The Phoenix in Flight (49 page)

“... then it should blend into savory as you consider the
intermingling of spices and the broth base...” Montrose went on, still looking
soulfully upward.

Osri gritted his teeth. Then there was the pirate’s
pleasant, helpful tone as if his perforce assistant were the most eager of
volunteers. Not once had Osri’s most acrid sarcasm brought any reaction but a
smile and an expansive answer.

“And last... the pure taste of the sweet
phraef
wine.
Ahhh. Don’t you agree?”

“Certainly better than those it’s intended for,” Osri
muttered, curling his lip.

Montrose’s wide, bearded face took on a long-suffering look.
“I begin to fear you are hopeless, and I am wasting valuable time on a
lead-tongued oaf. The
chzchz
herb was too strong and upset the balance
of the second level. Never mind—it’s not completely ruined. Get back to your
pastry dough, and remember: rhythm! Rhythm!” He grinned. “You would hate to get
to the eighth kneading and discover that you must begin again.” Montrose pulled
out a synth and set it across his lap. “I shall favor you with inspirational
music to help you gain your rhythm.” Shutting his eyes, he began playing, his
thick fingers dancing across the keyboard as a complicated melody filled the
air.

Osri trod heavily across the little galley, cursing under
his breath. A loud, rusty rumbling sound, not unlike a mowing machine badly out
of adjustment, announced the presence of the second worst horror he’d found
aboard this Telos-forsaken pesthole.

“Get away, you disgusting beast,” he snarled at the huge cat
that appeared atop a storage cubicle. Its cream-colored fur was short and
sleek, faintly striped with brown on head and ears, paws and tail.

The wedge-shaped head lifted, and its slightly crossed eyes
fixed on Osri, the pale blue of glacier ice. The rumble increased in volume.
The cat leapt to the floor and butted against Osri, its tail high, the big head
wiping back and forth behind Osri’s knee, making his leg buckle. It obviously
loved music—and conversation.

“Keep your foul hair away from my food,” Osri snapped at the
cat. “Begone!” He waved his chopping knife at it.

The cat’s blue eyes widened. It opened a mouth full of
needle-sharp white teeth and emitted a loud sound not unlike one of a
lawn-tender sheering through a rock, then rubbed harder against his leg. The
animal, it appeared, loved insults even more.

Montrose chuckled and continued to play, without pause or
error, a series of brilliant, complex compositions. Osri had no particular
talent for music, but his Douloi education had equipped him to recognize at
least one of them as originating on Lost Earth before the Exile. The cat
provided a percussive accompaniment with its loud purr.

Muttering heartfelt imprecations, Osri braced his weight
against the cat’s ministrations and slapped the lumpy white dough onto the
kneading board.

Barrodagh paced with his lord along the gravel walkway that wound
past tall hedges and nodding, graceful trees.

The gardens were just as the now-imprisoned Panarch would
have experienced them, save for an infrequent rusty stain on the path
underfoot, the last signs of the resistance that had met the invaders when Arthelion
fell.

Except for the smell. From time to time the stench of boiled
seaweed and fish overwhelmed the scents of flowers and herbs, a reminder of
Eusabian’s destruction of the nearby bay during his triumphal descent in the
Fist
of Dol’jhar.
Other times there was the sharp smell of urine, the ubiquitous
stench of those damned dogs, causing Barrodagh to hold his breath.

That stink was a reminder that the Avatar’s will that the
dogs be destroyed had not been carried out. Aside from the poison, only one had
been killed, and that by one of the chuqaths now roaming the sub-level sector
where the prisoners were housed.

Unfortunately, one of the chuqaths had also savaged a work
party that the Palace commander Jesserian had sent to extend the wired access points
around the detention area. When Barrodagh complained about losing two of his
increasingly over-scheduled techs, Jesserian had reminded him that security in
that area was highest priority. As if Barrodagh could possibly have forgotten.

Barrodagh sighed silently. A concern for side effects was
not part of the Dol’jharian character—that was the province of their minions.

Breaking the peace in the distance came the sound of heavy
machinery and faint curses from laboring men. Close by the only sounds were the
crunch of gravel underfoot, the susurration of a gentle breeze, and the
chattering of unseen birds. At a careful distance, two black-liveried Tarkans
followed them.

As they walked Eusabian looked around, his arms swinging
uncharacteristically free at his sides, his face relaxed. His long strides made
no allowance for anyone shorter than he, forcing Barrodagh to scuttle alongside
crab-like, trying to keep his eyes on his master’s face.

“Rifellyn has finally managed to normalize the Node’s
navigational functions,” he continued. “They have reestablished normal traffic
patterns. Trade is resuming, and the discriminators are back up, enabling us to
detect and intercept anomalous entries. Juvaszt has requested and will be
receiving additional reinforcements to protect Arthelion from any Panarchist
thrust, and I have directed Jesserian to continue enhancing the local Palace
defenses with mobile projectors, since the defense systems are still
non-functional due to the doomsday word the Panarchists triggered.”

Barrodagh was able to pause and catch his breath when
Eusabian stopped to examine a statuary group of several people struggling in
the coils of a giant serpent. Their faces were heavily weathered and blurred,
but the agony instilled in them by the sculptor was still clear. A sign on a
black metal post nearby identified it, but Eusabian didn’t spare that a glance.

“Entili mi dirazh ’ult kai panarch,”
murmured the
Lord of Vengeance, his gaze traveling slowly down the statue.
Thus did my
curse entangle the Panarch.
Then he tilted his head back to the bright sun,
his eyes slitted with pleasure, and stretched luxuriously, knitting his hands
together and turning his palms out.

Barrodagh watched nervously. Ever since their landing on
Arthelion, Eusabian’s moods had been impossible to predict.

“The sun of this world is warm and pleasant,” said Eusabian.
“My ancestors chose badly, it seems.”

Barrodagh looked around, unsure how to respond. That was an
unlikely comment from the Avatar of Dol, whose authority in part devolved from
his identification with the eponymic father of his race. Dol’jhar was the gift,
or grant, of Dol, given to harden his people against the demonic forces that
had driven them out of their original paradise. Barrodagh was sure that
Eusabian didn’t believe those myths any more than he did, but that his lord
should unbend enough to make such a comment was a measure of the changes his
successful vengeance was effecting in him.

Eusabian laughed. “Don’t worry, my little Bori, there’s no
one to hear.” Then he bent forward, his hands on his knees, looking at
something at the base of the statue. “What is this?”

A rough piece of simple granite lay in the grass in the
shadow of the marble agony above, its face smoothed and engraved with four
short phrases.

“‘Ruler of all, ruler of naught, power unlimited, a prison
unsought,’” read Eusabian aloud. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a
roaring explosion of hilarity unlike anything Barrodagh had heard from him
before. “Ruler of naught!” He chortled, wiping his eyes. “How appropriate! Did
he ever see it as the prediction it was, I wonder?”

His chuckling died away slowly. “A prison unsought...”

He turned. Barrodagh repressed a pang of alarm.
He’s in a
good mood. There’s nothing to fear.

“How long until an escort can be spared?”

“We estimate between thirty and sixty days, Lord. Gehenna
lies well off toward the Rift.”

Eusabian frowned at the Palace behind them. Barrodagh held
his breath, remembering the interview in the Throne Room. Barrodagh still did
not know what to make of that interview, for all that he’d had over three weeks
to think about it. He had finally been unable to invent any more excuses to
avoid reentering that huge ice hall of a Throne Room. When he had, he’d not
found the pulped body he’d expected; Gelasaar had been alive still, under the
jacs of white-lipped guardsmen, and Eusabian had been nowhere in sight. Nor had
there been any more mysterious lights.

The Avatar had not asked about the Panarch since.

Thinking to distract his lord, Barrodagh spoke. “The
Satansclaw
is due soon. He has the Gnostor Omilov aboard, along with all of his
collected artifacts. I have Lysanter standing by aboard the
Fist of
Dol’jhar.
He will shuttle over to the ship as soon as it arrives, to
identify the Heart of Kronos.”

Eusabian nodded, still frowning. “You will also go to the
Satansclaw,
to supervise the inspection. Bring the gnostor back with you.”

Barrodagh’s heart sank.
Another shuttle flight.

“The
Satansclaw
is the ship that forced the third
heir into the gas giant, is it not?” continued the Avatar. At Barrodagh’s nod
he added, “Bring the ship’s captain, too—”

A loud clanking roar accompanied by impassioned cursing
interrupted Eusabian and spun them both around. The hedge behind the statue
exploded outward in a shower of foliage as a mobile plasma projector bounded
through the opening, trailing a comet tail of conscripts in gray. The man in
the cannon’s control pod yanked desperately at the steering gear and pounded
the console, while another conscript clung to the front of it, trying
desperately to pull her legs up away from the ground-effect skirt.

Dust and shattered branches pelted Barrodagh and Eusabian,
stinging their eyes. The two Tarkan guards who had originally accompanied them
ran up, their weapons ready, then stopped in confusion, seeing no enemies, only
conscripts.

The cannon slewed wildly as the driver caught sight of the
Lord of Vengeance. Its barrel whipped around and clipped off the head of one of
the figures on the statue, which bounced across the ground to Eusabian’s feet
and came to rest, staring up at him with accusing eyes.

The cannon slid sideways several feet as the sound of its
engines slid up the scale toward inaudibility, then, with a shattering bang, it
ejected a cloud of greasy black smoke from its underside and fell with a heavy
thump to the ground.

Barrodagh looked down at himself in distress. The death
throes of the plasma cannon had showered him with oily black smuts. His clothes
were ruined. With a gasp he looked up at Eusabian. He couldn’t read his lord’s
expression through the mask of oil that obscured it, but his teeth showed
slightly between thinned lips. Barrodagh stifled a snort of hysterical laughter
and managed to turn it into a cough.

The conscript atop the cannon scrambled down and flung
himself headlong before Eusabian’s feet. The two Tarkans twitched, their
weapons ready, as more Tarkans ran up behind them. Eusabian threw up a hand to
restrain them. The conscripts stared at their lord in terror, unmoving.

The tableau stilled as Eusabian turned to Barrodagh. “Is
this an example of the defenses you are emplacing to guard me?” There was an
unfamiliar narrowing in his eyes. At another time Barrodagh would have called
it humor—the cold humor that was all Eusabian had ever permitted himself in
Jhar D’ocha.

Now Barrodagh was confused and frightened by his inability
to read the Avatar’s emotions.
It’s not fair,
his mind wailed.
Now
that he’s got what he wanted, everything’s changing.

He replied, bowing deeply, “No, Lord, it is an example of
total incompetence.” He kicked the groveling conscript. “Explain yourself!”

The only answer was an unintelligible mumble.

“Speak up!”

“The conscript looked up, addressing himself to Eusabian.
“Lord, we have had no time... we are unfamiliar with the Panarchist
equipment... it is very old...”

“Excuses are unacceptable,” Barrodagh shouted.

Eusabian turned away, an expression of boredom lengthening
his face. “Deal with this yourself.” He started back to the Palace, followed by
the bodyguards. Then he halted. “And make sure the statue is repaired
perfectly.”

He disappeared around a curve in the path. The ease of
relief released Barrodagh’s fear, and with it, the boiling anger that had been
building ever since their landing. This never would have happened on Dol’jhar.
Discipline had eroded to the level of incompetence.

There was nothing Barrodagh could do about the mysteries of
computers and the elusiveness of dogs, but incompetence, he could deal with. He
looked down at the conscript, smiling with anticipation. “We both know the
penalty for ineptitude, don’t we, hmmm?” he asked. “Especially when it causes a
failure so spectacular.”

The man looked up at him mutely, hope visibly fading.

Barrodagh enjoyed the panicky way the rest of the guards
avoided his gaze.
Now maybe we will see some tightening up.
But he had
to make certain they would remember.

He was distracted by a soft chattering hum. A short distance
off, an automated mower floated across the lawn, a faint bluish light flickering
from underneath its fairing as its energy fields sheared the grass and returned
it to the earth as finely chopped mulch.

“Yes,” he said, angry joy filling him with righteous
anticipation. “That will do just fine.” He motioned to the two nearest conscripts.
“Take your knives and pin his hands and feet to the ground over there.” The man
at his feet gasped in sudden comprehension and tried to scramble away as the
man and woman Barrodagh had singled out came over reluctantly and grabbed him,
their faces tight.