by Jack Conner
“It is.”
“Then sit.”
The barbarian sat, looking pensive.
Onxcor turned to the party dispatched by the rebel forces. “Your turn.”
The delegate stood. “We don’t have the kind of money Lord Lagixn has to throw around. Like you say, Lord Onxcor, most people are starving. We’re the ones trying to liberate them—get this country up and running again, so that they can eat and go about their lives in freedom. We hope you take this into account when considering our bid. Surely you can have no love for the pigs that have enslaved our country.”
Onxcor fingered one of his tusks, a dangerous-looking gesture. The rebel seemed to sense it, too. He swallowed and stiffened.
“Get on with it,” Onxcor said.
“We offer you one hundred thousand xavs—and more,” the rebel envoy added hastily. “Once we’ve thrown the yoke of Octung off our necks, we will rule the whole country, and if you aid us now we’ll remember that ... and be grateful. Most grateful. We could give you all sorts of titles and powers, and we would be willing to because we believe possessing this so-called god and using it against its slaves in the Temple can help our cause tremendously. On top of the hundred thousand xavs we can give you today, we offer you the position of Lord of the Xlatleb Port Guild. You would be in charge of everything entering and leaving the port, including collecting a tithe off every single ship—and historically the Port Lord keeps a good bit of that. One year alone would net you more than two hundred xavs, and after two years you would already have made more than Lord Lagixn can offer you.”
“Backstabber!” cried Gaxilg. “My chief was Port Lord before the war.”
The rebel sneered. “And how has he helped the revolution? With funds? Soldiers? He’s only made war on the other lords and tried to claim what power he could in the chaos—like buying the god out from under us! With funds that should have been going to help the revolution. We’ll make damned sure he won’t run the ports when we retake control.”
“Bastard! When I tell my lord how the revolution’s betrayed him—if this is the continuation of the old government, it should honor its—”
“Enough!” said Lord Onxcor, and such was the fury in his voice that the combatants ceased and turned to him. To the revolutionary, he said, “Is that your final offer?”
“Is it not sufficient?”
Onxcor tilted his head. “It was an excellent offer, although it presumes you win the war, and that’s still very much in debate.”
“Consider, Lord Onxcor, that by turning the god over to us, giving us something to use against the Temple, you could be making our victory happen, thus assuring your future title and benefits.”
“I’ll consider the offer with care once I’ve heard the rest. Again, is it final?” When the rebel nodded, Onxcor said, “Then sit.” To the envoy from the Ysstral Empire, Destryn, he said, “Speak, Ysstral. And know that your offer had better be good. I wouldn’t deal with you scum for pocket change, even generous pocket change.”
“We offer no money,” Destryn said, and a hush fell on the room. Lord Onxcor sat up straighter, and his eyes became hawkish. With great dignity, and significance, Destryn said, “We offer only the friendship of the Ysstral Empire.”
“You’d be wise to do better than that.”
The envoy smiled, and there was something pitying about it. “There can be no better, not for you, not for any member of your race or clan.”
“What do you mean?”
Destryn spread his hands. “What do you want most badly, Lord Onxcor? Is it to seize power during this chaos—to be the lord of Xlaca yourself?”
Onxcor’s eyebrows rose. “Is ... is that what you’re offering, to build me a throne of skulls?”
Again, Destryn smiled, but this time it was charming, comforting, the smile of a true salesman. “We can make it happen, if that’s what you want. Or ... if what you wanted was to aid the revolution and drive Octung out with little thought to your own gain, we could start a trade alliance with the revolution—guns and training in exchange for future benefits when their regime comes to power. Or ... if you’re a closet Collossumist—” he grinned wider to show he was joking, but Avery didn’t think he was, not really, and he wanted Onxcor to know that “—then we could deal with the Octunggen instead of the rebels. Your choice, Lord Onxcor. The friendship ... of the Empire. It can be yours.” His eyes flicked to the Codex, then to Uthua. “For a price.”
A long moment of silence passed. Onxcor seemed stunned by the envoy’s words, or at least put into a contemplative mood, but at last he nodded.
“Sit.”
When the envoy obeyed, Onxcor motioned to the head priest of the Collossum Temple, who had suffered through all this with barely contained impatience, twitching and bunching his hands into fists.
“Speak, priest.” In a low voice, Onxcor said, “Even more than with the Ysstrals, this had better be good.”
All eyes swiveled to the holy man as he gained his feet. The clergyman cleared his throat, his own gaze taking in the room, then seeming to gain mastery over it. Anger contorted his face, but a righteous, controlled anger, the fury of a fanatic about to lay the trump card against a heathen foe.
“I offer you the greatest bid of all,” the head priest said. “I offer you ... life.”
In a rage, Onxcor leapt down from his throne and with brute strength smashed the nearest stalagmite to shivers so that the twisted body contained inside it spilled out across the ice, still half encased in white blocks. Sections of it broke off.
“Threats,” Onxcor said. “Threats! You bring me threats?” In a growl, he said, “I told you what would happen if you threatened me, you worm. Now—”
“I do not threaten,” the priest said, and though his voice did not rise the quality of his tone caused the warlord to cease his tirade. “I merely relay a message from the High Priest of the Temple. Release the Great One or all our forces will strike you. We will bring this dome down rather than see you sell our god like something you would buy at the marketplace.” By this time his voice had risen slightly, and as his chest expanded and contracted in his agitation clouds of steam poured from his mouth.
Onxcor stared at him. “How? How can you strike at me? The bulk of your people are under siege at the temple. As for the scattered areas that—”
“We’ve tunneled out.”
“What?”
The priest’s lips twitched. “Did you think I’d come from one of these controlled sectors? No. I come from the Temple itself.”
“But how?”
“The rebels thought they had done well by destroying our central warehouse, but there were certain items that had been removed before the explosion, among them several vibro-borers. We’ve been tunneling ever since the siege began. We can come up behind enemy lines anywhere we want, strike, then retreat, without suffering more than minimal casualties.”
“Madness! To bore here, so close to the sea ...”
The priest ignored this. “I have the ability to summon an attack at any moment.”
“How?”
“We have a psychic at the Temple, someone brought by Octung along with their language, their troops and their machines. They have many military psychics, and I’ve been in touch with one throughout my stay here. If you fail to hand over Lord Uthua, and the object—or if you lay hands on me or my party—I will summon the assault.”
“Ass-licker! Dog! Worm!”
“So again I say—hand over the Great One. Do so and live, and gain the gratitude of the Order. Fail to do so and the whole heart of your clan will be purged from the country like the filth it is.”
“Raaaa!”
Onxcor had drawn his sword—shockingly still flaked with blood stains—and seemed quite prepared to leap upon the priest and start hacking him and the rest of his party into pieces. For a moment panic ran through Avery’s veins, and he glanced around for avenues of escape. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Sheridan shove a hand inside her ja
cket.
For an endless moment the whole chamber went silent save for the beating of Avery’s heart, and every eye was riveted on Lord Onxcor and his sword. At last the warlord checked his fury and shoved the blade back in its sheath.
The head priest, and Avery, let out sighs of relief.
Lord Onxcor studied the holy man, then the room at large, and Avery knew the warlord must be thinking furiously, wondering how seriously to take the priest’s threat—for threat it had most surely been. To bow to it would show weakness, and yet it might be the right thing to do—the only thing to do: the action that would save not only the warlord’s life but the lives of everyone under his protection in this dome.
After much musing, Onxcor said, “I don’t think you Collossumists can divert enough troops to attack me. Do it and you won’t have enough strength to defend the Temple. Destroy me and it may be destroyed, too.”
“You think we’d hesitate to sacrifice a mere building—think we would preserve it over the god it was built for?” The priest almost laughed; as it was, he emitted a pained, strangled sound. “We would destroy every temple for one hair of our god’s head.”
“He has none.” But there was no humor in Onxcor’s voice. Wearily, he said, addressing the whole room, “I need to think.”
“You have till noon,” the priest said.
Onxcor didn’t dignify this with a reply. To the room, he said, “Come back here at half till noon. Then I’ll make my announcement. Only then will I allow one of you to a send a runner or a message out to the winning bidder to have my money delivered ... assuming I sell the god and the object for money.”
He swept from the room, taking several guards with him, and leaving a shocked and unnerved audience behind.
* * *
“They’re looking at us,” Risiglon said.
“Well, wouldn’t you?” Sheridan said. “The priest we’re with threatened to kill them all.”
Everyone in the room was staring at the party of priests and their hangers-on. Avery was half surprised the group hadn’t been attacked, but then the priests seemed to engender a certain amount of respect, even fear, simply by existing, independent of any threat.
Of course, it was early yet. It wasn’t yet noon (though close enough). Little had changed in the clan lair since Onxcor had left it, save various comings and goings. Avery himself had departed to attend to business, as had most of the priests—if on separate business. All had returned unmolested, though Avery had half expected ambush every moment he’d been gone.
He felt eyes dig into him and swiveled to find Sheridan scrutinizing him.
“Yes?” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “May I help you?”
She paused, and for a moment he thought she was simply going to go on staring at him, making the hairs rise on his neck (What does she know?), but then she said, “Tell me, Doctor. Where did you go?”
She meant when he’d left the chamber, of course. This was exactly the conversation he’d expected ... and feared.
He cleared his throat. “To the restroom, of course.” It had been a luxurious restroom, too, with wooden walls and a concrete floor on which perched a glowing brazier. He had found it vaguely interesting that even Xlacans preferred warmth to loosen their bodies into cooperating.
“You were gone an awfully long time,” she said. Then, after another pause: “Not enough fiber in your diet?”
He tried on a smile. “Something like that.”
She didn’t look convinced, and he tried to appear as innocent as he could—which was not much, he was afraid. She was absolutely right to mistrust him. At the same time, he felt quite justified in doing what he’d done; they were not on the same side, after all.
Which was why she was still studying him.
“What?” he said, hearing the catch in his voice.
Slowly, she said, “I’m trying to decide if you’re a greater impediment to this mission than you are a help.”
“Without me, we never would have unmasked the mystery party—or at least sent them into hiding. We never would have gotten the chance to bid on the Codex.”
“You sound ... guilty, Doctor.”
“Not at all—Colonel.” It was awkward referring to her like that, not just because they were lovers—he’d called her by her title often enough aboard the Maul back when it had been Captain, and they’d been lovers then, too—but because her title was different among the Octunggen than it was in Ghenisa. She was an admiral there, but only a colonel here—and that in Military Intelligence, not the Navy.
“You know,” he said, hoping to change the subject, “while we have this time ... You’d been about to tell me just what all this was about before we were so rudely interrupted last night—just what the Codex was used for, and what you wanted from the Sleeper.”
“I had been, hadn’t I?” She watched him. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me—what else did you do besides visit the men’s room?”
“I’m a foreigner in a strange place, Colonel. Aren’t I allowed to explore?”
“So you’re an explorer now? I thought your hobby was history.”
“The two rather go together, don’t you think?”
“L’ohen history.”
“Yes, and things that pertain to L’ohen history. The Ysstral Empire, for example. They were the greatest foe of L’oh to the east, perhaps their greatest enemy ever, one that outlasted even them. Not only that, but they founded the modern incarnation of Ghenisa, and our history is entirely tied up with theirs. As such I know a good deal about the Ysstrals, and they always had a presence here, or at least an interest.”
“That’s a stretch, Doctor. Even for you.”
Clearing his throat again, he shifted uncomfortably. Just leave it alone, Jess.
Seeing him squirm evidently only encouraged her to needle him more. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes tunneled into him with greater harshness than surely even a vibro-borer could manage, and he had to stop himself from wiping sweat, which he was sure had gathered, off his forehead. Gods, but she did have a stare!
It was Risiglon, oblivious to their conversation, that broke the tension.
“I’ll be glad to be out of this place,” he said, nursing a drink. “I hate it here—all the faces seem to be watching me.” He was gazing at the dead men and women trapped in ice, as if hypnotized by their immortal agony. Shuddering, he added, “How can he be so monstrous?”
“Lord Onxcor, you mean?” Avery was grateful for the change in subject. He pursed his lips. “That’s an interesting question, actually. It’s entirely possible that he’s not so monstrous. Remember the study. He was reading a book late at night, even after knowing of the first round of murders. By all appearances a studious, civilized individual.”
“Perhaps that was the pose,” Sheridan said. “He knew he was dealing with outsiders, so he put on a show of civility for our benefit.”
“Of course you would think of something like that.” Avery didn’t need to add that she was a creature of subterfuge.
Amusement twinkled in her eyes. “Yes. I would. And I always will.”
Meaning, he knew, that she saw right through his own lies as the constructs of an amateur. Still, there was a reason for them, and he feared the moment when she found out what that was. He just hoped what he’d done while on his sojourn had accomplished what he wanted it to—hoped, in effect, that he had set off a chain of events that could change things for the better.
Seeing the play of emotions across his face, concern touched Sheridan’s eyes, perhaps even apprehension. Then anger broke the lesser emotions apart like fodder before a cannon:
“You better not have fucked this up, Doctor.”
There was no tenderness in her face, no love. It was as if she and Avery had not lain together last night at all—worse, as if they were engaged in combat again … which, he supposed, in a way they still were.
Quietly, so that she hopefully couldn’t hear the tremor in his speech, he said, “I don’t
know what you’re talking about, Jess. Colonel.”
She seemed about to say something else when suddenly Lord Onxcor reemerged from his chambers, half a dozen warriors about him, and, with considerable dignity, retook his throne. Someone beat a gong and all attention turned to the icy seat and its occupant. Lord Onxcor looked resolved, and Avery hoped that meant what he wanted it to.
“I’ve made my decision,” Onxcor said.
In the hush that followed, Avery could hear every rustle of cloth, every slight adjustment of seating. Hundreds of breaths caught in hundreds of throats, the visible vapor trails that had been continually streaming from the clansmen’s mouths vanishing on the instant. Onxcor’s pregnant pause, and its inevitable sequel, dominated the room. When the warlord finally opened his mouth, Avery could detect the creak of wood and leather as a hundred people leant forward. He could even hear the subtle groan of ice around them.
“I accept the offer of the rebels.”
The sudden intakes of breath were audible, and the brief susurration of voices that followed was almost comical in its shock—and, in some cases, relief.
“As soon as the money arrives,” Onxcor continued, speaking to the rebel envoy, “I will release the god and the object into your custody.”
The envoy rose from his table, all those in his party smiling and patting each other on the backs; this, in turn, drew scowls from most of those who hadn’t won, including the priests. The only ones not put out were the Ysstral envoy and his party, who only looked mildly curious at this turn of events—another note to add to their ledger.
“We’re delighted,” the rebel envoy said. “May I send a radio message to headquarters, and a runner if the radio doesn’t work, to request payment and some people to help carry the, uh, object to our base? We’d only planned on bearing the god, not it, too. Though we’ll take it,” he added hastily. “Whatever it is, it must be of great value.”
“I’ll let the entrance guards know to expect you.”
