“Lord Emperor, Prophet of the Mantle and Master of all Wisdom,” the TyRen intoned solemnly.
Griffiths rolled his eyes back in his head. Don’t these guys ever lighten up? “Yes, Seven-alpha-three-five, what is it?”
“Lord Emperor,” the TyRen rumbled, “I have re-dressed Merinda Neskat’s wounds. I regret to inform you that they are not healing well—my own skills being limited to the destruction of human life rather than its preservation. I once again submit myself for termination on the charge that I failed in my duties. I will gladly act as my own prosecutor, should any form of trial be required.”
Griffiths smiled at the words and wondered if there was anything worse than a TyRen with a guilt complex. Seven-alpha-three-five just did not want to let go of his self-blame. “I appreciate your honor, Seven-alpha-three-five. However, you are desperately needed on this ship.”
“To what purpose am I needed? Tell me, that I may perform the task.”
“Merinda Neskat instructed you to take me and this ship with all haste to some backwater core world called Tsultaki, correct?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Yet you don’t know how to fly this thing, do you?”
“I am a warrior, Eminence, not a pilot.”
“Well, I am a pilot, Seven-alpha-three-five—though I probably couldn’t fly this thing without the substantial help of Lindia …”
“Thank you, Jeremy,” the ship’s synthetic chimed in with a deep female voice.
“So,” Griffiths continued over the interruption, “the only one who’s going to get us to the paradise-planet we’re all rushing to is going to be me. On the other hand, you haven’t even told me why we are in such a hurry to cross almost a quarter of the galaxy, have you?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
“And why haven’t you?”
“I have not told you because I do not know.”
“Ah, progress at last.” Griffiths rubbed his tired eyes.
“Merinda Neskat was quite adamant about the destination and that we travel with all possible speed.”
“Well,” Griffiths finished tiredly, “I’m not terribly adamant about either our destination or our speed. So, the only reason we are continuing is because you are enforcing Merinda’s wishes. Therefore, your job is to force me to continue on this course. If you terminate yourself, I’ll fall asleep, the ship will stop, I won’t get to this Tsultaki place, and Merinda’s wishes will go unfulfilled. See how important you are?”
“As you will, Your Eminence.”
Griffiths shook his head. He hoped Merinda knew what she was doing. He would have preferred to find some healers along the way that could take care of her. She wasn’t doing well from the wound; Griffiths was sure she should have been improving by now. Perhaps there was more to that assassin’s blade than met the eye—something they had overlooked. Whatever it was, Merinda had been specific about their destination and the urgency of getting there with as little contact with other worlds as possible. Perhaps Merinda knows what’s wrong with her, Griffiths thought, and that is why we’re going to such lengths.
More troubling to Griffiths, however, was the fact that Tsultaki was a name familiar to him. He had seen it in his mind quite clearly on a map he knew to be thousands of years old. Though he hadn’t told Merinda yet, he knew it was a world associated long ago with the Lokan Fleet.
“… The loss of many sentient lives. Searcher ships from New Asgaard continue to patrol the lanes in the vicinity of the incident in hopes that additional clues as to the carrier’s disappearance will become evident …”
“Your Eminence? How may I serve you?”
“Well,” Griffiths yawned. “You might take the bridge for a while.”
“Your Eminence, I am a warrior, not a pilot.”
Griffiths smiled to himself once more. If he didn’t know that synthetics were without volition he might wonder if the TyRen was taking some sort of fiendish pleasure in being clever. Not that it would bother Jeremy Griffiths, he reminded himself. The TyRen had undoubtedly saved his life by constructing a duplicate Griffiths out of another TyRen warrior. That officious Targ and his little whelp assistant J’lan had plotted an attempt on both Merinda’s and Griffiths’s lives and would almost certainly have succeeded if Merinda hadn’t stayed one move ahead.
“Then keep an eye on Merinda—er, Vestis Neskat—for me and let me know if there is any change in her status.”
“I will enforce your will with pleasure, Lord Emperor,” the TyRen rumbled as it moved toward the hatch.
“… Of the Valdori announced from their home world of Shandrif that the government enacts stiff new penalties against conjury in the outer provinces. Speaking out again …”
“Just the usual, you know.” Griffiths tried desperately to stifle a yawn as he spoke to himself. “This empire is at war with that empire. There’s a quantum hurricane brewing somewhere coreward of the K’tan Empire while everyone bordering them wonders why it couldn’t be brewing inside the K’tan Empire. Trade deals were signed; others were broken—the usual.”
“… The two-hundredth and seventy-second Psionicad continues today on Ulik. Hunis Zhakandia-tek was awarded his fourth ethereal pendant for his first-place finish in the astral projection steeplechase, tying the record formerly held by Pukai Olivan of Sechak IV Hunis will face stiff competition tonight in the 400-meter lodestone levitation where Helgin Garuntha is favored to win …”
The stars cascaded around him. Griffiths shook his head violently, trying to blink the fatigue away. Merinda, he thought, what are you up to?
“… With the quarantining of the Irindris fleet. A squadron of the Omnet Centirion has deployed around the city-ships …”
“Wait a moment,” Griffiths said aloud. “Lindia, are you monitoring this?”
“Yes, Griffiths.”
“… And is currently engaged both in quarantine operations and in offering assistance to the city-ships where possible. Prophet Belisondre said earlier today in a prepared statement …”
“Belisondre!” Griffiths gasped. “Belisondre is dead! I took his place! I’m the prophet now.”
Yes, Lindia spoke into his mind. It would seem that the report is in error.
“ ‘… Gratitude of the chosen people.’ In a related and troubling development, Vestis Merinda Neskat of the IGNM Inquisition is currently being sought for questioning …”
“Here it comes,” Griffiths said quietly.
“… Following her unauthorized departure from the infected Irindris colonies three days ago. Sources in the region …”
Griffiths smiled. Targ, he thought, he must have escaped somehow. He’s engineering this.
“… Report that Vestis Neskat’s actions of late have been under scrutiny by IGNM internal security forces. It is not known whether she is involved in planting the Irindris plague outbreak or not. Vestis Neskat is most likely suffering from the deleterious effects of the plague virus at the current time. For her own protection, Omnet Central has revoked Vestis Neskat’s diplomatic status and her Inquisition authority until the matter has been resolved. If discovered, local authorities are urged to detain Vestis Neskat with extreme caution.”
“Well,” Merinda said dryly, “that should have just increased the bet considerably.”
Griffiths knelt next to the Vestis’s bunk. Her forehead was glistening with sweat but the latest fever had broken. Jeremy could see, however, that whatever was taking Merinda wasn’t letting up. Still, she had insisted on being told of any netcasts that were unusual. Griffiths had not thought that any he had heard thus far were important enough to warrant bothering her rest—until now. That fact, however, had not stopped him from occasionally standing in the doorway of her quarters and worrying about her as she slept.
“What does it mean?” Griffiths asked hesitantly.
Merinda turned toward him again, her bright eyes locked on his own. “Was there anything in that last part of the broadcast that was true?”
G
riffiths snorted at the obvious. “No!”
“Exactly. The Omnet Vestis is the guardian of truth and fact across the galactic disk. Our motto is burned into our minds: ‘Factum Primum est’—Truth is above all.”
“Excuse me?” Griffiths held a hand up as he interrupted. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I may not be that experienced in this old galaxy of yours, but in the little time I have spent here, I’ve seen the Vestis threaten, subvert, beat their enemies into submission and—yes, Merinda—even lie.”
Merinda shook her head. “No, Griffiths, this is different. We use all those things as tools to uncover the truth, never to bury it.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient! So, it’s all right for you Vestis to lie so long as we don’t lie to you?”
“I don’t have time to banter semantics with you right now,” Merinda said, a thin chill of ice on her weak words. “The point is that Targ has lied to the Vestis. He is covering up the truth—the very truth that the Omnet has been searching for over the three centuries of its existence. He sees the Nightsword as something to do with his destiny—and that frightens me. The legends of Kendis-dai universally refer to his returning to reunite the galaxy in some future epoch when it is in desperate need. Targ seems to think that it’s his destiny to fulfill that legend and become Kendis-dai in our own age—apparently with or without the benefit of the Mantle of Kendis-dai.”
“You mean he thinks he is Kendis-dai?” Griffiths asked incredulously. “He’s nuts!”
“Yes,” Merinda nodded sagely. “I believe he is, as you put it, ‘nuts’—if I understand you correctly. Despite that, he still holds enough power to reach out and strip away my authority from this far across the stars. Do you understand what that means?”
Griffiths shook his head slowly.
“It means that no one—not the Vestis Dictorae, not the Interion, not the Marshals of the Fleet Centirion—no one knows that he is, as you say, nuts. No one will try to stop him,” Merinda concluded.
“No one,” Griffiths said, his mouth suddenly dry. “No one except us.”
Merinda nodded as she closed her eyes against the pain. “No one—except us.”
16
Tall Man
His name was Evon Flynn. The Tsultak called him Tall Man.
He was tall—far taller than were the others who worked around him. The E’knari—the major work force on Tsultaki, having been one of their early interstellar conquests—were not known for their great height. It was therefore easy to spot foreigners who came from the Rim Territories, as they were so often called locally.
The human’s height identified him quickly as someone from distant parts, but this in and of itself was not a thing of concern. The starport was, after all, a nexus for all kinds of interstellar travel. People and creatures from various distant stellar systems and quantum zones could be found hanging around the bays, working odd jobs for the freighters as they came in. Occasionally they were official docktenders whose job it was to guide in the ships. Frequently they were just hangers-on who stood about waiting for some odd work from the crafts as they landed. More often than not they simply presented themselves as nuisances to which each of the various captains would have to firmly—and occasionally violently—explain the meaning of “no.”
Flynn, however, wore the livery garb of the Tsultak Port Services—or at least the remains of what had once been a deep maroon tunic with navy-blue trousers. The maroon was worn to a pale imitation of its former vibrancy—its once stylish lines marred by long-unchallenged stains and several long swipes of black soot and grease. The navy color of the pants had been worn to a flat tone that could hardly be seen from under the dust that caked its surface. The fabric was torn and frayed at both knees. The shoes were worn and appeared comfortable although they certainly had not been issued as part of the ensemble.
Flynn paused for a moment, his most immediate task complete, to watch the ship’s departure. Looming over him, the massive, crystalline, angled lines of the Zharythian transport schooner drifted slowly away from him, flipped over and began to accelerate. His eyes followed the ship as it rushed out through the port bay entrance into the blistering air outside. The crystal of the ship flared painfully as it emerged into the sudden brilliance of the sun. The bay entrance was one of thirty such openings—a gaping maw in the face of a nearly vertical cliff. Far below, and for as far as his eyes could see, lay the great Sand Sea, painfully dazzling beneath an emerald sky.
Flynn pondered what the tour pamphlets described as “the breathtaking wonder of the world of Tsultaki, hub of power for the entire Tsultak Majestik and foundation of the throne of Tsulandis Marcondis Eternicas, Lord Master of the K’dei and Arch-empiris of the Majestik Sphere.”
He shrugged. Big deal.
He turned to the newly arrived wooden cart behind him. Four centaurs—another early conquest—drew it. Evon was considerably shorter than any of them, of course: the centaurs were nearly eight feet tall. He recognized two of them as drinking acquaintances that he occasionally met after their collective shifts were over. He remembered their names as Hwnos and Whilm. They stood in harness with two other centaurs that the man had never seen before. Hwnos was arguing a point rather strongly with his companion who now wore a rather dark and glaring countenance. The man knew that Whilm was something of an angry drunk and made a mental note to leave the bar early after work before Whilm worked himself into lather.
The oversized cart contained a number of tightly woven baskets. Each was filled with export goods clearly marked for destinations in the more civilized areas of the galactic disk. The names stenciled hurriedly on the sides of the crates evoked images of distant worlds and lands—of art and life, beauty and poetry, grandeur and refinement, that were somehow lacking in every aspect of the dusty wilderness on Tsultaki.
Flynn read the names of those faraway places across the stars. He had visited many of them, tasted their fruits and meats, and basked in their gentle breezes. Now they were only names to him of places he had left behind. His old life out on the rim was like a bad dream, and he had no desire to return. He had another trade—one which he had kept to himself these last two months in port—which offered him much higher rewards and far fewer questions about his past. It was exciting, it was dangerous, and it offered little opportunity for too much introspection. Unfortunately, it required that he come occasionally into the Tsultak port in order to learn just where opportunity would present itself.
He grasped the handles in his strong hands and pulled the crating free of the cart. The strain of it showed in his face but he uttered not a single sound, bearing the weight on his own while it took two of his E’knari companions to equal his load. Looking up, he could see the Aendorian ship bobbing slightly in her moorings, the carefully carved totems lining the trunk of her hull. She was a long ship; her branches slowly shifting the acceleration matrix of her leaves. She was bound for Aendorian space and there was almost certainly a consignment of yardow aboard her—a cargo whose ransom could be counted in the worth of entire continents. Indeed, the thought crossed his mind that the very container he was laboriously moving toward the hands of the waiting crew could be that same consignment. It was an idle thought, however, and he knew it.
His job was to send others on their way. He never joined those shipments on their cross-stellar treks. He helped to load the wealthy and bored who were all on their way to nearly mythical worlds far from the core frontier. He loaded them efficiently—but was never counted among them.
They were all headed back toward that “other life” as he had come to think of it. It was not a direction that he cared to take. Tsultaki was the last gasp of civilization on the verge of the Maelstrom Wall and all of the lawlessness that the place implied. One could hide in such a place, and he rather liked the comfort that anonymity gave him.
“Tall Man,” rumbled the cultured, resonant voice behind him. “We crave your attention on a matter of some concern to us.”
Flynn
turned. His words were tired and flat—a litany that he had performed all too often. “I hear and direct my thoughts and being to your words, Master of the Port. My spirit is directed to your will.”
The Tsultak port master was a massively impressive dragon, even for one of his kind. The wings were folded back modestly against the beast’s vibrantly blue doublet. The shirt beneath was a brilliant, and nearly painful, white whose multiple-ruffled front blended with a massive cravat pinned tightly just below the dragon’s head. All Tsultak wore long, splayed kilts over their hindquarters. The pattern of the port master’s kilt was woven to represent scales of his clan. Titanium chains, bracelets, and bands adorned the entire length of his tail, while a massive golden pendant swung suspended around his long neck. Flynn noticed that the multiple rows of horns crowning the dragon’s head were carefully filed and manicured. He could even swear that the beast was wearing eye shadow. The effect was something of a fashion overkill.
The man could see the E’knari workers sitting down on the cart. The Tsultak had not addressed them directly, but they were required to stop work and listen whenever a Tsultak addressed anyone in their group. They at least got the “stop work” part correct. When a Tsultak started talking, the end of the conversation could be a long way off.
“Tall Man, we would address you concerning your appearance and uniform. The Lord Master of the K’dei and Arch-empiris of the Majestik Sphere, may the celestial spheres shine forever on his magnificence and wisdom, praise to his righteous reign and blessing upon his clutch and brood, has decreed that the starport stevedores should be liveried in fabrics of good repair. It is with my heartfelt regrets that I present to you this admonition of rebuke on your appearance and a challenge of demand that you purchase new livery within the ten-day.”
Flynn put both fists on his hips as he looked up at the thirty-foot-tall dragon. “Would Your Lord Portmaster be paying for these new clothes that I’m supposed to buy?”
Nightsword Page 14
