Ruler of Naught (32 page)

Vi’ya was seated at her console. The Heart of Kronos was in
a shallow stoneware bowl near at hand. She shut down her work, tabbed the hatch
lock, then turned to face Jaim. The cabin was silent. Montrose’s music did not
penetrate here.

“After we refit at Granny Chang’s,” Jaim said, “where do we
go?”

She did not reply. They regarded one another for an
unmeasured time, Jaim thinking back to a memory he had almost obliterated.
“A
culture which does not permit the concept of regret creates burdens in other
ways,”
Reth Silverknife had said to him, afterward, as she anointed his
bruises with pungent ointment.
“You can forgive, which helps you to
understand, and understanding releases you from that burden.”

Reth’s smooth round face gave way to the long oval face before
him. Reth’s compassionate gaze vanished, replaced by the reality of Vi’ya’s
dark eyes, cold and dense as winter ice. She sat straight and still, her hands
laid patiently across her console, her black suit, made high to her neck,
concealing the strong body with its telltale scars.

Vi’ya spoke. “Stay with us until Rifthaven.”

It was an order, releasing him from the pain of the explanation
that he found he could not make. He nodded wordlessly.

“We’ll stay at Chang’s only long enough to refuel,” she went
on. “I want to stay ahead of the news from Arthelion, as much as possible.”

“You think they figured out who we are?”

Vi’ya shook her head. “Perhaps not, but just in case. I have
given it much thought. Those on Arthelion know only that a Columbiad named
Maiden’s
Dream
landed near the palace and later took off. Strictly speaking they
have no way of identifying the ship with those who raided the palace—”

“Of course they’ll assume it.”

“That is correct. Which means they will assume that the
gnostor is with that vessel. The more important question is: do they know the
Arkad was one of the raiders? He made extensive use of the Palace computer.”

Understanding flooded in upon a wave of fresh wave of rage
and loss. “Hreem,” said Jaim.

“Exactly. If Eusabian’s forces on Arthelion do know about
the Arkad, and post a reward, then Hreem will know it was us. Fortunately, he
left Charvann for Malachronte long before the news could have reached him. But
he will hear eventually, and if he chooses to share that information, I want to
be at Rifthaven long before the news can get there.”

“What are you going to do with the nicks at Rifthaven?”

“Confinement.”

“Lokri?”

Vi’ya’s face did not change. “He will not sell us out. He
knows the real price, no matter what he might be promised, would be protracted
death.”

The light above the hatch indicated someone outside, then
came the polite knock of the Panarchist. Vi’ya slowly reached over,
reluctantly, it seemed to Jaim, and tabbed the passkey.

The hatch slid open and Brandon walked in, fresh from the
shower, wearing the clean tunic and trousers Jaim had loaned him. His gaze
shifted between them. “Should I return?”

Jaim rose to leave, but Vi’ya moved her hand.

But it’s obvious he wants an interview alone,
Jaim
thought.

A pause developed into silence. Brandon waited for Vi’ya to
speak, but she sat where she was.

“This Granny Chang’s we’re headed for,” he finally said. “Would
it be possible for the Omilovs and myself to disembark there?”

“Perhaps,” Vi’ya said.

Brandon walked slowly along the perimeter of the room, then
turned and smiled. “The question,” he said, “was an attempt to get an idea of
our status. Are we passengers or prisoners, or somewhere between?”

“There is nowhere safe in your Thousand Suns now,” Vi’ya
said.

“We can take our chances on that,” Brandon countered.

She shook her head. “If you are found, your enemies, and
ours, will not be far behind us.’”

Brandon gave a slight nod, his expression thoughtful as he
paced the opposite wall, glancing at the glittering stone. He made a quick
flourish toward the Heart of Kronos, an airy gesture that managed to combine
humor with elaborate ceremony. “Sebastian would not wish to leave without his
artifact.”

Vi’ya still said nothing.

Jaim felt a prickling of discomfort at the way Vi’ya’s
unblinking gaze stayed on the Arkad as he walked the length of the room and
back.
She did not ask him to sit down, and he’s too polite to just do it
.

“What is this?” Brandon said, indicating the tapestry.

“Dhur’zhni Jharg’at Choreid,”
she said.

And Brandon translated, “The Annihilation of the Isle of the
Chorei.”

Jaim was surprised into speech. “You know Dol’jharian!”

“Some,” Brandon said. “In self-defense I tried to learn it.
Anaris had a picture much like this, but he wouldn’t tell us what it was.”

Anaris rahal’Jerrodi, Eusabian’s son, the hostage after
Acheront,
Jaim thought.
I wonder if he’s still alive.

Brandon leaned forward to examine the tapestry, without
touching it. “Where did you get it?”

“Bought,” Vi’ya said. “On Rifthaven. From a dealer in rare
artifacts.” Her voice had flattened.

Brandon crossed the room to the Eya’as’ door, then turned
and walked back. The cold air of the room, comfortable for a Dol’jharian,
stirred, and as the Arkad passed, Jaim caught the clean scent of soap.

“Have you ever seen Eusabian?” Brandon asked.

“No.”

The question had included them both, so Jaim shook his head.
Brandon’s blue gaze brushed past his face, distracted: Jaim wondered if the
Arkad even saw him.
He’s trying to read her, and failing.

Another silence built, and unexpectedly Vi’ya broke it. “The
nobles on Dol’jhar seldom appear to any outside their households. Sometimes
they make elaborate arrangements for meetings with peers. They are sometimes
seen by their enemies just before battle.”

Which he must know, if he studied the language. He wants
to know what her station was before she left.

Brandon stopped directly before Vi’ya. “Thank you.”

He left.

When the hatch had closed behind him, Vi’ya tapped her console
to life, a sharp, quick gesture.

Jaim said, “Perhaps?”

Vi’ya said, “No. But he doesn’t need to know that. Montrose can
stay here and guard the nicks, as well as watch over Ivard.”

Jaim got to his feet. She did not detain him. If she’d had
something further to discuss before Brandon’s interruption, apparently she’d
changed her mind.

He went out.

The music had stopped.

o0o

Osri was alone in the cabin.

He touched the Tetradrachm’s hiding place, then dropped his
hand.
It’s just a metal object,
he thought.
Proof that the Aerenarch
willingly participated in a crime against his own home, his own people.

Restless, he surveyed the tiny cabin, then sank into the
chair before the console.

Dol’jhar...

The image of Vi’ya scoring Lokri’s face with her fingernail
possessed his memory.
Friend, let us share the fires together.

He flicked the console into life and called up the
Starfarer’s Handbook entry for Dol’jhar, remembering as he did a long-ago
comment of his father:
taking refuge in facts as a bulwark against feelings
.

A bright red warning came up:

WARNING! SYSTEM QUARANTINE CLASS II

Data supplied for informational purposes only.

Impatiently he tapped for access and the screen promptly
filled with words.

DOL’JHAR

TYPE: Class II (habitable, marginal resources)

Osri scanned rapidly down the description of the planet, which
fleshed out the little he remembered from history lessons: a harsh, high-gee
environment with a very narrow band of geography that was actually habitable—and
that area was far from what anyone sane or civilized would consider comfortable—rocked
constantly by seismic activity, beaten by unending storms, with bleak soil
which yielded few crops. Yet its people maintained that the planet was a gift
of Dol, to make them strong.

What was it Ivard told me? “Vi’ya says that the most common
products are people and ash.”

He linked through to cultural information, and more quickly
than he expected found a section on Dol’jharian sexuality, with a warning, deprecated
by the Quarantine, that basically amounted to “Don’t even think about it.”
Scanning down, curiosity rapidly turned to revulsion.

In the Dol’jharian language, there is no way to
distinguish between rape and consensual sex; indeed, the only words for
non-violent sexual intercourse are insulting accusations of weakness...

...the words for “marriage” and “conquest” are
cognate. During the Dol’jharian “festival” called
Kharusch-na rahali
,
the “Star Tides of Progeny,” those who desire heirs ambush likely partners. It
is assumed that a good fight will ensure strong offspring. Consent is seldom an
issue, except in alliances for political purposes, and sometimes not even then.

The last phrase was highlighted as a post-deprecation
emendation, with a cross reference:
see First Dol’jharian Trucial
Commission.

Osri stared at the screen, his stomach churning. The widely-beloved
Kyriarch Ilara, wife of Gelasaar III and Brandon’s mother, had been part of the
First Trucial Commission murdered by the Dol’jharians following the Battle of
Acheront that had destroyed their empire.

Bile clawed at the back of his throat as he remembered what
Lokri had looked like when he finally emerged from his cabin after Vi’ya
dragged him off the bridge.

Before he could follow the link, the hatch slid open.

Osri quickly killed the console and looked up.

He was surprised to see the little blonde leaning in the hatch,
her face merry with a dimpled grin, and one hip outthrust.

Regarding her with distrust, Osri wondered if he had locked
the hatch. Of course he had. But she obviously knew a bypass code. She had
ignored him except when they’d been required to work together. What did she
want?

“Too bad you won’t be able to see Chang’s when we get there,”
she said, coming in uninvited.

Grimly he maintained his silence; he would not give her the
satisfaction of gloating over his imprisonment.

She wandered the room, her gaze darting here and there, then
back to his face. Once again she grinned. “Ever been in a bubbloid?” she asked,
leaning against his console, her proximity breaking the invisible but nearly
palpable boundary ingrained in the Douloi.

He felt crowded and tried not to stare at the small, rounded
breasts molded by her sky-blue suit, or the generous curve of her hip as she
swung a leg up and perched. He breathed in: her scent was a subtle blend of
jumari and spice.

“No,” he said, keeping his gaze on her face.

“Chang’s one of the best. There’s something for every
taste.” Her light-colored eyes were sharply observant in their smiling lids; it
jolted him. “Since you nicks provided the means, it seems only fair to ask, you
want anything? Be glad to get it for you.”

She’s too close
. Unnerved by his heightened
awareness, he moved his chair back a trifle.

“And in trade, I’ve a question,” she went on.

What is she after? It couldn’t be the coin or the ribbon—

“What do you military nicks do for fun?”

Osri attempted a humorous deflection of Brandon’s sort.
“Discuss planetary defense emplacements. And if it’s a real wild night, count
stars on a projection field.”

Marim laughed, a delighted chuckle that sparked a reluctant
smile. Then she reached and gently tugged one of his earlobes. “Your father,
he’s got those ears, too. Know what my crèche-mater told us about big ears?”
Her gaze slid downward.

The tug on his ear had caused a not-unpleasant sensation,
but her direct sexual invitation brought alarm.

“Probably something obscene,” he said flatly.

Again she laughed. “You’re so predictable,” she said, still
chuckling. “But that’s probably part of what makes you the kind that people
trust. They do, don’t they, those high-end nicks? Trust you?”

Interest warred with foreboding. “I endeavor to be trustworthy,”
he said even more flatly.

“If he’d been lucky in where he was born, Ivard would’ve
been like you,” Marim said, her gaze steady and considering. “He trusts people.
I think it’s crazy—you die sooner that way—but it was the way he was made.”
Once again she paused.

Osri took refuge in silence.

“He lost something,” she said. “Montrose thinks he won’t recover
till he gets it—was a pledge from his sister, who got burned down by those
blunge-eating Tarkans on the Mandala. It’s here, on
Telvarna
.”

The Tetradrachm.
He kept his face controlled, though
his heart began banging painfully against his ribs.

“And though Lokri’s my bond-brother,” she continued, “I can
only trust him every third day, and right now we’re having a run on Day Twos.
Your father sounds like one of those nicks big about honor, but he never comes
out of the dispensary anymore. The Arkad is... ” She made a large gesture which
could have meant anything, but Osri took to mean untrustworthy.
You’re
correct,
he thought.

“And Jaim’s in mourning,” she went on. “So I’m trying to
find it for young Firehead. And I can trust you, I think, so I’m asking you to
help me look. Will you?”

Osri was silent, recognizing a masterly campaign. Striving
for indifference, he said: “Were I to find anything of your property, be sure
that I would immediately restore it to you.”

“Fine!” she said, but the quick, half-suppressed laugh, the
way she turned to the hatch, made him suspect that something in his manner, or
in his tone, or his face, had revealed that he had it.