Carpe Diem (21 page)

There was silence between them for a moment, then a careful: "Val Con?"

"Yes."

"How'd your people get in my head?"

He hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. "Priscilla is of the dramliz—a wizard, Miri. I— Outside, I thought I heard someone call to me, but— Perhaps it was beyond her skill to leave a message in a waking mind, and so she chose the mind of my lifemate."

"Yeah, but how'd she know that, boss?"

He looked at her helplessly. "Miri, I am not dramliz. How would I know?"

"Right." She stroked his cheek, brushing the hair from his eyes. "It's okay, boss, honest." Her fingers trembled. "Why're we scared?"

"They are looking for us," he whispered. "They will put themselves in danger. The Department of the Interior—gods, my Clan . . ." And the ship was useless, useless . . .

"We must start for Liad today," she thought she heard him say. "Or we must warn them away."

Miri stared. Then, moving carefully against the miasma of fear and sorrow and guilt, she set the mug aside, threw her arms around him, and held tight.

Grom Trogar stood before the starmap, absently fingering this gem and that: Shaltren's diamond, Talitha's niken, Foruner's topaz, Jelban's rosella. It was a magnificent map, with each one of the worlds that bowed to the might of the Juntavas—to the word of Grom Trogar—designated by a jewel produced by that world and tithed to the chairman.

He extended a broad forefinger to touch again the flashing blue-and-gold niken, then drew it back, frowning, as the receptionist's pretty voice came over the speaker.

"Mr. Chairman?"

"Yes?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," she said breathlessly. "But there are two, umm,
individuals
here to see you. They say their business is urgent. I—they don't have an appointment, sir, but they said they'd wait."

"Did they?" He considered the speaker stud, glowing bright red in the gloom of his office. "But we aren't that discourteous, are we? Please send these—individuals—in."

There was a pause and a half gasped "Yes, sir." Grom Trogar smiled as he strolled back to his desk.

Grom Trogar frowned at the two large individuals before him, even knowing that they, unlike most, could see his expression quite clearly in the dimness of his office. The knowledge titillated, adding a new dimension to a game long grown predictable.

"A Scout, Aged Ones?" he said. "Of Miri Robertson I am aware. I have urgent need to speak with her; less urgent need, I will admit, to see her dead. Though that will suffice."

"But of a Scout," he continued thoughtfully, "and the threat brought against this other member of your Clan—I am adrift in ignorance. I will investigate the matter thoroughly, and I promise you that it will go quite badly with Justin Hostro if he has failed to file a complete report."

"And the report Justin Hostro has already filed, Grom Trogar?" Edger rumbled politely. "Does it make mention of my kin in any way?"

"Merely that he had Miri Robertson in his hand, and that he allowed her to slip away. He begged forgiveness for his clumsiness and accepted the fine with good grace." He parted his lips in what passed for his smile. "Now I am shown the why of this uncharacteristic meekness. I am indebted, Aged Ones."

"Perhaps," the smaller of the two visitors suggested, "your indebtedness will allow you to call back your decree concerning our sister? She is young and very hasty, but it is in my heart that she has done nothing to warrant her name cried outlaw. Certainly she deserves no untimely death."

Trogar shrugged with a touch of impatience, and the larger visitor took up the discussion.

"It may very well be true that you are wronged in some smaller way, Grom Trogar. Name the offense, and let us as Elders decide upon the injury price."

The man sighed, deeply and regretfully. Really, the game was going quite well. "Aged Ones, I am sincerely grieved. But the truth is that there is no price that will buy my vengeance where Miri Robertson is concerned. She has slain many of my best fighters—individuals I will be hard-pressed to replace. My organization is left in a position of vulnerability—because of Miri Robertson.

"Further, she dared ally herself with Sire Baldwin, who was himself outlawed for crimes committed against m—the Juntavas. That she aided and abetted his escape from justice is inarguable. That she herself is privy to much of the information Baldwin stole from this organization must be a logical certainty. Information is a dangerous thing, Aged Ones. I cannot ignore the possibility that dangerous information is abroad, held in hands not fit to grasp it."

He sighed again. "Understand that I will do my utmost to see that this Scout goes unharmed, should he still be at her side when she is taken. And that is a great deal, Aged Ones. Surely you recall that the Scouts have been less than kind to my people over the years and years? Vagrants, they call us, and gypsies. They hound us from gatherplace to gatherplace, branding us thieves and jackals, hangers-on of Yxtrang, deadly danger to holy Liad. In the usual course of things, you must know that if he lay dying at my feet and I held in my hand the cup of water that would save him, I would upend the cup and laugh as he expired." He shook his head, too unfamiliar with the persons to whom he spoke to read the signs of outrage.

"But these are not ordinary times, Aged Ones," he went on. "Nor am I an ordinary man. I am Chairman of the Juntavas, and I have said to you that I am indebted. Here is how I shall pay: When Miri Robertson is taken, should the Scout still be with her, and if it is within the realm of what is possible, he shall go free. Of course, He Who Watches, who has been threatened by one in our employ, need fear nothing more from the Juntavas." He inclined his head.

"You have made a good bargain: When you entered, the lives of three were potentially forfeit. Now that we have spoken, you regain the lives of two." Grom Trogar rose from behind the steel-and-crystal desk and bowed briskly. "Be satisfied, Aged Ones. In your eyes Miri Robertson will soon be dead in any case—is it not so? What matter that I recover what is mine before she is gone? Good day."

"You are," the one called Edger said, "in error. The day has not thus far been good. I hold forth some hope, however, that it may improve. You have said much that is hurtful to me, as the brother of my brother and my sister. You have behaved in a manner—Elder to Elder—that I find distressing in the extreme. Even, Grom Trogar—were it not in the poorest possible taste—I would say that you have lied to me." He held up one large, three-fingered hand. "Understand that I have not said this. Only, did courtesy permit, that I would do so." He moved his head so that he might gaze at his kinsman, who stood at his right hand. "What think you, brother?"

"I think, T'carais," Sheather said with a certain hasty care, "that Elder Grom Trogar has perhaps spoken before all facts have been laid before him by the members of his Clan most conversant with the affair. This would perhaps lend his words a certain air of—glibness, T'carais—that might make one think he is lying. It is true that we have learned from our brother that humans break truth differently, so one may say what one does not believe and yet know it for a truth."

"There is," Edger conceded, "much in what you have said. Do you make recommendation as to our next step, brother? You would honor me by speaking what is in your heart."

Sheather inclined his head, considered for a moment the bright blade that was his sister, and spoke, finally, with some measure of
her
understanding of the way in which the worlds of Men turned. "T'carais, it comes to me that Grom Trogar knows not with whom he deals. A demonstration is perhaps in order, before we depart to allow him time to gather his facts and rethink the words he has said."

"I have heard," Edger said. He was still for a time, his luminous eyes on the man who stood so quietly behind the desk. Carefully he considered his brother's thought, perceiving its intent and origin. Even in its hastiness, he found it good.

"Grom Trogar," he said.

"Yes, Aged One? Is there a further service I might perform for you?"

"You have heard the words of my brother, Grom Trogar. I find myself in agreement with him. We shall school you, that you may not suffer by your ignorance of the worth of the Knife Clan of Middle River. Then we shall leave you for a time, that you might make inquiries and acquire facts. We will return to speak further with you in five Standard days. Now, attend me."

Edger closed his huge eyes briefly, opened them—and sang.

One note, held to the edge of endurance. Another. And a third.

The miraldine conference table shivered, acquired spiderwebs of cracks, then crumbled and fell in on itself, a glittering pile of rubble and dust.

Grom Trogar heard someone cursing fluently, disbelievingly, in the tongue of his youth; recognizing his own voice, he silenced it.

"Understand," Edger said, "that this is the simplest of the songs I might sing you, Grom Trogar. I chose it because its simplicity was sufficient for a demonstration, yet leaves more complex crystalline structures—as those which are part of your communication devices—unharmed. I am sorry that some of the gems in yon piece of artwork have also suffered." He motioned to his brother, Sheather, and inclined his head in the manner of Men, "Keep you well, Grom Trogar. We shall return in five days."

Moving with a quickness astonishing in persons so large, they crossed the room, striding over the crumbled table, and passed through the door. Grom Trogar saw his hand twitch toward the desk key that would forbid them exit, clenched it and let them go.

Slowly he moved to the shattered remains of the table, bent, and picked up a jagged blue shard. Holding it cupped, so that the sharp edges pricked his palm, he went over to the fabulous illustration of Juntavas might, in which each of one hundred and four worlds was marked by a flashing gem.

He was not really surprised to see that only thirty-one remained.

Scout Lieutenant Shadia Ne'Zame was unhappy.

"A whole blasted
year
on Liad," she grumbled to herself while the pilot part of her mind got on with the commonplaces of board calibration, vector analysis, coord check, and velocity match.

"I'm certain it's very nice that the Clan now has a fine healthy daughter to replace me, if and when my luck runs out," she continued, relishing the feel of the tantrum, "but I do think a year of my life is excessive. Stupid custom anyway, contract-marriage. Archaic. We have the technology; why not just have the Speakers negotiate among themselves for the genes and then grow the damn kids in jars? Let everyone else get on with things."

The board stuttered, then steadied: coords locked in. Her eyes flicked to the peripherals, anticipating the glow of the aqua go-stud indicating Tower's permission to depart.

Instead, the orange lit, concurrent with a muted chime.

Her right forefinger touched the connect. "Ne'Zame."

"Lieutenant Shadia? Delight of my night, were you going to leave without farewell? My heart is broken. Belike I'll die of it."

In spite of herself she grinned. "Clonak ter'Meulen, you hoary fraud."

"No one knows me like you, my sweet, my chernubia. My heart is at your feet, battered as it is. Care for my daughter, swear, do I die of your cruelty."

"Clonak, your daughter's older than I am!"

"Does that mean she needs no care? But I grow maudlin. No doubt I'll survive the damage, though I shall never altogether recover."

"I'm trembling in shame," she told him, though in fact it was repressed mirth. "Is there a purpose to this tying up of the airwaves and delay of my departure, or did you merely wish to chat?"

"Ah, the advantages of honored senility! But, yes, now that you bring it to mind, there was a reason for the call. When you complete your assignment, child, report to Auxiliary Headquarters on Nev'lorn and place yourself at the disposal of the commander there."

She sighed. "I suppose you have that in some sort of official form?"

"Transmission completed and locked to your filecomp. Will I see you again, Night's Delight?"

"How do I know? Are you going to be on Nev'lorn in a relumma?"

"For you, even Nev'lorn."

She laughed. "Farewell, Clonak. May your broken heart soon mend!"

"Farewell, Lieutenant Shadia. I doubt it. Clearance coming through—now. Jump at will, and the luck be with you!"

"And with you, old friend." She cut the connection, slapped the go-stud, and hit the sequence:
Jump!

Leaning back in her chair, she blinked at the Jump-grayed screens and caught herself on the edge of a reminiscent chuckle.

An entire year on Liad, she thought, resuming her tirade. And then what? Return to the Scouts, ready—eager—to go out again; wanting nothing better than to fling myself out into the vast Uncharted, for the glory of Liad and a much-needed rest . . .

"Scout Lieutenant, First In, Shadia Ne'Zame," her orders had read, "upon return to active duty will, for the next three months Standard, occupy herself with observation of Interdicted Planets (list appended), tagging for pickup any and all flotsam of a possibly technological nature, listening and noting significant cultural advances or declines . . ."

"The
garbage run?"
she had demanded of the captain behind the desk.

He had shrugged elaborately. "Somebody has to do it." His comm had chimed then, and he had turned away, leaving Shadia to stew and finally walk away. Orders were orders, after all . . .

And now Clonak ter'Meulen and his sheer nonsense, with orders to report to Aux 'quarters when the garbage run was finished. Faint hint of some action there. Shadia allowed herself a smile and wondered if he would be on Nev'lorn, after all.

"Aged Ones, I regret most deeply that I have found no cause to change my opinion." There was no artwork upon the walls here, and the conference table was of unadorned steel. Grom Trogar folded his hands upon the cold surface and met the eyes of the one called Edger.