The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  The sensory bulbs and clusters that formed their heads had been sculpted into fearsome masks of enraged idiocy, like insane children given to wrenching the limbs off insects. Except these were designed to slaughter larger prey: Shiidra.

  A further surprise was recognizing that they had been fashioned in the form of the kipango, the karra of Dol’jharian legend who looked forward and backward at the same time, and could, like the Ogres, spring on their victims in either direction. Anaris decided to have Morrighon find out if Eusabian had ordered them fashioned in this form, or if the Barcans had done so for their own reasons.

  He sensed disappointment from Eusabian at his lack of reaction. But Eusabian only turned to the scientist. “Your demonstration.”

  Lysanter began a step, caught himself and performed a bow. Anaris could feel his impatience at the necessity, and wondered if his father did.

  Lysanter then went to the sole console in the chamber. “I do not yet judge it safe to fully engage their programming, Lord,” he said. “I will demonstrate under the command of the station arrays. When I am finished, they will obey your voice alone.” He held up a small, jewel-like object on a chain. “Tags like this can be issued to those you wish the Ogres to ignore.”

  The Urian specialist tapped at the keys. A faint whine emanated from the left-hand Ogre; flickers of light sifted through its bulbous sensors and two of them glowed red, giving the appearance of eyes. The Ogre stumped back and forth across the chamber, its armored limbs articulating in uncannily human fashion, the whine-thump of its progress very much like that of powered armor. “That is the terror mode,” said Lysanter. He tabbed his console, and the Ogre continued its movement without sound. “And this the covert mode.”

  “And your modifications?” asked the Avatar.

  Lysanter’s lips parted, his eyes wide with excitement. “Yes, Lord. I’m quite proud of this.” He tabbed his console again; the first Ogre froze in position as the other pivoted with surprising grace and laid the palms of its oversized hands against the wall of the chamber, close together. Veins of bluish light webbed out from its fingers, and as it pulled its hands apart, a hole opened in the wall. Then it pulled its hands away and the hole slammed shut with a loud eructation. The Ogre returned to its former position and froze into immobility.

  Anaris heard a harsh inhalation behind him and realized that Barrodagh had been holding his breath.

  “Stasis clamps in their hands,” said Eusabian. “And their feet. Excellent. With these the fabric of the Suneater itself will obey my commands.”

  Anaris altered his stance as if to observe the Ogres more closely, but his real interest was in Barrodagh, who had blanched paler than ever, his jaw rigid. So the secretary as well as the heir is warned. The Ogres would make Jerrode Eusabian more autonomous than any lord in history.

  Autonomous not just of the Tarkans, but of his secretary.

  Lysanter said, “Shall I demonstrate further, Lord?”

  Eusabian indicated with a flick of his hand that he was to proceed, and in a dry voice, Lysanter went on to describe the complicated weapons systems. Anaris was impressed. Morrighon will have to provide a full report on their capabilities, and limitations—if any. The Ogres seemed more versatile—and more deadly—than rumor had made them out to be.

  But considering the nature of the Ogres was for later, when he had Morrighon’s report. Right now his main focus was on the reason behind the demonstration. Eusabian never did anything on impulse. The manner of his hint about the Chorei following the ghost-laying ceremony; the almost palpable anxiety of the secretary, who would be concerned to maintain his position as indispensable aide—thus spurring him on to greater efforts . . .

  Has Eusabian always known? Anaris had little data on his mother, other than the fact that her brief tenure in Hroth D’ocha had been the result of a treaty, a capitulation to the Avatar after one of the endless inter-House struggles. She had made her feelings clear by leaving the very day of Anaris’s birth.

  That family was reasonably powerful—enough to have buried any hint of Chorei blood fairly deeply in their records. Anaris had not been able to probe more than superficially, not with Barrodagh monitoring everything he researched.

  As the Ogres each extruded the muzzle of a large-aperture jac from their torsos, Anaris reflected that his father’s hint had not been made in Barrodagh’s hearing. This could mean several things.

  For now, the important line of thought to pursue was the Tarkan connection. By that mention of my one exhibition of ghost-laying, he’s not just flinging the fact of my Chorei blood in my teeth, he’s also letting me know that he’s aware of my subversion of the Tarkans. And we are watching the result: the Ogres will tip the balance of the power again in his favor.

  Or so he thinks.

  Anaris stepped back as the Ogres wheeled about and leapt upward, flipping over to cling to the ceiling with webs of blue light snapping about their feet. They moved as smoothly upside down as they had on the deck. Watching them gave Anaris a twinge of vertigo.

  The Tarkans were properly and rigidly impassive, betraying no reaction.

  What he probably does not know is how the Suneater has magnified the superstitions. And the Tarkans know, as do all the other underlings, that karra can only be leashed by the descendants of the Chorei. And the notion of their being replaced by these things is not going to bolster their loyalty.

  Eusabian said, “That will be all, gnostor.”

  The Ogres jumped back onto the deck. Anaris watched the lights fade out of their faces, leaving the androids still and dark. Even motionless, powered down, they radiated an aura of menace. Lysanter bowed, shut down his console, and withdrew.

  Barrodagh flickered a couple looks their way and sidled around one of them to bow low before Eusabian. “Lord, I just received a report from one of the Rifters, Tallis Y’Marmor, who has reestablished control of his vessel.”

  Eusabian’s eyes narrowed in recognition of the name as Barrodagh tapped his compad into Lysanter’s console, and they watched Tallis’s report on the screen.

  Anaris knew that a report, twin to this, would be waiting at his desk. Juvaszt was scrupulously careful to copy all reports with respect to Rifter activity to Anaris, though as yet Anaris had issued few orders. As well, the disgraced officer Terresk-jhi, who had been unfortunate enough to be on Communications when the depraved Rifter vid distracted Juvaszt during the Battle of Arthelion, was now a communications officer on the Suneater, thanks to Morrighon’s efforts. So he had backup sources of information as well.

  When the image of the Panarchist admiral appeared on the screen, amusement narrowed Eusabian’s eyes. “I’ve seen an image of this man before. Who is he?”

  Barrodagh glanced down at his compad. “Koestler. Listed as a captain in the Arthelion database, stationed at Narbon, but the insignia on his tunic indicates he has attained flag rank.”

  Eusabian asked. “Jeph Koestler, the Scourge of the Rift. This is Karr’s replacement, then?”

  “Short of corrective data, we must assume so.” Barrodagh’s eyes ferreted Anaris’s way. “His identity ought to work against his so-called message of amnesty.” The image on the screen froze. “Nevertheless, Juvaszt has stepped up surveillance, reports, and inspections.”

  This trespass onto what was at least nominally Anaris’s territory was to make him look indecisive and incompetent. He controlled the flare of anger as Eusabian waved his hand, now bored. “Let Juvaszt make his reports to the Heir concerning the Suneater fleet.”

  Barrodagh stopped short his report on Tallis’s assessment of how many hours it would take to restore his computers. For a moment his mouth hung open, but the Avatar walked out and Barrodagh scuttled in his wake with a weak glare at Anaris.

  Anaris smiled. Barrodagh had miscalculated horribly in bringing the Ogres to the Suneater. You fool.

  NINE

  ARES

  Fierin vlith-Kendrian paused on the pathway and looked back at the Enclave. The brilliant
sunglow from the diffusers had reached the south pole. It was now beginning to dim, casting the shadows of a late Highdwelling evening across the long, low building from the trees that mostly obscured it. No human figure spoiled the view, not even the Marine guards in ceaseless watch over the current ruler of the Panarchy of the Thousand Suns.

  To her Downsider eyes, the shadows were too short for sunset; it seemed more like an overcast middle afternoon. But despite the strangeness, Ares was now her home.

  I am the ward of the Panarch. What did it really mean? Well, in economic terms, it was a strong hands-off message to any of Tau Srivashti’s former associates who might want her family’s holdings.

  It also meant that, no matter how badly those holdings had been diminished, between Stulafi Y’Talob’s machinations in the past and whoever was holding Torigan in the present, she had a fair shot at reclaiming them. In political terms, it was, perhaps, a gentle reminder to her mighty, distant Vakianos relations that what had happened to one of their cadet families ought really to have been resolved by them.

  In real terms, it meant she spent every day with the highest-ranking people in the Panarchy—at least in a social sense. She had not attended any of the frequent war-planning meetings that went on at all hours, but outside of her visits with Osri Omilov, she was there when the Enclave gave parties. Parties . . . dinners . . . breakfasts . . . balls . . . tours.

  The Panarch had intervened in her situation out of altruism, she knew. He could gain nothing by it. And though she could never actually repay this gesture, she was trying to.

  The pod was late. High up on the north pole, the lights of some large structures twinkled wanly through the umber wash of color. It would be like this for hours: Fierin thought High Summer mode a magical time, even if it didn’t feel quite like a Torigan summer. But it had the same effect on crystal, jewels, mirrors—they gathered the warm glow and sent it back augmented and wonderfully changed, according to their nature.

  Just like people in the Whispering Gallery. Perhaps that’s why Vannis had chosen this hour for the new fashion of thematic discourse there. The subtlety of the symbolic double entendre entranced Fierin, who admired Vannis’s hidden depths.

  After another habitual, defensive glance around, she caught herself at it and forced herself to relax. Tau was gone, and with him his conspirators, including that horrible woman who had sold the Suneater data to Dol’jhar. Even Tau’s sinister liegeman, Felton had been dealt with; even so she still had nightmares about him, the more so given the horrid nature of his death.

  I won’t think of him. Instead, she thought about Brandon and Vannis. Though neither spoke of it, the stress of the impending war had begun to tell on them. Not overtly—both were too well trained for that. But in little ways: periods of abstraction at meals; quick reactions when the console toned certain codes; and in how, when the three were alone, the two did not talk to each other outside of the merest commonplace, but exerted themselves to entertain Fierin. As if I were a child. No, as if they had a secret that divided them.

  Fierin, on impulse, had offered to host some of the obligatory entertainments, and they had accepted with unfeigned gratitude. Since that time they were both absent from the Enclave more and more, but as far as she could tell, they were not together.

  I don’t understand what’s going on, but at least I’m pretty good at the Grand Tour, she thought, smiling in self-mockery as the subliminal rumble underfoot indicated the late pod arriving at last.

  Running footsteps from behind made her whirl around, her hands tensing into the Ulanshu readiness pose she’d been drilling each day. Then she recognized the woman sprinting up the pathway: short, dark like Fierin herself, with big chocolate-colored eyes. She’d been on the tour that Fierin had finished not an hour ago. Fierin had noticed her because she looked familiar, though she couldn’t remember from where or when.

  The woman grinned. “Genz Kendrian?”

  “Yes?” Fierin stepped back, keeping her aspect neutral, but ready to reject personal trespass.

  The woman laughed. “There it is, that Douloi sniff-nose look, like I smell. I’m Derith Y’Madoc—”

  “I know now,” Fierin exclaimed. “You’re a novosti.”

  Derith nodded. “Right. We followed your brother’s trial, and we talked to some of his other crew members. Did you see our story on the L’Ranja Whoopee?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re too busy for us, eh?”

  Fierin gestured an apology. “Not accessible where I was living.” She wouldn’t tell the woman that while she’d a prisoner in luxury aboard Srivashti’s yacht, he had had most of the newsfeeds blocked. He had loathed novosti with a cold, deadly hatred.

  Derith’s eyelids lifted, and Fierin wondered if she had made a mistake. Except that whatever I say will probably provoke questions from her, she thought.

  The pod arrived, and Derith followed Fierin on. For once there was plenty of space—unfortunately—so no chance of losing the woman in the crowd. Derith chose a seat directly opposite Fierin and leaned forward. “About your brother,” she began.

  Fierin shook her head. “You’ll have to talk to him.”

  “I’d like to,” the novosti said promptly. “Where is he?”

  “With his shipmates.” Fierin knew it was weak.

  Derith’s smile was not at all antagonistic, but her wide, steady gaze remained uncomfortably direct. “Yes. And where is that?”

  Fierin dropped her gaze to her hands.

  “You know they’re missing, don’t you?” Derith said. “But you don’t look real upset about it. That means you know where they are.”

  Fierin looked up. “I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “Please don’t keep asking.”

  Derith sat back. “Well, I won’t ask you anymore. I don’t waste time on a dead trace. But we will keep asking others until we find out where they are. And why they disappeared.”

  “Why?” Fierin said.

  “What?” Derith looked surprised.

  Fierin pressed her lips together, but all her pent-up feelings hardened into hot words, which forced their way out. “Why harass people? Don’t you think if it isn’t known, there’s a good reason? Or is notoriety more important to you than . . . than ethical treatment of other people?”

  “So there’s a question of ethics involved with his disappearance?” Derith asked lightly.

  Fierin’s face and neck prickled with heat. “No. Not at all. I meant the way novosti press at boundaries. Ones that, that might hurt. When pressed.”

  Derith smiled, leaning inward, almost in intimate space, as the pod accelerated away from a nexus. She waited until the passengers had settled themselves before continuing. “Who’s to say there’s a good reason for their disappearance? It might be evil. It might be a mistake. But whatever it is will probably have an effect on everyone else.”

  Fierin’s hands tightened in her lap. “Why do you say that?”

  Derith said, “There’re two things that stick to you when you step in them, and their stink follows you so everyone has to smell it. The second one is politics.”

  Amusement fluttered behind Fierin’s ribs. “But my brother has nothing to do with politics,” she said. “Any more than I do.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Derith responded. “Oh, I mean politics in the broad sense—having to do with powerful people. You can’t deny you’re right in the center of things. Your brother got into the center of things for a while there, even though he never intended to. And whether you like it or not, your actions might influence those powerful people, which in turn will affect everyone’s life. What you do matters. Privacy is something you give up when you become powerful, because finding out what you do and why is sometimes the only way the powerless can begin to have some influence on your decisions.”

  Like Srivashti, on Timberwell. Riots got him deposed, and it must have been novosti who helped disseminate the data against him.

  “I can see you know what I m
ean,” Derith said.

  Fierin dipped her head. “All right,” she said. “You do have a purpose—though there are times when that seems as impenetrable as the decisions made by leaders.”

  Derith smiled. “We follow the stories that people want to hear. And humans have a voracious appetite for news and dirt.”

  Fierin glanced at the destination. They had arrived at the Jehan Gardens. “I must go,” she said. And if you follow me, Vannis will be better at dealing with you than I was.

  But Derith Y’Madoc sat back and flicked a hand up. “Whispering Gallery, I suppose?” she said with a rueful smile that puzzled Fierin. “For the hour of five? There’s probably a story in it, but someone else can deal with that blunge-pit.”

  “You do not like the Whispering Gallery?” Fierin asked.

  “Must be one of those Douloi-Polloi polarities,” Derith said. “Was in there once. Scraps of conversations without context, cut short randomly. And someone wandering through singing old-fashioned plainchant. All pointless, like fever dreams. Feh!”

  Fierin laughed, and as the doors slid open, she went out into the deepening evening.

  Vannis was waiting. Seated on a bench shaded by a softly tinkling chime tree, lit by the warm sky-glow reflected from marble paving, she looked like a painting from the records of ancient Earth: a simple but elegant walking suit in layers like the flow of a river, a strand of jewels threaded through the complicated twist of her heavy mahogany hair, and the poise of a queen.

  She smiled in greeting. Like Derith, Vannis had brown eyes, but they were lighter in shade, with glints of green and even gold in the right light, or with the right gown.

  “I was just confronted by a novosti,” Fierin said.

  “Novosti?” Vannis repeated. “Ah. About your brother?”

  Fierin turned her palm up in assent. “Wanted to know where he was. Said she’ll find out.”

  “She? Derith Y’Madoc, no doubt. Wondered if that might happen,” Vannis said, rising to her feet and shaking out her floating blue panels. She smiled slightly. “You told her . . . ?”