The Rifter's Covenant (26 page)

A sudden shove from
behind nearly sent her over the back of the seat, but she caught herself. On
one side a woman pressed against her. The woman’s clothing was moist where it
touched Fierin’s arm and the smell of stale sweat arose from her. Fierin turned
her head, only to feel on her face the warm breath—redolent of a spicy meal he
had eaten hours ago—of the tall man standing directly behind her. Fierin
clenched her teeth, fighting the urge to vomit—to run, clawing and kicking, for
the door.

She dared not move,
or even breathe deeply. Already there had been fights—and deaths—over the
Douloi distaste for proximate trespass.

Four more stops,
she told herself, her eyes closed. Control.
Control.

She held herself
rigidly still as the pod stopped again, and yet another, tighter press of
humanity jammed her hip painfully against the unyielding back of the seat. She
sucked in a breath, which was a mistake; a sense of suffocation grabbed her by
the throat. There’s no air in here, her senses yammered, while her mind tried
to reestablish control.

When the tube
stopped again, she cried sharply, “Leaving!”

There was no chance
to feel embarrassed at the shrillness of her voice; the people around her
pressed in to get her space, and she felt herself squeezed toward the door,
like something from a null-gee food tube.

The next moment the
pod was gone, and she stumbled past the people waiting for the next one. Soft,
musical murmurs recalled her to a sense of her surroundings. Douloi stood in an
orderly line to wait. A couple of faces were familiar, but her own lack of
control caused an uncertain reaction; when she encountered gazes they shifted
away.

On impulse Fierin
ran, slowing when she discovered herself in a park. And ahead—the Whispering
Gallery. She had heard about it, but had never ventured inside.

Breathing slowly of
the clean air, she walked straight for the modest doors. The rest of the
building, a graceful edifice of colored glass and verdigris alloys, was
cleverly hidden by vines and trees.

Then she stepped
inside. A cool rush of air bathed her hot face. She leaned against an
ivy-covered wall and forced her breathing to calm, the tianqi surrounding her
with the soothing scents of Downsider Early Spring, evoking rain, grassy
fields, clouds, and new blossoms.

And personal space.
It felt as though, were she to turn around and exit, she would step out into
the unconstrained horizons of a planet, rather than the enclosing curves of an
oneill.

A faint whisper of
voices from behind prompted her retreat, and she chose a pathway at random,
stopping short only when she came unexpectedly on a mirror.

She was shocked by
the image of a thin young woman in a grubby gown with bedraggled hair, and stark
eyes staring out of a mottled, stress-tight face. No wonder they looked away.

Watching herself
unblinkingly, she exerted control, straightening her back. Then she tucked and
twitched at her upswept hair, as she dared not pull the clasp free and risk
exposing the chip she now wore day and night.

She pressed her
palms slowly down the front of her gown, and studied her reflection. The
rumpled green gown could not be helped, but at least the gray eyes looking back
at her were not wild, the dark hair swept up in a graceful curve, and the
hectic flush slowly dying down under her smooth brown skin.

She turned away,
and another mirror threw a sudden flight of reflections outward; she turned
again and faced a wall of water, falling to below her feet. Light, glass,
mirrors, the soft fronds of hanging, clinging, draping greenery, led her deeper
into the maze.

Fierin became aware
of the occasional drift of voices, always without direction. After a time she
lost the sense of which images in the smooth walls were reflection, sometimes
multiplied by clever mirrors, and which were other visitors seen through clear
glass walls. Following impulse again, she chose a waiting bench tucked behind a
flowering tree, and leaned her head back against its mossy trunk.

Impulse. Her body
was now under control again, which sent her mind headlong down its own maze.
Impulse? How long had it been since she acted without thinking?

A fleeting return
of her earlier panic raced her heartbeat, but she pressed her palms together
and fought it back.

Was it really
impulse? She had not acted without careful thought since she was a child. Had
someone planted subtle leads to bring her into this place?

The hiss of sandals
passed as one, then another person passed beyond sight. Colors flickered in one
of the glass walls, and reflections shimmered across the mirrors.

“. . . dreadful
woman,” a female voice came distinctly from no discernible direction. “It
appears she really thinks that Jared’s interest will extend past the arrival of
the courier from Morigi.”

A man replied in a
tone of stinging amusement, “Sad, really, that anyone would want to retain
Jared ban-Ronescu’s interest.”

Another voice,
criticizing a party given the day before by the Archonei of Hulann, sounded
close. Fierin slipped over a little footbridge that spanned a rushing blue
stream, pushed past some ferns, and once again was confronted by mirrors.

“. . . if the new
Panarch will marry . . . .”

“It might be
amusing to watch.”

As the cool,
glass-and-greenery-bracketed maze swallowed Fierin ever more deeply, more snips
and scraps of gossip reached her. One bit shocked her with a familiar name as a
man murmured in a low, urgent voice, “Don’t believe anything Srivashti says,
but above all, don’t cross him . . . .” She tried to follow that voice, but took
a wrong turning, and the voices abruptly disappeared.

Faces reflected
through a glass wall—two women—then vanished like ghosts, leaving only the hush
of falling water.

As the clean,
fragrant air and the orderly angles of light calmed her physical self, so did
the restoration of some kind of order calm her mind.

It was only after
she regained a semblance of calm when it occurred to her that she had seen a
familiar graceful figure in a simple sky blue linen walking suit more than once.
Intrigued—and afraid, for she did not believe in coincidence any more than she
believed in impulse—she tried to follow, to be rewarded once with a glimpse of
elaborately dressed brown hair and fluttering panels of sky blue.

Abruptly she sought
one of the discreet console panels set at intervals along the paths. Tabbing
the single key, she looked about for the green come-along, then followed the
dancing wisp of light until she found herself once more at the entrance.

It was time to go
back to Srivashti’s yacht. She was already late; she dreaded being searched for
by Felton. That could only mean Srivashti was perturbed, and that meant . . . .

The thought made
her giggle horribly, a weird feeling that welled up from somewhere inside her
chest, and nearly erupted as a sob. She gasped, her ribs shuddering. She held
her breath, shocked by how little control she really had.

A familiar friendly
voice spoke behind her. “Shall I see you at the Masaud regatta this evening?”

Fierin could not
suppress a start, but she forced herself to turn slowly, to smooth her face.
“Aerenarch-Consort,” she said.

Vannis
Scefi-Cartano was actually shorter than Fierin, but her composure, her
exquisite carriage, gave her stature. The warm brown eyes, shadowed by thick
lashes, the high, smooth brow with its hint of humor in the arched brows, her
perfectly curved mouth all radiated kindness.

Vannis had
introduced the fashion for natural appearance at the Mandala; many had
whispered that she could well afford to, as she had been born with the perfect
heart-shaped face, crowed by the perfect hairline with the tiny dip in the
middle; her eyes and her hair were exactly the same luxurious rosewood brown,
the eyes with tiny highlights of green, her skin a shade lighter for perfect
contrast.

Fierin gazed at
her, stricken almost witless, and Vannis gazed back, startled at the stark
terror in Fierin’s face.

Her insides cramped
at the effort Fierin made to smile politely as she sketched a bow. “The day at
the crèche was long,” she said. “I—I don’t know.”

Vannis hesitated.

She knew better
than to exhibit the slightest interest in Tau Srivashti’s youngsters, but she
felt sorry for Fierin, who reminded her of a lost kitten.

She gestured toward
the lakeside. “Walk with me, Fierin. We’ve had little enough time to converse
since recent events overcame us.”

Fierin remembered Vannis’s
whispered warning about her brother, and all thoughts of Felton—and Srivashti’s
smiling cruelties when his will was crossed—fled.

Vannis was also
thinking of that episode, the impulse prompted by her anger at being
manipulated by Srivashti and his cabal in their attempt to force a government
onto Brandon. They had neatly sidelined her by using her as bait to decoy the
Aerenarch.

But that was past
history, and she knew that to interfere at all in Srivashti’s personal affairs
would be a serious misstep.

And yet. “I find
the Whispering Gallery a restful diversion,” Vannis said as a conversational
opening.

Fierin spread her
hands, noticed the tremble, and hid them among the folds of her skirt.
“It—after the crowds, it’s—” Her throat constricted; her voice would go shrill.
She clenched her teeth. Why couldn’t she get control of herself?

But Vannis was a
tapestry of courtesies, jeweled by wit. “This one is very much like the original
on Montecielo, where I grew up. I’m fascinated with the idea of an
ever-changing maze; no one ever figures it out.” She smiled. “It’s the best of
childhood games, but with an adult risk.”

The change of
subject steadied Fierin. “I’ve only been inside this once. People really do
talk frankly there?”

“They do,” Vannis
said. “For some, the novelty of being able to say what you think is delicious.
For others it is a release. But games must have a stake, carry a danger, or
they have no lure.”

I have no one to
talk to. I don’t dare, Fierin thought, her throat tightening again.

Vannis thought, She’s
terrified. And I know who is to blame. An echo of her own experience with
Srivashti pulsed, unwelcome, in the pit of her stomach and she looked out over
the placid lake waters, the color of pewter in the diminishing light, as she
said, “It has a peculiar history. The idea dates all the way back to Lost
Earth. In one region, apparently houses all carried spyvids, so when people
wished to talk politics, they had to walk outside, even though the climate was
deadly cold. In fact, some days it was so very cold, the air would conduct
sound to a remarkable degree; people could hear the whispers of other people
they could scarcely see. On Montecielo, the fashion has been for personal
discourse only, not political, which was merely dull. I expect that will change
here.”

Fierin drew a deep
breath. “Whichever carries the most risk, yes?”

Vannis smiled at
her. “Exactly right. Human nature never fails to surprise me even in its
familiarity. Our attraction to risk . . . certain kinds of risk, I should say.”

Fierin’s nerves,
attenuated to pain, flashed cold.

“In the Gallery,” Vannis
said slowly, for she sensed Fierin’s fragile control about to break. Did she
really want the consequences? An image of Srivashti’s merciless smile was followed,
disconcertingly, by an image of Brandon’s kindness toward that hapless Rifter
boy with the Kelly genome embedded in him. “In the Gallery,” she began again, “the
risk is merely diverting, protected as it is by anonymity—and devoid of
proximity. There are too many—proximate risks—in everyday encounters, don’t you
think?”

Fierin could not
stop herself from turning sharply to study Vannis.

The artfully
enhanced eyes were acute, but the lovely curved mouth carried no shadow of
triumph, or of malice. Vannis slid her slim, small hand over Fierin’s sleeve
and tucked it comfortingly in the crook of her elbow. “My villa lies over that
hill. Let us enjoy a pleasant walk, with something warm to drink at the end,”
she said, and they set out down the path.

Fierin’s manners
were excellent, her voice soft and pleasing as she commented on the beautiful
scenery, and on this or that social affair. With mild humor, Vannis
Scefi-Cartano noticed how carefully Fierin avoided all mention of the cabal or
the aftermath of its attempted coup.

It was meant as a
kindness, for which Vannis silently awarded due appreciation. The attempt
itself had been too public to hide; afterward Tau Srivashti, valorous as only
the heartless can be, had faced down waggling tongues with barbed comments and
dismissive gestures of his strong hands. Those who never would have dared to
try wresting a government unto themselves had been left admiring his careless
acceptance of defeat.

For most of the
cabal, the coup could be shrugged off as a game of chance, for they still had
left their titles, their considerable possessions, and even their social
standing.

For Vannis, new to
the prospect of a life of straitened obscurity, the defeat had engendered a
total change in focus. She often met the former members of the cabal, trading
smile for smile and bow for bow. She read in Srivashti’s remote air, and in
Hesthar’s spiky amusement, their condescending assumption that she had suffered
a defeat of which she was scarcely aware. The untruth of assumption she
regarded as another weapon in her growing arsenal.

“Was the Whispering
Gallery on Montecielo exactly like this one?” Fierin asked, bringing the
subject around once more.

“Alike in the glass
and mirrors, but the greens are vastly different, and we do not have the
exquisite mosaics here, which took nearly a hundred years to lay . . . .” All
her life until now had gone into social training, and Vannis could chat
inconsequentials with a small part of her mind, while her eyes gauged her
companion’s compressed breathing, and the greater part of her thoughts ranged
ahead, assessing, planning.