by Sharon Lee
"I may require reminding from time to time," Gem said carefully. "Recall that most of my years have been spent among Grounders and that I am used to certain—ahh—amenities."
"It is certainly the Captain's privilege," Mael Faztherot said stiffly, turning her face aside, "to provide amenities, should he judge the Ship requires them." She shook her head sharply.
"In the meantime," she said, coming to her feet and beckoning him brusquely to his. "We must have you to sick bay, so that the tests may be run and your initiation begun! This way. If you please, Captain."
* * *
The gene tests were astonishingly easy, the sick bay up to date and gleaming in a way wholly at variance with what he had thus far seen of the Ship.
Afterward, there were meetings with this section chief and with that—though no inspections to be made; they were careful of that. He kept the Trident in his hand the whole time, and Witness perforce came behind, but every inquiry of Corbinye was cut off, derailed, ignored.
Finally, he pled weariness, which was nearly true, and Mael Faztherot showed him to a spacious cabin, where one wall slid aside to let in the light and the odors of the Garden, and the furnishings were real wood and in good repair and the coverings on the bed were costly and sweet-smelling.
"Thank you," Gem said, by way of dismissal. "This will do very well."
Yet Mael Faztherot hesitated. "I know you are weary—and with every cause! But I would not be behind in any courtesy. Captain. Is there one from among us that I might send to you? Certainly, a roster will be made, as proper. But for this night, if one had caught your eye—"
He blinked, remembered to keep his face bland. "I thank you for the thought, but I am most truly tired and would hardly be able to do my part. After the roster is made . . ."
"Certainly," she said again, and nodded at the Witness. "I shall see your servant comfortably bedded."
"No need," Gem said calmly. "He is accustomed to sleeping athwart the door, and I don't like to disappoint him."
She looked at him suspiciously. "You have no need of such protections here, on your Ship and among your Crew."
"But my friend is used to certain conditions and it is only courtesy to bow to them." He returned her gaze, eye for eye, finding it much easier than it ever had been with Corbinye.
She broke contact first, bowing stiffly. "Very well. If the Captain will instruct me as to the hour of his waking—"
"Let me call you when I wake," he cut her off. "I am exceedingly tired and still recovering from the effects of a wound. Best I get whatever rest my body demands, rather than undertake my new duties half-exhausted."
Another bow, stiffer, if possible, than the first. "The Captain is wise. I am at his disposal at whatever hour. He need only press 'one' on the commboard." She pointed at the wall unit, with its numbered keypad and archaic earcup.
Gem nodded. "I am in your debt, Acting Captain," he said, and saw her face ease somewhat. "Good-shift."
"Good-shift, Captain," she returned and was finally gone.
Witness went and sat on the floor, back pressed firmly against the door. Gem eyed him before going and laying the Trident carefully across the bed.
"Insulted, Witness for the Telios?"
"Indeed not, Anjemalti. One's own heart can but marvel at the wisdom you display." He settled himself more firmly against the door. "It seems to me that you are newly a man—barely beyond the Testing. And yet you are as canny as one with years of the hunt behind you." He smiled his sweet, predator's smile.
"I speak from my own heart, understand—as a friend and a brother of the hunt. You yourself addressed me thus."
"And so no insult is given," Gem concluded and stretched, hands over head and back arched; tensing every muscle and relaxing all at once. "But you are mistaken in me. I fear my testing is just commenced."
There was a sound, slight in the quiet room; as if a sudden stream were gurgling over hidden rocks.
Slow with amazement, Gem turned around.
The Witness was laughing.
"A jest worthy of a man," he said finally, raising a hand to wipe at his eyes.
Gem sat carefully on the bed. "You must, of course, be the judge," he managed, then, back hunched against the open wall and any watchers in the garden below, he pulled his sleeve back from his wristlet and began playing his fingers across the tiny studs.
Spiders began to appear, scurrying here and there upon their magical missions.
Witness for the Telios leaned back against the door, well-pleased with the current shape of event.
* * *
It was dark.
It had always been dark. And cold. And stale of air. There had never been anything else.
Corbinye stretched high on her toes, trying to ease both the cramping of the arms chained above her head and the pain of her abundant bruises. Zandora and Eil had been no more gentle than they should have been and her returning three or a dozen responses to their tenderness had elicited even sterner measures.
The blood had long since dried, stiffening the hair that covered her scraped and battered face. The red shirt they had torn from her—sacrilege that a Grounder be clad so!—and slapped and abused her breasts. Grounder-cow, they'd called her. But that hadn't been the worst.
The dark was the worst—and they'd known it. Taunted her with her blindness, made noise in the dark so that she missed her strike again and again and was put on her face after all, eating metal, while the boots and the fists pounded her into unconsciousness.
To waken in chains. Alone. In the dark.
The tears burned her cheeks; she barely noticed them. Beaten by two of the Crew's ruffians, who were fit only for bullwork, who Corbinye Faztherot had bested effortlessly in every childhood trial. Hung up like meat, to drip blood and stare uselessly into the blackness, until such time as she was sent for, filthy, raving spectacle as she would no doubt be, to be stared at and vilified by the Crew entire before the final push into the Garden's composting unit and the tenderizers finished her.
No burial in the stars for Grounders. Return to the dirt was fitting for those.
Corbinye closed her eyes, or opened them. It barely mattered which.
Except that, in the darkness, there was light.
Tiny, amber spots of light, a mile or an inch across the infinite blackness, which disappeared and reappeared, one after the other—and then began to move.
She licked swollen lips and tried to call out, but the lovely storyteller's voice was broken to bits; dust in the back of her bruised throat.
Voiceless, she hung, watching the constant amber eyes grow larger until finally they reached her boot and she felt spider claws take hold of cloth and begin to climb.
She tried to hang still; to not dislodge the tiny climber: Number Fifteen. Her last friend. She tried to hang still, but back, arm and shoulder muscles spasmed at once, so that she twisted in agony and tried to push higher on her toes to ease them and the legs went, and she howled with the shattered remains of the dancer's voice and bucked against chains, hitting her head a solid whack against the wall and sending herself back into unconsciousness.
Chapter Forty-Nine
There was light where she woke. Light and the smell of growing things; even a breeze and what might have been water-sounds. There were voices—elsewhere; softness covered her body. She lay as if upon a cloud. Floating, there was no pain.
Carefully, in the astonishing absence of agony, she tried to remember who she was.
For the instant, it eluded her, and it made no matter that it did. The ease of her body was enough—she could be anyone, any age, any name. There was no pain. And light was benediction, all around.
In the light, she saw the trees and flowers beyond the edge of the cloud she floated upon. Closer looking diminished the cloud to a bed, silken covers shrouding her legs. Atop the silk lay a long, elegant hand, soft and pleasingly made, with pearly nails and golden skin. She flexed the fingers of the hand, establishing that it was hers, and la
y back, deeply satisfied. She was a person who possessed a hand. It was enough.
"Corbinye Faztherot," a voice murmured near her head. "Do you wake now?"
She took her time replying, considering the nuance—a man's voice, gently respectful; and it named her. Corbinye Faztherot. She felt something shiver, deep within her painless lethargy. Corbinye Faztherot. She turned her head.
The man was broad-shouldered and boxy; powerfully formed and not unpleasing. She wondered if he were a bed-partner, then lost the thought as he spoke to her again.
"Corbinye Faztherot. Do your dreams still hold you?"
"I am awake," she said, hearing how the languor lent depth to her slow, silken voice.
"That is well," said the man, brown eyes frowning. He leaned close, so that she could smell the scent of him. "Do you know me?"
"Shall I know you?" she returned, luxuriating in the power of her voice, that made the simple question into invitation. Something flickered across the man's face. It may have been annoyance.
"You are still lost in the drug-dreams," he announced, and abruptly went away.
Well, she thought, closing her eyes and nestling deeper into the soft bed, let him go. There are others.
"Corbinye." This voice was also male, accompanied by a touch to her shoulder. She opened her eyes and stared into his—blue, wide, beautiful. Something else shivered within her inner fog. Shivered and broke through.
"Anjemalti?"
Relief showed in the eyes; there was a rearranging of the bed as he sat on the edge. "You're waking," he said. "That's good. Witness told me you'd lost your wits forever."
"Lost my wits . . ." They were fast returning, so that she looked around her, at the Atrium below, and the luxurious room; at Anjemalti himself—and forgetfulness fled, to be replaced by horror.
"You meddled with Crew's Judgment!" she cried and twisted against the prisoning softness.
His face froze. "Your pardon, madam, but I saved your life."
"Again!" She managed to sit up, never minding that the coverlet fell away from her shoulder. Never minding anything but the enormity of his action.
"Anjemalti, listen to me, as you love your life." Her voice was low, throbbing with urgency. "You must give me to the Crew—plead ignorance of our ways—a child would hardly have seen Crew's Judgment—who could expect you to know? Return me, become known to the Ship, fulfill your destiny. It is your duty, what you were made for—" She reached, blindly, hardly knowing her own intent, and felt her hand captured in his.
"Corbinye . . ." His face held a mix of emotion, of which she read exasperation and worry and stubbornness. "If it were possible to return you to the Crew, they would kill you, would they not? The medic gave me to understand that you are at the very least an interloper—a Grounder who has stolen Crew secrets—and at the very worst exactly what you claim to be—Crew in a Grounder body. A monster. Either way, you're only fit for the most horrible of deaths." Astonishingly, humor glinted.
"Saxony Belaconto's investment all laid to waste? Pity on your enemies, cousin."
She laughed, deep and throaty, head tipped back so that she felt the hair sweep her shoulder blades. "Gods forbid I should be so graceless!" She sobered abruptly, caught by his other words. "What medic was this?"
Anjemalti shrugged. "Tornbel, did he call himself? I think that was the name."
She stared at him. "You had Tornbel to physick a Grounder? Anjemalti—"
"Well," he said judiciously, "I fear he required some persuasion, and even after tried to trick me—as if I can't tell one med unit from another." He shook his head and sighed. "I finally had enough and left him webbed to the operating table while we finished the repair on you." His eye moved then, flickering down and coming back up to her face, reflecting satisfaction.
"I think we did quite a good job, considering the shape you were in when we found you." His face shifted again, showing anger. "Who was responsible for that, I wonder?"
She stared at him dumbly, lips half-parted.
"Crew's Judgment," he cried, suddenly savage. "You were thrown to the dogs by your own mother, to be torn and worried to bits; harried to death—"
"It was half-done," she said then, soft-voiced with the truth. "Anjemalti. It—"
"Half-done!" He pulled his hand from hers, snapping to his feet and staring down at her. She saw him close his eyes and take a deliberate breath. "More than half-done," he said, calmer. The internal injuries—" He opened his eyes and offered a wavering smile. "This body is not so tough as your Crew body, cousin. Forgive me."
"No offense," she said absently, looking down at the perfectly-formed, perfectly-smooth hand. She had landed some blows—there should be scratches, bruised knuckles—she looked back at him. "I am still in—in Morela's body?"
He met her gaze fully. "There is no Blue House here, Corbinye. But the medical units are quite up-to-date. Amazing. I congratulated Tornbel on his instruments, but he was less than gracious. A very rude man."
She felt laughter rising again; managed to make it nothing more than a twitch of the lips. "I am sorry you did not find him congenial."
"Oh, no fault of yours." Anjemalti waved a hand. "But we've established that your wits are with you. And since I am not, after all my efforts, inclined to return you to the mob to be tortured and murdered, I wonder if I might prevail upon you to join my bridge-crew. I don't scruple to tell you that I need a mate such as you, who is familiar with the byways of this damned warren."
Horror rose again and she sat straight, the coverlet falling into her lap. "Anjemalti, what have you done?"
"Done?" His eyebrows rose. "Nothing more than was being done, at the Ship's own slow pace. The acting captain assured me that I would be made known to the Ship and given access to all administrative data banks. But she is a busy woman, cousin, as I am sure you know, and her best time for completion of the ID was nearly a Standard week." He shrugged.
"Well, you appreciate, after having come so far, and being the Captain-who-was-foretold, I could hardly wait so long to be made one with my Ship. In short," he glanced to the right, then looked back at her, "all life functions are presently being controlled through this suite. Acting Captain Faztherot is quite upset."
"Anjemalti . . ."
"You see why I need you," he said briskly. "And now I must excuse myself. There are clothes." He went across to the chest and pulled out dark slacks, a white shirt like his own—Administration's colors. He laid them over the edge of the bed.
"Tornbel was especially furious over the color of your shirt, cousin. Apparently he feels red doesn't suit you. Come to the next room when you're ready."
And he was gone that quickly, striding across the costly rug and vanishing through the door, leaving her to stare at the white shirt and finally put out a hand to take it up.
Chapter Fifty
The Trident of the Bindalche leaned against the wall, its rubies winking in the blare of light.
Corbinye had cringed on the threshold, beholding that light, while the part of her that had been in training for First relentlessly tallied the expense, speculating which subsystems were shut down entirely, that their power might bleed here, unrecoverable, generating nothing but . . . light.
The waste barely concerned her now: The screen Anjemalti had called up held more potent horrors.
Life support systems for the Ship entire—air, gravity, light, humidity, temp—were now fed through this tiny subordinate screen in an antechamber of the Captain's Rooms.
"Why life support?" she demanded after her first panicked scrolling; after she had gathered enough wits to run a check and pull out a detailed map of his meddlings.
"It was most vulnerable," Anjemalti said, shrugging. "And, once subverted, the most easily defensible." He looked at her closely. "I needed to make a protection for you, until such time as you woke and directed me to return you to your death. I needed to show them that I was not without resources—that they mistook the case entirely, if they supposed me a witling�
�or still nine years old."
"But—life support." She stared at the fortifications he had erected. "How long has this held?"
"In its present form, a Ship's day," he said. "They have at it from time to time and modifications are required. Tedious. But, again, my play was for time—time for you to heal; time for them to learn a little about my mettle. It was my intention that the lessons learned would open the way for—more equitable dealing, with Acting Captain and with Crew."
"They will never forgive you," she whispered. "Anjemalti, you held their lives hostage to the life of a Grounder. They will hate you."
He looked half-amused. "Oh, come now. There's been no meddling with the backups—"
"The backups are not to be trusted," she said, hating the truth even as she spoke it. "On many levels. One wrong move and you could kill the Ship—out of ignorance or out of malice. How can they forget that?" She shook her head and slid down in the chair, stretching her legs out before her, eyes still on the screen. "Have you spoken to my—to Acting Captain Faztherot?"
"Several times. She has gone from promising me amnesty and my place aboard Ship, to advising me to add spin to the Garden and hurl myself to my death."
She looked up. "She did not offer you the Knife?"
"I doubt I'm worthy of it," he said, appearing nearly cheerful in the admission.
Corbinye closed her eyes. "Anjemalti, you are not Crew."
"I did try to tell you that," he said mildly. "Several times."
"So you did." She sighed. "What's to do?"
"An excellent question. We are here, where none of us are welcome. Two of us at least have pressing need to be elsewhere, and it seems better for everyone's health if all of us were gone quickly." He put his chin into the cup of his hand and rested his elbow on a knee. "What chance they'll give us Hyacinth and let us go?"
"No score on that throw," she returned. "Truth told, I see no clean way out of the coil—and to suicide by hurling yourself to the floor of the Garden is no honor, Anjemalti, and unworthy of you."