Don’t bother. I say, I say, boy, I don’t need to know the exact breed of poultry! I let the branch sink back into place and stood up, wiping my hands on my skirt. Chicken blood, eh? So the whole thing was staged. Why, and who by?
Hard questions. This is a quiet world, Anna, and they don’t have much trouble. There was a murder here a decade ago and they’re still talking about it.
No crime, not even among the Tambou themselves?
Only minor misdemeanours. A drunken brawl or two, a pocket picked from time to time, but nothing overly violent, nothing severe enough to spoil the idyllic glamour of the place.
Perhaps the official statistics are laundered to keep it that way? I chewed at my lower lip. Somewhere between here and the river Chandre and the child must have stepped out of line. Could they have seen or done something forbidden, breaking a taboo so vital that they had to be taken captive or even killed because of it?
I’ve scant data on Tambou folklore and religious beliefs, except that concerning their numerous festivals and feast-days, in which all visitors are encouraged to participate. Zenni paused, then voiced his doubt. Do you think Chandre’s dead?
No. I didn’t even have to think about that, my intuition was so certain. I’m going to backtrack along the route for another look. I may have missed something.
You’ve around ninety minutes before dusk.
Retracing my steps along the path told me nothing new, so I widened the search into the surrounding forest. To the north of the beaten track the undergrowth was much more enthusiastic and, as I found from experience, thornier. In exasperation I sent my skirt back up to Brimstone and took to the trees.
You really were descended from apes. Zenni observed approvingly, as I swung through the branches with judicious use of TK, making very little noise. I could never bring myself to believe that theory—now I’ve proof positive.
If not apes... I panted, then what?
In your particular case, something sleek and ill-tempered, with teeth! My partner chuckled. Maybe a polecat or a stoat?
Gee, thanks... I scrambled through the leathery foliage of a sweet chestnut, then launched myself across to the next tree, friend!
Even using this unorthodox means of transport, it took me almost an hour to find anything other than forest, and sadly, the discovery wasn’t as earth-shattering as I might have wished. There was an unmarked clearing in the trees with no visible paths leading to it, a space a hundred yards across. At its southern end was a low, flat stone that from its size might have overlain an ancient grave, its surface a mass of carvings, delicate spirals and complex circular mandalas, their sharpness blunted by age and weathering, their designs obscured by khaki moss and a pink lichen-like growth. I leapt nimbly down from the canopy and found that the grass in the clearing had been trampled flat, as though a crowd had occupied the place. Beside the stone was a circle of ash where a bonfire had burned—the embers were cold and dead. I sat down on the edge of the recumbent, trying to cull some sense from this meagre data. There was a gathering here. How many would this clearing hold?
Between one and two hundred Tambou, from the state of the grass. Judging from the remains of the fire, it took place yesterday, early evening.
Just after Chandre went by. A secret meeting then, barred to the eyes of off-worlders? A religious cult, enacting obscene rites?
If you’re suggesting the Sisterhood of Grace, think again. They don’t practise any rituals outside of the Cluster.
Scratch that idea. Let’s try another scenario: Chandre and the kid stumble across something going on in this place, something illegal, something subversive, so whoever’s in charge gives the order to stage the accident. While it’s being set up, they realise who Chandre is and decide that she’s more valuable to them alive.
As far as anyone here knows, Chandre is just another visitor from Earth. If they dig any deeper, they’ll find that she’s assistant director of Merope Observatory, a loyal employee of SanFran Uni. She has no obvious links with EI.
So they had a surge of conscience or a change of heart, whatever. Chandre and the child are taken hostage, but it’s too late to stop their deletion from the hotel register, which was intended to cover the murders.
I might buy that, but why go ahead with the staged accident?
I shrugged. Perhaps to confuse the issue, perhaps because it was too late to call it off?
If this is a kidnap, wouldn’t their captors have sent a ransom demand by now?
I would have expected that, yes. The sun was sinking and half the glade was in deep shadow. The sweat from my exertions was cold on my skin and I shivered. I don’t like the feel of this bit of Tambouret, Zenni. There’s a strangeness to it, an odd taint in the air.
There was a heartbeat’s pause as Zenni scanned the area. There are scores of chemical traces here, mostly derived from rotting vegetation, but nothing overtly unpleasant.
I didn’t mean a bad smell! If I were one step nearer being a mystic I’d say that it stank of evil, but you keep me firmly on the tracks of hard science and don’t allow me lapses like that. I hunched my shoulders, still conscious of a chill that was more psychic than physical. Something extraordinary happened here recently, something outside our experience—something that scares me!
You’re imagining it, Zenni said, oozing paternal reassurance. You’ve been riding on your nerves since Collins off-loaded this mission onto us. Your senses are in a heightened, hair-trigger state. It’s only natural that you see demons in every shadow.
When we paired, I didn’t bargain on never being able to say anything without having it dissected, indexed and sorted into safe, logical pigeonholes! I returned viciously. There’s nothing more I can do here. I’m going back.
The forest was very still and my bare feet added little to the dearth of sound as I picked my way back to the track. I called down another skirt, a long, flowing one this time, and a shawl as protection against the dewy chill of dusk.
Sorry, Anna! Zenni sounded it. I didn’t mean to come the patronising sceptic with you. Until this reprogramming is complete I may act off character. Jeb can’t make the final adjustments until he runs my behaviour response curve, and he won’t do that until the job’s finished.
Okay, you’re forgiven. I grinned briefly. Don’t take it to heart. By the way, how is the good Dr Lucas?
Snoring fit to wake the dead. I estimate he’ll be out of it for another three or four hours.
Don’t disturb him—he deserves the rest.
When I emerged from the Forest of Dreams it was near dark and my path across the meadow was picked out by a double line of stones that glowed with a violet luminescence, as were all of the tracks leading to the Dreamgate. Against a sky crosshatched cobalt blue with twilight, the great bulk of the mountain was blocked out in indigo. Lights were beginning to come on all over the city as I approached, lofty beacons shining down from its crystal windows, pale silver and wan gold, and on the lower slopes the terraces were hung with strings of gaudy lanterns, jewel-bright pearls that danced on the salty evening breeze. The Dreamgate itself was an arch of saffron light, casting a welcoming glow across the damp grass. There was more activity at the gate than I’d anticipated, a number of tourists hurrying back to their hotels for supper and a steady stream of Tambou, with equal numbers going into the city as coming out. I hadn’t thought that sunset would be the rush-hour in Krystallya, but the carved thoroughfares and ornamented byways were humming with crowds and by the time I reached the Opal Garden, I was hot and the excess gravity had made my legs decidedly sore. I let my mind waiver towards the temptation of a shower, in keeping with my tourist persona, but as usual, duty came first.
I sensed Lyall’s mind first, stripped naked of even his most basic defences and burning fire-bright. He was still sleeping and my knock didn’t wake him. Meeka took her time to grudgingly open the door, and there was another presence in the room with her, a stranger.
“The police are here,” she said quietly, waving me
past her. “Only one of them, an investigator.”
The Tambou stood to greet me, unsmiling. His hair was black and in retreat from his forehead, each separate curl of it on his scalp and down his spine oiled into a perfect ringlet. He wore a charcoal-grey skinsuit discreetly seamed with crimson and silver braid, stretched tight over the kind of muscular physique that carried the outfit off handsomely. All he lacked was a rapier at his hip, a night-black cloak and a waxed moustache to twirl—I read that he was a swashbuckler at heart. A haze of fragrance surrounded him, sweet and sickly, and I recognised one component of the scent as patchouli, which always made me nauseous.
My father used to warn me against making snap judgements of character, then ruined all his good advice by invariably doing so himself. I took one look at this flamboyant individual and hated him instantly, my hackles rising and my guts twisting with the sheer intensity of my loathing.
“My name is Herculeon SantDenis,” he said, letting off a grin so brilliant that it felt like both barrels of a shotgun fired into my face. “I am Krystallya’s foremost investigator. And you are?”
Overcome with delight at meeting such a charming and modest sentient? Zenni prompted, radiating amusement as he touched my revulsion.
“On holiday.” I faked an anaemic smile. “I’m Caron McVeigh.”
“And your connection with these people?”
“My mother went to college with Chandre Marteen.” I improvised. “She’s my godmother. I haven’t seen her in years and I thought I’d look her up while I was here, but Mrs Jansen I never met before today.”
“And where do you hail from?”
“Barnard Three. My grandfather was a terraformer there.” I improvised a little more fake biography for Caron. “My family grow apples and keep dairy cattle.”
SantDenis reached his own snap decision and I saw the words take shape inside his head—farmer’s daughter, harmless, middling dumb, above average in the prettiness stakes and probably naive enough to be worth making a play. His smile sizzled with mischief and the unleashed desire in his aura was like a kick to the groin. “Pioneer stock, eh? Where would we be without such brave folk? Are you planning to stay here long, my dear?”
“Two weeks.” I cringed inwardly, forcing my expression to remain neutral.
“If you want an experienced guide to our lovely city, I offer you my services.” There was no escaping his scarcely-disguised attempt at seduction; the empath in me wanted to run squeaking into its mousehole and not come out until the furry terror had slunk away. SantDenis bowed deeply, tensing the muscles in sequence along his back so that his spinal crest rippled in what might be an attractive fashion to a Tambou female’s jaundiced eye. “I am not always on duty—in fact, I have this evening free. Would you care to join me for supper? I could introduce you to some of the finer pleasures of Krystallya.”
He’d be a good source of local information. Zenni suggested.
And all of the most virulent strains of Tambouret’s share of social diseases, no doubt.
Don’t forget, Anna, that your vaccinations are up to date. You’re so squeaky-clean that you could board at any cattery in the civilised galaxy.
Puh-lease! I mimed throwing my hands up in horror. We aren’t that desperate for inside data, are we?
Perhaps we are.
I lowered my head, peeped shyly from under my copper lashes and kept my options open. “I only arrived today and I’m exhausted. Perhaps we could postpone until tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. I’ll call by.” Triumph glinted in his eyes; I was in the bag, the notch already carved in his bedpost. “And I’ll see you again tomorrow, Mrs Jansen, with better news, I hope. Until then.”
Meeka nodded and let him out.
Pompous little pipsqueak! I exploded, to Zenni. And such overweening confidence—he honestly believes that I’d consider venturing into the cesspit of his bed! Ugh, the very thought!
“He likes you.” Meeka leaned against the door jamb, folding her arms and indulging in a poisonous smile. “You lucky woman, you! I am so jealous!”
“Is he on Chandre’s case?”
“Yes.” Her barbed amusement died. “He came here to deliver the official line—there was no crime, Chandre was never here and I have no daughter. When I protested, he almost told me to my face that I was mad, then recalled his manners.”
“Does he really expect you to buy that?”
“I don’t know what he expects.” She stalked across the room, pacing out her frustration. “I can’t get a make on him, he’s such a fruitcake.”
All I wanted to do with SantDenis was forget the man. “How’s Lyall?”
“Asleep. Look, can you play nursie for a bit? I want to wash up and then get something to eat.”
Her new assertiveness was well-rehearsed and I read the underlying hours of boredom that had given it birth. “Go ahead. I’ll stay with Lyall for the rest of the night. Can you tell the desk to have some food sent up here?”
She nodded and scurried away, relieved to be out of my company. A screen had been set in front of the bed, a light, movable wall woven from grass and split cane. When I folded one panel aside to look into the alcove, the telepath was dreaming, his fever broken.
His vital signs are on a much more stable footing than when we first saw him. Zenni observed.
I left the invalid to rest and invaded the bathroom. All the fittings were carved out of the rock, which could have been stark but for the luxuriant purple and green leaves of the vines which cascaded over the blank walls. The shower was enchanting; not for Tambouret a sterile cubicle but a soft waterfall misted with rainbows and caught in a wide, curving scallop shell. It didn’t matter that the water was luke-warm and there were no air-blowers to dry yourself, only old-fashioned towels.
Venus on the half-shell? Zenni murmured, as I lathered off the sweat.
Don’t you start giving me delusions of grandeur! You should know better!
Yes, I’m used to you pulling wonders out of the hat. Jeb’s not comfortable with your powers yet and he doesn’t appreciate their full scope.
I hope he can learn to live with them. I pushed that particular seed of doubt aside and finished rinsing off the soap. It seemed to take forever to dry myself, so I wrapped myself in the biggest towel and began to comb out the wet copper corkscrews of my hair.
“Chandre?”
I turned to see Lyall swaying in the doorway, wound into his sheet as if it was a shroud, a hollow-eyed ghost. He stared at me, confusion and fear partnered in a reel within his mind. No recognition dawned in his eyes.
“Oh, it’s awake are you?” It wasn’t a fair and accurate description of his mental state, but it was close enough for my purposes.
He hurled a weak probe at me and found a name to give the strange face, but it took so much out of him that he had to clutch at the wall to stay on his feet. “Anna? When did you get here?”
“Don’t you remember?” He shook his head and I had to catch his elbow before the movement could sweep away his tenuous grip on balance. “Come on, let me take you back to bed.”
“What an offer!” He tried for a smile and fell yards short. “Any other day I might take you up on it... Christ, I feel like death warmed up!”
“You’ve every right to.” I steered Lyall back into the alcove and shovelled this wreck of a man back into his sickbed. He shut his eyes, panting to regain his breath, and made no protest as I rearranged sundry pillows and covers. “What do you remember?”
“We lost Chandre and I went out to look for her—it was so bloody infuriating that nobody was willing to help! Then I started to get sick and it’s all hazy after that.”
“You’ve misplaced a day, that’s all.” I reassured.
He rubbed at his eyes. “How’d you get here so quick?”
“I just did.” I went back into the bathroom and borrowed a robe to soak up the moisture that lingered on my skin, just in time to take delivery of the food. I set the tray down at Lyall’s bedside and
poured him out some fruit juice, which he sipped cautiously. His hand shook with the weight of the glass.
Supper Krystallya-style was a cold collation, very Terran and very healthy, a salad of avocado and prawns, followed by cheese, crackers and fruit. While the telepath dozed, recovering some strength, I rapidly disposed of my share, wondering what a real Tambou meal would be like. I finished, then sneaked another of the local variants of grapes, which were large, brown and tasted of syrup.
Lyall opened one eye, noting the theft. “Hey, don’t eat it all or I’ll starve to death.”
“That’s all the thanks I get for curing you?” I perched on the end of his bed, curling my tired feet up beneath me. “I’d have thought you’d have been more grateful.”
“Sorry, Anna.” The smile peeled off his face—he thought I was serious. Telepath he might be, but he never made any attempt to delve into my mind; he wrote that off as courtesy to a colleague, which was a lie he could be comfortable with, although I saw through to its true basis, his deeply-buried fear of me. He sat up gingerly, propping himself up on pillows. “Of course I’m grateful. When I sent out that call for help I didn’t expect it to be answered so soon, or by our prime-pair. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Sure, Lyall, so glad that you let slip to our friend Meeka who I really am.”
He went a shade paler. “When did I do that, when I was in fever? Did she pick up on it?”
“Just watch the way she reacts to me and you’ll know the answer to that.”
Lyall shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a damn rookie’s trick, breaking a partner’s cover like that. What can I say? A fever is no excuse for such an error—I’m meant to be a pro. Curse that unfortunate illness!”
“It was a little bit more than unfortunate.”
“What do you mean?” He frowned. “I thought I’d picked up a local bug, something from the water or food.”
“I took a blood-thorn out of your forearm.”
Lyall went dead white, his usually fair complexion turning to chalk. “Those bitches from the Sisterhood! Why would anyone have enough reasons to put a mark out on me?”
The Beauty of Our Weapons Page 8
