Fortune's Reward
showed him the path of the nine missiles his quarry had launched, and then beeped at him.
The blinking green circle was now a dull red, firmly centered on the ship he was pursuing. He depressed the stud. The red circle changed to blinking yellow briefly, then back to ready. He fired again, eyes as much on the incoming missiles as anything else.
The ship's shield gauge went red; around him strange blossoms on the screens, around him silent explosions, around him missile tracks skating away—and then sound on the hull, as if rats ran across it, and more, dull bangs and clinks—missile debris.
The board beeped. He blinked the screen into focus, saw the question: "Acquire new target?"
The radio was filled with static and the forward screen showed empty. His enemy must have Jumped, he thought dazedly—but no, not that.
He had killed a ship.
A cheer arose from the radio.
"Boss got 'em!" yelled the Colonel. "Let's go to town!"
Pat Rin shook his head and leaned to his scans, searching out the signature of Natesa's ship, heart in mouth and fingers shaking . . .
Another cheer erupted; Pat Rin saw the second enemy ship evaporate on his aft screen, but Natesa—
Her ship sat quietly in orbit, with none to oppose her, and her voice came wearily into the midst of yet a third round of cheering.
"I could not close quickly enough. They Jumped out."
SHE WENT AS QUICKLY and as safely as she knew how. She carried a hidden pellet gun, because Nova would have wished her to, and, in truth, she was a fair shot—even Pat Rin said so.
That her sister—and quite possibly her brothers—would not have wished her to leave the safety of Jelaza Kazone for any reason whatsoever, she did not allow to weigh with her. Even in childhood games, her elder siblings had always desired her to stand behind them in moments of danger, or to run away and hide herself from whichever pursuing monster might have walked out of the pages of novel or log-book, as if she were not capable of dealing with such apparitions, as well as the realities that spawned them.
And, truly, her melant'i was clear, as she had explained to Jeeves. She was Korval's representative on planet, and it fell to her to protect the material resources of the clan, as well as its melant'i, insofar as she could.
Certainly, she had pointed out, she could not in conscience allow the Council of Clans to attempt to strip Korval of its Jumpships, one by one, in accumulated "penalties." Whether the Council's goal was to strip Korval of its ships, she could not have said. But any attempt to attach a ship would be resisted by Korval's employees and allies, with violence, if required. Thus, it was safer for all that the Council not be given any reason to make the attempt.
In keeping with her resolution to be just as prudent as Nova would wish, Anthora bowed to Jeeves in the matter of transportation, and thus found herself arriving at Solcintra in a ground car chauffeured, long-distance, by himself. She did not discover the second passenger until the car pulled to the busy sidewalk in front of the Council building.
"Really, Lord Merlin, this is the outside of enough!" she said in half-amused exasperation. "I should think
you
at least would understand my competencies."
Merlin flicked an ear and jumped out the car with her when the door opened. Anthora paused, disconcerted for the first time since taking the decision to obey the summons of the Council.
"I believe it would be best for all if you remained with the car," she said to the cat, heedless of the people who were forced to detour around her.
Tail up, Merlin went down the walk, across a lush strip of lawn and vanished into a bank of ornamental shrubs.
"Merlin!" Anthora cried, opening her Inner Eyes, which was of course useless. If Merlin did not want her to See him, she might search fruitlessly until Liad's star cooled. Behind her, she heard the purr of an engine and turned around in time to see her car pulling into traffic. Too late, now, to return Merlin to the robot's care, even if she could find him.
"Well, then," she told the shrubbery, with a good attempt at nonchalance. "I hope you know the way home."
She waited a heartbeat or two, in case Merlin chose of his own will to reappear. He did not so choose, however. Anthora bit her lip, then moved her shoulders in an attempt to cast off concern. Merlin had his own resources, gods knew. Doubtless she would find him asleep in the middle of her bed when she returned from her imminent adventure.
Squaring her shoulders under the stiff silk of the formal Council jacket, she went up the walk and through the ornamental wooden doors, and then the security doors, made of hullplate. She crossed the common room, with its domed ceiling painted with galaxies, suns and ships, and its stone floor, worn treacherously smooth by the traffic of centuries.
At the reception desk, set before the carved metal door to the Council Chamber itself, she bowed.
"Anthora yos'Galan Clan Korval," she said. "Korval's name has been called."
She straightened, looked defiantly into the retinal scanner, and moved forward. The door swung open, slowly, before her.
The Chamber was already full; the delms of Liad in their tiered seats, some silently doing paperwork, others talking between themselves. There were no dark screens, no flags of absence. Every seat was occupied; saving only one, which indicated a concerted effort by
someone
to fill the hall.
Unusually, there were a pair of guards flanking the door; another pair on the next tier down, and two more pairs along the stone side-walls.
At the bottom of the Chamber, Speaker for Council sat behind her high desk. She looked up as the door opened and leaned slightly forward, her amplified voice colder, even, than the High Tongue could account for.
"Anthora yos'Galan Clan Korval, stand forward and face this Council."
Slowly, with what she hoped was dignity, Anthora walked down the long aisle to the floor. Around her, she felt the sharpening of attention; conversations died as she passed; her inner senses processed the climate of the room as frigid, with a stiff, damp wind a-building.
Head up, shoulders square, unhurried and deliberate, she walked down the aisle that had grown miles since the last time she had accompanied Nova to Council. Finally, she passed Korval's empty station. Twelve more steps along a blessedly flat surface brought her into proper proximity of the high desk.
Anthora stopped, bowed gently into the bitter gale of the Speaker's contempt, and turned to face the Council.
Row after row of faces; many of them people she had known all her life; cool, formal faces, looking down upon her. Deliberately, she sought out Korval's known allies and friends: Justus, Guayar, Ixin, Reptor, Mizel . . . No smiles, no bows of welcome, no gestures of support. Waiting; all of them, waiting for her to answer a question she had yet to hear.
From the nearest row, where sat the delms of the High Houses, one arose and bowed. Anthora's heart sank. Aragon was not a friend of Korval.
"Aragon calls upon Korval to answer charges of kin-stealing, and of murder. How does Korval make answer?"
It was on the end of her tongue to make answer by telling him he had taken leave of his sanity, but she could See that he had not. Aragon did not pose this question lightly; and he believed in his heart that Korval had committed these crimes. The taste of
proof
slid across her senses, which was . . . terrifying.
She bowed, with courtesy, allowing the puzzlement she felt to be seen.
"Honored Aragon has the advantage of me. Who has Korval stolen? Who has Korval slain?"
His mouth thinned. "Aragon calls upon Korval to provide the location of—"
The door at the pinnacle of the Chamber swung open and a man descended the long aisle, running, though he was far from young, making no bid for dignity at all.
"Precedence!" He shouted, breathless and out of mode. "I claim precedence!"
"You are out of order!" Speaker roared, her amplified voice a thunderclap. "The Council sits in Judgment, which is of the highest precedence!"
"I claim precedence," the man repeated, arriving on the floor. Thus close, Anthora could see that he was sweating, and trembling, with the effects of exertion, yes, but also with fear.
"Who are you?" Speaker demanded.
He bowed, in the mode of introduction merely. "Har Par dea'Liss Clan Tuxent. I sit as one of seven equal Masters of the Accountant's Guild. I claim precedence, based on planetary security."
There was a short silence. Anthora, staring up at the wall of faces, saw frowns, and puzzled glances; saw delms leaning to their nearer neighbors, heard the swelling wave of whispering.
"Explain," Speaker ordered Har Par dea'Liss.
"Yes. I and five of my colleagues have received from the seventh of our colleagues—Mr. dea'Gauss—a communication indicating that his office was under attack by enemies of Liad. He informs us that he has taken certain measures, on behalf of the planet. These include having the dies for our currency removed from the treasury to a place of safety."
The whispering delms stopped whispering, and sat staring, shock making an electric tingle in the air. The Chamber was silent.
Speaker for Council cleared her throat. "This is, of course, fabrication. The honored dea'Gauss has fallen ill and is suffering delusions. Come, Master dea'Liss, call the treasury and assure yourself that—"
"I have called the treasury," he interrupted. "Two of my colleagues have gone to the treasury. The dies are no longer there. They were removed some hours ago, by unknown persons, who showed an order from Mr. dea'Gauss." He took a hard breath. "Two more of my colleagues went immediately to the offices of dea'Gauss in the city. It is abandoned and ransacked. There are dead men in the upper halls, near what had been the private offices of the dea'Gauss. They have been shot. None carry identification. Of dea'Gauss, there is no sign." He bowed.
"I repeat: I have precedence, based upon planetary security."
Mr. dea'Gauss had been attacked in his office? Anthora shivered, and threw forth her thought. It was difficult, with so many other signatures nearby, many of them noisy with growing agitation . . .
"Aragon demands to know Korval's place in this outrage!"
She turned and looked at him, read his loathing and loaded her words with absolute certainty.
"Korval knows nothing, and demands that the Council bend all efforts to recover Mr. dea'Gauss, who has obviously fallen into the hands of brigands."
Aragon blinked, and bowed, very slightly.
"By what right does dea'Gauss remove the dies from the treasury?" Someone in the mid-tier called. "Those dies belong to Liad."
Master dea'Liss turned. "The dies belong to Korval," he said flatly. "They are leased to Liad, now as from the first striking. As Korval's qe'andra, dea'Gauss has every right—indeed, it is no less than his duty—to remove the dies to safety, if he has cause to believe they are at risk. His letter makes clear that he had ample cause. The dead men in his office underscore his point."
There was an outbreak of talk at that. Behind Anthora, Speaker for Council touched her chime. The talk quieted.
Anthora saw the Speaker glance in several directions, felt the multi-leveled tension as the glance turned into a survey of the room, and then the snap of a decision taken, as if from someone in the back of the room.
"Master dea'Liss rightly claims precedence. As Anthora yos'Galan is not empowered as a member of Council she will await the Council's attention in the Clerk's Retiring Room." She touched the chime.
As if the sound had conjured her, a Clerk appeared at Anthora's elbow.
"If Lady Anthora will accompany me?" She murmured, and led the way across the front of the room, to the discreet doorway. Anthora felt the weight of eyes on her back, and felt, too, the movement of several of those guards . . . . The Clerk pressed her palm against the plate and stepped back at the door swung open.
"Please await the Speaker's word here. There are refreshments, and a screen."
In the chamber behind them, several voices vied at once for the chance to be heard.
The Retiring Room was pleasant enough, with an open window overlooking the famous sunken formal Council gardens.
Anthora glanced over her shoulder as she stepped through the doorway, seeing Aragon still on his feet, with Bindan and also Etgora—and two guards falling in directly behind her, no doubt to flank the door. The Clerk pushed gently on her shoulder, hurrying her, guiding—and Anthora felt a quick, sharp prick as of a needle—
Anger flared, even as she felt the drug begin its work, seeking to slow her, to dull her senses—Idiots! Didn't they know she could turn any drug in a matter of seconds if she could but . . . .
The two guards entered the room, crowding her, distracting her, as she tried to locate the mental template to match the drug—and a hard hand slammed between her shoulder-blades sending her reeling into a tiny chamber, seemingly filled with fog. She bumped her head, staggered, and went to her knees, gagging, continuity shattering. Fiercely, she re-established center, while the drug set up a high buzzing in her ears—and she had it! Bellaquesa and cytaline: someone had wanted her very docile, indeed.
In a heartbeat, she had neutralized the drugs; though she felt a residual queasiness. She forced her eyes open.
The door was sliding closed. She lurched to her feet and threw herself forward, hitting it full-force, bouncing backward. She twisted in mid-air, meeting the floor with hands and knees, four-square and ready, rather than flat on her back and stunned.
She had landed on a curious, sooty stain. She blinked as the information leached into her consciousness. Zena tel'Woda had died here, by her own will, rather than allow the ones who had built this device to make her into their creature.
Her inner eyes were useless; all she saw was silver, cold and reflective; her other senses were fogged in, obliterated, useless. Worse, she felt ill, weak; her thoughts fragmenting. It was not the drug at work now, but some fey power the like of which she had never imagined. It felt—it felt as if her very blood was draining into the floor she knelt upon.