A Prison Unsought (14 page)

In any case, as Montrose had reminded him, she was speaking
on two levels, both designed to protect her crew. The second and more important
audience wouldn’t answer, of course, unless not throwing them all in max was
counted. Apparently that’s all Vi’ya wanted to make sure of for now.

Vi’ya spoke to him. “You are still guarding the Arkad?”

Montrose’s gaze met his.
She’s
reminding them of our connection to Brandon, too
.

Jaim assented, unsettled by the calculated implication: that
she was going to use Brandon any way she could to protect the
Telvarna
’s crew.

“Then you will have a certain
amount of freedom of movement,” she said. “Will you visit Lokri?”

“Soon as I have free time.”
Whenever that might be
, Jaim thought,
checking his boswell. A few minutes to go.

Montrose yawned. “Well, that’s settled, then.”

Jaim followed him to the door, hesitated, then turned to
Vi’ya. “Having a job will occupy the time,” he said.

She saw the question in his gaze, and remembered that Jaim
had been there the last time she spoke to Brandon.
Markham trusted you
, she had said to Brandon, partly a gift because
he had not hidden his grief, but also . . .

She did not like following that mental path. She had always
assumed from Markham’s stories about Brandon that the two had shared certain
characteristics; she had discovered only upon meeting Brandon that Markham had
adopted those characteristics from Brandon. Mimicked them.

But that did not mean that Brandon shared Markham’s own
qualities, such as his loyalty to the many he loved.

Brandon had his own secrets, including his purpose; she
acknowledged that he might use the Rifters as readily as she would use him. It
made sense. And yet, and yet . . .

She looked up, and discovered Jaim waiting for an answer.
How much time had passed? No matter. “Perhaps I will take a job. But I will not
permit them to monitor my movements.”

Marim waved her fork. “Montrose! Sneak us some real coffee,
would you?”

Montrose snorted. “As if you can taste the difference,
nullrat.”

They left on the sound
of her cheery laugh, and as they retraced their steps through the various
security checkpoints, Vahn, sitting behind Brandon in the private transtube on
the way back to the Enclave, and listening to the telltale inside Jaim, was
glad that no one could see his reaction.

(Hyperwave?)
Vahn
could hear Roget’s disbelief over their private boswell link.

Vahn understood. “Hyperwave” was a term straight out of star
fantasy, the technological equivalent of a word like “unicorn”: denoting
something mythical, impossible, yet eternally sought. And Eusabian had it?
Chill gripped him viscerally.

Vahn gazed at the back
of the Aerenarch’s dark head three seats forward, wondering how much of this he
knew. He cursed mentally: too many hours without sleep, Rifters to guard (one
of whom had only minutes before announced his intention to assassinate an
Archon) as well as an Arkad famed for indiscretions, and now this bomb.

(What now?)
Roget asked.

(Since the Rifters
just agreed to sit on it, I think we’re safe keeping it tight until we’re
debriefed in person. If it’s really true, whoever needs to know already does.)

Roget gave a soft laugh, then she reverted to business:
(Montrose and Jaim just boarded the
transtube: over to you.)

o0o

Montrose and Jaim’s transtube reached the Enclave, and
both were aware of eyes turning their way as they debarked. Montrose ignored
their fellow passengers with a zing of pleasure, but Jaim scanned for subtle
signs of intent before he followed Montrose out.

Then he wondered if it was him and Montrose they’d been
staring at, or the Aerenarch, who stood on the platform with Vahn and a thin,
mild-faced young man wearing the robes of an Oblate.

The tube hissed quietly away, leaving them alone.

“We just got here ourselves. This
is Ki,” Brandon said. “A former student of Sebastian’s. He will be taking on
the comtasks.” To Ki, Brandon said, “You have my basic preferences for
discriminators, but feel free to set up other sub-categories as you see fit.”

“I’ll find him a room,” Montrose
said, rubbing his hands and grinning. “And he can get right to work.”

Brandon made the gesture that Jaim had learned meant thanks,
and turned to Vahn. “Let me know when Ivard’s procedure is imminent. They will
probably be taking their time to set it up.”

Jaim caught a glance of muted curiosity from the Marine. It
sent alarm through him, but Vahn said nothing as he and Ki followed Montrose up
the gravel pathway toward the house. Maybe that look was nothing more than
wondering why Brandon wanted a change of guard.

Meanwhile, why had
Montrose grinned at the prospect of this addition to the household? It wasn’t
as if he’d paid any attention to the constant influx of mail arriving for
Brandon.

A former student of
Sebastian’s. Jaim had learned that Brandon seldom said anything that was not to
a purpose, even if he did not state the purpose. Oblate, student of an honest
man: probably this Ki could be trusted not to be reporting every movement to
someone else. Would that, in turn, be an oblique warning to Vahn?

That’s it.
Jaim
smothered an inward laugh. Too much more time on Ares and he’d be as twisty as
any nick.

Brandon scanned the distant line of dwellings on the far
side of the placid lake waters. “So give me your impressions of the reception
last night.”

Jaim considered his words as he wondered what Brandon was
looking for. Or who. A knot of people appeared on a distant grassy hill;
Brandon chose a pathway that would avoid a meeting.

“Tension,” Jaim said at last.
“Patterns of avoidance and coherence. A sorting out, not complete.”
Whispering—about you. Is it time to say
that?
He paused. “Or did you want individuals?”

Though Brandon had not looked his way, Jaim saw by the angle
of his head that he was listening. “Speak.”

“That business with the tunic, and
Archon Srivashti,” Jaim said. “Why did you refuse to wear the flash one? Would
have looked all right in that crowd.”

“Would it have?” Brandon walked
sideways, his blue eyes wide.

Jaim considered the costumes of the Douloi, some of which
(he guessed) might cost half as much as a ship. “One degree more flash,” he
said finally.

Brandon grinned. “A little test.”

Remembering the Archon’s husky voice, and the slight
emphasis on “miracle” when referring to Brandon’s escape from the Enkainion,
Jaim wondered how many tests he hadn’t discerned.

He said, “Did you pass it?”

“I . . . postponed
it. What did you think of Vannis?”

Jaim drew in a deep breath. “Diamond.”

Brandon laughed. “I’ve heard that before. I don’t know her
at all—she’s always avoided me. I suppose my duty now is to find out why.”

They had been steadily approaching a grove of low-sweeping
trees. As he passed the first of them, Brandon whipped his arm around in a
lethal strike.

Jaim snorted a laugh, blocked the blow, then grabbed at
Brandon’s arm to spin him around. Just barely the Aerenarch avoided his
fingers, whirling to kick up at Jaim’s face.

It was the Ulanshu Kay-To, wherein either partner can attack
the other at any time. It was an ancient form of training—the origin of its
name had been lost in the Exile—but it was a fundamental aspect of the Ulanshu
disciplines. Vi’ya had insisted on it from time to time, when the gang was on
either base for more than a few days.

The outcome was inevitable, but it did take Jaim somewhat
longer than before to get Brandon pinned down on the mossy ground, one arm
twisted up behind his back. “Give?” Jaim asked helpfully.

Brandon was laughing too hard to reply, his breath wheezing.
Jaim lifted his hands and they stood up, Brandon spitting out bits of green
plant matter. He brushed absently at his clothes, which were much the worse for
grass and mud stains.

Jaim wiped absently at the side of his face, discovering a
streak of dirt. He thought they would return to the Enclave directly, and was
surprised when Brandon resumed walking toward the barely visible row of
splendid villas, formerly the homes of the upper-ranking officers’ families,
and now the quarters of the high-end nicks.

When they crossed a little bridge and emerged beyond a low
fence clustered with blooming trumpet lilies, Jaim and Brandon scanned the row
of villas built around little ponds or gardens. No one visible; Jaim wondered
if the nicks were still abed.

“We have business here?” Jaim
asked.

“Of a sort.” Brandon gave Jaim a
rueful smile. “More of a duty. While things are still relatively peaceful.”

Jaim remembered Brandon’s injunction. “What?”

Brandon gestured at the houses. “The ones who have nothing
to prove or to pursue are probably sound asleep. The others are glaring at one
another over coffee at one of three parties. Long odds,” he added under his
breath, “on Her Highness.”

They walked up a gravel pathway, and Jaim felt the subtle
touch of a security scan. Then Brandon turned up a flower-lined path and tapped
at a door in a pleasant, low-roofed villa set around a shrub-framed pool.

The door was opened by a woman wearing a plain gown in
midnight blue, almost black, edged with gold at sleeves and neck: the former
Aerenarch’s personal colors. She bowed.

“Morning,” Brandon said. “Is Vannis
here for visitors?”

The woman’s gaze flicked from Brandon’s messy clothes to his
own face, then to the ground. “She is out, Your Highness. Would you like to
leave a message?” She opened the door wider and indicated a guest console inset
in the foyer; Jaim wondered if it was considered rude among nicks to use their
boswells.

“We’ll meet up eventually,” Brandon
said with a casual wave of his hand. “Bid her good morning.”

They walked away, but not back to the Enclave. Brandon led the
way to the closest transtube. “Vahn says they’re ready for Ivard right now.
Nice timing, what?”

They crossed a little bridge, and met several Douloi on the
path. Jaim watched them register the Aerenarch, then perform the most informal
of the formal bows, which Vahn had told him was used for morning accidental
encounters with one of higher rank. Laughter fluttered in his chest at the
oblique glances at Brandon’s disheveled appearance.

As they entered the tube, Jaim wondered how many private
messages were radiating outward.

o0o

For the Panarchists, the prospective . . . what
to call it? Meeting? Medical intervention? They had no official term for it
because it was a first in the Panarchy’s long history, and everyone in each
involved chain of command was nervous.

This was the worst possible timing.

For the Kelly trinity known to humans as
Portos-Dartinus-Atos, the attempted recovery of the Eldest’s genome from a
human carried far more import than mere governments, or wars. Threir sovereign
status gave threm total control; threir careful choreography extended even,
perhaps especially, to the order of arrival of those involved, here at the
dual-jurisdiction meeting space in front of the Kelly Embassy.

First the High Phanist, as with all sophonts naked to the synesthetic
unity of Kelly senses, which can only be described sequentially in human
narratives. The livid glow of the Digrammaton exposed on her chest over the
sonic shadow of the rad-shield concealed by multi-buttoned black; posture and
movement, outward and inward, pulse, peristalsis and much more; from every pore
the waft of her metabolism and the savor of her biome; all testified to her
uncertainty, which apparently encompassed everything about the ceremony except
her conviction that she must attend. Threy knew she had used the full weight of
the Magisterium to ensure her presence.

And to ensure access for Portos-Dartinus-Atos to the Eya’a
and their pet human.

Threy knew of no other Kelly who had yet encountered that odd
trinity, first fruit, perhaps, of the reluctant Kelly intervention on that
dreadful ice planet, after the invading humans were wiped out and quarantine
imposed from both sides of the atmosphere. Previous access had been blocked,
somewhat apologetically, by the Navy until after the acquittal, largely due to
Eloatri’s testimony, of the captain who had brought her here. Thus, they
greeted the High Phanist with unbounded appreciation.

Eloatri had once before, long ago, seen a Kelly trinity in
person, but had never met one. She found herself swarmed by three dancing
Kelly, threir head-stalks sinuous and rapid in their twirling grace as their
velvety lips caressed her gently from head to toe. Threy smelled of cinnamon
and burned cork; threir voices reminded her of the living wind-harps on the peaks
of the Hazard Mountains of Donialan.

“Welcome,
Numen,” the Intermittor of the trinity fluted, as all three withdrew slightly
and twisted threir head-stalks into a sinuous interpretation of a formal
deference.

She bowed in return, finding an unexpected joy in the
obvious delight the Kelly expressed in imitating human gestures, while adding
threir own inimitable trinitarian grace. Portus-Dartinus-Atos pivoted threir
attention to the next arrivals coming through the hatch, the pro forma Marine
guard fading into the background.

Vi’ya had several times seen the Kelly Chirurgeon or threir
Kelly visitors dancing through the corridors of Rifthaven, but like Markham,
she’d had little interest in Kelly. Not so the Eya’a.

She braced herself as the hatch opened onto the plaza before
the Embassy; even so, the blast of
fi
with which the Eya’a greeted the Kelly ambassador still rattled her teeth, echoing
her shock the first time they’d met the trinity—was it only last week? It strengthened
her desire to avoid the Kelly. She had enough to keep out of her head in this
madhouse.