The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2)

by Joseph Schembrie

  “This sounds very complicated,” Matt said.

  “Let me make it simple. Kiss Carrot. It'll be like breaking a spell. Remember the fairy tale where the girl is awakened with a kiss?”

  “Carrot is Sleeping Beauty?”

  “No, Idiot – you are! You're the one who's been subjected to psychological conditioning, and you're the one who needs to be awakened A strong emotional experience like your first kiss – “

  “I've kissed a girl before.”

  “I hope you're not speaking of when I was seven and stole a kiss from you.”

  “No,” he muttered.

  Matt thought, This is not being made simple. But his resistance was being eroded. As nonsensical as she was being, what harm would it do to obey? And he could clearly see the upside.

  “All right,” he said. “I'll go along with this. I'll kiss her. If she'll let me.”

  Savora gave him a dubious look. “It's not a question of whether she'll let you. It's a question of whether you'll let you. Matt, you're pathologically shy. Personally, I blame the parents. Hands-off yet domineering. No wonder you tried to run light years away from your problems – “

  “I didn't run away – “

  “Matt, you won't be able to kiss her on your own. Your psychological inhibitions won't allow it. The psychological conditioning that Athena has imprinted on you will not allow you. Don't ask me to explain. We don't have time. I'm just telling you, the stronger you feel about something, the more paralyzed and indecisive you become. That's how it functions.”

  “How can Athena have imprinted conditioning . . . wait, weren't we talking about my parents? Synth, can you make any sense here?”

  “Actually, Matt, I can't. You'll just have to trust me.”

  “With what? Why are you telling me to do something when you believe I can't do it?”

  “You can't do it consciously, but Ivan can place a post-hypnotic suggestion.”

  “Hold it. Did I hear that right? Now you want Ivan to hypnotize me?”

  “It's the only way, Matt. Have him plant the suggestion to kiss Carrot, and then suppress your short term memory so that you won't remember him asking.”

  “You didn't say anything at first about a memory wipe.”

  “The Solar Council has assigned watchers of this planet, Matt. They have access to your implant telemetry archives. Ivan's archives are uploaded every day, and if the watchers find a record of this encounter, they'll take me off planet and I won't be able to help you or your brother.”

  Matt hesitated. On the one hand, hypnosis and memory wipes were a violation of his person. On the other, he had done both to himself already, and for lesser cause.

  “Matt,” Ivan interjected. “I strongly object to this proposed action. It violates every ethical tenet of the host-implant relationship. Also, I have no indication of any access to my telemetry archives by an external agency.”

  Matt barely heard Ivan's words. He was already deciding in favor. Yes, a post-hypnotic suggestion. Why not? Yes, a memory-wipe. Why not?

  He'd already tampered with his memory once on Ne'arth. If he was being mind-controlled by Athena at a distance – and after all those centuries of biogel-induced sleep, who knew what was possible with current technology – then a post-hypnotic suggestion might be the only way he could reclaim his willpower.

  And then – Carrot. It did seem as if there were an insurmountable barrier between them, a barrier that was his own personality with all the defects of a childhood that made 'introversion' seem an understatement. No one really understood that about him. Not his parents, not the psychiatrists, and not even Ivan.

  They didn't understand that there was the kind of courage that could charge into an arena full of velociraptors, and then there was the kind of courage that could risk an intimate relationship on a single impetuous act. Matt wasn't sure he had the second kind.

  Maybe in time he would, but with a hundred potential suitors, Carrot didn't have to wait.

  Finally, what tipped his decision was the guiding principle in Matt's life: Play along. Others might perceive that as the mark of passivity, but Matt had often found it the key to survival. If there was some sinister plot behind this, the plotters wouldn't kill him so long as they thought he was their unsuspecting patsy.

  The trick about going for a ride aboard the patsy wagon, however, was to jump off before it reached its destination . . . .

  The woman who claimed to be his friend couldn't hear his subvocalizations with Ivan, but her glare indicated that she knew an internal dialogue was taking place. She interrupted: “You know, Matt, there is a time limit for short-term memory erasure.”

  Matt took a deep breath. “Then let's do this.”

  She smiled. “It makes me happy to know that I will be able to make you happy.”

  A moment later, Matt blinked in the shade of the trail. He had just been thinking something, but couldn't remember what it was. He'd been heading back to the field, but he found himself facing the mill pond once more.

  “Matt,” Ivan said. “I am detecting strong olfactory traces. Savora has recently been – “

  “Not now,” Matt said.

  Driven by the overpowering urge, Matt returned to the pond. Carrot was still sitting on the log. She heard the intensity of his footfalls, rose and looked at him. He in turn looked at her lips.

  His put his hands on her shoulders. He briefly considered whether he was being overly aggressive. But this was Carrot. She was a very strong girl and could push him away if she wanted to. Then again, maybe not; at the moment, he felt like nothing in the universe could stop him.

  He drew her face close and oriented his face so that their noses would brush yet not collide –

  Carrot was trembling and limp in his arms. “Please, Matt, no – don't, please, no – there are traditions of society which we must uphold as an example to others . . . . “

  Feeling appalled about even thinking of forcing himself upon her, he released her and started to back away. But as their eyes met, she suddenly assumed a calm expression. She pulled him close again – and she was indeed a very strong girl.

  This time their lips did meet, as a collaborative effort.

  5.

  Late into the night, Mardu Valarion paced the western veranda of the imperial palace in robes that he'd slept in for two days. The night was wet and the branches of trees and bushes in the gardens tossed in the brisk wind. Beyond the palace walls, where once had gleamed a galaxy of torches, only a few sparse flames flickered across the cityscape to the roiling waters of the Bay of Rome.

  Amid its unlit and skewed lanterns, the entry courtyard itself was a mess of leaves and fallen branches. The fountains were dry, the statues unscrubbed. The gardening staff had deserted weeks ago, leaving the grounds of the palace to fall into ever deeper states of scruffiness. It was a barometer of the rot of the empire itself. As a politician Valarion knew that appearances were as vital to a leader as armies, but at the moment, he had funds for neither.

  Around him, a handful of soldiers stood solidly at attention, while most sat idly, chatted, or gambled, oblivious to the presence of the man who officially still ruled the Empire in name. Valarion's face was impassive, but inwardly he rankled at their disrespect.

  Which will try to kill me? Valarion wondered.

  The fellow on his knees rolling the dice while the others bet was the most likely candidate. As a compulsive gambler, he was likely broke, and the commission for assassination would pay well. Also, as Valarion noted in the reflection of the porcelain flower vases, the man had a habit of glancing at Valarion whenever Valarion's back was turned.

  Aware they were watching for signs of weakness, Valarion strutted as confidently as he could manage. Casually, he reached within the folds of his robe and touched the hidden dagger, calculating how many assailants he might take down if it were to come to a mass attack.

  I wish Inoldia was here.

  Only weeks ago, her visits were annoyances at best, and ofte
n cause for dread. Yet if she were here now as his bodyguard, no one would dare raise a hand to him.

  “Valarion! VALARION!”

  The soldiers under the roof of the veranda stilled and listened. The calls had come from past the fountains. Valarion strode down the steps and peered through the bars of the iron gates to the mob upon Golden Street. Armed with torches, staves, and slings, it numbered in scores, more than the number of still-loyal Imperial Guard. ('Loyalty,' Valarion admitted, being a tenuous concept in these times.)

  A glint flashed from the midst of the crowd. Valarion dodged the sling-launched stone. He retreated up the steps as a hail of rocks pounded. At the top of the veranda once more, he met the gaze of the silent soldiers.

  “Never mind that rabble!” he bellowed. “Their aim is poor as you can see, and I doubt they have one man among them with enough courage to face the points of our swords!”

  The gambler tossed his dice, though betting became subdued.

  Where is Maldus?

  The answer came a few minutes later with the clatter of hoof-beats. Amid yelling and curses, General Maldus and his men hacked their way through the crowd. The soldier in the guard house opened the gate and quickly closed it. Raining rocks followed their tracks as they wove among the cover of columns. Maldus dismounted, sprinted across open ground, up the steps to where Valarion stood.

  With a harried look and lack of the formality, Maldus said, “I've been to see our allies.”

  Do we still have allies? Valarion said measuredly, “And what do they say?”

  “They are becoming restive. It's the same everywhere – our clients will provide men, but only if we provide coin or bullion. Scrip and even imperial notes are rejected as payment.”

  Valarion scowled. “Such is the allegiance of the Senate! They swore unanimous fealty to me only weeks ago!”

  “That was before we lost half the navy.”

  Valarion had tossed the situation in his mind countless times. With the navy stretched thin, the Imperium couldn't summon legions or collect tribute from the provinces. Without legions or tribute, the authority of the Imperium was little more than the wax on the seals of its documents.

  Valarion ground his fist into his palm. “We'd have all the silver we need if we could seize Palras!”

  “When I met with him this evening,” Maldus replied, “the governor's representative gave no inclination to be among our allies.” Left unsaid: at the moment, the Palras Squadron outnumbered the ships of the Imperial Navy that still answered to the Emperor. “My Lord, we can't hold this place much longer. I recognized in the mob tonight the face of a former captain in the Guard. If he is in the pay of our enemies, then they'll know the layout of the palace, and are preparing to storm the gates.”

  “Do you have any positive things to say?”

  “There is yet opportunity for escape into exile.”

  “Out of the question!”

  Exile would create a power vacuum in the city, and whoever filled it would send a legion after Valarion as the first order of business. Valarion was certain of that, for it was what he would do.

  Maldus gestured toward his men. “We haven't eaten all day. Is there anything in the pantry?”

  “Go and see,” Valarion muttered. He knew there was only bread, but he dreaded the impact on morale if he said that aloud.

  Before Maldus could say more, Valarion stalked into the palace, to the Great Hall. Its great chandeliers as dark as icebergs upon the Northern Sea, it was illuminated by a single lantern, murals barely visible in the gloom. Maneuvering through an obstacle course of scattered chairs and overturned tables that due to the desertion of the maintenance staff had still not been cleaned from the night of the fateful function, Valarion walked to the center of the hall and looked about.

  There was where he had made his announcement to the assembled patricians. There was where he had Archimedes encircled. The crafty old fox had escaped through a secret panel – and there was where the escape route was still haphazardly barricaded.

  “I should have run him through with my own sword,” Valarion muttered.

  If he had killed Archimedes at the party that night, there would have been a brief scandal, but the airship would still be in the hands of the Imperium and the fleet would not have been devastated. The provinces and the Senate would still give their full allegiance, and preparations would be under way for the final conquest of Britan. And once their vexed Box was found, the Sisters of Wisdom would have given him the power to rule the whole world.

  Instead, Archimedes had escaped, hijacked the airship, and brought his vengeance from the sky in sight of all of Rome. The loss of the fleet was blamed on Valarion and he was forced to make handsome public offerings to restore his status. A few parties, a few public works, a few regretful but necessary assassinations, and not-quite-so-few bribes – all of it had drained the imperial treasury, which had already dipped to perilously low levels during the final months of Hadron's reign of poison-induced senility.

  And without money, the Emperor of the Known World was without power, and thus stood alone in an empty, cavernous chamber, waiting for the walls to fall in.

  If only Landar's ship was ready – yet that too needed money, or would never leave the ground.

  Footsteps echoed from a side passage. Valarion instinctively half-extracted his dagger before recognizing the pattern – a steady but weak plod. One of Hadron's servants, who had stayed on because he was too old to find employment elsewhere.

  “My Lord.” The man held forth a platter and removed the cover. Resting upon the plate was a brick.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Valarion snapped.

  “Some time ago, My Lord, you requested that I check each day in the northeastern-most garden for a brick of this color that might be thrown over the wall.”

  Valarion perceived in the gloom that the brick was dark red, like those of Bloodbrick Prison. Eyes widened, he snatched it and said to the servant, “You have done well. Leave now and say nothing about this to anyone.”

  Accustomed to cryptic commands over his long career, the servant wordlessly bowed and exited.

  Valarion retreated to a side wing. Beneath the murals of the Sisters he scratched his flint, lit the lantern on the wall, and intently examined the brick. It had been split and glued together; he smashed it open along the crack. From the hollow interior he extracted a slip of paper and read with narrowed eyes.

  Pier Five . . . Golden Apple . . . Hasod.

  Valarion touched paper to flame and stamped the cinders to fragments.

  Hoping to feign dignity, he confined himself to a brisk walk rather than run to the kitchen. Maldus and his men were at the tables, chewing on stale loaves. Valarion dismissed the accusation in their eyes and said, “I need a detachment to ride with me to the waterfront.”

  “Detachment?” Maldus asked. He looked at the men, then resumed chewing.

  “That was an order! You are Commander of the Imperial Guard!”

  “Am I back to that? I was Commander of the Municipal Guard a few weeks ago.”

  That was a sore point between them. The Senate had declined to ratify the upgrade in status. Valarion knew with that and other failures to deliver on promises, he could press Maldus only so far.

  “We must go immediately,” he said in a softer voice.

  “What is this for?”

  Valarion finally realized he couldn't tell the truth without sounding outlandish. “Don't trouble. I'll make other arrangements.”

  He returned to the veranda. The gamblers gave him appraising stares.

  He backstepped and acknowledged the truth: his Imperium was down to a single man whom he could trust on a mission of this nature.

  He faced the front steps but laid eyes on the mob. Would he reach the gates before succumbing to a bloody barrage? He couldn't leave by a known exit, they'd see him scaling the walls.

  There was still one way out of the palace they didn't know about.

  Scowling, he b
rushed past the guard and returned to the Great Hall. He spied the barricaded once-secret panel and scurried over. Appreciating the irony of exploiting a trick of his enemy for his own benefit, he drew his dagger and pried the boards, grabbed a lantern and descended into the passage.

  The darkness, dankness, and claustrophobia filled with him instant regret. He fortified his will and continued. The passage joined the city's sewer system. The maze was enough to have caused most people to become lost. Valarion, as a student of Archimedes, recognized his former tutor's chalk scrawls placed unobtrusively at the intersections. Minutes of wandering later, he climbed slime-covered steps to a door, which opened to an alley.

  Valarion spotted landmarks and assessed his position as a couple blocks from the palace. He glanced back at the threshold into the sewers and shook his head. The entry was unlocked, unbarricaded, and unguarded. With knowledge of the secret passage and equipped with a map of the sewer system, his enemies could have penetrated the palace defenses at any time.

  Remembering his mission, Valarion stealthed from the alley. The streets were lit only by moonlight and lonely candles in upper windows, but he blew out his lantern for fear that sight of his patrician's robe would attract the criminal element. That the fabric was dyed solid purple might not intimidate a robber's blade, and indeed might incentivize it.

  It had not been since his youth that he had navigated the streets of Rome by himself at night, yet with sureness he stole westward to the bay, stealing across the the Avenue of Champions and clinging to the smaller, narrower streets. Wherever he saw approaching shadows, he hung back. Even though he was fit and well-trained as a soldier, he did not relish going against a gang of thieves. He spotted hints of several.

  The streets reeked and in the darkness he tripped over garbage twice. Still, his sense of direction did not fail. The stench of the streets was exchanged for the stench of the bay, and around a corner glowed the lights of a tavern out of which staggered sailors. From the dark beyond came the white noise of creaking ship timbers and waves slapping against piling.