by John Meaney
Corduven’s group were already on this stratum’s window, sitting on the ledge with their feet dangling over the shaft. Tom’s team drew level, then had to traverse nearly half the shaft’s diameter to reach them.
“Have some daistral.” Corduven offered a self-warming flask as Tom sat beside him.
“Thanks.” A welcome sip. Hot and tart, stimulating. “Quite like old times.”
Corduven took the flask back.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Next stage.
The rate of ascent, while they were actually climbing, increased; though fatigue was setting in, Tom was learning the rhythm. The other four took turns to act as lead climber; he was always last, in belay.
But the nature of the membranes changed, became more problematical. The last one they cut through, the fourteenth, took an hour of painstaking work to penetrate, and the shaft was deep in shadow by the time they had finished.
“We stay here tonight, if we can.” Corduven’s team went through the view-window first, slipping over the balustrade and sliding into crouched positions, weapons drawn.
“Clear.”
Tom’s team followed.
Purple shadows. The constant splash of water, spurting in tiny arcs between the copper cups; intertwined rivulets winding around the sculpture’s flow-channels.
“How did you know I could climb?”
A spark of fluorescence.
“I know more than you think.”
Spark.
The aquaria contained strange species: fish with long tendrils, gorgeous colours and the ability to glow, just for a second, in the darkness.
“The thing is—” Corduven stopped, reconsidering his words. “You’ve heard of impoverished nobility?”
Tom tried to read his expression, but it was too dark, here in the Aqua Hall. “I ran my own demesne, remember? I understand balances of payment.”
“Then you’ll know ...” Rustling. Corduven was checking, Tom thought, whether his men were in earshot: they weren’t. “Gérard and I both had the potential, you know. They do the tests before you learn to walk.”
Potential.
“Sweet . . . Destiny.”
“Not so sweet. They took Gérard away before I was born, of course. I came along sixteen years later: an accident, or an attempt to replace Gérard; I never found out for sure.”
The words were worse, spoken in darkness.
Tom could not speak.
“But my family—my parents—were very well off by then. The payments are quite lavish, you know; not enough to keep a demesne running, but sufficient seed money to kick-start a small demesne’s economy. My father”—Corduven’s voice thickened—”was very able, you see. It was Grandfather who’d allowed our realm to decline.”
“Did you see—I mean, did Gérard live with you or—?”
“Oh, there were visits.” Unreadable emotion. “The Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum allows family sessions; but they can’t predict whether the subject’s consciousness will be in normal timeflow on any given occasion.”
“Fate.”
“Exactly.”
Later, Tom said: “It can’t excuse . . . You know how Oracles treat their servitors. What they do for stimulation.”
“Yes. But Gérard was better than the others.” Pause. “He never lost his humanity.”
Briefing session.
For the others, sitting cross-legged in a circle—save for the two lookouts—it was a recap. Tom was seeing the holo for the first time.
“The reason we travelled so far by sea-skimmer,” Corduven said to Tom, “was to come up here directly, into Darinia Demesne.”
“Understood.”
The schematic hung in the air, glowing brightly in contrast: shadows still filled the Aqua Hall, though soon the ceiling’s fluoro-fungus would awaken into its light-phase, and the glowclusters’ reactants would phase-shift into illumination.
Tom had fallen asleep to the sound of running water, and awoken the same way. In other circumstances, it would have felt refreshing.
“The political significance”—Corduven pointed into the schematic—”is that Aleph Hall, here, has been fitted with newscast systems, camglobes and relays. If events of the last two years have achieved anything”—glancing at Tom—”it’s the opening-up of comms. At any rate, this is the first trial that is being widely broadcast; eventually, within most of Nulapeiron.”
“I don’t understand.” Tom.
“Plenty of nobles have been summarily executed.” Corduven’s taut face looked grim. “But this is a big show trial with all the trimmings.”
Tom did not want to know the geopolitical background. “Where do we go once we reach the Primum Stratum?”
“Here. Or here.” Arcs briefly flared as Corduven pointed. “Seven possible staging-points. We’ll be relying on your knowledge, Tom, to proceed from there.”
“OK. You don’t know where they’re actually being held?”
“No. Nor, in fact, how many nobles are on trial. But Sylvana and my Lady Darinia for sure. Possibly Lord Velond.”
One of the soldiers asked about infiltration and egress, and Corduven highlighted the vectors one by one. Then the two team leaders repeated the briefing, in clipped abbreviation, confirming their understanding.
Corduven nodded.
“Breakfast now”—they’d had sweetened daistral, that was all— “and use the washrooms. Departing in fifteen minutes. Go.”
Climbing.
Frog-position, reach, and boost.
The other four had adapted to him, too. Though they were four-limbed, their understanding of his needs had grown almost instinctively; he could now follow most of their holds, though not their moves.
“Having fun?” one of them asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
Another said: “Girls? Can we keep the noise down?”
“Fate, we must be mad.”
Foot, foot, and reach—
Climb.
Their overall ascent rate was slower, though they were climbing more quickly, as they spent increasing amounts of time working on the horizontal membranes. This had been included in Corduven’s estimates; the plan was to reach the Quarternium Stratum tonight, and breach the last three membranes in the morning.
Climb . . .
They were six strata from their destination, in late afternoon, when amber beams split the air. The face of the man above blackened—roast-meat aroma—and he died instantly.
“On belay!” Tom yelled, but there was more to worry about than one falling climber.
Return fire spat from below: Corduven’s team.
Part of Tom’s awareness noted that the ambushers had fired too soon, not noticing the second team; but his immediate problem was hanging on—my hold is unbreakable—as the shock of the fallen soldier’s weight jerked him, trying to pull him off—unbreakable—and one of the men above him screamed but did not fall.
Tom’s forearm was burning with lactic acid build-up but he could not move. He hung there with the corpse weighing him down until somebody shifted overhead—crackle of a lattice blade—and Tom almost rebounded from reaction as the weight came off.
The red line snaked through his ‘biner, was gone.
Beams flicking this way and that. A whimper sounded; Tom realized it was him, and forced himself to silence.
“Tom! Go!”
It was Corduven’s voice but Tom shook his head—what do you expect of me?—as a wide, white beam tore upwards, missing him by centimetres.
Ozone stink in his nostrils, making him cough.
“For Sylvana—” Corduven’s voice, cut off as the beams crackled again and a high-pitched scream laced the air.
The membrane above was blackened, shredded apart. Farther up, much farther, the next one, too, looked scorched—Destiny, it’s all the way up—and he knew what he had to do.
Stump and two wide-braced feet: hold, using counter-pressure. He used his hand to free the harness, then tossed it clear into
the void.
Climb.
Graser beams hit close by and molten rock spat white but Tom was already moving. He glanced back down, but the others were exchanging fire.
He was on his own.
Climb.
~ * ~
65
NULAPEIRON AD 3418
Although redolent of ancient sweat and fear-pheromones, the mat was soft and very comfortable as Tom lay on his side and closed his eyes.
Strange laughter.
It had bubbled up inside him, inappropriately: the silent laughter as he struggled through the last membrane, climbed the last stretch in the dark—watch it—hand slipping, correcting—almost—and he hauled himself over the balustrade.
The odd humour was twofold: he had almost fallen right at the last moment; and now he was in a long, shadowed gallery which was very familiar: his gallery.
So he picked himself up and began to run, just a slow jog. Despite the exhaustion, he moved very quietly.
No-one stepped from the shadows to shoot him down.
At the gallery’s end, he took the old servitors’ tunnels and made his way to the salle d’armes. An odd sense of homecoming as he slipped inside.
Adrenaline and sweat.
Microdrones cleaned the place every day, but the traces of decades’ effort remained. How many times had he crashed into this mat, beneath Maestro da Silva’s watchful gaze?
Lying down, he sighed. Slid into dreamless sleep.
Tickle.
“Wake up.”
Not soft: sharp and stinging as it bit into the skin.
“You’d better have a good—
Jerked awake, Tom could not react. Lean face above him, silver-grey goatee beard; hand holding the long blade perfectly steady.
Sword at his throat.
Then the eyes widened and the pressure came away. The warm trickle at Tom’s throat might have been sweat or blood, but he dared not look down.
He can kill me faster than I can blink.
Lowering the blade.
“You’d better come with me.”
“My Lord.” Major-Steward Malkoril’s full formal bow brought a flush to his face.
From his seat, Chef Keldur struggled up, looking stricken. He had forgotten Tom’s status; he had remembered Tom only as a subordinate fellow servitor.
“I don’t think”—Tom motioned them to sit—”I’m Lord of anything, any more.”
Maestro da Silva spoke softly: “I think perhaps you’ve become Lord of yourself, which is more than most people achieve.”
It was Tom’s turn to bow: student to master.
“I thought you were dead, my Lord.”
Astounded, Tom saw the dampness in Malkoril’s eyes.
“I’ve missed you, my friends,” he said, and realized he meant it.
The chamber was cramped: Malkoril’s old office, piled high with battered boxes full of Fate-knew-what among the blue-glass pillars, and filled with crystal-cases and broken pieces of drones. A fine patina of white-grey dust overlay everything. The three were sitting on antique chairs in need of repair. Tom slid onto the desk and sat cross-legged.
“There are two more to come,” said the maestro, “but we might as well start.”
Tom let out a long, shaky breath. This was going to be hard.
“I gather the term LudusVitae is now well known?” he began.
A dignified nod from Maestro da Silva; Malkoril’s fleshy face hardened while Chef Keldur looked ready to spit.
“Well—”
“We should all have joined them, before it was too late!” Square-faced, shaven-headed Zhongguo Ren, just head and shoulders inserted through the door membrane. Then, as he stepped inside: “Tom? Is that you?”
“Chaos, Tat! How are you?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” As the other men exchanged puzzled glances, Tat added: “Don’t you know who this is? Lord One-Arm himself. Legend of the movement.”
Malkoril’s face was blotched with conflicting emotions.
“I think I should explain”—Maestro da Silva’s elegant voice was soft, measured—”that we are of all political persuasions in this room.”
Like LudusVitae.
An image of his first meeting with Sentinel and the others sprang up in his mind, but Tom banished it.
“Our common interest,” the maestro continued, “is concern about the fate of our imprisoned former masters.”
“Former masters?” Chef Keldur’s towering rages used to terrify kitchen servitors. “Allegiance is for life, as you damned well ought to—”
“Ahem.” Tom coughed deliberately, and Keldur lapsed into silence.
“Go on, my Lord,” said Maestro da Silva.
“I think it would be best if you called me Tom. For the sake of security”—as Malkoril started to object—”if for no other reason. Agreed?”
Reluctant nods.
“So then. Tat’s correct: I was a ranking executive officer of LudusVitae, an umbrella organization of many factions. And, yes, I was one of the coup’s planners.”
“But—” Tat stopped.
“What is it?”
“Everyone knows—thinks—you were killed. You’re a martyr.”
A bitter laugh rising, but Tom suppressed it. “I’ve been away— let’s say, in self-imposed exile—for the last two years. No”—-forgetting the lost time—”make that four years.”
“So you don’t know about Jak?” Tat, quietly.
Chill on his skin.
“What about him?” Tom asked.
“When you disappeared . . . Your demesne, your palace, were investigated. One of your alpha-class people co-operated fully—”
Felgrinar. I should never have kept him on.
“—and Jak was blamed for misappropriation of funds, other things.”
“Did they—?”
“He’s imprisoned somewhere. Not executed: he convinced them that he wasn’t a member of LudusVitae, luckily.”
Good for you, Jak. That must have taken some persuasive talking.
More guilt.
“What else do you know, Tat?”
“Not much. They found the cleared-out remnants of some secret project that—”
Corduven’s people. Tom started to reach for his talisman, stopped.
How had Corduven recognized it? Tom had worn a wide-necked shirt, instead of high-collared tunic, maybe once or twice in all their acquaintance. Scarily observant.
Don’t underestimate him.
“—call it sorcery, but I don’t—Damn, it’s hard to believe you’re here: Not some mythical hero.”
Tom shook his head. “Do you know what happened to my security chief, Captain Elva Strelsthorm?”
“No, sorry. Your demesne was merged back into Lord Shinkenar’s, I think. Though that’s irrelevant now. He fled in the revolt, sought asylum from Duke Boltrivar.”
The maestro cleared his throat. “You’ve come a long way, Tom. Can you tell us—?”
Soft chime.
A tall, elegant figure, wearing a gold/yellow cape. Her skin was very black, her features striking.
“You were my finest student, once.”
“Mistress eh’Nalephi!”
She divested herself of the cape.
“So what went wrong, my Lord?”
No-one.
Moving quietly, head down. Plain black cloak.
Tom took a spiralling white tunnel to the smoke-sculpture garden, walked past gentle mag-chimes, and came to the library. Among the crystal-racks, a few browsers. One looked up, and Tom left quickly.
Next.
The third possibility was farther: near the outer courts, a small bonded godown for precious metals only. But the racks were empty, heavy cobwebs—trapped blindmoths unmoving, dead—hung in the corners, and the dust on the floor was undisturbed.