Context (124 page)

Corduven’
s uniform was cream and gold, and its decorations gleamed.

‘Very polished,’ said Tom.

‘Look’—Corduven waved a
mirrorfield into existence—’who’s talking.’

In his reflection, Tom saw his
own immaculate white uniform, its piping all of platinum, formal white
half-cape thrown back carefully over his shoulder at just the correct angle.
The lounge in which they were waiting, appointed in burgundy and gold with
diamond inlays along the fluted columns, seemed appropriate.

‘My servitor’s outfit,’ Tom
recalled, ‘was black and ivory.’

‘Lady Darinia’s colours.’
Corduven laughed. ‘Terrible livery. I remember the day I first saw you, when
you came to fetch my damaged clothes—’

‘Buggy smartsatin.’

‘That’s right. I nearly suggested
you keep my garments instead.’

‘Chef Keldur,’ said Tom, ‘would’ve
killed me.’

They shook their heads, thinking
of time’s passage, and how it slips away from everyone. Then a discreet chime
sounded.

Corduven stepped forward as an
alpha servitor entered, and they exchanged muted whispers.

‘Got to go,’ Corduven told Tom. ‘Details.
Can’t trust anyone.’

‘Don’t be long.’

‘Just who’s supposed to nag whom,
today?’

There
was a soft sound behind him, and Tom spun, hand raised. A service entrance,
normally unused, was vitrifying into solidity.

The lean man bowed.

‘I beg your pardon, my Lord.’

But when he straightened up, he
looked composed rather than apologetic. He was dressed as a courtier, a
Lord-Minor-sans-Demesne, yet he stood with an easy warrior’s grace, feline and
watchful, and something about his olive-skinned features caused the back of Tom’s
neck to tingle.

‘Do I know you?’

The stranger pulled a white
poignard from his tunic. Tom readied himself, but the man held out the weapon
hilt first, and the entwined archaic symbols, kappa and alpha, were visible
upon the hilt’s engraved end.

‘Interesting weapon.’ Tom
accepted it. ‘Nice balance.’

He had used one like it, though
cast from redmetal, to kill the Oracle. To murder Corduven’s brother.

‘A replacement.’ A tight smile
crossed the stranger’s fine features. ‘If you will, my Lord.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean. But
I accept your... I
have
seen you before, I’m sure of it.’

The smile left the stranger’s
face.

He turned away, reached up,
dabbing at his eyes in a gesture which brought a frisson to Tom’s tingling
nerves.

‘My name is Janis deVries.’

When he turned back, his eyes—relieved
of their cosmetic contacts—were of purest obsidian: totally black, devoid of
surrounding whites.

‘And I believe you knew my
mother.’

The Pilot...

DeVries cast a glance towards the
main door-membrane.

‘There are others coming. But we’ll
talk again, my Lord.’

Tom turned as Corduven entered;
when he looked back, the mysterious Pilot—unbelievably, the son of that other Pilot,
the woman who had died before his eyes nineteen SY before—had disappeared, and
the membrane was hardening once more.

‘Was someone here?’

‘Just a friend.’ Tom smiled. ‘Kind
of an old family friend.’

‘Well, for Fate’s sake. Are you
ready? You know I’ll be blamed if we’re late.’

‘Relax,’ said Tom. ‘I’m ready
now.’

It
was a low, wide hall, resplendent in white and platinum, and floating silver
lev-disks formed a ceremonial stairway down to the dais at the far end, where a
trio of shaven-headed priestesses waited.

Among the gathered guests were
faces Tom had not seen for years: Lady V’Delikona, whom he had feared dead,
smiled radiantly, her white hair gathered in an elegant coiffure and bound with
platinum; Sylvana, in a shining gown, not looking in his direction; Sentinel,
in a white and blue cloak of overstated magnificence; the housecarl, Kraiv
-morphospear slung across his back, polished copper helm (in keeping with carl
tradition) upon his head—with Draquelle beside him, grinning broadly; Avernon
and, next to him, unexpectedly, a moustachioed Zhongguo Ren, thinner and
frailer than Tom would have guessed—but Tom could remember him attempting to
pummel the older praefecti at the Ragged School as if it were yesterday: his
friend Zhao-ji.

And Eemur’s Head was there, her
flensed flesh gleaming red, in a five-sided box to screen the sight of her from
delicate sensibilities, while giving her full unblinking view of the ceremonial
dais.

Wind chimes sounded as Tom
descended, and then the gathered faces became one inchoate blur as the great
silver door swung open, to his left, and a new entourage came inside.

She was smiling beneath the veil.

The
Antistita, the primary priestess, had a silver voice which carried clearly
throughout the hall.

‘...have witnessed the marriage
here today of Lord Thomas Corcorigan and Commander Strelsthorm, now Lady Elva
Corcorigan—’

He could not believe she looked
so beautiful. Or that she was here, with him, a wedding bracelet twin to his
own encircling her wrist.

Applause rose from the
congregation as they stood.

‘—before us now, sworn forever to
be joined.’

Tom raised her veil.
‘My
love...’

‘Forever.’
Elva tipped her face up towards
his.

‘Always,’
said Tom.

And kissed her.

THE END