Piedro made and broke his own laws on a whim. No one knew for sure what was legal and what wasn’t. Like this tunnel. Yesterday Piedro had welcomed the efforts to dig out. He’d openly told Rollett that the excavation toward the outside world kept troublemakers too busy and tired to wreak havoc within the city—or foment open rebellion.
Rollet wondered why Piedro hadn’t assassinated him yet. He’d had many opportunities in the last year and a half. Perhaps the Kaaliph feared that Rollett’s men, who worked and lived as a cohesive unit, protecting each other, might rebel at the loss of their leader. Perhaps Piedro had secret plans to use this crew for something else. Perhaps . . .
The hair on the back of Rollett’s neck rose in atavistic fear. He searched first for signs of a ghost. The blocked end of the tunnel remained quiet.
Slowly he turned back to the tunnel entrance, knowing who awaited his notice. A short figure stood beside Peidro. Her head barely reached the Rover’s shoulder. A black lace veil covered her from head to toe. The intricate pattern of open and dense thread shifted with each movement, revealing haunting hints of a feminine figure robed in a finely cut black gown. A paler blob indicated the location of her face, but no hint of hair or eye color, distinguishing features, or age filtered through the veil.
She maintained a tighter control of her emotions and her aura than the cadre of Rovers who accompanied Piedro everywhere. Even if Rollett had the energy to spare to probe her, he knew from experience he’d find nothing. The probe would pass right through her.
Rover magic was mysterious. Her magic was unfathomable.
The woman rose up on tiptoe and whispered into Piedro’s ear. In the year and a half since the Rover had seized power, no one but Piedro had heard her voice. All that anyone knew of her was that Piedro never went anywhere without her—except the brothels.
“I shall attend you in a moment, my dear.” Piedro patted her hand solicitously. She backed away, as if floating in a mist of her veil.
“Leave this excavation, Rollett,” Piedro ordered. “The great winged god Simurgh is hungry. His temple—the only temple remaining in all of Kardia Hodos dedicated to him—lies empty within my palace. Don’t give me an excuse to feed him your blood. Much as I have enjoyed them, I grow weary of your challenges.”
“Who ordered the end of this project, you or your consort?”
“I rule Hanassa. No one else!” Piedro screamed in a voice on the edge of hysteria.
Rollett merely raised one eyebrow in question.
“Guards, post five men here at all times. The work will cease immediately.” Piedro turned on his heel and stalked out. His temper made little ripples in his aura, like watching air distortion around a hot flame.
“Move the next load of dirt to the latrine pit,” Rollett ordered his work crew.
The guards looked at their hands. Two masons shouldered them aside, carrying buckets of fresh mortar. Other men followed with shovels and picks ready to attack the blockage.
The Rover guards moved outside and took up assigned posts but did not interfere with the work.
“Rumor has it that Piedro has a new supply of grain and dried fruit. Maybe a load of hams as well,” a worker whispered to Rollett as he passed.
Rollett nodded slightly in acknowledgment. Every dark of the moon he heard the same rumor. Always the darkest night of the cycle.
“Tonight,” he whispered to the next man who passed him.
“Three hours after midnight,” the man mouthed, careful not to let any of Piedro’s spies hear.
A presence behind Rollett prickled his senses. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed the first informant by the ear and wrestled him into an armlock.
“Stargods, how do you do that?” the prisoner gasped as he relaxed within the punishing grip.
“Never sneak up on a magician,” Rollett warned. “Next time I might kill you with a thought before I check to see if you are friend or foe.” Rollett grinned and relaxed his pressure on the man’s windpipe enough to let him breath. But not enough to let him go.
“Yeah. Well you’d better be double careful tonight,” the informant said, rubbing his throat. “I also heard Piedro started the rumor of new supplies in order to trap you. He’s afraid to arrest and execute you, but if you died in honest battle stealing from him . . .”
“I’ll remember that.” Rollett released the man. Then he shuddered inwardly, keeping all traces of revulsion from his face. He’d spent too many years at Nimbulan’s side learning that peace, honor, and justice must bind a society together. Violence came too easy for him these days.
“You’ll make a good Kaaliph, Rollett,” the mason said under his breath. “But you aren’t ruthless enough to keep the job. You’ll need the consort to help.”
“Want to make a bet on that?” Rollett slammed the man up against the stone buttress, holding him a foot off the ground by the throat with one hand.
The mason’s face began to pulse purple.
Rollett eased his grip enough for the man’s feet to touch ground.
“No bets, Rollett,” the mason gasped.
“Remember what happens to people who defy me. Now get to work.”
He stalked out of the tunnel, disgusted with himself and with life in Hanassa.
Chapter 9
Midmorning, Palace Reveta Tristile, Coronnan City
“Be safe, my love,” Queen Maarie Kaathliin whispered as she leaned out the nursery window. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and blew a gentle kiss.
In the courtyard below, Quinnault looked up and smiled. He grabbed at the empty air as if catching the kiss. Then he opened his fist against his cheek, planting the caress where it belonged. With a jaunty wave he mounted Buan, his favorite stallion, and rode out the main gate of the palace courtyard.
The waiting company of royal soldiers leaped to their mounts and followed at a canter. They planned to escort a sledge caravan of foodstuffs and firewood to the beleaguered province of Lord Balthazaan. Thrice before, the much-needed supplies had been ambushed by well-organized outlaws and never seen again. The last had happened but days ago. The outlaws should not be quite so greedy for these supplies.
But Katie knew her husband chafed for the chance to confront and punish those thieves.
Quinnault might become lost in the wordstorms of politicians, but when action was called for, he responded readily with a worthy plan.
If only they could find the source of the disquiet in the capital city, she knew he’d form a good plan and act upon it. But vandals tore apart the scaffolding on new buildings, painted anti-foreign slogans on walls, and set fire to pungent offal in the doorways of foreign merchants and ran, leaving no clue to their identity.
Quinnault’s dream of justice and peace in Coronnan faded with every act of sabotage.
Rumors gave the troublemakers a dozen different identities and motives. No one presented solid evidence.
The most frequent rumors claimed that the vandals as well as the outlaws attacking caravans were Rovers seeking revenge against Quinnault and the Commune for their exile from Coronnan along with all of the magicians who could not or would not gather dragon magic.
Other rumors spoke of foreign armies. Still others whispered that the dragons stole the food. The latter stories were always accompanied by the strange flapping gesture to ward against evil and a few crosses of the Stargods.
“None of those rumors can be true,” Katie said to the air, pounding her fist against the window casement. “A magical border protects all of Coronnan from foreign troops and Rovers. And the dragons have no need for grain and fruit and pickled meat. Do you, Shayla?” She sent the last question telepathically as well as verbally.
But the dragons remained silent. For many weeks they’d been too busy to respond to Katie or Quinnault. She’d heard magicians complain about a lack of dragon magic to gather. Without dragon magic to impose ethics and honor upon magicians, Coronnan might very well dissolve into disastrous civil war once more. What transpire
d?
Katie moved to stand over her daughter’s crib. “I miss the informal clutter of my family.” She sighed heavily. Three times this past winter each of her brothers had visited her clandestinely. Each time she had hugged her sibling close, unwilling to let him go, though she knew she must. They had responsibilities back home.
She had not seen them for two moons. Perhaps they had gone home—taking their father with them. But it was unlike Liam Francis not to risk one final good-bye.
She had chosen her life with Quinnault—her beloved Scarecrow—on this rural planet with clean air and fresh food in exchange for the precious Tambootie to cure a plague. But she still missed her boisterous brothers and their adventures together. She’d never needed friends and lovers until she came here. Her family had filled every emotional need she had.
She must never see them again and must never communicate with them either. The family covenant forbade it. Kardia Hodos must remain free of the taint of technology and the plague.
Still, her brothers bent the covenant to check on her. The bonds of family went deeper than duty.
She gazed lovingly at her daughter, a true miracle of life. This eight-month-old bundle of hungry demands represented the future of this country and her family.
For a few moments, at least, Princess Marilell slept quietly, sucking her fist. Hungry even in sleep.
“Maybe you’ll have a baby brother soon,” Katie whispered to her daughter. She placed her hand protectively across her belly, hoping. . . .
She shot another question to the dragons. Still no answer. On the night Marilell had been conceived, the dragons had flown a nuptial flight as well. Shayla had told Katie the next morning that both matings had been successful.
Shayla wasn’t due to mate again for at least another year. Katie hoped she didn’t have to wait until then to become pregnant again.
“Maybe not having enough milk to nurse you, Marilell, is a blessing. Maybe I’ll conceive again quickly. Perhaps I already have. No one back home will consider taking the time to nurse their own babies, so they have to resort to drugs and devices to keep from having too many children too soon. But here, children are a blessing rather than an inconvenience necessary for the continuation of the human race.”
Or a frightening experience depending on the mother’s exposure to the plague. The old, the very young, and pregnant women always contracted the plague first.
No one knew for certain what breakdown in their immune systems triggered a plague spore back into life. The genetically engineered microbes were supposed to eat only toxic waste until they ran out of food, then they should turn cannibalistic until only one remained and it starved to death. But the microbes mutated, turning into dormant spores until more pollution fed them, or they found bacteria and buildups of toxins within the human body a culinary delight.
The reports of illness devastating Lord Balthazaan’s province, beginning at the coal mines with their heavy concentrations of mineral dust, had spread to include other regions—city and rural alike. If the problems resulted from privation, the caravan of supplies Quinnault led would help. They needed firsthand reports from the trusted officers with the caravan rather than reliance upon rumor.
Katie read every written report and listened closely to every rumor for similarities between the current illness and the Terran plague. She hoped the symptoms differed enough to rule out the plague. The people of Coronnan succumbed to a choking cough. Terra’s plague caused all of the internal organs to hemorrhage. Eventually the patient either bled to death or drowned from blood filling the lungs.
The soldiers had orders to gather fallen branches and limbs along the route to supplement the loads of firewood. Nimbulan had added the request to include the Tambootie for bonfires in the central marketplace of afflicted villages and manors. Scarface had countermanded Nimbulan’s request. Smoke from the Tambootie was toxic to mundanes. In this case, the cure could be worse than the disease.
Nimbulan had countered that only eating the raw leaves of the Tambootie had proved lethal to mundanes. Breathing the smoke was such a private ritual of magicians that no record of a mundane reacting to the smoke existed. If a distillation of the Tambootie proved safe to mundanes, then the smoke should be as well.
Who was right? Katie wanted to believe Nimbulan because he was a friend and had proved wise so many times in the past year. But Scarface sounded so logical. . . .
If only they knew for certain that the smoke would safely prevent the disease.
The queen traced the baby’s cheek with her fingertip. Such soft skin, warm and pink. She vowed that her new home would never know the plague, never live in fear of bearing children lest the plague strike mother and child when most vulnerable.
Silently Katie moved away from the crib to a secret recess in the wall near the outside corner of the room. She pressed and twisted an imperfection in the stonework. The false face of the stone popped open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an opening about twenty centimeters square. Previous queens of Coronnan had secreted jewels and valuable documents here. Katie used the cache for more important equipment.
She withdrew a small computerized box, a vial of test strips, and a lancet. “Do I really need to do this every day?” she asked herself. She dreaded the painful pricks from the lancet more and more. Maybe today she would just put the equipment back in its hiding place. The anxious mother part of her insisted she proceed.
Once brought out of dormancy, the virus spread rapidly by the briefest human contact, devastating entire populations in a matter of weeks. Each carrier caused a mutation of the virus that was resistant to the previous generation of antibiotics. In seven centuries of fighting the plague, Terran scientists had found that only a distillation from the Tambootie tree cured the plague.
In all those generations, Katie’s family had never lost a member to the plague. The O’Haras and a few other families had proved strangely immune to the disease. But the microbe mutated so quickly Katie dared not take a chance that the next bug would kill her and devastate her new home.
She had lived on bush worlds for three years before being dispatched to the distant planet known as Kardia Hodos. Aboard the space transport here, she had lived in a special isolation chamber with a different air supply from the rest of the ship. Was that long enough to know she was free of the plague?
No. She had to perform this small chore once every day for ten years to be sure. At least another four years of painful pricks from the tiny needle.
Katie washed her hands with the hard lye soap used by the common populace. She preferred the cleansing properties of this soap to the softer perfumed stuff favored by the local nobility. She winced as the lancet pricked her finger. A bright hanging drop of blood welled up from the minute wound. She touched the surface of the test strip with the blood and slipped the chemically treated slide into the meter.
The tiny computer whirred and hummed to itself as it checked her blood against a thousand tests, including iron levels, thyroid, cholesterol, blood sugar, and hormone levels for pregnancy. In less than a standard minute the machine beeped, satisfied that Katie’s blood was clean of the plague, her red and white counts remained normal, and her hormones maintained a satisfactory level. She wasn’t pregnant.
This tiny machine should be the only machine that would ever taint Kardia Hodos. And she would destroy it when she no longer needed it.
Except her father had given a sonar unit to the Guild of Bay Pilots. She wished she could sabotage that device. One bit of technology always led to another and another until the entire society was riddled with machines, synthetics, and pollution.
A knock on the door roused her from her silent contemplation.
“Come,” she called. Getting servants to respect her privacy had been a long uphill battle, but at least now they knocked and announced themselves when entering. Getting them to leave her alone again was still a problem.
“Your Grace.” Kaariin, the queen’s personal maid, bobbed a quick curtsy.
“King Kinnsell, your father, requests an audience.” Her eyes shone wide with awe and a bit of terror.
Kinnsell had that effect on people. Most people. Katie hadn’t allowed him to intimidate her since she was twelve and discovered that she had as much right to be elected emperor upon her grandfather’s death as her father did.
“What are you doing here, Kinnsell?” she asked the shadowy figure in the hallway. “You left for Terra last autumn, right after the dragon dream.” That had been his announced intention, but she’d seen Sean Michael and Jamie Patrick twice since then and Liam Francis three times. Jamie Patrick, the eldest, had told her Gramps had suffered a third heart attack near the Solstice and they might have to leave for home without notice to attend him.
Kinnsell nodded toward the servant in a gesture requesting privacy.
Katie almost asked Kaariin to stay, just to annoy her father. “I will interview King Kinnsell in the solar,” Katie said instead. She caressed her baby one more time and moved toward the inner door that would take her to her private suite.
“You will receive me here, Katie,” Kinnsell boomed as he pushed his way past the maid into the nursery, slamming the door in Kaariin’s face. He wore a local style of richly brocaded tunic with plain dark trews and boots instead of Varn veils and headdress. He intended to be seen as the King of Terrania.
Marilell whimpered at the disturbance.
“Hush!” Katie commanded her father. “You’ve awakened the baby.”
“Good. About time I had a chance to hold my granddaughter.” He reached into the crib and lifted the baby to his shoulder before Katie could intervene. “You know, if you’d let me bring in a monitor, you wouldn’t have to spend so much time babysitting. You could get out of this frigid palace, take part in the government, have a life.”
“My child is my life!”
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III Page 10
