by Weber, David
“Of course they couldn’t. They don’t have my Talent. Jasak and Gadrial are Gifted, but they can’t do what I do. I’m a Voice.”
Brith Darma frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand. What do you mean by that? What does being a Voice have to do with describing something that happened to you?”
“Voices have perfect recall.”
Brith Darma blinked in surprise, this time.
“Perfect recall?” His voice was flat with disbelief.
“Of course. All Voices do. It’s part of the Talent. We have to transmit long, complex messages, whether we’re in government service or work in a corporate office, sending complex legal documents to another company’s Voice or working in the news business, transmitting news stories. Perfect recall’s been bred into us, so to speak.”
Githrak leaned forward abruptly. “Prove it!”
She repeated every word she and Brith Darma had spoken since her arrival in this room. She got it right. Terrifyingly so. She repeated things Brith Darma had already forgotten. She captured the intonations of his voice with a stunning mimicry, duplicating the emotional effect he’d striven to portray with eerie, chilling accuracy. She even described things she’d merely observed: facial expressions, movements, Kordos’ habit of toying with his stylus while listening.
A swift glance as Kordos and Githrak revealed horrified expressions. Brith Darma understood that reaction in his bones. Not only could the enemy transmit across vast distances, the enemy could do so with terrifying accuracy, not only what they’d heard, but what they’d seen, every tiny detail of it. Even a prisoner of war could transmit critical intelligence data. It was one thing to read Hundred Olderhan’s report that this woman had transmitted every instant of the Toppled Timber battle; it was quite another matter to have that report graphically demonstrated.
Brith Darma deliberately drew another slow, careful breath, then asked, “How many Talents are there?”
“What?” Surprise touched her eyes. “Clarify your question, I mean, so I’ll know how to answer.”
Why did such a simple question surprise her?
“How many Talents are there? We have two prisoners. You and your husband. Both have Talents. Different Talents. Here, a Gift means you can manipulate magic. Some people have stronger or weaker Gifts: magistrons are Gifted in portions of the magic field touching upon living things; magisters work primarily with nonliving things, but within that broad categorization, a Gift merely means an ability to work with spellware and the magic field. There’s no…specialization within Gifts. But you and your husband are fundamentally different from one another. How many different Talents are there? And how many of your people have them?”
She held his gaze steadily when she answered. “I don’t know how many different Talents there are. New ones appear unexpectedly from time to time, which makes it difficult to count them. I know or have heard of dozens.”
“And how many of your people have them?”
“About eighty percent.”
The truth spell light never even flickered, and horror cascaded through the Earl of Brith Darma. Eighty percent of their population were Talented? Barely twenty percent of Arcanans were Gifted! If they had that huge an edge in these “Talents” of theirs…
He fought to control his expression, but some tiny glitter of satisfaction in her eye told him he’d failed. He sat there for a moment, trying to think of where to go next, feeling irrationally as if he was the prisoner and she the captor. But then Commander of Legions Githrak cleared his throat.
“If I may, Sir?” he said calmly. Brith Darma nodded brusquely, and the intelligence specialist looked at Shaylar. “And are all of them as strongly Talented as you and your husband, Madam Nargra?” he asked.
Something other than satisfaction flickered in her eye, but she smiled very slightly, like a fencer acknowledging a hit.
“No,” she said courteously. “One of the qualifications for a Voice with one of the survey teams is a particularly strong Talent. Obviously, the same is true of every other Talented member of a team like ours, given how far from our home base and any support we operate.”
Once again the indicator light remained dark, and Brith Darma felt a cautious sense of relief.
“I see,” Githrak said. “And what percentage of those with ‘Talents’ are sufficiently powerful to be trained to use those abilities? In a professional sense, I mean. As a way for them to earn their livings?”
“Perhaps twenty out of a hundred,” Shaylar replied, manifestly wishing she didn’t have to.
Again, the indicator light remained dark, and the relief surging through Brith Darma became a torrent, although he did his best to conceal it. Their effective percentage of Talented people was no higher than the Union of Arcana’s percentage of Gifted people. Of course, depending on how large their population was, the total number of Talented people could still far surpass the Union’s Gifted population. And if it did, their non-Talented population would be far larger, as well, an eventuality he did not enjoy contemplating.
“How large is Sharona’s population?” he asked, taking back control of the interrogation…and reminding himself very firmly not to give the intelligence officer a grateful look.
“I have no idea.”
He stared hard at her. He wanted to accuse her of lying, but the lie-detection spells still refused to trip the warning light.
“Why not?” he asked.
“We’ve spread across so many universes, I’m not even sure how many we’ve colonized. We’ve never done a formal census to count how many of us there are. We’re more interested in exploring, colonizing, building factories and forts, mines and farms than we are in counting people. Why waste time when there’s so much work to be done, building a multi-universe civilization? One that’s strong and healthy and productive. Our priorities are focused on building and living, not pigeonholing and counting and controlling everyone.”
The lie-detection light remained stubbornly dark, and Brith Darma sat back, contemplating her, what she’d said. She simply stood there, calmly waiting for the next question. A group of people who didn’t know how many members it had sounded like a slipshod bunch of backwoods barbarians, but for one thing. Their technology—the weaponry and other equipment—as well as their extremely effective use of it in combat suggested otherwise. Strongly so. Underestimating them could well prove fatal. Of course, so could overestimating them.
Before he could frame the next question, Kordos glanced at him and arched one eyebrow.
“May I?” the Navy officer asked, and Brith Darma nodded. Then Kordos leaned sharply forward, scowling thunderously at Shaylar. “However many of you there are, do you seriously expect us to believe that these mental Talents of yours aren’t weapons?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.” Her glance at Kordos was cool and appraising. “I’ve never met such suspicious people in my life.”
“We’re suspicious?” Kordos snapped. “Your people launched a full bore attack through a portal—an attack that, unlike the affair you describe—most definitely wasn’t the result of confusion and a sudden encounter! It was clearly carefully planned before it was executed, and you massacred a complete company of our troops! And then, according to what little information we do have, your ‘negotiators’ murdered our envoys and their entire security escort. And you call us suspicious?”
For just an instant, Brith Darma thought they’d found the way to frighten her. The Voice’s face went parchment white and a tremor shook through her. Then she exploded.
“Don’t you dare sit there on your sanctimonious Andaran arse and regurgitate the same swill your ‘journals’ printed! Otwal Threbuch admitted your officer in charge of that ‘complete company’ of yours tried to kill an unarmed Sharonian officer asking for me—by name, damn you—under a flag of truce! That officer tried to commit murder.
“By all the gods and goddesses of Sharona, the bastards in that camp deserved what they got! Most of them ha
d tried to kill me. Tried hard. If you expect me to feel sorry that some of those men were already wounded because I shot them, you’ll be waiting a long time for it. The only man in that whole camp I shed tears for was Halathyn…”
To Brith Darma’s horror, that was what broke her.
She stood there, shaking and magnificent, her eyes rimmed red, and wept while talking about roses made of light and childlike wonder and kindness to terrified, traumatized captives, and all the other reasons a whole civilization had loved Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah.
And the lie-detector light remained dark.
If this wisp of a girl was Sharona’s norm, Arcana was in desperate trouble, and he had a sinking, hollow-gut feeling that there were altogether too many people just like her on the other side of the portal she’d walked through before running into Jasak Olderhan’s platoon. She’d been wronged. Hugely—devastatingly—so. Worse, her people knew she had. And they knew Hadrign Thalmayr had exhibited the moral judgment of a jackal.
Worse, if her “Voice” ability functioned the way she said it did—if the rest of Sharona had received the terrifyingly accurate report of what she and her comrades had endured that he was sinkingly certain they had—there was only one way they could possibly respond. They’d be out in force, demanding blood vengeance, and he couldn’t find it in himself to blame them. Yet it was his job to defend the Union of Arcana and its vital interests. As disastrous a course as it was bound to be, the Union would have no choice but to fight these people, and it was up to him and his fellows to do that fighting…however much they privately sympathized with Shaylar, her husband, and their dead companions. They had no choice, and he wanted to scream at the utter damned fools who’d botched this so badly and landed Arcana in such a foul snare.
The trouble was, the fools he needed to scream at were either dead, prisoners of war, or over 85,000 miles from where he sat, on the far side of Hell’s Gate and being damned chary about sending timely reports back to their superiors. The only other candidate handy was Jasak Olderhan. Brith Darma was sinkingly aware of where that was likely to end, and he hated the thought of trashing the career of an officer who showed as much promise as Sir Jasak. But that was for later. For now, they still had a difficult and exhausting inquiry to get through and the witness of the moment was trembling, wiping her face with her hands, and trying desperately to regain her composure.
“Master of the Sword,” Brith Darma said, tone gruff to hide the emotion in his voice, “please be kind enough to fetch a chair for this lady.”
When she stared at him, he said, “Like you, I give respect when and where it’s earned. You and I are enemies. I can’t tell you how profoundly I regret that, but neither of us can change it. Not at this point. But you’re a worthy opponent—and, so far as I can tell, an honorable one—and I won’t add to the burden on your shoulders by treating you harshly when you’re intensely distressed. Particularly since your distress is for one of us.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost voiceless.
When the master of the sword brought a chair, she sank down onto it, trembling. When the stoic, stone-faced master produced a handkerchief from his blouse pocket and handed it to her, fresh tears welled up and her second “thank you” was entirely voiceless. She dried her eyes, got her snuffles under control, and took several deep, calming breaths.
Then she surprised him again.
“May I reassure my husband that you’re not torturing me, in here? He can feel my distress and it’s driving him nearly frantic.”
Both officers flanking Brith Darma hissed softly under their breath. So did Brith Darma. Jasak Olderhan’s report had mentioned a strange mental connection between this woman and her mate, but he hadn’t thought to see it demonstrated so quickly.
“Master of the Sword, allow Jathmar Nargra to enter.”
The instant the door swung open, Brith Darma braced for assault. Jasak Olderhan and Gadrial Kelbryan were grappling with Jathmar Nargra, who was trying to reach the door, apparently intent on kicking it down while a ghastly combination of terror and rage blazed in his face.
The massive master of the sword whipped his sword out of its scabbard and braced himself for assault.
“Let him enter!” Brith Darma called out sharply.
The master of the sword snarled a curse under his breath and retreated, backing up with sword held at the ready. He kept himself and his blade between the crazed prisoner and the officers of the board.
“Hundred Olderhan! Let him go!”
In the instant, Jathmar exploded through the open doorway. He swept his wife into his arms, jerking her off her feet and dragging her out of the interrogation room. She was speaking urgently in a language that was not what Gadrial Kelbryan had recorded. She was clearly trying to reassure him, because the wild rage gradually seeped out of him. He shuddered. Set her on her feet. Buried his face in her hair.
When he lifted his face again, it was a mask of helpless agony. He brushed wet strands of hair out of her eyes where her upswept hair had come loose and been plastered to her face by her own tears and his. He was whispering her name. Over and over. Just her name. Brith Darma was so shaken, he couldn’t even look away. When Fleet Third Kordos started to speak in an undertone, the earl lifted a hand, warning him to silence. He didn’t want anything setting off that man’s hair trigger.
He wished to hell he’d worn his own sword.
When Jathmar had calmed sufficiently to release his hold on his wife, and the look he turned on Brith Darma and the other officers might have frozen a sun. Silence hovered, and the earl neither moved nor spoke. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was provoke the master of the sword into disemboweling the Sharonian.
Shaylar spoke again and touched his face, turned it back to look down into hers. At length, he nodded and caught her face in both his hands, pressing a gentle and desperate kiss to her lips.
Brith Darma said in a low whisper, “If either of you even suggests we try to continue questioning her alone, I will personally loosen your teeth.”
“No argument from me,” Kordos muttered, and Githrak merely lifted one eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Intelligence officer murmured. “The amount of information I just took in was extraordinary. Although I must admit, I’d prefer the next burst of data to come with a little less personal peril. I don’t suppose anyone thought to set the automatic defense wards around our bench?”
Brith Darma slid one hand carefully to press the stud under the lip of the table, just above his lap. “Oversight remedied.”
When Jathmar released his wife from the kiss, Brith Darma judged it safe enough to address the man directly.
“Mr. Nargra?”
The knives leapt back into the Sharonian’s eyes as he jerked his gaze up to meet the earl’s. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there in the open doorway, glaring at Brith Darma and gripping his wife tightly again.
“Mr. Nargra, I will say only this. I have the deepest respect for your wife, her courage, and her strength. I won’t even ask you to leave her side for the rest of this session. In fact, we would vastly prefer for you to stay with her.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
That single word was harsh with hatred and suspicion.
“Because I have no desire to see the results if we goad you into attacking us to defend her. I do not want to watch you die, sir.”
That caught him by surprise.
“Master of the Sword, please bring in a second chair.”
“No, Sir.”
He stayed right where he was, sword drawn and held in defensive posture between the threat and three of the highest-ranked—and currently unarmed—officers in the Arcanan military. Brith Darma didn’t swear aloud; nor did he say, “It’s all right, Sword Master, I’ve set the wards.” Instead, he said, “Quite right. My apologies. Hundred Olderhan?”
“Yes, Sir,” the younger officer said crisply, swinging up an empty chair from the waiting room and depo
siting it beside the one Shaylar had abandoned. When he stepped back into the waiting room, past Jathmar and his wife, he spoke quietly. “I gave you my word, Jathmar, that they weren’t hurting her in here.”
The prisoner’s gaze locked with Hundred Olderhan’s. “Physically, no. You’re in no position to judge anything else.”
“No. But I am in a position to guarantee your safety.”
Shaylar said something soft, too soft to hear, even if she’d been speaking in her astoundingly good Andaran. Whatever she’d said, Jathmar gave a stiff, reluctant nod.
“Very well,” the prisoner said in a low growl. “I’ll hold you to that guarantee.”
The young officer smiled. “I know you will.”
That smile and those words were exactly the right touch, at exactly the right moment. That, alone, told Brith Darma what he needed to know about Jasak Olderhan’s judgment under pressure. It was a damned shame, he thought bitterly, because there wasn’t a prayer that they could do anything but recommend a full and formal court-martial. Some days, Horvon Fosdark, Earl of Brith Darma, Commander of Wings, genuinely hated his job.
