The Bloodwing Voyages

by Diane Duane

  Finally he was straightening his clothes and had most of his color back. “Are you all right?” she said.

  “I…yes, hru’hfe. I think so.” He coughed again, and then spat—close enough to her feet for insult’s sake, and yet not close enough to let her make an issue of it.

  Well, there it was, he certainly had taken it personally; and she didn’t need a quarrel with the chief cook, not today of all days. Arrhae glanced at the spittle briefly, just long enough to make it clear she had noticed that its placing was no accident, and then looked at him wryly. “If I had wanted to make you unwell,” she said, “I wouldn’t have done so poor a job of it—you wouldn’t be able to stand. Come, chief cook, pardon my eagerness. I so love to drive.”

  He nodded rather curtly, and together they gathered up the netbags for the few things they would be needing and headed for the market. Arrhae pushed the pace. They were already later than she would have preferred to be.

  It was annoying that she had to be in such a Powers-driven hurry on Eitreih’hveinn, one of the nine major religious festivals of the Rihannsu year. No matter that the Farmers’ Festival was one of her favorites: she had no time to enjoy it today. There was only one good thing about it, and Arrhae took full advantage—the produce for sale was going to be superb.

  Tr’Aimne, to her mild annoyance, refused to enjoy the shopping trip. One would have thought the sight of so much gorgeous food would have filled any decent cook with joy, but he generally dragged along behind Arrhae rather like a wet cloak trailed on the ground. Maybe he’s still not well, she thought, and slowed down a little for his sake. But it made no difference, tr’Aimne was incivility itself at the merchants’ and farmers’ booths, and his manners began to improve only as they got closer to the expensive, exclusive stores near the city center. By that time they had acquired most of the staples they needed, in one form or another, and had begun to shop for the luxuries that made H’daen tr’Khellian’s formal dinners the well-attended functions they were.

  Rare delicacies, fine vintages, fragrant blossoms for the tables and the dining chamber. Some were easy to find—Arrhae enjoyed the simple pleasure of being able to point at anything that took her fancy regardless of its price, and striking the Khellian house-sigil nonchalantly onto whatever bills were pushed toward her—but others proved much more difficult. And one or two were quite impossible.

  “What do you mean, out of stock? You always had hlai’vnau before, so why not now?”

  The shopkeeper went through all the appropriate expressions and movements of regret—none of which, of course, put any cuts of meat in the empty cool-trays or did anything to calm Arrhae down. She had all but promised that the traditional holiday foods would be served at H’daen’s table, and now here was this bucolic idiot telling her that he had sold every last scrap of wild hlai in the city. She was sure enough of that sweeping statement, because it could be bought nowhere else, at least nowhere else on this particular day. Only merchants approved by priestly mandate and subjected each year to the most stringent examinations were permitted to sell wild game on the day set aside to honor domestic produce and the people who provided it, and this man held the single such approval in i’Ramnau.

  “Very well.” Arrhae unclenched her fists, annoyed that she had let so much irritation be so obvious; tr’Aimne would doubtless delight in reporting it to his cronies. “Plain hlai’hwy, then.” She leaned closer, smiling a carefully neutral smile that wasn’t meant to reassure, and didn’t. “But do make sure they’re properly cleaned. If any of Lord tr’Khellian’s guests break their teeth on a stray scale, your reputation would certainly suffer.”

  If only H’daen’s mansion was closer to a large city instead of this mudhole. If only it weren’t so fashionable to have a home in open country. If only… Arrhae dismissed the thoughts as not worth wasting brainspace on; H’daen lived where he lived, and that was all. But why here? the stubborn voice in her head persisted. Nothing ever happens here….

  The sound began as a rumble so low it was beyond the edge of hearing; Arrhae felt it more as a vibration in her bones and teeth. It persisted there for long enough to be dismissed to the unconscious, like computer hum or the white-noise song from an active viewscreen—and then it raced up through the scale to peak at an earsplitting atonal screech that chased its source across the sky as a military suborbital shuttle dropped vertically through the scattered clouds.

  Nothing…? Well, almost nothing, Arrhae thought. The shuttle snapped out of its descent pattern and made a leisurely curve out of sight; probably on approach to the Fleet landing field that lay halfway between i’Ramnau and H’daen’s mansion. The echoes of its passage slapped between the city’s buildings for many minutes afterward, but long before they died away completely Arrhae had finished the last of her purchases and made enough amiably threatening noises to insure that they would be delivered in good time, and was making her way back to the holding-bay where her flitter waited. Another night, she thought, another dinner, probably another of H’daen’s deals, struck but never completed. And with whom?

  Oh, well. A fully belly at least…

  Turning away from the dining chamber for perhaps the tenth time since she had told him everything was in readiness, H’daen tr’Khellian made his tenth gesture of approval toward his hru’hfe. Arrhae acknowledged—again—and tried to keep the good-humored appreciation on her face when it seemed determined to slip off and reveal the boredom beneath. H’daen’s guests were late, very late indeed, and without even the courtesy of advising their host of the reason why. The lateness was unusual, the lateness combined with the rudeness nearly unheard of. H’daen knew it; the original enthusiasm when he saw how well his instructions had been followed had long since eroded into an automatic wave of the hand, and these past few times Arrhae was prepared to hear herself ordered to clear the place and dump all the food. She privately gave him five more minutes before the command was given….

  And then the door chime sounded loudly through the silent house. Arrhae could not have said who moved first or faster, H’daen or herself, but after the first three steps he remembered his dignity and let her attend to the guests, if guests they were, while he returned to his study for what was probably a well-deserved swift drink.

  The callers were indeed the long-awaited dinner companions: a man and a woman, both Fleet officers in full uniform of scarlet and black. Looking past them out into the darkness, Arrhae could see their transport sitting in one of the mansion’s parking bays, and for some reason felt sure that it wasn’t empty. The officers’ aides, or their driver, or a guard, or—Arrhae stamped down on her curiosity before it went any further; the transport wasn’t her business.

  “Llhei u’Rekkhai,” she said in her best voice and most mannered phase of language. “Aefvadh; rheh-Hwael l’oenn-uoira.” She stepped to one side so that they could walk inside and straight to the laving-bowl and fair cloths set out for refreshment after their “arduous journey”; no more arduous than a stroll from the military flitter, and no more for refreshment that the token dabbing of face and fingertips, but a traditional courtesy to guests nonetheless.

  “Sthea’hwill au-khia oal’lhlih mnei i H’daen hru’fihrh Khellian…?” said the woman.

  Announce whom? thought Arrhae. I don’t know any names yet! “Nahi ’lai, llhei?”

  One of the officers hesitated, a soft towel still in his hands, fingers clenching momentarily at the interrogative lift of Arrhae’s voice, then glanced swiftly at his companion.

  “U’rreki tae-hna,” she said absently, not especially interested. “Hfivann h’rau.”

  “Hra’vae?” he said slowly. There was wariness and suspicion in that voice, and Arrhae wondered why. Then the officer turned full around, staring at her with cold, secretive eyes as if trying to read more than what he saw in her face. “Hsei vah-udt?” The demand came out like a whipstroke.

  “Arrhae i-Mnaeha t’Khellian, daise hru’hfe, Rekk—”

  “Rhe’ve…?” The ma
n didn’t sound convinced. “Khru va—”

  “Ah, Subcommander, it’s enough…” Though his companion spoke in a less formal mode, there was no mistaking the tacit warning in her voice. “This one is only doing her job, as are we all. And well she does it.” She dipped her fingers into the bowl of scented water once more, then dried them off and waved their newly-acquired perfume appreciatively under her nose. “Very well indeed. Tell H’daen that Commander t’Radaik and Subcommander tr’Annhwi are here.”

  “Madam, sir, at once. There is drink here in the anteroom, and small foods for you.” Arrhae opened a door off the hallway. “And servants to attend you.” There had better be, she thought. Neither of H’daen’s houseguests were the languid desk-captains she was used to; there was a quick and haughty anger about the man tr’Annhwi, but the lazy, controlled power of Commander t’Radaik was more disturbing still. The woman’s every word, every gesture, bespoke a confidence in her strength or her rank that suggested both were far beyond what first sight might suggest. Arrhae bowed them through the doorway, saw that at least three of the other house servants were waiting with trays and cups and flagons, and slipped the door shut on her own silent sigh of relief.

  She had cause, once or twice in the next hour, to enter or pass through the dining chamber, a place of dimmed lights and muted voices, where H’daen and his guests discussed what seemed matters of importance. Like any good servant, Arrhae could be selectively deaf when necessary, and moreover had little enough time to eavesdrop even had she more inclination to do so. The unexpected work created by her shopping trip meant that everything else was running hours behind—an inspection of the guestrooms, completion of her half-finished audit of the domestic purchase ledgers, and even getting herself something to eat….

  A successful raid on the kitchen produced a glare from tr’Aimne—also meat, bread, and a jug of ale, watered down until it was almost palatable. After making a swift reverence, Arrhae fell to with a will. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she had become until the savor of the baked hlai reached her nostrils. She made short work of everything on her platter.

  Not that it took long, because even the dinner which the three upstairs had eaten was no many-coursed banquet, for all its elegant presentation, and Arrhae’s stolen meal was only a degree or so above leftover scraps. Yet set against the standards of everyday fare it was a feast indeed, if not in quantity, then at least by virtue of its quality and flavor. The Rihannsu were not—with few exceptions—a wealthy people, reckoning riches more by honors won and past House glories than in cash and precious things. She ate off one such precious/not precious article tonight: a dish that was part of the set made by H’daen’s ancestor nine generations back from the remnants of her warbird, after the vessel had safely returned to ch’Rihan after a nacelle accident that should have killed everyone aboard. It had been decommissioned and scrapped after that, but its memory as something that continued useful when all reason and logic said otherwise was contained, with a sardonic humor that Arrhae liked, in the dining-service made of its breached hull.

  She was debating whether or not to venture down to the kitchen again for any more of whatever was left, when the summoning-bell went off, loudly enough to make her jump. Its normally decorous sound had been turned up to an earpiercing clangor like that of a warship’s tocsin, and that, Arrhae knew, was something H’daen would not normally tolerate. Even as she scrambled to her feet, wiping her mouth and straightening her tunic, she was wondering who, and how, and why..?

  She found out.

  Commander t’Radaik met her at the head of the stairs. No longer benevolent and defensive, the woman looked every inch what Arrhae had come to suspect she was: someone whose actual rank or status was far, far higher than that claimed or indicated by insignia. One of the guests at a dinner-party two years past had given her the same feeling—and it had been vindicated when the man, ostensibly a Senior Centurion, had announced his true rank of khre’Riov and his position in Imperial Intelligence, and had arrested Vaebn tr’Lhoell, another of the guests, on charges of espionage and treason. Arrhae and all the other house servants had been interrogated to learn if they had seen anything suspicious during the party, and since tr’Lhoell had negotiated her present post in House Khellian, she had been terrified lest some ulterior motive should come to light and indicate that she was somehow implicated in whatever crime he had intended.

  T’Radaik had that same look of a mask having been removed, and Arrhae thought abruptly and horribly of H’daen’s enigmatic offer to take her into his confidence. Once again the small worm of fear twisted into life within her belly, and she fought with all her strength to keep any expression that might be construed as guilt from becoming visible on her face.

  There was more introspection than anything else on the commander’s face; she had the air of a person deep in thought, and at first didn’t see Arrhae five steps below. Then she focused on Arrhae as coldly as a surveillance camera, and her eyes burned right through Arrhae’s to the brain behind, seeming to read whatever secrets were hidden there—and disapprove of them all. “Hru’hfe,” she said, all business now, “which guest-chamber in this house has a lock that can be overridden from outside?”

  Arrhae paused, wondering why such a place was required, needing to think about her answer and feeling foolish because of it. Commander t’Radaik watched her impatiently. “Come along, hurry up! H’daen tr’Khellian seems to think that you’re reasonably intelligent….”

  “The commander’s pardon,” Arrhae said, embarrassed, “but this house is such that none of the guestrooms ever needed to be locked from outside. The storerooms, however, all—”

  “Show me.”

  “I…. Of course. As the commander wishes.”

  The store was very definitely a store; there was no way in which it could possibly be redefined as anything approaching guest quarters, and even terming it living quarters was questionable. But t’Radaik liked it. She inspected the barred and shuttered windows, the thickness of the door and how well it fitted to its jamb, and the all-important lock, pronouncing herself well-pleased with everything. “Have this place cleared, aired, warmed, and furnished,” she said, sliding the heavy door shut and seeming most satisfied with the ponderous sound of its closure.

  Arrhae tried not to stare, but decided at last that to swallow all her curiosity would be worse than to let a little out. “If the commander permits—what purpose is there in all of this? It looks like a”—realization struck her and she wished suddenly that she hadn’t begun to speak—“like a prison cell….”

  “Hru’hfe Arrhae t’Khellian.” Commander t’Radaik spoke softly. She didn’t look at Arrhae, but she had the chill air of one fixing a face and a name securely in the memory. “Ask no questions, girl, and hear no lies.” And the commander looked at her a little sidelong. “H’daen makes much of your intelligence; he also says you can be trusted. Don’t make a liar of him. Matters afoot in this house are no concern of servants, even trustworthy ones; if you love life, keep your questions to yourself.”

  She unclipped a communicator from her belt and said several words into it; they made no coherent sentence and were plainly a coded command, but the mere use of the device brought home to Arrhae the jolting realization that concealed by the uniform’s half-cloak, t’Radaik was wearing a full equipment-harness. Including a holstered sidearm whose red primer-diodes glowed up at her like the hot eyes of some small, vicious animal.

  Arrhae walked very quietly behind the commander after that; well behind, avoiding notice as best she could but quite sure that she had drawn too much notice already. She replied to t’Radaik’s occasional questions with unobtrusive monosyllables, ventured no opinions of her own, and heartily wished that she had kept her mouth shut earlier on. T’Radaik said nothing more regarding excessive curiosity, and seemed content to let Arrhae sweat over the possible consequences of her own error, or was once more engrossed in her own private thoughts and had dismissed the matter from her mind
. Arrhae sent out a small, fervent prayer to the Elements that such was the case, but she didn’t dare believe it. Not yet, anyway.

  Subcommander tr’Annhwi was waiting for t’Radaik, and the house door was open at his back. It was very dark outside; they were far enough from i’Ramnau for the city glow to be only a pallid thread on the horizon, and sometimes, if she had leisure after her work for the day was done, Arrhae liked to go outside on a clear night and look up toward the myriad stars and think very private thoughts to herself. But not tonight. Ariennye alone knew what was out there, or what would happen to any who tried to see without the authority of the two officers who now stalked past her with blasters drawn. The weapons’ charge-tones sang an evil two-chord melody in Arrhae’s ears, making her skin crawl and pushing any inclination toward curiosity very far down inside her mind. Feeling superfluous and, standing in a well-lit hallway looking out into the ominous dark, very exposed, she began to back away.

  “H’ta-fvau!” snapped tr’Annhwi. He didn’t turn around, much less level his blaster at her, but Arrhae knew without being told that it would be his immediate next move. She ventured a weak smile, and came back as bidden.

  H’daen appeared from the dining chamber with traces of wine on his lips and chin. Arrhae glanced at him, and could see his hands trembling slightly; she wondered what he had been told to bring on such a fit of the shakes, and then decided that she really didn’t want to know. There was already movement outside, the sound of approaching military boots, and Arrhae remembered her first suspicion that the military flitter was carrying more than just H’daen’s two dinner guests. It seemed that she was to be proven right—but the reason for the other personnel and their secrecy was not something that she wanted to dwell upon. There was too much similarity between tr’Lhoell’s arrest and now. Arrhae’s fears had never truly died away, and now they returned full force to haunt her.