Disappearing Act

by Margaret Ball

  There was no escape from Kalapriya—not for her. Going back through Tasman would be a death sentence if Johnivans had people watching for her; and he would be sure to hear about any shuttle manifest with Calandra Vissi's name on it.

  And in the immediate future, then, no escape from the role of Calandra Vissi.

  Chapter Six

  Udara on Kalapriya

  Lorum van Vechten, Resident in Udara for the Barents Trading Society, surveyed the Bashir's waiting room and unconsciously lifted his patrician nose slightly higher, as if avoiding a bad smell. No matter how many hours he spent in these antechambers, he would never get used to Udaran taste—all these vibrant, clashing red and orange silk pillows, glittering with embroidery in gold and silver thread, piled any which way on wooden benches carved into tortuous curves and fantastic shapes. He had a strong suspicion that some of the shapes represented human figures entwined in obscene embraces, but they were so distorted and decorated by so many unnecessary curlicues that one really couldn't tell. Not for sure. Not without getting down on hands and knees and getting a really close look.

  Which, would, of course, be far too undignified an activity for the Udaran Resident—although he could almost swear the leg of that far bench was carved into the shape of an impossibly buxom and wasp-waisted girl doing something very improper to a grinning elephant-headed being—but in any case, it was too late now. The brocaded panels of the curtain before the door to the Bashir's audience room rippled and parted, and a small dark Rohini servant appeared and beckoned him silently to the inner chamber.

  This was even worse than the waiting room: a shadowed place lit only by what light filtered in through elaborately carved window screens, the air thick with the musky fragrances the Bashir fancied, and completely lined with carpets and pillows, so that the Resident had no choice but to sit native-style with legs crossed and his knees creaking in protest. A low table of beaten brass before him held several empty cups and a tall pitcher.

  The old man himself reclined comfortably on the long bed-bench that crossed the far wall, half smothered in pillows that his Rohini concubine was forever arranging and patting into place. He would not dispense with the girl's services even for the most private meeting; even his Minister for Loyalty to the State had to put up with Khati kneeling by the Bashir's head, pillowing it on her generous breasts, flaunting her half-naked charms behind some wholly inadequate tracery of gold net and embroidery. Lorum supposed it was safe enough; the girl was wholly uneducated, too ignorant to understand the import of political discussions, and she must, after all, owe her whole loyalty to the old man whose favor had raised her from a palace scrubber to the high status of most favored concubine.

  Besides, she had been residing in the palace long enough to know exactly what the Ministry for Loyalty would do, in those dark cells deep within the mountain, to a girl foolish enough to repeat what she heard in the Bashir's audience chambers.

  At least it was not necessary to greet the little whore; official protocol said that she was invisible. Lorum made his way through the customary greetings to the Bashir, as elaborate as the décor, as false as the gilded wood carved in the style of ancient metalwork, and was just drawing breath to inform the Bashir of the latest disturbing communications from Valentin when the old man raised a clawlike hand for silence.

  "General Zahin wishes to speak with you. We will await his coming."

  "But my news is most urgent!" Lorum protested.

  "All the more reason for my dear friend and trusted councillor to hear it with us. We will drink together while we wait."

  Lorum tried to conceal his impatience behind the expected courtly mask of indifference while Khati tilted the pitcher to fill two cups with madira and added a few drops to a third cup. As was polite, she sipped from the nearly empty cup she had poured for herself; this was supposed to demonstrate that the madira had not been poisoned. Not that it proved anything; if the Bashir wanted to poison him, he could easily have rubbed the inside of Lorum's cup with any of half a dozen deadly substances sold in the bazaars. It was all ritual, and meaningless. Khati's bowed head and deferent movements were a mockery of formal court behavior, made so by the full breasts and slender brown waist almost totally exposed beneath that gold net . . . Lorum reminded himself not to stare; officially, the girl wasn't even there.

  He stared instead at the clear liquid in his cup, wondering how little he could drink without being rude. The native-distilled madira was more powerful than Barents brandy, and Lorum suspected that the herbs they used to flavor it were mild hallucinogens. Even the fumes rising from the cup made him slightly dizzy. And how long must they wait for old Zahin? The Bashir's dearest friend, fine, but the ancient soldier was officially retired now that he was semiparalyzed, and in Lorum's opinion the disease that had attacked Zahin's legs had probably gone to his brain too; the old fart saw conspiracies and danger behind every curtain. And to wait on his convenience now, when they had a real problem, was intolerable!

  Finally the Minister Emeritus's entourage arrived: first two tall, unsmiling Rudhrani guards who inspected the Bashir's chamber; then the Rohini bearers staggering under the weight of Zahin's special portable chair; then at long last, when that was set up, four more panting Rohini carried Zahin's sedan chair to the door of the audience chamber, lifted him from it, and settled him in the portable chair with its extension to support his useless legs in comfort.

  Nothing could be said, of course, until all these servants withdrew. Lorum was amused to see that Pundarik Zahin appeared as anxious as he was himself to be rid of these unnecessary ears; the old man shooed them away while they were still patting at his cushions and arranging the brocaded wrap over his legs. He took the cup of madira Khati poured for him, drained it in one swallow and held it out for more.

  As soon as the curtain fell behind them, Lorum drew breath to speak—but the Bashir was before him.

  "Well?" he demanded, but he spoke in Kalapriyan, and Lorum was shocked to see the ruler looking to old Zahin, not to him, for news.

  "The boy has been taken care of."

  "Not—"

  "Dead? No. That seemed excessive, considering his parentage."

  "In a manner of speaking," the Bashir interpolated drily.

  "The late Minister Vajjadara was my good friend."

  "But young Chulayen—"

  "Was his beloved son, and entirely worthy of his father." Zahin said firmly. "I know the boy; his heart is loyal, and I can assure you he will give no further trouble."

  "How, then?"

  "His wife and children stand hostage for his future discretion—or so he believes."

  "Very well. But if that does not suffice—"

  "Further measures will be taken if necessary," Pundarik Zahin replied. "He can always go the same way as the outlander Montoyasana."

  "Can you do that to your old friend's . . . son?" It seemed to Lorum that the emphasis on the last word was strange; but then the whole language was strange. He was struggling to follow the quick-voiced interchange and had no understanding of what they were talking about.

  "Perhaps the matter should be turned over to the Minister for Loyalty," the Bashir went on.

  "The family is already in his hands. Let me stand surety for the son's behavior. I have more to lose than any of us—if you have kept your promise?"

  "There has not been time to raise the matter." The Bashir sounded, so far as Lorum could judge from the swift-flowing cadences of the liquid Kalapriyan tongue, shifty. But then, the Bashir was naturally a shifty bastard, or he'd not occupy his throne for long.

  Now Zahin was looking expectantly toward Lorum, and the Bashir shifted back into Galactic, which he spoke better than most natives—well, of course, most of them never learned the speech of the outlanders at all, why should they? But the Bashir had picked Lorum's brains remorselessly until he was nearly fluent, at least in the simplified trade version of the language. It would not do to forget that the man, insane megalomaniac though he mi
ght be, was an extremely intelligent insane megalomaniac.

  "My apologies, Resident. A small matter of internal security."

  "If this 'small matter' involves our mutual interests, I should be informed," Lorum hinted. "Did I hear the name of Montoyasana?" No need to admit having understood most of what they said; he could reasonably have picked out the one name so well known to him.

  "This has nothing to do with him," Zahin said quickly. "You know yourself that he is in no position to give further trouble."

  Lorum wondered whether he dared point out that he actually knew no such thing. Zahin had assured him that Montoyasana had been among the first group sent to the Thamboon caves. But he had not visited the caves himself. It was always possible that Montoyasana had escaped, or that he had persuaded the Udarans it was too dangerous for them to perform the surgery on an outlander . . .

  The Bashir sighed heavily and Lorum decided it was safer not to speak. "A young man, what do you call such troublemakers, 'hot of head'? In our language we say that they cast fire into the water. This one has been meddling where he should not. Someone has been careless. A formal decree appropriating some caves in the former state of Thamboon to our use crossed the desk of an officious boy who knows nothing and thinks it his duty to question everything. The stated reason for taking over the caves was for saltpeter, which we should indeed require in great quantity were it not for our private arrangement." His smile of complicity made Lorum feel as if he were wading through vats of oil. "The boy saw fit to protest loudly and far that the caves, which he has visited on pilgrimage, are not appropriate for mining operations and that our decree will destroy a natural treasure. Worse, he has hinted at knowing the true use of the caves."

  "I do not believe that," Pundarik Zahin said quickly in Kalapriyan. "He said only that it would only be worth industrializing the caves if they contained something small and valuable. He said it almost in jest, not like one hinting at a secret. He knows nothing."

  "If he knows nothing, then he will be discreet in the hope that his wife and children may yet be returned to him," the Bashir pronounced. "If he continues to speak out, then he proves that he knows too much—"

  "Or that he values honor over his personal well-being," Zahin interrupted. "In his family such a choice is not unknown."

  The Bashir snorted. "He can hardly have inherited that madness from old Vajjadara."

  "It might have been taught him."

  "In either case," the Bashir said with a chopping gesture of one hand, "if he speaks further, he must be removed. Sentimentality cannot be allowed to endanger our project. There will never be a cure for you, Pundarik, if this boy brings all down about our ears."

  Lorum started, then tried to look as if he were only studying the erotic embroideries on the wall hangings. The Bashir and his ministers did not know how much Kalapriyan he understood; on general principles he aimed to keep it that way. Only, this was the first time that anyone on the Udaran side had hinted at wanting a share in the 'mats themselves in addition to their usual payment. He could see all kinds of complications looming ahead—in addition to the one he had yet to inform the Bashir of.

  As soon as the two Udarans fell silent, Lorum spoke. "Gracious lord, there is news from Valentin—"

  "In due time, in due time," the Bashir said. "First let us discuss the matter of payment."

  "The delivery of last time was not satisfactory?" Lorum inquired sweetly. They all knew it had been more than satisfactory; otherwise Thamboon would hardly have been subdued so easily.

  "Adequate to our purposes," the Bashir said with an airy wave of his hand, "barely adequate. But we have no complaints on that score. However, it has been brought to our attention that there is some irony in our sending all the produce of our caves to outlanders while those in our own land suffer from ailments that could be readily cured." He looked pointedly at Pundarik Zahin's withered legs.

  Lorum's heart sank. This demand had been bound to rise at some time; it was his curst bad luck that one of the Udarans in most need of a 'mat transplant was the Bashir's oldest friend. But why did it have to happen now, when they already had problems enough? "The proper application of the bacteriomats is not simple," he said slowly. "A neurosurgeon should oversee the opening of the skull and insertion of the material. To bring such a skilled doctor from off-planet in secrecy will be difficult." And that was a major understatement.

  "We have surgeons," the Bashir said, "with quite sufficient practice in head operations."

  Pundarik Zahin looked queasy, and Lorum seized his chance. "Ah, but would you entrust your dear friend here to those who practice only upon the 'disappeared'?"

  "It will not be necessary," the Bashir said. "You yourself, Resident, have surgical training, have you not? Not just any training; you worked with Nunzia Hirvonen. One of the pioneers of bacteriomat treatment, I understand."

  Lorum mentally called down skin-rot, boils, and the black heaves upon whatever officious Society bureaucrat had decided that it would be a bright idea to send each Resident's full curriculum vitae to the ruler of the Indigenous Territory where he served "to show our good faith and cooperation." And for the first time in his life he regretted the cleverness with which he'd managed to excise from the curriculum vitae any mention of the fact that Hirvonen had thrown him out of "her" surgical program—damned bitch, always picking on him! She'd even convinced his family that he would embarrass them all if he was allowed to continue practicing. Just because of a few natural, almost trivial errors! The child would probably have died anyway. It was all Nunzia Hirvonen's fault that he had been forced to give up the well-paid and comfortable life of a Rezerval medic for exile to a remote Barentsian colony planet. Should he confess now? No, the Bashir would just think he was making excuses.

  On the other hand, excuses sounded like a really good idea, under the circumstances.

  "That was . . . a long time ago," he said weakly. When it came to the point, he really could not bear to go into the humiliating details. After all, he hadn't exactly flunked out of the program. He'd just been thrown out. "I would hardly trust my skills to operate on so valued a member of your inner council as the Minister Emeritus."

  The Bashir smiled. This time the image evoked was not oily; Lorum felt as if he were looking at a field of spear points. "We trust you absolutely, Resident. Not only our continued cooperation, but your life, rest upon a successful outcome."

  Did the madman really intend to jeopardize the entire, highly profitable operations of the Consortium to do a favor for this one old man? Lorum looked at the smiling dark face before him, at the fixed stare of the dilated eyes, and believed it. The man who had just casually agreed to sending a woman and children to certain death to prevent awkward questions about Consortium affairs was willing to risk ending those affairs entirely for the sake of his best friend. Who was, incidentally, the man who'd signed the order condemning those innocents.

  Of course, if Lorum performed the insertion, there'd be no doctor from off-planet, much less risk to the Consortium . . . but a totally unacceptable risk to Lorum himself. How . . . the heliograph news! Momentarily driven from his brain by this insane idea of the Bashir's, now it came back to him as salvation itself.

  "I shall be honored to serve the Bashir," Lorum said, "as soon as this problem from Valentin is settled. Unfortunately, I shall have to travel to the coast to make sure that the woman does not imperil our entire operation—"

  "What woman?" the Bashir demanded, and Lorum smiled inwardly. At last he had the man's attention.

  "The Diplomat from Rezerval," he said slowly, "who has been sent to enquire into Orlando Montoyasana's allegations of prohibited weapons technology use among certain of the Indigenous Tribal Territories." He paused to lend weight to his next words. "I have just been informed by heliograph that she intends traveling up-country in pursuit of her inquiries." Another judicious pause. "To Udara."

  "Pah!" The Bashir spat on a gold-embroidered carpet and waved for Khati to prepare hi
m another cup of madira. "One woman, that is nothing."

  "A Diplomat," Lorum tried to explain, "is more than just a woman. They have special capabilities—"

  The Bashir grinned. "Any woman seems special, till you have had her. Then they are all the same." He caressed the concubine who knelt by his side, though she could hardly have understood what he said in Galactic. "We will send our agents to stop this woman. But you are our Resident. You will remain here and perform the insertion upon Pundarik Zahin." He raised his voice. "Jamundari!"

  Lorum heard a metallic clash behind him, at the door to the entrance chamber, and turned with an unhappy feeling. The two tall Rudhrani guards were there, holding their long spears crossed to block the doorway. "You will, in fact, remain as our guest in the palace until the work is concluded," the Bashir said cheerfully, and repeated his instructions in Kalapriyan for the benefit of the guards.

  Chapter Seven

  Valentin on Kalapriya

  The ball after the banquet was intended to make the ladies of Barents and the younger people happy while keeping the Diplomat harmlessly entertained and giving the leaders of the Barents Trading Society a much-needed rest. Dwendle Stoffelsen had personally seen to it that the first five days of the Diplomat's visit were crammed from dawn to dusk with formal entertainments, speeches, and tours of everything from a bacteriomat breeding cave to the processing hall where the 'mats were prepared for shipment off-planet. It would kill him to keep up the pace he'd scheduled for the woman; before meeting her, he'd entertained some hope that it would also kill her, or at least exhaust her to the point where she'd be happy to leave Kalapriya just to escape another round of speeches and tours.

  His first sight of her at the banquet had destroyed that hope. She might have looked exhausted and frail on arrival at Valentin's spaceport, but with a couple of hours to rest she had bounced back, bright and lively and looking hardly older than one of his own daughters. She had to be at least thirty; Diplomatic School training took years, not to mention learning to manage the biomechanical implants, and Diplos were not sent out alone to their first assignments. Dwendle had just forgotten how damned young thirty could be. And how resilient. He seriously doubted they could exhaust the Diplo without killing themselves in the process.