor, I know it," Gem assured him fervently. "My sincerest thanks for your good humor and your advice." He bowed, backing away slightly as he did. "Fortune keep your honor and may blessed circumstances surround you."
Menlin had turned his back before this pleasantry was half-done and climbed into the cab, snarling directions into the driver's speaker. Gem stood on the walkway, watching the little blue-and-gray vehicle zip down the road and 'round the first bend. Then he ran out into the road and commandeered a cab for himself.
* * *
The blip was strong and steady. Gem directed the cab in an unhurried murmur, eyes on the wrist readout. Number Six, certainly the humblest and least complex of spiders, clung to his target and broadcast his simple message over and over with a tenacity that commanded his master's love.
The signal stilled; began to move again, much more slowly.
"Stop here," Gem murmured to the cab and slid a coin into the meterbox as the door cycled open.
On the walk, he spun slowly around to get his bearings. Just so. Three blocks from the Port; very near the warehouse district, yet not quite among them. A neighborhood of sullen shops and shabby offices, street and sidewalk bare of traffic at barely past Second Noon.
A glance at the readout told him that, two blocks southwest, Jarge Menlin was walking at a hurried pace. Gem smiled to himself and ambled along, looking into dusty shop windows and trusting to Number Six.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Corbinye Faztherot?"
She deliberately speared the last morsel of breakfast, chewed and swallowed before looking up at him, and frowning.
"Yes."
He was scowling; thick brows pulled together and down, cheeks furrowed and fleshy mouth turned down. His fingers quivered, ever so slightly, no doubt yearning for the grips of the weapons riding on his hips.
"Saxony Belaconto sends for you," he snarled. "You will come with me."
Corbinye inclined her head. "Very well. Await me in the hall."
The brows lowered further, and the fingers of his right hand, at least, found solace 'round a gun-grip. "I can pump you full of tranquilizer and carry you out, or you can walk out on your own two feet," he growled. "But you're going and you're going now!"
Corbinye came to her feet with perhaps a quarter of her old speed, hands slapping the breakfast table, pitiable muscles tensing for action.
"I will go when I am prepared to go and not an instant sooner," she said coldly. "Try me at your peril, Grounder."
The brows were somewhat less definite. Corbinye pushed her advantage.
"Does your mistress go from council room to council room all mussed from sleep, like a whore?"
This argument held some force, she saw from his face. She called up the Command voice and pointed at the door. "Await me in the hall!"
He started, even beginning a salute before he caught himself; stiffened and marched out the door.
Shoulders abruptly sagging, Corbinye looked around at the prison room that suddenly seemed like sanctuary. After a moment, she went to take a shower.
* * *
Some while later, dressed in dark trousers and boots and a scarlet shirt with blousing sleeves; hair braided with a length of ribbon exactly matching the shirt, Corbinye looked at Number Fifteen, watching patiently from his perch on the mirror's edge.
"Anjemalti?" she said, very softly. "Cousin?"
Number Fifteen blinked golden eyes and relapsed into stillness.
Sighing, Corbinye stood and held out a hand. The spider came readily into her palm, claws mincing; she brought it nearer, peering, as if she could see through the golden eyes and down along the invisible lines that kept it tied to Anjemalti. . ..
She shook her head at her own folly, and gently put the spider in her pocket. Of the other objects in the room, she took only the flat folder containing her IDs, credit chits and cash. Slipping it into her other pocket, she went to the door and laid her hand against the plate.
As never before, it slid open, and she stepped out into a hallway crowded with armed guards.
Corbinye stopped, sought and found he of the scowling brows and pointed. "You. What is the meaning of this?"
He started, stared around him as if only now seeing the mob of his mates, and looked back at her, brows twitching.
"Ms. Belaconto sent us to get you." He grinned, gap-toothed. "Maybe she wanted to be sure you didn't get any ideas about going solo, huh?"
Corbinye stared at him coldly. "Saxony Belaconto has my word that I will behave as befits a guest. She might as easily have sent her grandmother to show me the way, and let you free for—other endeavors." She shrugged, eloquent of resigned outrage. "Why do we tarry? I had thought I was to come to your captain immediately."
Thus recalled to a sense of his duty, he barked orders and the rest of the crew formed themselves into a square around her, guns very apparent, and marched her out of the Blue House and into a waiting car.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The fat man came, as he always did, red-faced and breathing hard, shoving open the door as if it were man's place alone, and not also the abode of that which was not man.
Witness for the Telios sighed and wondered in his private heart what it was that Shlorba's Smiter wished of the fat man. Certainly, it was not reverence; though Witness-memory taught him that a thirst for reverence had not in the past been characteristic of the Smiter. Yet, those Chosen of the past had had a certain—boldness—in common; a certainty of purpose, no matter that each purpose had been as different from the other as each grain of sand was different from its brothers. Witness for the Telios, in his private heart, believed that Shlorba's Smiter found this boldness—exhilarating.
The fat man was not bold. He came as if compelled to the Smiter's Center, smelling of liquor and women and flowers; laid his hand upon the grip and muttered his name as if any moment his bones would give up their duty and there would be nothing left of the fat man at all, excepting a smear of pudding on the floor.
As part of his duties as Witness, he had studied the fat man's society and culture and as much of the fat man himself as it was possible to do, to thus give context and perspective to the Memory. It annoyed him, in his private heart, that an Epoch that had so much potential—the Smiter sets forth from the Bindalche, forsooth! and rises into the stars to clutch who knows what new and terrible magics to itself—should wither into boredom in the fat man's so
ft, scented hands.
The fat man had turned from the Smiter and was standing now before him, hand clenched, the stink of liquor on his breath. Witness for the Telios sighed and stood, awaiting the inevitable. At first, he had not understood the fat man's insistence on asking these questions, on seeking assurance, as if he were a boy untried rather than an adult, Tried and Named and Tested. Study had provided him with certain answers. Within the fat man's culture, there was neither Testing nor Trying, and one might go from womb to pyre bearing only the milk-name given at birth. In a sense then was the fat man a boy untried, laboring under the milky influence of an infant-name. Witness for the Telios endeavored to keep this truth before his heart's eye in all their dealings.
"Is all well with you?" inquired the fat man, wrinkles around his moist brown eyes.
"All is well," replied Witness, with the gentleness one reserved for children, reminding his heart that the question was meant kindly and not as the deadly insult it must have been, asked between men.
The fat man nodded. "And—that?" He gestured toward the Smiter. "Does it require anything? Is it—content?"
"I am Witness for the Telios," Witness said, as he always did; "you are the one Chosen."
"Yes, of course," muttered the fat man, as he always did, with his eyes dropping and darting tiny sharp glances around the room. He pulled himself upright, with a boy's brittle bravado, and nodded his head sharply.
"Until next time, then. You know how to get in touch with me, if anything should happen."
This was merely a nonsense phrase, a pleasantry, or so Witness thought. For what could it mean, "if anything should happen?" when everything within the Thought of the gods—fat men, the Bindalche, Shlorba's Smiter, and every Witness the Telios had brought to the Smiter—was caught forever in a state of event? How could it be that something not happen? But, there, it was merely the milky thinking of a child. And who could expect more, from one denied the Trial and the Naming?
Witness for the Telios bowed, since the fat man had in the past understood this to signal agreement, and then had gone away.