A Prison Unsought (43 page)

Were they disappointed? Impatience surged in him. He liked
the semaphores. Just as he liked that nonsense-language that the he could use
with the dogs, even though they really responded to his gestures when they
could see him, but it was all so limited!

Humans, dogs, Kelly, Eya’a . . . As they
walked along the concourse, he glanced at the needle-like ends of their twisty
long fingers.
Five
fingers. They had
five fingers, just like humans. He contemplated that in wonder. Were they
somehow connected with humans, then? Might they be evidence that the first wave
of humans through the Vortex were sent way further back in time than anyone had
guessed?

Now he wanted to get at the computer and look at a history
chip about humans leaving Lost Earth, and how the Vortex had acted to spread
them out across time as well as space. He’d talked to Manderian about that, and
the old Dol’jharian had said that his people were almost certainly from that
first wave, somehow propelled back through time as they hurtled the distance
toward the heavy, terrible planet they eventually settled on.

Whispering interrupted
his thoughts, and as the Eeya’a swiveled to stare, Ivard did, too. He saw a
crowd of people moving hastily back. He caught the scents of fear, distrust.

Brain-burners. Rifters.

He reached D-5. The door guards stiffened when they saw the
Eeya’a. The woman tracked him, keeping her atmosphere neutral, but the man
fingered his jac.

Ivard wondered why Vi’ya didn’t like talking to Manderian.
Oh, of course. She didn’t want him hearing her secret escape plan.

Ivard liked Manderian, and he enjoyed talking to Tate Kaga.
The old nuller had shown him things that echoed the Mystery that had found Ivard
on Desrien. And even more he loved the Kelly. They told him things that others
did not know, could not smell or hear or see. Including thoughts, which they
somehow heard from the Eya’a.

Thoughts not spoken in his presence. Like Vi’ya’s escape
plan.

His very first memory of her was this tall, dark-haired
figure standing silently with light-haired Markham. When she first came to them
she was a lot like now, but that had changed for a time. She had loved wearing
colors—ruby red, emerald green, the blue of deep sapphire—and she had learned
to laugh. No sound, just the brilliant smile, the dark-fringed eyes catching
light from somewhere.

Now she was like those first awful days, when Ivard was
small. She never laughed anymore.

Worse than that was this escape plan that she was keeping
secret. That made him feel sick, as if someone had kicked him in the guts from
the inside.
Don’t they trust me?

He could imagine
Lokri’s sarcastic laughter. He’d overheard Greywing and Lokri arguing about
trust once. Lokri had scorned her for using such a word. She’d never brought it
up in Lokri’s presence again, but she certainly had with Ivard.

You find a captain you can trust, and you act
trustworthy, and you’ll live longer,
she’d told Ivard.
Let Lokri laugh. He’ll
never pilot his own ship even if he stays with the Dis gang his whole life. You
watch.

Ivard’s dream had always been to pilot his own ship—and
Vi’ya had seemed to be preparing him for just that.

Not now, though.
She
doesn’t want any of us anymore, ever since the Arkad came. Why?

They reached their suite. The Eya’a went straight to Vi’ya’s
room, and there she was, at the console like always.

She looked up, surprised to see the Eeya’a with Ivard, whose
troubled expression caused her to tap the passcode to initiate the privacy
firewall she’d built around their suite after Marim got her gateway into the
system.

The Eya’a stood near her knees. She bowed her head, supporting
it with her fingers, and Ivard watched, wondering if she had a headache. She
did that frequently now, though he didn’t remember seeing her do it in the old
days.

Abruptly the Eya’a went into their own room. Ivard heard the
hum of refrigeration as the door opened and closed.

Vi’ya’s eyes were marked with tiredness. A narrowing of her
eyelids, a sense of wary question made him stumble into speech. “Jaim says that
the whole crew—except Lokri—is going to the Arkad’s concert. You gotta come.”

That look eased a bit as Vi’ya said, “Montrose was just
here. Rather than hear the arguments again, I will go with you.”

“Why
don’t you want to?” Ivard asked. “You always liked music when we played it,
when Markham was captain.”

“Possibly
this nick music will not be as good as ours was.”

Caught by surprise, Ivard laughed.
She hasn’t made jokes since the old days, either
.

She touched the console. Behind Ivard the door closed. “You
must remember,” she said, “that when you walk with the Eya’a, they hear all
your thoughts. Even the ones you thought were private.”

Ivard’s skin flushed, but he knew how to make that go away.
So he took the time to restore his capillaries to normalcy, then said, “Yes,
and that goes both ways. Like, I know you and Marim are working out some kind
of escape plan. Why won’t you take me?”

“Do
you really wish to go?” she countered.

He opened his mouth to say “of course” but then he
considered leaving the Kelly, Tate Kaga, and his new friends—which caused the
Archon’s genome to fill his mind with vivid imagery. He was learning to cope
with those interruptions. With an effort he found his way back to the present
moment. “I guess I’d like to have the choice.”

“Fair
enough.” She brought her chin down. “But it would be best not to mention
knowledge of these things to Marim until the time comes.”

Here came the impulse
to flush again. He’d figured out that Marim’d only taken him as a lover in
order to get her fingers on his part of the Arthelion loot. He’d been severely
tempted to say something about that, like to the woman Marim was seeing now.
But he hadn’t: Greywing had told him over and over, long before he had any
interest in sex, that lust had no permanence, and certainly no loyalty, and
nobody, ever, thanked you for interfering in their affairs. You were far more
likely to get a jac bolt for your pains.

And to be fair, Marim
tried to tell me, too, in her own way. Vi’ya was waiting.
It was possible she
was hearing some of his thoughts, through the Eya’a, which was kind of
sickening. Except she had never once used anyone’s thoughts against them.

“I’ll
be mum,” he said.

“Very
well.” Her expression eased a fraction more.

Now the earlier problem resurfaced, and he said, “Is a
regency council bad?”

Vi’ya was very still, her eyes narrowed to slits. “What?”

“The
Kelly said it’s ‘a governing body advising a ruler during his or her minority,’
which sounds like nothing, but Ami said it’s dangerous.”

“Ami?”

“Dandenus
was bragging to her about how his dad is going to be on one. The Kelly say it’s
for Brandon, who isn’t even a minor.”

Vi’ya cut in, her voice sharp. “Say nothing to no one.”

Ivard stared. “Then it
is
bad. But why? And shouldn’t we tell the Arkad, if it’s Panarchy business?”

“Then
let the Kelly talk.” Her smile was wintry.

“They
won’t. Said they will not meddle in human affairs.”

“They
are wise,” she returned. “The Arkad can take care of himself. Or his many
guardians can do it for him. But you have no guardians, and Ami is right. To
these nicks politics is not a game, it’s a death hunt. Promise me you will say
nothing to the Arkad.”

“Can
I tell Jaim?”

“No.”
She hesitated, then said: “It would place him in danger.”

“Blunge.”
Ivard sighed. Maybe Vi’ya could hear his thoughts, but she did care what
happened to him—or she wouldn’t have warned him about the nick thing. “I
promise,” he said.

She gestured, and he stepped closer to her console. “Here is
the beginning of my plan,” she said.

o0o

The occasion was a celebration, but in spite of the pretty
music offered by the musicians hidden behind the folding screen, and everyone
dressed in the light colors of festival, few at the Name Day gathering felt
much joy.

Tension—anger—boredom—expectation—jealousy seethed below the
surface. Misery, too, as fifteen-year-old Geoff Masaud stumbled over the
carefully written speech of congratulation that he had been coached to speak.

Geoff hated everyone there, especially his aunt, for making
him speak those words exactly, without telling him why. Of course it was some
political thing. He’d been hearing that word, politics, since he could speak.
He hated it, how they would tell him something was important, but never
why
. And so? Though he’d been smooth
before arrival, now his stutter was worse than ever.

Anton Faseult watched his flushed cheeks and bobbing Adam’s
apple. A spurt of pity for the Masaud pup’s obvious discomfort banished his
impatience.

Finally Geoff finished and walked stiffly away, his furious
mother at his heels; Faseult saw her jaw muscles work as she subvocalized a
tirade at her son.

Relief was evident in the faces of Besthan nyr-Haesterfeldt
and her spouse, the Aegios Colm Oskandir, standing at either side of their new
baby.

Faseult uttered his own congratulations according to the
Name Day ritual practiced in Charvann’s capital, and watched the relief alter
to proud smiles as the old couple glanced down at the small scrap of humanity
lying on its velvet bedding, utterly insensible to its surroundings.

He bowed; they bowed; he moved on, to join his escort.
(She nearly lost that baby,)
Cathri
Y’Mandev sent in a privacy.
(Started the
birth process while in transit, which is why her recovery was prolonged.)

Faseult hid a wince. The mysteries of family propagation
were beyond him; he’d always been glad that Tanri held the heirship.

Tanri
. Grief
squeezed his heart. The Aerenarch himself had traveled light-years to hand off
Tanri’s ring, and Faseult had seen corroboration in Sebastian Omilov’s pained
expression when they’d met at a party: Tanri was dead, surely Bikara as well,
and their dying could not have been easy.
I
hope at least they were together.

Faseult glanced at Cathri, hoping they could make a graceful
exit, but Besthan was talking to her. He sipped a drink he didn’t want and
studied the little family, two older people who had wanted an heir to holdings
that might no longer exist.

He shifted his gaze away to Cathri, who’d been happily mated
with a colleague for decades. She loved socializing as much as Enre Y’Mandev
despised it, so she often served as escort to various members of Nyberg’s staff
when an escort was needed.

Several people joined the little group, so Faseult turned
his mind to duty and started circulating, grimly focusing on each conversation
he passed.
Politics.

Haesterfeldt and Oskandir did not command the presence of
the cruiserweights in the social arena. The highest rank present was Charidhe
Masaud, and it was easy to see why she had condescended to attend a party with Tetrad
Centrum Douloi with minor political influence: she was trying to force young
Geoff Masaud to gain a little polish. But it was equally obvious that Geoff’s
worst enemy was not his awkward body and preternatural sensitivity so much as
his mother’s angry hovering. Before long, Geoff had retreated to the far end of
the room, half-hidden by a bank of nodding blooms, his untouched plate lying in
his lap. His mother held pride of place near the hostess and led the
conversation, punctuating it with titters of angry laughter.

But then the steward appeared at the door and announced in a
deadpan voice that did not hide his disbelief: “His Highness the Aerenarch.”

Exclamations were smothered by the rustle of costly
materials as everyone rose; Faseult almost dropped his plate. Though he was
certain Brandon was invited to every single party on Ares, no one had expected
him to show up at this one.

But there he was, dressed for the role in pale blue and
silver, apparently unaware of the heightening of energy in the crowded little
room. His reason for coming was soon apparent; Besthan Haesterfeldt’s delight
reminded Anton that the woman had been a friend of the Kyriarch’s.

But once his respects were paid, he did not leave, as might be
expected. He looked about, greeted several by name, and sat down with a drink
in hand.

“We were talking,”
Charidhe Masaud said, “of the new historical play by Elissa Beynset, agreeing
that Mandala tastes might find it backward, yet it had its entertaining
moments.”

Several shots there,
Faseult thought, entertained in spite of the fact that he liked young Brandon,
and he did not like any of the Masauds he’d met.

But Brandon appeared to be either unaware of veiled insult,
or impervious. “The part that made me laugh was the heroine’s description of
the dream-demon, and the eavesdropping prince thinking it a description of
himself.”

Murmurs of appreciation sounded round the circle, and they
exercised their wit in dissecting the play. After Charidhe aimed two or three
barbed shafts at Brandon (whose ignorance of innuendo was either stupidity or
masterly deflection, as he agreed with everything she said) the conversation
ranged to whom in Mandala circles Beynset was digging her quill into.

Midway into this discussion Brandon began to make his way to
the refreshment table, pausing to exchange brief words with everyone.

The general conversation had switched to the latest names in
kinetic art when Brandon finished loading a plate, but instead of making his
way back to the favored side of the room, he chose a bench near Geoff Masaud.

Every room had its central point, but if the highest in rank
did not choose that prerogative, it often unhinged conversation.