Hell Hath No Fury

by David Weber

  The beauty of the Gorhadyn Protocol—aside from the fact that no one outside the Council of Twelve even suspected its existence—was that its effects were virtually impossible to distinguish from a natural stroke. Only a powerfully Gifted magistron who already suspected what had happened could possibly detect it, and even then only if the autopsy were performed within no more than twelve to eighteen hours of the moment of death.

  The drawback to using the Gorhadyn Protocol, of course, was that having too many people drop dead of convenient strokes at convenient moments was likely to raise a few eyebrows, at the very least.

  "I've already reported my proposal for dealing with Hundred Olderhan and his family," mul Gurthak went on, "and if the Council approves my proposed strategy, it will be necessary for Five Hundred Klian to be removed, as well. Even if the Council rejects my proposal, however, Klian's death will hurt nothing and will further reduce the handful of people who know how vos Dulainah actually died. I therefore intend to deal with him at an appropriate moment. At this time, I'm looking for some means other than the Gorhadyn Protocol for accomplishing that portion of the operation. From the prospect of continuing to safeguard the Protocol's existence, I believe it would be wiser to find some other way to eliminate him. At the same time, it might well be that our agents in Arcana and New Arcana would be able to spin the similarity of his and Carthos' deaths into a suspicion that highly placed Andarans ordered their removal in an effort to shut their mouths about the 'truth' of Andaran mismanagement, arrogance, and atrocities, beginning with young Olderhan's wanton slaughter of the Sharonian civilians. Please advise me as to your feelings in this regard. Although the message turnaround time will probably preclude the arrival of any advice from you before I'm forced to act in Klian's case, I will, of course, obey your instructions to the very best of my ability, should it be possible for them to reach me before that time."

  He paused once more, considering all he'd already said. As always, he would play the entire message back at least once before he actually compressed it and embedded the encrypted file in his next letter to his brother-in-law. It was unlikely he'd be making very many changes, however, and he allowed himself a modest glow of pride. Given the disastrous effect of the Sharonians' sudden appearance and, especially, of Bok vos Hoven's incredible incompetence on the long-standing strategy of the Great Task, the job he'd done picking up the pieces and starting over again was nothing short of brilliant, and he knew it. False modesty was not a shakira vice, and mul Gurthak had no doubt that his performance in this emergency would be noted by the Council.

  There might still be a few minor details in what he'd already recorded which needed a certain fleshing out, but he could always attend to that later. For now, it was time to shift gears and bring the Council fully up to date on what they had learned so far about the Sharonians and their "Talents."

  "In addition to the purely military information which Neshok has obtained for Harshu," he began, "we've learned quite a bit more about the Sharonians.

  "It would appear that at least traces of these 'Talents' of theirs are considerably more widespread in their population than trace Gifts are in our own. However, the strongly 'Talented' appear to be no more numerous than our own strongly Gifted. Moreover, the Sharonians' Talents are less flexible than our Gifts. From everything Neshok has been able to discover so far, it's extremely unusual for any Sharonian to have more than one or two Talents, and however powerful those Talents may be, they represent all the Sharonian in question can do. Whereas someone with a Gift can utilize almost any piece of spellware, Sharonians with Talents can do only the one or two things their Talent—or Talents—permit.

  "On the basis of this, I believe that . . ."

  The man who never thought of himself as Nith vos Gurthak except at very private moments, like this one, sat in his office, cradled in the heart of darkness, and continued his report quietly.

  'Chapter Eighteen

  Sir Jasak Olderhan sat backward in the pedestal-mounted swivel chair, resting his crossed forearms on the top of the chair back, and leaned his chin pensively into the cushion they provided. Outside the observation dome, the virgin forests of

  the universe called Dystria flowed past. It was early morning, and the humid air of the Kythian lowlands hung in a sort of translucent golden haze as the slider rushed towards the coast and the passenger ship waiting to transport them across the fifteen hundred miles of saltwater to the next portal in Paerystia.

  Thirty-five thousand miles, he thought. That was how far he'd traveled with his shardonai and Gadrial Kelbryan in the last two months. And we're still less than halfway to New Andara. I wonder if—

  His musing thoughts broke off as he heard feet on the steps behind him. He looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes brightened as he saw Gadrial climbing up them from the lounge level.

  "So here you are," she said. "We missed you at breakfast, you know."

  "Sorry." He smiled briefly. "I wasn't very hungry this morning."

  "So we all surmised. The question, of course, is why not?"

  Jasak wondered for a moment if she realized just how scolding her tone sounded. There was a gleam in her dark eyes as she folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to one side. She looked for all the world like a nanny waiting for her obstreperous charge's latest excuse, he thought with an inner smile. Then the temptation to smile faded, and he shrugged very slightly.

  "By my calculations, Five Hundred Klian's initial dispatch got to New Andara somewhere around four o'clock this morning, our time," he said.

  Gadrial's eyes darkened, losing their glint of amusement, and she unfolded her arms to touch him lightly on the shoulder.

  "I hadn't even thought about that," she said quietly.

  "I'm not surprised." He smiled crookedly at her. "We're still barely forty percent of the way home, and it feels like we've been traveling forever. Sometimes, I think 'home' doesn't really exist, you know. There's only this bubble around us, filled up with dragons and slider cars and passenger cabins aboard ships. We just think there's anything else out there."

  "It is strange," she agreed. "I know it took just as long to get to Mahritha as it's going to take to get home again, but you're right. Somehow, I do feel less . . . connected with everything around us than I did on the way out."

  "Because it was all new on the way out?"

  "That may have been part of it, but I don't think it's the real reason for the difference."

  Gadrial frowned, gazing out the observation dome's windows and apparently forgetting about the slim, fine-boned hand still resting lightly on his shoulder.

  "I think the real difference is the reason we're making this trip," she said slowly after several seconds, and he nodded.

  "Of course it is. And, to be honest, a part of me wishes we could just stay inside my nice, safe bubble. But we can't, can we?"

  "I'm afraid not." Her hand squeezed his shoulder for a moment, and her own smile was sad. "Sooner or later, we're going to get home, whatever it may feel like now. And what happens then?"

  "I don't know," he admitted. "We'll find out in another couple of months, I suppose. At the moment, to be honest, I'm more concerned about how my mother and father felt when the hummer finally arrived."

  Gadrial nodded slowly. With no equivalent of the Sharonians' Voicenet, the Union of Arcana had to rely on the arcanely augmented, specially bred "hummers" for quick long-distance communication. But "quick," she had discovered, was a relative term. From what Shaylar and Jathmar had said so far, it would have taken Shaylar's original message less than two weeks to reach their own home universe. Exactly how much distance that represented was one of the questions they'd declined to answer, for which neither Gadrial nor Jasak blamed them. From several things they'd let drop, however, Gadrial was convinced that the total distance was substantially less than the distance between Mahritha and New Andara. Still, that had to be a very different thing from "short," given how long Shaylar's message—which unlike
Five Hundred Klian's, had moved literally at the speed of thought, except when it had to slow down to cross the occasional water gap—had taken to cross it.

  But however great the distance might be, the communications loop between the swamp portal and Sharona was eighty percent shorter than the one between Fort Rycharn and New Andara. Gadrial was no soldier, but even she could see the military implications of that sort of advantage.

  Not that those implications were foremost in her mind at that instant.

  "I know you're worried about your parents," she said after a moment. "I don't blame you. But I've learned a little bit about the Duke during my years in Garth Showma. And I've learned quite a bit more from you."

  He turned his head to quirk an eyebrow at her, and she snorted quietly.

  "You don't exactly run on and on about them, Jasak, but when you do talk about them, I hear an awful lot of love . . . and trust. And just from watching you in action with Shaylar and Jathmar, I've learned a lot about the values they thought were important enough to teach their son. So I know they're going to be worried, and they're going to be upset, but they're also going to understand what you did and why you did it."

  "I know." He inhaled deeply. "I really do know. Unfortunately, that doesn't keep me from wishing that if they'd had to hear about something like this, I'd been able to tell them in person."

  "Maybe not, but look at it this way. This way, at least they're going to have had a couple of months to begin coping with it before they actually see you. And unless I miss my guess, your father's going to have been using that time to very good purpose."

  "Gods, I hope so," Jasak said softly, and Gadrial squeezed his shoulder once more.

  She started to say something, then stopped and shifted mental gears. Jasak had already made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to discuss the board of inquiry he would certainly face, or the court-martial which might very well follow close upon its heels.

  "How do you think Parliament is going to react?" she asked instead.

  "I think it's going to be a godsdamned mess," he replied flatly. "The Mythalans, at the very least, are going to go absolutely berserk, and I'm afraid at least a chunk of the Andaran MPs are going to find themselves in at least limited agreement this time around."

  "Really?"

  "Not for the same reasons." Jasak shook his head quickly. "We Andarans don't go in much for xenophobia for xenophobia's sake, and I don't imagine most of us are going to hold the fact that Sharonians don't know anything at all about magic against them. But what they did to Thalmayr when they punched out the portal . . . that's going to really, really worry a lot of Andarans."

  "I can see that, I suppose. But is it going to make them more cautious, or is the perceived threat going to make them more belligerent?"

  "That I couldn't begin to tell you," Jasak said frankly. "I'd prefer to see more caution, but I'm afraid the opposite is probably at least as likely. To be honest, an awful lot is going to depend on what else has happened out there in Mahritha."

  "And no one in Parliament is going to be able to affect that very much either way, are they?"

  "No, and that's one of the things that worries me most," Jasak admitted. "Even if Parliament does its dead level best to put the brakes on the situation—and I know that's what Father, for one, is going to be recommending—it's still at the end of a four-month two-way communications loop. Which means that whatever happens out there is really in the hands of the local command structure and likely to remain there."

  "You're thinking about Two Thousand mul Gurthak, aren't you?"

  "Yes." Jasak pursed his lips and exhaled noisily. "The more I think about it, the more I wonder exactly why he wanted me out of his office before he talked things over with that diplomat, Skirvon. I keep trying to tell myself I'm just being paranoid, pessimistic. But I keep coming back to it."

  "Why?"

  "Because he knows who my father is, and he knows where we're headed. What if he wanted me out of that office because he didn't want me to know what his plans really are?"

  Gadrial turned back from the windows, her eyes narrowing.

  "I don't much care for Mythalans either, you know," she said with truly massive understatement, "but why would he want that?"

  "I did say I know it sounds paranoid," Jasak reminded her. "But if I'd been the local senior officer, and if I'd known that someone with a close, personal connection to the Duke of Garth Showma was headed directly back to New Andara, I'd have done my damnedest to make sure he carried with him the clearest possible statement of my intentions. I'm not talking about dispatches, Gadrial. I'm talking about the sort of face-to-face conversation where the real explanations get made. The opportunity to use me as his go-between to Father. Unless, of course, for some reason he didn't want Father to know what he's really up to."

  Gadrial started to tell him he truly did sound more than a bit paranoid. But then she stopped. Maybe he did, but as one of her research team members in Garth Showma was fond of pointing out, even paranoiacs sometimes had real enemies.

  And mul Gurthak is Mythalan, she reminded herself.

  "What do you think he might not want your father to know about?" she asked instead.

  "I don't know."

  "But you obviously suspect that there's something, or you wouldn't be worrying about it this way."

  "I just can't quite understand why he'd want to discuss his instructions to his diplomats in such . . . privacy. Not under these circumstances, anyway."

  "Maybe he just felt he could speak to them more freely without you," she pointed out. "You were the officer in command during the initial incident. Maybe he felt they'd be more frank about discussing options and possibilities—or the consequences of the incident—without you. And you said you didn't think he was very happy about your decision to make Shaylar and Jathmar your shardonai. Maybe he was afraid they really have managed to influence you—us—somehow, and he wanted to minimize any secondhand impact that might have had on what Skirvon might say or think."

  "That's certainly possible. And, for that matter, he's a commander of two thousand, and I'm only a lowly little commander of one hundred . . . for now, at least." His mouth tightened briefly, and Gadrial's eyes flickered. Those last four words were about as close as he'd allowed himself to come yet to admitting his worry about the probable consequences for his military career. "But none of that changes the fact that I was absolutely the closest thing he had to some sort of expert—or informed opinion, at least—on the people he was sending Skirvon off to talk to. Even if he didn't want me sitting in on that discussion, why didn't he send Skirvon to pick my brain for additional information before sending him off to talk to Shaylar's people? Sure, they had my written report—and yours. But if I'd been a diplomat setting off to talk to a completely unknown civilization, I'd have wanted every scrap of information or firsthand impression I could possibly get."

  "You're beginning to make me very nervous," Gadrial said slowly. "Are you suggesting mul Gurthak said something to them in private, gave them some kind of secret orders, he doesn't want anyone else to know about?"

  "I'm afraid that might be what happened," he admitted.

  "But what kind of orders?"

  "I don't know," he said again. "On the other hand, there is that Mythalan xenophobia to think about."

  "Surely you don't think he wants—?"

  Gadrial broke off, unable—or unwilling—to complete the question, and Jasak grimaced.

  "I can't believe that even a Mythalan would actually want a war, especially with someone who's already revealed the combat capability these people have. At least, I don't think I can. But I do worry about just how hardline he may have wanted them to be. We're the ones who were in the wrong initially. What if he's unwilling to admit that? What if he's decided to draw his own line in the mud, like Hundred Thalmayr?"

  Gadrial nodded very slowly, her expressive eyes dark and shadowed with worry. Hadrign Thalmayr had been a complete and total idiot, but at leas
t his mental processes—such as they were and what there'd been of them—had been straightforward and almost agonizingly clear. He'd been arrogant, stupid, and far too conscious of the "military honor" of Arcana in general and himself in particular, but Gadrial doubted that there'd been a single subtle bone in his entire body. Certainly there'd been an acute shortage of brain cells, at any rate!

  Nith mul Gurthak was something else entirely. Everything she'd heard about him suggested he was anything but an idiot. Which, unfortunately, might not be as good a thing as she'd been assuming it was. Given the typical Mythalan attitude towards the non-Gifted, and given the almost inevitable Mythalan revulsion at the very concept of someone whose very different Talents might challenge the primacy of the Gifted, "xenophobia" might actually be too pale a word for his reaction to the Sharonians' sudden appearance. If he'd opted to respond as a Mythalan, rather than as an officer of the Union Army, then he very well might have issued far harsher and less accommodating instructions to Rithmar Skirvon than he'd admitted.

  "You're definitely making me nervous now." She balled the hand on his shoulder into a small fist and smacked him lightly on top of the head with it. "I'll have to think of some way to thank you for convincing me to share your paranoia."

  "Sorry." He caught her wrist and looked up at her. Even with him seated in the chair and her standing beside it, he didn't have to look up very far, and something deep inside her tingled at the warmth in his eyes. He, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to his own expression, she thought, with more than a hint of frustration.

  "Have you sent a letter ahead to your father to tell him about your suspicions?" she asked after a moment.

  "Not yet. I've been turning it over in my mind. But I probably will send word ahead by hummer after we dock in Paerystia." He twitched his shoulders. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it before I wrote to him. I kind of hoped you'd just tell me I was crazy."

  "I wish I could—tell you that, I mean. But even though you may be wrong, I don't think you're crazy. And the truth is, I'm afraid you're not wrong, either."