The Alliance (18 page)

“You’re worried.”

“Of course. So’s Gabrielle, but Jack’s a man now.”
Karrel always allowed her more license than the others and this made his warning absolute. She mustn’t interfere, even if it was hard.

* * * *

“Damn.” The thirtieth day since he left the rookery had begun badly.

The clay beaker had tipped over, spilling the tiny trickle that remained of his water ration for the day. He’d been saving it for the dawn. He glanced at the small keg containing the rest of his water, tempting himself, but looked away again. He didn’t know how far beyond the southern horizon the land lay. Not being able to sail by day made it difficult, but he was too close to the trading routes now. One look would tell them he was no local, and boat stealing was a capital crime here, with unpleasant methods of execution.

He’d been lucky so far, but the sun had lightened the eastern horizon. It was time to go into daylight mode before some eager lookout spotted the sail.

He let the boat come up into the wind and dropped the weathered lugsail, stowing it under the half deck. Another five minutes to unship the stumpy mast and lash it to the deck and then five more to drape the nets over the boat, destroying its outline, and he was ready for the day. A trading schooner would have to come close before they recognized what they saw. It was too rough to flood the boat enough to lower its profile, so he’d spend a dry day for a change.

His chances of reaching the Treaty Port undetected were slim, but there was no point worrying. He needed sleep. He folded the sail into a bed, laid down, and fell asleep within minutes.

The water sloshing around in the boat woke him in the late afternoon. The weather had turned nasty, the wind shifting foul, carrying him east and into the main trading route. A heavy ocean swell signaled the existence of another storm beyond the northern horizon, similar to the one that had almost taken his life a week ago.

“Damn.” He allowed himself only this one word, because it was too easy to fall into meaningless profanity in the stress of a mission.

The horizon was clear, so he had choices. Raise the sail and run across the trade route, hoping to avoid anyone he spotted, or point this unwieldy tub as high into the wind as she’d go and hope the leeway didn’t carry him east, or ship the oars and row all night. None was attractive, but which one was the safest?

A higher swell lifted the boat, and he glimpsed the spike of a mast to the southeast. He had no choice. The oars it was. The schooner could be heading for the western archipelago, which would bring it dangerously close. He bent his back, pulling lustily.

An hour later, things grew worse. There was a black and white pennant streaming from the mast. The schooner belonged to the Pontiff.

A glance over his shoulder at the sun told him there was at least another hour before the short tropical twilight. The schooner would be on him well before dark. They hadn’t seen him yet, still holding their course. He’d play the game out to the end, but there’d be no mercy if he failed.

He lashed the useless oars to the thwart and pulled out the bung in the bottom of the boat. He had one more trick to play. The water flooded in and he helped it, bucketing more over the stern so the boat sank perceptibly until the waves were slopping over the transom. One last check to make sure he’d lashed everything in place, then he replaced the bung as the boat slid down into the bottom of a trough between two swells and used his full weight to drive the transom beneath the surface.

The water poured in, the bow rose, and the boat slid backwards under the water until the air trapped under the half deck stopped it. He dove deep, grasped the transom, and taking advantage of the slope of the approaching wave, tipped the boat end for end so it lay like a half submerged rock, supported by the air trapped under the hull. There was just time to cover the hull with the net and lash it in place before the masthead of the schooner appeared over the top of a distant swell and remained visible. He covered his head with a fold of netting and waited.

He only needed a bit of luck and a slack lookout.

* * * *

Rachael knew he was still free. The days became weeks since she’d found herself a prisoner in the temple, her attempts to leave blocked. The Federation would do nothing to help, so she stayed, waiting for his capture to release her—or sign her death warrant. It was galling, being dependent, and the Pontiff terrified her with his veiled threats.

“No guests for you today,” the priest said smugly. “You’re the only one again. The other girls are all busy.”

It was no accident. The Pontiff controlled the release of tokens. He was holding her incommunicado.

“I’ll walk in the gardens,” she said, pushing the limits of her confinement.

“Of course,” the priest agreed. “The guards will ensure you are not disturbed.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be glad of their company.” She’d give him no pleasure. “They can wait outside till I’m ready.” Turning away and strolling back inside was a hollow victory, but she felt grateful for it.

No temple gown, no wig, a simple linen shift and a wide shady hat were the outfit she chose, and the garden welcomed her. The freshly turned earth smelled good, and the flowers assailed her with perfumes she’d ignored in the past. Even the crunch of the guards’ sandals on the gravel paths sounded crisp and fresh.

The Pontiff watched, sensing her mood and smiling. The spacer was better than he’d expected, drawing more and more resources to the search, but his capture was inevitable. They’d found his eyrie on the island and deduced its purpose. He was navigating his way back to the Treaty Port, and the search was concentrating on the approaches. No boat would slip through the net. He was doomed.

“Holy Father,” one of his scribes said.

“Yes.”

“They’ve found his boat, capsized and abandoned. The sailing master thinks it done deliberately, the hull draped with nets to hide it. They searched the area until darkness, but found nothing.”

“It was not one of the schooners with the communication device?”

“No. It reported via coast station,” the scribe said. “The sailing master brought it close enough to report by semaphore, and they passed the message here.”

The Pontiff was not convinced. “Mobilize a full search of the area, calling in all reserves. Signal the sailing master to stand off into deep water and search the vessel thoroughly.”

“Already done, Holy Father. I anticipated your needs.” The scribe, Lothar, smiled.

The Pontiff studied the tonsured lackey. He’d shown unusual foresight. “Your bloodline?” he demanded.

“A fourth removed from your predecessor, Holy Father.” The tonsured head bowed without humility.

This might be a way of strengthening the bloodline. “Sisters?”

“Three, Holy Father.”

“Bring them to the palace the day after tomorrow.”

“Two are wed, Holy Father.” The man was uncomfortable in providing obstacles to what he sensed the Pontiff intended.

“Bring them all.”

“Of course, Holy Father.” He bowed low and backed away.

“Wait. Show me on the map where the boat was found and where the schooner reported.”

The scribe scurried across to the wall map and indicated both locations with a long pointer.

“He’s done well.” The admission carried a grudging admiration and triggered a sharp glance from the scribe. “Within a hundred miles of his goal and through two rings of searchers. What will he do next?”

“Surely, he’s dead,” the scribe ventured, apparently surprised into comment.

“Bring me his body and I’ll believe it. Until then we focus on these areas.” The pontiff took the pointer and described two arcs protecting the Treaty Port. “Have the Federation officials attend me the day after tomorrow.” He sensed the man’s disappointment and added, “...immediately after your sisters.”

Rachael felt tired by sundown. She’d spent the day combing the garden, climbing to the roof of the palace, walking the walls, exploring every avenue of escape until an exasperated guard let slip the possibility of an
auto-da-fe
. It was probably on the Pontiff’s instruction, for they did little on their own initiative, and that made it strike deeper. She’d seen
auto-da-fes
before and liked nothing about them. The night shadows intensified her fear, and she lay curled in a fetal ball on her couch, eyes tightly closed against the phantoms inhabiting her chamber, the guard’s final words echoing in her mind. “Heard there were going to be two. One an off-worlder,” he’d said. “No ritual strangling. Should be a great show.”

The context left no doubts who the main players would be, and announcing it suggested a degree of confidence on the Pontiff’s part. She didn’t want to die, and the prospect of the flames horrified her.

* * * *

The Pontiff smiled. Her restless search had been a background irritant on a day when nothing went right, and he’d quashed it out of petulance rather than any logical reason. The spacer was still free and absorbing more and more resources as he came closer to the Treaty Port.

He didn’t want to rely on the Federation officials handing him over, but his cupboard grew a little bare. The troublesome Elite had eluded capture too, tying up more men, and all he had left was the guard contingent of the palace. He felt reluctant to commit them. They weren’t particularly effective in the field and it would leave the palace vulnerable. Keeping up appearances was everything in maintaining power and the rumors surrounding this spacer had grown to threaten the illusion of omnipotence that underpinned this regime. He must capture the spacer for public execution—the girl with him—so they could concentrate on the Alliance agent.

Without looking up, he said, “Scribe.” He knew the guard would pass on the summons.

“Yes, Holy Father.” The answer from the corner of the room surprised him. He’d not sensed the man’s presence.

“What are the latest reports?”

“All negative, Holy Father.” He heard a rustle of parchment. “Do you wish me to ask for updates?”

Something about this scribe disturbed him. “Come into the light.”

“Yes, Holy Father.” The figure came forward willingly and stood so the candlelight illuminated his face.

The Pontiff studied him, every sense alert to any discordance. No one had ever managed to approach before without his knowledge. Apart from an expression of alert interest, the man’s face was guileless, and he sensed nothing in his mind but a formless hope that his sisters would please the Pontiff.

“How long have you been in my service?”

“Twenty years, Holy Father. I was promoted to your personal staff six months ago.” He looked pleased with himself, and the Pontiff felt his ambition. It made him smile. This simple man could be trusted to serve his own interests first. His single-mindedness was the key to escaping detection. His thoughts faded into the background noise because they never varied.

A little encouragement never went astray. “You’ve done well. Continue to do so, and you will reap your reward.”

“Thank you, Holy Father.” The scribe bowed and stepped back into the darkness.

It was some time before the Pontiff remembered he hadn’t dismissed him, and by then, he wasn’t sure if his memory were at fault.

* * * *

Anneke went looking for her father. He, Karrel, and the absent Jean-Paul had this infuriating ability of disappearing whenever they chose. Everyone else remained beacons in her mind, and she could track them without thought. Father and sons were different, all elusive.

Peter stepped out from shrubbery leading to the beach. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes. I’ve lost track of Jack.”

“I seem to recall asking you not to interfere.” His tone sounded mild and a slight smile curved his lips so she knew he’d expected her to follow her nephew’s progress. Another frustrating aspect of her father was his ability to close his mind against intrusion, even against her mother, whom he worshipped.

“I want to go and see.”

“He’s doing what he was sent to do.”

Anneke changed tack rather than challenge her father’s authority directly. “What about Rachael?”

“She’s providing a distraction while Jack works.” He gave her piecemeal information and the opportunity to retreat.

“Where’s my brother?”

“Probably with his wife.” He sighed and shook his head at her. “Anneke, everything is going to plan. Have patience and let it happen. We can’t hurry things.”

“What’s your interest in Rachael?”

“You liked her enough to interfere. I wanted to know why.” Peter’s tone sounded mild.

Anneke remembered the shambles caused by Federation stupidity, Thanatos, and her desperate journey to help Rachael escape the sergeant. The commoners had so little time. It seemed tragic to cut it short.

She knew Peter. His motives were rarely simple. “Nothing else?”

“There was a Chinese proverb about saving another’s life. It claims you were responsible for them afterwards. It makes good psychological sense.”

Anneke sighed. Conversations with her father were minefields. Nothing was ever as it appeared, yet she remembered best his understanding when Jesse died, old age taking her husband. There’d been no shadow of his opposition to the match, just a boundless compassion absorbing her pain. “So, you’re sharing my responsibility.”