Randolph received his guests warmly. Balding with a mossy auburn beard and a muddled Kethan accent, this captain was Craighan’s polar opposite, recommending him favorably in Jaren's book. Hearty handshakes were exchanged along with brief introductions. Then the four men took their seats and set to business.
Randolph dove into a discussion of the current political landscape. “The Guild made Mithgar an example that the other Cards can’t ignore,” he said, “but a major victory might persuade one of them to join us.”
“Sorry to be blunt,” Jaren said, “but you won’t be winning any fights for a while.”
“That’s where you come in,” said Randolph. “Even the Exodus can’t fight the Guild fleet alone, but it’s a perfect rallying point for the exiles.”
Jaren paused before naming the behemoth in the room. “You’ve read Dilar’s report,” he stated more than asked.
Randolph shared a knowing look with his first officer. “If you’re wondering whether I’ve been briefed on your maiden voyage,” he said, “I know about the mutiny and the deaths of my fellow officers.”
Jaren raised a hand in protest, but Randolph cut him off.
“Do I like it? Of course not. Was Stochman mostly to blame? Almost certainly. Did isolation and stress impair everyone’s judgment? I think so.”
“Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical,” Jaren said.
“Craighan and Stochman never considered your viewpoint,” Randolph said. “I know what it’s like to be hunted, so I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. We need your ship, and you need our manpower.”
Jaren pondered the offer. Relentless persecution had obviously made Randolph desperate. As a result, he was forced to entertain options that he never would’ve considered otherwise.
“These are my terms,” Jaren said. “First, official recognition of my command of the Exodus. That means any future mutiny attempts will be dealt with as I see fit.”
“I wouldn’t let you tell me how to run my command,” Randolph said. “I sure as hell won’t tell you how to run yours.”
Dilar leaned toward his captain. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked. Randolph motioned him to silence.
“Second,” Jaren continued, “if you have any information about the two Exodus Project heads, the faster you turn it over, the better it’ll reflect on you.”
“What are their names?” asked Randolph.
“Vernon and Braun.”
Randolph snorted and shook his head. “You would bring up those two.”
“Have you seen them since Bifron?” Jaren asked.
The dreadnaught captain leaned back in his chair. “We thought we were home free once we cleared the debris field. Then we ran into a Guild corvette waiting in the wings. It must’ve been patrolling for fleeing ships, because it already had one grappled: yours.”
Jaren's mouth tightened. He'd wondered how Dilar had come by the Shibboleth.
“The corvette's crew decided they didn't want to tangle with a dreadnaught,” Randolph said. “Surprise was on our side. If they'd taken the time to look, they'd have seen we weren’t a threat. As it happened, they dropped their catch and ran for the ether.”
Randolph paused, clearly seeking a tactful way to confess his theft. “We had massive casualties, so I sent a boarding party over for medical supplies. The Guild had taken the crew, but as luck would have it they missed one.”
“Who was it?” Jaren asked.
“We found a fat, twitchy fellow hiding in a torpedo tube. I have no idea how he squeezed himself in there. The man was sweating like a pig when we pulled him out. He gave the name Braun when we debriefed him, but not much else.”
“Where is he now?”
Randolph rubbed his scruffy chin. “We found him dead of a gunshot wound the next day; self-inflicted, the ship's surgeon said. Braun was confined to his cabin. We never did find out where the gun came from.”
Jaren sighed in defeat. Then he recalled a conspicuous detail of Randolph's story. “You said the Guild had searched the Shibboleth by the time you got there, and that Braun was the only one left on board. But you recognized Vernon's name when I dropped it. Did Braun mention him in questioning?”
Randolph shook his head. “Not then, but he was always muttering to himself. That was why I confined him to quarters. During the suicide inquest, the guards on Braun’s detail repeated some of the things he’d said. Vernon's name, for one.”
“Did Braun say what happened to him?”
Randolph’s hand gesture conveyed his uncertainty. “The guards’ memories were fuzzy, and Braun's ramblings were garbled to begin with, but the witnesses were pretty sure that this Vernon was on the Shibboleth with him.”
Jaren saw the pieces falling into place. “Did you get the corvette’s name?”
“Come to think of it, we did. It was the Persis out of Ostrith.”
Jaren rose. “Thanks for your time,” he said, giving Randolph’s hand a curt shake. He was heading for the door when Trand spoke up.
“Beg your pardon, captain,” the Freeholder said, “but I thought I might stay on a while.” His beady eyes darted to Randolph. “With Captain Randolph's kind permission, of course.”
“The Exodus is short-handed enough,” said Jaren. “Why should I let you go?”
“If you want Captain Randolph’s men,” said Trand, “it’s only fair to lend him one of yours. Besides, it’s been ages since I left Mithgar. A man gets to missing his own.”
“Understandable,” Jaren said. “It’s up to Captain Randolph.”
Randolph and Dilar cast skeptical looks at the dead man. “Does he know his way around an ether-runner?” the dreadnaught captain asked.
“I can vouch for his repair work,” Jaren said. And having a set of eyes here can’t hurt.
“All right,” Randolph said. “He can stay as long as he knows that this is a fighting ship; not a pleasure cruiser.”
Trand's youthful face beamed with excitement.
Randolph looked to Dilar. “Take him down to Chief Rekt and get him on a work detail. Everybody pulls his own weight here.”
Dilar led Trand from the room, and Jaren saw himself out. He strode briskly back to the Shibboleth, eager to tell Nakvin what he'd learned.
The old man looked up from the papers stacked on the clay table beside his afternoon tea and studied the redheaded woman he never could have seen before. Nakvin favored him with a smile and wondered if Eldrid’s disguise would fool a man who’d known her all her life.
“Mater Narr, your daughter has arrived from Salorien,” Nakvin’s Enforcer escort announced. The Master’s brow creased—as it should have, since he was childless.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, dad,” Nakvin said in her best Kethan accent. “When I heard you were staying on Tharis, I thought I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”
The Master’s bespectacled eyes lit up. “Oh no,” he said, rising from his chair. “Of course not! Come in, dear. I hardly recognized you, it’s been so long.”
Nakvin entered the stark room and caught the scent of wine beneath the tea’s aroma. Some habits never change, she thought. When the Enforcer had gone and closed the door behind him, she said, “Hello, Kelgrun. How much did you sell us out for?”
The Master slumped. All the years he’d cheated seemed to weigh upon his shoulders, but his eyes still glistened when he met her gaze. “For my freedom,” he said. “What else? I might add that Shan’s murder found me out. They’re still looking for the body. Any ideas?”
Nakvin couldn’t believe how soon she’d forgotten Tharis’ heat. Longing for her cool silk robe, she undid her top three sweater buttons. “Yes, actually. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
Kelgrun’s beard failed to hide his smile. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I need a favor,” Nakvin said. “You owe me.”
“What do you need?”
Nakvin took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled. “A pass for three to the Ostrith Guil
d house prison. And an exit pass for four.”
Kelgrun pursed his lips. “I don’t owe you that much,” he said. “If not for me, you’d likely have permanent accommodations there.”
Only one piece of information might sway Kelgrun now, but Nakvin hesitated to use it. But her need to help Elena overruled her distrust of the Master. “I need this for my daughter.”
Kelgrun came forward and took Nakvin’s hands in his. It always surprised her how rough his fingers and palms were. “In that case,” he said, “how can I refuse?”
Nakvin felt warmth in her face, and she let herself smile. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’m glad the two of you finally realized the inevitable,” said Kelgrun.
Nakvin felt a hotter, sharper warmth. “She’s not Jaren’s. It’s complicated.”
Kelgrun shook his woolly head and sighed. “Perhaps that’s for the better.”
55
At nine forty-five AM on a busy Middleday, Marshal Malachi, Adept of the Fifth Degree, ascended the grand stairway leading from Steersman's Square to the main entrance of Ostrith's Guild house; late to work for perhaps the first time in his life.
Malachi approached the wide rectangular opening in the black monolith’s southwest corner. Security waved him past the babbling queue and into the cubic mile of space contained within, its interior finished in gleaming white. The Adept had long ago ceased to marvel at the sight and kept a leisurely pace during the quarter mile trek to reception.
Tardiness required even Adepts to abase themselves by checking in, but as he climbed the short flight of steps to one of the four receiving platforms, Malachi wondered why his conscience felt so clear. Many Guild house personnel arrived late from time to time. It was practically a custom on Stonedays and Firedays, but for one of his rank, strolling in forty-five minutes late in the middle of the week was a scandal. For some reason, he couldn't have cared less.
Malachi directed his eyes forward and his mind inward, but three people in the next line caught his attention. The lanky fellow in back had short, dark hair and a ruddy complexion. He wore a fashionable pinstripe suit and square spectacles. The woman had deep red hair gathered at the back of her neck. Her face was freckled, and she wore a white sweater over a brown dress.
The man at the head of the group drew most of Malachi's scrutiny. His dusky face was framed by blond hair that fell to his shoulders in shaggy layers. He wore a green hooded jacket and tan shorts. Though Malachi couldn’t place him, he seemed familiar somehow.
The receptionist was already validating Malachi’s gate pass when the short blond fellow reached the desk. It was difficult to deal with his own clerk while attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation to his right, but the Adept managed to overhear his neighbor requesting passage for three to an impound auction.
Malachi almost asked the trio for their identification, but he was late enough already. He took his pass and started for the stairs with a final backward glance.
Had he met the blond man before? Even if he had, it was too late to act on his suspicions. Malachi joined the line for the gate, resigned to the machinations of a fate in which he’d begun to place credence.
Teg knew what he was up against. The Steersmen’s mastery of the ether allowed them to link tailor-made substrata to a single access point. Like all of the Guild’s major installations, their Ostrith headquarters was merely a colossal shell built around a dimensional gate.
The Guild designed their security plans with as much cunning as the dimensional honeycombs they guarded. In the case of Ostrith's Guild house, elite customs agents armed with rods Worked to detect fashioned prana manned the single entrance. Visitors were issued pass cards granting access to a single area for a specified number of people. Gate control could seal off any substratum instantly, and security personnel could be dispatched to the problem site at a moment's notice.
Many considered breaching such a facility impossible, so Teg whistled a victory song popular at Kethan sporting events as he and his associates stepped into a long sterile corridor inside the Guild hall's prison block.
The red-haired woman next to him pressed a finger to her lips and hissed curtly. Associating her appearance with Nakvin still took a conscious act, and he silently praised Eldrid.
“Relax,” Teg told her. “I already checked the hallway. We're alone.”
“But are we in the right place?” she asked.
Teg displayed a crystal passkey and adjusted his fake glasses. “I don’t see any seized vehicles, so I'd say your contact’s card brought us where we wanted to go.”
Jaren hushed both of them. If Nakvin’s disguise was flawless, Jaren’s transformation into a towheaded waster was Eldrid’s masterpiece. “Let's get to work,” he said. “He’s in cell 89841.”
Teg motioned Nakvin forward. “After you,” he said. “And if I may say so, your hair looks lovely in that shade. I’d consider keeping it.” The redhead elbowed him lightly in the stomach as she passed. The clicking of her high heels echoed off the blank walls.
Each cell door had a five digit number etched into its dull white face. Finding the right one was as simple as counting down. A smoked crystal panel adorned the wall to the right of each door. Teg worked quickly but carefully as he inspected the cell controls, glad that he’d lifted a rod from one of the guards to check for hazardous Workings. Satisfied that the risk was minimal—it was never nonexistent—he pressed the forged card against the glass.
The darkened crystal flashed to life in a rapid sequence of gold and green lights. All three intruders stepped back to watch.
“Are you sure this will get us in?” Jaren asked.
“It got us this far,” Nakvin said.
“Maybe they let us in to save themselves the trouble of catching us,” said Teg.
“Kelgrun wouldn't send us into a trap,” said Nakvin. “I was his favorite student. He helped me escape when I was younger.”
Teg whistled again. “The man's older than you? He's not a Gen, is he?”
Jaren rolled his brown eyes.
“No Gen could be a Guild Master,” Nakvin said. “They dismissed him as an eccentric, but he found a way to extend his life.”
“He’s gonna have to teach me that one,” Teg said as the sequence of lights turned green. Hearing a muffled clack, he approached the door and subjected it to the same test he'd given the panel. “So this Kelgrun,” he said as he worked, “how did he score these cell block passes if the Guild thinks he’s nuts?”
Nakvin shrugged. “I just know he takes on a new identity every few decades.”
“I wondered about that, too,” said Jaren. “Normally I’d have looked into it, but we’ve got a pretty tight deadline.”
“That’s why I take my time on a job,” said Teg. “I can mull over pointless things—like how Eldrid disguised us in a way the Guild can’t detect.”
“What’s pointless is you wearing a disguise,” said Nakvin. “It’s not like the Guild could’ve made Sulaiman.”
“So what if I feel like being someone else now?” asked Teg.
“Eldrid calls it nexism,” Jaren cut in. “It doesn’t use prana.”
“Like Nakvin’s mind-talking?”
An uneasy silence fell over Teg’s accomplices. He decided to change the subject. “You still hearing the buzz?”
Jaren nodded wearily and asked, “Have you noticed anything else in the sound?”
“You mean like voices you can't quite make out? Yeah, I have.”
“I still say it’s connected to those stone blocks,” Nakvin said.
“You made the same promise we did,” Teg reminded her. “How come your ears aren't ringing like a debtor's sending?”
“I'm not sure. The only difference is that I was closer to Elena when the White Well bled through.” Her blue eyes seemed focused on some far distant point. “I felt…renewed. I don't know how else to say it.”
The foot-thick slab slid open, revealing a tiny cell molded from the same white ceramic.
The air inside smelled of ammonia. A skeletal figure sat on a ledge jutting from the far wall.
“That's Vernon alright,” Jaren said. “What have they done to him?”
Vernon's head lolled as if he were deeply contemplating a spot on the floor to his left. Although the door to his cage stood open, he gave no sign of noticing it or the three people who stood outside.
Nakvin’s speckled face fell. “I think they scrubbed his mind,” she said.
Jaren pushed into the room and motioned for Teg to join him. “We've come this far,” he said, pulling Eldrid’s amethyst rod from his jacket. “Help me get him out of here.”
Malachi finished the day’s reports and sat rubbing his eyes. The dispatches contained such trivialities that he doubted it would’ve mattered had he stayed at home.
“Geara,” he sent to his assistant, “I'll be out of the office for the rest of the day. I doubt that anyone will ask to see me, but kindly deter any callers.”
Without waiting for an answer, Malachi left his desk and hurried to the gate. He descended the dais and plunged into the bustling main hall. Halfway across, he stopped.
A short blond man in a green jacket and a tall fellow in a suit supported a grey-haired invalid who hobbled toward the exit. A red-haired woman wearing a brown dress walked close beside them. Her white sweater now clothed the decrepit elder.
It was the same group who’d sought admission to the auction—except the old man hadn’t been with them before.
Malachi quickened his steps, though it was all he could do not to gather up his robes and run. He entered the checkpoint line five places behind the suspicious group. The woman and the two younger men conversed furtively, but the din of the crowd hid their words. Their features still defied recollection, though something seemed oddly familiar about them.
The doddering elder’s head lolled, revealing his face, and Malachi’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Though his hair was iron instead of jet, the guildsman knew his prisoner.
Malachi's heart lodged in his throat. It was Peregrine! He would bet his life on it. The pair who'd come with him must be his associates: most likely the turncoat Steersman and that butcher Cross. How they'd fooled security eluded him, but who else would free a Bifron conspirator?
Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 37
