The Sardonyx Net (39 page)

There was no way to go around, under, or over them, Dana judged. He glanced at Rhani. “Well, Domna?” he said.
 

The muscles of her face tightened. Then, to his surprise and admiration, she smiled, and walked forward.
 

The PINsheeters saw her. Courtesy, and their knowledge of her status, restrained them for brief moments. Then they scrambled toward her. Dana stepped in front of her, putting himself between her and the rush—"No!” she said. He stepped back, jolted.
 

She pointed. “You, you, you, you, and you,” she said. “Get me to the house with as little time lost as you can manage and you may have an interview with me indoors.”
 

They did not hesitate. “You got it, lady,” said the one in front, a tall black woman in a bright yellow tunic and pants. She was carrying a camera. “Form wedge—hup!” As if they had practiced the maneuver, the five turned, and Dana realized that the other four wore yellow badges, that Rhani had not, in fact, selected at random...."Let's go!” They moved out. The other PINsheeters, seeing what had happened, swore at them. But the woman in yellow simply grinned and put her shoulders down, thrusting ahead, ignoring the angry noises. Dana hung back, as did a man with a yellow badge, in case the disappointed PINsheeters decided to crowd them from behind, but nothing happened. Corrios opened the door. The lucky PIN team began to point cameras in all directions. “What the hell update is this?” said the black woman.
 

“Six,” said a short man with a vidscreen in his hands.
 

“No,” said someone else, “seven.”
 

“Can we go into the kitchen?”
 

“How about upstairs?”
 

The tall woman pointed at Dana. “Who's he?”
 

Smoothly, Binkie appeared and took charge. “Citizens, Domna Rhani suggests that you set up your equipment in this room.” He slid back the door to the large parlor. “She'll be with you in a moment; she asks you to remain here until she arrives. The interview will last twenty minutes.”
 

“Hell,” protested the tall woman, “we deserve more time than that! We got her through, didn't we?”
 

“Shut up, Teddy,” said the short man, “or she'll throw us out.”
 

“Twenty minutes,” Binkie said inexorably. He gestured to the door. Grumbling, the PINsheeters entered the parlor. Corrios came from the kitchen balancing a laden tray on one palm.
 

After the interview was over and the PINsheeters had left the house, Rhani lingered in the parlor. It was not a room she liked; the furniture and the decorations were heavy, dark wood. It reminded her of her mother. She rubbed a hand across the nappy velvet of her chair. The PINsheeters had left exceedingly pleased. She had answered about two-thirds of their questions and had given them a headline for their update: “RHANI YAGO SUPPORTS REFERENDUM!”
 

What she had said was, “If the petitions support a referendum on Chabad, then I support it, too.”
 

“What do you think of Michel A-Rae?” Teddy Corinna, the tall woman, asked her.
 

“I think he is inexperienced,” Rhani had answered in her most patronizing tone. “But well-meaning.”
 

She had meant to patronize: she hoped that A-Rae's pride would pique him to a response. Perhaps he could be teased into a few stupidities. Most people could. The sillier he sounded, the more his support would drop, and his supporters, embarrassed, would grow silent.
 

The PlNsheeters had drained two carafes of wine and eaten a pile of spice cakes. Rhani took a handful of the only food left on the table, chobi seeds. As she stood, someone tapped on the parlor door. “Rhani-ka,” said Binkie's voice, “Officer Tsurada is on line.”
 

“Thank you, Bink.” She turned. “Is there still a mob on the steps?”
 

“No, they've gone.” He looked with distaste at the litter left by the PINsheeters. “I'll call Amri to sort this out.”
 

“Thank you. Do you know what the call's about?”
 

He smiled and shook his head. “No, Rhani-ka. Officer Tsurada would never tell
me
.”
 

“No, of course not,” Rhani said. “I forget, sometimes—” She smiled an apology. “Is my brother still at the Clinic?”
 

“As far as I know, Rhani-ka.”
 

I wonder, she thought, if he is staying away because he cannot bear to be with me, now that I have decided to marry Ferris Dur?
 

She did not want to think about Darien Riis.
 

Cracking a chobi seed between her teeth, she wondered what Binkie would make of the wedding news. She would let him know, of course; in fact, she thought, I should discuss it with him now, before all the legal negotiations start. As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she found herself longing to be home at the estate. Soon, she promised herself. Soon. After the party.
 

Which would happen in three more days. She made a face as she crossed the room to the com-unit. The screen was on standby mode. She thumbed the com-line open. “Rhani Yago here.”
 

A face flickered elusively, then resolved into Sachiko Tsurada's features. “Domna. We have uncovered some rather interesting information.”
 

Rhani tensed. “About what?”
 

“The Free Folk of Chabad. The next to last message you sent us retained a fingerprint on it. We ‘grammed the Nexus files; they sent us back an ‘R' classification.”
 

“I'm sorry,” Rhani said, “but I don't know what you're talking about.”
 

Tsurada giggled, embarrassed. “I'm sorry. When we checked with Nexus Compcenter, which has all human records stored and available to it, we were told that though they had an identification for the print we sent, they could not release it.”
 

“What does that mean?” Rhani said.
 

“It means,” said the policewoman, “that the Free Folk of Chabad have been getting some very high-level assistance.”
 

“Assistance—” Rhani scowled. Who would help a dissident organization to plan—rather ineptly—an assassination?
 

She knew. Officer Tsurada was watching her, eyes grim. Her wrists began to ache, and she realized that she had been gripping the back of the com-unit chair. She released it, and sat. She hesitated, and then said, “Officer Tsurada, is there any chance that either you or Nexus Compcenter made a mistake?”
 

Tsurada shook her head. “No, Domna. Unfortunately.”
 

Rhani nodded. “I see,” she said. Beneath the calm she hoped she was expressing, she could feel rage rising. “Perhaps we should say no more.” This was an open line; anyone with the right equipment could be listening to the call. “Tell me, Officer Tsurada—the last time I spoke with you, you were working on a missing person case. Did you locate the object of your search?”
 

For a moment, Tsurada's gaze reflected only bemusement. Then her puzzled eyes grew clear, and her mouth straightened. “No, not yet, Domna. But we will.” Both women smiled. The Abanat police had not yet located the present whereabouts of Michel A-Rae.
 

“That's good to know. Please keep me informed. Thank you for apprising me of this information.” Rhani watched the image flicker out. The background noise of the police station thrummed in her ears. With a stab of her thumb, she broke the connection, and, suddenly enraged, slammed her fists on her thighs. Fury fought briefly with pain. So the Free Folk of Chabad were getting high-level,
Federation
-level assistance, were they? Damn Michel A-Rae!
 

She rose and walked to the window. Holding the curtain aside with one cautious hand, she gazed into Founders' Green, looking for a watcher wearing telltale black. No one was there but children, and watchful slaves. She wondered if A-Rae could have subverted one of the slaves. She let the curtain fall. Crossing her arms over her chest, she walked to the com-unit. Zed needed to know of this. But as her hand moved, she hesitated, and then drew it slowly back. She would tell him, yes, but not now, not while it seemed to hurt him to be in the same room with her. She wondered if she could be wrong in assuming A-Rae's part. No. Who else would exert such power on behalf of a group whose only object appeared to be to kill Rhani Yago? Or, if not to kill her, to frighten her, demoralize her.... She stopped, her arms tensing in a grotesque hug. Could A-Rae have actually planned this—this process, created the Free Folk of Chabad, to frighten her into some complex error of judgment? Or—her chest hurt—was there someone else behind A-Rae? Or even someone else behind the Free Folk of Chabad?
 

Dropping her hands to her sides, she forced herself to stop pacing, to breathe, to slow down. Simple is best, she thought, remember Occam's Razor. Don't complicate the situation; it isn't necessary. She rubbed her neck, which ached, and discovered that her palms and sides were wet. She felt as if there was no one she could trust, except Zed, no one who might not be an enemy.
 

You're being silly again, she told herself. Amri wouldn't betray you, she hasn't the capacity. Corrios would kill for you. Tuli—she dismissed that thought. Clare, Imre, Aliza—what's the matter with you, Rhani Yago? Do you really think you've lost all your friends?
 

There was nothing she could do about Tsurada's information: she had no influence on Nexus. She would simply have to be cautious, leave the house as little as possible—never alone—and wait until the Abanat police located Michel A-Rae. After the party she could return to the estate, and she could bear Abanat for four more days; it was not as if she had no work to do. She walked to the intercom. “Binkie?”
 

“Yes, Rhani-ka.”
 

“Please come to my room.”
 

In a moment he was at the door. She gazed at him, wondering; could he betray her? Beneath her silent scrutiny, he grew progressively more pale. Finally, he said, “Is something wrong, Rhani-ka?”
 

“I don't think so,” she said. She gestured at the com-unit. “I should like you, please, to call Christina Wu's office. Ask her to come and see me, soon. Within a week, if that's possible.” Christina Wu was chief of Family Yago's legal staff.
 

“Yes, Rhani-ka.” He sat in the com-unit chair. Rhani watched his fingers tap the keys. She wondered what it was like for him, knowing all her business, privy to information which no other single person, except Zed, had. He was always obedient, meticulous, even detached.
 

He consulted her schedule before speaking with Christina Wu's appointments' clerk. They spoke for a few moments, and then Binkie swung the chair around. “Rhani-ka, will an appointment the morning of the party be convenient?”
 

“Yes,” she said. He made the appointment, thumbed the line silent, and rose again.
 

“Thank you, Binkie,” she said gravely. Sitting on the bed, she motioned him to the footstool. “Tell me now about the party preparations.” As he recounted the details—two hundred invitations had been sent out (hand-delivered by hired messenger), one hundred seventy of them had been accepted, the food, drink, and service would be catered, a theater troupe had been hired to perform a popular Chabadese comedy—which one piece of her mind heard and absorbed. She thought, when I marry Ferris Dur I should make some gesture, some symbolic reference to a change of state. What? Buy something, sell something, endow something?
 

She suddenly knew, and grinned. Of course, that was it.
 

She would free her house slaves.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

 

Dana Ikoro sat at a table in The Green Dancer, waiting for Tori Lamonica.
 

His right shoulder brushed a window. He breathed on it, and rubbed the moist patch with his sleeve. He could see, through the glass, the lights of Abanat, and beyond them, the reflection of that light off the icebergs in the bay. The bergs, remote, frosted with fog, seemed like bits off another world. Between him and the bay the noise and hubbub of the landingport stirred. Under his left elbow, someone had scratched in the neowood tabletop, “KILROY WAS A NARC.”
 

He had been waiting for an hour. He could wait three hours more. Across the room, Amber saw his expression and grinned at him. The bar was crowded. At the largest table, which was round and two meters in diameter, ten people were playing a game with seven counters, all different colors, and strange six-sided dice.
 

Four of the ten were pilots; the loudest of them was a woman in a diaphanous robe. That was Juno Kouris, Seminole's pilot. The slender, quiet woman next to her was navigator Lyn Cowan, also off
Seminole
. They wore matching torques on their necks. The name of the game was “Triple"; Dana had heard of it but never seen it. He wondered if Lamonica played it, too, and if it was anything like “Go.”
 

Rose, the girl in glitterstick—today it was red—slung her tray in his direction. “How you doing?” she shouted.
 

“Fine,” Dana said, holding his hand over the mouth of his glass.
 

“Good.” In a softer tone, she said, “Amber says, watch the door.” Dana's stomach muscles cramped. He shifted in his seat, stretching his legs into the aisle and then pulling them back as a man in a ragged thermal suit stumbled toward him.