A Prison Unsought Page 9

  Montrose said, “You’ll pee it out in half an hour, and it’ll leave you thirsty.”

  When Osri nodded his thanks, Brandon said, “Let’s go, Osri.”

  “Where?” Osri asked. “What?”

  “This.” Brandon held up his hand. The gleam of ruby in the signet ring jolted Osri, eliciting a brief vision of his last sight of his father in the Defense Room on Charvann, with the Archon next to him. “Commander Anton Faseult goes off duty in . . . fourteen minutes.”

  As Brandon started out, Jaim rose, looking a question, but Brandon motioned him back down again. “Take a seat. Vahn can run shadow.”

  Jaim nodded and sipped at his coffee, his dark eyes bemused. The lack of protocol, echoing the Rifter life aboard the Telvarna, made Osri feel peculiar, as if the military world was receding like an invisible tide.

  He followed Brandon, with relief returning the Marines’ salute, which meant they were back in the world of hierarchy and protocol again. Brandon greeted both Marines by name, as Solarch Vahn fell in at precisely the correct distance behind them.

  The tube was empty again. Brandon keyed in the destination, then dropped into a seat, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

  “You wanted a favor?” Osri asked, conscious of the listening ears behind them. But a surreptitious glance showed the Marine several seats back, busy with his boswell; he seemed beyond earshot.

  Brandon glanced up, and this time his tiredness was evident. “Two, actually. One: will you witness my handing off the Archon’s ring? I didn’t want your father along.” He gestured, hand chopping at his neck.

  Osri’s stomach tightened. He wondered if he was about to witness Brandon’s first command. Why do it in private? Everybody by necessity must find out, if Anton vlith-Faseult appeared at his watch in uniform, and left it in civilian attire.

  Stick to the immediate, he thought. “I don’t think my father wants to have to relate the manner of Tanri’s death. And your other request?”

  Brandon leaned his head back. “I’d like you to get me some study chips—the course on real-time tactical vector analysis and maybe the advanced course on tactical semiotic matrices.”

  Osri did not even try to hide his surprise. “Why? Won’t you be busy enough?”

  “Even a figurehead has some free time,” Brandon said, giving a soundless laugh. “And I’d like to brush up on my old studies. But if I make it an Official Request—”

  “I see, then Nyberg is obliged to take notice. I can easily get them; my orders came through yesterday.”

  “Teaching?” Brandon asked.

  “The refugee cadets.”

  Brandon grimaced. “So the word from Minerva was bad?”

  Osri shook his head, remembering the anger and grief of older officers gathered at one end of the reception. That was one reason he couldn’t just leave, all those fathers, mothers, siblings, friends and lovers of dead cadets. Somehow he’d felt obliged to tell the story of the L’Ranja Whoopee, even though he knew a moment’s smile would not erase the grief. “Let’s just say that the new Academy is right here.”

  Brandon’s expression mirrored the grief of the night before. “Did anyone get away?”

  “So far, the word is that the Rifters slagged the planet, using the few escaping craft as target practice. But there’s hope that’s mostly Rifter boast. Unwillingness to let the Dol’jharians find out that some got through. The cadets coming in, so far, were all on ship assignment or on leave.”

  Brandon looked down, twisting the ring he was about to relinquish; Osri had seen him do that over the past hellish weeks, and for the first time, wondered what it meant. “Anyway,” he said, “I can get those chips.”

  “Thanks,” Brandon said as the tube slid to a stop at the Cap’s debarkation station.

  They stood, and Osri found the silent Marine solarch at Brandon’s shoulder. The man was preternaturally efficient at vanishing and reappearing.

  Brandon glanced at the solarch. “Lead the way, Vahn.”

  Vahn revealed that he was as little oriented in the Cap as Osri was; he relied on his boswell to lead them via another transtube down a warren of hallways.

  Osri was surprised to discover the Cap reflecting the Archaeo-Moderne style, familiar from his enforced stay on the Telvarna. The utilitarian corridors and storage accesses had been set into walls with clean, pleasing lines and enough curves to diminish what might otherwise have been a sterile atmosphere.

  They reached the security node as the quiet bell tones sounded the watch change. A door slid open and several men and women came out, passing by with a casual salute to Osri. Osri knew it was strictly correct not to notice the Aerenarch, but Brandon’s apparent invisibility only sufficed to make the day seem more unreal.

  Osri turned his head. Brandon stood several yards away, his back turned and his head down as he studied one of the old-fashioned, Mandalic-style access consoles. His dark head was bare, and his anonymous tunic and trousers marked him as merely a civilian. So he was making it easy for everyone by participating actively in his invisibility, which meant that the higher-ups all knew he was there, and were complicit.

  I hate politics, Osri thought, his neck tightening. He wondered how they were going to feel when Brandon ended Anton vlith-Arkad’s career as summarily as his brother’s life had been ended.

  Then Vahn whispered something, and Brandon wheeled, rejoining Osri in a few swift steps as a tall man with ebony skin approached from the other direction, on his way to the tube.

  Brandon said, “Commander Faseult. A moment, please.”

  And Anton vlith-Arkad halted. His heart pounded, and he could not move, it was as if his feet had been anchored to the deck by a tractor beam. The ruby in the Faseult ring lanced blood-red glimmers through his brain as the Aerenarch gestured, bringing with it the future he had secretly longed for since childhood. And dreaded since the war began and the influx of horrific report after horrific report made it clear that to be Archon of Charvann now meant absolutely nothing.

  Faseult collected himself and made the salute of a Marine to a civilian. His last meaningful gesture, he thought ironically.

  “May we be private?” the Aerenarch asked, his voice so light it could not have carried to the Marine solarch, who remained by the wall console, his eyes averted.

  Faseult glanced at the lieutenant, recognizing Osri Omilov. Whoever had written the report on Omilov seemed to have underestimated his connection to the Aerenarch.

  Faseult took a deep breath and gestured silently at the small anteroom a few paces away. The three went in, the Marine stationing himself outside and shutting the door.

  Faseult had spent a sleepless night endlessly reviewing every detail of the previous night’s scene, wondering what it meant. He waited, knowing he was not ready for the answer now.

  Then Brandon bowed to him in the mode of sovereign to archon heir presumptive and held up his hand with the signet ring. Osri’s heart clenched as the commander’s face distorted into a kind of wild grief, all the more terrible for its soundlessness, before the man exerted tight control.

  “It was my promise to your brother to carry this to you, and to give it from my hand to yours,” Brandon said. His voice had taken on a curious cadence. “The Archon Tanri died in honor, and when my father returns, that honor will pass to the next Faseult Archon, whose family motto is Volo, rideo.”

  “‘I will, I laugh,’” Osri whispered to himself as the familiar ache gripped him again. His father’s friend for most of two decades, Tanri Faseult had been a larger-than-life figure, a hero. The laughter had given him a sense of balance, he’d often said: he who could laugh at himself could laugh at the world, and not fear it.

  Osri had learned that lesson too late. His eyelids burned as he watched Anton drop to one knee, his palms out in the ancient noble-to-royalty mode. The signet stone flashed, the carving standing out in relief: a smiling charioteer drawn by the two sphinxes. And then the ring was on the commander’s finger, and Brandon was raisin
g him to his feet.

  “Commander vlith-Faseult,” he said—stressing the military title. “When my father is free, you must come before him to take your oath.”

  The commander made a quick, convulsive gesture, but as if to forestall any response, Brandon said, “Later we can tell you more of the battle over Charvann. Your brother got in some priceless zings at Hreem the Faithless.” He glanced toward Osri and added gently, “The gnostor Sebastian Omilov, father to Lieutenant Omilov here, was there at the end.” Brandon’s blue eyes narrowed, and Osri wondered if he hadn’t slept at all.

  But Brandon’s glance stayed steady, and Osri understood the signal. “Your Highness,” he said, “I have to report for duty.”

  Brandon nodded, hit the door control, and they went out, Osri believing they left the commander to grieve in private, and Brandon trying to determine if that moment of naked emotion he’d seen in the man had been guilt, satisfied desire, or regret. Maybe all three.

  o0o

  Jaim studied the coffee swirling in his cup, trying not to betray his impatience as Montrose fussed over his former patient, in Sebastian Omilov’s suite in the Cloisters.

  Montrose in his capacity as physician would never be hurried. Even though they had fallen into the hands of the Panarchists. Even though Omilov’s position should gain him the right to Ares station’s best medical aid possible, a word from Brandon ought to have assured it.

  Jaim’s cup contained real coffee, brewed from beans grown and roasted right there in the station. Another sign of the limitless wealth and power available here, not that everyone at Ares Station could get coffee anytime they wanted. Vast as the place was, there was a limit on how much space could be given over to the production of luxuries. Perhaps there were people on Ares who never tasted coffee, and some who got it rarely. For the Arkadic Enclave, though, there was an unending supply.

  Jaim resorted to Ulanshu breathing in an effort to release the muscle contractions of impatience. How long do we have, before the Arkad finishes his business up at the Cap?

  “You’re better than I expected,” Montrose said finally. “But that still puts you far below what I would consider safe to be walking around. You need that heart repair now.”

  “Thank you,” Omilov said in that pleasant Douloi voice that revealed nothing. “And so I shall, when events release me from duty.”

  Montrose’s tone was unsettlingly reflective of those Douloi cadences as he echoed, “Duty?” He cast a glance around the quiet garden.

  Omilov made one of those oblique gestures, then said, “If you would honor me with your forbearance, I would request you to permit me to continue under your care.”

  “Mine?” Montrose said, his thick brows rising.

  He glanced around the quiet garden, the only sound the sweet, sometimes melancholy notes from hidden wind chimes, and below that the hum of bees. But as if he saw answers there, he said, “Is this related to why you aren’t living with us?”

  Omilov bowed slightly.

  The exchange reminded Jaim of the days aboard the Telvarna, when the two would play chess. Never had Montrose’s Douloi background been so clear as when they bantered over the carved figures.

  Montrose said, “Then you will be put on a strict diet, and you will get out every day and walk. You realize that it would be easier to continue your care if you lived with us. You could even help with that damned console. Just this morning, while I was making the breakfast rolls, Brandon got a hundred and forty-nine drops—and those are just the ones the discriminators let through. Someone is going to have to deal with those.”

  “I am certain that Brandon will find a way to deal with his mail,” Omilov said.

  Jaim had been considering the unspoken currents in the conversation. ‘Duty?’ What was Omilov’s duty? Wasn’t he a retired teacher from some minor college? How would any duty perceived by such an individual keep him here, much less prevent him from getting that heart rebuilt?

  He decided it was time to test the invisible limits. “So what is it you’re not saying? The mail has to be dealt with by high-end nicks because we wouldn’t understand their lies?”

  Omilov’s smile was rueful. “You mean the Tetrad Centrum Douloi? No, for to lie outright is a sign of vulgarity—of stupidity to some—carrying with it the risk of being caught. But you must always remember that they don’t always tell the truth, either. They rarely say in public what they think. What you will usually hear is what they want you to think they think. And the deep ones will say something that may mean one thing to you and another to your neighbor, and something else again to both of you a week later.”

  “Srivashti and his tailor,” Jaim said. “I get it. Not lies, but code.”

  Montrose’s eyes narrowed, and Jaim remembered that Montrose had come from Srivashti’s archonate.

  Omilov said, “One of our oldest, and most powerful, families, the Srivashti. They were Jaspar Arkad’s backbone, in action and in materiel, a millennium ago. Srivashti, the present Archon, is a very . . . complicated individual.”

  “I know he ruined Timberwell,” Jaim said with another glance at Montrose’s hard, angry face.

  Omilov nodded soberly. “As was his right, so far as the government was concerned. They could not interfere.” He sighed, and got to his feet. “A subtle man, Srivashti,” he said. “He was a loyal and powerful ally to the former Aerenarch. I hope devoutly he will be a friend to the present one.” He paused, inclining his head courteously. “Thank you for attending me. Send your list of foods, and I shall abide by it.”

  “I’ll send it before the watch change,” Montrose said, and joined Jaim, who swallowed the last of his coffee before setting the cup carefully on the stone table.

  Now it was time for them to head for the meeting that Vi’ya had signaled during her walk through the ballroom. As they threaded along the flower-bordered path in the garden, Montrose eyed Jaim’s somber, downward gaze, and said, “What do you make of that?”

  “He doesn’t trust the medical staff here.”

  Montrose waved that away. “He knows it’s excellent. Better than I, most likely,” he admitted, a rare humble moment that cause Jaim to smile briefly. Montrose rumbled a soft laugh, then spat out the word, “Politics.” He tipped his head.

  Jaim said, “I don’t get how duty requires him to sit here out of the way, and risk dying of heart failure.”

  Montrose laced his fingers together as they walked, and turned them outward. “The fact that he said as much as he did surprised me. The Magisterium at least seems to guarantee freedom from surveillance, and so we can have this conversation.”

  Jaim said, “I got that much. Does he think these non-lying Douloi might try to kill him? If so, why?”

  “No, no, no. For some reason, he perceives his duty to lie outside of both poles: that represented by the Arkad and that of the Navy. If he reports to the station medical teams, you can guarantee whatever they find will reach Nyberg’s desk. His proximity to the Arkads guarantees that. Which, in turn, might keep him from being included among their councils.” He waved a hand, as the greenery widened into a lawn edged by ferns. “So. We know we weren’t listened to, which means you and I were permitted that much autonomy. Now, let us further test our physical limitations by seeing if they permit us to get all the way to Detention Five.”

  Jaim paced beside Montrose, half-expecting a Marine to pop up and halt them, or at least question their destination. As soon as they reached the transtube path outside the Cloisters, Jaim said, “You’re going to duff Srivashti.” It wasn’t even a question.

  Montrose gave him a piratical grin. “It’s called justice, my boy. Justice. You heard the good gnostor: the nicks won’t do anything about Srivashti. According to their rules, they can’t. This is precisely why I rejoice in my status as a Rifter.”

  Jaim said, “So you did talk like high-end nicks during your days on Timberwell. Say one thing and mean another.”

  Montrose laughed as they got into the transtube. The
big man glanced around the empty compartment, then sat down in the middle of a bench, arms like tree branches spread along the bench backs and powerful legs stretched out before him as he said, “You have to remember there are nearly as many kinds of nicks as there are Rifters. We were a Service Family—several generations of service. But though I was raised and educated as Douloi, I was not what the elite flatter themselves by terming the Tetrad Centrum Douloi. Our rank was too modest to attract the notice of Tau hai-Srivashti.”

  Jaim thought through the implications behind Montrose’s words. “If you jump him while we’re here—”

  Montrose snorted. “Jump.” His grizzled face twisted in scorn. “Just because I never learned the Tetrad Centrum Douloi’s sneaking, double-dealing way of talk doesn’t mean I do not know how to wait for the right moment.”

  Montrose glanced out the window. For him the conversation had ended.

  Jaim followed his gaze. The transtube was about halfway to the north spin axis and the access to the Cap, where the Telvarna’s crew was housed. Below them a distance-softened patchwork of greenery and water stretched into hazy distance below hook-shaped clouds, curving up on either side to become a verdigris sky until lost from sight behind the sun-bright diffuser below the spin axis overhead. The brilliant filament of a stream, threaded with the shimmering pearls of a chain of ponds, winked at them from anti-spinwise.

  Montrose didn’t see any of it. In spite of his words, memory was bitter. But he’d spoken the truth. I do know how to wait.

  The transtube halted and the doors slid open to permit passengers to enter. Montrose pulled his arms and legs in, but made no move otherwise, thoroughly enjoying how the nicks took one look at his bristling beard and bushy eyebrows, and moved into another compartment.

  Montrose chuckled deep in his barrel chest as the doors shut, and they were once again alone. “Rifter trash, that’s what they’re thinking. I think I’ll make myself a purple shirt.”

  Jaim ignored that. “Nobody has stopped us.”