After a few minutes Blaise managed to lift himself out of the dust enough to cough with a violence that seemed to finish collapsing his tortured chest. Slowly he moved a shaking hand down to his thigh to feel for the stump.
Instead his trembling fingers touched solid flesh. He lifted his head and twisted around to look back at his leg. Yes, it was there, mangled, blackened, but there. He stared, reluctant to believe. Then, with a faint sob of relief, he shut his eyes and fell back into the dirt.
Chapter 4
The rings of the day had been shattered, permitting avenues for rage and frustration. Picyt n’Kkanthor dl’Mura-an, noble servant to the goddess Anthi, strode rapidly along the lower corridors, his cloak billowing out behind him. With an effort he kept his expression set in rigid lines of serenity, striving to refocus his rings of order. But it was impossible, even for his degree of attainment. His mind kept slipping ahead to anger and the consuming worry of bringing the n’dl here. It was dangerous, especially in his own personal transport, for should the Tlar’jen capture the vessel and find her within…
The rings shattered again, so violently this time that he was forced to pause in mid-step and shut his eyes to regain personal control. After building the first ring of inner awareness, he opened his eyes and hastened on. Time had run out on his carefully laid plans, nurtured all these years only to be extinguished at the verge of success. He clenched a fist hidden within the wide sweep of his sleeve as he hurried down a spiral of steps and on through a door opened for him by bowing Henan slaves clad in belted tabards of brown leather. Halting breathless on the balcony overlooking the cavernous transport bay, he placed that clenched fist on the railing, waiting alone, eyes slitted and bleak as he watched the bay doors creak open to admit the dull, squat craft that served as his personal vehicle. It came in on pulsing jets of air, cut to landing jets with a lurch that made Picyt wince, and rested its armored belly on the blackened bay floor with a final echoing whine.
At once technicians ran out in a blur of activity, swarming the transport with cloths to whisk away all traces of the corrosive black sand. The hatch swung open and up like an unfurled wing. After a pause two figures in the masked, black uniforms of the Bban’jen came down the steps. Picyt released a pent-up sigh, obliged to once more shut his eyes in order to reestablish inner control. A desire for yde stirred within him, but he shoved it away impatiently. Tuult has come, he thought with relief that beat close upon the third level of intensity. And Tuult had brought the n’dl. All was not entirely lost.
Opening his eyes, Picyt leaned forward slightly and watched the tall Bban bring her along. Burning disappointment rose within him like a sickness of the stomach. It should have been the n’ka. Lea’s blight upon Hihuan! Had the fool not meddled…
“Noble Picyt, I have come.” Tuult’s rough-edged voice rang out. He stiffened to attention at the head of the steps leading to the balcony and lifted one fist in salute. His other hand remained clamped on the arm of the prisoner, and Picyt detected the faint scent of Bban musk.
But despite his bitterness Picyt could not help looking upon Tuult with a surge of pride. He had come so far, this Bban. He was one of the few who gave Picyt hope even in the bleakest hours. The fact that he had crossed the Outerlands in a transport, rather than astride the unwilling back of a chaka, and had brought the n’dl unharmed and protected, in a jen uniform, which no female was permitted to wear, spoke of great progress. Looking upon the Bban with truth, Picyt saw that Tuult’s pride was deeply wounded by the loss of the n’ka. Picyt expelled a breath. Good; for when a Bban warrior lost pride he lost honor, and for that he would fight to the blood against Hihuan.
Picyt raised his head high. “You have come, Pon Tuult dar J’agan.”
“The n’dl is brought, revered noble.”
“Yes,” replied Picyt, glancing from the masked glow of Tuult’s scarlet eyes to her motionless figure. The mask and cloak hid none of her hostility. Picyt’s gaze narrowed as he gently extended his senses over her. Ah, she feared, but with the fear of a cornered animal. She could prove dangerous.
“Noble?” Tuult hesitated, his mask glinting as the light over the balcony glanced off a worn place on its surface. “The n’ka is not found. The citadel has been searched and beyond. On my blood, I—”
“No.” Picyt lifted his hand in placation. “Do not make the oath, Tuult. If Leiil Hihuan has stolen the n’ka by means of the seizert, then he could be anywhere.” Picyt allowed a sigh to escape him. “And we may be certain that his life has been spared.”
Tuult bowed, raising his free hand to his mask. “I am shamed, revered noble.”
“But we have the n’dl,” said Picyt, resolutely shoving aside disappointment. “She will serve us.”
“A woman of no caste!” Tuult swung out his hand in a gesture of contempt, only to drop it abruptly as Picyt’s unmasked gaze hardened. The Bban bowed. “As my noble commands.”
“Yes, and I command that she be not despised, pon!” snapped Picyt. He turned away, ready to leave the balcony. “Bring her to my chamber of council. And tell your men to continue the search across the wastes for the n’ka.”
“But if his blood is spread upon the sands—” Tuult questioned.
“Search,” said Picyt, setting aside his own doubts. “The n’ka is no common man. Perhaps Anthi has granted him favor of life.” He started for the private steps. “Search.”
“As my noble wishes,” said Tuult’s gruff voice as the door shut behind Picyt.
He moved quickly, and reached his private apartments minutes later. Drawing in a deep breath of warmed air, Picyt tossed off his long cloak with its stiff high collar of rank. The walls of his bedchamber circled around him, lined with the colorful woven litanies of the goddess. Footed braziers of glowing coals gave off heat, and he warmed his hands at one, wriggling his long fingers to shake off the chill. How he dreaded the coming season. A faint, melodious chime sounded, and he summoned a smile for his servant Jutuu, who entered softly on his old crippled feet with a goblet of scented wine.
“Noble,” he intoned quietly, kneeling before Picyt, the goblet tendered forth reverently in his knobbed hands. “May this please you.”
“I am well pleased,” said Picyt, and took the cup to sip its contents appreciatively, letting them soothe his weary soul. It had been a long day since he had risen at dawn for worship, and the meeting Basai had insisted upon to discuss the increasing difficulties in collecting taxes in sector five had prevented Picyt’s noonday meal from being served. Once again he put aside his anger over the theft of the n’ka. He must not hope for the man’s recovery. He must not depend upon it. Another catalyst would somehow be found.
For a moment Picyt luxuriated in the comfort of his surroundings and the small pleasures he cherished. How good it was to sit by a glowing fire, soothed by wine steeped in spices and the gleam of firelight upon the gilded scroll covers of his private library. Anthi’s benevolent eye watched over him from one curved wall, and here was Jutuu to fit his feet into warm fur-lined slippers. Picyt sighed and closed his eyes, letting the rings slip away.
But no. Time shortened. He could not give way to pleasure now when Hihuan’s hand might reach forth to smash the remainder of his plans.
Finishing off the wine, Picyt stood up and handed the empty goblet back to Jutuu. “I have audience. Prepare me.”
The old servant scurried away in silence to throw open a golden chest and draw forth Picyt’s stole of office, the rich blue fabric rippling in his gnarled hands as the firelight brought it to life. He laid the folds across Picyt’s white-robed shoulders, his twisted fingers arranging the pleats with great exactitude over Picyt’s left arm so that they draped correctly. A corner of Picyt’s mind moved away from the gnawing problems caused by a lifetime of secretly arranging revolt against the Tlar leiil of Ruantl to consider the worn flesh stretched so tautly over Jutuu’s ribs and hip bones. The leather, knee-length tabard of servitude that he wore was fastened at the throat by the b
lue collar of Picyt’s ownership and belted at the middle, leaving the sides bare from shoulder downward. It was a useful garment, worn by all servants of third caste, because it allowed complete freedom of movement. But it also permitted any critical eye to see the pallid thinness and deterioration of age. Picyt frowned. It did his station dishonor to keep a slave of such condition.
“You must eat more, Jutuu,” he said a bit sharply. “Tell the garners I wish your rations increased. From my private store if necessary.”
Jutuu bowed deeply, his cold dry fingers falling away from Picyt’s arm. “Whatever pleases you, noble, shall be done.”
Regretting his sharpness, Picyt nodded and adjusted his inner rings to circles of wholeness and patience. He left his apartments, this time choosing one of the middle corridors. His young secretary, Uble, appeared almost at once at his side, following him one pace back in courtesy.
“Revered noble, a delegation from the merchants of Spandeen—”
Picyt lifted his hand to silence him and strode on. The middle corridors were very long, and busy at this hour with the comings and goings of priests and shaven neophytes. Conscious of his rank as First Honored of Anthi and most noble ka of the House of Kkanthor, he walked erect, giving serene response to acknowledgments of respect, with his blue stole of office brushing gently against the hem of his long white robe. Within, impatience and ever-mounting anger battled against the rings he had formed to contain them, rings of calmness and clear thought and purpose. The catharsis of emotion could be performed later. Now he must permit nothing to interfere with questioning of the n’dl. If she indeed possessed knowledge of the working of the old technology, he must gain it swiftly before Hihuan chose to strike in earnest.
Reaching the chamber of council, he motioned for Uble to await him at the door.
Uble’s handsome young face creased at the dismissal. “But, revered noble, this matter—”
“It will wait, Priest Uble,” said Picyt with a wearied look of censure. He watched dark copper stain Uble’s cheeks and added firmly, “The Spandeen will wait.”
“Then, revered noble,” said Uble with a stubbornness that displeased Picyt, “have I permission to conduct them to an audience with Noble Basai?”
Picyt’s lips thinned, and only long-mastered emotional discipline enabled him to keep his temper. “It does not please me to award you permission.”
“But—”
“Chi’ka!” snapped Picyt, shocking Uble to silence with his use of the fierce Bban term. With a stern look at the chastened priest, Picyt placed his fingertips on the door panel and stepped forward as it slid silently aside.
Tuult stood beside the doorway, booted feet braced and arms crossed over his chest in the patient stance of the Bban warrior on guard. He raised his fist in a salute as Picyt passed him, then returned to grim immobility once more. Picyt came partway into the room and paused to watch the n’dl, who paced restlessly along the opposite side of the room. For a moment Picyt wondered if he should send Tuult out. No, he decided with a deep intake of breath. She could not be trusted. Tuult must stay, and hear, and learn the weight of new responsibilities of knowledge.
Drawing out the medallion of tongues, Picyt held it up, letting it spin from its silken-looking white cord. The movement caught her eye, and at once she halted. Abruptly she tugged off her mask and flung it down on the council table, scratching the surface of the rare orad wood. Such disregard for property caused Picyt’s great displeasure. The n’dl’s square face, with its odd flat cheekbones and prominent nose, blazed scarlet with defiance. He met her hostile gaze levelly and found himself repulsed by her peculiar eyes, which were colored only in the center and ringed with the opaque white of blindness.
For a long moment of tense silence he permitted her to stare boldly at him in return, accepting this assault to his personal honor as a noble, in exchange for the chance to look upon her with truth. But he was unable to clear away the cloudiness of hostility, anger, and fear raging within her for a deeper sight before her gaze flickered uneasily and she made a restless gesture of repudiation.
Startled by her ability—however undeveloped—to sense a look of truth, Picyt withdrew it.
She glared at him. “Who are you?” she demanded loudly, shattering the stillness of the room. “And why have I been brought here? Where is Major Omari?”
Tuult growled softly behind his mask, clicking his jaw.
Picyt frowned. “Anger does not serve you,” he replied, fascinated as always by the chance to observe the working of his medallion. They had become objects of great scarcity, and even as he spoke he knew a pang over the loss of the one given to the n’ka.
“My questions are valid,” she snapped, gloved hands on her hips in a manner highly unbecoming to a dl, noncaste or not. “Answer them if you expect me to answer yours.”
Her show of spirit pleased him. He moved to the nearest of the four council chairs and sat down, draping his stole gracefully over the arm.
“Very well,” he said, laying the medallion on the table between them and allowing the silken cord to dangle off the edge. “I am Picyt, most noble of the House of Kkanthor.” Her eyes widened with remembrance, and he smiled. “Yes, we have met once before. You have been brought here because the citadel is no longer a safe holding for you. Here, chances of detection are less.”
The hardness of her expression did not waver. “And where is Omari? What has happened to him?”
He read not concern but frustration within her. Puzzled by this, he said slowly, “He has been abducted by agents of Leiil Hihuan. The Tlar leiil is desperate to maintain his throne, even at the cost of mental and cultural stagnation for an entire people!” His rings shattered, and he slammed a hand down on the chair arm. “Once, n’dl, we had all things. In the far past Ruantl was a colony planet, ruled by a leiil who was indeed Tlar. Under the dynasties of Asan, Rim, and Vauzier, the upper continent of Ruantl was settled, Altian built, and the Bban’n tamed. But the heirs of Vauzier died of the bite of the black sun, as did many others. No more of the golden race came to live here, and we were left, dwindling under the lesser rule of lesser men. And knowledge of the ways of machines—”
“Yes, your problem is quite apparent,” she said arrogantly, breaking in on his careful blend of lie and truth without compunction. “I have studied the histories of declining civilizations. They are usually marked by lax standards, a decrease in the birthrate of the upper class, and a decay of all technological ability. Judging by the faulty performance of that engine that flew me here today, you shouldn’t use it again until it’s been thoroughly overhauled. Now, Picyt—”
There came the hiss of blade upon leather and the rising stench of Bban musk. Picyt corrected her swiftly. “Address me as Noble Picyt, n’dl, and with suitable respect in your tone, or Tuult will enforce my honor.”
She frowned, looking toward the Bban crouching with drawn jen-knife.
Picyt saw her rising protest and added quickly, “It is a thing that is done. I do not control it.”
“Then Omari was correct,” she said half to herself, her gaze narrowing. “The guard did attack him just because he was weak.” She moved her gaze to Picyt and blinked. “You said the Bban were tamed? Aren’t they—”
“Your questions waste time,” broke in Picyt sharply, too well aware of Tuult’s presence. Were his level of yde higher, he could control the Bban without difficulty, but he had taken none since that morning. He sighed. “Heed me now, n’dl—”
“My name is Saunders,” she said sharply. Tuult took a quick step forward and raised the knife. “Noble Picyt,” she conceded, inclining her head slightly. “The term n’dl is not translated to me.”
“It means you are not a daughter of Ruantl,” said Picyt, watching Tuult straighten. He sighed faintly. “It means also that you are apart from caste.”
“I do not wish to be called by it,” she said, head high. “Now, Noble Picyt, where is Omari?”
His lips tightened. Annoyance swept
through his rings of inner wholeness. Sternly he said, “You will go to the lower levels, to work there among my technicians and to train them. You will also explain the functions of what we have salvaged from your space transport.”
Undaunted by him or his position, she replied, “And if I do not…noble?”
He snorted, displeased now with her boldness as much as by the way she measured him in a warrior’s way of challenge. Lea’dl, what sort of females were raised on other worlds? This one was of neither type he knew.
He said curtly, “It is not desired to make you a prisoner, Saunders. But if you do not serve willingly, then it is always possible that you may fall into the hands of the Tlar leiil’s agents. They will find no use for you, and on Ruantl what is without use is discarded.”
There was a pause. Then Saunders lifted her striped eyes to his. “Understood, Noble Picyt,” she said, but not submissively.
It was enough. With an outward serenity he did not feel, Picyt rose from his chair, already directing his mind toward other matters. The merchants of the Spandeen would not be happy at this delay; but then, they were always difficult. And he should have eaten. Food would have held off the need for yde.
But she was not done. “Noble Picyt,” she said, “just how valuable are we, Omari and I, to you?”
Startled, he evaded the question, his gaze going to the eye of Anthi watching from the wall. “The n’ka is dead.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “If this Hihuan you spoke of intended only to kill Omari, then he would not have gone to the trouble of having him abducted from the citadel. A knife in the back would have served the purpose much more efficiently.”
The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One Page 7
