Dragon in Exile - eARC (23 page)

The could-be face was as dark as space itself, and the glowing body provided all the illumination for the room.

“Tocohl,” Jeeves said from behind her. “Please make your bow to Delm Korval.”

The lamp shifted, top leaning slightly toward them, light playing oddly about the walls, and then arms and hands came soundlessly out of the housing beneath, and Tocohl bowed, gracefully, and with the proper hand expression:
Honor to the delm
.

“Greetings, Korval.” The voice was female, rich and slightly accented. Miri felt a small flutter from Val Con, sort of like a mental gasp, and looked at him, worriedly.

His attention was on Tocohl. Jeeves’ daughter. The newest member of Clan Korval.

“Greetings, Tocohl, daughter of Jeeves,” Val Con said, extending the hand with Korval’s Ring on it.

Tocohl met his hand, and allowed herself to be drawn forward.

“The clan increases,” Miri said, that being one of the set things that had to be said.

“Indeed,” Val Con said, and paused.

“At this point in the ceremony,” he said, “the delm kiss their clanswoman. Advise me, please.”

The screen moved, tipping upward, and Miri caught sight of the pale grey shadow of a woman’s face.

“Thank you,” Val Con said, and bent to kiss the shadowy lips.

“The clan rejoices,” Miri said.

The face turned in her direction and the slim body floated nearer.

“Korval?” said that voice that made Val Con twitch. “May I also have your kiss?”

The screen was warm against her lips, and momentarily soft.

“The clan rejoices,” Val Con said, which kept the ritual Balanced.

“I will strive to bring honor to the clan,” Tocohl said. “Sadly, I am not able to spend time with my kin, that I might learn them better. My father has shared memories with me. They will comfort me and keep me until I can be with you again.”

“Must you leave us so quickly?”

“Lives hang in the balance. My father believes that I may prevent more loss, and Balance that which was, inadvertently, left askew.”

“I have made contact with the person of whom I spoke,” Jeeves said. “He is willing to sit as Tochol’s co-pilot and colleague in this venture. He asks for the Pilots Guild’s standard co-pilot contract, and his specialist fee.”

“He is a specialist, also?”

“Indeed,” said Jeeves. “It is through his specialty that I first became aware of him. He will act as Tochol’s backup in negotiation with Admiral Bunter.

“I have of course,” Jeeves added, “placed his file in the delms’ action queue, for you will not wish to hire an ineligible person.”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” Val Con said dryly. “We will review this paragon’s file today.”

“My hope is to depart Surebleak within the next two days,” Tocohl said. “If the delm pleases.”

“Have you a ship in mind?”

“I believe
Tarigan
will serve nicely, sir.”

Val Con’s eyebrows rose.

“Refresh my memory, Jeeves. Was
Tarigan
the ship you piloted here to Surebleak?”

“Yes, sir, she was, and a sweeter, more responsive vessel would be difficult to find. I believe that Tocohl will find her as pleasing as I did.”

“No doubt she will.”

Miri felt the question tickle at the edge of her awareness, almost as if he’d spoken to her. She looked to Tocohl, floating innocent-looking and graceful a few inches above the floor and wondered just what it was that they were about to loose upon an unsuspecting galaxy.

“My loyalty lies with Korval,” Tocohl said at that moment.

And that would appear to answer that.

“We are,” Miri said, “informed, and we welcome our new daughter. We are, however, wanted at the Port, and must make haste.”

“Certainly,” said Jeeves, and rolled over to open the door for them.

Interlude Eight

The Firmament

Truth and beauty filled him to the point of forgetting that he possessed, elsewhere, a body, a life; and that somewhere in these vasty skies there was—surely there was—a star named Ren Zel dea’Judan.

To the point
, but not past it.

Suffused with glory, he yet recalled himself and his purpose.

He brought his will to bear upon the soul of Claidyne ven’Orikle, whom they had left for their last attempt, for the reason that…

She had
two
souls, orbiting each other, connected by a single thread, thin to the point of invisibility…and nothing else.

* * *

Claidyne ven’Orikle heard the stutter in the white noise that meant the main door to the detention area had been opened. She was lying down, as she often did, one arm flung over her eyes, one foot planted on the floor, the other on the cot. She did not sit up, or rearrange herself into a more seemly posture. Whoever had come in, it was doubtful they would have business with her. There was no transaction possible between her and those who held her—she thought they understood that; the little
dramliza
was not nearly so gormless as she pretended, and her sweet-faced henchman was far from stupid.

Certainly, they could not—could never—release her. She was an enemy who could be stopped by no means but death. It was…interesting that Korval had chosen not to kill her—yet. But they could not hold prisoners forever; she was a knife at their throat for exactly so long as she drew breath.

In her estimation, Korval was neither squeamish, nor stupid. They would long ago have done the math, and arrived at the correct sum. Therefore, being neither stupid nor squeamish, Korval must
want something
from her, or have some other purpose for her.

Certainly, she had that which they wanted—information. They knew she was a director; she could scarcely have hidden such information from the
dramliza’s
guileless gaze, nor did she try. Rather, she had thrust the data forward, making it as hard and edgy as she could manage, hoping to inflict pain, but more.
Wanting
it known, just precisely what she was.

Korval Himself had been with the Department;
he
would understand what she was. How very dangerous she was. She had hoped…well. But he had not killed her, had he? Not him, nor his executioner, nor the little
dramliza
, herself.

Instead, he allowed her to languish here, a knife with its edge gathering rust. Perhaps he hoped to drive her mad. If so, he had come to her too late.

But, there, the access door had opened, and, now, did she hear…footsteps disrupting the white noise.

Footsteps approaching her cell.

Claidyne ven’Orikle swung to her feet and was facing the door when it opened.

She had no weapon to hand, save herself, so it was herself that she flung at the spare woman who stepped into the small cell, alone and unarmed.

Airborne, she kicked, foreknowing the jolt to her leg when the other woman’s neck broke.

Her foot connected, not with a fragile human, but with a wall; and the jolt that went up her leg was the live burn of electricity.

She twisted, rolling in midair, landing on one knee, the injured leg stretched behind her, and stared up at the woman she had failed to kill.

Spare, and grey, and frowning, the woman stood on the far side of a faint golden shimmer in the air.

“Thank you, Lady Anthora,” she said. “I believe this will do.”

Claidyne took a breath, knowing that this was the moment. The moment for Korval to reveal what it wanted of her. The moment that she died, unless she had been far more successful than she had ever hoped. She gathered herself for one more—for
one last
—offensive action, if the woman would but step through that shimmering golden curtain.

But, she did not.

Merely, she leaned forward until her gaze caught Claidyne’s. She knew the trick and tried to resist, but she must,
she must
meet the woman’s eyes, and once she had, there was no looking away.

She was immobilized, frozen in place, and the air, it was thickening, the whole cell filling with shimmering gold, until she could scarcely breathe, and perhaps she would die now, and that would be a pity, if nothing more than she ought to have done, years ago.

“Claidyne ven’Orikle,” a voiced thundered inside her head, shaking her thoughts into dust.

“Go to sleep.”

* * *

The door,
the door
, dammit! Had she taken a wrong turn? Had she…no. She had this route memorized and sealed under six lock-levels. It was not impossible to circumvent the locks—with the Department, nothing was impossible—but she would be a mindless shell long before the data was accessed and subverted.

She was here, the walls breathing warm air, the hallway too narrow for comfort, and the door…

No.

She closed her eyes, reviewed one of the top-level exercises, and sighed to feel cold objectivity flow into her. Yes. With another breath, she allowed the Department’s mantra to rise and weave its spell:
Dispassion. Control. Calculation. Success
. Yes, exactly.

Thus fortified, she accessed recent memories, watching the route unfurl before her mind’s eye, as if upon a screen.

There had been no error. The door…

…was before her, precisely where it ought to be, control lights blinking balefully against the dimness.

She frowned. There had been no door, a heartbeat before, only more thin, stony corridor, shrouded in murk, and the walls breathing warm air against her face…

* * *

The door!

She had made it, if scarcely ahead of those who pursued her. The control lights blinked slowly, and in the proper pattern. It had not been tried. Of course, it had not been tried. That was for her, Claidyne ven’Orikle, director.

Deliberately, she accessed a top-level exercise, opening herself to objectivity, feeling her control over the mission tighten.

She stepped to the door, stared boldly into the scanner, and pressed the proper sequence on the command bar.

The door…opened.

Director ven’Orikle stepped over the threshold; lights coming up before her while, behind, the door closed, and locked. It would open again, not for Claidyne ven’Orikle, but for the one who would emerge from the chair.

Commander of Agents.

This—was hers, and a fitting ascension it was. She had worked for this, she had killed for this—and worse. Now success lay within her hand. When she rose, she would have all the codes, all of the Department’s secrets would be hers to know. And, then…oh, then…

She took a single step toward the chair.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

* * * * *

She spun, hands going for the gun that was inexplicably not on her belt—spun, to face…

The little
dramliza
, with her disordered black hair and her guileless silver eyes.

Korval’s witch.

Anthora yos’Galan.

“You—” She gathered herself for a strike…and shook her head as the urge to kill drained away, leaving only curiosity. “How did you get here?”

“I followed you.” Her brows knit, as if the phrase troubled her, and she moved her shoulders. “I should say that I followed the locks, and found you in the corridor, but perhaps that becomes unnecessarily complex. It was your own suggestion that I do so, and I thank you, though of course the you
here
doesn’t recall making it,
there
.”

The locks…had been breached. That was, she recalled, distantly, a disaster.

“Peace, the locks are intact. I had no need to open them. Now,” the
dramliza
looked about her; “what place is this?”

“The quaternary transfer point.”

“Transferring what to where?”

“Who to whom,” Claidyne corrected. “This room—that chair—downloads…Commander of Agents.”

There was a moment of silence before the next question.

“What do you here?”

“I would take the download,” she said, and
remembered
it;
remembered
all
of it; feeling it flow from her to the woman standing above her, in a rushing river of information. The moment of discovery; of understanding what she had found and the nature of her new power; the instant that the plan had formed, unfolding into her consciousness with such force that it had broken her—broken her cleanly in two.

She remembered everything she had done, every step she had conceived and accomplished. The need to hide what she had become; the crafting of the locks; the missions she had carried out, refusing nothing, balking at nothing—for
this
, this secret, this
Balance
that she
would see done
, was more important than any life, any ship, any world…

The rush of memory reached a crescendo; perhaps she lost consciousness. When she came to herself again, she was sprawled on the stone floor, legs akimbo, gazing up into the
dramliza’s
face. It came to her that the other woman looked weary. It came to her that
she
was weary, as if the outflowing of memory had been blood.

“I understand,” Anthora yos’Galan said, quietly.

“What do you understand?”

“Why you
will not
choose death, though you wished for Korval to kill you, and why you
cannot
embrace either of the remaining choices.”

“I did not want Korval to kill me!”

Death before her Balance—that was unthinkable. Surely, she would have attempted escape…

“No,” Anthora said, interrupting these rather chaotic thoughts. “
You
of course wish to pursue your Balance. It is all and everything that you desire—one sees that plainly. The question becomes: Is it sufficient? Are you able to accept the download? Will you survive it, and afterward be in a state to complete your mission?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps not. But I must make the attempt.”

“If I released you this moment to do as you would in this place, what would that be?”

“I would take the download.”

Anthora yos’Galan stared into her eyes, until she felt the burn of silver inside her head.

“I believe you,” the
dramliza
said. “Claidyne ven’Orikle, go to sleep!”

* * *

Energy disturbed near-space; a rippling wave of energy that shook the doubled soul—shook them—and pierced both full through.

Ren Zel lost his focus; regained it, and regarded Claidyne ven’Orikle.

She had yet two souls, but now, they were pinned tightly together by a thin silver dagger; its hilt bearing the Tree-and-Dragon.