A Matter of Oaths

by Helen S. Wright

  Shikur sniggered. “Call Jimsan, in Station Control. He might be able to arrange something.”

  “Mention your name?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s your reputation ruined,” Rafe said playfully as they walked up the radial outside the dock. “Did you know you blushed when Shikur gave you that certificate?”

  Joshim laughed and tucked his hand comfortably in the back of Rafe’s belt. “I plead extreme provocation.” The clowning helped to relieve his nerves, and Security were likely to be less suspicious of a couple obviously enjoying themselves than they were of two solemn faces. He hoped.

  The radial disgorged them onto a hub walkway and they looked around for signs directing them to the library. Joshim had not been here before, and Central was built on a larger scale and to an older pattern than the stations near the borders of the Old Empire that he was used to. It took him a moment to adjust to the layout.

  “Thirty degrees left.” Rafe spotted the sign first and led the way around the curved walkway. It was midmorning, station time, and the walkways were busy with a mixture of station crew, webbers from the ships and shuttles in the docks, and occasional dirtsiders come to negotiate for one of the Guild’s services. And, no doubt, to make a few private arrangements with their counterparts from the opposing Empire, if the opportunity arose; Central being the only place in the Twin Empires where such peaceful contacts were possible.

  The library was two-thirds of the way along a radial, and three levels up. Joshim fixed in his mind its position relative to the dock where they had left the shuttle. Out to the ring, thirty degrees right and down: that was the fastest route back.

  Inside the library, an uninterested clerk gestured them towards the rows of soundproof privacy booths. Rafe chose the nearest one to the entrance that was not already in use, locked the door behind them and then visibly relaxed.

  “I feel like I’ve got my name—both of them—printed on my forehead out there,” he complained softly. “How in hell do you look so calm?”

  “Webmaster’s secret,” Joshim said. “We practice in front of mirrors.” He spun the booth’s seat around. “Sit.”

  Rafe sat, activated the console. “Before we go after my record, I want to check something else,” he explained as he requested the station news.

  “The Old Emperor’s yacht?” Joshim asked, seeing what Rafe was scanning.

  “Just curious.”

  Joshim read over Rafe’s shoulder. The yacht Havedir, assigned for the Emperor Julur’s use. One passenger, Braniya Lady Rujur, personal aide to the Emperor, and her entourage. Arrived two days ago, duration and purpose of visit unspecified.

  “Personal aide?” he queried.

  “Means she’s somebody important,” Rafe explained. “The ones without explicit titles are the dangerous ones…” He froze; another memory had returned, or almost returned. Joshim waited but Rafe finally shook his head in frustration. “Don’t say it,” he said ruefully. “I’m getting a lot of practice at patience.”

  He cleared the news off the screen and keyed in the access sequence for Active Records, New Empire, followed by an identity-code. The screen spat Unknown Record at them and Rafe swore mildly.

  “You’ll have to try the Historical Records,” he told Joshim, vacating the seat. “I’m obviously dead, for the third time in my life.”

  Historical Records required a Webmaster’s general access rights. Joshim entered his identity-code and inserted his hand in the bio-probe for confirmation. When his name was displayed on the screen as a signal that his access rights had been noted, he entered the sequence for Historical Records, New Empire.

  “Identity-code?” he asked.

  “NE-P8271-31586.”

  Joshim keyed it in as Rafe supplied it. The screen said Specify Access Privileges. Joshim answered None and the screen said Access Denied.

  “Bio-locked, as we guessed,” Rafe said thoughtfully. “Be interesting to find out who has access besides me, if we can crack those locks.”

  “And if they haven’t removed your access,” Joshim said pessimistically, re-entering the enquiry sequence. To the question about access privileges, he replied Bio. Rafe submitted to the bio-probe and they were looking at the record of Yuellin Lord Buhklir.

  “012/5032. Gharan, Yerjin Zone. Accidental death,” Joshim read the last chronological entry aloud.

  “Some way that didn’t leave any identifiable tissue,” Rafe predicted. “Go on to the personal details. Next of kin.”

  Joshim obeyed. “Just a comm destination code,” he said in disbelief. “You were expecting your lover’s name?”

  “My previous lover,” Rafe said deliberately. “Though that would have been too easy.” He reached around Joshim to scan rapidly through the rest of the record. “Nothing else we should follow up here. Let’s copy it and go.”

  As they left the library, Joshim glanced back along the radial towards the hub.

  “Damn. Provosts,” he alerted Rafe quietly. “Identity spot-checks, by the look of it.”

  Rafe looked back. “Act normally. Maybe they’ll pick somebody else to hassle. Especially since you’re wearing a Webmaster’s badge.”

  They walked on towards the outer ring, hyperconscious of the team of provosts behind them. There was no reason for them to warrant special attention, Joshim told himself repeatedly, wishing there were more people in the corridor to give the provosts a choice.

  “Damn it,” Rafe said vehemently. “You’d think they could keep the faffing risers working, wouldn’t you?” He gestured angrily at the Out-of-use sign on the riser gate. “We’ll have to go the long way round, via the hub.”

  “Identities?”

  The challenge came as soon as they drew level with the provosts. Predictable, Joshim thought savagely, trying to remember which gods he had neglected recently and offering a blanket prayer as an insurance policy.

  “OE-P5971-17529 Joshim,” he answered. “Webmaster, Bhattya.” They would have the extra information on their portable console soon enough, and it might help to remind them of his rank.

  “Verify, sir.” The provost-sergeant squinted at the readout of the bio-probe. “I hadn’t heard Bhattya was in the Zone.”

  “Just arrived,” Joshim explained. “We’re on station to pick up the latest gossip. And to check the vacancy lists.” He was talking too much, he realized; he should just let the woman get on with her job.

  “NE-P9000-42775 Rafell,” Rafe said when he was asked. “First, Bhattya.”

  “Yes?” The sergeant looked at Rafe suspiciously; Joshim’s heart sank as he realized what was wrong. “Verify,” the woman continued. Rafe obeyed and she looked bemused. “Chadir, will you take a look at this. Ever seen anything like it?”

  The second provost looked at the data on the console. “Says he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Rafe protested. “Do I look dead? What kind of joke is this?”

  “No joke.” The woman showed him the screen. “Deceased on 309/5043.” She grinned. “It’s going to make the top-sergeant’s day, having to sort this one out. Chadir, call in and tell them we’re on our way home.”

  “Emperors,” Joshim protested. “You’re not going to haul us in over a stupid mistake?”

  “We’re not hauling you in,” the sergeant said, offended. “We’re just going to help you sort out the problem in your First’s records.”

  “I can do that from Bhattya,” Joshim growled. “And we’re due on patrol too damned soon for this nonsense.”

  “Can’t have dead people wandering about Central unescorted,” the woman said gleefully. “Even if you don’t look very dead, short-stuff,” she told Rafe, “appearances can be deceptive.”

  Did they teach you that in provost-school, Joshim wondered sourly. It was probably all they taught, that and the art of finding any excuse to cut short a patrol.

  He sought Rafe’s eyes, found agreement there. The corridor was not the place to jump the provosts, not with their escape route blocked
off at one end. They would have a better chance in the hub, with the crowd to lose themselves in and a choice of exits.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he told the sergeant resignedly.

  “This is a waste of time,” Rafe remarked as the provosts escorted them along the radial. “Once the Commander finds out why we’re late back, she’ll kill me anyway.”

  Joshim grunted an acknowledgement, thinking ahead. The provost’s office would not be far from the hub; he and Rafe would have to act almost as soon as they reached the walkways. They might get some covert support from the webbers in the crowd; evading the provosts was a time-honoured sport for liberty parties. Since the provosts were not expecting trouble, they would have the advantage of surprise, and there was nothing to link them quickly with their shuttle, whose arrival had gone undocumented on anything except the flimsy in Joshim’s pocket. They could get away with it yet…

  “Isn’t that the Old Emperor’s high-class go-fetch? In ten lengths of gold lace?” Chadir asked as they stepped onto the walkway.

  “Where?”

  As the sergeant turned her head to look, Rafe and Joshim dived into the crowd. In opposite directions, but the important thing was to get away, Joshim told himself as he dipped in and out of the bystanders; they would meet up at the shuttle.

  The provosts took a second to react, long enough for Joshim to put several convenient bodies between him and them.

  “I’ll get the dead one,” the sergeant yelled to Chadir as Joshim swerved around a pack of goggling dirtsiders. “You call in for help!”

  That left Joshim free of immediate pursuit. He rounded an angle in the walkway and ploughed through a bunch of laughing juniors.

  “Maintenance hatch back here,” one of them hissed, pushing him in the right direction. By the time Chadir passed the group, Joshim was tucked safely in the access space, hoping that Rafe had had the same kind of luck. From here, he could take the ladder down to the level of their shuttle and circle back round to meet Rafe.

  “They got your friend,” his rescuer whispered, halting him as he started down the ladder. “Damned Security jumped him … Wait a moment. There’s some kind of argument going on. Between Security and the provosts and some aristo, the one who came in on the Old Emperor’s fast yacht. Now the provosts are moving on. The aristo’s got her arm round your friend. He doesn’t look too healthy—Security must have hit him hard. Now Security are leaving too, but they don’t look pleased about it. Your friend’s being carried away by those two thugs that the aristo calls her entourage. Looks like he’s out cold. The aristo’s going with them, towards the VIP dock. Now they’re all out of sight.”

  “Thanks,” Joshim said through the acid taste in his mouth. “Which is the fastest way to the VIP dock?”

  “Are you crazy? With the provosts and Security looking all over for you?” his rescuer objected. “Let the search die down first.”

  “No time,” Joshim protested. “I…”

  “Hold it, provosts,” another junior interrupted.

  Joshim dropped down below floor level as the juniors moved to shield the hatch. Gods, why had Braniya intervened, and what did she want with Rafe? He remembered the touch of memory that Rafe had felt in the library, the way he had thought it necessary to find out about the aristo. Did it mean that she was involved in his past, that her presence at Central was no coincidence?

  “All clear,” the signal came at last.

  “The VIP dock,” Joshim repeated urgently.

  “Down one, right forty-five.” As Joshim moved out of hearing, the voice added, “He’s crazy.”

  "He" probably was, Joshim reflected grimly as he descended. The Security presence around Braniya’s ship would be heavy; not even the Old Emperor’s aide could snatch a webber from the Guild’s custody with impunity. Worse, Joshim had very little time in which to act; soon his connection with the unregistered shuttle would be recognized and he would be cut off from it and from Bhattya. But he could not abandon Rafe without trying.

  The access ways took Joshim out along a radial as far as the VIP dock and then stopped dead at the dock’s safety bulkhead. By crouching down beside a maintenance hatch half a length from the end, and peering through the air-grille, he had an angled view of the dock entrance and the two sets of guards standing there, a full team from Guild Security and an equal number wearing the livery of an aristo. From the tension in their stances, they were as wary of each other as they were of anybody approaching, but Joshim had no illusions that they would not act in concert for as long as it took to capture him, if they were given the chance.

  He retreated down the radial. It was worse than he had expected. There was no way through that entrance to the VIP dock, and no visible access to the dock’s maintenance space. It would take time to backtrack, to search for a way in, time that Security would spend tracing him back to their shuttle. Even if he did reach the dock, there would be further guards there and inside Havedir, and if the guards outside the ship were only armed with sleepguns as the Guild demanded, the guards within would be lethally armed. Joshim clenched his fists in angry impotence, seeing no way that he could rescue Rafe.

  “Let us through. We wish to speak to Lady Rujur.”

  “I’ll ask if she wishes to speak to you.”

  The curt exchange carried from the entrance to the dock. Joshim crept back towards its source and crouched motionless by the air-grille to watch and listen. Two webbers were waiting by the dock entrance, denied access by Braniya’s guards. The sleeve of one of them bore a Councillor’s insignia, and he guessed that the other was equally highly placed. They must have come to demand Rafe’s return, he decided uneasily. Without knowing why Braniya had snatched Rafe, or who his enemies on the Council were, it was impossible to know where he would be safest.

  “The Lady Rujur will be here shortly.”

  “We wish to talk to her aboard her ship.”

  “The Lady Rujur will be here shortly,” the guard repeated stolidly.

  “Very well.” That was the second of the two Councillors, the woman. Her companion looked annoyed at the capitulation but did not argue publicly.

  Would the benefits of waiting to hear this conversation outweigh the risks of being trapped aboard the station? Joshim fretted. Yes. They had to. He must learn what he could about Braniya’s intentions and the Council’s; if nothing else, he must return to Bhattya knowing in whose custody Rafe was.

  The sealed hatch behind the guards opened and a woman came though. Dressed in ten lengths of gold lace, one of the provosts had said, and the description fitted Braniya exactly, but the lace was the only softness about her. Commandingly tall, with glossy black hair cut unusually short for an aristo, she had a presence that fitted Rafe’s description well: the ones without explicit titles are the dangerous ones…

  “Councillor Lady Carher, Councillor Ferin. You wish to talk to me about the unfortunate incident earlier?” Her voice was pitched low and level.

  “We do,” Ferin agreed grimly. “More precisely, we wish you to return the webber whom you removed from the custody of our Security police.”

  Braniya laughed. “I should be glad to do so, had I custody of any such webber. But I only have custody of a young lad who thought it would be amusing to impersonate a webber. When your provosts discovered the deception, he panicked, with the unfortunate results of which you are aware.”

  “There were two webbers involved,” Ferin retorted. “One of whom was positively identified.”

  “And was my ward also positively identified? I believe that the identity he claimed was that of a webber who died in a recent, tragic accident. A careless decision, I thought.” She smiled coldly.

  “Lady Rujur, there are many things about this affair which are not easily explained,” Ferin said stubbornly. “We request that you make your ward available to answer questions.”

  “I regret that will not be possible at this time,” Braniya parried smoothly. “He is still recovering from the injuries caused by your s
ecurity police. Injuries which will undoubtedly distress the Emperor Julur, who has a certain fondness for the youngster. You will recall, Councillor Lady Carher, that we have discussed the lad in that context recently.”

  “We have,” Carher admitted stiffly. She was scared, Joshim recognized. Why?

  “And you would recognize the lad if you saw him, would you not?” Braniya continued. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize the description given by your Security police. He is, after all, very distinctive. Not the sort of person about whom one easily makes a mistake.” The aristo seemed amused by the idea. “Would it satisfy you both if Councillor Lady Carher verified that my ward is who I say he is and not some abducted member of your Guild?”

  “Councillor Ferin should also verify that your ward meets the description of the webber we seek,” Carher said quickly.

  “Of course, Councillor Lady Carher.” Braniya smiled widely. “Since I’m accused of the abduction of a webber, I can understand your desire for safety in numbers.” She was taking pleasure in baiting Carher, her words seeming to have a hidden, uncomfortable meaning for the Councillor.

  “On reflection, I see no need for either of us to verify your ward’s identity,” Carher said hastily. “The description I heard could be nobody else.” Ferin glared at her but she ignored him.

  Carher was scared that, if she went aboard Braniya’s ship, she would not be allowed to leave, Joshim realized. And she knew who it was that Braniya had rescued from Security. Which could only mean that she was one of those responsible for what had happened to Rafe.

  “My ward does have a reputation for causing trouble, does he not?” Braniya was murmuring. “Now that this matter is resolved to universal satisfaction, you’ll allow me to return to his bedside? We shall wish to leave soon. The Emperor will wish his protégé to recuperate in the Imperial Palace.” She gave Carher another of her freezing smiles. “We will have to continue our discussions at a later time, Councillor Lady Carher. But be certain, I shall find time to fit them in.”