“Alt L’Ranja gehaidin!” he said. “We have safe passage from Markham.”
The resulting silence was broken only by the distant sound of dripping water. The red-haired woman stared at Brandon, then took a step toward him. Deralze’s hair rose all across the back of his neck and his senses intensified painfully as the tension in the cavern sharpened to the cusp of imminent action.
A wiry, gaunt-faced man emerged from the uneven shadows across the cavern, riveting the gaze of their escort. Deralze knew this could not be the main threat—and caught movement in a shadowy alcove. Metal glinted above the matte-black deadliness of a firejac muzzle coming to bear on the Krysarch.
At that moment a lifetime of service, a decade of angry intent, and the knowledge that his vows of loyalty to Brandon had been true kindled in Lenic Deralze a passionate clarity of purpose.
He launched forward, and the circle closed on him in a blast of burning pain.
o0o
Osri gasped as their bearded escort shoved him down and triggered his jac off to one side. Energy beams lanced from several directions. The big guard threw himself in front of Brandon, intercepting a needle-thin streak of plasma with a hoarse shout of agony; another lance of sunfire brushed the red-haired woman, who dropped her jac and curled around her wound, her breathing harsh.
“Lenic!” Brandon’s shout echoed as he crouched above the big man’s body.
Then he whirled about and snatched up the fallen jac dropped by the wounded redhead. His low-gee clumsiness betrayed him into a stumble over the supine Rifter, saving his life as another beam sizzled past. Then he recovered his footing, twisted and snapped the jac to wide aperture.
The gaunt man who’d challenged them dived behind a rocky projection as the beam from Brandon’s weapon swept across the Rifter who’d shot Deralze, blowing him apart in a bloody explosion of steam and viscera.
Osri watched from the ground as the gaunt Rifter popped back up and snapped off a shot at Brandon, who didn’t even duck as the beam speared past his head. Brandon returned the fire, splattering molten rock from the crag sheltering his attacker, while the Beard fired at unseen opponents farther back in the cavern. Low-gee slowness gave combatants’ deliberate movements the quality of a deadly dance. Another blast shattered the stone near Osri’s head; the smell of ozone and burning rock made him sneeze several times, his heart hammering in his chest.
With a savage laugh that was frighteningly uncharacteristic, the Krysarch raised his jac, as if in salute to his opponent, and triggered it into the air. The beam lanced up into the rocky ceiling far overhead, provoking a major collapse. The gaunt Rifter emitted a panicky shout and leapt forward from his concealment as, with a thunderous roar, several tons of rock and debris fell on him with deceptive low-gee slowness and smashed him to the floor. Thick streams of blood slowly oozed out from between the rocks; with a final gentle tapping a few pebbles rattled down the sides of the sudden cairn marking the Rifter’s demise.
Silence fell, interrupted by the hissing moans of the injured woman, and gasping struggles for breath from Deralze. Brandon crouched above the guard’s body as Deralze tried to speak.
The bearded Rifter prodded Brandon with his jac. Osri blinked in disbelief as Brandon swiveled about, fingers extended, and felled the man with a high-level Ulanshu kinesic. Then the Krysarch turned back to Deralze, ignoring the Rifters ranged a few paces away.
Brandon was sheltered one side by the jumble of debris that had buried the gaunt Rifter—and his weapon pointed at the rocky roof directly overhead.
Standoff. But only for Deralze and Brandon. Rough hands dragged Osri to his feet and prodded him into the open.
o0o
Every aspect of the scene around Brandon lit with sharp-edged clarity as the boiling red rage ebbed. He barely managed to maintain a grip on his weapon as a wave of trembling seized him.
“Brandon,” Deralze whispered.
“We’ve got your friend,” shouted someone. “Throw down the jac or we’ll fry him.”
Osri stumbled into the open, a jac-muzzle tracking him from a crack in the cavern wall. The navigator stared dumbly at Brandon, his eyes dull with fatigue and shock.
“Brandon. . .”
A peripheral flicker; Brandon whipped the jac over his shoulder and triggered a blast. A Rifter jumped back into concealment with a pained shout, his hair smoldering from the near miss.
“Keep them away or I’ll bring the whole damned cavern down on us all,” Brandon shouted.
“Brandon... you... have... to know.” Lenic pressed both hands against the charred ruin of his lower chest while blood bubbled between his fingers. Brandon crouched next to him, tentatively reaching for the big man’s hands, but Lenic jerked his head in negation.
“No,” he gasped. “If. I let go. Can’t talk.”
Lenic was preventing the collapse of his lungs by main force.
“Listen. Markham. Asked me. Check on you. Like. I said. But I... Plot.” His head jerked again. “I’m sorry. Trust him.” His head rolled back, his lips tightening into rictus. “He didn’t know... Ivory...” His body spasmed, then he relaxed into death.
Brandon’s vision narrowed, the cavern around him altering into a shadowy half-existence filled with murmuring shades. Lenic’s face was peaceful now, as though he had discharged a final obligation, but the half-seen figures drifting through liminal space were unappeased, some disconsolate, whispering of betrayal. A woman wept softly: a vision of blue-gray eyes framed by auburn hair emerged, then faded.
A man’s voice next, cultured, speaking in measured tones without words, then he was gone. Dark eyes in a dark face—the ring on his finger pulsed with brief heat—then that one, too, vanished. Lenic’s tall, broad-shouldered shade merged with the deepening shadows, abandoning Brandon again, and he was alone.
Then the shadows coalesced into fathomless dark eyes.
Brandon beheld a tall woman dressed in a plain black jumpsuit. She was dark, with smooth skin, slanted black eyes, and hip-length black hair pulled back into a tail high on her head; her expression was cool and composed.
She was not a shade, she was alive, waiting for him to regain the here and now. Her hands were empty, relaxed at her sides.
“Markham,” he said—tried to say. His lips formed the word, but no sound.
“Markham is dead,” she said, and meaning drained out of life, and time, and space.
o0o
Markham is dead. Osri’s knees weakened, and his back crawled in anticipation of the blast that would end his life. There was nothing to stop these savages from burning them down if Markham vlith-L’Ranja was dead, and Brandon’s face had showed no sign of yielding when Osri’s captors had shoved him into the open. Beyond action, even thought, Osri waited for death.
Brandon slowly stood up, the forgotten firejac loose in his fingers. At a shuffle in the shadows the woman made a slight, sharp gesture of command. The movement ceased.
“Dead?” repeated Brandon, his voice hoarse.
“He was betrayed and shot down a year ago by Hreem the Faithless.” She paused. “He told me of you, Brandon nyr-Arkad. I will honor his safe passage.” She gestured at the slowly crusting pool of blood leaking from underneath the rock fall. “And you have done me a service here.” There was a faint accent underlying her words, but Osri could not identify it.
The woman lifted the jac from the Krysarch’s unresisting hand.
“Take Greywing to med and get someone with a dozer to scrape up this mess.” She spoke past Brandon to the man with the beard, who had struggled to his feet.
“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” came a husky female voice, then the commanding one said, “Have someone deal with Paysud. He ran off down adit three.”
Through his mind-throttling fatigue, Osri comprehended that the woman had just won some sort of intra-group struggle.
Brandon made an abortive move, as if in protest.
“We will honor your friend as one of us,” she said, motio
ning toward Deralze’s body, and Brandon relaxed.
Someone pushed Osri forward.
“Who’s this?” the woman asked. “A servant?”
Osri stiffened and immediately regretted it. “I am Osri Ghettierus vlith-Omilov, Instructor of Navigation at the Minerva Naval Academy.” He used his most plangent tone, as if disciplining an erring cadet, but she showed no reaction.
“Come with me,” the woman said.
She walked out without waiting to see if they followed. Osri glanced at Brandon, to find his grief smoothing into the bland mask of his Douloi training.
Then two white figures glided from the shadows into the light. Osri sustained yet another shock.
Disbelief—terror—recognition of those small figures with short ice-white fur and huge, faceted eyes. Open mouths with tiny teeth shone blue inside. The creatures had two arms, but the fingers were webbed at the base and long and twiggy at the tips. They moved in unison, wearing identical transparent garments, folded in a complicated pattern over one shoulder and fastened at the waist by ornate jeweled belts.
Osri had seen them in a holo once: these child-sized creatures with eyes like jewels were deadly psionic killers. They called themselves Eya’a—a name chanted rather than spoken, with a glottal stop before the last sighed vowel.
Osri dropped back a pace or two as the creatures glided across the cavern and disappeared through the main archway. The woman followed them. Osri lagged as much as he dared, his mouth dry from fear, and noticed that the Rifters gave the beings wide berth as well.
When they reached the catwalk, the woman paused. The Eya’a also halted, and the three stood in some sort of silent communication.
Osri closed his eyes, wishing that the booster had killed them on impact. It would have been a cleaner death than what seemed imminent here. Sounds forced his eyes open again. The Eya’a went on ahead.
The woman led Brandon and Osri to a small room rough-hewn from living rock. The uneven ceiling curved a few feet above their heads, and the stone walls displayed colorful tapestries from a variety of worlds, some in patterns, others depicting mythological scenes. Several woven rugs had been scattered over the melt-stone floor, and a low, carved darkwood table sat in the center of the room with a bank of riotously embroidered velvet pillows around it. The three glow-lamps that lit the room were supported by long, curved, lily-shaped gold rods, and in a corner stood a detailed jatta-tooth carving of a mythical beast, a winged feline of some sort, just taking flight.
It was breathtakingly beautiful, seeming to have movement and no weight; anger burned Osri as he wondered who the rightful owner of this priceless ornament had been.
“Sit down,” the woman said. “I want to talk before deciding what’s to be done with you.”
Brandon sank down, stiff and wincing, and Osri reluctantly joined him. As he did so, he was unpleasantly startled as the Eya’a pair glided into the room. They shouldered the edge of one of the patterned tapestries aside and disappeared behind it. The woman paid no attention to them as she opened a paak-wood cabinet situated in a carved alcove, and brought out a crystal decanter and glasses.
“Something to drink?” She sat across from them, and set decanter and glasses on the table.
Osri watched in tight-lipped disgust as Brandon reached for the decanter and poured out a full glass. The woman turned to Osri, brows raised slightly. He made a curt gesture of refusal. With a faint, disinterested shrug, she poured herself some of the wine, which somehow had a green odor, faintly sweet and fresh.
Brandon drank his down and poured himself some more before he said to woman, who had waited, her expression as unreadable as his. “Who are you?” Brandon asked. “You are in command here?”
“I am.” She tipped her head back toward the Eya’a and added, “They call me Vi’ya.” That peculiar accent was there again, very faint, in the way she pronounced the name: a nearly voiceless th between the i and the y. No one else Osri heard subsequently pronounced it that way. They used the glottal stop. “‘The One Who Hears.’” Her lips curved in a faint smile.
“You assumed command after Markham’s death, I take it?” Brandon sounded as polite as courtier at a Douloi reception.
“He left his organization to me.” Her dark eyes flicked from him to Osri and back. “You witnessed the last of the resistance today. Old Jakarr was a fair pilot but, despite his ambitions, a poor leader.”
“And a poor follower.” Brandon smiled, then sat back against his pillows as he sipped at his wine.
“And a poor follower,” the woman repeated, her lips quirking in what might have been taken as a smile. But there was little humor in it, and none at all in her watchful black eyes.
Osri shifted uncomfortably on his cushion, trying unsuccessfully to find a position that didn’t hurt. He feared if he sat too long he’d be unable to get up.
Once again, unbelievably, they had been spared from imminent destruction. He didn’t trust these Rifters much past his next breath, but it was unlikely even Rifters would bother talking to people they planned to shoot out of hand.
So what to do now?
Brandon raised his glass to study the amber liquid against one of the glow-lamps. Osri shifted again on his pillows, this time in impotent but growing irritation. Brandon seemed to recollect his presence and said helpfully, “Have some, Osri. Probably need it, after that flight.”
“I do not wish for any liquor,” Osri stated shortly.
Brandon transferred his gaze to the ceiling and said musingly, “Cool... light... not unlike an old mead, but slightly herbal in flavor. Dark amber color... definitely not synthetic. What is it?” He turned to Vi’ya.
“It’s called simply Locke, and a number—ILVI, I believe. From Cincinnatus Secundus. I am told it is regarded highly in that octant.”
“New to me.” Brandon regarded the beautifully cut glass in appreciation, then drank. “Where’d you find it?”
“Rifthaven.” Amusement narrowed her eyes at the sour look Osri gave her. She added, “The chef on Telvarna bought it for Markham after his first successful run.”
Brandon promptly launched into a comparison with other fine wines, as if they were at an afternoon gathering in a jumba on Nyangathanka. Osri gritted his teeth, trying to suppress his growing annoyance. What was the fool thinking of, nattering about wines? In spite of the jac at her belt, Osri felt certain he and Brandon acting together could overpower this Rifter woman before she could unclip it and take aim. And with the weapon they would have a chance at fighting their way to a ship.
Brandon paused to pour another glass, and Osri found the woman’s black, slanted gaze turned on him. Warning tightened the back of his neck, and he remembered those accursed little white-furred killers. Where were they, in an adjoining room? Listening? He didn’t know if their reputed psi powers were limited to what they could see—and he was disinclined to test them. Then a fresh surge of rage burned through him at the thought of these light-abandoned Rifter vermin with psionic killers in leash.
The woman addressed him abruptly. “The Eya’a scanned you when you landed, and reported that an extremely powerful psi device was on board. We searched the remains of your ship after you were brought out of it, and the device was gone. Now they indicate it is here. What is it?” She held out a hand.
Osri crouched back against his pillows, arms crossing protectively over his belt pouch.
She waited several heartbeats, then said softly, “Must I take it from you?”
“It’s called the Heart of Kronos,” Brandon offered conversationally. Osri shot him a glare of acute disgust, which he met with a bland smile before he added, “That’s all we know. We were trying to keep it from Hreem’s hands, at the request of Osri’s father. The Eya’a should be able to tell you more than we can, if they were able to identify it and us.”
Vi’ya said to Brandon, “The Eya’a are not able to identify it. They merely sensed its presence. Nor did they identify you. They cannot tell strange humans apart.
I know who you are because Markham talked of you often, and I have seen your image on vids.” She held out her hand to Osri. “If I give an order,” she stated calmly, “I expect it to be obeyed.” There was no overt threat in her tone, but that elusive accent gave a subtle and disturbing twist to certain words.
Osri scowled at Brandon, only to meet a quizzical grin. With a smothered exclamation he jammed his hand into the pouch, pulled out the Heart of Kronos, and then dropped it on the table before Vi’ya, ignoring her hand.
She watched the dully gleaming sphere slip to the darkly polished wood and rest there as if it had been glued. As her fingers closed around it, she said to Osri, “I am a tempath, Schoolboy. So not only watch what you do, watch what you think.”
Shock zapped through Osri’s already lacerated nerves. A tempath! He knew little about such emotional sensitives, but shared the widespread distrust common in the Thousand Suns. It was said that there were only two kinds of tempaths: those who restrained their powers—these usually found their way into the Order of the Sanctus Lleddyn—and those who used them to dominate the people around them.
Osri was sure what kind of tempath a Rifter would be.
Vi’ya ignored him as she tested the properties of the Heart of Kronos for a few seconds, her face betraying nothing. Then she turned to Brandon. “Where were you taking this?”
“Away from Hreem.” Brandon gestured with his crystal goblet, watching the facets glitter and flash in the light of the globes. He hadn’t reacted at all to the news about Vi’ya’s being a tempath.
“You were bringing it to Markham?” she persisted.
Brandon had reached to fill his glass again, an occupation which appeared to claim all his attention.
The door-tapestry flared outward, batted by an impatient hand, and a small, curvy female with a cloud of frizzy blond hair dashed in. She was barefoot, and wore baggy, worn overalls with several unmatching utility pockets sewn haphazardly on, stuffed with a variety of precision tools. Other tools were clipped to her belt. She had a round-cheeked, sharp-chinned face, darting light eyes, and a mischievous grin.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 29
