A Different Light (14 page)

Jimson said, "Was De Vala one of the despots?" Ast stirred at the name. He wondered how this version of her history sounded to her, if she could even hear it. He thought it sounded to her the way hyperdrive physics sounded to him.

"Could be," said Ysao. "Who knows how old he is? Russell, do you?"

"No," said Russell. "But what happened after the X-team landed?"

"They decided that meddling in the situation would probably make it worse. They took Demea off the records. That's why the Gompcenter records were bare. They left the place alone. But something had to be done with the worst of the despots. They couldn't be left alone."

Russell said, "They could have killed them."

"X-teams don't make that decision," said Ysao. "They took the worst ones with them, and resettled them."

"
They flew away on roaring dragons
," quoted Russell. "That's why De Vala claims to be Terran."

"If he's as old as—as he could be—he probably still thinks of Terra as his home. He probably thinks of Demea as his property. The Masks, too."

"And he wants them because they're beautiful," Jimson said.

"You don't understand him," said Ysao. "He wants them because they're
his.
And maybe because he knows what they are. Psychic resonators. He's a broody little man. He has money, and he likes power. You know him, Pirate, you've talked to him. You even work for him, for a good stiff price. Would you give him power over you?"

Russell said uneasily, "Are you suggesting he's a telepath?"

"Again, why not?"

Jimson said, "I thought all telepaths had to go to Psi Center for training."

Ysao chuckled. It was a tired sound. "They don't have to, and some of them can't." Jimson thought of Ensel. "It's hard to make a telepath do something. Anything."

Russell said, as if in argument, "De Vala's just a little man, Ysao. A weird little man with a lot of money."

"Perhaps it was his mother and father who played god on Demea," said Ysao. "Maybe it was his grandfather, his grandmother, or farther back. But he must have grown up hearing stories of a planet where he could be a king. You think he's just obsessed with beauty, an art collector, a little man with money. Maybe that's what he wants you to think. Never mind what he
says
he wants. He could be lying. And if he's a telepath, how the hell could
you
tell?"

"Speculation," said Russell. He sounded angry.

Ysao leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Yes. But you'll grant me that nine years working for Psi Center, on and off the X-teams, Russell, gives me some experience in making cultural speculations."

Russell said, "How do you know all this?"

Ysao said, eyes still closed, "The X-team telepath told me the story, once, many years ago. A woman named Goryn."

Jimson tried to remember De Vala.
The little one, with the black hair.
But the man's face would just not come to him.

"I grant you that," Russell answered. "But I contracted to bring De Vala a Crystal Mask. I don't break contracts."

Jimson felt it then—a hum of ancient laughter in the Hall.
Why, this dispute is better than the other
, it said.
Listen, brothers and sisters
.

The Masks.

He walked to one of them. It jutted out from the wall: a silver head, slightly more than lifesize. Lifelike was too poor a word to describe it. It gleamed with cold beauty and arrogance. Jimson could not help the sudden thought: This
is
the face of a god.

It seemed to smile at him. His hands itched.
I don't want to steal you
, he said to it.
Even I can see that you belong here. But I could draw you.

The next Mask was a dragon's head, carved out of purplish-red stone. The long snout, flaring nostrils, scales, and fangs were vividly graven—they seemed to move on the wall. The darkness soaked up light as sponge soaks up water, but the red dragon glowed with its own light. Iridescent eyes regarded Jimson with inhuman curiosity. He shivered.
I could draw you, too. I could.

"Jim?" said Russell. Jimson had not heard him. "What is it?"

"A night." Jimson reached out to stroke the cool stone. "Give me a night, Russell."

There was a shout from the archway. Rahid shouted back. A wrangling and raucous voice responded. Russell turned to Ast. "What is it?" he asked.

"They wish to go," she said. "They fear you, and do not want to stay. They wish Rahid to leave you to the Gods. Night comes."

"Give me a night, Russell."

"Why?"

"Give me a night, and you won't need to take De Vala a Mask. I can bring them back for you. Last time I looked, my name was good for something. I'll draw them.
The Crystal Masks,
by Jimson Alleca. De Vala's a collector. He'll know what they're worth. It's a better bargain for him, more things to hang on his walls. If he isn't a telepath, he won't mind the substitution. He'll pay you for them. And if he is a telepath—well, maybe he shouldn't have a Mask."

The Red Dragon grinned.

The shouting started up again. Ast called back something sharp. "What's going on?" demanded Russell.

"Athou tells me I am a fool, or else, he says, I have gone mad, because I will not leave." She regarded Russell with steady eyes. "I am the Speaker of the Gods. It is right that I stay."

Russell glared at Rahid, who was standing by Ysao. "Why does
he
stay?"

"He has sworn to stay and protect the Masks."

Ysao said, not looking at them, "He might let you walk away with one Mask, Pirate. If you try to take two, he'll try to stop you. You'll have to kill him. If you take two Masks and don't kill him, you leave him for his people to kill."

Russell said, "You like Jim's idea?"

Ysao said, "It's up to you. You're giving the orders."

Russell stared at Rahid. "I don't want to kill him."

Ysao said, "He isn't going to give you much choice."

Russell said, with real anger in his voice, "I hate not having a choice." He stood fuming. Finally he took out his communicator. "Leiko, this is Russell."

"You want a ride, Captain?"

"Not just yet. We are going to stay here—" Russell paused, looking at Jimson—"overnight. I'll call you every hour. If I miss a call, you land. Otherwise, we'll see you at dawn."

"I feel left out," Leiko complained. "Will do. Keep in touch."

"Every hour." Russell turned to Ast. "Tell Rahid," he said, "that I will make a bargain with him. A compact, an oath—no harm will come to this temple, or to your tribe, in exchange for a Mask. One Mask."

"Then why must you wait here till dawn?"

Jimson answered. "Do your people make images, Ast?" He knelt, and pretended to draw a face in the dust.

"The women decorate the tents with chalk." She understood, then. "You will make images of the other Masks, and take these back to your masters! But there is no chalk here, and surely this will take a long time."

"No." Jimson pulled out his sketchbook. "Look." Praise to the luck, it was a nearly unused book; he could waste paper. He sketched a face, gave it curly dark hair, high cheekbones, thick and flaring brows— Rahid came to look as the portrait flowed from the pen.

"That is me," said Ast.

Rahid touched the paper with a cautious finger. Ast translated his question. "What is this stuff? It is not hide. I have never seen anything like it."

Jimson closed the sketchbook. "Something we make, in our country," he said.

Rahid was gazing at his thermal suit. He commented in a soft voice to Ast. She translated it. "A country where even thieves are rich." Jimson nodded. Ast spoke with the chief for a long time. Finally she turned back to Russell. "Rahid says that he will agree to this. For the good of the tribe." And Rahid, after a few words to her, turned his back on them all and walked with dignity out of the great round room.

"And you?" Russell said to Ast.

"I told you. I will stay."

Russell shrugged. Jimson could barely see his face. It was getting dark. It was almost dark enough to be night. "Jim, how many Masks are there?"

"Twelve."

"That means you have to draw eleven. Can you do eleven portraits in a short night? It sounds like a lot of work."

"They don't have to be finished portraits," Jimson explained. "I can do those on the ship, on the way back to Nexus."

"Yes," said Russell, "of course. On the ship there'll be plenty of time." He turned away.

Jimson felt dismissed. "Russell!" he called. His voice echoed in the darkness. Russell turned back.

"Yes?" he said.

Lamely, Jimson said, "Where are you going?"

Russell said, "To make sure we're really alone, and that all Rahid's people have gone." Jimson recognized the hard edge to his tone.

"Wait," he said. He took a step towards Russell. "Russell, something's wrong. Tell me what's wrong."

Russell said, "I feel used. I feel that the luck sent me to Enchanter just in time to see your show, and then to Nexus to find you, just so that you could get out here on the forgotten edge of nowhere and draw!"

"That's hardly fair," Jimson said. "I couldn't know this would happen."

"Then why did you ask me to let you come here?" asked Russell. "You could have taken ship with anyone, Jim. Why ship with
me
?"

"We—we're friends."

"We
were
friends."

"No!" Jimson said. "We are friends. I thought we were."

"I thought we were, too," said Russell. "I thought we were more than friends. Once we were. I haven't forgotten it. But we were cooped up in
Morgana
for ten days together, and you had me walking around you with my hands in my pockets. If that's what you want, I'll keep them there, and the hell with the past, or the present. I know there isn't a future." He paused. "I suppose you're punishing me," he said at last, "for having left you. For not coming back. I told you why that happened, and it wasn't because I didn't care about you. It was because I did. I do. I would—if you gave me the chance."

He wheeled. Jimson reached a hand to him, but it was too late, Russell was already walking fast, walking away. Jimson almost shouted at him. Damn it, Russ, he thought. It's been fourteen years since we
met,
and you want to wipe those years away, and go back to being lovers? I can't relax with a telepath breathing down the back of my neck! And there's Leiko, too. I need some time alone with you, and some space, and some privacy.

Ast was watching him, sympathy plain on her face. 1 wonder how much of that she understood?

Probably all of it, he decided. She's a telepath.

He listened to Russell's returning steps in the darkness.
Alleca,
he thought,
you don't have any time. Not any time at all.

Chapter 13

Jimson rubbed his eyes.

The Mask of the Red Dragon watched his exhaustion, patient and interested. In the glow from the lamps—resourceful Leiko had tucked two inside Ysao's pack—Ysao's face seemed whiter under his beard, his energy drained, spent. His eyes were closed. Ast sat beside him, slumped against the cold stone. She had tried to stay awake, but sleep had won out against awe. Jimson stretched his fingers, his neck, and rubbed his eyes again. "I need another Mask," he said.

Russell took the Red Dragon in his arms and disappeared. They had moved back into the small square room behind the dais. "Easier to defend," the redhead had pointed out. He returned after a long time with the Silver God in his arms. He propped it on a pack. "I went to take a piss. I pity anyone moving across the desert tonight. The wind's bad."

Jimson labored over the stern, bright face. The room seemed to be growing darker. Could the lamp be failing?
No, that's impossible. It's your imagination.
He ached from sitting still, from tension, from the cold that crept in through his thermal suit, crept into his bones.... He could hear the wind. It moaned outside the skylights, sweeping sand across glass with a noise like claws. Wasting time—why the hell was he wasting time?
Fantasizing isn't working.
He took a drink from his water bottle, wishing he had all his pens, a desk, a decent light, and no night noises to disturb his thoughts.

And that Russell had not said what he had said.

He forced himself to work. An hour passed. Russell whispered in the darkness, reporting to Leiko. "I need another Mask." Russell brought it to him: a Silver Goddess, majestic and lovely. Ysao's head was a grotesque bobbling shadow.
Alleca, you selfish bastard. He's hurt. He should be on the ship.

He rubbed his hands together, caught himself doing it, and picked up the pen again. The creeping darkness and the wind reminded him of his own death, his devourer, the
doppelganger
in his bones. Fury fueled him. I'll beat you, he told it. I'll take what I need from anyone, from everyone, to beat you.

Sometime in the passage of the night, Ysao began to mumble in his dreams: softly, first, whispers without words, and then unintelligible sentences, like pebbles tossed at imprisoning walls. Jimson barely heard him. He was working on a Mask whose features were blue ice, translucent as the swinging bubbles of Nexus. The planes of the face looked smooth, but when he ran his fingers over them, they were sharp, as if they had been freshly chiseled. "Chudra," he muttered, "I wish you could see
this
stone."