Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (7 page)

A terrified squawk bubbled from the creature's throat as it wriggled furiously. Crocker picked the animal up and shook it, squeezing the soft neck until the feeble fight went out of its body. The animal gave a convulsive quiver and died with a gasp.

He was standing by the water's edge, examining his catch, when out of the brush behind him came a ball of bundled fury, charging right for him. He spun around, flinging the dead animal aside, just as his feet were swept from under him. He went down on his hip and squirmed to his knees as the burly ball of lightning attacked, long ears flattened to its back, sharp incisors bared.

Crocker saw enough in that second before the animal sprang to know that he was being challenged by the mother of the creature he had just killed—it was an exact replica of the first animal, but easily twice its size. He put his hands up and rolled backward as the animal leaped for him, catching it under the chin and pulling it over the top of him, his legs lifting its body up and over with the aid of its own momentum. The animal raked at him with its short, clawed feet and snapped at him with its long jaws as it went over, and then it was sailing through the air to land with a heavy thump on its back a few meters away.

The animal grunted and came up snapping, gathering itself for a second charge. Crocker did not wait, but leaped headlong at the animal. It twisted away, but Crocker landed on its back and his fingers found its neck and dug in. The creature yelped—a confused, mewing sound—and tried to roll over. But Crocker, adrenaline pounding through him, clamped his knees against its fat sides and kept his place on its back. The fleshy tail lashed his back ineffectually and the animal stumbled, grunting and squirming, digging its short claws into the moss and flinging patches skyward.

Sitting atop the thrashing beast, Crocker was overcome by a sudden rush of pure ecstasy and, with his hands buried in the creature's neck, choking the life from its body, he threw back his head and laughed. The sound rang in the glade, shivering the leafy hedge round about—a strange, strangled sound of tormented delight.

He laughed until his sides ached and then, as the unearthly echo died away, looked down to see that the animal beneath him struggled no more. Gradually he released his hold and got up. The creature lay still, unmoving. He looked at it for a long time and then knelt down beside it and put his hands on its body.

The fur was luxurious, thick and fine; the flesh beneath well-muscled, but soft. He stood abruptly and walked around the pool to the place where he'd entered, then stepped back through the hedgewall. There, patiently waiting for him on the other side, stood the robo-carrier. Since it could not force its way through the thick hedge, it had simply stopped on the trail to wait for its human controller to return.

Crocker retrieved the camp pack from its rack and then went back into the glade, opened the pack, and dumped out its contents. There was a utility knife among the articles in the pack, small and of no use as a real weapon, but Crocker took it up and went to the larger of the two animals he had killed.

Within a few minutes he had the rear haunch of the animal skinned and had cut away a large section of its liver; his hands were steeped in gore to the elbows. He sat back on his heels to look at his handiwork, the smell of blood heavy in the air. He raised the piece of liver to his mouth and licked it, tasting the thick sweetness, then hungrily devoured the still-warm portion. When he had finished this delicacy, he wiped his mouth with a blood-streaked arm and, taking up the knife again, began hacking at the meaty loin of the hapless creature.

When he had freed a good-sized piece of the haunch from the rest of the carcass, he sat back and, nostrils flaring with delight, began tearing off still-warm strands of meat and devouring them, smacking his lips and grunting his pleasure at this fine feast.

The
concert had been over for hours, but Pizzle still sat with Starla in the soft night, gazing at the sky and talking in the empty amphidrome. The
Naravell,
a moving retelling of the long years of the Wandering and a monumental piece of music by any standard, went by Pizzle as if it had been a jingle for foot powder. He could concentrate on nothing but the entrancing creature beside him.

Starla had shown herself to be charming, fascinating, captivating, engaging, bewitching—all this, and she had not spoken more than a half-dozen complete sentences throughout the course of the evening. Mostly, she had listened raptly as Pizzle discoursed on whatever subject happened to pop into his head—everything from
Arabian Nights
to Zen. Her presence, like a heady wine imbibed too quickly, had not only loosened his tongue, but made everything he said seem to him wise and wonderful and sparkling with wit.

He spoke like one drunk on the sound of his own voice, but it wasn't his words that fascinated him—it was that
she
was there listening to him. He would talk just to have her listen, just so he could watch her listen—for he'd never experienced anything so marvelous in all his drab life. For indeed, his whole life did seem lackluster and inconsequential up to the moment of meeting Starla.

Pizzle paused for breath—his voice was going hoarse—and Starla laid a hand on his forearm and said, “Let's walk for a while.”

They'd been sitting for hours, but Pizzle hadn't noticed. To him, the evening had been but a moment as it sped by. “Sure, sounds good,” he said, getting to his feet. He looked around and saw that the amphidrome was dark and empty. “Cleared out fast, huh?”

Starla led him up the aisle and out of the amphidrome and along the broad boulevard planted with feathertrees—slender trees whose long, supple branches grew delicate blossoms like goose down. They walked along for a while in silence. Pizzle, having interrupted his monologue, could not now think of a single word to say. He was absolutely tongue-tied.

“Smell the air,” sighed Starla. The feathertree blossoms sweetened the warm night air with their light fragrance.

“Mmm, nice,” said Pizzle. He looked at his ravishing companion. If Starla by daylight was a vision, Starla by starlight was a dream. Her platinum hair shone like silver, and her eyes were liquid pools of darkness fringed by long, sweeping lashes. “You're nice, too,” he said, and blanched. Without premeditation he'd just given her his first compliment. What a night!

“I must go soon,” she said. They walked on a little further in silence. “We could go to another concert sometime ... if you like—”

“Oh, I would,” agreed Pizzle heartily. “Tomorrow night. Okay?”

Starla laughed. “I don't know if there is a concert tomorrow night.”

“Then we'll go sailing. Anything. Please? Say yes. I'll come pick you up. Where do you live?”

“Very well,” Starla agreed. “We will meet again tomorrow evening.”

“What about tomorrow morning? As a matter of fact, I'm free all day tomorrow.”

“But I work tomorrow.”

“Where? What do you do? Tell me about it. I want to know about everything you do. I want to know all about you.”

“Most often I serve the Clerk at the College of Mentors. There are twenty-four of us, and we help Mathiax administrate the Mentors' resolutions.” She stopped and smiled at Pizzle. “But the day after tomorrow I am free.”

“You are? Good! Let's spend the whole day together. Okay? Say yes.”

“Yes.” Starla laughed, a warm, throaty sound, full of good humor. “I'd like that very much.” She paused, glanced down at her feet and then up into Pizzle's eyes. Growing serious, she said, “I know you are a Traveler, and that you come from another world. Jaire has told me much about you. I must seem very plain to you after all you've seen.” Pizzle opened his mouth to tell her just how wrong she was, but she silenced him with a gesture and went on. “Forgive my presumption, but it's hard for me to think of you as someone so different. I think we are more alike than different. And though I don't know you very well, I like you very much, Asquith Pizzle. I would like to be your friend while you are here.”

He looked at her, standing against the heaven-scented background of the feathertrees, and swallowed a lump in his throat the size of a melon. “No one has ever said anything like that to me,” he said. “I'm going to stay here forever.”

Cejka, Director of Rumon
Hage, took up his ceremonial bhuj, turned the flat blade so that its polished surface faced the correct quadrant, thrust out his chin, and squared his shoulders. Though his days as a member of the Threl elite might well be numbered, he would appear among his own people as their worthy leader: imperious, unafraid, powerful. Opposites, to be sure, of how he really felt. Covol, his Subdirector, arranged the hood of his black-and-red striped yos, nodded once, and stepped away. Cejka began walking slowly, a phalanx of Hage officers and functionaries behind him, leading his delegation through Rumon to the docks where they would board one of the official funeral boats that would take them to Saecaraz, where Sirin Rohee's funeral was to be held.

As they moved through Hage, he thought again about his message from Tvrdy. Though the Cabal had suffered crushing defeats of late, it was no small tribute to his own skill and cunning that his network of rumor messengers was still virtually intact. For this he was thankful.

The meeting with the Dhog, Giloon Bogney, had been, in Tvrdy's estimation, a success. They had gained the nonbeing's promises of support—though at a very high price, it seemed to Cejka. Hage stent for the Old Section? Such a thing was inconceivable even bare weeks ago. No doubt Tvrdy had only done what he'd been forced to do.

Ah, Tvrdy, my friend, thought Cejka gloomily. What is to become of us? Jamrog will not let us live, I think. Already I feel his hands on my throat. I hope you know what you are doing. An alliance with Dhogs! Unthinkable!

Be that as it may, Cejka now had to select the men who would go to the Old Section to begin training the Dhogs in the ways of covert combat. That, too, rubbed Cejka the wrong way—teaching Rumon secrets to nonbeings. But Tvrdy had insisted. There could be no holding back now. Jamrog had gained the Supreme Directorship, and the only way to survive a Purge was with an army at your back—even if it had to be an army of Dhogs. It was to Tvrdy's credit, Cejka reminded himself, that he'd not only considered turning to the Dhogs; the ever-resourceful Tanais leader had actually joined forces with them. This was something Jamrog could never have foreseen.

The Rumon entourage, purposefully a large one so Jamrog would have no cause to accuse Cejka of being unsympathetic, passed slowly through the streets and byways of the Hage, followed by other Rumon Hagemen making their own way to Saecaraz to see the funeral spectacle. A delegation of Rumon priests, chanting loudly and raising a din with their cymbals and horns, took up a position in front of the official party and led the way to the dockyard.

The entire waterfront area was crammed with boats and people waiting to jam into boats. There was an air of festivity and high spirits among the populace. After all, it was a special day—no work in the Hages and free food for all in attendance at the funeral. It promised to be a tremendous spectacle, and no one wanted to be left out; all who could were making their way to Saecaraz.

“There is the funeral boat,” said Covol, pointing out the red-draped decks and gangway of the large tridecker. Cejka led his entourage to the gangway and boarded the boat, which was to pull away from the dock as soon as the last official squeezed aboard.

Cejka made his way to the topmost deck and took his place at the forward end, his guide on one hand and his Subdirector on the other. There arose a commotion from below, and when he asked what was taking place Cejka was told, “Some Hagemen have attempted to board, but they are not of the official party. There will be a slight delay while they are put off.”

“Oh, let them come along,” replied Cejka impatiently. “If there is room, let them all aboard. It will only make our number appear larger, which cannot hurt. No delays! We must arrive at the scheduled time.”

The Hagemen were allowed aboard, the gangway was pulled in, and the boat drew slowly away from the wharf, backing carefully through the small, congested harborage of Rumon, the scene ringing with voices of pilots and passengers as all made for the river beyond.

Kyan's gray and turgid waters were choked with watercraft of every size and description. Anyone in charge of a vessel of any size was ferrying Hagemen to the funeral. There were tiny two-seat paddleboats, large triple-deckers, Hage pleasure barges, and a host of the solid, double-decked cargo boats, all crowded with people making their way to Saecaraz for the big day—and every last one flying a red funeral banner.

The festival atmosphere was inescapable. A Supreme Director's funeral was a rare event in the first place, and Jamrog had appropriated huge sums to be spent in making Rohee's funeral the most lavish of any in living memory. Cejka distrusted this, though Jamrog's motive escaped him.

“I would have thought Jamrog content with a private cremation,” Cejka whispered to Covol as he scanned the enormous flotilla stretching out both ways along the river. “Why, a man could walk across Kyan without getting his feet wet! Look at them out there. We'll be lucky if half the population of Empyrion isn't drowned today.”

“Perhaps Jamrog seeks to gain more than the approval of the populace with this tactic,” replied Covol, a small man powerfully built and possessing a quick mind. He would one day make a good Director.

“Say what you think, Covol,” directed Cejka. “There are none among us in Jamrog's keep.” It was true. Cejka had rigorously maintained the purity of his own ranks for years; he knew there were no traitors in his top echelon.

“By making much of Rohee's death, he will gain favor with those whose loyalty is easily won.”

“Of course.”

“But he will also create the illusion of being greater than Sirin Rohee himself. Only a divine can pay homage to another divine, so the priests say.”

“I see,” said Cejka thoughtfully. “He will be seen not only as Rohee's successor, but as greater and more powerful than Rohee ever was—and all because he makes a greater show of Rohee's death than Rohee himself would have. Yes, I see.”