by Sharon Lee
“Lives hang in the balance. My father believes that I may prevent more loss, and Balance that which was, inadvertently, left askew.”
“I have made contact with the person of whom I spoke,” Jeeves said. “He is willing to sit as Tocohl’s copilot and colleague in this venture. He asks for the Pilots Guild’s standard copilot contract, and his specialist fee.”
“He is a specialist, also?”
“Indeed,” said Jeeves. “It is through his specialty that I first became aware of him. He will act as Tocohl’s backup in negotiation with Admiral Bunter.
“I have of course,” Jeeves added, “placed his file in the delms’ action queue, for you will not wish to hire an ineligible person.”
“Thank you, Jeeves,” Val Con said dryly. “We will review this paragon’s file today.”
“My hope is to depart Surebleak within the next two days,” Tocohl said. “If the delm pleases.”
“Have you a ship in mind?”
“I believe Tarigan will serve nicely, sir.”
Val Con’s eyebrows rose.
“Refresh my memory, Jeeves. Was Tarigan the ship you piloted here to Surebleak?”
“Yes, sir, she was, and a sweeter, more responsive vessel would be difficult to find. I believe that Tocohl will find her as pleasing as I did.”
“No doubt she will.”
Miri felt the question tickle at the edge of her awareness, almost as if he’d spoken to her. She looked to Tocohl, floating innocent-looking and graceful a few inches above the floor and wondered just what it was that they were about to loose upon an unsuspecting galaxy.
“My loyalty lies with Korval,” Tocohl said at that moment.
And that would appear to answer that.
“We are,” Miri said, “informed, and we welcome our new daughter. We are, however, wanted at the port, and must make haste.”
“Certainly,” said Jeeves, and rolled over to open the door for them.
INTERLUDE EIGHT
The Firmament
Truth and beauty filled him to the point of forgetting that he possessed, elsewhere, a body, a life; and that somewhere in these vasty skies there was—surely there was—a star named Ren Zel dea’Judan.
To the point, but not past it.
Suffused with glory, he yet recalled himself and his purpose.
He brought his will to bear upon the soul of Claidyne ven’Orikle, whom they had left for their last attempt, for the reason that . . .
She had two souls, orbiting each other, connected by a single thread, thin to the point of invisibility . . . and nothing else.
Claidyne ven’Orikle heard the stutter in the white noise that meant the main door to the detention area had been opened. She was lying down, as she often did, one arm flung over her eyes, one foot planted on the floor, the other on the cot. She did not sit up, or rearrange herself into a more seemly posture. Whoever had come in, it was doubtful they would have business with her. There was no transaction possible between her and those who held her—she thought they understood that; the little dramliza was not nearly so gormless as she pretended, and her sweet-faced henchman was far from stupid.
Certainly, they could not—could never—release her. She was an enemy who could be stopped by no means but death. It was . . . interesting that Korval had chosen not to kill her—yet. But they could not hold prisoners forever; she was a knife at their throat for exactly so long as she drew breath.
In her estimation, Korval was neither squeamish, nor stupid. They would long ago have done the math, and arrived at the correct sum. Therefore, being neither stupid nor squeamish, Korval must want something from her, or have some other purpose for her.
Certainly, she had that which they wanted—information. They knew she was a director; she could scarcely have hidden such information from the dramliza’s guileless gaze, nor did she try. Rather, she had thrust the data forward, making it as hard and edgy as she could manage, hoping to inflict pain—but more, wanting it known, just precisely what she was.
Korval Himself had been with the Department; he would understand what she was. How very dangerous she was. She had hoped . . . well. But he had not killed her, had he? Not him, nor his executioner, nor the little dramliza herself.
Instead, he allowed her to languish here, a knife with its edge gathering rust. Perhaps he hoped to drive her mad. If so, he had come to her too late.
But, there, the access door had opened, and, now, did she hear . . . footsteps disrupting the white noise.
Footsteps approaching her cell.
Claidyne ven’Orikle swung to her feet and was facing the door when it opened.
She had no weapon to hand, save herself, so it was herself that she flung at the spare woman who stepped into the small cell, alone and unarmed.
Airborne, she kicked, foreknowing the jolt to her leg when the other woman’s neck broke.
Her foot connected, not with a fragile human, but with a wall; and the jolt that went up her leg was the live burn of electricity.
She twisted, rolling in midair, landing on one knee, the injured leg stretched behind her, and stared up at the woman she had failed to kill.
Spare, and grey, and frowning, the woman stood on the far side of a faint golden shimmer in the air.
“Thank you, Lady Anthora,” she said. “I believe this will do.”
Claidyne took a breath, knowing that this was the moment . . . the moment for Korval to reveal what it wanted of her. The moment that she died, unless she had been far more successful than she had ever hoped. She gathered herself for one more—for one last—offensive action, if the woman would but step through that shimmering golden curtain.
But, she did not.
Merely, she leaned forward until her gaze caught Claidyne’s. She knew the trick and tried to resist, but she must, she must meet the woman’s eyes, and once she had, there was no looking away.
She was immobilized, frozen in place, and the air, it was thickening, the whole cell filling with shimmering gold, until she could scarcely breathe, and perhaps she would die now, and that would be a pity, if nothing more than she ought to have done, years ago.
“Claidyne ven’Orikle,” a voiced thundered inside her head, shaking her thoughts into dust.
“Go to sleep.”
The door, the door, dammit! Had she taken a wrong turn? Had she . . . no. She had this route memorized and sealed under six lock-levels. It was not impossible to circumvent the locks—with the Department, nothing was impossible—but she would be a mindless shell long before the data was accessed and subverted.
She was here, the walls breathing warm air, the hallway too narrow for comfort, and the door . . .
No.
She closed her eyes, reviewed one of the top-level exercises, and sighed to feel cold objectivity flow into her. Yes. With another breath, she allowed the Department’s mantra to rise and weave its spell: Dispassion. Control. Calculation. Success. Yes, exactly.
Thus fortified, she accessed recent memories, watching the route unfurl before her mind’s eye, as if upon a screen.
There had been no error. The door . . .
. . . was before her, precisely where it ought to be, control lights blinking balefully against the dimness.
She frowned. There had been no door, a heartbeat before, only more thin, stony corridor, shrouded in murk, and the walls breathing warm air against her face . . .
The door!
She had made it, if scarcely ahead of those who pursued her. The control lights blinked slowly, and in the proper pattern. It had not been tried. Of course, it had not been tried. That was for her, Claidyne ven’Orikle, Director.
Deliberately, she accessed a top-level exercise, opening herself to objectivity, feeling her control over the mission tighten.
She stepped to the door, stared boldly into the scanner, and pressed the proper sequence on the command bar.
The door . . . opened.
Director ven’Orikle stepped over the threshold; lights coming
up before her while, behind, the door closed, and locked. It would open again, not for Claidyne ven’Orikle, but for the one who would emerge from the chair.
Commander of Agents.
This—was hers, and a fitting ascension it was. She had worked for this, she had killed for this—and worse. Now success lay within her hand. When she rose, she would have all the codes, all of the Department’s secrets would be hers to know. And, then . . . oh, then . . .
She took a single step toward the chair.
Behind her, someone cleared their throat.
She spun, hands going for the gun that was inexplicably not on her belt—spun, to face . . .
The little dramliza, with her disordered black hair and her guileless silver eyes.
Korval’s Witch.
Anthora yos’Galan.
“You—” She gathered herself for a strike . . . and shook her head as the urge to kill drained away, leaving only curiosity. “How did you get here?”
“I followed you.” Her brows knit, as if the phrase troubled her, and she moved her shoulders. “I should say that I followed the locks, and found you in the corridor, but perhaps that becomes unnecessarily complex. It was your own suggestion that I do so, and I thank you, though of course the you here doesn’t recall making it, there.”
The locks . . . had been breached. That was, she recalled, distantly, a disaster.
“Peace, the locks are intact. I had no need to open them. Now”—the dramliza looked about her—“what place is this?”
“The quaternary transfer point.”
“Transferring what to where?”
“Who to whom,” Claidyne corrected. “This room—that chair—downloads . . . the Commander of Agents.”
There was a moment of silence before the next question.
“What do you here?”
“I would take the download,” she said, and remembered it; remembered all of it; feeling it flow from her to the woman standing above her, in a rushing river of information. The moment of discovery; of understanding what she had found and the nature of her new power; the instant that the plan had formed, unfolding into her consciousness with such force that it had broken her—broken her cleanly in two.
She remembered everything she had done, every step she had conceived and accomplished. The need to hide what she had become; the crafting of the locks; the missions she had carried out, refusing nothing, balking at nothing—for this, this secret, this Balance that she would see done, was more important than any life, any ship, any world . . .
The rush of memory reached a crescendo; perhaps she lost consciousness. When she came to herself again, she was sprawled on the stone floor, legs akimbo, gazing up into the dramliza’s face. It came to her that the other woman looked weary. It came to her that she was weary, as if the outflowing of memory had been blood.
“I understand,” Anthora yos’Galan said, quietly.
“What do you understand?”
“Why you will not choose death, though you wished for Korval to kill you, and why you cannot embrace either of the remaining choices.”
“I did not want Korval to kill me!”
Death before her Balance—that was unthinkable. Surely, she would have attempted escape . . .
“No,” Anthora said, interrupting these rather chaotic thoughts. “You of course wish to pursue your Balance. It is all and everything that you desire—one sees that plainly. The question becomes: is it sufficient? Are you able to accept the download? Will you survive it, and afterward be in a state to complete your mission?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps not. But I must make the attempt.”
“If I released you this moment to do as you would in this place, what would that be?”
“I would take the download.”
Anthora yos’Galan stared into her eyes, until she felt the burn of silver inside her head.
“I believe you,” the dramliza said. “Claidyne ven’Orikle, go to sleep!”
Energy disturbed near-space, a rippling wave of energy that shook the doubled soul—shook them—and pierced both full through.
Ren Zel lost his focus, regained it, and regarded Claidyne ven’Orikle.
She had yet two souls, but now, they were pinned tightly together by a thin silver dagger, its hilt bearing the Tree-and-Dragon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Surebleak
There’d been an early meeting called of all committee and subcommittee heads, of which Lionel Smealy was one. Seemed like the Syndicate had decided to make an example of Baker Quill—who, in Smealy’s opinion, was head and shoulders above the next most deserving candidate. Busybody, fussbudget woman, hangin’ up her signs and givin’ out cards. Didn’t want to pay no insurance, that was it, right? Fine. The Syndicate would make it so she didn’t have anything worth insuring.
Shoulda been an easy job. Shoulda drawn a crowd—which it did—to remind people what happened, when you didn’t pay your insurance. According to Rance Joiler, who’d been part of the example-makin’ crew, everything’d been going more or less like you’d expect, until—
“The Road Bosses showed up—him and her—and they . . .” Rance looked around him, up there in front of the room, like he was maybe sorry to be quite so visible.
“Well, they broke up the zample, is the short tellin’ of it. Tough little bastids come out of nowhere, like they’d just been waiting for a shot at us! Yelled at us to stop. He broke a nose, she busted a kneecap. Whittin landed a good smack on her then, with his gun!—then him—he broke Whit’s wrist like he does it every day. Took Whit’s piece away from him . . .
“Still, I’d say we was pulling it back together, when the Watch come in on it. Some of us run—I did. Most of us that was there is still being held by the Watch. We had to move offices and shift people.” He shook his head.
“It’s been busy, and not the best of it is that the streeters are putting the bakery back, and it’s the Watch now handing out them signs and cards and ’splaining how selling insurance is against the law.”
Rance leaned over and spat.
“So, what’re we going to do?” somebody called from the floor. “Stop zample-making?”
“No,” said Seldin Neuhaus, who was one of the Syndicate Bosses, and who’d been sitting by himself at the front of the room, facing the rest of them, instead of watching Rance.
“No,” he said again. “Me and the other Bosses’re thinking that the answer is to make a lot of examples. The Watch can’t be everywhere, and when the streeters see it ain’t no sense hoping for help, they’ll come back into line.
“The Bosses are asking all the committees and subcommittees to tighten up operations—you got outstanding payments, get ’em—and to tell their committees to stand ready to pitch in with example-making.
“We’ll be putting together a schedule and getting it out to folks.”
Seldin stood up. “That’s all, people. Thanks for coming. Now go do some bidness.”
Smealy stood up and made for the door—not quick enough, though. Girt Hammond caught him.
“So, Lionel, I hear the Road Boss turned the deal down.”
“He did. Turns out him and his wife share out the job between ’em. She’s local; she’ll come in. Just gotta talk to ’er, is all. Went down to the port day before yesterday, but they was doing the shift together. Today’s her on again, so that’s where I’ll be this afternoon, after I finish up some other bidness.”
“You sure she’ll come in? Rance says she was right there fighting ’gainst the zample.”
“Well, stands to reason, don’t it? Married to Conrad’s little brother? Gotta support the laws, don’t she? No sayin’ but what she’d’ve turned a blind eye, if she’d been by herself.”
“That’s so, that’s so. Well.” Girt smacked him on the shoulder. “You bring ’er in, then, boy. Time and past that we was getting those trucks on the road.”
“It’ll all be done by this evening,” promised Smealy, and heaved a sigh
of relief as Girt walked away.
“Looking good,” Miri said, stepping up behind him, so he could see the reflection of her grin in the mirror.
He raised an eyebrow, and his reflection showed the haughty lordling, his face smoothly formal, his eyes cool, and his mouth firm. There was lace at his throat, and lace at his wrists, covering his hands to the knuckle. His coat was green, and there were silver dragons worked around the cuffs. Formal black trousers and shiny black boots completed his toilette.
“I was once told that I looked too Liaden in such dress.”
“Guess I got used to Liadens,” Miri said. She was dressed for a day as Road Boss on the port—dark slacks and a dark high-neck sweater, with a heavier sweater, bright blue, over. Her hair was in a single braid, a gleam of copper snaking over her shoulder.
“I do wonder how come you got invited to a party, but I didn’t.”
He smiled, at least as much for Miri’s party clothes as for the irony.
“The High Judge of the Juntavas is calling upon Boss Conrad this morning.”
“Right. And he wanted to talk to the delm-genetic.”
“And that stipulation is exactly why I am wearing party clothes instead of something more along the lines of your own costume, or even Liaden day clothes—My uncle taught me that one ought always to dress above one’s station when going into a hostile negotiation.”
Miri’s grin briefly widened.
“I’m sorry I missed him—your uncle.”
“He was sometimes a burden to his children, but it must be said that he was sorely tried. You would perhaps have found him a little stiff, at first, and not apt to stint himself when an opinion was called for.” He paused, breathing carefully against a sudden, and wholly unexpected, stab of loss.
Miri tipped her head, catching, perhaps—no, certainly—the edge of his distress.
“Like Daav, then.”
“Mother—my foster-mother—would have it that Father was even less apt to stint himself. She once said that she believed he used a whetstone on his tongue.”
