Ruler of Naught, page 39
part #2 of Exordium Series
o0o
The run for freedom was a revelation for Jaim.
He had realized within an hour of his arrival at Jucan’s shop that a return to his family was a mistake. The reasons why he had left, which had seemed diminished to insignificance by Reth Silverknife’s death, had returned, like carrion birds, to feed on his spirit.
Jucan was happy to see his twin again—too happy. His life-mate Tura made it clear he was less welcome now than he had been on his last visit.
They had carried out all the food rituals, but Tura with many dark looks in his direction, looks which made the drink bitter and the bread taste of ash.
When Jaim had tried to tell his brother he needed to talk, for he had lost the path—if the Path had ever existed—she had somehow overheard, and interrupted to request him not to poison the light in their home with his disharmony.
It had been in his mind to say that the disharmony was brought by her, but he was silent. He never answered her jibes, even though they surprised his brother, who insisted that she was mild as milk most times. Jaim would never tell his brother that it was he, and not Jucan, whom Tura had wanted first, and the poison had been her gift to him for his refusal.
Lokri’s call for aid had been a relief. he had gone with only a word of peace to his brother, and no words at all to Tura. But he had felt her eyes watching him, long after the door was closed between them.
It had half been in his mind to lose this fight, to find nothingness in death, if there was no peace. But once he arrived at Snurkel’s, his training had taken over his body, and soon a kind of balance was restored between the present and need.
And what he observed brought to his awareness a new window, a new light. The window was Brandon Arkad in action.
The warrior whose feet stay on the Path does not become tangled in the jungles of anger. The leader of warriors keeps the Path clear for all who follow.
The spiritual truths had burned to ash with the Sunflame but the martial ones had rekindled themselves. Vi’ya, and Jaim himself, possibly Lokri, could best Brandon in a fight, but none of them led so effortlessly.
Jaim had thought Vi’ya a good enough leader: she knew strategy well and issued clear orders. And she had, after her own fashion, considered the welfare of her crew, something she had learned from Markham.
But as the five of them ran through the tortuous byways of Rifthaven, encountering danger at nearly every intersection, it was Brandon who kept them laughing with a stream of absurd commentary on the passing sights, interspersed with snatches of song. Once, even, the nonsense rhymes of childhood, used to set a rhythm as they fought their way through a gang of angry Draco that set upon them without warning.
Lokri once joined in a song, his clear baritone marking a melodic counterpoint to the light tenor voice; somehow it was easy to disable, and not to kill, the gang of angry Yim who accosted them. And though the Arkad was not the best fighter, it was he who watched for the others, calling exhortations, encouragements, and warnings when a platoon of roving Kug met them, or some drunken spacers enjoying the sudden outbreaks of fighting all over Rifthaven did their best to join in. It was he who first detected the dissension among their enemies and adroitly turned their intent aside so that the five might pass safely.
It was the Path. The light.
Even Vi’ya was smiling as they ran down the last street toward the refit shop. Her smile disappeared, though, when they saw the Telvarna. Jaim noted the utter absence of people in the street. Alarm’s flame cooled into purpose.
As they ran up the ramp, he felt under his feet the thrum of the engines winding up, and he homed straight for them.
They were a long way from safe.
o0o
Marim was swung off her feet when a strong arm snaked out from a dark doorway and snagged her. A mouth pressed hard on hers, and a hand ran down her body.
“You forgot me—you left me waiting for you at Ebo’s,” a thick voice mumbled. “You won’t forget me now.”
Furious at herself for lagging behind the others so she could boz Rex undetected, she twisted her head and stared up at this new problem. Who was this blit? The sweet/sour scent of drug-laced tabac was on his breath, and his eyes were red-rimmed. She didn’t recognize him at all.
“This time’ll be better,” he mumbled.
She exhaled in relief. He didn’t want a fight, he wanted bunny. She wouldn’t have to kill him.
“Captain wants me now,” she breathed, kissing the working lips. “Boz me.”
“But you promised, next time you docked. ”
“Captain’s call. You know now it is.”
He freed her arms at that, then whined, “Boz me.”
She ran flat out for the refit portal, skidding through the hatch to the sound of accelerating thunder. They almost didn’t wait for me. She was surprised at the spurt of anger. As if they owed her—as if anyone really owed anyone.
Relief washed through her when she saw the ramp still down. As she raced to it, she heard Vi’ya’s voice through the bridge connection: (Marim, close it up.)
Uh-oh. She’s rasty. She was smiling on the run—what’s happened now? Marim’s nose wrinkled. The airlock stank like the entire level’s sewage had backed up into it.
After getting the ramp stowed in record time, she caromed around a corner and flung herself into her pod a heartbeat before Vi’ya smacked her palm down on Telvarna’s go-pad.
No one spoke as the ship maneuvered with deceptive slowness out of the jungle of tubes and constructs. Marim used this time to scan the other faces. Vi’ya was filthy and bloodstained, a bruise darkening on the side of her head.
A quick glance showed Lokri with blood caking his jaw, and his eyes were, for once, wary and somber.
In Fire Control the Arkad sat, safe and secure, but his face—which was barely recognizable for the scrapes and blooming bruises, and swelling contusions—wore that expression Marim had long ago privately dubbed Markham’s Blastshield. Something happened, all right. Just now? Or back at Snurkel’s?
It’s got to be Lokri. What’s he done?
“We’re out,” Vi’ya said. “Lokri, listen for anything remotely resembling Karroo codes.”
Marim fought a sudden yawn as she ran her gaze over her console. Everything shone either blue or green. So glad I didn’t get my gear off ship—and Schoolboy and my coin are safely stowed. Her heart sank when she saw Ivard at his post. Some idiot had gone and gotten him out of the surgeon’s.
A quiet voice spoke from the background: “I wish to know where we’re being taken.”
The gnostor entered the bridge, his face polite. Sanctus Hicura, Marim thought. Can’t he feel the rads? He couldn’t have come in at a worse time.
Vi’ya said, her gaze on her board, “I do not yet know.”
“Then I must request you tell me our status. If we are not actually prisoners, I would like to request we be set down as soon as possible at some location where no harm will come to either of us.”
‘There is no such place,” Vi’ya said, her voice hard.
“That’s true,” Marim said, trying to ease the atmosphere. “Rex off the Tantayon told me a lot. Some of Eusabian’s allies have gone on a sacking spree like no one’s ever seen, not even in a wiredream.”
“Captain,” Omilov said. “My request—”
Vi’ya kept her eyes on her screen. “Denied.”
Marim watched Omilov incline his head and go out.
Jaim’s voice came over the comm: “They know about the Arkad.”
Marim gathered her courage. Vi’ya had to be told about the hyperwave, right now. She kept her eyes on the screens as she spoke, “And they got some sort of FTL comm—they can talk between systems just like being in the same room. But not all their ships have it.”
Her voice failed as Vi’ya turned, her eyes narrowed to pinpoint beams of cold light. “You knew this?”
“I just found it out from Rex,” Marim added hastily.
“Thirty minutes to radius,” Ivard put in.
Brandon closed his board, stood looking thoughtfully down at it, then he went to Vi’ya’s console. Marim strained her ears, but she could not understand his low murmur.
Vi’ya got up. “Ivard. Let me know when we’re three minutes to radius.” She walked out, Brandon following.
Marim whirled around and fixed Lokri with a glare. “All right, blit. What happened?”
Lokri sighed, twisting his neck slowly. “Outrun, outgunned, and unmanned.”
Marim eyed him, then took a risk of her own. “I hate it when you talk like those chatzing nicks.”
A flush of anger ridged Lokri’s cheekbones, and his face tightened. Then he shrugged, giving her his old, lopsided grin. “We won at the Galadium. And I tried to drink all our winnings. Lost it all over the corridor.”
“We?”
“I took Brandon for a tour of Rifthaven. Masked, but for the end.”
“You blungeloving scum. Why?”
Lokri sighed and shut his eyes. “You may as well hear it. Get me something to drink first.”
“You can get it, you—”
Lokri’s eyes opened briefly, very, very tired. “If I could get out of this chair without passing out, I would. We also,” he breathed shakily, “drank Negus.”
“I’ll get you something,” Ivard said in a subdued voice. “Watch my console?”
“I will.” Marim waited until the boy had gone out, clutching his shoulder as if it pained him. Then she said soberly, “No wonder she’s mad at you. Snurkel’s going to call out all Karroo after us.”
Lokri opened his eyes. “Maybe. But I promise you this: she is more angry with herself.”
o0o
Osri impatiently waited in the dispensary to wait for his father to return, which happened quickly. Too quickly. It could only mean that they were still prisoners. He bit back the ready anger when he saw how gray his face was. Montrose also seemed ill, judging by the hiccoughs and belches he emitted, not to mention an occasional waft that made Osri’s eyes water, though he didn’t seem discommoded otherwise.
The surgeon thoughtfully reached over and notched the tianqi to an even higher level, until the astringent-smelling air stirred Osri’s hair. That irritated him, too.
But he kept silent as Montrose frowned in concern and started fussing over Omilov, who suffered his ministrations without any lessening of the strain in his eyes.
Vi’ya and Brandon appeared, and Osri sustained another shock. The woman had two bleeding wounds, one on her arm and one on her temple, which she ignored. Her dark skin showed the shadow of a bruise at her jawline. A golden torc over one arm added a counterpoint of barbarity. Brandon looked far worse. Osri would not have recognized him but for the familiar clothes and the Faseult signet on his hand. He smiled, the swelling bruises on his face shifting.
Montrose moved to Vi’ya’s side, extending a bandage. She held out her arm, but her attention was on Omilov.
She said abruptly, “I lost the Heart of Kronos.”
A spasm of pain tightened Omilov’s features.
All the control in the world could not have prevented Osri from saying with heartfelt bitterness, “I trust you got a good price.”
Vi’ya ignored him. “I promised you I would try to find out its powers.”
“It’s not a weapon,” Omilov said, his voice hoarse. He looked up, his eyes dark with strain. “How did you lose it?”
“I took it to an antique dealer I’ve done business with. He had mentioned Urian artifacts once before. Eusabian of Dol’jhar must have posted an impossibly high reward for the retrieval of this artifact.”
She drew a short breath. Osri wondered if some of his father’s pain must be echoing back on her. He hoped it was as she said, “There was a fight.”
“I was there, Sebastian,” Brandon spoke up. “We did our best, and nearly lost ourselves in the process.”
Omilov winced and put up a hand to shade his eyes.
Vi’ya said, “The Arkad was seen by this merchant, which is why we’ve departed Rifthaven.”
Comprehension worked its way into Osri’s brain, dousing all the anger. Two thoughts occurred: There is nowhere we can go.
And, Brandon did not betray us.“Then we are all hunted creatures,” Omilov murmured. “‘And they ran unto the borders of darkness, pursued by the Daemons of Hell.’” He pinched his fingers to his eyes, then looked up tiredly. “What do you intend to do with us?”
Vi’ya shook her head. “I don’t know. The Eya’a seem to think we should go to their planet, but I’m not sure we’d live long there, supposing we aren’t followed and slagged.”
Montrose signaled Vi’ya with a glance, then tipped his head toward Omilov. Vi’ya nodded fractionally, then turned to go.
Osri said, “I wish you’d let us go back to our own people.”
Vi’ya stopped and faced him. “Where?” she said. “Perhaps once, your Panarchy represented a kind of order. Now it is gone. Whatever you do, it is gone forever.”
“We can rebuild,” Osri said. “We will rebuild.”
Brandon said softly, “Gone or not, we have to try.”
The captain hesitated, as if about to speak to him, then over the comm came Ivard’s panicky voice. “Vi’ya!”
She whirled and ran to the bridge.
o0o
Brandon followed Vi’ya in spite of the exhaustion settling over his brain like a blanket. The euphoria of their successful escape through the streets of Rifthaven had dissipated, leaving the old bleakness—purposelessness. It seemed to be his place in life to have a clear goal, but none of the wherewithal to carry it out.
Self-mockery prompted not-quite-laughter at the earnestness and futility of his carefully built campaign to obtain justice for Markham by flushing his betrayer, except he’d been completely wrong.
And ‘justice’ would not bring Markham back.
He looked at Vi’ya. Mates. Another blow, from an unexpected direction: it seemed impossible, but one thing he’d learned from his dealings with Anaris, the hostage from Dol’jhar, was that Dol’jharians did not lie.
He thought he had known Markham better than anyone. Yet the Markham he knew would have been more likely to share his bed with Marim, or Lokri, the ones who never looked back. For that was the kind of liaison both Markham and Brandon had sought, back in the days of their companionship. The Markham he knew would never have shared his heart.
Mates. That meant commitment. The idea that Markham had changed enough to form a serious relationship seemed to push him farther into the shadows of memory, to make him the more unreachable.
He blinked, fighting the slow spin-stop of vertigo. He had to get control of himself, to focus.
Every muscle and bone in his body ached as he dropped into the fire-control pod, but his hands stayed miraculously steady as they brought up the Tenno glyphs. He had to concentrate on the danger. On impending action. They were not at all safe. He leaned forward, squinting at his console and the viewscreen.
There were several ships moving in on them as Rifthaven dwindled behind. The Telvarna moved at the exact same speed as the pursuers, an absurdly slow crawl.
“Why are we moving so slowly?” he asked.
“The chase mines. Rigid speed limits. Here are the parameters,” replied Vi’ya.
The Tenno grid rippled as the information flowed from Vi’ya’s console. Brandon blinked and opened his eyes wide, fighting the blurring surge that washed over him. the Tenno glyphs took on an air of numinous clarity, reaching directly into his visual cortex. The Vilarian Negus... the Negus won’t be denied...
He glanced at Lokri, to discover an abstracted gaze that probably mirrored his own. This should be interesting. It’s a good thing that Tenno glyph-thinking is mostly visual and automatic... Then there was no more time for conscious thought as missiles streaked toward them from the pursuing ships.
Brandon’s fingers raced across his console, strike and counterstrike, thrust and parry. Assured as the days when he had run the Tenno with Markham, whose shade stood at his shoulder.... in memory. Only in memory.
A random gleam of light reflected off the Faseult signet on his hand. Images from the fight in Snurkel’s shop mingled with memories of the booster flight.... it is the Phoenix House that is honored... The glyphs waxed large in his vision, a palimpsest over the reality of the screens.
More ships appeared, some ahead, responding to the chatter of code emanating from Lokri’s console. The slow pace imposed on them by the chase mines lent the battle the aspect of a nightmare.
... the arid sands stretched to the horizon, flinty rocks punishing his feet, slowing him. Behind him the wrecked chariot lay on its side, one wheel spinning lazily in the shimmering heat...
“Other Syndicates are joining Karroo,” Lokri said hoarsely. “I can’t read the codes, but if enough of them agree, they’ll release the passcode to the mines, and then we’re vapor.”
... entangled in its traces, two sphinx panted as their life-blood drained into the sand... A near miss buffeted the ship.
“With that damned hyperwave, they’re probably talking to Eusabian right now—he’ll promise them anything to get the Arkad.” Marim’s voice was strained.
... now the pungent scent of cinnamon rose up around him as the shredded bark of the nest crunched under his claws. Around it, the lean-haunched, hunch-shouldered predators closed in... there was no safety here...
“Arkad!” came Vi’ya’s voice. “We’re going to have to run for it. Can you keep off the mines?”
... his immature wings flapped uselessly, stirring up clouds of myrrh. He opened his beak, a harsh cry emerged and died away.
“I can.” It was his own voice, from a distance.
“Marim! Give him control of the teslas.”
... the beasts lunged at the nest, fell back, raked by his claws, then lunged again. the shadow of immense wings fell across him. a beast howled as a vast claw broke its back...
Marim let out a yell of triumph. “You got one of ‘em. They’re scattering! Kiss my radiants, blungesuckers!”
