“You’re doing fine. What was your cousin called?”
Rafe tried to form the name and was empty. “Can’t!” he said in sudden panic.
“Don’t worry. Tell me your uncle’s name instead.”
“Madranis Lord Buhklir.” His panic subsided when he found that there were still memories open to him. “Scheming Lord Buhklir. Wanted me dead, but I did what he never expected. Didn’t dare have me assassinated then. Couldn’t even withhold permission for me to join the Guild. Had to smile and say yes. Thought he’d choke on it.” Rafe laughed gleefully, tasting the sweet notes on his tongue.
“What did you do?”
Rafe groped for the answer and found outrageous darkness where it ought to be. Angry, he pushed at the wall, struggling to find a crack, a chink that he could slip through. After remembering so much, this failure was unfair, unbearable, unacceptable. He would remember. He would. He tore at the wall with his hands. If there was no chink, he would make one. He refused to accept that there was no way through.
“Don’t force it. There’s plenty of time. If you can’t put it in words, can you make yourself a picture?” His hands were being held in a vice from which he could not break free. “A place, or a face?”
A picture, yes. If the words were all locked away from him, the visions were not, and a single face held the answer, all of the answers. He called light to his hands, wove it, stubbornly fought its tendency to unravel and fly out of his grasp, slowly built the face that was the key. There, he challenged the darkness triumphantly. You can steal the words but not the pictures. And I will have the name. All of the names.
As he stared at it, the face blurred, divided into two, into four, mirrored in every surface. It was a crowd: watching him, smiling at him, speaking to him, shouting at him, reaching for him, laughing with him, saying hello, saying goodbye, loving with him, crying with him, coming towards him, going away, giving to him, taking from him … And all cruelly nameless, mocking him.
He shouted in fury and the sound shattered the mirrors, dispersed the crowd, left only the single, known, unchanging face. Joshim. In bitter frustration, he recognized that the face he had so laboriously built had been Joshim; it had not come from behind the dark wall. He cursed vehemently, taking no pleasure in the complex of sounds but repeating it aimlessly to fill the uninvited silence in his head.
“That’s enough for today.”
Joshim drifted in and out of reach; Rafe made no effort to fight the motion.
“I’m cold,” he announced. Joshim’s motion was tuned to his shivering.
“Breathe in deeply. And out. And in…”
Rafe obeyed, wanting to be free of his helplessness, to be back in control, back in a reality where everyone had names.
“I really am cold,” he complained, as the light in the room sharpened and the harmonics in Joshim’s voice died away.
“That’s normal.” Joshim pulled the comforter over him. “What else do you feel?”
“Flat. All the edges have gone.”
“That’s normal too.” Joshim smiled briefly. “How many fingers?”
“Three. Two. Four,” Rafe answered dutifully. “And a thumb.”
“Good enough.” Joshim adjusted the valve on the canister attached to the drug-mask. Rafe watched him work, then closed his heavy eyelids for a second, just to rest them. “What is that stuff?” he asked suspiciously.
“The antidote.”
“I didn’t ask…”
“You weren’t in any fit state to ask. Go to sleep. That’s what you need most.”
“What if I forget…”
“You won’t.” Joshim removed the drug mask, dropped a soft kiss on Rafe’s lips. “You did better than I expected.”
“The faces were all yours,” Rafe confessed.
“It happens like that, sometimes, the first time. It won’t last.”
From the rules of anash, as played by
the priests of Hurth
…It is permitted to move your game-pieces when your opponent is not watching. But if your opponent correctly challenges such a move, the pieces moved are forfeit…
336/5043
ARAMAS ZONE, OLD EMPIRE
“So, Commander Yuellin. The only halfway helpful thing we’ve learned from your excursions into Aruranism is that you were stun-gassed during a dirtside liberty on Gharan, and woke up on a F’sair warship, going you can’t remember where,” Rallya summarized. “Joshim, what are the chances that he’s going to remember anything useful in the near future?”
“Not good,” Joshim answered. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to erase one group of memories more thoroughly than the rest. Now that the arthane has provided a context, they’ll come back gradually but…”
“Not quickly enough that we can afford to wait for them,” Rallya growled. At least the arthane trances had not been a complete failure. It would have been astonishing if the key memories had not received the most attention from the psych-surgeons, but the relationship between the gaps in Yuellin’s memory and their context might still be enough to reveal the truth to anybody with the brains to look for it.
“Who was your heir?” she asked Rafe. “This cousin that you can’t remember?”
Sprawled comfortably across a seat in the corner of the rest-room—as if he owned it, Rallya thought irritably—Rafe shook his head. “Buhklir goes down through the oldest child of each generation. I inherited from my uncle, and my niece—Madranya—will inherit from me. She’s probably inherited already, if I’ve been declared dead,” he added. “She would have come of age four years ago.”
Rallya frowned. “And before she came of age?”
Rafe shook his head again. “No motive there. True, my cousin would have been Madranya’s regent, but she was already regent for me. She’d nothing to gain by my disappearance, and a lot to lose. She’d have been my regent until I retired, not just until Madranya reached twenty.”
“She?” Joshim queried.
“She?” Rafe echoed, puzzled, then nodded. “A female cousin,” he agreed, smiling.
“The marvels of Aruranism,” Rallya muttered.
Even if the damned cousin was not responsible—and she had to accept Rafe’s assessment of that situation since, thankfully, she had no experience of aristo in-fighting—Rafe’s abduction had to be linked with the tangle of his Buhklir heritage; that was the only thing that marked Yuellin apart from any other Commander. He had had no immediate ambitions beyond the hull of his ship—or none that he could remember—and no known enemies in the Guild. The answer had to be New Empire politics or aristo bloodlines.
“How old were you when you inherited?” she asked. “And since when did aristos let the family heir join the Guild?”
“My uncle died when I was seventeen. A year into my apprenticeship. My regent was…” Rafe stopped abruptly.
“The same gap or a new one?” Joshim asked sympathetically.
“The same.” Rafe shrugged. “Also responsible for allowing me to join the Guild, ma’am.”
“So now we know that the anonymous person who’s wandered through your life at irregular intervals since you were fifteen is a benevolent relative,” Rallya said tartly. “Another aristo, of course. Or wouldn’t that have been a necessary qualification to be your regent?”
Rafe frowned. “Normally, yes. But not a relative…”
“A lover?” Joshim suggested.
Rafe nodded decisively. “Yes. And that might explain the faces…”
“Probably,” Joshim agreed infuriatingly. “It’s a common effect. I should have realized earlier.”
Rallya ground her teeth silently. If she had been present during the arthane trances, or if Joshim had agreed to tape them, she would not have to contend with this conspiracy of censorship. Yes, Rafe was entitled to his privacy, but who knew what details he and Joshim had missed, and what vital directions Joshim had failed to explore?
“A male lover?” she inquired. “From Sajan’s comments, and your cur
rent preferences…”
“You’ve never asked me my preferences,” Rafe said casually. “But male, yes.”
Vidar chuckled. “Any connection between this lover and your cousin?”
“Apart from their common anonymity?” Rafe asked. “There must be, but I don’t know what.”
“Who was Madranya’s father?” Fire enough questions and something might escape from his subconscious, Rallya thought.
“Jalmair Lord Rarthen. Sorry.”
Rallya had the distinct sense that she was following a line of questioning that Rafe had already exhausted privately, or with Joshim.
“It was only a thought,” she said drily. “Based on the baroque intricacies of most aristo relationships. Tell me, have you deduced anything about this mystery lover of yours that I ought to know about?”
“Nothing worthwhile,” Rafe said unrepentantly. “I’ll let you know if I have a flash of inspiration.”
“Is this getting us anywhere?” Vidar asked. “If Rafe doesn’t have all the answers…”
“…and the ones he does have aren’t admissible as evidence in any legal court…” Rallya interrupted sourly.
“…we’ll have to collect some admissible evidence,” Rafe finished. “Central, Commander?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.
“Central,” she confirmed, glaring back at him. “And the records of Yuellin Lord Buhklir.”
She was not yet sure that she liked having somebody only half a step—if that—behind her thinking. And two Commanders was one too many on any ship; once this was all over, Rafe would have to find his own. If they came out on top of the situation, that should not be too difficult, she thought wryly. And if they did not come out on top, a ship to command would be the least of his worries.
“The medical data in those records will put Rafe’s identity beyond any legal doubt,” Joshim was telling Vidar.
“And since being kidnapped on Gharan is not a legitimate precursor to identity-wipe, we’ll have enough evidence to set an official investigation in motion,” Rafe added.
“By the time Central Support set up that investigation—always assuming they’re not in this muck up to their armpits—the scum that we’re looking for will have covered their tracks beyond finding. Or made a run for it,” Rallya said testily.
“What do you want to do?” Rafe challenged. “Hunt each one down personally?”
“You’re willing to settle for a lot less than I am,” Rallya said angrily.
“I’ll settle for the very most I can get, ma’am,” Rafe said coldly. “But I won’t gamble everything on an impossible drive for revenge. Or delude myself that we don’t need help. I’ll admit that Central Support is probably rotten at the core; I couldn’t have been framed as an Oath-breaker without their help. But there are a lot of honest webbers who’ll give us a hearing, and back us if we give them enough proof.”
“Why do I have this insane urge to duck whenever I’m in the same room as these two?” Vidar asked Joshim in a loud whisper.
“That’s not insanity. That’s self-preservation,” Joshim answered.
“You could always turn the fire-jets on us,” Rafe suggested wickedly.
Rallya snorted. “Try it,” she threatened. “You’ll need to do more than duck.” She swivelled her seat around and keyed a command into the rest-room console. Rafe was right, but she was not going to thank him for pointing out what she already knew. And she was not going to like it. “Here. I’ve done the calculations for a jump to Central…”
“Directly there?” Vidar queried.
“You and Jualla claim this ship can punch a jump through anywhere,” Rallya reminded him. “This is your chance to prove it. Rafe, with ten years in survey behind you, you’re better qualified than anybody else to check these results.” A jump from the Zfheer border to Central was at the limits of Bhattya’s performance, even with all the unofficial modifications she had undergone at the hands of Vidar and his predecessors.
“Arrival point in the Disputed Zone?” Rafe asked, crossing the room to look over her shoulder.
“I wasn’t planning to dock at Central uninvited and set off every alarm on the station,” Rallya said tartly. “But nobody’s going to pay much attention to another shuttle sneaking in from the Disputed Zone for some unofficial liberty.”
Rafe grunted agreement. “I’ll be in the web for the jump…”
“No, you won’t,” Joshim interrupted. “You may have put in some web-time before then, but you won’t be fit to work a full shift. And certainly not to work during a jump that critical. And don’t look at me like that, or I’ll tell Rallya what Hafessya saw.”
“You ought to play anash,” Rafe said sourly. “The most important rule is only to cheat when you can get away with it.”
“Anash sounds more like Rallya’s game,” Vidar said provocatively.
Rafe shook his head. “Kerisduan maybe. That’s quick and nasty, won by going for the jugular. But it’s too late for you to learn to play anash well, ma’am. You have to learn when it’s the most important thing there is. And when you’ve got a lot of time to spare.”
Rallya snorted; everybody with a new strategy game made the same claims, and every game she had ever learned could be reduced to a new set of rules and an old set of tactics. “How long did it take you to learn?” she asked.
“Two years, and I had nothing else to do,” Rafe said with an odd smile. “A single game can last a lifetime, if it’s played properly. The aim is to postpone the end, or to force your opponent to make the last move. Anash players are judged by the number of their unfinished games, and the length of time they’ve been running. I’ve only got two in progress. One on Hurth, from thirty-five years ago, and another…”
“…with your lover,” Rallya guessed. “It’s been at least ten years since you made your last move in that one. Think he’s still waiting for you?”
“Maybe.” Rafe yawned. “I’ll write you up a copy of the rules after I’ve checked that jump. I’ve got to have something to do, if I’m not allowed in the web.”
Report by Palace Security Chief Braniya
to the Emperor Julur
…In the light of the unsatisfactory interview with Carher’s agent (transcript attached), I intend to question Carher herself. She is currently attending a Guild Council meeting at Guild Central. With your permission, I will leave for Central immediately…
339/5043
CENTRAL ZONE
Joshim sensed Rafe disengage cleanly from the shuttle’s web, noting with personal and professional pleasure that there was little sign in his web control of the injuries he had suffered. He still lacked stamina, and his range and extension had not yet returned to normal, but in another ten days he would be ready to web a full shift. Or to con the shuttle, instead of riding the journey out on filtered standby, a decision he had protested as strongly as Joshim’s decision to keep him out of the web during the jump from Aramas.
“Ready?” Rafe asked, already waiting by the hatch as Joshim removed his web-contacts.
“Half a minute.” Joshim fixed his infocorder to his belt, checked that he had the wad of credits that they would need to pass the dock supervisor. “Ready,” he confirmed.
The section of dock beyond the hatch was almost deserted, only occupied by a pair of webbers passing supplies up through the hatch of the neighbouring shuttle. They stiffened when they saw Joshim’s Webmaster’s badge, then relaxed as Rafe gave them a high-sign. One of them signalled cheerfully back, then jerked her head at the dock exit and waggled a warning hand.
“How much?” Rafe asked softly.
“Thirty creds,” she answered.
“Robbers. Who is it?”
“Shikur, still trying to make his fortune early,” the woman said sourly. “Claims the price is higher today because there’s some aristo from the Old Emperor’s Palace on station and Security is out in force. Not that you’d notice it, anywhere except in Shikur’s greedy imagination.” She gave Joshim an inquisitiv
e look. “Never knew Webmasters had to come in through the back door like the rest of us.”
“We do if we want a quiet sight of the vacancy lists before Personnel hear we’re looking,” Joshim said easily. “Webmaster and Commander. Old Empire. Heard of anything?”
“Sorry. I’m New Empire. Luck to you though.”
“You’ve done this before,” Joshim accused Rafe as they walked on around the curve of the dock.
“Once or twice,” Rafe admitted. “I was assigned to the Zone for half a year when I was a junior.” He grinned. “Twenty-eight years ago, but the routine is the same. The only thing that’s changed is the price. And I’ve never met Shikur.” He chewed his lip briefly. “Hope our friend was right about Security.”
Joshim nodded silent agreement. The jump from Aramas to a point in the Disputed Zone just outside Central’s border had gone without problems, thanks to the skill of Bhattya’s web-room, but the longer the ship waited out there, the higher the chances that their presence would be noticed and questioned. Any increase in Security activity on the station would make it harder for Rafe and Joshim to move around quickly and, if they were asked for an account of themselves, their story would only withstand cursory questioning.
The greatest risk was that Rafe would be recognized under either of his names. There was not much that could be done to disguise his diminutive stature or colouring, but they had to take the chance, since nobody else could gain access to Yuellin’s records.
“I hear we’ve a VIP visitor,” Rafe remarked as Shikur made out the docking certificate that they had bought for thirty credits.
“Uh-huh. Came in on the Old Emperor’s Number One yacht,” Shikur told them. “To deliver a message for the Council, or something.” He added an identity-code to the certificate which would certainly not tally with his own. “How long do you want this for?”
“Half a day,” Rafe suggested. “Although, if we managed to buy some web-time while we’re here..?” His wink made it clear he was talking about web-time for two, without monitoring.
A Matter of Oaths Page 17