A holiday atmosphere prevailed at the South Cap Alpha shuttle bay where loved ones, friends, and associates waited for the newest arrival. Those at the front had been there longest, their anticipation sharpest, whatever the motive.
Farther back, in front of concessions and clubs, the waiters conversed, a few laughing over reports of the spectacular disaster at the Ascha Gardens the night before. The few eyewitnesses were listened to with mirthful appreciation as they relished details.
No one paid any attention to the loner in nondescript tech clothing among them, a person who stood at the edge of two contiguous groups so that he might appear to belong to the other, should anyone notice him.
But nobody noticed him. He was too well trained; as he waited, he ran through his mantra. I was born of nothing, and to nothing will I return. I am nothing, except when I serve as the instrument of Death, who consumes all.
New voices joined from the back.
Your target is a laergist, of Archetype and Ritual.
The tech recollected the supplied image, a tall, thin, angular man in the robes of his College.
He might be in mourning white.
Ignore his luggage. Bring me everything he carries on his body.
On the slowly approaching shuttle, there was anticipation in reverse: closest to the designated lock those at the front had been there longest, their hopes swooping between hope and fear of disappointment.
But not everyone was there.
The Laergist Ranor sat in his cabin, sick with tension.
Shock had closed him in its vise the day of Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad’s Enkainion, when he had been helpless to intervene as he watched a bomb destroy everyone who had gathered in the Palace’s great Ivory Hall to see Brandon take the vows of Service. Brandon had not appeared, for reasons no one ever did explain.
Afterward, those few who escaped the bomb in the Ivory Hall were angry that Brandon’s unknown guardians had not seen fit to warn the guests, much less whisk them to safety. Ranor knew it was not that simple: for the last report he’d received before the comms went down completely were that all of the Krysarch’s guardians on duty at that time had been found dead in some sub-level of the Palace.
But Ranor had been beyond speculating, because among the dead lay his beloved mate, Leseuer gen Altamon of Ansonia, and their unborn child.
Much later the tough, gray-haired Navy captain who sneaked in under the guns of the Dol’jharians in order to rescue the last remaining fugitives had given him her rare smile, complimenting Ranor on his selflessness and presence of mind.
Numb with grief, Ranor had been unable to explain that he saw no further reason for living: it had been habit to calm hysterical people after the bomb, and to lead to safety through the labyrinthine Palace those few who were willing to follow.
Ranor had been one of the last rescued from the planet before the Dol’jharians locked it down, after he’d joined others in unsuccessfully fighting the invaders through the medium of communications. And all that time, he had carried with him, next to his flesh, his last link with his beloved Leseuer: the chip containing the images she recorded through the ajna-lens on her forehead, recorded right up until the moment of her death.
He’d viewed the chip repeatedly, despite the almost unbearable pain: an act of penance as much as grief. I should have been there with you!
But it was not until he transferred aboard this Navy courier that the implications of the images that Leseuer gave him detonated in his skull like the bomb that had killed his beloved.
Still reeling from grief, Ranor had racked himself over the decision he faced: destroy the chip and permit the shattered government to reform, most probably around high figures who—if the images were to be trusted—were implicated in the Dol’jharian plot? Or speak, and watch them fall?
The benefit of silence, he’d thought, would be the healing of the remnants of the Thousand Suns, but would it heal if even the Panarch’s own family were somehow implicated? Ingrained in his psyche were the impulses, and later the training, to fix, smooth, ease, to hide the fissures in a creaking structure. Social harmony had been his calling. His talents had been honed by years of explaining high-powered people to one another, making them appear amenable so that the diplomatic process might carry on under the guise of pleasant discourse.
Dissonance was anathema to him. His belief in the system had been clawed into blood-drenched shreds by that bomb. The grinning death’s-head of chaos, so unthinkable until the day the Krysarch deliberately shunned his Enkainion, now was inescapable fact.
At the end it was personal loyalty that made the decision for him. Leseuer, newest citizen of the Thousand Suns, had entrusted him with this last testament—had died in the process of handing it on. Though his reason for living had died with her, it was his duty to see that her death was not completely pointless.
He got up and threw his few possessions into his valise. Last was the original chip, which he briefly considered hiding among his clothes.
A waste of time.
He shut his eyes, reconsidering yet again the process that had led him to his decision. He had used the long flight to Ares to think through the consequences of all that had happened.
Couriers had gone both ways. People far more experienced in the lethal byways of political infighting would assume—would know—the existence of a chip just like what lay on his bed now.
The thing to do had been to make a copy—and then to gauge, as best as he was able, his fellow passengers, to find the right one to entrust the copy to.
The person he chose had to be Douloi first of all. Nyberg had to be faced with numbers tripled beyond the station’s normal capacity. No one else but a Douloi would be able to force a personal interview—and it had to be personal, he would impress on his carrier. Beyond that . . .
No Navy, he’d decided. Most of them were loyal—to the Panarch. He did not believe that an officer would heed his exhortation not to view the chip, whereas another civilian, one born to the ties of politesse and one’s word of honor, might.
Most likely I’ll never know if she betrays me, he thought, an image of Fierin vlith-Kendrian’s beautiful face in mind.
It had been instinct, not logic, that made him select her. Logic would have ruled her out early and put someone else—even that drunken sot Gabunder—ahead of her. Gabunder’s brains were so sodden he’d do anything to guarantee a liquor supply so that he could drink himself to death. The man had lost family, place, home, and status when the Dol’jharians blew the Node out of Arthelion’s sky.
The young Kendrian woman had managed to accrue an encrustation of gossip in a very short life. The Kendrian name was tarnished; murder had disposed of her parents and their chief executives, the blame laid on the shoulders of the brother, who had run off to the Rifters, among whom he presumably still lived under an unknown name.
Fierin had directed the family business as soon as she was able to take the reins, but she refused to take the title. My brother is not a murderer, she’d maintained—although not to Ranor. They had never discussed anything so serious. Gossip followed her, whispers like the train of a robe on marble. I will not make my own Enkainion until we know the truth, and Jesimar takes his place, she’d said. Such altruism was remarkably rare.
He’d decided. Now, with the courier nearly touching down in the Cap, it was time to act.
While he crossed the ship to her cabin, Fierin vlith-Kendrian wrestled with her own dilemma.
She was still in her cabin when the annunciator chimed. She paused in her preparations, surprised that anyone would wish to visit now. The ship was about to dock.
A trace of impatience flashed through her: it was so very important to look her best when she debarked. If it’s that drunken Gabunder again, I think this time I will be rude.
Tabbing the door open, she assumed an expression of remote politeness. But instead of Angelus Gabunder, it was the tall, thin, sad-faced man who had rescued her from the old sot’s attentions.
“Ranor,” she said, her expression altering from a tense hauteur to instant, unshadowed concern at the haggard demeanor of her caller.
He drew in an unsteady breath, aware of being poised on a precipice. What decision was the right one? He sensed that he might not be granted an opportunity to make a second try, and was surprised to discover that after all he did care enough to wish to remain alive.
He bit his lip, then took the first step.
“I must talk to you. Please, Aegios.”
“I am not an Aegios,” she began, her dusky skin blooming rose beneath it, and her amazing dark-fringed eyes widening like a kitten’s, then narrowing warily. “I am only the conditional heir until my brother has been found,” she added, though she knew Ranor knew that.
Ranor gave a quick shake of his head, as if dashing aside her words. He had never been rude before, nor had he appeared like this, disheveled, even sweaty.
“Come in,” she said, and locked the door behind them.
“I’ve come to request—beg—your aid,” Ranor said.
“Would you like to sit down?”
He did not seem to hear her, striding the few short steps to one wall, then turning to face her. He thrust one hand through his disordered hair; his fingers trembled, causing her sense of alarm to sharpen.
“What is it?” she said.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” he said quickly. “I . . . find . . . myself in a . . . strange position.” His breathing was quick and shallow, the words almost inaudible, as if they were being wrung out of him.
“Ranor, we are about to dock. Speak, please!”
He stared at her. “I believe I can trust you,” he breathed. “My . . . instincts were always good for that, anyway.”
Fierin’s entire body heated up. Fourteen years of a stained name, and more recently, the fallout resulting from her first liaison, had sensitized her to innuendo.
But Ranor did not notice. “Will you hold something for me?” he asked. “Just for a time, until after we’ve debarked?”
She had expected anything from a sordid confession to a declaration of passion. Numb, she nodded.
“Understand, I believe I am in danger,” he said. “Though I do not think that any suspicion would fall on you,” he added quickly. “If you do not mention my—that is, my item to anyone. Anyone. “ He repeated the word with sudden vehemence, his dark eyes distended and wild.
Chill prickled Fierin’s nerves. Fifteen years ago, the possibility of danger, of people acting irrationally, had been remote—the stuff of wire-dreams. She had learned, at the cost of her family, that violence could lurk behind a smile, that death was an eye-blink away.
“Why?” she said.
“Because it . . . because,” he said, breathing heavily. “I can’t say anything—I guess the years of conditioning are too hard to overcome. But I . . . I vow to you that my cause is justice . . . and so . . .” He paused, reached inside his robe to a hidden pocket, and withdrew an ordinary data-chip. “If you would just hold this for me. For a time. I will claim it from you . . . if . . . I feel it is safe. You needn’t do anything or say anything.”
“But what if—” She stopped, shaking her head.
He took another deep breath. “What if something happens to me?” He gave her a crooked smile. “That is why I’m asking you to hold this chip for me. If something happens, then you must deliver it into the hands of Admiral Nyberg. Do not tell anyone else, or permit it to pass through the hands of intermediaries, for then . . . whatever happens to me will happen to you.” He held out the chip, then snatched it back as a deep thump reverberated through the ship. They were docked.
She bit her lip. “I—do have a connection, with a highly placed Archon—”
“No,” Ranor said quickly. “No one else! Nyberg only. Or his replacement. Will you do it?”
She held out her hand. “I’ll do it.”
He placed the chip on her palm. It was warm and slightly moist. Grasping her hand between his, he said, “Please don’t run it: no system is safe.”
She smiled. “I realize that,” she said.
He withdrew his hands, then went to the door. “Thank you.” He bowed the deep obeisance of obligation to a superior.
His harsh breathing caused the chill to spread through her nerves to her heart as he keyed the lock open, looked both ways, then sped off.
As Ranor hurried from the young Aegios’ cabin, lifelong habit smoothed his face. When he reached his own cabin, he sank onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.
A slight trembling through the ship broke his thoughts. The locks were open.
It was done.
He picked up his valise. A sense of relief lifted the tension from his mind, from his soul. Leseuer seemed near; tenderness breathed through him as he looked beyond the narrow causeway leading to the forward lock, and contemplated the question of eternity.
Fierin kept her fingers steady as the ship trembled. The general comm lit. “We are docked. All passengers come forward for debarkation. Those who require living space should proceed to . . .”
Fierin flicked it off. Tau Srivashti would have space for her, she knew that much.
She sat back, studying the effect of the diamonds she’d woven into her hair. Eyes so pale a blue they were often called gray, or even silver, stared back at her, wide and slanting under dark lashes and winged brows. She shared those same eyes with her brother. The light eyes contrasting with dark skin characterized their family.
Her hands dropped to her tight bodice, the embroidery and draped lace hiding the outline of Ranor’s chip. It had been impulse to put it there—in keeping with the poor man’s obsession with secrecy.
She thought about telling Srivashti, and letting him secrete it for her until Ranor came for it. He’d certainly have the wherewithal, far more than she. And he loves secrets. Just like a boy.
It would be fun to surprise him with the chip.
Or would it? It was difficult to predict his reactions. He was kind to her, most of the time, and when he wasn’t he was extravagant with presents afterward: a fascinating but utterly unpredictable partner both in bed and out of it. He exuded power and grace, and she had reveled in the admiration and envy of his friends. Yet separation from his orbit had brought to her ears ugly rumors and glances of hatred. Archon Srivashti was not universally loved, she had discovered when separated from his orbit.
Ambivalence made her hesitate. She did love him, but who exactly was the man she loved?
He promised me he would use all his connections to find my brother and clear his name. Well, Jesimar had been found: she’d discovered that when going through a news base in the computer of the ship that had shuttled them to Ares from a refugee staging point in a system not yet overrun by Dol’jhar’s Rifter allies. But according to that, he was in detention.
She touched the trunk, which hummed slightly as it rose on its gravitors. She guided it into the corridor. Srivashti has the power to get Jes free, and if he has spoken true to me, he will have exerted that power already. If Jes is free, then I’ll believe in Srivashti, because I’ll know he believes in me. If Jes is free, then I can entrust Srivashti with Ranor’s chip.
She rounded a corner just in time to see Ranor’s tall head above a crowd moving into the lock. Hurrying her steps a little, she decided it might be a nice gesture to debark with him.
She was the last one through, held behind Ranor by an eager group of techs who kept bobbing about and jumping to see over heads. From her few meters’ distance Ranor looked pale but calm.
The concourse thronged with people, who surged forward when they saw the passengers. Fierin scanned the crowd, and her heartbeat quickened when she spotted Srivashti’s familiar hawk face. So he had come, and had not just sent Felton, as she’d told herself to expect.
A very good sign, she thought happily, searching for Jes’ head nearby. What a great surprise that would be!
The first of the passengers reached the greeters, and hugs and cries of gladness rang out. Ranor walked alone.
No one is here to meet him.
A wave of compassion for the man’s dead mate made her hurry her steps. At least he could walk with a friend! Maybe Srivashti could find space for him, too, aboard that huge yacht of his.
She tried to duck around the techs as Ranor reached the front of the crowd.
Another surge in the press of humanity almost swallowed him up. Fierin cleared her throat to call, but then stopped when she saw Ranor jerk aside, then spin around, his eyes wide.
Pain and shock flashed through her, reflected in Ranor’s face. Their eyes met for a long instant: the crowd’s roar seemed curiously distant, and time suspended. His brow contracted pleadingly, and she fancied she heard the words his lips shaped: Remember. Remember.
Then he vanished.
Shrieks and shouts surrounded her as she pushed past the techs, ignoring their startled words of protest. Concerned people bent over Ranor’s recumbent form; Fierin saw Srivashti use his authority to force the crowd back. Then he bent over Ranor, his long hands competent as they checked for pulse, then slid into the laergist’s robe to seek a heartbeat.
Ranor was right. He was in danger, Fierin thought, and the chill inside her turned to the ice of terror. She resisted the urge to touch the chip in her bodice: Whatever happens to me will happen to you.
Still bent over Ranor, Srivashti looked up. “Call the medics, fast,” he said to the people standing frozen near the wall console, and then he met Fierin’s eyes.
A smile of welcome transformed the tension in his face. He straightened up slowly. “Guard him, will you?” he said to the rest of the concerned helpers gathered around Ranor, and two or three assents came back.
“Fierin.” Srivashti made her name a caress as he held out his arm.
She took it, feeling the strength latent there under the smooth fabric of his tunic.
“There’s nothing to be done for the man,” Srivashti murmured. “We’re better out of the way.”
She almost said, “Poor Ranor,” except fear kept his name from her lips. Glad to get away, she matched her steps to Srivashti’s long strides as somehow the crowd parted to make way for them.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear it anymore; sophistication deserted her, and she said, “Is Jes free?”
Srivashti’s yellow eyes narrowed briefly, then his expression brightened to the tender amusement she was used to from him. “I wish I could tell you that he is, my dear,” he said. “But there appear to be complications.”
“What complications? He did not kill our parents, I told you that. He wouldn’t have.”
Srivashti laid his hand over hers, and his fingers tightened, bringing her words to a halt.
“The Justicials,” he said, “will require proof. Right now, they maintain that the proof indicates that he did. I’ve checked, you see, and I’ll continue to move on his behalf. But my very dear girl—” He smiled down into her eyes. “—shouting it along the corridors here is not going to make my task the easier.”
She searched his face. So handsome, yet he was impossible to read. Could he be trusted? Again she saw Ranor fall. She knew she would dream forever of the pain and pleading in those eyes before death claimed him.
“Very well,” she said, forcing her lips to smile. “I’ll wait.”
And Ranor’s chip will wait, as well.