Between Darkness and Light (37 page)

Fingoh walked slowly back to the semicircle of seats. “Thank you, Brothers,” he said quietly, sitting down again. “You've done well and given me much to think about. Make your report for Stronghold in the usual manner and I'll see it's sent with my diplomatic mail.”

The two Brothers rose to their feet and saluted him, forearms crossed over their chests, heads slightly bowed.

“Good night, Ambassador,” murmured Shamgar as they turned to leave.

Outside in the corridor, they nodded to their two comrades on guard duty and headed for their own quarters next door.

“Why did you prevent me telling him about the building with the breeding tanks?” Shamgar asked quietly as he went to their small kitchen to get a drink.

“That information should only go to Haven Stronghold,” said Vaygan, following him. “Commander L'Seuli will pass it on to Master Rhyaz. If it needs to go further, that's up to them, not us.”

Shamgar filled his bowl-shaped cup under the faucet then turned to lean against the counter and survey his gray-pelted companion. “What are you keeping from me, Vaygan?”

“Nothing. I know nothing more than you do, Shamgar. Master Rhyaz asked me to look for anything strange to do with their young and report it only to him, that's all. And those tanks full of tiny Primes definitely rank as strange in my book.”

“So they breed their work force artificially,” said Shamgar, sipping his water. “How do the Primes here in the city reproduce? I haven't seen one pregnant female, have you?”

“Apart from the Empress, you mean? No, not one,” the other said thoughtfully. “It's the chief topic of conversation in the inns surrounding the main courtyard. Maybe you're right and they have suffered mutations since the Cataclysm. They certainly seem more obsessed with the Empress' state of health than I'd have thought normal.”

“I heard she'd lost several before this one. I'm surprised she allowed her only son to visit Shola and train with the Warrior Guild, let alone stay there after the M'zullians were sent home.”

Vaygan's mouth dropped in a deep grin as he walked across to the cooler unit and opened the door. “With her egg due in about a month, she's probably happy not to have to put up with sibling rivalry. There'll be quite an age gap between them—ten years for them is like thirty for us. How did your older brother react when you came along as firstborn of the second family?”

Shamgar laughed. “Point taken. He was none too pleased! He said at her age our mother was making a spectacle of herself! Prince Zsurtul's probably better off where he is for now, at least he won't get roped into diaper-changing duty! What have the others left in the way of food for us?”

“There's a cold stew that smells like it's fish,” said Vaygan, sniffing at the container that he'd pulled out. “And a bowl of cold cooked veg—the one that looks like white flower heads. Should be all right when it's heated up. They've left plenty of bread, too.”

“Sounds good to me. Five days without a hot meal is too long. You heat the food and I'll put some coffee on to brew,” he said, throwing the rest of the water down the sink and putting the mug to one side.

“Make it strong,” said Vaygan, pulling out the second bowl and shutting the door with a flick of his tail. “We're off duty now and I could do with something stimulating.”

 

Fingoh was dictating into a message crystal bound for Governor Nesul back home on Shola. “Empress Zsh'eungee asks me to convey her gratitude to Clan Leaders Carrie and Kaid for allowing her son, Prince Zsurtul, to remain at their house as a guest for the next few months. She says she will be sending them a personal message shortly. Talks with Prime Counselor Shyadd are proceeding slowly. He claims there is a great deal of danger involved in contacting M'zull because of the M'zullians' Warrior ancestry. It is likely to be counterproductive, he says, as they will instantly see the Primes as inferior and therefore a legitimate target.” Fingoh paused to pick up his glass of wine and take a sip.

“Since communications will be held from a distance,” he continued, “I said scent is not an issue but he claims that their different coloring will also give their ancestry away. My suggestions that they use a tinted cream to disguise themselves brought claims that it was beneath the dignity of their Royal Highnesses, and that of their officers, to paint their faces like entertainers. I reminded him that brides wear blue face paint out of respect for their fertility Goddess La'shol and that perhaps under that guise they could do the same. I also suggested that the Emperor could wear a face mask, claiming it to be a new ritual—or an old one revamped for the occasion—that way avoiding all need for concealing their lighter skin tones. Counselor Shyadd said that both suggestions had merit and the Emperor would consider them carefully, but it still left them with the problem of eventually communicating face-to-face with the M'zullians. That, we both agreed, could be overcome by having them deal only with one of Kezule's sons as they are slightly darker in coloring.”

This time when he stopped, he switched off the recording device. Picking up his glass again, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. The Brothers' news had him deeply worried. There was much about the Prime culture in the City he'd come to admire, but what they'd told him about outside was totally unacceptable. He knew that each government department—run by separate Directors—was totally independent. It appeared that all that mattered to the bureaucrats of the City was results, not the welfare of their people. It was possible that very few people knew what went on outside. Certainly no one but the Directors ever left the City confines, and that rarely.

He sighed again and sipped his wine. He didn't want to think about it any more tonight. It was late and he had a feeling his dreams would not be pleasant ones as it was. His communique could be finished tomorrow—he needed to wait till then for the Brothers' official report anyway.

Draining his glass, he put it down on the table in front of him and got to his feet. A virtual slave population with gangs of aggressive males roaming the towns was a recipe for disaster. As he headed for his bedroom, he wondered briefly where the aggressive males had come from and made a mental note to mention it to the Brothers in the morning, and in his dispatches.

By the time Kusac had got back to his rooms, enough blood had soaked through from the dressing to discolor his bandage. The pain it was causing him had risen to a level where even he couldn't cope with it. Reaching into one of his belt pouches, he sat down on the sofa and took out the pills Zayshul had given him. He didn't care that he was supposed to wait till last thing at night, he needed them now. The tablet melted almost instantly on his tongue. Exhausted, he curled up on the sofa, mind spinning as he tried to make sense of what he'd discovered so far.

The shock of having his worst fears about Shaidan confirmed, to say nothing of his meeting with an angry God, was beginning to wear off, leaving him feeling numb. Had Vartra been right? Was he really so willing to conceal his night with Zayshul that he'd destroy not only himself but her and their son along with everyone else on the Outpost? Suddenly he felt the weight of the bags inside his tunic and remembered he was still carrying the nitrate compound.

He sat up, tugging the front seal on his tunic open so he could reach them. The bags spilled out onto his lap. One by one, he put them on the table. Mixed with fuel and placed in the right location, there was enough to destroy Kij'ik. The memory of Vartra's eyes glowing with anger filled his mind and he shivered. Grabbing the bags, he got up and headed into his bedroom, looking round for a hiding place for them. It would be just his luck to be found, quite innocently, with them in his possession.

Opening his wardrobe, he knelt down and put them in the bottom of his empty kit bag, letting the soft sides fold back over them. They'd be safely concealed there until he could find a way to dispose of them.

Returning to the lounge, he collapsed onto the sofa again. The drug had begun to make him feel drowsy and relaxed. He wanted to sleep, but had a nagging feeling there was something else he had to do. Then he remembered. He was to meet Zayshul. Checking his wrist comm, he saw there were still six hours left. He programmed in an alarm to wake him for his meeting with her, then propping his aching arm on a cushion, he closed his eyes.

 

The insistent chime finally roused him. Still half asleep, he fell off the sofa and staggered to the door.

“Open,” he said.

The door slid back to reveal M'kou and Shaidan.

“Knowing you were ill, I brought Shaidan to you, Captain Aldatan,” said the young Prime.

Kusac gazed myopically at them, then rubbed his eyes. He hadn't expected this. “I thought Kezule had taken him with him as usual,” he said, taken aback by their presence.

“Not this time, Captain. If you would excuse us?”

He stared blankly at M'kou.

“You're blocking the door, Captain,” said M'kou patiently as Shaidan glanced uncertainly up at him.

He moved aside, watching his son step past him into his lounge.

“I'll be back in two hours, Captain Aldatan. M'zynal, head of security, is outside if you should need anything.”

He nodded automatically, stepping away from the door so it slid closed, never taking his eyes off his cub. How could he even have thought of destroying the Outpost and ending his son's life? A cold sweat began to film his hands, and rubbing them hastily against the sides of his tunic, he reached out to catch Shaidan by the shoulder, turning him round so they faced each other.

The cub looked up at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, ears tilting back apprehensively.

Kusac studied him, looking for any sign of Zayshul in his features, but found none. The face was his own as it had been twenty years ago: his Sholan bloodlines were all that showed.

Kneeling down, he reached out with his other hand, cupping it round Shaidan's face, stroking the soft pelt. When they were this close, there was no doubt in his mind about his true feelings for his son.

“Why do you keep me at a distance, Shaidan?” he asked quietly. “I've done everything I can to get close to you. Are you still upset that I wasn't the one to rescue you from the Directorate? I came as soon as I got Kezule's message. When he returned the other cubs and held you here, I came back for you—it's only because of you I'm still here. What more can I do to prove that I care?”

As he spoke, instinctively he reached out with his mind, making the torc vibrate warningly. Ignoring it, he let his hand drop to his son's shoulder. If only Shaidan could experience how he felt about him . . .

The torc's vibration increased sharply, making him shake his head in pain and reach out mentally in an attempt to shut the torc off. Then he felt his son's mind touch his for the first time.

Shaidan's eyes widened, his mouth dropping down into an open O of surprise.

His son's touch was light, barely there at all, but in that brief moment of contact, with a sickening lurch, he found himself suddenly displaced from his body. It was as if he was standing beside himself, a passive observer of his own actions. Just as the mental contact was severed, he saw his son make an involuntary move toward him.

With yet another lurch, he was back in his own body again, sweeping Shaidan into his arms and holding him close. His tongue flicked out, caressing the youngling's cheek as, nose buried against his neck, he drank in his son's scent, giving in to the paternal feelings he'd suppressed for so long.

“Korrai.” He whispered the term of endearment, afraid that saying it aloud would dispel what he half-believed to be a dream. “My son.” Holding him like this broke down all the barriers with which he'd surrounded himself. He could no longer hold back the love he felt. “I wish we'd known each other from the first!”

The small body pressed against his had instinctively stiffened. “You're crushing me,” said Shaidan quietly.

Immediately he loosened his grip. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You held me like this when I felt the egg hatching,” Shaidan said. “When you argued with the General.”

“I was afraid for you,” he whispered, rubbing his cheek gently against his son's neck. “You were linking to the hatchling, experiencing her trauma. I was afraid you'd suffocate, too.”

He felt a small hand slowly slide its way across his shoulder until it rested, hesitantly, on his neck. “The General was angry.”

“Kezule doesn't frighten me, particularly when my son needs my help,” he murmured, feeling something tight inside his heart begin to loosen. “You may have value to the General, Shaidan, but I love you. I'm here only because of you. Nothing else could have brought me back to Kezule.”