“‘Ruler of all, ruler of naught, power unlimited, a prison unsought,’” read Eusabian aloud. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a roaring explosion of hilarity unlike anything Barrodagh had heard from him before. “Ruler of naught!” He chortled, wiping his eyes. “How appropriate! Did he ever see it as the prediction it was, I wonder?”
His chuckling died away slowly. “A prison unsought...”
He turned. Barrodagh repressed a pang of alarm. He’s in a good mood. There’s nothing to fear.
“How long until an escort can be spared?”
“We estimate between thirty and sixty days, Lord. Gehenna lies well off toward the Rift.”
Eusabian frowned at the Palace behind them. Barrodagh held his breath, remembering the interview in the Throne Room. Barrodagh still did not know what to make of that interview, for all that he’d had over three weeks to think about it. He had finally been unable to invent any more excuses to avoid reentering that huge ice hall of a Throne Room. When he had, he’d not found the pulped body he’d expected; Gelasaar had been alive still, under the jacs of white-lipped guardsmen, and Eusabian had been nowhere in sight. Nor had there been any more mysterious lights.
The Avatar had not asked about the Panarch since.
Thinking to distract his lord, Barrodagh spoke. “The Satansclaw is due soon. He has the Gnostor Omilov aboard, along with all of his collected artifacts. I have Lysanter standing by aboard the Fist of Dol’jhar. He will shuttle over to the ship as soon as it arrives, to identify the Heart of Kronos.”
Eusabian nodded, still frowning. “You will also go to the Satansclaw, to supervise the inspection. Bring the gnostor back with you.”
Barrodagh’s heart sank. Another shuttle flight.
“The Satansclaw is the ship that forced the third heir into the gas giant, is it not?” continued the Avatar. At Barrodagh’s nod he added, “Bring the ship’s captain, too—”
A loud clanking roar accompanied by impassioned cursing interrupted Eusabian and spun them both around. The hedge behind the statue exploded outward in a shower of foliage as a mobile plasma projector bounded through the opening, trailing a comet tail of conscripts in gray. The man in the cannon’s control pod yanked desperately at the steering gear and pounded the console, while another conscript clung to the front of it, trying desperately to pull her legs up away from the ground-effect skirt.
Dust and shattered branches pelted Barrodagh and Eusabian, stinging their eyes. The two Tarkan guards who had originally accompanied them ran up, their weapons ready, then stopped in confusion, seeing no enemies, only conscripts.
The cannon slewed wildly as the driver caught sight of the Lord of Vengeance. Its barrel whipped around and clipped off the head of one of the figures on the statue, which bounced across the ground to Eusabian’s feet and came to rest, staring up at him with accusing eyes.
The cannon slid sideways several feet as the sound of its engines slid up the scale toward inaudibility, then, with a shattering bang, it ejected a cloud of greasy black smoke from its underside and fell with a heavy thump to the ground.
Barrodagh looked down at himself in distress. The death throes of the plasma cannon had showered him with oily black smuts. His clothes were ruined. With a gasp he looked up at Eusabian. He couldn’t read his lord’s expression through the mask of oil that obscured it, but his teeth showed slightly between thinned lips. Barrodagh stifled a snort of hysterical laughter and managed to turn it into a cough.
The conscript atop the cannon scrambled down and flung himself headlong before Eusabian’s feet. The two Tarkans twitched, their weapons ready, as more Tarkans ran up behind them. Eusabian threw up a hand to restrain them. The conscripts stared at their lord in terror, unmoving.
The tableau stilled as Eusabian turned to Barrodagh. “Is this an example of the defenses you are emplacing to guard me?” There was an unfamiliar narrowing in his eyes. At another time Barrodagh would have called it humor—the cold humor that was all Eusabian had ever permitted himself in Jhar D’ocha.
Now Barrodagh was confused and frightened by his inability to read the Avatar’s emotions. It’s not fair, his mind wailed. Now that he’s got what he wanted, everything’s changing.
He replied, bowing deeply, “No, Lord, it is an example of total incompetence.” He kicked the groveling conscript. “Explain yourself!”
The only answer was an unintelligible mumble.
“Speak up!”
“The conscript looked up, addressing himself to Eusabian. “Lord, we have had no time... we are unfamiliar with the Panarchist equipment... it is very old...”
“Excuses are unacceptable,” Barrodagh shouted.
Eusabian turned away, an expression of boredom lengthening his face. “Deal with this yourself.” He started back to the Palace, followed by the bodyguards. Then he halted. “And make sure the statue is repaired perfectly.”
He disappeared around a curve in the path. The ease of relief released Barrodagh’s fear, and with it, the boiling anger that had been building ever since their landing. This never would have happened on Dol’jhar. Discipline had eroded to the level of incompetence.
There was nothing Barrodagh could do about the mysteries of computers and the elusiveness of dogs, but incompetence, he could deal with. He looked down at the conscript, smiling with anticipation. “We both know the penalty for ineptitude, don’t we, hmmm?” he asked. “Especially when it causes a failure so spectacular.”
The man looked up at him mutely, hope visibly fading.
Barrodagh enjoyed the panicky way the rest of the guards avoided his gaze. Now maybe we will see some tightening up. But he had to make certain they would remember.
He was distracted by a soft chattering hum. A short distance off, an automated mower floated across the lawn, a faint bluish light flickering from underneath its fairing as its energy fields sheared the grass and returned it to the earth as finely chopped mulch.
“Yes,” he said, angry joy filling him with righteous anticipation. “That will do just fine.” He motioned to the two nearest conscripts. “Take your knives and pin his hands and feet to the ground over there.” The man at his feet gasped in sudden comprehension and tried to scramble away as the man and woman Barrodagh had singled out came over reluctantly and grabbed him, their faces tight.
Barrodagh issued instructions to the remaining conscripts for dealing with the cannon and statue, then watched as his orders were carried out. “Feet first, you fools!” he shouted as they threw their comrade to the ground about thirty meters ahead of the slowly advancing mower. They hesitated, as though debating whether to pretend not to hear, then dragged the luckless man around, roughly crossed his hands and feet, and pinned him to the ground.
The man was moaning continuously now. As the mower reached his feet it hesitated, and Barrodagh realized it must have some sort of safety override in it. It began to slip sideways and he shouted, “Don’t let it get away. Push it!” He motioned another conscript over to the machine.
As she pushed the machine it balked. His fury igniting, Barrodagh lunged forward and shoved at it, causing it to jink sideways.
The conscripts jumped away and it swerved again as its sensors discerned a path to freedom. The fairing passed over the front of Barrodagh’s feet, neatly removing the ends of his boots, leaving his toes exposed to the cool air. Barrodagh shrieked and skipped away, then fell sprawling as the mower moved off, chattering contentedly to itself. His feet felt wet... he looked in horror at them, touched his toes gently, more than half-convinced that they would fall off. No, he was untouched. The dampness was from the grass.
As he got to his feet he swept his gaze around the conscripts, who looked up or away, the woman beside the mower staring downward with the pursed lips of barely-controlled mirth. He could command them not to speak of the incident, but he knew they would.
The rage that had burned turned cold. He turned to the two remaining Tarkans. “Decimate them,” he said, sweeping his hand at
the conscripts. “Leave the one on the ground.”
The Tarkans fired without hesitation, first cutting down those who raised their weapons in protest, and then the ones who had tried to flee.
Barrodagh walked over to the conscript crucified on the lawn. He looked down and smiled. “The price of incompetence.” He looked up at the Tarkans. “Take this one to the dispensary for treatment. And have a detail clean up this carrion.”
He watched as the Tarkan roughly yanked the knives out of the man’s flesh and jerked him to his feet. As the prisoner hobbled away, Barrodagh watched in satisfaction.
He will talk, but no one will laugh.
o0o
TELVARNA
Greywing took another dose of painkiller and got up. She hated sitting in her bunk, not knowing what was going on. She walked by the cabin Ivard shared with Jaim, but it was empty.
Ivard hated it when she checked on him. He always used to like it. He once told her he felt safe when she did. But ever since his voice dropped and he started getting his height, he’d been pushing her away, saying he could stand on his own—he was full crew—he didn’t need to be guarded like some baby. So she’d find a reason, if she saw him. Like, if he was on the bridge logging more practice running nav calculations, she could joke him a little about how much he must be missing galley slubbing.
She found him in the rec room with some of the other crew. Lokri was there, and also Brandon Arkad. This was the first time Greywing had seen the nick out during his rec time.
She paused in the hatch, observing.
“Shall we start?” Lokri said.
Brandon opened his hands.
Ivard was hovering in the background. He gestured to Greywing, who moved in to join him; he smiled like the old days, when he was a boy.
“Phalanx,” Ivard whispered.
Of course Lokri was playing Phalanx—now that he had a new victim to try to cheat.
“Level Two,” Ivard added.
Lokri waved a hand with mocking elegance at one of the dedicated game consoles, and the two sat down and started it up.
Most people played the difficult three-dimensional strategy game at Level One, which allowed for time to think through one’s moves. Level Two added not only hazards but one further dimension: time. Not as many played that outside of those who gambled for big stakes, usually at expensive clubs. Level Three was exponentially more difficult. Greywing remembered Markham saying once that it was as near as one could get to fleet against fleet action in space.
Didn’t Markham once say he used to play against the Arkad during his boyhood, while listening to recorded concert music? Maybe that was in Rifthaven later, she couldn’t remember.
She wondered if Lokri had mentioned to the Arkad that he frequently took big sums off dedicated Phalanx players at Rifthaven, and decided he hadn’t. She recognized Lokri’s sudden and uncharacteristic interest in the Krysarch as speculative, not friendly.
Lokri sat upright in his pod and slapped the kill key. Ivard stepped back defensively, as though he were somehow to blame for interrupting the game. Greywing pressed her lips tight against a comment. She knew her brother was afraid of the languid comtech, but Ivard had to stand on his own.
Lokri did not even look their way. His gray eyes narrowed as he studied the Arkad, who just sat and smiled pleasantly. Lokri leaned forward and without asking, punched in the code for Level Three.
Yes, Greywing had remembered right. And we also played Ketzenlach’s fugues, Markham had said once, laughing as he leaned against the bulkhead. We believed that music made our brains faster, for after all, what is it but patterns in fourspace math?
There was no music playing now, but the Arkad didn’t seem to need it. His face went distant, his long hands flashing over the keys and tabs without any hesitation at all.
Greywing caught a sober look from Ivard, and they moved to his own console, facing away so that their words would not carry.
“Think Lokri’ll cheat?” Ivard whispered.
“He always cheats, him and Marim,” Greywing said. “They do it just for fun. And to catch you out. Make you look stupid. Why I told you never play with them.”
She could tell by the way Ivard hunched his scrawny neck into his shoulders, like a timtwee sucking its eyestalks back into its carapace, that he’d disregarded her advice while she was stuck in sickbay, and as a result probably had racked up shifts’ worth of the chores that Marim and Lokri hated worst. Well, that would teach him if he wouldn’t listen to her. Either teach him not to play with them—or teach him how to cheat.
She pressed her lips again, determined not to say anything. She knew that she and her brother could probably beat either Marim or Lokri under fair circumstances. In fact, Ivard had beaten Markham once or twice. But he couldn’t beat Marim or Lokri when they cheated.
Greywing hated cheating in games. In life, everyone cheated everywhere, all the time. Of course. You expected that. So a game should have rules, be fair. Or it wasn’t a game, it was just like life.
Lokri lifted his hands, then leaned back in his pod. His lazy smile carried some surprise. “At least,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “you can pay attention while you vaporize me.”
Brandon shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I was remembering...”
“What?” It was a soft croak from Ivard, who almost never spoke when more than two people were in a room. And Lokri almost always ignored him.
But the Arkad smiled Ivard’s way. “The first time my brother Semion played me, when I was, oh, about ten. Savaged me, of course, but...” He looked up, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “I wonder now if it was some kind of a test.”
Score one on Lokri, Greywing thought, watching the thin flush of red along Lokri’s sharp cheekbones.
Of course that shot went right over Ivard’s head. He looked happy that the Panarchist actually found him worthy to speak to. Ivard took a small step forward and dared another comment. “You’re good—” He looked up, and his mouth snapped shut.
A moment later Marim bounced in. “Hey! Who’s playing L-3? I saw that from the bridge—” She regarded Brandon with interest. “You, Arkad? I didn’t know brains went with the nacky birth.”
“Then you are a fool as well as ignorant, Marim,” came a new voice. Montrose wandered in right behind her, a book under his arm. Had everyone been watching the game on their consoles? Montrose went on pleasantly, “Forty-odd generations of the habit of command ought to have bred a certain amount of natural ability into our young guest.”
Marim slapped a console into life. “Play me,” she demanded. “No, play me’n Lokri here.”
“But you cheat,” Lokri pointed out, so innocently that Greywing choked on a laugh.
“You do too, blungesniffer,” Marim fired back.
“I’ll play you both,” Brandon said. “I’ve always liked the game, and it so happens I’ve had little else to do over the last few years.”
Montrose laid his book down. “Ordinarily I’ve little interest in these games, but this I should enjoy observing.”
Marim plopped down onto her chair and they started again. Greywing lit her own console and Ivard moved to stand next to her so they could watch the action. Greywing positioned herself so she could watch the screen and the players.
This time, Brandon clearly had to exert himself. Greywing figured he’d find Marim to be the more challenging opponent. She was much faster than Lokri, making decisions that were either brilliant or dangerously stupid, and whose only common characteristic was recklessness. Lokri as backup was formidable. Rigorous logic dictated his moves. Brandon went down in defeat, but it was not a fast game or an easy one—and for once Greywing didn’t think either of the pair had cheated. Or if they had, Brandon didn’t say anything, though she was pretty sure by now that he would know.
Montrose clapped his hands in delight. “You know, it might be worth my time to take a turn, which I haven’t done for at least—”
He was interrupted by a chime
from the comlink.
“Galley,” Marim chortled.
Montrose tabbed the key. “What is it, Osri?”
“This sauce. It smells funny.” His voice sounded plaintive.
“I shall come at once.” Montrose lifted his hand from the console, sighed, and got to his feet. “That young man will never be a cook. He is worse, even—” He reached forward and touched Ivard’s shoulder. “—than you.” He went out.
“Now let’s play again,” Marim demanded.
Brandon gave his head a shake. “I’d like to get something to drink.”
The Krysarch moved in the direction of the dispenser. Ivard went after, walking in that tight-shouldered, drifting way he had, as if he expected a gang of rip-thieves to round a corner at any moment. Greywing could tell by her brother’s nervousness that he was nerving himself to talk to the Arkad.
She decided to follow. She had to let Ivard find his own place with the crew, because these were the people they lived and worked with. She didn’t have to let any nick beat him down, though.
Brandon punched up a mug of caf and wandered out. Ivard followed after, Greywing behind him. Brandon stopped in the bridge hatch. Vi’ya sat in the captain’s chair, a half-eaten plate beside her as she worked her console.
Brandon hesitated, but the captain made a gesture inviting him to join her.
Ivard moved to the nav console and punched up solo-Phalanx. Greywing moved to her own console and lit it, but didn’t do anything. She couldn’t see, but she could hear.
Brandon’s expression was hard to read, but Greywing wondered if he was annoyed, or maybe unsettled, at the idea of a tempath as he said, “Do you read everyone’s minds all the time, or do you have to concentrate?”
“I don’t read minds,” Vi’ya said. “I am a tempath, not a telepath. But it was apparent you wished to speak to me.”
There was a long hesitation. Greywing wondered why. Was he going to try something? Or was he merely choosing his words? Vi’ya said nothing during the protracted silence, and Greywing could imagine her watching him steadily with those eyes so dark it was difficult to distinguish between iris and pupil. They reminded Greywing of a volcanic lake in winter.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 37
