A Prison Unsought Read online

  The dance ended, and here were partners waiting to claim them both. He gave her a smile that she took as positively vacant, and was swallowed in the crowd.

  TWO

  ABOARD THE FIST OF DOL’JHAR

  By the time Anaris appeared, Gelasaar’s eyes had adjusted to the Chamber of Mysteries’ gloom, but his olfactory sense had not quite managed acceptance of what he was fairly certain was the stench of rendered human fat.

  He gestured to the candles, and said, “Does your father come here often?”

  “Every day,” Anaris said, his deep voice betraying amusement. “The equivalent of the Dol’jharian morning.”

  Gelasaar had meant to let Anaris guide the talk, but he couldn’t help another question. “Does he commune with his father’s spirit, then?”

  Anaris’s amusement was even more pronounced. “I don’t know what he really believes. Does it matter?”

  “Rituals always matter,” Gelasaar said.

  His gentle voice was too instructional for Anaris’s taste. Perhaps it was time for a reminder that captor and prisoner had reversed roles. “You asked me what I’d heard of Brandon’s movements.”

  “You told me that he lives, and that he was taken to Ares by the Mbwa Kali.”

  “Yes. The cruiser caught up with him outside of Rifthaven while on duty sweeping up the trash coming and going.”

  “Trash?” the Panarch repeated, showing no sign of his emotions, though he was aware of his heartbeat accelerating. “Have you not employed Rifters as your mercenaries?”

  “The trash comprises those too inept to be accepted as our hirelings.”

  “Or too independent?” Gelasaar countered.

  Anaris laughed. “Or too independent. The only observation I can make about Brandon’s companions is that they were stupid enough to fall prey to Mbwa Kali’s tractor. Unless your son took over the ship at jac-point and steered them into the cruiser’s custody. I suppose it is always possible,” Anaris said. “More to the point is their movement before they reached Rifthaven. For whatever reason, they ran a raid on Arthelion.”

  Gelasaar couldn’t hide his jolt of surprise. Pleased, Anaris added, “Yes, while you were there. Brandon was only at the Palace Minor long enough to plunder some of the artifacts from the display outside the Hall of Ivory, which he tried to sell at Rifthaven.” And when Gelasaar did not react to the news that his errant son had raided his old home, Anaris said, “I was able to retrace his steps later on. He passed right by your chamber on his way out with his loot.”

  Gelasaar closed his eyes, remembering what he’d thought had been a familiar voice. But as that had occurred during an irregular bombardment of what he was convinced were manufactured sounds—Ilara’s dying moments among them—he had not believed it.

  He did not believe it now.

  Anaris, watching closely, said, “It’s true. You had to have heard some of the commotion. There were a couple of firefights.”

  “I heard a great deal of . . . noise,” Gelasaar said. “At various intervals.”

  “Ah.” Anaris laughed. “Barrodagh’s attentions. Morrighon reported that Barrodagh was running his own program of torture. My father had no notion. Would have been appalled had he known.”

  “He does not seem to harbor a taste for pettiness,” Gelasaar said, laying faint emphasis on the last word, the horror of the Throne Room foremost in mind.

  “No, the Avatar is seldom petty,” Anaris said, disappointed with the Panarch’s reaction. Well, he should have expected no less. Brandon’s proximity that day will give Gelasaar something to contemplate in his cell. Much comfort will he derive from the might-have-been.

  Another thought occurred: was his own effort here an example of pettiness? He tabbed the door, and gestured for Morrighon, waiting outside to take the Panarch away as he said, “This I will give Brandon: his raid, useless as it was, succeeded in being the only breach of our security. Arthelion is quite docile now.”

  ARES

  The Tetrad Centrum Douloi met over breakfast the next morning, the most favored dish the doings of their fellows the previous evening.

  A soft sigh emanated from Caroly ban-Noguchi’s select guests when Vannis Scefi-Cartano appeared at last. Caroly firmly hid both her relief and the hot pulse of irritation at the effectiveness of the former consort’s entrance. Framed against the tall window behind her, the muted white of her garments echoed the pallid presence of the Arkadic Enclave, a limb of which was visible away spinwards along the oneill’s curvature, like a frozen moonrise.

  As the servant ushered Vannis down the shallow arc of steps into the carefully tended hanging garden, everyone took in her severely simple linen walking suit, the trousers loose above her plain slippers. Raised brows semaphored to pursed lips: Who else would dare?

  Caroly reflected bitterly that no one else would dare, for the Aerenarch might turn up. He must now be invited to everything. Vannis is presuming on a Family connection that doesn’t exist, unless she seduces Brandon into making it.

  Vannis sensed that critical scrutiny but gave no sign as she surveyed the setting. Whomever Caroly had displaced had an excellent eye. At least for the floral arts. Delicate blossoms from countless worlds breathed scented air into an open room comprising interlocking geometric shapes of chrome and glass and white tile, a style that seemed to re-emerge every couple of centuries, and which Vannis thought better suited to transit stations and trade concourses.

  Wealthy Polloi, she decided, greeting her hostess. Half the guests clung to elaborate formality. The other half had attempted a simplifying effect; she read from this that her social supremacy was more solid, but not secure. Not yet.

  Caroly gestured her toward a low seat with a charming view. Not quite the most important position in the room—that, Vannis saw, was held by Tau Srivashti—but not the least, where Rista numbered among a cluster of unknowns. Vannis took her place, sprinkling greetings and compliments around her.

  Ting!

  The neurally-inducted chime of Vannis’s boswell indicated another priority drop, but it wasn’t Brandon. Vannis helped herself to a tiny cup of fresh-roasted coffee as conversation resumed around her.

  “. . . and yet another ship came in early this morning.” Charidhe ban-Masaud rivaled NorSothu nyr-Kaddes in her efforts to be first with any rumor. Weeks ago, that had been welcome news, but now, Vannis could see in the subtle tightening of lips, the lack of spontaneity in the polite comments, that most were thinking the same thing she was: Where will they put them?

  A girl not yet twenty with looped and bejeweled rainbow braids said in a too-protracted drawl, “Anyone on it?”

  She appeared to be some years off yet from her Enkainion. The boredom was as false as the drawl; Vannis observed the flickers of amusement in the guests, before Charidhe gave the girl a quiet smile of rebuke, the Of course, or why would I bring it up? was all the more potent for being unspoken.

  The girl fussed with her breakfast cup to hide her mortification. Vannis felt no sympathy.

  Charidhe turned to their hostess, the pale gems in her body art glimmering. “A Masaud courier, as it happens, who bore news that a large group of refugees from the Mandala were located by Captain KepSingh about a month ago.”

  “How many?”

  “Who?”

  “Where were they hiding?”

  Polite expressions from the guests except for Tau Srivashti, who stilled; the smooth fit of his wine-colored tunic did not alter for breathing. Who was he listening to with such covert attention?

  Charidhe went on, “. . . and Burinka’s co-husband, a courier lieutenant in the Navy, told her that one is a laergist who was supposedly assigned to the Aerenarch’s Enkainion. Now we’ll be able to find out exactly what happened.”

  Srivashti’s eyelids shuttered.

  The rainbow spoke again, this time with less drawl, “That’s Ranor. My mother had him trained.”

  Srivashti smiled her way, which amused Vannis. So he still has a taste for youth and i
nexperience.

  “Will we be seeing this laergist among us soon?” Rista asked, her carefully modulated tone betraying her awareness of her exalted company. “He might have a report of other survivors.” Those who knew her murmured appropriate words of sympathy, as all of Rista’s maternal family lived on Arthelion. Had lived there?

  “I’m afraid not.” Charidhe flicked a glance at a silent servitor, who began refreshing coffee cups. “There are apparently several stages, or relays, or whatever the military calls them.”

  Someone else spoke up. “Among last night’s other new arrivals were some Kitharee, and there’s talk about whether they will establish a chantry here . . .”

  In response to Caroly’s signal, servants brought out a succession of trays and set them on the sideboard. This signaled a general rising, and a recombining of groups as they moved to load the waiting plates. Vannis eeled skillfully between knots of talkers, using the opportunity to triage the drops that had accumulated since her arrival. No one of note. She shunted most to Yenef to deal with as talk turned to entertainment—who was here—who was hiring them—Vannis noting who turned her way to speak, and who listened to her response. Preference her position as relict assured her, but last night’s coup re-established her claim to deference.

  Still nothing from Brandon. He hadn’t said much the night previous, a point in his favor. Fools ought to remain silent. However, if he’d surrounded himself with fools the way Semion had gathered militarily minded Tetrad Centrum Douloi and Galen had gathered artists, it was her duty to guide him.

  Srivashti appeared at her shoulder. “I can offer you something better afterward.” His long, beautifully manicured hand dismissed the array of hot drinks.

  His tone was ambiguous; she returned an ambiguous smile as musicians struck up from a hidden alcove. Vannis recognized by the slight fixity to her smile her hostess’s chagrin. She thinks I’m bored. Vannis found this misperception on Caroly ban-Noguchi’s part interesting; the woman had kept her distance from Vannis since her arrival on Ares. Until last night.

  Vannis altered her path so she passed by Caroly’s chair, and leaned there, asking what she’d thought of that horrible vid the Navy had released, and assumed a listening pose as if Caroly’s opinions mattered. Caroly was married to a Naval captain who, Vannis knew, would not disclose to her wife anything of real strategic importance.

  The room took up the topic, expressing appropriate shock, dismay, anger. Vannis paid no heed to claims the vid was false or true. No one here could possibly know for certain. Far more interesting was who echoed whose opinions, indicating possible shifts in social—political—alignment.

  She herself uttered echoes of Charidhe’s opinion, which succeeded in smoothing the tension in Charidhe’s thin brows. It was stupid to anger a gossip when ten words sufficed to charm her.

  She sat down at last, exerting herself to issue a compliment to every person there; before she was done, she became aware that Srivashti had disappeared. Vannis did not see his departure, but she saw its effect in the pout on the face of the rainbow girl, who betrayed her own privacies as she looked about for him. In vain.

  o0o

  Highdwelling dawns were just wrong, Eloatri concluded, the morning after the reception.

  It didn’t help that she had a bit of a head from the one glass she’d allowed herself last night. Either the Fleurdelys frosh had been double-spiked, or the Tetrad Centrum Douloi en masse were intoxicating.

  Whatever the cause, the construction noise from the Yamazakura wing of the Cloister was impossible to ignore this morning. She winced as a particularly loud bang echoed, momentarily silencing some of the morning chatter from the singing toads and the long-tailed tzillis flitting high up among the trees.

  She looked around the verdant little cove in the Cloister’s central garden where she awaited her guest for breakfast. It was now late enough morning that the dissonance between the too-short shadows and the early-dawn quality of light engineered into the radiants had faded. One could almost believe oneself on a planet, as long as one didn’t look directly spinwards or antispinwards too often.

  Eloatri dropped her gaze to the little console of the monneplat as it clucked and delivered a strong cup of coffee. There was no time to be mooning about her exile from Desrien. She had an obligation to discharge this morning before Sebastian Omilov joined her at table.

  She tabbed the console, and a cloud of light over the table coalesced into Admiral Nyberg’s craggy features. She had been surprised when he’d approached her at the reception, since their previous meeting upon her arrival had been formal and minimal, and she’d had no further contact with the Navy beyond the minimum needed to obtain her testimony at Captain Nukiel’s court martial.

  The acquittal of the Mbwa Kali’s captain apparently meant that the Navy had finally decided to accept her as High Phanist. Thus Ares commander’s invitation for her to call this morning.

  “Numen,” he began, confirming her guess. “Thank you for calling so promptly. I regret not being able to visit in person. Since this line is not secure, I will be brief. I would ask two favors of you. The first is your attendance at a briefing in the Cap. I’ll forward time, place, and a pass to you if you agree. I cannot tell you what will be discussed, only that your inclusion was requested.”

  “By whom? And ‘cannot’ or ‘will not’?” At times like this Eloatri enjoyed the license for bluntness that was a privilege of the Polloi. “But you’re not sure what will be discussed?”

  “I’m not allowed to be sure,” snapped the admiral, then held up his hand. “Forgive me, Numen. Time is short. Will you attend?”

  At his end, Nyberg studied the old woman, who frowned as if she’d lost her wits. No, that was not a stupid face, it was one of deep conflict. “Forgive me,” she replied, her absent gaze meeting his. Not stupid at all. “I am not the custodian of your conscience,” she said without a shred of animosity. “Yes, I will attend, although I’ve no idea what I can contribute to a military briefing.”

  Neither do I. “Thank you, Numen. And the second is to request your assistance in establishing some independent means of communication with the Eeya’a, as you are the only person besides the Rifter captain to whom they apparently defer.”

  “I doubt that I myself can be of much assistance. Our communication, such as it is, is highly abstract—more a recognition of archetypal energies than anything else. But there is someone under my authority who can, I think, assist your project.”

  Nyberg accepted her agreement with suitable Douloi politesse. Now you’re Xeno’s problem. “I am indebted to you, Numen. Captain Phinboul of our Xeno department will be in touch. I wish you a good day.” He reached to tab off the holo.

  “But know you, Admiral,” the High Phanist said before his fingers reached the tab, “that Telos moves in these people and those sophonts. They are a hinge of Time and I will do nothing to imperil the opening of that door, nor allow anyone under my authority to do so.”

  Nyberg lowered his hand carefully to the desk, bits of Nukiel’s testimony flickering through his mind. This was exactly the sort of talk he hated—it was impossible to corroborate, or to refute. “My concern is the safety of Ares and the prosecution of the war against Dol’jhar, Numen.”

  Eloatri had seen Nyberg’s expression change. Panic? Resentment? Fear? Maybe all three.

  He cleared his throat before continuing. “I trust our paths will run parallel.”

  “I’m sure they will,” she replied. “I will always be available to you.”

  Nyberg hesitated very slightly. “And I to you, Numen. Thank you.”

  His image flickered out.

  Eloatri breathed out her frustration, wondering yet again why it was she who had been chosen. I do not like politics, and I know so little of the Tetrad Centrum Douloi. But Tomiko had made it clear her wishes were the least of priorities. She saw again the cup and its terrible liquid, heard again what the dying Tomiko had said to her: Surely you did not suppose you
drank that for yourself?

  She shuddered and picked up her coffee, taking a scalding mouthful to wash away the taste of blood, powerful even as a ghost memory.

  So it was that her guest found her in a contemplative mood and did not have to exert himself to keep the conversation light and neutral during breakfast. Nonetheless, at the conclusion of the meal, Sebastian Omilov wondered again if accepting the High Phanist’s invitation to lodge at Cloister had been his wisest choice. Not that Eloatri was anything but the most considerate host, and the Arkadic Enclave could hardly be any more pleasant than this open, airy complex that belied its archaic title.

  Replete with a meal exactly to his liking, he leaned back in his chair. From somewhere behind him floated faint echoes of hammering and unidentifiable screeches and groans from other tools as a crew remodeled a portion of the ancient building to house refugees.

  But all was peaceful here in the inner garden amid floral fragrances and the resiny scent of shaggy-barked trees. He’d never seen so many butterflies and diaphanes outside a nature preserve, festooning the trees and shrubs around their tête-à-tête and floating erratically overhead, although there seemed to be something keeping them away from the table and its tempting array of berry tartlets and butterapple buns.

  A shadow flickered across the table from one of the hang-gliders he’d glimpsed from his bedroom window earlier, now circling overhead, their bright colors echoing the delicate insects of the Cloister garden.

  Eloatri smiled at how Sebastian’s face relaxed as he watched the morning scrum overhead. It had seemed mere impulse to offer him a suite when she heard he his wife had refused to take him in. That, and curiosity. Sebastian Omilov had lived on board the Rifter ship whose crew included all but one of the people the Dreamtime had bidden her follow. And a twinge of responsibility: the Dreamtime had hit him hard. Last night she’d been amply repaid as he stood by her and gave a running account of whom she was seeing and whence they came as the Douloi twirled by in their interminable waltzes and quadrilles.