Vahn sucked in another breath in an effort to shed tension as he swiftly moved to join Jaim. Damn these gardens anyway. If they became popular, he was going to have to put the entire team through training to deal with them, himself included. He couldn’t believe he’d lost Brandon, whose vague blue gaze and amiable smile seemed unconcerned. Vahn said, “Are you all right? What happened?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Brandon said, sounding distracted.
The Dol’jharian woman stalked past like a predatory feline.
“Liquor,” the Aerenarch said plaintively. “I got lost.”
Vahn might have believed that once—and there was no doubt that Brandon had been using the appearance of drunken stupidity as a shield for years—but even if he had, the quick pulse of a vein at the side of Brandon’s neck betrayed some kind of emotion that had nothing to do with liquor.
“Burgess liked the juice, too,” came a voice from overhead.
Vahn whirled, his hand going to his jac and then falling away when he saw Tate Kaga in his bubble.
The aged nuller moved over Brandon’s head, facing down, forcing the Aerenarch to look up at a sharp angle. “Caused no little talk during his Regency,” the Prophetae continued.
“Our livers are justly famous,” the Aerenarch replied, still with his head forced back.
“On Lost Earth some thought it the seat of the soul,” said the nuller. “Where’s yours?”
“Where’s what, my seat or my soul?” The Aerenarch’s voice was light, his smile rueful. With his head at that angle, Vahn saw the vein in his temple beating to a quickened pulse. “My liver will serve both functions, filtering and discarding poisons.”
“Too much of that and it turns to stone,” the old man said. He brought his bubble down in front of Brandon. “Will you be a man or a memorial?”
“The Phoenix Antechamber is lined with my ancestors.” Brandon made a graceful gesture with one hand. “All carved in marble. None of them,” he added, “are likely to move.”
Although he’d seen it only once, Vahn remembered the long hall in the Palace Minor in the Mandala, lined with the busts of former Panarchs and Kyriarchs.
Tate Kaga’s bubble snapped upside down, making his expression unreadable. “There are many opinions about that.”
“‘A plague of opinion,’” the Aerenarch replied. “‘A man may wear it on both sides.’” Vahn heard the quotation in his voice but didn’t recognize it.
“Ho! A plague! Life and death: more the latter, no?”
Instead of answering, Brandon made a profound bow.
Tate Kaga’s bubble snapped upright. “Washte! It is good. Be careful, Arkad Pup—check carefully which side is out before you put it on!” A rush of wind stirred their clothing as the nuller vanished, the motion of his gee-bubble almost too fast to follow.
Brandon turned to Vahn. Yes, there was that revealing vein. Something had happened, all right. “Lead the way.”
Vahn indicated the direction, the last of his fear-driven anger cooling to perplexity. He did not understand the conversation he had just witnessed, but sensed that both participants did—that they both possessed some key he’d not yet grasped. As if a moment of decision had been reached, though what it was he could not say.
Bleak humor steadied him as they progressed along another weird stairway. With any luck he’s decided it’s time to call this disaster a night.
TEN
A holiday atmosphere prevailed at the South Cap Alpha shuttle bay where loved ones, friends, and associates waited for the newest arrival. Those at the front had been there longest, their anticipation sharpest, whatever the motive.
Farther back, in front of concessions and clubs, the waiters conversed, a few laughing over reports of the spectacular disaster at the Ascha Gardens the night before. The few eyewitnesses were listened to with mirthful appreciation as they relished details.
No one paid any attention to the loner in nondescript tech clothing among them, a person who stood at the edge of two contiguous groups so that he might appear to belong to the other, should anyone notice him.
But nobody noticed him. He was too well trained; as he waited, he ran through his mantra. I was born of nothing, and to nothing will I return. I am nothing, except when I serve as the instrument of Death, who consumes all.
New voices joined from the back.
Your target is a laergist, of Archetype and Ritual.
The tech recollected the supplied image, a tall, thin, angular man in the robes of his College.
He might be in mourning white.
Ignore his luggage. Bring me everything he carries on his body.
On the slowly approaching shuttle, there was anticipation in reverse: closest to the designated lock those at the front had been there longest, their hopes swooping between hope and fear of disappointment.
But not everyone was there.
The Laergist Ranor sat in his cabin, sick with tension.
Shock had closed him in its vise the day of Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad’s Enkainion, when he had been helpless to intervene as he watched a bomb destroy everyone who had gathered in the Palace’s great Ivory Hall to see Brandon take the vows of Service. Brandon had not appeared, for reasons no one ever did explain.
Afterward, those few who escaped the bomb in the Ivory Hall were angry that Brandon’s unknown guardians had not seen fit to warn the guests, much less whisk them to safety. Ranor knew it was not that simple: for the last report he’d received before the comms went down completely were that all of the Krysarch’s guardians on duty at that time had been found dead in some sub-level of the Palace.
But Ranor had been beyond speculating, because among the dead lay his beloved mate, Leseuer gen Altamon of Ansonia, and their unborn child.
Much later the tough, gray-haired Navy captain who sneaked in under the guns of the Dol’jharians in order to rescue the last remaining fugitives had given him her rare smile, complimenting Ranor on his selflessness and presence of mind.
Numb with grief, Ranor had been unable to explain that he saw no further reason for living: it had been habit to calm hysterical people after the bomb, and to lead to safety through the labyrinthine Palace those few who were willing to follow.
Ranor had been one of the last rescued from the planet before the Dol’jharians locked it down, after he’d joined others in unsuccessfully fighting the invaders through the medium of communications. And all that time, he had carried with him, next to his flesh, his last link with his beloved Leseuer: the chip containing the images she recorded through the ajna-lens on her forehead, recorded right up until the moment of her death.
He’d viewed the chip repeatedly, despite the almost unbearable pain: an act of penance as much as grief. I should have been there with you!
But it was not until he transferred aboard this Navy courier that the implications of the images that Leseuer gave him detonated in his skull like the bomb that had killed his beloved.
Still reeling from grief, Ranor had racked himself over the decision he faced: destroy the chip and permit the shattered government to reform, most probably around high figures who—if the images were to be trusted—were implicated in the Dol’jharian plot? Or speak, and watch them fall?
The benefit of silence, he’d thought, would be the healing of the remnants of the Thousand Suns, but would it heal if even the Panarch’s own family were somehow implicated? Ingrained in his psyche were the impulses, and later the training, to fix, smooth, ease, to hide the fissures in a creaking structure. Social harmony had been his calling. His talents had been honed by years of explaining high-powered people to one another, making them appear amenable so that the diplomatic process might carry on under the guise of pleasant discourse.
Dissonance was anathema to him. His belief in the system had been clawed into blood-drenched shreds by that bomb. The grinning death’s-head of chaos, so unthinkable until the day the Krysarch deliberately shunned his Enkainion, now was inescapable fact.
At th
e end it was personal loyalty that made the decision for him. Leseuer, newest citizen of the Thousand Suns, had entrusted him with this last testament—had died in the process of handing it on. Though his reason for living had died with her, it was his duty to see that her death was not completely pointless.
He got up and threw his few possessions into his valise. Last was the original chip, which he briefly considered hiding among his clothes.
A waste of time.
He shut his eyes, reconsidering yet again the process that had led him to his decision. He had used the long flight to Ares to think through the consequences of all that had happened.
Couriers had gone both ways. People far more experienced in the lethal byways of political infighting would assume—would know—the existence of a chip just like what lay on his bed now.
The thing to do had been to make a copy—and then to gauge, as best as he was able, his fellow passengers, to find the right one to entrust the copy to.
The person he chose had to be Douloi first of all. Nyberg had to be faced with numbers tripled beyond the station’s normal capacity. No one else but a Douloi would be able to force a personal interview—and it had to be personal, he would impress on his carrier. Beyond that . . .
No Navy, he’d decided. Most of them were loyal—to the Panarch. He did not believe that an officer would heed his exhortation not to view the chip, whereas another civilian, one born to the ties of politesse and one’s word of honor, might.
Most likely I’ll never know if she betrays me, he thought, an image of Fierin vlith-Kendrian’s beautiful face in mind.
It had been instinct, not logic, that made him select her. Logic would have ruled her out early and put someone else—even that drunken sot Gabunder—ahead of her. Gabunder’s brains were so sodden he’d do anything to guarantee a liquor supply so that he could drink himself to death. The man had lost family, place, home, and status when the Dol’jharians blew the Node out of Arthelion’s sky.
The young Kendrian woman had managed to accrue an encrustation of gossip in a very short life. The Kendrian name was tarnished; murder had disposed of her parents and their chief executives, the blame laid on the shoulders of the brother, who had run off to the Rifters, among whom he presumably still lived under an unknown name.
Fierin had directed the family business as soon as she was able to take the reins, but she refused to take the title. My brother is not a murderer, she’d maintained—although not to Ranor. They had never discussed anything so serious. Gossip followed her, whispers like the train of a robe on marble. I will not make my own Enkainion until we know the truth, and Jesimar takes his place, she’d said. Such altruism was remarkably rare.
He’d decided. Now, with the courier nearly touching down in the Cap, it was time to act.
While he crossed the ship to her cabin, Fierin vlith-Kendrian wrestled with her own dilemma.
She was still in her cabin when the annunciator chimed. She paused in her preparations, surprised that anyone would wish to visit now. The ship was about to dock.
A trace of impatience flashed through her: it was so very important to look her best when she debarked. If it’s that drunken Gabunder again, I think this time I will be rude.
Tabbing the door open, she assumed an expression of remote politeness. But instead of Angelus Gabunder, it was the tall, thin, sad-faced man who had rescued her from the old sot’s attentions.
“Ranor,” she said, her expression altering from a tense hauteur to instant, unshadowed concern at the haggard demeanor of her caller.
He drew in an unsteady breath, aware of being poised on a precipice. What decision was the right one? He sensed that he might not be granted an opportunity to make a second try, and was surprised to discover that after all he did care enough to wish to remain alive.
He bit his lip, then took the first step.
“I must talk to you. Please, Aegios.”
“I am not an Aegios,” she began, her dusky skin blooming rose beneath it, and her amazing dark-fringed eyes widening like a kitten’s, then narrowing warily. “I am only the conditional heir until my brother has been found,” she added, though she knew Ranor knew that.
Ranor gave a quick shake of his head, as if dashing aside her words. He had never been rude before, nor had he appeared like this, disheveled, even sweaty.
“Come in,” she said, and locked the door behind them.
“I’ve come to request—beg—your aid,” Ranor said.
“Would you like to sit down?”
He did not seem to hear her, striding the few short steps to one wall, then turning to face her. He thrust one hand through his disordered hair; his fingers trembled, causing her sense of alarm to sharpen.
“What is it?” she said.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” he said quickly. “I . . . find . . . myself in a . . . strange position.” His breathing was quick and shallow, the words almost inaudible, as if they were being wrung out of him.
“Ranor, we are about to dock. Speak, please!”
He stared at her. “I believe I can trust you,” he breathed. “My . . . instincts were always good for that, anyway.”
Fierin’s entire body heated up. Fourteen years of a stained name, and more recently, the fallout resulting from her first liaison, had sensitized her to innuendo.
But Ranor did not notice. “Will you hold something for me?” he asked. “Just for a time, until after we’ve debarked?”
She had expected anything from a sordid confession to a declaration of passion. Numb, she nodded.
“Understand, I believe I am in danger,” he said. “Though I do not think that any suspicion would fall on you,” he added quickly. “If you do not mention my—that is, my item to anyone. Anyone. “ He repeated the word with sudden vehemence, his dark eyes distended and wild.
Chill prickled Fierin’s nerves. Fifteen years ago, the possibility of danger, of people acting irrationally, had been remote—the stuff of wire-dreams. She had learned, at the cost of her family, that violence could lurk behind a smile, that death was an eye-blink away.
“Why?” she said.
“Because it . . . because,” he said, breathing heavily. “I can’t say anything—I guess the years of conditioning are too hard to overcome. But I . . . I vow to you that my cause is justice . . . and so . . .” He paused, reached inside his robe to a hidden pocket, and withdrew an ordinary data-chip. “If you would just hold this for me. For a time. I will claim it from you . . . if . . . I feel it is safe. You needn’t do anything or say anything.”
“But what if—” She stopped, shaking her head.
He took another deep breath. “What if something happens to me?” He gave her a crooked smile. “That is why I’m asking you to hold this chip for me. If something happens, then you must deliver it into the hands of Admiral Nyberg. Do not tell anyone else, or permit it to pass through the hands of intermediaries, for then . . . whatever happens to me will happen to you.” He held out the chip, then snatched it back as a deep thump reverberated through the ship. They were docked.
She bit her lip. “I—do have a connection, with a highly placed Archon—”
“No,” Ranor said quickly. “No one else! Nyberg only. Or his replacement. Will you do it?”
She held out her hand. “I’ll do it.”
He placed the chip on her palm. It was warm and slightly moist. Grasping her hand between his, he said, “Please don’t run it: no system is safe.”
She smiled. “I realize that,” she said.
He withdrew his hands, then went to the door. “Thank you.” He bowed the deep obeisance of obligation to a superior.
His harsh breathing caused the chill to spread through her nerves to her heart as he keyed the lock open, looked both ways, then sped off.
As Ranor hurried from the young Aegios’ cabin, lifelong habit smoothed his face. When he reached his own cabin, he sank onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.
A slight trembling throug
h the ship broke his thoughts. The locks were open.
It was done.
He picked up his valise. A sense of relief lifted the tension from his mind, from his soul. Leseuer seemed near; tenderness breathed through him as he looked beyond the narrow causeway leading to the forward lock, and contemplated the question of eternity.
Fierin kept her fingers steady as the ship trembled. The general comm lit. “We are docked. All passengers come forward for debarkation. Those who require living space should proceed to . . .”
Fierin flicked it off. Tau Srivashti would have space for her, she knew that much.
She sat back, studying the effect of the diamonds she’d woven into her hair. Eyes so pale a blue they were often called gray, or even silver, stared back at her, wide and slanting under dark lashes and winged brows. She shared those same eyes with her brother. The light eyes contrasting with dark skin characterized their family.
Her hands dropped to her tight bodice, the embroidery and draped lace hiding the outline of Ranor’s chip. It had been impulse to put it there—in keeping with the poor man’s obsession with secrecy.
She thought about telling Srivashti, and letting him secrete it for her until Ranor came for it. He’d certainly have the wherewithal, far more than she. And he loves secrets. Just like a boy.
It would be fun to surprise him with the chip.
Or would it? It was difficult to predict his reactions. He was kind to her, most of the time, and when he wasn’t he was extravagant with presents afterward: a fascinating but utterly unpredictable partner both in bed and out of it. He exuded power and grace, and she had reveled in the admiration and envy of his friends. Yet separation from his orbit had brought to her ears ugly rumors and glances of hatred. Archon Srivashti was not universally loved, she had discovered when separated from his orbit.
Ambivalence made her hesitate. She did love him, but who exactly was the man she loved?
He promised me he would use all his connections to find my brother and clear his name. Well, Jesimar had been found: she’d discovered that when going through a news base in the computer of the ship that had shuttled them to Ares from a refugee staging point in a system not yet overrun by Dol’jhar’s Rifter allies. But according to that, he was in detention.
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