by John Meaney
‘Good. We don’t want to frighten people.’
In Ro’s jet eyes, a small golden light softly glowed.
‘After all...’
For a moment, nothing.
‘... they’re only human.’
And then, in every black orb, in six hundred pairs of eyes, an answering spark began to glimmer.
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~ * ~
69
NULAPEIRON AD 3423
Corduven’ s uniform was cream and gold, and its decorations gleamed.
‘Very polished,’ said Tom.
‘Look’—Corduven waved a mirrorfield into existence—’who’s talking.’
In his reflection, Tom saw his own immaculate white uniform, its piping all of platinum, formal white half-cape thrown back carefully over his shoulder at just the correct angle. The lounge in which they were waiting, appointed in burgundy and gold with diamond inlays along the fluted columns, seemed appropriate.
‘My servitor’s outfit,’ Tom recalled, ‘was black and ivory.’
‘Lady Darinia’s colours.’ Corduven laughed. ‘Terrible livery. I remember the day I first saw you, when you came to fetch my damaged clothes—’
‘Buggy smartsatin.’
‘That’s right. I nearly suggested you keep my garments instead.’
‘Chef Keldur,’ said Tom, ‘would’ve killed me.’
They shook their heads, thinking of time’s passage, and how it slips away from everyone. Then a discreet chime sounded.
Corduven stepped forward as an alpha servitor entered, and they exchanged muted whispers.
‘Got to go,’ Corduven told Tom. ‘Details. Can’t trust anyone.’
‘Don’t be long.’
‘Just who’s supposed to nag whom, today?’
There was a soft sound behind him, and Tom spun, hand raised. A service entrance, normally unused, was vitrifying into solidity.
The lean man bowed.
‘I beg your pardon, my Lord.’
But when he straightened up, he looked composed rather than apologetic. He was dressed as a courtier, a Lord-Minor-sans-Demesne, yet he stood with an easy warrior’s grace, feline and watchful, and something about his olive-skinned features caused the back of Tom’s neck to tingle.
‘Do I know you?’
The stranger pulled a white poignard from his tunic. Tom readied himself, but the man held out the weapon hilt first, and the entwined archaic symbols, kappa and alpha, were visible upon the hilt’s engraved end.
‘Interesting weapon.’ Tom accepted it. ‘Nice balance.’
He had used one like it, though cast from redmetal, to kill the Oracle. To murder Corduven’s brother.
‘A replacement.’ A tight smile crossed the stranger’s fine features. ‘If you will, my Lord.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean. But I accept your... I have seen you before, I’m sure of it.’
The smile left the stranger’s face.
He turned away, reached up, dabbing at his eyes in a gesture which brought a frisson to Tom’s tingling nerves.
‘My name is Janis deVries.’
When he turned back, his eyes—relieved of their cosmetic contacts—were of purest obsidian: totally black, devoid of surrounding whites.
‘And I believe you knew my mother.’
The Pilot...
DeVries cast a glance towards the main door-membrane.
‘There are others coming. But we’ll talk again, my Lord.’
Tom turned as Corduven entered; when he looked back, the mysterious Pilot—unbelievably, the son of that other Pilot, the woman who had died before his eyes nineteen SY before—had disappeared, and the membrane was hardening once more.
‘Was someone here?’
‘Just a friend.’ Tom smiled. ‘Kind of an old family friend.’
‘Well, for Fate’s sake. Are you ready? You know I’ll be blamed if we’re late.’
‘Relax,’ said Tom. ‘I’m ready now.’
It was a low, wide hall, resplendent in white and platinum, and floating silver lev-disks formed a ceremonial stairway down to the dais at the far end, where a trio of shaven-headed priestesses waited.
Among the gathered guests were faces Tom had not seen for years: Lady V’Delikona, whom he had feared dead, smiled radiantly, her white hair gathered in an elegant coiffure and bound with platinum; Sylvana, in a shining gown, not looking in his direction; Sentinel, in a white and blue cloak of overstated magnificence; the housecarl, Kraiv -morphospear slung across his back, polished copper helm (in keeping with carl tradition) upon his head—with Draquelle beside him, grinning broadly; Avernon and, next to him, unexpectedly, a moustachioed Zhongguo Ren, thinner and frailer than Tom would have guessed—but Tom could remember him attempting to pummel the older praefecti at the Ragged School as if it were yesterday: his friend Zhao-ji.
And Eemur’s Head was there, her flensed flesh gleaming red, in a five-sided box to screen the sight of her from delicate sensibilities, while giving her full unblinking view of the ceremonial dais.
Wind chimes sounded as Tom descended, and then the gathered faces became one inchoate blur as the great silver door swung open, to his left, and a new entourage came inside.
She was smiling beneath the veil.
The Antistita, the primary priestess, had a silver voice which carried clearly throughout the hall.
‘...have witnessed the marriage here today of Lord Thomas Corcorigan and Commander Strelsthorm, now Lady Elva Corcorigan—’
He could not believe she looked so beautiful. Or that she was here, with him, a wedding bracelet twin to his own encircling her wrist.
Applause rose from the congregation as they stood.
‘—before us now, sworn forever to be joined.’
Tom raised her veil. ‘My love...’
‘Forever.’ Elva tipped her face up towards his.
‘Always,’ said Tom.
And kissed her.
THE END
