A Prison Unsought (57 page)

Still, it did not come at once, and for a short time, as he
gazed down into her fathomless black eyes, he felt the universe wheel.

The first reaction was physical, as it had always been: his
hand tightened its grip on hers, as if to steady the station gravitors. But
Tate Kaga’s room had not lost its grav. They had not moved.

No time to consider it further. He remembered the coup, and
he remembered Jerrode Eusabian’s boast about his father. It was time to go—now.

And yet he lingered,
his gaze blending with hers. Sex had always been something he could indulge,
then let go with perfect freedom. But Vi’ya was not Douloi; she had been, in a
sense, an enemy: she did not play the game of passion by the same rules.

There will be
consequences.
But the thought—invested with the last traces of
radiance—beckoned, instead of warned.

“Why is it,” he said, “you would
not talk to me about Markham?”

“Because . . . the
man he was, and the man we knew, were not the same.” Her voice was low, almost
a whisper. “Where is the profit?”

He could not look away from her eyes, the curved lids, the
iris so black it could not be distinguished from pupil. Again he sustained the
dissonance of grav-failure and breathed deeply to steady himself. “The profit
would be in prolonging his life by adding to memory,” he said. “Yours to
mine—and mine to yours.”

Her eyes seemed to darken; her lashes had lowered, blocking
the reflection of distant starlight. And he watched, off-balance, as she drew
about her once again the invisible armor.

“One day,” she said. “But it cannot
be now: they search for you.” She turned her head, nodding in one direction.
“The Kelly relay great agitation.”

“The coup,” he said, touching his
aching mouth. And laughed, and saw his laugh echoed in her eyes. “Shall I be as
lucky in my next battle?”

o0o

Vahn’s fury had cooled into relentless purpose.

He held them all in the Enclave, including the haughty
Aerenarch-Consort in the night robe that Roget had brought her. Even in this overlarge,
utilitarian robe, with her jewels at the bottom of the lake and her hair
hanging in damp-smelling hanks on her shoulders, she retained her dignity.

Dignity . . . but not innocence. A trace of
guilt in the oblique glances and hesitant vowels prompted Vahn to keep her
there as long as he could. Her failure to question his authority to hold her
confirmed his sense of her guilt; she did not even protest when he demanded the
surrender of her boswell, rendering her incommunicado.

The musicians were probably innocent, but as Vannis’s
hirelings they had to be held. The maid, Srivashti’s cook, and the barge techs
as well. Jaim sat alone, under guard. They had not spoken to one another since
Vahn had lost his temper at the landing.

He had questioned them all, Vannis first, as her rank
required. Jaim he left for last, sifting the others’ words against the flow of
constant reports spoken into his auditory nerves from points across the
station.

At least the cabal did not have the Aerenarch; that he’d established
right away. The cabalists, except for al’Gessinav, were apparently on route to
the Cap. Vahn had a tail on them, with orders to report their goal as soon as
it was known. Srivashti’s sinister liegeman was skulking his way across the
darkened grounds adjacent to the lake.

Vahn had Hamun on Felton’s tail, but he wasn’t worried.
Felton wouldn’t find the Aerenarch. The Aerenarch had really disappeared—vanished,
without leaving a trace—and Vahn, glaring at the preternaturally patient Rifter
sitting so still in his wet clothing, did not believe he could have contrived
it without assistance.

If that was true, the Rifter would shortly find out just how
unpleasant the soft, rule-constrained nicks he so despised could be when they
were crossed.

“What was his last communication
with you?” Vahn asked without preliminary.

Jaim looked up, then aside, and his eyes widened.

Vahn became aware of sudden silence behind him; he whirled
around and stared in shock at Brandon vlith-Arkad, who appeared in the far
doorway as if by magic.

The Aerenarch scanned the tableau before him, then approached.
“It’s
not Jaim’s fault,” he said to Vahn. “You should know from the records that I
used to be adept at ditching Semion’s guards for the occasional piece of
business that required conducting without extra eyes and ears.”

The words stung; another shock was the blood dotting the
Aerenarch’s cuff, and the purpling bruise on his mouth. Had there been an
attempt on him, then?

If there had, he’d won.

The rage flared up again, prompting Vahn to the first
insubordinate remark he’d ever made: “The punishments inflicted on Semion’s
guards were for negligence,” he said.

Brandon’s hard smile unsettlingly called Semion to mind.
“They chose his service,” he responded, crossing the room toward Vannis. “The
consequences of his caprice were their responsibility, not mine.”

Vahn’s emotions veered as Brandon held out his hands to
Vannis. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then he bent and murmured into her ear, and
even Vahn’s enhancers could not pick out the words.

Whatever he said was not reflected in her face. She rose,
bowed, and walked out, still dressed in the night robe, as if she were going to
a ball. Her maid slipped from her chair and followed.

The Aerenarch then turned to the musicians. “You will be
compensated,” he said. “Be sure to specify the exact requirements for
replacement of your instruments. The rest of you the same, whatever tools or
belongings were lost.”

As a group they rose and bowed.

He turned then, his eyes wide, pupils so dark they reflected
the lights. Energy radiated from him like electricity, and Vahn felt command of
the situation pass once and forever from him to Brandon vlith-Arkad.

“Jaim. Get on something dry. Vahn:
full dress, and you too, Roget, or whoever is on duty and wants to cross the
stage.”

“Stage?” It was Roget. “Your
Highness,” she added quickly.

The Aerenarch laughed. “The music is there, waiting, and the
instruments have been chosen. It is time—” He looked around at them all. “—past
time, for us to go and play.”

“Let us return to the concept of
strength,” said Anaris, “and its corollary, command.”

“Yes.” The Panarch inclined his
head in a nod of acknowledgment. “How do you see them linked?”

“The two blades of a scissors.
Without strength, one cannot command. Without commanding, one cannot exert
one’s strength.”

“So power consists of the exercise
of strength through command?” The Panarch’s tone was mild, but Anaris perceived
challenge in the tilt of the old man’s head.

“Yes. Which is why I do not
understand your endless rituals of government. You waste so much time with
symbolism.”

Gelasaar paused, his gaze resting on the dirazh’u in
Anaris’s hands. Anaris resisted the temptation to put it away, and laughed
inwardly at his own impulse.

Then the Panarch spoke. “Tell me, Anaris, what is the
opposite of a dance?”

Anaris made a gesture of impatience. “That is a senseless
question. A dance has no opposite.”

“Precisely. Yet a command does.”

Anaris slowly wove his dirazh’u, the sense of the Panarch’s
words almost in reach.

“The art of government is to give
as few commands as possible,” the Panarch explained, “for a command always
brings with it the possibility of disobedience. That act of disobedience
lessens the commander’s power.”

“Not if there is swift and sure
punishment.”

“Even so,” Gelasaar said. “Why else
would a tyrant issue exceedingly draconian punishments for mild infractions,
but a sense of lessening power that he is frantic to seize back? One cannot
disobey a ritual—being nonverbal, it has no contrary.”

“In the end,” Anaris protested, “a
command must be issued, ambiguity cleared away.”

“Oh, yes.” The Panarch’s
distant-seeming gaze held a trace of amusement. “But so often, by the time the
ritual is finished, one finds the unspoken command already obeyed, and the
balance of power stays balanced.”

“. . . and they
request an interview, Admiral.”

Still gazing out the wall port at the vista of the Cap,
Nyberg spoke to the com: “Very well. Bring them up.”

“AyKay, sir.” The connection
terminated, and Admiral Nyberg swiveled around in his chair to face his
security chief.

“Now we know,” Faseult commented.
“Harkatsus, Cincinnatus, Boyar, Torigan, Srivashti. Pretty much as expected.”

Nyberg rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both
hands, then looked up. “Still don’t know where the Aerenarch is?”

Faseult frowned. “No, sir. There’s evidence of tampering—a
high-level code—with the security systems in the Arkadic Enclave.”

Nyberg expelled his breath, wishing his tension would go
with it. “We shall see, then.” He straightened up. “I’ll handle this alone,
Commander.”

“Sir!” Faseult was too professional
to allow more than the protest compressed into that single syllable.

Nyberg smiled, feeling the ache of fatigue behind his eyes,
augmented by the haze of al’Gessinav’s wine from the dinner—though he’d
scarcely drunk any. “I don’t expect there will be any violence, Anton, but I’d
feel better if I knew you were in Security, ready to lock down Ares if anything
does blow up.”

Faseult stood up and saluted. “AyKay, sir. I’ll let you know
instantly when we find His Highness.” He walked out briskly.

Nyberg sighed and turned back to the port. The lights had
ceased swarming around the
Grozniy
,
but the
Malabor
still showed flares
of energy at numerous points on its hull. Nearby, the attenuated forms of two
destroyers hung above the surface of the Cap, also undergoing refitting.

The comm chimed again.

“Yes?”

“Gnostor Omilov to see you. He says
it’s urgent.”

Nyberg turned back to his desk, wondering if the gnostor
could possibly be part of the cabal. Instinct was thoroughly against it, but
why else would he be here? “Send him in.”

He rose to his feet as Omilov entered; the grasp of the
gnostor’s hand in their brief greeting conveyed tension and excitement. “We’ve
found it,” Omilov said without preamble.

It took Nyberg a moment to change the context of his
thoughts. “The Suneater?” He motioned Omilov to take a seat as he sat down, but
the gnostor’s excitement was evidently too great, and he remained standing.

“Yes. We tried the experiment I
told you about.”

“With the Dol’jharian woman and the
sophonts.”

“And Ivard with the Kelly genome,
and the Kelly themselves. They are apparently a poly-mental unity, and they
gave us a vector on the Suneater. We should have a search space narrowed down
within a few minutes.” Omilov paced across the room, his face animated. “If we
take them on the search mission, we should be able to locate the Suneater
within days.”

The comm chimed again. “They’re here, Admiral.”

“Very well. Have them wait. I’m in
a briefing.”

He turned back to Omilov. “That is wonderful news, Gnostor.
Is there anything more?”

Omilov stopped his pacing. “I’m sorry, Admiral, am I keeping
you from something?” His delight altered to politeness.

“No, Sebastian, I wish you could.
I’m merely putting off the inevitable.”

Omilov cocked his head, indicating with a slight movement of
his hand polite inquiry.

“A group that I believe will claim
to be the new Privy Council is waiting outside. Their first act will probably
be to declare the Panarch dead.”

He named them: Omilov’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed
distractedly at his left wrist. “If you’d like to disappear,” Nyberg finished,
“there’s another exit you may use. You needn’t be here for this if you had
rather not.” His own protracted tiredness and tension could not prevent him
from adding on an exhaled sigh, “
I
had rather not.”

Omilov said slowly, “Where is Bran . . . the
Aerenarch?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then I don’t suppose there’s much
point in my remaining.”

“Thank you for your efforts,
Sebastian,” said Nyberg. “You’ve done more for the war effort than just about
anyone.”

Nyberg’s boswell
pinged.
(The Aerenarch returned to the Enclave.)
Faseult’s excitement was clear
even through the limited bandwidth of neural induction.
(Vahn is bringing him
to your office.)

(Thank you,
Commander.)
Nyberg moved to his desk and touched the com tab. “Lieutenant,
tender my apologies for the extended briefing. Bring them in when the Aerenarch
arrives—use both antechambers.” He paused. “Find Captain Ng and ask her to come
here as soon as possible.” He tabbed off the comm.

Omilov turned expectantly. Nyberg nodded. “It appears he has
decided his course at last.”

Resolution informed Omilov’s features. “Then I’d like to
stay, even if only to offer moral support.” He moved to a chair on one side of
Nyberg’s desk, near a data console in the wall. Its position was one which in
Douloi terms would automatically be subordinate. “But, if I may ask, what has
Captain Ng to do with this situation?”

“The Aerenarch wishes to rescue his
father. She is captain of the only ship available for such a mission.”

“There is still time?” Omilov’s
voice was hoarse with sudden hope.

“Time, yes.” He looked up at the
portrait of Gelasaar III. “But is there the will?”

o0o

The door to Nyberg’s office slid open. Vahn had never been
into the sanctum before.

His function was now honor guard, so he matched his step
with Jaim and followed behind the Aerenarch; scanning past Brandon’s shoulders,
Jaim took in the glory of space, dwarfing the silhouetted figures standing
before the huge window, and Vahn automatically looked for weapons in the hands
of those figures. In the next heartbeat, he sensed Jaim relax and Vahn
permitted himself to glance at that astonishing sight beyond the dyplast
windows.