The Thrones of Kronos (20 page)

But considering the nature of the Ogres was for later, when
he had Morrighon’s report. Right now his main focus was on the reason behind
the demonstration. Eusabian never did anything on impulse. The manner of his
hint about the Chorei following the ghost-laying ceremony; the almost palpable
anxiety of the secretary, who would be concerned to maintain his position as
indispensable aide—thus spurring him on to greater efforts . . .

Has Eusabian always
known?
Anaris had little data on his mother, other than the fact that her
brief tenure in Hroth D’ocha had been the result of a treaty, a capitulation to
the Avatar after one of the endless inter-House struggles. She had made her
feelings clear by leaving the very day of Anaris’s birth.

That family was reasonably powerful—enough to have buried
any hint of Chorei blood fairly deeply in their records. Anaris had not been
able to probe more than superficially, not with Barrodagh monitoring everything
he researched.

As the Ogres each extruded the muzzle of a large-aperture
jac from their torsos, Anaris reflected that his father’s hint had not been
made in Barrodagh’s hearing. This could mean several things.

For now, the important line of thought to pursue was the
Tarkan connection.
By that mention of my
one exhibition of ghost-laying, he’s not just flinging the fact of my Chorei
blood in my teeth, he’s also letting me know that he’s aware of my subversion
of the Tarkans. And we are watching the result: the Ogres will tip the balance
of the power again in his favor.

Or so he thinks.

Anaris stepped back as the Ogres wheeled about and leapt
upward, flipping over to cling to the ceiling with webs of blue light snapping
about their feet. They moved as smoothly upside down as they had on the deck. Watching
them gave Anaris a twinge of vertigo.

The Tarkans were properly and rigidly impassive, betraying
no reaction.

What he probably does
not know is how the Suneater has magnified the superstitions. And the Tarkans
know, as do all the other underlings, that karra can only be leashed by the
descendants of the Chorei.
And the
notion of their being replaced by these things is not going to bolster their
loyalty.

Eusabian said, “That will be all, gnostor.”

The Ogres jumped back onto the deck. Anaris watched the
lights fade out of their faces, leaving the androids still and dark. Even
motionless, powered down, they radiated an aura of menace. Lysanter bowed, shut
down his console, and withdrew.

Barrodagh flickered a couple looks their way and sidled
around one of them to bow low before Eusabian. “Lord, I just received a report
from one of the Rifters, Tallis Y’Marmor, who has reestablished control of his
vessel.”

Eusabian’s eyes narrowed in recognition of the name as
Barrodagh tapped his compad into Lysanter’s console, and they watched Tallis’s report
on the screen.

Anaris knew that a report, twin to this, would be waiting at
his desk. Juvaszt was scrupulously careful to copy all reports with respect to
Rifter activity to Anaris, though as yet Anaris had issued few orders. As well,
the disgraced officer Terresk-jhi, who had been unfortunate enough to be on Communications
when the depraved Rifter vid distracted Juvaszt during the Battle of Arthelion,
was now a communications officer on the Suneater, thanks to Morrighon’s
efforts. So he had backup sources of information as well.

When the image of the Panarchist admiral appeared on the
screen, amusement narrowed Eusabian’s eyes. “I’ve seen an image of this man
before. Who is he?”

Barrodagh glanced down at his compad. “Koestler. Listed as a
captain in the Arthelion database, stationed at Narbon, but the insignia on his
tunic indicates he has attained flag rank.”

Eusabian asked. “Jeph Koestler, the Scourge of the Rift. This
is Karr’s replacement, then?”

“Short of corrective data, we must assume so.” Barrodagh’s
eyes ferreted Anaris’s way. “His identity ought to work against his so-called
message of amnesty.” The image on the screen froze. “Nevertheless, Juvaszt has
stepped up surveillance, reports, and inspections.”

This trespass onto what was at least nominally Anaris’s
territory was to make him look indecisive and incompetent. He controlled the
flare of anger as Eusabian waved his hand, now bored. “Let Juvaszt make his
reports to the Heir concerning the Suneater fleet.”

Barrodagh stopped short his report on Tallis’s assessment of
how many hours it would take to restore his computers. For a moment his mouth
hung open, but the Avatar walked out and Barrodagh scuttled in his wake with a
weak glare at Anaris.

Anaris smiled. Barrodagh had miscalculated horribly in
bringing the Ogres to the Suneater.
You
fool.

Fierin vlith-Kendrian paused on the pathway and looked
back at the Enclave. The brilliant sunglow from the diffusers had reached the
south pole. It was now beginning to dim, casting the shadows of a late
Highdwelling evening across the long, low building from the trees that mostly
obscured it. No human figure spoiled the view, not even the Marine guards in
ceaseless watch over the current ruler of the Panarchy of the Thousand Suns.

To her Downsider eyes, the shadows were too short for
sunset; it seemed more like an overcast middle afternoon. But despite the
strangeness, Ares was now her home.

I am the ward of the
Panarch.
What did it really mean? Well, in economic terms, it was a strong
hands-off message to any of Tau Srivashti’s former associates who might want
her family’s holdings.

It also meant that, no matter how badly those holdings had
been diminished, between Stulafi Y’Talob’s machinations in the past and whoever
was holding Torigan in the present, she had a fair shot at reclaiming them. In
political terms, it was, perhaps, a gentle reminder to her mighty, distant
Vakianos relations that what had happened to one of their cadet families ought really
to have been resolved by them.

In real terms, it meant she spent every day with the
highest-ranking people in the Panarchy—at least in a social sense. She had not
attended any of the frequent war-planning meetings that went on at all hours,
but outside of her visits with Osri Omilov, she was there when the Enclave gave
parties. Parties . . . dinners . . . breakfasts . . .
balls . . . tours.

The Panarch had intervened in her situation out of altruism,
she knew. He could gain nothing by it. And though she could never actually
repay this gesture, she was trying to.

The pod was late. High up on the north pole, the lights of
some large structures twinkled wanly through the umber wash of color. It would
be like this for hours: Fierin thought High Summer mode a magical time, even if
it didn’t feel quite like a Torigan summer. But it had the same effect on
crystal, jewels, mirrors—they gathered the warm glow and sent it back augmented
and wonderfully changed, according to their nature.

Just like people in
the Whispering Gallery.
Perhaps that’s why Vannis had chosen this hour for
the new fashion of thematic discourse there. The subtlety of the symbolic
double entendre entranced Fierin, who admired Vannis’s hidden depths.

After another habitual, defensive glance around, she caught
herself at it and forced herself to relax. Tau was gone, and with him his
conspirators, including that horrible woman who had sold the Suneater data to
Dol’jhar. Even Tau’s sinister liegeman, Felton had been dealt with; even so she
still had nightmares about him, the more so given the horrid nature of his
death.

I won’t think of him.
Instead, she thought about Brandon and Vannis. Though neither spoke of it, the
stress of the impending war had begun to tell on them. Not overtly—both were
too well trained for that. But in little ways: periods of abstraction at meals;
quick reactions when the console toned certain codes; and in how, when the
three were alone, the two did not talk to each other outside of the merest
commonplace, but exerted themselves to entertain Fierin.
As if I were a child. No, as if they had a secret that divided them.

Fierin, on impulse, had offered to host some of the
obligatory entertainments, and they had accepted with unfeigned gratitude.
Since that time they were both absent from the Enclave more and more, but as
far as she could tell, they were not together.

I don’t understand
what’s going on, but at least I’m pretty good at the Grand Tour,
she
thought, smiling in self-mockery as the subliminal rumble underfoot indicated the
late pod arriving at last.

Running footsteps from behind made her whirl around, her
hands tensing into the Ulanshu readiness pose she’d been drilling each day.
Then she recognized the woman sprinting up the pathway: short, dark like Fierin
herself, with big chocolate-colored eyes. She’d been on the tour that Fierin
had finished not an hour ago. Fierin had noticed her because she looked
familiar, though she couldn’t remember from where or when.

The woman grinned. “Genz Kendrian?”

“Yes?” Fierin stepped back, keeping her aspect neutral, but
ready to reject personal trespass.

The woman laughed. “There it is, that Douloi sniff-nose look,
like I smell. I’m Derith Y’Madoc—”

“I know now,” Fierin exclaimed. “You’re a novosti.”

Derith nodded. “Right. We followed your brother’s trial, and
we talked to some of his other crew members. Did you see our story on the
L’Ranja Whoopee?”

“No.”

“So you’re too busy for us, eh?”

Fierin gestured an apology. “Not accessible where I was
living.” She wouldn’t tell the woman that while she’d a prisoner in luxury
aboard Srivashti’s yacht, he had had most of the newsfeeds blocked. He had
loathed novosti with a cold, deadly hatred.

Derith’s eyelids lifted, and Fierin wondered if she had made
a mistake.
Except that whatever I say
will probably provoke questions from her,
she thought.

The pod arrived, and Derith followed Fierin on. For once
there was plenty of space—unfortunately—so no chance of losing the woman in the
crowd. Derith chose a seat directly opposite Fierin and leaned forward. “About
your brother,” she began.

Fierin shook her head. “You’ll have to talk to him.”

“I’d like to,” the novosti said promptly. “Where is he?”

“With his shipmates.” Fierin knew it was weak.

Derith’s smile was not at all antagonistic, but her wide,
steady gaze remained uncomfortably direct. “Yes. And where is that?”

Fierin dropped her gaze to her hands.

“You know they’re missing, don’t you?” Derith said. “But you
don’t look real upset about it. That means you know where they are.”

Fierin looked up. “I can’t tell you anything,” she said.
“Please don’t keep asking.”

Derith sat back. “Well, I won’t ask you anymore. I don’t
waste time on a dead trace. But we will keep asking others until we find out
where they are. And why they disappeared.”

“Why?” Fierin said.

“What?” Derith looked surprised.

Fierin pressed her lips together, but all her pent-up
feelings hardened into hot words, which forced their way out. “Why harass
people? Don’t you think if it isn’t known, there’s a good reason? Or is notoriety
more important to you than . . . than ethical treatment of other
people?”

“So there’s a question of ethics involved with his
disappearance?” Derith asked lightly.

Fierin’s face and neck prickled with heat. “No. Not at all. I
meant the way novosti press at boundaries. Ones that, that might hurt. When
pressed.”

Derith smiled, leaning inward, almost in intimate space, as
the pod accelerated away from a nexus. She waited until the passengers had
settled themselves before continuing. “Who’s to say there’s a good reason for
their disappearance? It might be evil. It might be a mistake. But whatever it
is will probably have an effect on everyone else.”

Fierin’s hands tightened in her lap. “Why do you say that?”

Derith said, “There’re two things that stick to you when you
step in them, and their stink follows you so everyone has to smell it. The
second one is politics.”

Amusement fluttered behind Fierin’s ribs. “But my brother
has nothing to do with politics,” she said. “Any more than I do.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Derith responded. “Oh, I mean
politics in the broad sense—having to do with powerful people. You can’t deny
you’re right in the center of things. Your brother got into the center of
things for a while there, even though he never intended to. And whether you
like it or not, your actions might influence those powerful people, which in
turn will affect everyone’s life. What you do matters. Privacy is something you
give up when you become powerful, because finding out what you do and why is
sometimes the only way the powerless can begin to have some influence on your
decisions.”

Like Srivashti, on
Timberwell. Riots got him deposed, and it must have been novosti who helped
disseminate the data against him.

“I can see you know what I mean,” Derith said.

Fierin dipped her head. “All right,” she said. “You do have
a purpose—though there are times when that seems as impenetrable as the
decisions made by leaders.”

Derith smiled. “We follow the stories that people want to
hear. And humans have a voracious appetite for news and dirt.”

Fierin glanced at the destination. They had arrived at the
Jehan Gardens. “I must go,” she said.
And
if you follow me, Vannis will be better at dealing with you than I was.

But Derith Y’Madoc sat back and flicked a hand up. “Whispering
Gallery, I suppose?” she said with a rueful smile that puzzled Fierin. “For the
hour of five? There’s probably a story in it, but someone else can deal with
that blunge-pit.”

“You do not like the Whispering Gallery?” Fierin asked.