Nightsword

by Margaret Weis

  Merinda thrust the kris upward into J’lan’s chest.

  She yanked his severed hand free of the hilt.

  “Nothing personal, J’lan.”

  The darkness engulfed her. She never felt the deck when she fell.

  12

  Fatal Assumptions

  The flurry of flower petals settled softly to the ground as the twenty priests and priestesses who held it aloft lowered the massive Throne of the Wandering Prophet to the ground. The cheers of the assembled crowd were deafening, echoing up into the vaulted heights of the cathedral.

  Targ heard nothing. The sights and sounds receded from his conscious thought as his mind focused on the object of his current quest. No, he reminded himself, not the object of the quest but the place to begin, the start of the road, not its end. He watched as Griffiths, looking a bit paler than usual, moved down from the throne covered in flowing robes of honors.

  The rush of connecting flights and passages from Omnet Central out further onto the disk had taken its toll on Targ. He had arrived tired and he knew it. The quantum zone that Avadon was currently in had been determined to be high on the mystic index—magic was something that he was very good at even without the enhanced skills and knowledge of a biolink mission loadout from the Nine. Yet magic in this particular index was a matter of personal strength and the accumulation of mystical energies. One had to be rested to use the power here. The power would last only as long as one could physically maintain it. So, convinced utterly of what it was he had to do, Targ had bided his time since arriving. He had called the power into himself—as this zone required—and had felt it seep into him hour by hour. He was far from filled with the glorious force but he believed it was enough. Just enough.

  The object of his will was drifting up the stairs to the Throne of Kendis-dai itself, the very seat of the Mantle of Wisdom.

  “Lord Father of our People!”

  Targ turned toward the deep, resonant voice. The priest at the base of the stairs stood next to him, his words resounding throughout the chamber. It had taken considerable effort, but Targ could not be delayed. Through whatever means necessary he had made his way to the front of the long line of supplicants.

  The pageantry was finally over, Targ thought. Now destiny begins.

  “I beg to present a supplicant—Six hundred and seventy-three!” the priest’s voice intoned. “Come forward and hear the will of the prophet!”

  Targ moved forward and began climbing the stairs toward the throne high overhead. Glancing upward he saw the images of light weaving their constant motion in the towering column over the throne. The Mantle of Kendis-dai. Targ smiled softly to himself. It was time.

  The Vestis Prime looked down at his hands, hoping he appeared humble and submissive. His lips moved in silent words, however, as his hands worked close together before him. Climbing higher and higher with each step, Targ watched with satisfaction as a small ball of dim, blue lightning formed within the cup of his hands. The mystical structure completed, Targ folded both hands together at his waist, hiding the rotating globe of static fire as he climbed the last few steps to stand just before the level of the throne itself.

  “Greetings, Lord Emperor,” Targ said smoothly.

  “Greetings back at you, Targ of Gandri,” Griffiths said somewhat stiffly, his voice sounding tired and more nasal than Targ remembered it.

  “Lord Emperor, are you not well?” Targ inquired with grace.

  “I had a rough night, Targ of Gandri. Didn’t sleep well.”

  “I hope,” Targ bowed slightly, “that my presence and the quarantine of your world is not the cause of such personal distress.”

  “Thank you, Targ, but I don’t think you bother me one way or the other. Truth is that I think I’m coming down with a cold. I could use some rest—perhaps if we could postpone our interview here until tomorrow …”

  “No, Lord Emperor, I don’t think that would be possible,” Targ smiled.

  “My, my! Aren’t we the impatient one? Fine, then, so you want the navigation charts of Lokan’s fleet. It’s a bit complicated but I could try to describe …”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Targ replied quietly, stepping up onto the high platform itself, closer to the prophet.

  “Not necessary?” Griffiths arched an eyebrow.

  “No—perhaps yesterday if I had found you more stupid than you are we might have worked something out. You think, however, that you are clever. There is nothing so dangerous as a stupid man who believes himself to be clever.”

  “Oh, cute,” smirked Griffiths, deflecting the insult with apathy. “So yesterday you did want the navigation charts and today you don’t?”

  “No, Lord Emperor. Having refused me yesterday, I didn’t think you would give them to me today. More than that, even if you did give them to me, I could not trust that you gave them to me correctly. Most likely you would simply lie to me.”

  “You know, our relationship really needs a lot of work.” Griffiths leaned forward on the throne. “So I have a question for you, Vestis Prime, head-honcho of the Omnet. You came all the way here to ask me a question, now you don’t want to trust the answer that I give you. Just what are you after, Targ?”

  “Why, you, Lord Emperor!”

  “M-me,” Griffiths stuttered.

  Targ smiled. “Yes, barbarian. You.”

  In a swift motion, Targ threw the blue lightning ball from his hands. Instantly, the ball expanded, lightning playing along its surface, until it formed a shielding dome around both the Vestis and the startled Griffiths. The TyRen standing at the perimeter of the throne were suddenly pushed backward. They reacted in the following moment, rushing against the shield. Each point of their contact flared with brilliant blue light and crackling streaks of electricity. The TyRen readied their weapons at once but wavered for a time—uncertain as to whether the shield would deflect their various murderous bolts and do harm to the prophet himself.

  The assembled crowd gasped in fear below. The Thought-Knights broke ranks and began charging up the stairs.

  The thunderous clamor barely penetrated the interior of the force dome.

  “I asked you the question while you were on the throne—you could not help but pass it on to the Mantle in that same instant and get the answer as well. You know where the Lokan Fleet went—you can’t help but know.”

  The TyRen opened fire with various weapons on the shield with ever-increasing strength. Their impacts made only distant echoes to the two inside of it.

  “Sadly, barbarian, the Mantle by design will only communicate with one sentient being at a time. Even as I state it, you know that it is true. You see … I can’t trust you to give me the right answer. I need to get the answer directly from the Mantle itself. So long as you live, the Mantle will never communicate directly with anyone else.”

  Griffiths’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit.”

  “So long as you live”—Targ smiled again—“I’ll never get the answer I need and you’ll always be a threat to me.”

  Targ raised his left hand, his fingers arched into claws pointed directly at the prophet’s heart.

  Griffiths yelled as he tried to stand up. “Damn it, Merinda! Get us the hell out of …”

  The bolts formed at Targ’s fingertips, joining together instantly in a massive spiral of blinding light. The twisting shaft slammed out from his hand, ripping the air with its passage and boring directly through the chest of Griffiths, whose mouth snapped open in a silent scream. The orange glow of the magical column widened within Griffiths until it occupied a full hand’s width of his chest. The power of the bolt continued through the prophet’s back, tunneling completely through the back of the Throne of Kendis-dai until finally stopping just short of the frantically flashing shield itself.

  The Vestis Prime released the spell.

  Griffiths fell forward, rolling slightly as he fell. He came to rest faceup on the floor. Stench-filled smoke drifted from a gaping chest wound so thoroughly cauterized th
at no blood flowed from it.

  Targ barely heard the roar of terror and hatred beating against the shield. He was sweating now, the exertion of keeping the shield maintained and the murder of the prophet having drained him considerably. He had calculated that, he told himself. There wasn’t much time before the raging TyRen outside the sphere would finally beat it down. He had to finish before then.

  Stepping over the smoldering Griffiths, Targ took a deep breath, turned, and sat on the Throne of Kendis-dai.

  What course did Lokan’s fleet take, Targ thought. He had addressed the Nine long enough to know that the question always triggered a response. The Mantle had responded to Griffiths’s question in like manner. Now it would respond to him.

  Targ of Gandri … came the voice into his mind.

  Targ smiled, his eyes closed.

  … You will need to ask your question of Jeremy Griffiths.

  Jeremy Griffiths is no more, Targ thought toward the Mantle of Kendis-dai. He pushed down the panic welling up inside him. You will answer the question.

  You are mistaken, Targ of Gandri.

  What!

  A different voice sounded in his ears. “You are mistaken, Targ of Gandri.”

  Targ’s eyes opened and turned toward the sound.

  Griffiths, chest still smoldering, turned his head toward him and spoke. “You are mistaken.”

  Targ pushed himself suddenly out of the chair, grabbing the remains of Griffiths’s robes as he knelt. “You’re dead, damn you! You’re …”

  Only then did Targ examine the chest wound carefully. To be sure it had passed completely through the body—Targ could see the floor beyond—but the wound itself was filled with protruding metal, broken servomechanisms, cabling, and optical conduit.

  Targ tore open the robes frantically, sweat pouring from his forehead.

  Two of the arms had been removed but the body itself was unquestionably that of a TyRen warrior.

  The replicated head of Griffiths, mounted atop the torso, turned toward Targ and spoke. “Targ of Gandri, you are under arrest by TyRen Seven-gamma-six-nine for the attempted assassination of Griffiths, Lord Emperor and Prophet of Avadon …”

  Targ stood up, fumbling in the folds of his robes for the transport amulet. He gripped it with both hands to activate it.

  Nothing happened.

  The blue dome about him was losing color. It was getting smaller. He found it hard to breathe.

  He pressed the amulet again.

  Nothing.

  “By the Nine,” Targ gasped.

  “… As such, you will remain under the protected custody of the TyRen until arrangements for your hearing can be made. I have been instructed by the Emperor that you are to be kept safe from the outrage of the populace and treated with respect. He also instructs me that neither of these goals will be easily accomplished.”

  “Where is he?” Targ growled.

  “He has just passed out of range of our telepresence connection.”

  Targ sat on the throne. Someone had moved Griffiths out of range. Someone had moved the matching amulet out of range as well. Someone had crossed him.

  Merinda.

  “You will surrender at once,” Griffiths’s head said at Targ’s feet.

  Targ bent over on the throne. The dome was closing in on him. Beyond its vague blue outlines he could see the TyRen completely encircling its perimeter, each continuing to press against the shield. Beyond that he could see the hate-filled faces of the petitioners who had stormed the pedestal.

  Targ shook with the exertion of holding the shield in place.

  There was no place left to run—but he would never surrender.

  13

  Reversals

  Interstellar void.

  The word “void” was appropriate if not accurate. The cold emptiness that sat between the burning suns was not completely empty, of course. A few stray atoms drifted lazily through the region. Light energy passed through its expanse unheeding of its dimension and rushing to vacate the space it had just invaded. Such epic events were beyond the sight of an eye or the contemplation of the mind. The scene surrounding it was breathtaking but so, too, was the void itself, for it would rob breath from a living being without a thought, scattering the molecules explosively throughout its entropic volume until the gas had lost any hope or meaning to the sentient creature robbed of it. The void was beyond measure: all things that passed through its infinite space were made insignificant in scale. The void was forever: nothing within its folds outlasted it.

  Of course, the interstellar void wasn’t entirely universal—in an infinite universe there was infinite diversity. There were uncounted regions in uncounted quantum zones of existence where the void was filled with all manner of interesting things. Some were gaseous and easily breathable. Some were charged with electricity or phlogiston or ether. Some were entirely aquatic. Yet in this particular zone the stars burned with fierce and steady intensity in the blackness of space—empty and unforgiving.

  Scale demands perspective in such infinity and depends greatly on where the observer chooses to stand to bring any meaning to their observations.

  Thus, should an observer have been stationed at this particular point of space within the unendingness of the universe, deep between the points of light that gave reference and meaning to the darkness, they would have seen a single discus just over a hundred feet across spinning in silent majesty through the void. The craft gave the appearance of being assembled from a series of different-sized brass dishes—two large ones mounted top to top forming the main body of the ship with two smaller ones bracketing them. The ornate carvings that covered the exterior of the larger disk spun around its axis in purposeful stability while the smaller disks—one above and one below—emitted a pulsing blue glow. The observer would note its incredible speed relative to the stars about it and its purposeful progression toward the distant stars.

  He would also note the same craft slamming to an impossible stop, flipping end over end in a blur, stopping once again and then resuming its previous speed without a hint of acceleration. This was followed by a succession of impossible high-speed, right-angle turns which seemed to delineate the outlines of a box before the ship tore once more through space, this time at right angles to its original course as it corkscrewed down its line of flight.

  Lieutenant Elizabeth Lewis, Commander of what she had referred to as “my flying saucer,” was beginning to feel slightly motion sick.

  The thought angered her. After all the spins she had taken in the NASA trainers, after all the parabolas she had flown and all the disorientation training she had taken in the orbital station back on Earth, she had convinced herself that motion was her friend. She had reveled in it. There hadn’t been a roller coaster or cloud coaster at any amusement park on her world that she couldn’t tame with a full stomach of bad hot dogs and carnival drinks. Motion, she believed, was her element.

  This ride, however, was just a little too much.

  “Ellerby!” Lewis choked out. “Stop! Just … just stop for a moment!”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Ellerby said at once. The large man released his grip on the control protrusions from the console.

  The universe around them began to settle at once.

  Thank God for inherent stability, Lewis thought to herself, closing her eyes and hanging on hard to the edge of the console as she waited for the stars to stop revolving around her. After interminable moments, the whining of the ship’s drives began to subside overhead.

  With minor trepidation, she slowly reopened her eyes. “Is everyone all right?”

  Lewis caught the eye of Marilyn Tobler just around the left side of the large glass globe mounted in ornate brass in the center of a wide pedestal. Tobler’s face was drained of color but she nodded nonetheless.

  “Well,” said Ellerby. Lewis could see his slightly unfocused gaze around the right side of the globe. “That was quite a rush!”

  The universe once again looked safe
and, more importantly, stable. Lewis’s hands were still gripping the edge of the circular console that was the centerpiece of the command platform. Three clusters of chairs were arranged in groups of three at uniform points along the console’s outer edge. The entire assembly sat atop a platform in the center of a slightly compressed sphere. Overhead, a mammoth sphere, matching the one surrounding the console, hung suspended at the focal point of three large cones imbedded in the curve of the ceiling. The platform itself was accessed by three long bridges, each leading to hatchways out of the command sphere and into the labyrinth of the rest of the ship.

  Lewis had taken a position at one of the chair clusters, while Lieutenant Ellerby and Dr. Tobler had taken a position at each of the other two. They were three people attempting to run controls designed for nine.

  The problem was not that the ship was difficult to handle. Indeed, once Lewis got used to the idea of talking to the ship’s newly installed synthetic on a friendlier basis, the ship itself seemed rather pleased to assist in any way that it could. The problem was that the ship was an ancient relic—a ship of the Lost Empire. Its design was unique in the galaxy for it was set up within its hull to handle, in various configurations, every different quantum zone that the ship had encountered thus far. Lewis had expected to encounter some difficulties along the way but, as Mevin, their resident synthetic, had so cheerfully informed them, the ship had yet to encounter any zone which some configuration of its systems could not handle—including many of the magical zones. The ship seemed capable of handling any contingency, but that made its capabilities more than Lewis or any of her fellow crewmen were ready to handle. There were just too many options available.

  The console itself was the mounting for a large globe that appeared to be made of bluish glass. The myriad controls that were arrayed on the slanting surface surrounding the globe changed from zone to zone as the ship’s configuration changed. Sometimes a control yoke would form out of the console surface. At other times the yoke would melt back into the flat panels only to reappear as a crystal ball or, on one particularly discomforting occasion, a set of humanoid hands.