The Thrones of Kronos (24 page)

Had Anaris’s TK turned against him, or the station itself?
Neither possibility was comforting. Abruptly Morrighon’s legs gave way and he
slumped at the side of his lord as if collapsing under the weight of a future
he dreaded.

o0o

Jaim laid a card down, keeping his voice bored as he
declared his score. Across from him, Lokri let out an exclamation of disgust as
he sent an inquiring look at Ivard, who sat cross-legged on his bed. Ivard
nodded, then closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands.

Lokri’s brows rose as his silvery gaze queried Jaim and
Sedry Thetris, who had moved beside the console. Sedry gave a slight nod, Jaim
signified his own readiness, and Lokri smiled.

“I won’t play with you anymore, you slime-sucking chatzer,”
he yelled. “In fact, no one will play with you anymore!”

And he launched himself at Jaim. They grappled lightly,
bumping into as much furniture as possible. To aid them, Sedry grabbed up a
couple of books and threw them down onto the floor near the telltale.

At that moment the station shivered, the weird almost
subsonic groaning began, and then the room quaked in earnest. Marim, in her
corner, stopped sulking—which she’d been doing since Lar forced her to return
early from the rec area—and smothered a laugh as she threw a pair of someone’s
shoes at the console. One of them hit Sedry. She paid no attention, intent on
her work.

The fight had been Sedry’s idea, meant to fool Barrodagh’s
inevitable listeners into thinking the crew too busy to mess with the console, in
hopes it would seem that the station’s activity had overloaded the local node.

Some fast work and she pushed away from the console. “It’s good
now.”

Jaim dropped onto a chair with a sense of relief despite the
continued uproar. Lokri flopped down across another chair, his body tense.

The walls flexed, shimmering in rippling puckers at the
back. All Jaim’s senses were clamoring
Danger!
though Ivard and Vi’ya had both insisted that the weird seismic reactions of
the station every time she tried to power it up were not a serious threat. To
reassure himself, Jaim turned his attention to Ivard, who still sat on the bed
as if oblivious to everything going on around him. His thin young face was
tight with concentration, but Jaim did not see fear there.

Presently the station subsided into quiescence, except for
occasional ripples through the walls and floor.

They all looked at one another; the luxury of being able to
speak without considering their words, once taken for granted, now seemed
overwhelming.

“For how long?” asked Jaim.

Sedry shrugged. “You’ll hear a burst of static from the
console when they restore the narks, but from now on, if we keep the intervals
random, I can shut them down for a short time whenever we need to talk. This
system’s so dirty they’ll think it just more rogue bits.”

Marim recovered first, cursing fluently. Over it, Sedry
said, “I think Lar is beginning to trust me, and through him his cousin Tat,
who is perforce Eusabian’s noderunner, under Lysanter’s direction—but she is
under Morrighon, not Barrodagh. It could be that Morrighon might be an ally,
though in any sense an alliance with him is necessarily limited.”

“He’s Barrodagh’s enemy,” Lokri said.

Marim, obviously annoyed at being ignored, said,
“Barrodagh’s a blit. You watch what I’ll get out of him, before much longer.”

Montrose’s mouth tightened, but Sedry sent him a quick look
and said calmly, “That would be great, Marim. Whatever freedom you can win for
us, whatever privileges, will help us all.”

Jaim said, “But everything really hinges on Vi’ya.”

Attention turned his way, and then to Ivard, who stirred
slightly, then opened his eyes and lifted his head.

“That thing I dream about,” he said. “It’s really there,
really bad . . . but it’s not the station. The Eya’a hate it but
can’t tell us anything.”

He pressed the bridge of his nose with the fingers of both
hands. “Hinders us. Also, she—we—can map the station, or could, I think, but
how to get physical control? It’s like being in free-fall, trying to reach a
surface.”

“But Norio is dead,” Montrose said. “Wasn’t he the missing
person that the High Phanist told us to expect when we got here? I never in my
life thought I’d regret finding out that mindsnake had died.”

Ivard sighed. “I don’t know how well we could have worked
with Norio, for Vi’ya says he was rizzy-bad. But we need one more, someone who
can help us . . .” He stretched out his hands. “. . . move.”
He fell into abstraction.

Sedry said, “Why don’t I teach you some of the signals I’ve
learned from the Bori? We can use them after they repair the telltale, and
you’ll be able to communicate somewhat with the underlings. But you must never
let the soldiers or the Catennach Bori see these.”

“Catennach? How can you tell the difference? All Bori look
alike.” Marim shrugged.

“The Catennach are the ones who dedicate their lives to a lord’s
service,” Sedry said. “They’re easy enough to spot. They don’t wear the gray
coveralls that all the other servants must wear. They have gray tunics with
belts. Like Morrighon and Barrodagh.”

“None of them are on our side?” Marim asked. “All goons?”

“No one is on our side,” Montrose said, his brows furrowed.
“Remember that, in case your tongue starts loosening. None of them are on our
side. With these people, the choice is simply who one thinks is strongest and
will win, and they can change adherence in an eye-blink.”

“The Rifter Bori want to leave as badly as we do,” Sedry murmured.
“Lar’s hints have gotten stronger. I am beginning to think we might be able to
rely on them. As long as we don’t increase the danger they are already in.”
Sedry regarded Marim gravely. “By the way, in case you didn’t know—I certainly
didn’t—one of the marks of the Catennach is that they have been mutilated.” She
paused, her face reflecting deep distaste. “The men gelded, the women—”

Marim squawked in surprise, interrupting whatever Sedry was
going to say, then suddenly went crimson-faced with laughter.

“Don’t tell me you tried to lure one of ’em,” Lokri drawled.

Marim shrugged, her hand pressed over her mouth.

Montrose sighed, and everyone else laughed. “You are
insatiable, Marim. Simply insatiable. Care to tell us who?”

She shrugged again more sharply. “Does it matter? Talk about
a dead trace!”

Jaim noticed that she did not meet anyone’s eyes, and felt a
twinge of uneasiness.

Lokri said, “Why? Is this some kind of perverted Dol’jharian
fun, dragging off screaming Bori boys and girls, just to prevent them from
bunnying?”

“By choice,” Sedry said. “It is a measure of their
commitment to the service of the lords if they choose to undergo it. And of
course afterward, they have little inclination to bond with people in any
manner considered normal, much less have a family, which supposedly keeps them
loyal.”

“Family structure is important to Bori,” Montrose said in a
musing voice.

“Which is why these service Bori are not permitted to use
their family names. They have only one name, like children or slaves,” Sedry
said.

“I can’t imagine Barrodagh ever having had a family.” Marim propped
her chin in her hand. “Blits like that are hatched.” The others laughed, and
she shook her curls back, then said, “All right, Thetris, let’s have those
signs.”

Sedry began teaching them the Bori hand signals, which kept
them busy until the console emitted a burst of static. But Vi’ya returned soon
after that.

As she had been the first time, she was pale with
exhaustion. The Eya’a seemed utterly unperturbed; they moved with their
accustomed weird energy. Passing by Ivard, they semaphored rapidly.

Jaim watched Ivard’s fingers sign speedily in return, and
then he turned toward Vi’ya, who sank down onto the bed behind him. Their gazes
met, held, and blended.

Then Vi’ya looked up at Jaim, who flexed his hands. Vi’ya’s
eyes shuttered, which was all the answer Jaim needed. As she stretched out face
down on the bed, Jaim sat astride her and began to knead the muscles connecting
neck and shoulders.

Even considering that Dol’jharians’ muscle tissue was denser
than those raised on planets with lighter grav, hers were taut as steel cable.

But Jaim was patient. And he observed, often without
comment. Long ago he had learned the arts of the shakrian, the easing of pain,
along with the Ulanshu paths of defense. He had also commenced learning the
language of the Dol’jharians, in an effort to understand a terrible episode in
his life, and those studies he had continued during his solitary stay in the
Enclave on Ares. He now had a fair comprehension, though he had never used the
language of her ancestors to Vi’ya before.

But he did now: “We are on the eve of the Karusch-na
Rahali.”

On the periphery of his vision, Jaim noticed Sedry wince,
and then move with graceless deliberation to the other side of the room. No
willing eavesdropper there—she was too honest.

Vi’ya, at first, said nothing. But they had known one
another for years, and Jaim stated the obvious only when offering discussion on
a controversial topic.

His fingers worked up her spine and outward to her shoulder
blades. He stayed silent.

She said, “The fear on the part of the Bori and others of
low status, and the lust of those in a position of power, probably would have
killed Norio Danali if he had managed to survive the station.”

Jaim considered this answer. Like anyone else, Vi’ya had her
moods, and she was never more Dol’jharian than when her own particular ghosts
were haunting her. When she was in this mood, a warning—implying weakness—would
not be tolerated.

But he needed to know if she planned to go hunting herself,
and more important, if she would permit herself to be hunted.

He tried a tangential approach. “Speaking of Bori, have
either Morrighon or Barrodagh indicated what our fate is to be during this
time?”

“No,” she said. “The weakest are safe. The rest had better
barricade the doors.”

She had not said whether she would be among them.

Jaim hesitated, his fingers stroking the tension out of her
strong, scarred back. Ivard was still seated next to the bed. He lifted his
head and met Jaim’s eyes. He said nothing, nor signed, but Jaim sensed his
concern. Could he, too, understand Dol’jharian? Or did he get the sense of it
from his telepathic rapport with Vi’ya?

Then, from the far room, Jaim heard the high, weird chitter
of the Eya’a, uttering some kind of ritual speech. Ivard smiled, and three of
his fingers moved, in a triple rhythm, and Jaim understood.

He was not alone in looking out for her welfare. The others
of the Unity would do their best also, from their shared plane of intangibles.

For now that would have to be enough.

On the big wall screen a short, round-faced man smiled
seraphically. Above his snub nose there was a revealing smoothness in his
forehead, indicating he was an ajna novosti—an interviewer—but this time Ares
25’s prime interviewer was not wearing his ajna. Instead, the famous Nik
Cormoran was the interviewee.

“This is Residence Five,” he said, pacing along the
perimeter of a modest garden. “Until recently, during its seven hundred years
of existence, it was known as Detention Five. Unlike the carefully guarded
Detention One, which has mostly housed civilian capital criminals, and
Detention Two, which is for military capital criminals, the other three
detention blocks have hosted an astonishing array of inconvenient individuals,
from a Krysarchei centuries ago to more modern political troublemakers.

“Until very recently, it also housed part of the crew of a
ship whose name has become familiar to everyone on Ares—and soon will be to the
rest of the Thousand Suns—the
Telvarna
.”
He paused, palming open a door to a modest suite. “Here is where part of that
crew was housed. Now it’s temporary quarters for two families of refugees, who permitted
us access today.”

Cormoran paced the short distance to a room, and as the door
slid open, he said, “Only part of the crew stayed here. The cook, Montrose, and
the drivetech, Jaim, were part of the Panarch’s staff at the Enclave. And then
there was the Douloi-born communications tech who called himself Lokri, who
until the recent trial had been incarcerated in Detention One under the charge
of murder.”

He entered a starkly bare room containing only a console and
a neatly made bed. “Here the captain lived and worked, noderunning deep in the
Net, together with an ex-Navy commander, not only to find the real murderers
but to topple the highly placed triumvirate who had tried to wrest the
government from the new Panarch.”

Nik closed the door again and passed on to the next. “This
room housed the Eya’a, sophonts from a planet that no longer permits humans to
land. As far as we know, the two who are part of the
Telvarna’s
crew—apparently bonded to the captain through her
tempathy—are the only representatives of this race who have left the planet.”

He passed to a third room. “Here stayed Ivard, who had
bonded with the Kelly Archon—Eldest of their race—during the
Telvarna’s
raid on Arthelion. He’s the
first human to experience such a bonding, or the first one to survive it.”

Cormoran leaned over the back of a chair, his large, limpid
eyes earnest and confiding. “For a bunch of outlaws, this crew has managed to
associate themselves with some of the most influential . . . governments? . . .
in our segment of the galaxy. Governments,” he repeated.

“Certainly our own.” He walked outside the suite and paused.
“They rescued—some say kidnapped—Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad then took him to
the Mandala, an unlikely place for Rifters to visit. There they rescued Gnostor
Omilov, obtained and then lost the mysterious Urian artifact that had been
housed for ten million years on the Shrine Planet in the Paradisum system. This
much we know. We also know that the Krysarch, during that famous raid on
Arthelion, gave to the captain the treasure known as the Stone of Prometheus.