He smote palm into fist, once. Then he buckled down to work.
XVI
Arinnian carried Eyath back to the compound on foot. His gravbelt wouldn't safely raise them both and he left it behind. Twice she told him she could fly, or walk at any rate, but in such a weak whisper that he said, "No." Otherwise they did not speak, after the few words she had coughed against his breast while he knelt to hold her.
He couldn't carry that mass long in his arms. Instead, she clung to him, keelbone alongside his back, foot-claws curved over his shoulders, hugging his waist, like a small Ythrian child except that he must help her against the heaviness of the planet by his clasp on her alatans. He had cut his shirt into rags to sponge her hurts with rainwater off the leaves, and into bandages to stop further bleeding. The injuries weren't clinically serious, but it gave him something to use his knife on. Thus the warmth (the heat) and silk featheriness of her lay upon his skin; and the smell of her lovetime, like heavy perfume, was around him and in him.
That's the worst, he kept thinking. The condition'll last for days—a couple of weeks, given reinforcement. If she encounters him again—
Is she remorseful? How can she be, for a thing she couldn't halt? She's stunned, of course, harmed, dazed; but does she feel mortally befouled? Ought she to?
Suddenly I don't understand my galemate.
He trudged on. There had been scant rest for him during his search. He ached, his mouth was dry, his brain seemed full of sand. The world was a path he had to walk, so-and-so many kilometers long, except that the kilometers kept stretching. This naturally thinned the path still more, until the world had no room left for anything but a row of betrayals. He tried to shut out consciousness of them by reciting a childish chant in his head for the benefit of his feet. "You pick 'em up an' lay 'em down. You pick 'em up—" But this made him too aware of feet, how they hurt, knees, how they shivered, arms, how they burned, and perforce he went back to the betrayals. Terra-Ythri. Ythri-Avalon. Tabitha-Rochefort. Eyath-Draun, no, Draun-Eyath . . . Vodan-whatsername, that horrible creature in Centauri, yes, Quenna . . . Eyath-anybody, because right now she was anybody's . . . no, a person had self-control, forethought, a person could stay chaste if not preserve that wind-virginity which had been hers . . . . Those hands clasped on his belly, which had lain in his, had lately strained to pull Draun closer; that voice which had sung to him, and was now stilled, had moaned like the voice of any slut—Stop that! Stop, I say!
Sight of the compound jarred him back to a sort of reality. No one seemed about. Luck. He'd get Eyath safely put away. Ythrian chemists had developed an aerosol which effectively nullified the pheromones, and doubtless some could be borrowed from a neighbor. It'd keep the local males from strutting and gawking outside her room, till she'd rested enough to fly with him to the boat and thence home to Stormgate.
Tabitha's house stood open. She must have heard his footsteps and breath, for she came to the door. "Hullo," she called. "You found her? . . . Hoy!" She ran. He supposed once he would have appreciated the sight. "She okay?"
"No." He plodded inside. The coolness and shade belonged to a different planet.
Tabitha padded after. "This way," she suggested. "My bed."
"No!" Arinnian stopped. He would have shrugged if he weren't burdened. "Why not?"
Eyath lay down, one wing folded under her, the other spread wide so the pinions trailed onto the floor. The nictitating membranes made her appear blind. "Thank you." She could barely be heard.
"What happened?" Tabitha bent to see. The odor that a male Ythrian could catch across kilometers reached her. "Oh." She straightened. Her jaw set. "Yeh."
Arinnian sought the bathroom, drank glass after glass of cold water, showered beneath the iciest of the needlespray settings. That and a stimpill brought him back to alertness. Meanwhile Tabitha went in and out, fetching supplies for Eyath's care.
When they were both finished, they met in the living room. She put her lips close to his ear—he felt the tiny puffs of her words—to say very low, "I gave her a sedative. She'll be asleep in a few minutes."
"Good," he answered out of his hatred. "Where's Draun?"
Tabitha stepped back. The green gaze widened. "Why?"
"Can't you guess? Where is he?"
"Why do you want Draun?"
"To kill him."
"You won't!" she cried. "Chris, if it was him, they couldn't help themselves. Neither could. You know that. Shock and grief brought on premature ovulation, and then he chanced by—"
"He didn't chance by, that slime," Arinnian said. "Or if he did, he could've veered off from the first faint whiff he got, like any decent male. He most certainly didn't have to brutalize her. Where is he?"
Tabitha moved sidewise, in front of the phone. She had gone paler than when Draun mocked her. He shoved her out of his way. She resisted a moment, but while she was strong, she couldn't match him. "At home, you've guessed," Arinnian said. "A bunch of friends to hand, armed."
"To keep you from trying anything reckless, surely, surely," Tabitha pleaded. "Chris, we've a war. He's too important in the guard. We—If Phil were here you'd never—Must I go after a gun?"
He sat down. "Your stud couldn't prevent me calling from a different place," he snapped. She recoiled. "Nor could your silly gun. Be quiet."
He knew the number and stabbed it out. The screen came to life: Draun and, yes, a couple more in the background, blasters at their sides. The Ythrian spoke at once: "I expected this. Will you hear me? Done's done, and no harm in it. Choth law says not, in cases like this, save that a gild may be asked for wounded pride and any child must be provided for. There'll hardly be a brat, from this early in her season, and as for pride, she enjoyed herself." He grinned and stared past the man. "Didn't you, pretty-tail?"
Arinnian craned his neck around. Eyath staggered from the bedroom. Her eyes were fully open but glazed by the drug which had her already half unconscious. Her arms reached toward the image in the screen. "Yes. Come," she croaked. "No. Help me, Arinnian. Help."
He couldn't move. It was Tabitha who went to her and led her back out of sight.
"You see?" Draun said. "No harm. Why, you humans can force your females, and often do, I've heard. I'm not built for that. Anyhow, what's one bit of other folk's sport to you, alongside your hundred or more each year?"
Arinnian had kept down his vomit. It left a burning in his gullet. His words fell dull and, in his ears, remote, though every remaining sense had become preternaturally sharp. "I saw her condition."
"Well, maybe I did get a bit excited. Your fault, really, you humans. We Ythrians watch your ways and begin to wonder. You grip my meaning? All right, I'll offer gild for any injuries, as certified by a medic. I'll even discuss a possible pride-payment, with her parents, that is. Are you satisfied?"
"No."
Draun bristled his crest a little. "You'd better be. By law and custom, you've no further rights in the matter."
"I'm going to kill you," Arinnian said.
"What? Wait a wingbeat! Murder—"
"Duel. We've witnesses here. I challenge you."
"You've no cause, I say!"
Arinnian could shrug, this time. "Then you challenge me."
"What for?"
The man sighed. "Need we plod through the formalities? Let me see, what deadly insults would fit? The vulgarism about what I can do when flying above you? No, too much a cliche. I'm practically compelled to present a simple factual description of your character, Draun. Thereto I will add that Highsky Choth is a clot of dung, since it contains such a maggot."
"Enough," the Ythrian said, just as quietly though his feathers stood up and his wings shuddered. "You are challenged. Before my gods, your gods, the memory of all our forebears and the hope of all our descent, I, Draun of Highsky, put you, Christopher Holm, called Arinnian of Stormgate, upon your deathpride to meet me in combat from which no more than one shall go alive. In the presence and honor of these witnesses whom I name—"
"Are you both insane?" she nearly screamed.
"The words have been uttered." Draun peeled his fangs. "Unless he beg grace of me."
"I would not accept a plea for grace from him," Arinnian said.
She stood panting, swinging her head from each to each. The tears poured down her face; she didn't appear to notice. After some seconds her arms dropped, her neck drooped.
"Will you hear me, then?" she asked hoarsely. They held still. Arinnian had begun to tremble under a skin turning cold. Tabitha's fists closed where they hung. "It's not to your honor that you let th-th-those persons your choths . . . Avalon . . . needs . . . be killed or, or crippled. Wait till war's end. I challenge you to do that."
"Well, aye, if I needn't meet nor talk to the Walker," Draun agreed reluctantly.
"If you mean we must cooperate as before," Arinnian said to Tabitha, "you'll have to be our go-between."
"How can she?" Draun jeered. "After the way you bespoke her choth."
"I think I can, somehow," Hrill sighed.
She stood back. The formula was completed. The screen blanked.
Strength poured from Arinnian. He turned to the girl and said, contrite, "I didn't mean that last. Of you I beg grace, to you I offer gild."
She didn't look his way, but sought the door and stared outward. Toward her lover, he thought vaguely. I'll find a tree to rest beneath till Eyath rouses and I can transport her to the flitter.
A crash rolled down the mountainside and rattled the windows. Tabitha grew rigid. The noise toned away, more and more faint as the thunderbolt fled upward. She ran into the court. "Phil!" she shouted. Ah, Arinnian thought. Indeed. The next betrayal.
"At ease, Lieutenant. Sit down."
The dark, good-looking young man stayed tense in the chair. Juan Cajal dropped gaze back to desk and rattled the papers in his hands. Silence brimmed his office cabin. Valenderay swung in orbit around Pax at a distance which made that sun no more than the brightest of the stars, whose glare curtained Esperance where Luisa waited.
"I have read this report on you, including the transcription of your statements, with care, Lieutenant Rochefort," Cajal said finally, "long though it be. That's why I had you sent here by speedster."
"What can I add, sir?" The newcomer's voice was stiff as his body. However, when Cajal raised his look to meet those eyes again, he remembered a gentle beast he had once seen on Nuevo México, in the Sierra de los Bosques Secos, caught at the end of a canyon and waiting for the hunters.
"First," the admiral said, "I want to tender my personal apology for the hypnoprobing to which you were subjected when you rejoined our fleet. It was no way to treat a loyal officer."
"I understand, sir," Rochefort said. "I wasn't surprised, and the interrogators were courteous. You had to be sure I wasn't lying." Briefly, something nickered behind the mask. "To you."
"M-m, yes, the hypnoprobe evokes every last detail, doesn't it? The story will go no further, son. You saw a higher duty and followed."
"Why fetch me in person, sir? What little I had to tell must be in that report."
Cajal leaned back. He constructed a friendly smile. "You'll find out. First I need a bit of extra information. What do you drink?"
Rochefort started. "Sir?"
"Scotch, bourbon, rye, gin, tequila, vodka, akvavit, et cetera, including miscellaneous extraterrestrial bottles. What mixes and chasers? I believe we've a reasonably well-stocked cabinet aboard." When Rochefort sat dumb, Cajal finished: "I like a martini before dinner myself. We're dining together, you realize."
"I am? The, the admiral is most kind. Yes. A martini. Thanks."
Cajal called in the order. Actually he took a small sherry, on the rare occasions when he chose anything; and he suspected Rochefort likewise had a different preference. But it was important to get the boy relaxed.
"Smoke?" he invited. "I don't, but I don't mind either, and the governor gave me those cigars. He's a noted gourmet."
"Uh . . . thank you . . . not till after eating, sir."
"Evidently you're another." Cajal guided the chitchat till the cocktails arrived. They were large and cold. He lifted his. "A vuestra salud, mi amigo."
"Your health—" The embryo of a smile lived half a second in Rochefort's countenance. "Bonne santé, Monsieur l'Amiral."
They sipped. "Go ahead, enjoy," Cajal urged. "A man of your proven courage isn't afraid of his supreme boss. Your immediate captain, yes, conceivably; but not me. Besides, I'm issuing you no orders. Rather, I asked for what help and advice you care to give."
Rochefort had gotten over being surprised. "I can't imagine what, sir." Cajal set him an example by taking a fresh sip. Cajal's, in a glass that bore his crest, had been watered.
Not that he wanted Rochefort drunk. He did want him loosened and hopeful.
"I suppose you know you're the single prisoner to escape," the admiral said. "Understandable. They probably hold no more than a dozen or two, from boats disabled like yours, and you were fabulously lucky. Still, you may not know that we've been getting other people from Avalon."
"Defectors, sir? I heard about discontent."
Cajal nodded. "And fear, and greed, and also more praiseworthy motives, a desire to make the best of a hopeless situation and avoid further havoc. They've been slipping off to us, one by one, a few score total. Naturally, all were quizzed, even more thoroughly than you. Your psychoprofile was on record; Intelligence need merely establish it hadn't been tampered with."
"They wouldn't do that, sir," Rochefort said. Color returned to his speech. "About the worst immorality you can commit on Avalon is stripping someone else of his basic honor. That costs you yours." He sank back and took a quick swallow. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't apologize. You spoke in precisely the vein I wish. Let me go on, though. The first fugitives hadn't much of interest to tell. Of late—Well, no need for lectures. One typical case will serve. A city merchant, grown rich on trade with nearby Imperial worlds. He won't mind us taking over his planet, as long as the war doesn't ruin his property and the aftermath cost him extra taxes. Despicable, or realistic? No matter. The point is, he possessed certain information, and had certain other information given him to pass on, by quite highly placed officials who're secretly of the peace group."
Rochefort watched Cajal over the rim of his glass. "You fear a trap, sir?"
Cajal spread his palms. "The fugitives' sincerity is beyond doubt. But were they fed false data before they left? Your story is an important confirmation of theirs."
"About the Equatorian continent?" Rochefort said. "No use insulting the admiral's intelligence, I probably would not have tried to get away if I didn't believe what I'd heard might be critical. However, I know very little."
Cajal tugged his beard. "You know more than you think, son. For instance, our analysis of enemy fire patterns, as recorded at the first battle of Avalon, does indicate Equatoria is a weak spot. Now you were on the scene for months. You heard them talk. You watched their faces, faces of people you'd come to know. How concerned would you say they really were?"
"Um-m-m . . . ." Rochefort drank anew. Cajal unobtrusively pressed a button which signaled the demand for a refill for him. "Well, sir, the, the lady I was with, Equatoria was out of her department." He hastened onward: "Christopher Holm, oldest son of their top commander, yes, I'd say he worried about it a lot."
"What's the place like? Especially this, ah, Scorpeluna region. We're collecting what information we can, but with so many worlds around, who that doesn't live on them cares about their desert areas?"
Rochefort recommended a couple of books. Cajal didn't remind him that Intelligence's computers must have retrieved these from the libraries days or weeks ago. "Nothing too specific," th
e lieutenant went on. "I've gathered it's a large, arid plateau, surrounded by mountains they call high on Avalon, near the middle of the continent, which the admiral knows isn't big. Some wild game, perhaps, but no real hope of living off the country." He stopped for emphasis. "Counterattackers couldn't either."
"And they, who have oceans to cross, would actually be further from home than our people from our ships," Cajal murmured.
"A dangerous way down, sir."
"Not after we'd knocked out the local emplacements. And those lovely, sheltering mountains—"
Rise of the Terran Empire Page 53
