“That’s not the point!”
“Yes, I know. The point is that you have gotten into the habit of thinking of yourself as beyond the law. That’s a very dangerous position to take, my dear. But, you always were headstrong and heedless. I recommend you eat a little less choon and moderate your actions.”
Gilhame tucked the pard into the curve of his arm and stood up. He smiled lazily. “Well, Guthry, 1 think we are done.”
Gyre’s officers arose from the table with unseemly haste. Admiral Gyre took his dismissal a little more slowly, but finally stood up. Frikard and Buschard came to their feet. Only Alvellaina and Vraser remained seated.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, ur Fagon,” snapped Gyre.
“I didn’t think I had. Oh yes. I commend the Copian tapes to your attention. There are some features you might find fascinating.”
But Gyre was already opening the portal, Frikard escorting him. Gilhame watched, amused, while Gyre’s officers quivered between polite farewells and a need to accompany their commanding officer. They finally mumbled thanks and left in undignified haste to pursue the Admiral. Huschard left with them, closing the portal behind him.
Gilhame put down the pard and began unbuttoning his tunic. “Damned itching. Can’t you do anything about it, Farren?” he asked the Healer.
“It’s normal,” said the old man, filling his cup again. Alvellaina got up and came down the length of the table. She picked up Gyre’s trencher and cup and took them to the disposer. She shoved them into the slot and gave the two men a radiant smile.
Gilhame enjoyed her smile. “Now, what is all this about Derissa being a medic? No, don’t say a word. I can’t stand this uniform a minute longer. It’s a strait jacket.” He went into his bedroom and changed his clothes.
When he came back into the room, Buschard and Frikard were entering. Alvellaina had reset the table for five, grouped at one end.
“Will you satisfy my curiosity, m’alba?” he asked as she sat down on his right. “What did you say to Guthry when you sat him at the table?”
She blushed lightly. “I was hoping you weren’t watching.”
“I always watch you, little one,” he said ignoring the suppressed smiles of his officers.
“I told him that if I ever heard him call me a whore again, I would cut his liver out, cook it on the end of a shovel and feed it to the pigs.”
“Brava! I see I underestimated your worth. A fleet at least, with perhaps a duchy or two thrown in for good measure. But, why would you cook it?”
“I rather like pigs, and I wouldn’t want to make them ill.” The room was filled with masculine laughter.
“And now, you old eavesdropper,” Gilhame said to
Vraser, “what did you get out of Gyre’s conversation?” “There were . . . indications. Captain Devero is privy to whatever mischief Gyre is up to, and he is very worried about that. He lied directly about the matter of the Nabatean weapons. He knows what those weapons are and probably has a good idea how and when they will be used. I would say that contact was made while he was on Muria.” “Any conclusions?”
“I believe ... he has come to some agreement with the Nabateans. He will do something for them in return for some consideration on their part—if he doesn’t come to pieces altogether first. The choon delusions are affecting his judgment. He wanted to know what you knew. He’s afraid of you, Gil, and he hates you.”
“Anything else?”
“His staff is very . . . spooked. Commander Mafrin almost certainly does not know what is going on, but he is worried. Also, I believe that Captain Devero acted without Gyre’s knowledge or permission. The premature use of that organic-radiation poison . . . uh, tipped his hand.” “Alright. Good. What do we know, or think we know? Gyre has made a deal with the Nabateans; he has knowledge of at least one weapon which is not part of the Kardusian arsenal. He probably knows that the incident on Copia was not a curthel invasion.
“I think we can safely assume that the curthel thing is chemical and that, combined with the radiation matter, it points a rather bony finger at Araclyde. Her talents in that area are well-known.
“I can just see my report now. To His Imperial Majesty, Clyven the Fourth, greetings. Evidence indicates that Your Majesty’s sister, the Nabatean Empress Araclyde, is planning chemical warfare against the Kardus Temporal Empire. To this end, she may have purchased the services of Your Majesty’s own Admiral Guthry Gyre. Obediently yours, Admiral Gilhame ur Fagon.’ By the imperishable blood of the Savior, the Ten Nations Compact would fly into a million pieces if I sent that out. The war that would follow would make a curthel invasion look like a school dance. And really, we have no evidence, just a lot of unhealthy suspicions. Did you really send Marpessa to the Havassit Institute, Ven?”
“We told you she was on ice, Gil,” Buschard answered instead.
“Yes, I believe you did. Cosmos protect me from my well-meaning subordinates. My enemies I can take care of.
I am still somewhat puzzled. Of what possible use is this radiation stuff outside of armed combat? We don’t do enough of that to justify a weapon for just hand-to-hand.” Vraser cleared his throat. “That’s not quite how I see it being used. I believe it could be distributed as an airborne mist, tasteless and odorless. It would have no effect while one was awake. But, when one was asleep, it would invade the sinews, destroy them and you would never even know you had been poisoned. The stuff acts like a disease we only know from medical history, a wasting disease where the lifeblood actually destroys the body.”
“You mean the stuff could be put in the air or water supply of a city—or a ship.”
“Precisely.”
“Can it be detected?”
“It seems that a few individuals can ‘see’ it. One of my staff, Gurian, can. That was how we actually determined how to treat you and Derissa.”
“I want everyone who can ‘see’ that damned substance checking out every ship in the fleet. I wouldn’t put sabotage past dear old Guthry. He’s always been a cheater. That is, if you haven’t anticipated me already.”
“I have and I haven’t. The Dragon was checked out before we left.”
“Check it again. I want everyone on full alert until every ship in the fleet has a clean bill of health. Nobody sleeps.” “Yes, sir.” Vraser gave him a wide grin.
“Now, tell me about Derissa being on your staff.”
“All the girls are officially noncombatant personnel of the fleet, Gil,” Buschard put in.
“Oh?”
“It seemed the wisest thing. After all, the irregularity of their positions could only be unpleasant. So, Armanda is listed as a musician, Derissa is studying healing, and
Alvellaina is officially part of Lefair’s work staff.”
“I am still unsure as to why you felt this was necessary.” “Suppose you dropped dead right now.”
“A gruesome thought, but go on.”
“Alvellaina would have been an unprotected ship’s woman.”
“I am occasionally quite dense. I am glad 1 have subordinates who aren’t afraid to keep me out of trouble. Tell me, what do you think Gyre will do, Pers?”
Buschard thought for a moment. “I think he’ll go renegade.”
Chapter XVI
Renegade. The word seemed to echo inside his head long after Buschard had spoken it. The guests were gone, his staff departed, the table cleared, the room silent except for the pard’s purring. Turncoats were not unique or even novel, of course, but ur Fagon found the concept offended him. Somehow, betrayal was worse than death.
He put the pard down from his lap and got up. He paced back and forth in the room, mentally sorting and resorting all the information. Finally he went to a little niche in the wall and opened the cover.
Var. Gilhame stared at the bottle. The hideous, wormlike red parasites swam around in the bottom of the vessel. Over them floated the thick, gray fluid which was the by-product of their existence, the var which provoked some visions of the future, if
one was foolhardy enough to desire them.
The parasites and their excretion disgusted him. He understood why the original ur Fagon had become dependent on such a device, but it still repelled him. Gilhame remembered a tall man with a shaven head wearing a necklace made of red leeches implanted around his throat. The man’s eyes were glazed but not empty, distant eyes which saw a constant world of tomorrows. The bloated red leeches lived on the man’s blood and, in return, he saw the future, or perhaps his most cherished dreams. That was the
danger of var. Sometimes one saw what one wished to see.
Gilhame knew that that other ur Fagon who still whispered in his mind had been fortunate in his use of the drug. Of fantasies and outre desires, he had been moderately free. All he had cared for was winning and serving the Emperor, in that order. Var had been a tool to shorten the odds a little, to give an edge, as it had at the Battle of the Vardar Straits. Now he needed that edge, and he hesitated to use it.
Gilhame wished he were free of his need to anticipate the future or that he could leave the matter in the hands of those more competent to deal with it, like Major Avillar. He could not. So, he poured a minute amount of var off the top of the bottle, watching the red worms react to the disturbance, recapped the bottle, closed the niche and carried the glass back to the table.
He swallowed the stuff, barely a mouthful, in a single gulp. Time stopped.
Fast-rushing darkness. The splendid power of the Black Dragon’s body, leathery wings beating across the Void. Voices? No, thoughts. How much does the bastard know? Damn Marp and her temper. Must move up the attack. Release the ingarit now. They’ll never know what hit them. Gilhame ur Fagon will wake up dead. Iam going to murder an entire fleet!’ Pleasure. ‘I only wish I could see it happen. ’ Faint regret.
Eyes. The Black Dragon saw through eyes not his own. The corridor of a ship all twisted and distorted, full of colors and shapes he could not name. A tiny room full of dials. The faces of the instruments seemed to crawl around, the lights bounced up and down. There was a timepiece on the wall. The numbers on it seemed to have left their places and to be engaging in a pattern dance. With great difficulty, the Dragon disengaged himself from the mind he was riding. The colors vanished. The dials were dials, the numbers on the chronometer just numbers. 1407 hours, Nelis9, 4702. The blackness swirled past him, the leathery wings flapped home, then faded into nothing.
Gilhame opened his eyes. Alvellaina sat across from him, looking disapproving. He looked straight into her
green eyes. “It was needful, m’alba.”
“I know.”
“But you still don’t like it.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. Especially the mixture of var and choon I just experienced. Gah! My mouth tastes like a locker.” He picked up the little cup and took it into the bathroom. He washed it out, then rinsed his mouth several times.
Gilhame returned the cup to its niche and got a bottle of wine and two glasses from the refreshment cabinet. “How much did you get?”
“All of it, I think. I felt you ‘go’ and came across immediately. 1 just could not sit still. At least I understand a little better now why you use it.
“Do you? I don’t.”
“The Dragon. It was rather like the Angels and Demons Pattern. I wish we had finished that. It was a wonderful feeling of freedom, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. Well, with any luck, I won’t need the blasted stuff again. Nelis 9. That’s tomorrow. I wonder why he is waiting?”
“I don’t think he’s supposed to do anything yet. I think he’s supposed to wait. And I think the drug is affecting his judgment.”
“Has anyone ever told you you are as smart as you are beautiful, m’alba?”
“I don’t believe so.” She smiled at him, then sipped the wine he had poured. Damn you, don’t look at me that way. Alvellaina felt her thoughts go into their usual confusion when Gilhame turned the full force of his affection upon her. / don’t want to love you and be used by you. No, that’s not true. I want you, but on my terms. Has it always been like this, this battle for supremacy? Probably. But he’s so damned brave and so disciplined. He makes me feel useless. All I’ll ever be is an object of affection. 1 can’t compete with the war for his love. Why can’t I just settle for the crumbs, why must I have the whole cake? Or, do I want to reform him? And would I feel like this about him if he were all tame and nice? Why couldn’t I have gone with Father? Exile couldn’t possibly be worse than this.
“Have you ever used drugs, little one?” His deep voice broke into her reverie.
“I’ve been smoky on field-weed a few times. The wind was in the wrong quarter and brought the fumes up to the house when they were burning off the land. Nothing else.” “Did you enjoy the sensation?”
“Yes and no. I like the slight out-of-body feeling it gave me. But it also . . . excited me. I understood why the landfolk have orgies.” She was blushing.
“That’s a very common reaction. But you didn’t like it.” “I didn’t say that. It was frustrating and confusing. It made me feel undignified.”
He grinned at her. “I regret to say that there is never anything dignified about sex. Grace, occasionally, can be achieved by the knowledgeable, but never dignity. Still, I cannot deny I would like to see you in such a state.” “Don’t be crude.”
“I can’t help it. You arouse all my healthy animal nature.”
“I know that.”
“Have you been snooping in my skull again, woman?” “I would hardly call it snooping when any telepath within a mile can ‘hear’ you shouting.”
“Do I shout? Mentally, I mean? And I thought I was being very discreet.”
“Discreet! About as subtle as a boil. My sisters are starting to give me evil looks. Derissa has become quite fond of you, since . . . And Armanda, well, she has always had a romantic disposition. But, total strangers are glaring at me and I ‘hear’ them whisper, ‘Who does she think she is?’ in their minds. As if I should be honored. No, Admiral, you are not discreet!”
“I do not think I have ever made so many black marks with a woman when I have been on my best behavior. Forgive me, m’alba.”
“For what? Your feelings are your own. I’ve been being a little . . . spoiled, but I am used to having things my own way. I should just have capitulated instantly, when you laid your heart before me. I think anyone else would have.” “And why didn’t you?”
“Because you never asked me.”
“Asked you what, m’alba?”
“If it was alright with me to be loved by you. You just assumed that since you loved me, everything was as it should be. Just because you love someone, doesn’t mean they want it.”
“Presumptuous of me, to be sure.”
“Yes, it was. But I have made up my mind.” Alvellaina smiled at him in her heartrending way.
“I can see that, m’alba. What a botch we have made of our beginning. Hello, little friend,” he said as the pard came walking up the table. “I think she earned a title today, don’t you, m’alba?” He scratched the animal between its ears.
“For clawing Gyre? I do. I just wish she had gotten his
face!”
“For a lady who professes to loathe violence, you have a nasty, bloodthirsty streak in you.”
“It must be the company I’ve been keeping. What shall we offer the pard for a name?”
“I’ve no idea. I wish you could have seen Guthry’s face when I told him her claws weren’t septic.”
“What do you think of ‘Capsia’? That means ‘traitor’s bane’ in Gretarian.”
“Short and poetic. I like it. Do you think you could bear to be called Capsia, my small ally?” he asked the pard. The beast yawned at him, curling a pink tongue. “I suppose that is an affirmative.”
Alvellaina looked at him. “Why did you leave Faldar?” she asked abruptly.
“Because I could not see the Dream.”
“I don’
t understand.”
“My home world,‘his’home world. . . this body’s world of origin is, what shall I say? A massive racial delusion? After the last curthel devastation, the Faldarians created a new religion or philosophy. It is an odd combination of fatalism and despondency. They decided not to rebuild. After all, who knew when there would be another wave of planet-wide hysteria?
“They have not rebuilt a single building. The only new construction on the planet is at Fanar, the out-worlder’s city. That is where the spaceport is, and the embassies and government offices. The rest of the world is precisely as it was at the end of the last curthel invasion, except for a couple centuries of erosion and plant growth. I was breached between the roots of a great tree which has been the ur Fagon ‘keep’ for six generations.
“But the Faldarians do not see crumbling cities and vine-encrusted buildings. They have the Dream. They have a world of perfect beauty. Each fire-gutted building is a fairy castle—light, airy, complete. Every family-tree-keep is a palace. I could never see the Dream. By the standards of my race, I was crippled or mad or both.”
Alvellaina heard the sorrow in his voice. She could imagine a younger Gilhame longing for some kind of acceptance from his people and receiving none. “Do you hate them?” “I don’t believe so. I used to be vastly impatient when my mother would send me up to her ‘bedroom’ to fetch her fan, and I would climb up to her sleeping platform and get a large fern branch. I would catch glimpses of what she ‘saw’—the beautiful drapes blowing lightly in a breeze, the soft bed covered with furs, the gleam of candlelight off polished floors. I would see the hard, bare, plaited platform and the sleeping covers woven out of grasses at the same time. The elders did everything they could to ‘cure’ me, but by the time I was fourteen, they gave it up. I fathered my sister-son, as required, went to Fanar and entered the Academy a year later. The rest of my life is a matter of public record. You may consult the ship’s library if you are curious.”
She heard the shift in his voice, the quick harshness to hide an old hurt. Alvellaina felt the motes of the Dragon’s lifetimes, the pain he must have suffered before, all drawn together in the story of Gilhame ur Fagon’s failure to be a man of his people. 7 thought he was immune to pain. How many other ways have I misjudged you, old friendT
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 19
