Termination

by Deborah Chester

  “Affirmative.”

  Noel’s head was so heavy. He fought the temptation to let it sink to the floor. “Then do it.”

  “There is an eighty-seven percent chance of danger to—”

  “Do it! Now.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The LOC began humming and grew quite warm on Noel’s wrist. A beam of green light shot across the room and struck the door, spreading across it in a split second. Metal screeched, and Noel heard the rattle of the bolts.

  A hinge pin lifted, vibrating rapidly, and fell to the floor.

  “There is a ninety-two percent chance of danger to—”

  “Continue,” said Noel.

  A second hinge pin shook free and clattered on the stones. The noise increased, making Noel wince and cover his ears. One more hinge to go. He could see the door shaking now.

  One of the nails holding the boards together came loose and flew across the landing. It ricocheted off a wall with a deadly zing. Another came loose and another.

  “Warning,” intoned the LOC. “There is a ninety-eight percent chance of danger—”

  A nail hit Noel in the shoulder with stinging force. He jumped and tried to keep his head protected. “Continue!” he shouted.

  “Acknowledged.”

  Nails popped like bullets. They stung when they hit, and some of them brought blood. Noel dared not look up lest he get one in the eye or face. They ricocheted around him in a furious hail. Then he heard the snap of a board warping free, and another. He raised his head, and a nail struck him in the forehead, gouging painfully. Blood ran into his eyes, but even as he ducked he saw that the last hinge still held.

  He was about to give the LOC another order when the hinge shattered. Lethal chunks of rusted metal spun in all directions. Noel twisted around to put his back to it, wishing he had some cover. One piece struck him hard between the shoulders, and his entire back felt as though it had been broken open. More blood seeped from his arrow wound down into the waistband of his breeches.

  “Task completed,” said the LOC.

  The quiet was a blessing. Noel managed to pull himself around. The splintered door hung half open, supported only by its lock. He crawled to it and dragged himself up. Had he been well, he could have leapt through the gap in a second. Now he found himself incapable of getting through.

  He wanted to sob in frustration. He could see the canal and buildings outside. Dawn streaked light over the city. The sky shone a pearlescent silver touched with rose and green. It was indescribably lovely, a banner of hope for a man who had none.

  He sagged against the splintered planks of the door, dragging it farther open with his weight, and told himself he had to do it. He couldn’t fail now, not this close. He was a Kedran, and Kedrans didn’t fail. From the earliest days of childhood his father had pounded that into him, handing him one high expectation after another. Noel had spent his boyhood battling his father, and later rebelled by choosing a career his father could not understand. He had survived by fighting, by forcing his own way. If he hadn’t, he’d now be a safe little drone, sitting in a cubicle in one of Chicago’s work complexes, crunching numbers for some economic purpose that would never have direct bearing on his life, a headchip fantasy his only reward at the end of the day.

  Instead he was trapped here in a long-forgotten century mankind wasn’t supposed to see again.

  “Time is a force of nature, not to be tampered with,” Noel’s father used to say. “It wasn’t created to be bent, to be folded back on itself, to be invaded and manipulated. Physical laws should not be violated.”

  And Noel used to argue that mankind was intended to use what it discovered. Why else have a mind? Why else have a purpose? What good were all the intricacies of the universe if they weren’t unlocked, examined, and mastered?

  He and his father never came to an agreement.

  Noel wiped his face, feeling gray. Maybe his father was right.

  Noel tried once more to hoist his body through the gap, felt his arms tremble and the fire in his back stab viciously, and sagged down with a breathless gasp. Dear God, what on earth did his father have to do with any of this? Why worry about him now?

  And yet his father’s image rose up in his mind’s eye, a thin, intense man pacing back and forth at the edge of the black basement swimming pool, furious because Noel hesitated on the side.

  “Just dive, boy!” his father used to shout. “Fear is a waste of time. Commit yourself to success and don’t worry about the consequences.”

  Behind him, Noel heard the sound of running footsteps. They were chanting, “Death to the stregone. Death to the stregone.”

  Noel looked back and saw the first man running up the steps toward him. Time had just run out.

  “Damn you, Dad,” he whispered.

  Adrenaline or fear or sheer cussedness gave him the strength he needed. He dragged himself bodily through the gap, scraping his back as he went. If he’d had the breath to scream he would have done so. As it was, he felt as though he’d been pulled apart on the rack and now there were two separate halves of him, gushing blood and vital bodily fluids onto the ground.

  But it wasn’t blood he felt wash against his cheek as he lay there, spent and gasping. It was water, lapping over the steps and outside landing. The tide, he thought muzzily, unable to grasp whether it was coming in or going out.

  The water was his refuge. Behind him they hammered at the door, breaking down what remained of it. Noel reached out for the water and pulled himself into it.

  The wet arms of Nereida, he thought, less than half conscious. His left arm moved, feebly attempting to stroke. Then the tide caught him, and he floated out into the shadowy depths of the canal.

  Chapter 7

  Noel awakened in a place stifling hot, so hot he felt fused to the surface he was lying on. Perspiration bathed him, and he gasped for air. In the distance he could hear a rhythmic clang, over and over, like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  This is hell, he thought. I finally made it.

  He would have sunk back into oblivion, but something poked him in the arm.

  “Wake up, damn you,” whispered a voice. “Wake up.”

  Noel floated on the sound of that voice. It was very insistent, but he was unwilling to be bothered. The voice sounded familiar, but it was too much trouble to recognize it.

  His arm was poked again, harder. “Wake up. You cannot lie there forever. We haven’t much time.”

  Time…Noel drifted over the word, aware that time had meaning. Time was important, but he couldn’t remember why.

  The heat intensified. It made him restless. He tried rolling over, but just the act of lifting his right arm sent a swift burst of pain through his side. He opened his eyes, which were crusted and gummy. His vision was blurred. He could not focus. He did not know where he was.

  “Quiet. Easy,” said the voice he should know. “Don’t thrash around. You’ll start bleeding again.”

  No sympathy could be heard in the words spoken to him. Noel frowned, blinking and shifting his dazzled gaze away from where the light shone brightest. He closed his eyes against dizziness, sweating and wretched.

  “Are you awake now?” persisted the voice. “Come on, Noel. There isn’t much time. Talk to me.”

  It was too hard to respond. Noel wanted to slip back to that peaceful darkness where there was no pain, no heat, no voice.

  A palm cracked across his face. “Noel! They’ll be coming soon. Wake up!”

  The slap hurt and it succeeded in finally bringing Noel to full consciousness. He opened his eyes, and this time his vision cleared. He saw his own face hanging over him. For an instant he panicked.

  Hands gripped his shoulders. “Quiet!” said the voice, his own voice although he had not spoken. “Lie there quietly and listen. We’ve got to discuss a—”

  “Leon.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re Leon.”

  “Of course I’m Leon. Pull yourself together.”

&
nbsp; Noel finally began to make sense of things. He remembered he had a duplicate. He remembered the arrow and his narrow escape from prison. He remembered how he came to be in trouble in the first place.

  “Your fault,” he said in accusation, lifting his head slightly. “You got me into this.”

  “Never mind that,” said Leon impatiently, pacing back and forth beside Noel’s bed. “We’ve got bigger problems now.”

  Noel didn’t want to hear about problems. He looked around and found himself in a small bedchamber. His bed had a rather grand canopy, hung with cobwebs and dusty velvet. He was propped on his side with pillows. Aside from his bandage, he had nothing on, and the linen sheets stuck unpleasantly to his sweaty skin.

  “Why is it so hot?” he asked.

  “Never mind that either.”

  “I’m hot.”

  “You’re feverish.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “There isn’t—”

  “I’m thirsty. I want a drink,” Noel said.

  Leon knelt beside him so that his pale silver eyes were on the same level as Noel’s. “Brother, I realize you are in pain. We just cut an arrow point from your hide. But our survival depends on what we do next. I need your help to—”

  “My help?” Noel said in faint derision. He wanted to laugh but it would hurt too much. “This is a new Leon.”

  “Shut up.” Scowling, Leon rose to his feet. “Who pulled you from the canal and knocked the water from your lungs? Who hid you in the Pescheria while the bravi searched for you?”

  “What’s the Pescheria?” Noel asked in puzzlement.

  “The fish market.”

  “The what?”

  “Look, just forget all that now. It’s not important.”

  “Why the fish market?” Noel asked.

  Leon pushed back his black hair. “Because it was at hand. Stop interrupting.”

  “You don’t make any sense,” Noel said, losing interest. “If you won’t give me a drink, I’m going back to sleep.”

  “You’ve got to stay conscious.”

  Noel closed his eyes and tried to shift to a more comfortable position without success. “I’m tired.”

  “Noel. Noel!”

  Noel looked at him with irritation. “What?”

  Leon pressed a cup to his lips. “Drink some of this.”

  It dawned on Noel that Leon never helped him, never rescued him, never cared about him, never worried about him. What the devil was going on? He frowned. “What is this stuff?”

  “Just drink it. You’re thirsty. It will help.”

  It smelled strange, sort of like medicine. “I want water,” Noel said.

  Leon glared at him through slitted eyes. “This is treacle.”

  “What the hell is treacle?”

  Leon sighed impatiently. “It’s supposed to be a cure against poison and several other things. It’s the basic medicine around here.”

  Noel looked at him. “I was shot, not poisoned. Even I remember that.”

  “Just drink some.”

  “No.”

  “It will give you strength.”

  As he spoke, Leon raised the cup again to Noel’s lips. The smell of the stuff made Noel’s stomach turn over. He averted his face.

  “I’m not trying to poison you,” Leon said, slamming the cup down so hard some of its contents sloshed over the side. “I’m trying to help you. Why can’t you trust me, just this once?”

  Noel met his eyes. “There’s no reason why I should.”

  “I hate you.” Leon started pacing again. “Sanctimonious, self-centered, conceited…every time I try to do something right you come along and criticize or start throwing suspicions and accusations my way—”

  “Look, I don’t feel like going through one of the same old circular arguments with you that we always have,” Noel said tiredly. He raised his right arm with caution, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound, and groped gingerly at the thick bandages swathing his waist.

  Leon batted his hand away. “Leave that alone.”

  “It hurts like hell.”

  “It’ll hurt more if you don’t stop pulling at it.”

  Noel let his arm fall. A cold chill ran through him suddenly, and he shivered. “You’re in trouble,” he said.

  Leon’s lips stretched in a parody of a grin. “Give the man a prize.”

  “I won’t help you.”

  “You have no choice.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. You set me up for what happened tonight.” Noel frowned, conscious that he’d lost time. “Last night?”

  “You’ve been here, unconscious, for two days,” Leon said quietly, watching him with eyes that glimmered in the candlelight. He paced like a caged cat, the wild savagery restrained for now, but capable of breaking free at any moment. “They’ve been combing the city for you, but the latest rumor is they’ve decided you drowned.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “The palazzo of the Contessa Gabriella Virenza. It’s safe from the Doge’s army. They don’t dare search here. But there are other dangers. Noel, you have to understand what’s going on with this—”

  “I don’t care,” Noel said sharply, staring at his wrist. His new LOC was missing. He shifted a little to pull his left arm up from beneath him. His old LOC was missing too. Alarmed, he said, “Where are they?”

  “Coming, any minute. I’ve been trying to warn you. We’re spied on all the time. They—”

  “No, damn you!” Noel said. “The LOCs. Where are they?”

  “Calm down. They’re safe.”

  “Where are they?”

  Leon was listening to something else. He frowned at Noel and shook his head. “Safe. Just—”

  All Noel could think of was the new LOC, unprotected and accessible to anyone in possession of it. When Leon gestured at him to be quiet, Noel glimpsed a band around his duplicate’s wrist. He twisted and tried to sit up.

  Leon pressed him down. “Don’t—”

  Noel gripped him by both wrists, hanging on when Leon tried to pull free. Sweating, his heart pounding crazily, Noel refused to let him go. “Give them back,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can’t have them. They aren’t yours. You—”

  “Hush. They’re coming,” Leon said and jerked free.

  Noel cried out in pain, and Leon pushed him down. “Just lie still.”

  “Give them back.”

  “They aren’t safe with you,” Leon said. “Hush. Don’t mention them. Don’t think about them. I have them hidden and safe. Noel, I’m begging you not to say anything. We’ll lose them to Tibo if you do. For God’s sake, just trust me about this.”

  “I can’t trust you,” Noel said, out of breath and trembling with weakness. “You’ve stabbed me, betrayed me, set me up for arrest and torture. I can’t—”

  His voice failed him and he swallowed a groan, sinking down into his pillow while Leon fussed to restore the covers. Noel raged at his injury. He couldn’t afford to be helpless. With Leon loose and in possession of the LOC…

  Voices murmured outside the door. Leon turned pale and bent over him. “Play along with me,” he whispered. “I can’t explain now. You wouldn’t listen. Act sicker than you are. And follow my lead. They are dangerous, Tibo especially. We have to be careful.”

  Nothing he said made any real sense. Noel stared at his duplicate and realized that Leon was afraid, so afraid he was actually trembling. Someone outside unlocked the door. Leon whirled around and seized the cup of treacle. He thrust it at Noel.

  “Take some of it,” he whispered. “Or pretend to. Remember that we are allies now. It’s the only way.”

  The door swung open with a creak. Noel found himself half propped up on Leon’s supporting arm. The cup blocked some of his vision and he did not immediately see who entered the room. He smelled fragrance and heard the silken rustle of long skirts. Inadvertently he took a sip of the nasty stuff in the cup.

  The taste was sickly sweet and laced with something bitter. Noel chok
ed and sputtered, almost gagging over it.

  “Ah, the patient is awake at last,” said a woman’s rich voice. There was something captivating about its low tone, yet beneath the charm ran a sinister undercurrent. “You did not send word, Leon. You were told to notify us at once of any change in his condition.”

  Straightening, Leon let Noel slide back onto the pillow. Holding the cup, he said nervously, “He just this moment awakened, madama. I have been trying to help him come to his senses. There has not yet been an opportunity to send the page to tell you.”

  She frowned and gestured a dismissal of his excuses. The contessa was no longer young, but she remained an extremely handsome woman of good figure and statuesque bearing. She wore a gown of russet velvet trimmed in monkey fur. Large square topazes dangled from her ears. Her hair was blond and arranged in a magnificent wealth of curls. She had a complexion like ivory, a sharp, forceful jaw, and green eyes that missed nothing.

  “You look much improved,” she said to Noel in a forceful pronouncement. “That is due to my diagnosis of the proper method of treatment. My physician is the best in Venice. It was he who attended you under my direction, and it was he who mixed the medicines from my recipes. I have the most extensive collection of medicinal knowledge in the city. I have often considered founding a medical college, had I the time and inclination. Your fever has dropped and you will improve steadily. I have it on good authority that you will be well enough to attend me in audience within the week. I am exceedingly pleased to have twins in my possession. Twins,” she said with a sudden smile. “Just alike.”

  “Not exactly,” Noel muttered.

  “No one else who keeps masters of the mystical arts employs twins in that capacity. But then I have always been able to have the best people around me. Even Messer Tibo, in whom I place my complete confidence, is pleased by this event. He says the signs are most auspicious for my purposes. I could not be more pleased. Of course I am not happy by all that you have undone, but that will change as soon as you are made to understand your instructions. Leon has explained to me that you often work in directions opposite to his, and that is why you meddled so unconscionably with Lady Francesca. However, I am known throughout the republic for my clemency and fairness. I am more than willing to give you another chance, especially since Messer Tibo has explained to me how rare the phenomenon of twin sorcerers is and how powerful the two of you can be when you combine your talents. In the meantime you can answer my questions. Your name is Noel,” she said, making it sound like an order rather than a question.