Ruler of Naught (30 page)

Now Anaris looked thoughtful. “Then he truly does believe it
sentient?”

“Yes.” Morrighon snickered again, remembering the mixture of
fright and pride the fat technician exhibited when speaking of the palace
computer—like the father of a changeling. “A wonderful twist, here at the heart
of the government that imposed the Ban. And whether or not this is true, it
could make a useful ally. Indeed, if he is right, it is probably listening
now.”

Anaris smiled at the ceiling. “Then, computer, I assure you
that as long as you assist me, I will protect you from my father.”

Morrighon stared, taken aback by the heir’s easy acceptance
of the computer’s possible sentience. Not that Dol’jharians, any more than the
Bori, shared any of the Panarchist abhorrence of machine intelligence. But
there had been a veneer of—well, politeness, Morrighon thought, at a loss for a
better word—in his speech to the machine. And since there was no guarantee that
the machine was listening, or could understand, Anaris had revealed a most
un-Dol’jharian willingness to appear ridiculous.

After a slight pause, as if waiting for a response, Anaris
looked back at Morrighon. “Has Ferrasin made any progress on the communications
situation?”

Morrighon nodded, pleased. That was one of the most
satisfying aspects of his duel with Barrodagh. “Oh, yes. He has established
parallel, hidden channels via hyperwave with a number of our Rifter allies,
most notably among the Syndicates of Rifthaven.”

Anaris nodded, and Morrighon experienced a thrill at the
heir’s evident surprise and approval of his rapid success, in this most
critical aspect of their efforts.

“Of course,” Morrighon continued, “we’ve not contacted any
of the firsts among the Syndics, but as with all such organizations, many of
the seconds are eager to succeed, and impatient of the normal course of events.

“Best of all, your father cannot really object, should our
efforts come to light, since it is in the best interests of Dol’jhar that the
Syndics be kept off balance.”

Anaris’s eyes were focused on distance, his smile faint. “If
the computer here is cooperative, I expect you could find evidence of similar
arrangements by the Panarchists.”

Now it was Morrighon’s turn to be surprised, for that had
indeed been the case. Without the information that had materialized on
Ferrasin’s console, while he and the computer tech were working up their plans
for Rifthaven, they would be nowhere near as far along as they were. Truly,
Morrighon thought, Anaris was a fascinating amalgam of Dol’jharian severity and
Panarchist subtlety. Did Eusabian fully understand how dangerous an opponent
this made his son? Morrighon devoutly hoped not.

He remembered the vidchip of the scene in the Throne Room,
how the captive Panarch had effectively defeated the Avatar, and how at the end
the Avatar’s brooding figure had been dwarfed by the magnificence of the
chamber, the center of Panarchist power. Looking at Anaris, who had been raised
here, Morrighon comprehended that this Dol’jharian would fit that room, might
even fit that throne.
And I can put him there.

o0o

Barrodagh slapped off the recording viciously. “Of course,
those are not the words actually spoken in that room.”

Eusabian’s strong hands toyed restlessly with his dirazh’u.
The shiny silken cord caught the light in faint glimmers as it twisted between
his fingers.

“But I will have Nyzherian watched, nonetheless,” Barrodagh
continued, “in case that simulation was meant to serve a double purpose.”

The curse-weaving cord made a dry, whispering noise in he
Avatar’s hands, like the progress of a snake across a bedsheet. “That Bori is
more subtle than you expected.”

The implied criticism stung, but Barrodagh could not answer
without making it worse. And it was true. Had Nyzherian turned? Or was that
simulation merely to sow distrust between them? Or was that what he was
supposed to think? He cursed silently: he had seriously underestimated
Morrighon, who, now that he was under the protection of Anaris, was no longer
subordinate to Barrodagh.

The Bori picked up another paper, hoping to get the Avatar
on to the next subject, but Eusabian continued in a musing tone, “It was a
similar mistake by Ezrigar, my father’s secretary, that led me to the throne.”
The Avatar smiled coldly, the strange quirk of humor in his eyes again. “But
that was before your time.”

The room felt chilly. Barrodagh had arranged the disgrace
and death of his own predecessor, Terreligan, not five years after the Avatar
assassinated his own father to assume the throne. Of course, Eusabian knew
this—the Dol’jharian nobility even encouraged the internecine warfare among the
Bori bureaucrats who ran the state, apparently believing it guaranteed that
only the most able survived to serve. But why was he referring to it now?

Then, as the dirazh’u went through yet another evolution in
his lord’s hands, Barrodagh sustained a new and surprising insight: the Avatar
was bored. The Panarchy lay supine beneath his feet, his enemy lay imprisoned
in his own palace, and there were no immediate challenges for him. Barrodagh
knew, and knew that Eusabian did also, that that would change, once the
Panarchists gathered their forces, but for now, it appeared, the Avatar was
finding amusement in other ways.

The comm chimed, and Barrodagh’s relief at the interruption
made him almost knock over a stack of datachips he’d brought in his haste to
respond. The screen lit with the face of Juvaszt on the
Fist of Dol’jhar
.

“Kyvernat Juvaszt here. We have lost contact with the
Charvann system. The
Hellrose
, the last ship in-system with an Urian
relay, has been destroyed in battle with another Rifter vessel.”

“What!” Barrodagh could see the sudden anger in the Avatar’s
face. They still hadn’t found the Heart of Kronos, nor any clues to its
whereabouts, and now they no longer had real-time communications with the
system. If the Heart was found, it would be three weeks before they knew,
unless—

Barrodagh had barely formed his response when Juvaszt seized
the opportunity to further erode his control of the Rifters forces by issuing
the exact order Barrodagh would have.

“I have dispatched a frigate with a hyperwave from
Charterly’s fleet to investigate and take over reporting duties.”

“But what happened?” Barrodagh snarled. “How do you know it
was another Rifter, and not Panarchists?”

“We have a transmission from the ship’s captain, Lignis,
that was terminated by its destruction. It entered skip too close to radius.”

“Put it on,” Eusabian ordered.

The Bori thought he saw the ghost of a sneering smile
directed at him as the captain’s visage was replaced by a view of a bulky man
with a shiny bald head and heavy jowls. A jagged pink scar snaked across his
forehead and down one cheek, lifting one eyelid into a permanent expression of
surprise. Behind him Barrodagh could see frantic activity on what was evidently
the bridge of the
Hellrose:
a bedlam of damage reports, shouts of rage,
and an array of red lights that indicated a ship in trouble.

The fat man looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Keep
trying Sodality channels. She’s gotta respond.”

A woman’s voice shouted in the background, “Fiveskip’s
coming up! Ten seconds.”

“Skip as soon as it’s stable,” said Lignis, his face
breaking into a smile as he turned back to the screen. “And belay that last
message. Tell her to kiss my nacker.”

“We’ve got it under control now, we’ll be outta here in a
moment. But you’d better send some more ships here, if you want to get your
hands on... ”

“Fiveskip’s up!”

The screen rippled and the fat man screamed. Barrodagh
stared in horror, his gorge rising, as the man’s mouth got wider and wider, his
lips folding back over his cheeks, his teeth and gums following. The top of his
head opened up and a fungoid growth of brain tissue flowed out across his skull
as his face split down the middle and folded outward. Somehow, he kept screaming
the whole time. Then, mercifully, the transmission terminated.

Barrodagh clamped his teeth together and held himself rigid,
fighting the resurgent memory of his utter terror outside the kitchens when the
pie-flinger had attacked. He’d thought this was what was happening to him. Juvaszt
had known how this would affect him. Who had talked? Anger fought the nausea
down.

“Fascinating,” said the Avatar. “Play it again.”

Barrodagh stifled a protest and restarted the recording. He
didn’t dare shut his eyes, so he defocused them, and tried hard not to listen.
The attempt was not entirely successful.

“That is very like the Panarchist terror weapon employed
against Evodh,” said the Avatar. The Bori noted that his hands were still now,
the dirazh’u quiescent. “Have the technicians search the computer for any
record of such a weapon based on the fiveskip technology. It will be useful for
quelling restless populations.”

Barrodagh nodded jerkily. The terror inspired by such a
device would be very useful for the small occupation forces that Dol’jhar could
field.

But it was utterly unlike the Avatar to so involve himself
with details—it was a measure of his boredom. Barrodagh would have to be
especially careful now.

He found himself thinking of the expected Panarchist
counterattack as a welcome distraction for the Avatar.

He dismissed the insane thought. He could manage without
that. But he hoped something diverting would happen soon.

Montrose watched across the chess board as Sebastian Omilov considered
his next move. He had been delighted to learn that the gnostor not only was
adept at the game of chess, long eclipsed by Phalanx, but was an ardent devotee
of opera, ancient and post-Exile.
It’s a little like finding myself
, he
reflected in amusement.
Or myself in a favored universe.

Then, too, Omilov had responded as hoped to Montrose’s
proffer of information through the unwitting Osri, and the gnostor’s oblique
digging for information had seemed somewhat less urgent of late.

A quiet “tick” brought Montrose’s attention back to the
board. With exquisite tact, Omilov had leaned forward and adjusted his knight
on its new square.

Montrose looked up. “Forgive me. My move?”

“You’ll note the clever placement of my knight?”

“Laying siege to my bishop?” Montrose smiled, then mused
half to himself, “Where are the kings?”

Omilov’s brows went up, but whatever he had intended to say
was lost as the main med console shrilled an alarm.

Ivard!
Heart rate rocketing, blood oxygen levels
plummeting... Montrose shot to his feet and hit the cabin monitor. He caught a
fragment of soft chanting, the
ching
of a finger cymbal, and knew
immediately what had happened.
Haruman’s Hell. I thought Jaim would want to
be alone to send Reth onward.

He slapped the comm. “Jaim!” he bellowed. “Med-red! Get
Ivard down to the dispensary. Now!” It had been a calculated gamble putting the
boy back in his old cabin. He’d lost the bet, and Ivard was paying the price.

As he broke out the crash kit, he tersely explained to
Sebastian what was happening. “You’re not in the way where you are. Stay
there.”

Moments later Jaim entered the dispensary, carrying Ivard.
The boy’s face was swollen and blue-tinged, and Montrose could hear his breath
wheezing from across the room. The pungent smell of incense wafted in with the
two.

As Jaim lowered the boy onto the exam table the dispensary
had extruded from a bulkhead, Montrose jabbed an anti-anaphylactic into Ivard’s
chest.

Ivard’s struggle for breath became easier, and after a few
seconds he opened his eyes as wide as the swelling would allow. “Voices,” he
croaked.

“Voices?” Montrose repeated.

Ivard nodded, swallowing with difficulty. “Voices... and
Lokri—” He sighed, and his eyes fluttered closed.

“He’s never had a problem with the incense before,” Jaim
said.

“Not your fault. I should have warned you. It’s the Kelly
band.”

Montrose looked down at Ivard’s pale face as the boy
muttered something about voices again. “He’ll have to stay in here until we
reach Rifthaven.” He pursed his lips, then said, “Why did he mention Lokri?”

Jaim’s long face closed over. “I haven’t heard or seen anything.”

“It’s been a few years,” Montrose mused. Then, aware of Omilov
listening from the other side of the dispensary, he added, “If she’s done with
him, you might see if anything is left. I’ll prep here.”

Jaim nodded and moved out.

o0o

Our period of withdrawal is nigh. We have new word-nexi
to celebrate within the world-mind. We celebrate words: we celebrate
we-and-you, we celebrate sleep, we celebrate entities-separate, we celebrate—

Celebrate them in the world-mind. I have no need to remember
them with you. Have you heard new word-nexi while I slept?

While you slept we separated the patterns of the
angry-one, the damaged-one-who-hears-music, the moth-one amended by Vi’ya, the
one-who-gives-fire-stone. We cannot hear the one-with-three.

Word-nexi?

Word-nexi are again betrayal, loyalty from the angry one,
cessation from the moth-one, Ilara-in-cessation from the
damaged-one-who-hears-music, loyalty and the image of the Markham entity-in-cessation
from the one-who-gives-fire-stone. We must repeat our contemplation of the
word-nexus loyalty as its images in the pattern of the angry-one are not
compatible with the images in the pattern of the one-who-gives-fire-stone.

Then let us begin...

o0o

Marim slipped into the dispensary cubicle, laughing at the
way Ivard promptly blushed.