Steel Sky (12 page)

He sighs. “I just had to do something, you see? I couldn’t let it happen again.”

The Deathsman nods, his lips pursed, bony head bouncing on its long neck. “You see death as a failure, something to be shunned at all costs. But there is another viewpoint, Edward. In the Brotherhood, we look at death as something glorious. We consider the moment of death — what we call the
terminus
— to be the quintessential summation of a man’s life. Whether he departs this world at peace, or in a rage, or in sorrow, is a testament to his life as a whole. It is a moment of unalloyed truth, and it is our duty to encourage our client’s fullest expression.

“Edward, none of us live forever. And if people allowed themselves awareness of the shortness of their lives, then maybe they would make more of them.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t see things that way.”

“Our interests are not in conflict, Edward. They are complementary. My duty begins where yours leaves off.”

CONTRADICTION IN TERMS

“Amarantha! By Koba’s eyes, you look lovely!” Second Son says, clapping his hands on Amarantha’s shoulders. Cadell takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to peel Second Son’s hands away. Fortunately, Second Son releases her before the urge becomes uncontrollable. Personal space is highly valued in the Hypogeum and is not violated lightly.

“How are you, my dear?” he asks as she moves away a bit to click idents.

“Cadell and I are doing quite well, thank you.”

Second Son is wearing a gigantic cape with multicolored pinions that swing pendulously as he turns to face Cadell. “Hello,” he murmurs.

“That’s quite a costume,” Cadell says with a smile.

“Yes.” Second Son looks at Cadell blankly. Cadell can see that only bluster has carried Second Son this far and now he is stuck. Cadell almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

“Where’s your fiancée?” Amarantha asks.

“In a few days we’ll be seeing each other every day for the rest of our lives. No need to overdo it now.” Second Son smiles weakly, seemingly glad for an excuse to stare at Amarantha again. His mouth hangs open with undisguised hunger.
What
, Cadell wonders,
did Amarantha ever see in this man, to have dated him even once?

“We’re very happy for you, Second Son,” Amarantha says, “A good marriage is a treasure, my mother used to say.”

“Huh. My mother used to say that a good marriage is a contradiction in terms.”

An awkward pause follows. Cadell can almost hear Second Son trying to think of what to say next.

A bass voice over their shoulders breaks the silence. “Thraso spotted his good friends Cadell and Amarantha,” the voice booms. “He went over to greet them.”

Cadell steps aside to let Thraso, one of the senior Rakehells, join the circle. “He said his hellos to them both,” Thraso says, taking Amarantha’s hand in his, “lingering over the beautiful Amarantha, who was looking especially radiant.”

“Thank you . . . I think,” Amarantha says, casting a quick, questioning look at Cadell.

“Thraso has decided to narrate his memoirs,” Cadell explains. “Continuously.”

“Everything they said was being recorded,” Thraso says, patting a small box clipped to his hip. Thraso has a long, unhandsome face made beautiful by sharp eyes and full, curved lips. “His friends thought it was an excellent idea. The life of one destined for greatness deserved to be meticulously documented.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Amarantha says, smiling over her drink.

“Thraso greeted Second Son,” Thraso says. “He complimented Second Son on his outrageous outfit, although privately he thought it was in questionable taste.”

“Huh? What did you say?” Second Son sputters.

“They made small talk for a while,” Thraso announces, “and then Thraso told Cadell he had some important information to discuss. In private.”

Cadell looks questioningly at Amarantha, who shrugs.

“The others moved away politely,” Thraso says.

Second Son bounces forward and puts his hand on Amarantha’s shoulder. “Let’s give them a moment,” he says, turning her away. Cadell marvels at his daring. If anyone else tried to touch her like that, Amarantha would take his hand off at the wrist. She would probably do it to Second Son, too, he realizes. She is being polite for Cadell’s sake, because she knows how important it is to him that she not antagonize someone so well-connected.

Thraso takes Cadell’s arm and they move in the opposite direction. “Amarantha is a remarkable woman, Thraso said.”

“I know,” Cadell says, looking backward briefly.

“Actually, Thraso said, I like you better since you met her.”

Cadell nods. Other people have said the same thing. “We’re good for each other. I’m very lucky.”

“Thraso hoped that one day he, too, would be so lucky and find such a woman for himself.”

Cadell smiles. Thraso’s predilections do not run toward women. “I like your outfit,” Cadell says, to change the subject.

Thraso is dressed in an almost featureless trapezoid, running from wide, starched shoulders down to ankle cuffs. Skin-tight sleeves protrude from the front.

“Thraso thanked him,” Thraso says, “but wondered to himself if Cadell was truly sincere, or if he was merely flattering.”

Cadell thinks about it. “I don’t really know which it is.”

“Thraso laughed,” Thraso says without laughing. “That was the best kind of flattery — when even the flatterer himself did not know if he was lying or not.”

Cadell looks at his feet. Thraso’s remark has hit a sore point. Cadell considers Thraso a good friend, but what if Thraso were not his superior, if it were not to his advantage to be his friend? He doesn’t know.

Thraso puts his arm around Cadell’s shoulder. “Thraso liked Cadell,” he says. “His honesty amused him.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“The time for chitchat had passed,” Thraso announces, looking up at the ceiling. “Thraso looked his friend in the eye and told him that he had decided to make him one of Thraso’s personal lieutenants.”

Cadell stops short. “Really?”

“It was primarily a ceremonial title, Thraso reminded him, but it looked great on a resumé.”

“Thank you, Thraso. I don’t know what to say.”

“Thraso shook his hand and congratulated him.”

HISTORY LESSON

At the other end of the hall, Dancer is being toasted by friends and strangers. After each toast, someone else offers another. Dancer raises her glass and drinks, her smile growing less gracious each time. Her mind is spinning from the shampagne, and her new earshells are so large they threaten to throw her off balance every time she turns her head. The toasts keep coming, even from those people who know how much Dancer and her brother despise each other. Dancer watches these people with a cold eye, remembering them. Finally she manages to convince the crowd to let her go. They applaud again as she slips off.

In a corner, her current lover, a whip-thin man in a black velour cover-up, is waiting for her.

“By the Stone,” she says, “what a bore this is.” Unceremoniously she sits on the floor. A stitch pops in her tight, scarlet dress.

He smiles, still leaning against the wall. “People are such idiots.”

“You know,” she says, “it reminds me of a story I heard once about Koba, back when he was at the height of his power. Every time he gave a speech before the Assembly, they gave him a standing ovation. Koba would usually listen for a while, then silence them with a wave of his hand.

But one time, for some reason, he just stood there while they applauded. He gave no signal to stop. So the people clapped and clapped. They clapped for five centichrons, then ten, then fifteen. Their arms began to ache, and they looked at each other nervously, but
no one wanted to be the first to stop
. So they kept on clapping. By this time their hands were red and sore, but they kept clapping. Finally, after twenty-five centichrons, one man stopped. Everyone around him stopped clapping and they all sat down, exhausted.

“The next day Koba had that man taken away and hanged.”

“Cheery story.” Her lover slides down beside her and puts his arm around her. “I have an idea. What do you say you and I forget all this nonsense and go off and have a little fun?”

She looks him in the eye and strokes his cheek. “What do I say?” She moves her hand down, placing her thumb and middle finger against the nerve clusters below his jaw, and squeezes hard. Her lover makes a strange noise and backs away along the wall. “You are never to touch me in public,” Dancer says. “I’ve told you that.”

He nods as much as the pressure on his neck will allow.

“Haven’t I?” she asks in a low voice.

“Gyesh. Yesh, you have.”

“You are a convenience. An accessory. Do you understand?”

“Quite.” He tilts his head to one side, trying to relieve the pressure. “In the intresht of not doing any permanent damage, perhapsh you should let me go now.”

She releases him.

He rubs his neck and wiggles his fingers in his ears. “By Koba,” he says breathlessly. “You’re incredible.”

She smiles.

SIDE PASSAGE

“What do you suppose Thraso wants to talk to him about?” Amarantha asks.

“I think he’s telling him they’ve made him a lieutenant,” Second Son replies smoothly.

Amarantha has worked herself away from Second Son’s hand and is staying away by keeping a step ahead of him. She stops abruptly. “That’s wonderful!” she says.

“I understand it means a lot to him.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Amarantha says. “He thinks the Rakehells are the way to a big position in the Prime Medium. He wants to be rich and have a domus in the Chandelier.”

Second Son moves closer to her. “What do
you
want?” he asks.

Amarantha backs away reflexively. “I want whatever he wants.” But the truth is, she finds Cadell’s promotion very exciting. How jealous her friends will be when she tells them!

“This promotion will help,” Second Son says. “The Prime Medium looks to the Rakehells first when they want new blood.”

“But how did you know about the promotion?”

Second Son smiles strangely. “Well, actually, I had something to do with it.” His breath is heavy and moist.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, uh . . .” Second Son glances at a camera just around the corner. “Here. Step over here,” he says motioning her in the other direction.

She follows him around the corner. Suddenly she realizes they have wandered into one of the quiet side passages. Dust motes swim in beams of light from the narrow window.

“I asked my father to put in a good word for him.” Second Son’s breathing has grown more rapid. The pinions on his cloak bounce around him, casting comical shadows.

“Why?”

“I did it for you,” Second Son says. His hand darts out to grasp hers. “I thought maybe you might show me some appreciation.”

She pulls her hand away. Only a sudden sense of danger stops her from slapping him. “Is that what this is all about?” She realizes Second Son has positioned himself between her and the way they came in. Is it deliberate, or is she just being paranoid? “I told you to forget about me. Why don’t you listen?”

“How can I listen to those words when I want you so much?”

The look in his eyes — crafty and needy at the same time — makes anger bubble up inside her. “Is that supposed to be sweet talk, Hump? Because if it is, it’s pretty pathetic.”

He grabs her hand again, harder this time. His teeth show and his eyes form narrow slits. “Damn it, you can’t talk to me that way . . .”

“You inbred cretin!” She tries to pull her hand away again, but this time he won’t let go. “Don’t you understand I don’t want you?”

“You know, I told myself you’d say yes,” he says in a low voice, “but I think it’s actually better this way.”

Amarantha yanks her hand free and turns to run, but the way out is suddenly blocked by four young men in black and green uniforms. The emblem of the Orcus family, a stylized eye crossed by a sword, is embroidered on each man’s sleeve.

Second Son grips her shoulders and pushes her, so that she stumbles against the men. Two of them grab her arms and throw her against the wall. She struggles against their grips, but they are much bigger than she is. As her head hits the plastic, she looks upward briefly and notices something unusual. In the center of the ceiling there is a small black hole, an empty socket where a camera should be. It takes her a moment to recognize the significance of its absence.

“You bastard!” she screams. “You fucking bastard!” Panic rises in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Second Son glances around. “For Koba’s sake,” he says, “cover her mouth!”

A calloused hand closes over Amarantha’s mouth. Frantically she tries to suck in as much air as she can through her nostrils. It isn’t enough.