“Get it over with,” Marim muttered, standing on tiptoes as she scanned the screen. “Heyo! Some o’ them big chatzers are nice-lookin’!”
Lokri groaned, sliding a hand over his eyes. “Always thinking of sex.”
“Or gambling,” Montrose said from Marim’s other side.
“What else is there—except food?” Marim said, grinning. Then she fell silent as Vi’ya tabbed the lock.
Everyone was quiet now as the doors slid open and the ramp extruded. Sedry Thetris touched herself quickly in four places—forehead, heart, shoulder, shoulder—in a pattern that evoked New Glastonbury on Desrien for those who remembered their visit. Lokri winced, and Vi’ya gritted her teeth.
Lucifur growled. Vi’ya laid her fingers on his rough, wedge-shaped head to send calming thoughts, then she started down the ramp, the Eya’a following close behind.
The Dol’jharians stood motionless and silent, surrounded by weird red-glowing curvilinear walls partly blocked off by gray flats; banks of bright full-spectrum lights illuminated the scene, and Vi’ya could see imagers in several locations. Barrodagh stood at one side of the line of Tarkans, a compad in his hand. But he did not move, although his eyes flickered to the Eya’a to Vi’ya and back again as his lips thinned.
“Eughh,” Marim muttered as her bare feet came into contact with the station floor. “It’s warm.”
Ivard breathed a long deep sigh, closing his eyes. “Oh, it’s so beautiful.”
“Quiet,” Lokri whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Telos, who’s that?”
In the place of command stood a man taller even than most of the Tarkans. Like them he was dressed in black, with high black boots, but he did not carry a weapon.
With two or three long, leisurely strides he met Vi’ya halfway.
She had to look up into the face she recognized instantly from her dreams. Anaris studied her with sardonic appraisal. “Welcome,” he said in Dol’jharian, “back within the governance of your ancestors. The reward is high for those who serve us with skill and courage.”
She knew it immediately for a political speech—that this was being imaged for projection over the hyperwave to all of Eusabian’s allies.
And on Ares they will be watching.
“The reward,” she answered in the same tongue, “is in keeping covenant.”
She felt a flash of anger from him like a blow. It mutated into fear, and she knew neither was at her words. Around them the station trembled, recalling deep-buried memories of the jolting quakes of Dol’jhar. Tension and terror radiated from the Tarkans. Moire patterns washed through the red-glowing walls.
The lights flickered.
ELEVEN
ARES
“Shall I summon the steward to bring more coffee?”
Vannis exerted every skill and nerve to preside over the breakfast table at the Enclave with grace and courtesy, endeavoring to set a tone of humor for yet another day.
As had happened more frequently since the riots, the conspirators who had betrayed Brandon had gathered to offer their unspoken support. Sebastian Omilov spent many hours of his day visiting, and some days his son joined them. It was so this morning; their ranks had been further swelled by the High Phanist. Vannis did not like or trust this latter, disturbing circumstance; still angry with Desrien and all its adherents for seducing her mother into exiling herself there, she still was careful to keep her feelings about religious leaders to herself as she saw to everyone’s comfort.
The only non-conspirators were Osri Omilov, from time to time, as today, and Fierin Kendrian, who still did not understand why her brother had disappeared without warning. But she had accepted philosophically the legal transfer of her wardship to the Phoenix House for the remaining two years of her minority, which would end on her twenty-fifth birthday. In the meantime she refused the inheritance prefix as a sign of faith in her absent brother.
This meant residence at the Enclave. To protect the young woman from political teethmarks, Brandon had asked Vannis to assist. She surrendered her villa to a newly-arrived family in need of a domicile and transferred her belongings to the Enclave.
Socially it was another coup, but politically it was—at least for now—a dead end. The implication was that she was family.
Emotionally it was both joy and anguish. None of this showed in her demeanor. She took over as hostess, planning and presiding over official entertainments, and organizing the expanded household. Noting that Brandon disliked squadrons of servants about, she made it her business to discover his official schedule and have the cleaning done when he was away. She had the terrace rearranged, and served meals out there at regular times. At first Brandon was seldom there, but she presided anyway, making certain that one or two interesting people were always at hand in addition to Fierin, and that the food was inviting. Lately he had been there more often.
That was all she saw of him. He was polite, pleasant, responsive to company and conversation, but he had shut his private life away behind an impermeable shield of good manners.
Vannis sat at the breakfast table, smiling across at Sebastian Omilov. His manner was polite but his gaze lingered, assessing. Was there something special about today? “I’ve had enough, I believe,” he said. “I’ve still got the Kitharee music from last night clamoring through my head. I’m afraid if I drink too much of this excellent coffee the instruments will start tapping on the inside of my skull.”
Osri frowned from his place next to Fierin, where he invariably sat. He betrayed his tension in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. “I don’t hear that as music,” he admitted. “I know they’re in fashion, but I like musicians to play the same piece—or at least play something that sounds related. At the beginning they did that, but then everyone seemed to start making up their own music. What a noise!”
Eloatri laughed softly. “You did not hear the theme through the center of it?”
Fierin had put he fork down. “It was the Rift,” she said, her long silver eyes serious. “The Rift and in the midst, the Suneater.”
Vannis suppressed an inward sigh. The Rifters. Would they be reaching the Suneater about now?
She wasn’t going to ask. And because no one offered the information, she decided it was time to steer the talk away. Keep it light. “The best of the evening for me was watching the Kelly dance. I made myself dizzy trying to follow the whirl of the threes within the three circles, all going different ways.”
“With the drums tapping,” Fierin said, using her spoon and knife at each side of her plate. She tried to duplicate the intricate triplicate beat, then failed, grinning. “I need three arms!”
Everyone laughed—and it was then that Brandon emerged, smiling, faultlessly dressed, and looking clear-eyed and rested. His expression reflected the company’s mood of hilarity as he took his place; within the Enclave he would not permit protocol to be observed, which at first had placed a restraint on everyone, but that had swiftly dissolved into a lovely sense of freedom.
“It is me?” he said, looking down the length of his clothing, all blue and white and dull gold. “Since I didn’t say anything clever, I must have done something stupid.”
Still smiling, Fierin repeated the conversation about the Kelly. At once Brandon picked up a fork and attempted the Kelly rhythm. When failed, he and Fierin tried it together, almost managing before one or the other would falter. It kept them all in a constant ripple of laughter, as Vannis silently signaled the steward to bring a plate of hot food for Brandon.
She had everything she once wanted, she thought, smiling like the rest. But it was all on the surface. The truth was, the door to her true desire was closed.
She retired from the conversation as the others carried on, seemingly without effort. But the evidence of effort was there for the subtle observer: Omilov’s eyes grave above his smiling mouth; his son’s stiffness; the mere presence of the High Phanist. They all carried a burden, unseen but real.
Vannis wondered if the
others dreamt as she did: for her, the riot, never-ending, as the backdrop of Brandon’s silent grief when he discovered the Rifters gone.
Ares was stable again—or as stable as a terribly overcrowded habitat could be, with more refugees arriving each day. Brandon had gotten that organized, right out to the staging points. He had survived the political fallout of the news that one of his most recently appointed Privy Counselors had been instrumental in bringing about the war.
Those first few days carried the whispers of criticism—the fear of loss of control—until the word spread that Brandon had monitored Hesthar all-Gessinav from the day she was appointed to the Council, and that it was two of the Rifters who had undermined Hesthar in her own realm, dataspace. The implication was that a high position was not proof against the truth being known. And revealed.
On the surface people were happy to go back to work, to play, to the myriad of entertainments offered. Beneath this peaceful surface was a new sobriety and a coalescing determination. The feeds were now full of the war, and gossip ran rife with speculation about the attack the Navy had to be planning.
And here, at the Enclave, Brandon was surrounded by those who had betrayed him—out of the very best of motives—by conspiring to set the Rifters free.
Vannis reached to offer the silver coffeepot, covertly gauging Brandon as she did so.
She could not read him. Since the riots he had not referred to the Rifters at all, and tentative, well-meaning questions simply brought a smile and a deflective comment.
She thought Vi’ya wise to leave, as the Panarch and the Dol’jharian Rifter belonged to two irreconcilable worlds, and Vi’ya quite naturally wanted to escape before that difference killed their love and drove her away. Vannis was tempted to consider her part of the conspiracy a tactical error. She ought to have blocked the Rifters’ escape. Made them stay. Then Brandon could have turned naturally to her when Vi’ya got away on her own.
Alone and sober in her new room each night, Vannis had plenty of time to reflect. Time was on her side, she had decided. Brandon thought he was in love with Vi’ya, but love was like a new and growing plant, that’s what instinct said. Remove care and sunlight and water, and it would eventually wither and die.
Brandon laid aside his napkin, his gaze abstract. Vannis assumed he’d received a privacy, then he rose, his gesture courteous as he invited them to go inside with him. “This concerns you all.”
She was right, Vannis thought. It had to be the Rifters.
The atmosphere had changed; everyone was sensitive to it. Osri stiffened, and his father’s smile disappeared; Eloatri’s thumb rubbed absently over her scarred palm.
But Vi’ya was gone, and she was here, Vannis thought as she followed the others inside. She would offer the sunlight of good companions, and the water of pleasant surroundings, and all of her care.
Brandon waved the High Phanist to the best seat and activated the big screen. Eloatri perceived no trace of irony in his gesture. The others found seats about the perimeter of the study. Brandon keyed up the message and sat down in the console chair as the com light went green; real-time.
“Your Majesty.” It was Nyberg himself; he had sat there, waiting, in order to speak to the Panarch face-to-face. “We have confirmation of the Unity’s arrival on the Suneater. The Dol’jharians put out one of their propaganda broadsides on it.” His eyes narrowed, indicating perplexity. “Internal evidence suggests heavy editing, and that it took at least three days for them to assemble it for transmission. We are unsure what this means. The appended links will indicate the breakpoints we’ve detected.”
Then he hesitated, his slight frown conveying the air of a professional man about to commit personal trespass. “As well, we just decoded the hyperwave transmission that came from the Satansclaw five days ago. I think you should see them both together.”
“Thank you,” Brandon said.
Nyberg bowed his head and the screen blanked.
Brandon tapped at the keys and brought up the older transmission first. It came in twin windows: a man and a woman, the latter immediately recognizable as Vi’ya.
The man was dark of eyes and hair, his pale skin stretched tightly over his bones. A mixture of terrible emotions seemed carved into that skin, but overlaid was the tension of stress.
A banner identified him as Barrodagh, Eusabian’s voice.
“Captain Vi’ya,” Barrodagh said. “Y’Marmor reports you have volunteered your talents to assist with our efforts here on the Suneater.”
She said flatly, “Not volunteered. My skills are for hire. Otherwise, Y’Marmor is correct.”
Eloatri felt in the tingle of nerve endings and the throb of her burned palm that this moment was important, though she did not as yet know how.
Barrodagh spoke again, deflecting. “Shortly after your last visit to Rifthaven you were captured by the Panarchist cruiser Mbwa Kali, in company with Brandon Arkad, is this true?
Eloatri’s gaze touched each of her companions in turn. Fierin faintly puzzled; Sebastian Omilov grave, his son stiff with gathering outrage; the beautiful Vannis, who until today had been an anomaly, seated gracefully at one side where she, too, could watch everyone, her graceful body tense and still.
Vi’ya replied, “It is true. If you desire it, I will be happy to describe in as much detail as you want the inside of a Panarchist cruiser’s brig and the inside of the Ares Detention block in which we were incarcerated. We escaped Ares when a riot was started by refugees trying to force their way onto the already crowded station.”
Eloatri recalled the moment Brandon entered the terrace, and the instant Vannis looked up, her eyes revealing despite her formidable Douloi training. We are all merely human, Eloatri thought. Blinded by her emotions, Vannis could not see that the issue between Brandon and Vi’ya was not one of love, but of trust. Sadness welled in Eloatri and she turned her gaze away from Vannis.
On the screen, Barrodah asked, “How did you come to find us?”
“The coordinates for the Suneater are for sale, just as those for Ares were.”
The verbal fencing on-screen recalled the even more delicate issue between Vi’ya and Brandon. Even watching from a distance Eloatri knew by now that neither of them could communicate on this issue with words. It had to be with action.
On the little screen, Barrodagh nodded. “Rumor on the RiftNet has much to say in praise of your talents, particularly as you seem to be psychically linked with two sophonts called Eya’a. Do you still have them with you, and what is your price?”
“The Eya’a are with me, but you need not fear them. They only attack if provoked. I learned the going price for tempaths at Rifthaven. I want double that. I want my crew and myself to stay aboard my ship when we are not needed for your experiments. And last . . . .” With cold-faced deliberation Vi’ya switched to Dorjharian.
Most of it was too quick to follow, but Eloatri heard the last words: “I-chereb-mi derch.”
Brandon murmured softly, “On the point of my knife.”
In a tiny window popped up a Uni translation: “And I want the heart of Hreem the Faithless on the point of my dagger.”
Barrodagh smirked. “Done. Except for your ship. You will be quartered in the Suneater, but all efforts will be made to assure your comfort. You may leave a skeleton crew aboard the ship only, and regular inspections will be made. It is also a requirement of my Lord that you will be under aimed weapons while performing the experiments, and anytime the Eya’a are with you outside your chamber.”
“I accept,” Vi’ya said coldly. “Except the inspections. You’ll doubtless have the ship under your guns as well. That will have to suffice. We will leave no crew on-board.”
Barrodagh gave a tense nod. “Agreed,” he said, though he did not look especially pleased. “You will shortly receive a data-burst with instructions for your approach. I myself will brief you upon your arrival.”
The transmission ceased. In the study, quick murmurs of comment came from the wat
chers, all except Brandon. He did not seem to hear the others, and Eloatri, experiencing the vertiginous sensation that accompanied the thinning of the borders of the Dreamtime, did not hear them, either.
Instead, as happened too often now in times of stress, her internal voice returned, and with her heightened sensitivity she saw the moment—Brandon not speaking, not hearing the speakers —as symbolic. He is surrounded by those who should be his trusted confidants: myself as the Hand of Telos; his longtime tutor; his boyhood companion; the woman who, by training and custom, would seem destined for his kyriarch.
Brow slightly furrowed, giving absolutely no clue to his thoughts, Brandon stared at the blank screen until one by one the others fell silent. Then he tabbed up the second recording.
The Telvarna slid through a lockfield in a spray of coronal discharge and settled lightly to the deck. A cutaway to the ranks of Tarkans assembled, and then the lock of the Telvarna opened. A red diamond blip in one corner of the image, added by the Ares analysts, indicated each edit.
In silence, from the comfort of the Enclave on Ares hundreds of light years away, they watched Vi’ya emerge. She stood tall, straight, and impassive, one hand resting between the cliffcat’s notched, dark-brown ears. Flanking her, the Eya’a, and behind them the rest of the crew: Eloatri recognized them from Manderian’s descriptions, and identified each in her mind. Marim saucer-eyed, Lokri sauntering with an air of insouciance, Montrose massive and frowning, Sedry Thetris with no expression, Jaim wary, and Ivard excited.
As Vi’ya moved, the imagers moved, showing a Tarkan honor guard. Barrodagh was there as well, but it was not he who stepped forward to greet them.
Anaris. He was much taller than Vi’ya, and yet they seemed much alike. Too much. Adrenaline flooded Eloatri, and the Dreamtime opened, suspending her between two worlds. The room and the people in it remained vividly clear; so, too, her inner sight.
The Rifter's Covenant Page 52
