Conveniently, the pilot had stolen a boat. His execution was now a matter of law as well as expedience. A public auto-da-fe always had a salutary effect, particularly with an Elite as the star. If he detected any attachment in the man, he’d add the girl too. A few histrionics always pleased the crowd.
“Holy Father.”
The Pontiff looked up at the interruption. “Yes?”
“We’ve found no trace of the pilot or the boat.” The Cardinal seemed nervous. Reporting failure sat poorly, even if it was to his father.
The Pontiff sighed. Each generation weakened the bloodline. Soon they would be as other men and the pontificate would fall into the dust of centuries past and yet to come. He’d tried many wives, sired many sons, and this one was the best of the batch. Hardly a comforting thought.
“Good.” He nodded and prepared himself for yet another explanation of his plan. Repetition might work eventually.
* * * *
Jack slept badly, dreaming the boat drifted too close to the shore during the hours of darkness and fishermen had discovered him with the sunrise. He woke before the first fingers of light appeared in the east, and had the mast rigged ready to hoist the sail when the island peak caught the first rays of light. He waited impatiently and, when it did, his breath rushed out through his mouth in a gusty sigh of relief. He’d hardly moved during the night. The wind had remained constant, and the sea anchor had held him in place.
The sail hoisted, he set a course to the east, aiming to keep the mountain peak just in sight as he bypassed the island. Only the most intrepid islanders would venture this far from land.
It took two days to round the main island and reach his target. It was a wild place. Steep cliffs plunged deep into an angry ocean that ringed the southern half while the sheltered northern shore was only a little better. He had to spend another night at sea before he dared approach. The main beach he ignored. It was too obvious. Anyone coming to the island would land there. His persistence gained its reward close to dusk. A small inlet, just short of the eastern tip, looked fearsome from a distance but concealed a tiny beach tucked behind a jutting rock promontory.
The wind had dropped with the sun, and he approached with the oars, gauging the tide. It still flowed, but close to its peak and there was no excuse not to try. A moment to check the lashings to secure every loose object and he was committed, choosing the last of a set of waves to surf his way up the inlet. It was a wild ride, and he thought he’d left it too late when the beach came abeam, but the sea gods smiled and the boat pivoted tightly and rode the wave onto the beach. He sprang out with the anchor rope, took two turns around a convenient rock, and held it there, gaining inches with each wave surge until the tide peaked and started to recede.
Still not content, he rigged a Spanish windlass with multiple turns of rope and eased the boat higher, warping it inch by inch until the transom was above the high tide mark. Nor did he rest then, draping the nets over the boat and covering them with branches until it looked like a bush growing close to the high tide mark. He intended to be here for days.
Morning found him stiff and sore, but rested from eight hours sleep under the half deck cushioned by the sail packed with grasses. It felt strange not to be moving, and he staggered a bit when he stood.
Fresh water proved no problem. A spring-fed trickle led down to a rock pool above the main beach, and there were enough eggs to satisfy his immediate hunger. He’d experiment with the young birds later. An observation post to watch the night sky was next, and a crag summit gave him a 360-degree view and a flat area to set up his observatory.
A stick in the center and a circle scribed using a piece of rope looped over it was the first move. He could mark sunrise and sunset to determine the north-south line and then plot the movements of the stars relative to this line. It would take time to get it right, but time was his ally. He had no schedule to keep, and the hunt might die down a little if he laid low. The family would know by his non-appearance that he was in trouble, even if they did nothing about it.
* * * *
“Jack’s missing.” Anneke turned to face her brother. “What’s his mission?”
“Feodar’s World needs a nudge in the right direction. The current pontiff has exhausted the blood line, and Peter thinks it’s time for him to go,” Karrel said.
“Why use Jack? It won’t please Dael. He’s done his sixty missions and Gabrielle wants her son back.”
“So do I,” Karrel said, giving her a sidewise smile. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault?” Anneke’s tone sounded dangerous.
Karrel nodded. “Your fault.”
“Explain, brother, or I’ll do something quite nasty to your anatomy.”
“You came back raving about this Rachael and caught Peter’s attention. He’s quite taken with her.”
“He’s a bit old to be playing Cupid. What does Gabrielle think?”
“She would have preferred it wasn’t Feodar’s world,” Karrel said somberly. “She was present when Peter made the pact.”
Anneke shook her head at their father’s stubborn nature. “We’re still bound by it?” He’d promised Feodar not to use his special powers on the world the Hive Master had claimed to free Gabrielle and considered himself and the whole Alliance bound by it. “He wouldn’t hold back if one of us were in danger?”
“You know Peter. What do you think?”
Anneke fell silent, considering the unusual man who’d fathered them both. He didn’t invite facile judgment. “I don’t know him as well as you do,” she said. “You’ve shared his time as a soldier.”
“Think yourself lucky you haven’t.” Karrel’s mind closed off an emerging memory. “We only had glimpses of a dream about a battle in some place called, Normandy, but it has never left me entirely. The things he’s seen and done put him beyond our judgment.”
“I’ll ask him.”
Peter appeared at their side. “Ask me what?”
Two hundred years had made little difference to his appearance. He and Karrel looked of an age, as did Dael and Gabrielle, who joined Anneke at the beach camp table. Anneke guessed Peter had summoned the others when he sensed a family conference was brewing.
“Would you let your promise to Feodar get in the way if Jack were at risk?” she asked.
“Jack is the best trained operative we have for the job. Torred and Jesse taught him seamanship.” Peter glanced across the water to the small cluster of graves halfway up the sand hill, in an area leveled by hand and carefully tended by all of them. It held the graves of all the commoners who’d grown close to the Alliance, Torred, Samara, and Jesse—Anneke’s lifelong friend and husband of eighty years, a bitter reminder of the folly of loving a commoner. “He’s doing a job no other could. I expect him to succeed.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Peter stood quite still, his expression and his mind closed. “No.”
“Are you going to?” Anneke stepped a little closer.
“I intend avoiding the circumstances that would require an answer.” Peter’s tone sounded flat. “Feodar wanted a guarantee for his descendants. My plan honors the spirit of my promise as well as the letter.”
“If it fails?”
“I’ll make a new plan.”
Anneke stared at her father’s face, willing him to continue, but knowing he wouldn’t. The others were no help, content to trust Peter’s judgment. She couldn’t abdicate that much responsibility, even to Peter.
Karrel’s hand on her shoulder turned her away. “Leave it little sister. He knows what he’s doing...and so will you when the time’s right. Jack can look after himself and wouldn’t thank you for interfering. Neither will we.” She heard iron in her brother’s thoughts. He was his father’s son.
“You’re worried.”
“Of course. So’s Gabrielle, but Jack’s a man now.” Karrel always allowed her more license than the others and this made his warning absolute. She mustn’t interfere, ev
en if it was hard.
* * * *
“Damn.” The thirtieth day since he left the rookery had begun badly.
The clay beaker had tipped over, spilling the tiny trickle that remained of his water ration for the day. He’d been saving it for the dawn. He glanced at the small keg containing the rest of his water, tempting himself, but looked away again. He didn’t know how far beyond the southern horizon the land lay. Not being able to sail by day made it difficult, but he was too close to the trading routes now. One look would tell them he was no local, and boat stealing was a capital crime here, with unpleasant methods of execution.
He’d been lucky so far, but the sun had lightened the eastern horizon. It was time to go into daylight mode before some eager lookout spotted the sail.
He let the boat come up into the wind and dropped the weathered lugsail, stowing it under the half deck. Another five minutes to unship the stumpy mast and lash it to the deck and then five more to drape the nets over the boat, destroying its outline, and he was ready for the day. A trading schooner would have to come close before they recognized what they saw. It was too rough to flood the boat enough to lower its profile, so he’d spend a dry day for a change.
His chances of reaching the Treaty Port undetected were slim, but there was no point worrying. He needed sleep. He folded the sail into a bed, laid down, and fell asleep within minutes.
The water sloshing around in the boat woke him in the late afternoon. The weather had turned nasty, the wind shifting foul, carrying him east and into the main trading route. A heavy ocean swell signaled the existence of another storm beyond the northern horizon, similar to the one that had almost taken his life a week ago.
“Damn.” He allowed himself only this one word, because it was too easy to fall into meaningless profanity in the stress of a mission.
The horizon was clear, so he had choices. Raise the sail and run across the trade route, hoping to avoid anyone he spotted, or point this unwieldy tub as high into the wind as she’d go and hope the leeway didn’t carry him east, or ship the oars and row all night. None was attractive, but which one was the safest?
A higher swell lifted the boat, and he glimpsed the spike of a mast to the southeast. He had no choice. The oars it was. The schooner could be heading for the western archipelago, which would bring it dangerously close. He bent his back, pulling lustily.
An hour later, things grew worse. There was a black and white pennant streaming from the mast. The schooner belonged to the Pontiff.
A glance over his shoulder at the sun told him there was at least another hour before the short tropical twilight. The schooner would be on him well before dark. They hadn’t seen him yet, still holding their course. He’d play the game out to the end, but there’d be no mercy if he failed.
He lashed the useless oars to the thwart and pulled out the bung in the bottom of the boat. He had one more trick to play. The water flooded in and he helped it, bucketing more over the stern so the boat sank perceptibly until the waves were slopping over the transom. One last check to make sure he’d lashed everything in place, then he replaced the bung as the boat slid down into the bottom of a trough between two swells and used his full weight to drive the transom beneath the surface.
The water poured in, the bow rose, and the boat slid backwards under the water until the air trapped under the half deck stopped it. He dove deep, grasped the transom, and taking advantage of the slope of the approaching wave, tipped the boat end for end so it lay like a half submerged rock, supported by the air trapped under the hull. There was just time to cover the hull with the net and lash it in place before the masthead of the schooner appeared over the top of a distant swell and remained visible. He covered his head with a fold of netting and waited.
He only needed a bit of luck and a slack lookout.
* * * *
Rachael knew he was still free. The days became weeks since she’d found herself a prisoner in the temple, her attempts to leave blocked. The Federation would do nothing to help, so she stayed, waiting for his capture to release her—or sign her death warrant. It was galling, being dependent, and the Pontiff terrified her with his veiled threats.
“No guests for you today,” the priest said smugly. “You’re the only one again. The other girls are all busy.”
It was no accident. The Pontiff controlled the release of tokens. He was holding her incommunicado.
“I’ll walk in the gardens,” she said, pushing the limits of her confinement.
“Of course,” the priest agreed. “The guards will ensure you are not disturbed.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be glad of their company.” She’d give him no pleasure. “They can wait outside till I’m ready.” Turning away and strolling back inside was a hollow victory, but she felt grateful for it.
No temple gown, no wig, a simple linen shift and a wide shady hat were the outfit she chose, and the garden welcomed her. The freshly turned earth smelled good, and the flowers assailed her with perfumes she’d ignored in the past. Even the crunch of the guards’ sandals on the gravel paths sounded crisp and fresh.
The Pontiff watched, sensing her mood and smiling. The spacer was better than he’d expected, drawing more and more resources to the search, but his capture was inevitable. They’d found his eyrie on the island and deduced its purpose. He was navigating his way back to the Treaty Port, and the search was concentrating on the approaches. No boat would slip through the net. He was doomed.
“Holy Father,” one of his scribes said.
“Yes.”
“They’ve found his boat, capsized and abandoned. The sailing master thinks it done deliberately, the hull draped with nets to hide it. They searched the area until darkness, but found nothing.”
“It was not one of the schooners with the communication device?”
“No. It reported via coast station,” the scribe said. “The sailing master brought it close enough to report by semaphore, and they passed the message here.”
The Pontiff was not convinced. “Mobilize a full search of the area, calling in all reserves. Signal the sailing master to stand off into deep water and search the vessel thoroughly.”
“Already done, Holy Father. I anticipated your needs.” The scribe, Lothar, smiled.
The Pontiff studied the tonsured lackey. He’d shown unusual foresight. “Your bloodline?” he demanded.
“A fourth removed from your predecessor, Holy Father.” The tonsured head bowed without humility.
This might be a way of strengthening the bloodline. “Sisters?”
“Three, Holy Father.”
“Bring them to the palace the day after tomorrow.”
“Two are wed, Holy Father.” The man was uncomfortable in providing obstacles to what he sensed the Pontiff intended.
“Bring them all.”
“Of course, Holy Father.” He bowed low and backed away.
“Wait. Show me on the map where the boat was found and where the schooner reported.”
The scribe scurried across to the wall map and indicated both locations with a long pointer.
“He’s done well.” The admission carried a grudging admiration and triggered a sharp glance from the scribe. “Within a hundred miles of his goal and through two rings of searchers. What will he do next?”
“Surely, he’s dead,” the scribe ventured, apparently surprised into comment.
“Bring me his body and I’ll believe it. Until then we focus on these areas.” The pontiff took the pointer and described two arcs protecting the Treaty Port. “Have the Federation officials attend me the day after tomorrow.” He sensed the man’s disappointment and added, “...immediately after your sisters.”
Chapter Nine
Rachael felt tired by sundown. She’d spent the day combing the garden, climbing to the roof of the palace, walking the walls, exploring every avenue of escape until an exasperated guard let slip the possibility of an auto-da-fe. It was probably on the Pontiff’s instruction, for th
ey did little on their own initiative, and that made it strike deeper. She’d seen auto-da-fes before and liked nothing about them. The night shadows intensified her fear, and she lay curled in a fetal ball on her couch, eyes tightly closed against the phantoms inhabiting her chamber, the guard’s final words echoing in her mind. “Heard there were going to be two. One an off-worlder,” he’d said. “No ritual strangling. Should be a great show.”
The context left no doubts who the main players would be, and announcing it suggested a degree of confidence on the Pontiff’s part. She didn’t want to die, and the prospect of the flames horrified her.
* * * *
The Pontiff smiled. Her restless search had been a background irritant on a day when nothing went right, and he’d quashed it out of petulance rather than any logical reason. The spacer was still free and absorbing more and more resources as he came closer to the Treaty Port.
He didn’t want to rely on the Federation officials handing him over, but his cupboard grew a little bare. The troublesome Elite had eluded capture too, tying up more men, and all he had left was the guard contingent of the palace. He felt reluctant to commit them. They weren’t particularly effective in the field and it would leave the palace vulnerable. Keeping up appearances was everything in maintaining power and the rumors surrounding this spacer had grown to threaten the illusion of omnipotence that underpinned this regime. He must capture the spacer for public execution—the girl with him—so they could concentrate on the Alliance agent.
Without looking up, he said, “Scribe.” He knew the guard would pass on the summons.
“Yes, Holy Father.” The answer from the corner of the room surprised him. He’d not sensed the man’s presence.
“What are the latest reports?”
“All negative, Holy Father.” He heard a rustle of parchment. “Do you wish me to ask for updates?”
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