The Rifter's Covenant (48 page)

Nik laughed.
“That’s right, rub it in.” He could afford to concede that success to Derith;
they were in this together.

On the screen, the
image of the hall had dissolved to a vid of the trial of Yvan Tomulis, four
hundred years previous, populating the tall desk with three Justicials in their
ritual garb. The center judge stood, leaning over her desk and shaking a finger
at the defense vocat, lecturing her sternly. At the vocat’s quiet reply, the
jurist snatched up her golden mask and flung it at the other woman. Its sharp
edge cut the vocat’s forehead cruelly, but she replied in even tones, not
pausing to wipe at the blood streaming down
.
“I give you the words of Socrates, your honor: that you have amply proved the
true strength of your argument.”

The scene faded and
Nik’s story continued.

“Ooh! That was
double-edged,” Derith said admiringly.

“I’m not going to
be the Panarch’s lapdog,” said Nik. “Kendrian really does look guilty. But to
his credit, His Majesty is being discreet in his support.”

“Right,” Derith
replied with a laugh. “Discreet being the code word for covert exclusive.”

Nik shrugged.
“You’re complaining? But I still can’t figure why Ixvan is running the show
alone, unless he’s dug up something no one else could find fourteen years ago.”

At a desk nearby
they heard the sudden hiss of a brain-suck dose, followed by a harsh gasp.
Omplari went rigid over his console, his fingers racing across the pads as he
navigated the Net in the induced synesthesia of the drug.

“He’s going to kill
himself,” Derith muttered.

“He’d just go to
another feed if we take him off the stuff. All the runners say there’s some
spectacular deep mining going on, and the whole Net is starting to shake.” Nik
grimaced in frustration. “I just wish I could get my hands on whatever’s being
dug up. I have the feeling that the trial is the focus of it all, and the
biggest story of all is waiting there.”

“All things come to
they who dive,” Derith intoned, and then blew out her breath in a loud
raspberry noise. “If the Net is shaking that hard, all sorts of things are
going to rise to the surface belly-up.”

o0o

Vannis sat back,
her layered shanta-silk skirts rucked about her feet like seafoam. She observed
her reflection in a wall of polished volcanic stone: the single line of pearls
in her hair, threading the graceful twist of braids; the green-blue gown that
highlighted the green in her eyes; the pure, graceful curve from shoulder to
hip.

As always the
evidence of outer mastery steadied her inner control, and she turned her
attention to the cadenced flow of chatter around her. The musical part of the
evening was over and the guests had repaired to a number of small chambers to
converse, to observe one another conversing, and to nibble at the exquisite
food circulating unceasingly on trays borne by attractive young servitors.

It reminded Vannis
of the still surface of a pool—one that hid flesh-eating fish and jagged rocks.
Tensions evidenced in the placement of people: adversaries on opposite sides of
a room, certain subjects alluded to and then avoided, often with acid smiles;
the sudden fixity that indicated a boswell privacy—but that was evident only in
those imperfect in the art of dissembling.

Vannis knew she was
peerless at dissembling. Thus she could sit well posed in a chair that
artistically framed her, and think about other matters entirely.

Such as exactly what
her sudden wealth meant. It had been days now since she had windowed up her
credit rating to find that she had gone from near insolvency to virtually
limitless resources. There had been no message, and when she saw Brandon he did
not refer to it, yet she knew who had to be her benefactor.

They saw one
another frequently, though always at social gatherings. He talked to her of
music and history, but said nothing of politics or the silent struggle dividing
the Navy. She had found out, through one of the Masauds, of the Panarch’s
remarkable new habit: daily, at five in the morning it seemed, he joined some
of the officers in physical training.

“He just appeared
one day,” Oreic told a small group. “My cousin Efrain is posted on the
Norsendar
and saw it himself. Unmarked
jumpsuit, no bodyguard, stood in the back. Wouldn’t stand on rank. Every day,
no matter where he’s been the night before . . .”

Where had he been?
Vannis had been watching, and there was no one among the Douloi, male or
female, who had betrayed pride of possession. Interesting. Either he was
celibate, in which case why would he spend nights anywhere else, or someone was
much more adept at dissembly than she, but so far had not come forward to make
either social or political challenge.

Brandon would never
use his wealth or rank to create a personal sense of obligation, any more than
she wanted to make herself a pensioner. The best way to convince Brandon that
she would be a worthy kyriarch would be to show him. She only had to find the
appropriate means.

So she sat thinking
and listening for undercurrents as some of the younger heirs tried to impress
their elders by describing some new and risky game of chance they had invented
at one of the spin-axis emporia.

Then her boswell
tingled. She flexed her inner wrist and heard Brandon’s voice.
(Can you possibly get away and come to the
Enclave? We’ve achieved a breakthrough in the Kendrian case. You ought to be
here for the gloat.)

(I will leave within moments.)

(Don’t use the transtube. Jaim will meet
you.)

Beneath the jeweled
bodice of her gown her heart thrummed a tense counterpoint to the distant
music. She rose slowly, setting her glass of wine aside, and then wove her way
through all the rooms on a deliberate circuit, so everyone who might even spare
her a thought would assume she was elsewhere.

At the right
moment—she had been long practiced in graceful exits—she slipped away and
walked out the front door of the villa into the cool air. A tall, knife-lean
figure emerged from the shadows of some trees, startling her. Weak light from
the windows etched a jutting cheekbone and jaw, and picked out highlights in
chime-woven Serapisti mourning braids: it was Jaim, the somber-faced Rifter
bodyguard.

He was tall, taller
even than Brandon, and when she took his offered arm she felt the controlled
strength there; strength and control together were her sexual triggers, she
knew, and sure enough, here was a decided twinge of attraction. What would sex
with a Rifter be like?

She listened to the
man’s slow breathing as they walked not to the transtube, but into the darkness
of the park. She had heard him speak only rarely, and his accent was that of the
underside of a Highdwelling or other habitat.

The art of
seduction includes not just the pique of invitation or the pleasure of the act,
but the decorum of the aftermath and the graceful acceptance of the lover’s
diminished interest. Did he understand how Douloi played the game?

“This way,” he
said, and they changed direction, veering off the dimly lit pathway into
plunging darkness. Her slippered feet encountered wet, chill grass and she
nearly stumbled over unevennesses in the ground.

Jaim’s grip
tightened but remained impersonal. Then, before she could voice a protest, he
said, “Here.”

They walked
downward a few meters, and she sensed walls closing in, then Jaim’s breathing
changed as he did something with his free hand. She was guided onto a flat,
slick surface. A door closed behind them with a quiet snick, then light sprang
into being.

“A tube,” Jaim
said, indicating an open door opposite.

“Where are we?” she
asked, a tendril of delicious alarm prickling along her nerves.

“Not far from the
Enclave. Entrance.” His face didn’t change, but she sensed humor.

He had not used any
honorifics.

The pod hissed
forward a short distance, then the doors opened onto a richly carpeted hallway.
The scent of night-blooming jumari identified the place as the Enclave indeed before
they walked through an archway into the parlor.

Jaim vanished
around a corner as Brandon came forward, smiling. He was dressed formally in
dark brown, with a discreet glint of gold about his person: what party had he
been to and left? Some of it he had brought with him, for there were other
people in the room.

“Vannis,” he said,
kissing both her hands. “Come. You remember Lieutenant Omilov.”

Vannis nodded,
sparing a brief glance for the stiff man with the big ears. Nonpolitical, but
trusted by Brandon. She turned her eyes to the woman next to him—

“Fierin!” Vannis
exclaimed, surprised.

Isolation had
spectacularly benefited Fierin vlith-Kendrian. The girl rushed forward, looking
rounder and younger than Vannis remembered ever having seen her.

“Oh, Vannis.”
Fierin sighed midway between laughter and tears, closing her in a convulsive
embrace and kissing her. “I never even had a chance to thank you for what you
did.”

“If it transpires that
there will be a happy ending, that is my reward,” Vannis said, turning her
attention back to Brandon.

“There is a strong
possibility.” A different timbre to his voice and an air of barely contained
excitement sparked an echo of her earlier triumph. She had a fondness for the
girl, but the real triumph was this evidence that for Brandon she had crossed
into his inner circle. “First let me introduce you to the rest of our
conspirators.”

He gestured to the
room at large, and Vannis turned. A very tall, spare man with thinning silver
hair rose to his feet and bowed, the short, uncompromising bow of the Polloi.

“Gnostor Ixvan,
vocat for Fierin’s brother,” Brandon said.

Behind him sat two
women, the contrast between them striking. One was a short, dumpy, middle-aged
military officer with disheveled gray-touched hair, the other a tall woman with
a strong-boned oval face and slanted dark-fringed black eyes. Her hair was also
black, pulled straight back from a perfect hairline; when the woman turned her
head slightly, Vannis saw a long blue-black tail of glossy hair falling against
her plain black flightsuit.

A prickle of
recognition ran through Vannis, then Brandon said, “Commander Thetris and
Captain Vi’ya, both of whom have done a heroic job of noderunning.”

The officer gave a
short nod; the Dol’jharian tempath sat, silent and unmoving.

“And Montrose, one
of Kendrian’s crewmates.” This last was the huge, ugly man who had played so
beautifully at Brandon’s concert ages ago.

Brandon took a step
toward the low table, gathering everyone’s attention. He flicked a glance at
Vannis, indicating Fierin with a subtle turn of his head, and she moved to
comply, sliding her arm around Fierin’s shoulders.

“The news is this.
We have obtained proof that Jesimar vlith-Kendrian was framed for murders
arranged by the Archon of Torigan.”

Fierin gave a
little gasp, quickly silenced.

“What we do not
know yet is why. There are indications of wider complicity, more conspirators.
In fact, it may be that your parents’ murders are linked to the Dol’jharian
attack.”

Though Fierin made
no sound, tears welled in her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.

Brandon’s regret
was plain. “There are links in this affair to Hesthar al-Gessinav and Tau
Srivashti, both of whom are also deeply implicated in the execution of
Dol’jhar’s plans.”

Vannis tightened
her grip on the girl. “Do you know why?” she asked.

Brandon shook his
head. “No. Not yet.” He gestured toward Sedry Thetris and Vi’ya. “Our two noderunners
have sent multiple worms out into the DataNet under my priority code,
overriding all else. Someone—we suspect Gessinav—has been destroying certain
replicated data incoming to Ares. If their worms can find an intact replicate
out in the DataNet and bring it back, we may have final proof.”

He picked up a
decanter of wine with a flourish and began to pour it into fragile stemmed
goblets. “But Lokri is safe, Fierin.” He raised his glass. “To justice.”

Everyone stepped
forward to take a glass, including Fierin, whose gestures were the brittle,
controlled ones Vannis had been accustomed to seeing; her trembling fingers
took a glass, but she nearly spilled it, and set it down again. Blushing like
an adolescent, the big-eared lieutenant moved more quickly and picked one up
for her. Their voices blended softly.

Vannis could have
read their lips. Magnanimous in joy, she left them to their privacy. Let them
celebrate
.
She had chosen her cause
well; patience had rewarded her. Brandon had not even tried to hide his
triumph. With the skill of the tapestry-maker she would use her flashing needle
to weave a the golden-bright thread of shared victory around them both.

Might she win on
the personal front? The difficulty of the quest made the prize all the more
worth having.

She turned, seeking
Brandon’s blue gaze. He was not near, nor was he facing her. Vannis found him
on the other side of the room. He was in the process of offering a glass of
wine to the Dol’jharian woman, who had not moved.

As Vannis took a
step toward them, the woman hesitated. Brandon said something in a low voice.
The angle of his head, the quiet murmur of his voice, set Vannis’s nerves
flaring.

Vi’ya extended a
hand—long, well made, and strong, with no ornamentation whatever—and took the
goblet.

And Brandon’s
fingers closed around hers, then traced the line of her wrist in a brief but
revealing gesture of tenderness.

Shock plunged an
icy knife into Vannis’s heart and twisted, hard.

She looked down at
her wine and counted breaths. One, two, three. Past the singing in her ears she
became aware of Brandon’s voice—speaking a toast.