by Sharon Lee
The woman in the mirror was crying, soundless and steady; the jutting cheekbones gleamed with the tears that ran over them, to drip, unheeded, from the soft chin.
Abruptly, Corbinye's rage died away, leaving only an ache of pity. That, and the chill, many-toothed terror that gnawed, day and night, at her belly. She sighed and reached up to rub the tears away.
"Very well," she told the woman in the mirror, with utmost gentleness, "the Third Sequence, from the top; treble speed."
Obediently, the woman in the mirror adopted the stance and began the moves, Corbinye echoing her in every muscle.
Chapter Thirty
With stealth and in utter silence, he slipped down the darkened hallway to the door he sought. Gently, he brought the specially-etched glove from his tunic and laid it, palm-flat, against the lock-plate.
The door sighed gustily as it opened, and Gem crouched, ears straining to catch the slightest hint of unrest from the household slumbering about him.
Silence in all parts of the house. The telltale on his wrist showed no surge of energy, as from the triggering of a remote alarm. The room itself was dark, slightly cool, smelling less musty than on his previous visit. Gem slid the infraglasses over his eyes and stepped across the threshold.
Number Four made a circuit of the case, transmitted the all-clear and jumped to Gem's sleeve as he leaned to raise the lid.
Mordra El Theman's greatest treasure shone, grail-like, before him. Gem bent forward and picked it up.
Revulsion erupted as his heartbeat spiked in terror.
Carefully, he up-ended the urn and spilled Sarialdan into his palm.
Horror filled his throat with bile; fed imagined cries of discovery to his ears.
Hands determinedly steady, he set the urn precisely back in its place, brought the case-lid down and stared at what he held in his palm: an ugly, irregular lump of brown stone, its surface broken here and there with sullen green crystals. Gem slipped it into his hip pocket; felt it lodge next to his body like an enemy's knife.
He took a moment to close his eyes and recite the charm he had found in Shilban's library, wishing he could believe that the fear had lessened, then grimly reviewed the next steps of the operation in painstaking detail.
Satisfied, he went silently and swiftly across the room and slipped into the hallway, sealing the door behind him.
Four steps only had he taken, back the way he had come, when the alarm screamed to life.
No subtlety here; merely a wish to terrify the intruder, confuse him with sound and with strobing light, so that he bolted, mindless, easy prey for the police.
Gem whirled, took in the octagonal grid of an olfactory sensor set just above his head and flattened against the wall, terror a live thing, clawing his mind to shreds; felt the shudder in the wood at his back that was feet, running in the upstairs hall; heard the shriek of other sirens under the alarm's din and knew the police had arrived.
They would expect him to run for the nearest exit. A map of El Theman's house unfolded before his mind's eye, showing the nearest escape behind him—end of the hall and left, through the kitchen and out. Straight into the arms of the police.
Gem jumped forward, running silent on his toes, skidded into a side hall just as he heard two of the wakened household reach the main foyer; dodged into the butler's closet and slammed, panting, into the service lift. Shaking, he punched buttons and the lift went—up.
Up. Past the second floor sleeping rooms; past the third floor exercise rooms and studies; up.
To the ballroom.
He nearly fell out of the lift; sent it back down, with instructions to park at the second floor, and ran across the imported wooden floor, the Fearstone burning against his leg. Through the glass dome the early morning stars blazed like a fever-dream of diamonds.
Heedless of alarms, he burst through the archway into the rooftop pleasure-garden, charged through a swatch of gold-and-blue flowers planted in the shape of El Theman's badge to the perimeter wall.
He located the door after a moment's search, artfully hidden behind a lamonchi shrub, leaned over the lock and pulled out a power pick.
There was no question of stealth; he made only the most minimal attempt to shield his tampering from the main household computer and stepped through when the door popped open a heartbeat later, not even bothering to close it behind him.
There was wind, prowling the ledge like a hunter-cat, damp and smelling of the River, eight stories below. Gem huddled close to the wall, moving carefully to the left, concentrating on the count, letting his body deal with the niceties of balance. There was no room, presently, for fear.
Forty-two. He finished his count and went to his knees with exquisite care, reaching over the side, fingers scrabbling against stone siding—and found the lattice-work.
He hesitated, fingers twined around that slender escape, and looked out and down. Directly below, between the fifth and sixth floors, a thick utility wire joined the lattice-work. The utility wire connected with an insulated glass pole, two blocks distant and barely discernible in the mist. With luck, he would be able to descend the pole to the street and make his way home unmolested. First Dawn and his appointment with Saxony Belaconto was still four hours away. Luck . . .
She means to kill you, Anjemalti, Corbinye's voice was startlingly clear in his memory. My ship is on Hotpad Sixteen, should madness pass. . ..
He closed his eyes; opened them and swung out, fear reduced to a mere leaden ache in his gut. Luck or no luck, it was inconceivable that he fail.
* * *
He slid the last few feet to the ground, muscles quivering in exhaustion, mouth dry, even fear drained away, at last. Three hours to First Dawn.
He stepped away from the pole, thinking only that he must hurry; that he must on no account chance missing that meeting with the Vornet. He didn't see the cop at all until she burst out of the bushes to the right of the utility pole, gun out as she shouted her location into her belt-comm.
Gem spun around and ran.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Seeker had been gone for some time.
Witness for the Telios climbed the stairs from the Center, turned left down the hall and went into the kitchen to refill his mug with cold tea. The tiny window over the sink glowed with the clear gray light of pre-dawn. The Seeker had been away the whole night through.
Sipping his tea, Witness went back down to the Center and the dazzling clutter of the Seeker's devices.
Anjemalti, the woman had called him. Witness tasted the sound, liking the weight of it in his mouth. Anjemalti, she had called him, and begged him, for his life, to stay away.
Witness sat on the edge of the table, eyes straying from the shimmering Place where the Smiter rested, to the base of the stairs down which the Seeker must come, did he return at all.
To the woman's plea had Anjemalti the Seeker responded with both cool determination and blazing passion. Witness found himself well-pleased by this, for the greatest chiefs—and the greatest of the Smiter's Chosen—had each held fire and ice in their natures, side-by-side and equal.
Abovestairs—a creak, a step. Witness composed himself to See and to Recall, shutting his private heart and all its likes and desires away from the instant of the event.
In the next instant the Seeker was with him, skittering haphazard down the stairs, hair flying, grim lines etching a face gone from young to old in a single night. He ran to a desk along the sidewall, jerked open a drawer and scrabbled out an enameled box. Feverishly, he upended it, spilling out several rings, glittering stones and other small items of power; and rummaged ruthlessly again through the drawer, removing at last a strip of embroidered linen, and a pillow of white velvet.
Less hasty now, the Seeker placed the pillow into the totem-box, then fished in his pocket and withdrew a thing.
Witness drew closer, the better to See and Recall; noted as well the glamour that clung to the Seeker now, a chill reaching into the private heart and to the
marrow of the bones, not unlike that doom pervading the Trial, when the soul was separated from the heart, to be read and judged.
The Seeker's fingers withdrew from the totem-box and Witness peered over his shoulder. Flat green crystals glared balefully from their prison of rock, brown as mud against the salt-white purity of the pillow, emanating a cold that teared the eyes and called forth the faces of one's dead. Witness for the Telios felt his private heart shrink in awe; knew that he hovered on the brink of an Action as had not been Witnessed in twelve twelves of lifetimes.
Reverently, he stepped back, that the Seeker might tuck the 'broidred cloth about the stone, and gently close the box.
Feverish again, Anjemalti the Seeker moved among his devices, flipping this switch, turning that knob, calling this and that instrument to life. At last, he went to the computer-wall and with exquisite care detached the spider silk from the machine stud and attached the strand once more to his wristlet. With a look of sadness in the large, fey eyes, he stared around the room, then reached again to the master machine, slid back a panel and flipped five toggles, sharply.
Standing away, he looked at Witness. "Do you pray?"
An inappropriate question, asked as it must be of the private heart. Yet the magic surrounding this Chief of Seekers was not to be denied. Witness met eyes with eyes.
"I pray, Anjemalti. Men might."
"So," a soft exhalation. The fey eyes sharpened. "And do you fight?"
Witness did not lower his gaze. "A man may fight. A Witness first strives to See and Recall."
The eyes left him as the Seeker pointed. "There is a knife in that drawer. It is yours, if you wish it."
So saying, he went across the room, his stride smooth and quick, as if the weight of Shlorba's Smiter were nothing. He paused but briefly at the desk, to take up the totem-box and slip it into his pocket. Then he was gone like a wraith up the stairs.
Witness for the Telios hesitated one beat of his private heart before crossing to a certain drawer and pulling it open. The knife slid easily into his boot-top, and the prayer he murmured on his way up the stairs was the one that hunters pray, just as they begin the hunt.
Chapter Thirty-Two
She was waiting for them, straight-backed and haughty, the scarlet shirt a flame in the cold white room, Number Fifteen crouched hidden in her pocket.
The spider shifted as she fell in between her guards, claws pricking her thigh through the thin lining. Resolutely, Corbinye kept the pace, hoping that the stranger's face she wore was as blank as she willed it. Was Anjemalti the source of his creature's restiveness? Was he trying to send her one last message of hope? Or did he wish her to do some special, vital thing—now too late to be described?
Or had madness passed, after all, and Number Fifteen been called home?
Fear dried her mouth and the ever-present terror in her belly growled and stretched and bared its fangs. Corbinye marched on with the dignity befitting one both Worldwalker and Seeker for the Crew, between the two murderers come to escort her to her death.
* * *
Saxony Belaconto sat behind a desk of real wood, hands folded on its gleaming surface, aquamarine eyes glitteringly bright. Corbinye stood between her guards and met that feverish stare unflinchingly, determined not to show awe in the face of such arrogant display of wealth. The desk alone was worth a ship's ransom; the carpet she stood on barely less. It occurred to her for the first time to wonder precisely how expensive this new body she wore was.
There was a flicker of movement on the edge of Corbinye's vision, and a voice.
"So, this is the barbarian I've heard so much about, eh?" He came to stand beside Belaconto's chair, a bull-shouldered, powerfully built Grounder: dark hair, dark mustache; dark, old eyes in a boyish, unlined face.
"The very same." Saxony Belaconto's voice was wary, respectful. Corbinye studied the man with new interest; saw his smile and very nearly shivered.
"How long?" The man demanded, reaching among the few pieces of bric-a-brac on the desk top and selecting a knife. Corbinye could not contain the gasp; the tensing of desirous muscles—and the man smiled again.
"Seven days translated," Belaconto told him, still in that chillingly courteous voice. "And she moves as if it were her birth-body."
"Does she indeed." The man toyed idly with her blade; tested its edge; held it balanced; flipped it up and caught it, showily, by the worn grip. Corbinye's palm itched for the feel of it and she schooled her face to blankness. "So, barbarian, you want this, do you?"
"It is mine," she said flatly.
"But you didn't have the strength to keep it, did you? Eh? That's why it's here—the Vornet took it from you."
Corbinye smiled, wolfish, nodding toward the other woman. "Ask Saxony Belaconto the price of that taking."
The young, cruel face went white; the knife rose, flipped, and fell toward his hand as her guards dropped hurriedly back and he shouted, "If you want it, catch it, bitch!"
It came, a barely seen blur, thrown for a shoulder wound, not for the kill. Corbinye sidestepped, twisted—and watched amazed as the soft, stranger's hand plucked the blade out of the air as it went by, fingers curving lovingly around the hilt.
She saluted him, mockingly, touching finger guard to heart before thrusting the blade through her belt and dropping her arms once more to her side.
"My thanks."
Saxony Belaconto gave one short, harsh shout of laughter and raised her hand.
"You are my guest until your cousin claims you, Corbinye Faztherot."
"I know it," she answered quietly, despite the desperate pounding of her heart; "and a courteous guest in a courteous house keeps her weapon in her belt, bonded by her word."
"Exactly," Belaconto agreed, slanting malicious aquamarine eyes at the man.
He was glowering, arms crossed over his chest. "Seven days translated!"
"You may check the records from the Blue House." Saxony Belaconto still spoke softly, but yet not as warily as she had. Corbinye glanced at her—and looked sharply away, stomach churning, certain that it would ease Saxony Belaconto's life enormously, should Corbinye Faztherot kill this man.
Across the room, a clock whirred, clicked and sang three notes.
The door behind her opened and she whirled in time to see a woman step within and bow nervously, eyes darting from Corbinye to the guards to the desk. She cleared her throat, pushing her sleeves back so that the house bracelet gleamed for an instant before she folded her hands firmly together.
"Gem ser Edreth is here, Ms. Belaconto."
Chapter Thirty-Three
"Bid Master ser Edreth rest himself in the antechamber," Saxony Belaconto said calmly. "I will be ready for him soon."
The woman by the door hesitated. "He has another man with him, Ms. Belaconto. The ID net could not supply a name."
"Then bid both rest," she snapped and the woman bowed hastily and ducked out the door.
"Our guests should be arriving shortly." A slender forefinger singled out the guards. "Bring the table. Place it against my desk. Four chairs." She stood. "Corbinye Faztherot."
"Saxony Belaconto."
"You are standing in an awkward place. Come with me, so that you may be placed more suitably."
Corbinye wavered momentarily, caught the glitter of black eyes, watching her in malice, and walked around the desk, shoulders defiantly squared.
They stopped seven paces behind the desk, where the room widened into a small foyer. There was a door in the far wall, hidden from the larger room before the desk. The walls were white, unadorned; there were no priceless carpets on the wooden floor.
Saxony Belaconto paused, glanced back at the desk and nodded. "Your cousin will be able to see you and hear you, but you will not be in the way." The jewel-bright eyes sharpened. "Be wise, Corbinye Faztherot."
"As wise as may be," Corbinye agreed, and the other laughed sharply.
"Chimi!" she called.
"Ms. Belaconto?"
"Guard Ms. Faztherot, please. Carmen will assist you in a moment—ah! Our guests!"
Saxony Belaconto walked to the hidden door and laid her hand against the plate just as the chime sounded a second time.
An old woman stumped into the room, hair white and thinning, shirt hanging loose from bony shoulders. At her back came a tall, dark-haired girl, face smooth with first youth, eyes wary and calculating, gun holstered efficiently on her hip.
"Jenfir Chung. Thank you for coming so promptly."
The old woman sniffed and peered up into Belaconto's face. "You knew I'd come." The sharp old eyes ran over the younger woman's figure, came back to the flawless face. "Not bad, for a woman pushing ninety." She stumped on past, bodyguard at her shoulder. Corbinye earned one glance from each; a dismissal from both—and the door chimed again.
A short, slender man of undetermined age, conservatively dressed, mild-faced and vague-eyed. He bowed to Saxony Belaconto.
"Nar Veldonis," she murmured, unexpectedly respectful. "Thank you for honoring my house."
"Quite," he murmured absently, and waved a hand toward the hulking bald man at his back. "You won't mind Michael, will you? He's no trouble." He moved on without waiting for an answer.
Carmen hurried around the desk and took his place to the right and just behind Corbinye, hissing for her ears alone, "Try anything at all, bitch, and you're meat, understand?"
She pretended not to hear, eyes on Saxony Belaconto, who was checking her watch and glancing nervously down-room.
"Where's Janns?" the old woman demanded from the table. "I don't have much time left, and I don't relish squandering the balance waiting for that rattlepate."
"Another moment and I'm certain he'll be here," Belaconto said calmly.
"Man has the least distance to travel and can't be on time. . .." The old eyes lit on the bull-shouldered man lounging on the corner of Belaconto's desk. "Well, Harcourt, what the hell are you doing here? I understood this was a Z-level meeting."
