Ruler of Naught (46 page)

Lokri led him through a bewildering maze of emporia whose
wares, and varieties of promotion, had utterly nothing in common, unless it was
the compounded assault on the senses. Music not so much heard as felt through
the soles of the feet and the back teeth blended dizzyingly with the light,
breathy sounds of bizarre wind instruments. a few meters farther on, the clash
and tang of brass cymbals accompanied a weird voice singing in some ancient
tongue, evoking the mysteries of the bazaars of Lost Earth.

Light pounded, pulsed, flashed, and dazzled; scents swirled,
stung, and singed. Lokri had long ago learned not to discriminate, instead
permitting the sensory buffeting to flow over and past him. He glanced at his
companion, who showed no reaction.

They moved aside as a procession of Kyresian Devotes in
their polychromatic robes passed, hopping first on one foot, then on the other,
pounding resonators on their heads and heels and singing monotonously in voices
made shrill by the strange drugs of their cult.

A teenaged girl grabbed his arm. “Map to th’ Founder’s Ship?
Guarantees you find the treasure—”

“Get lost,” Lokri said pleasantly.

The Rifter vanished in the crowd, then re-emerged farther
down, grabbing someone else by the arm.

“Founder’s Ship?” Brandon looked interested.

“Legend. Maybe truth—who knows?” Lokri said. “Somewhere,
buried in the chaos of accretions we call Rifthaven, is the original ship. No
one knows where or how old it is. I’ve never believed in the treasure.”

They were only approached once or twice more, and always
Brandon responded with a quick shake of the head and a half-raised palm in one
of those revealing Douloi gestures.

Lokri watched for reactions from the vendors working the
crowd, but no one seemed interested in Brandon. The mate-masks merely indicated
a pair of slumming nicks.

Once Brandon turned sharply, and a second later Lokri felt a
fragile hand touch his side where a belt pouch might have rested. he paused,
looking down into a small face. Lokri laughed at the feral snarl the child gave
them before it darted away.

“‘Ware the rats,” Lokri warned.

“Rats?”

“Brats. They’re lethal. They start playing war games with
each other as soon as they can walk—no adult takes on the packs on and wins.
Jaim grew up that way,” Lokri added with a laugh. “Never mind. We’re here.”

They ducked through a low door. They felt the subtle sonic
tingle of a scan, and the burly guard at the console held out his hand. Lokri pulled
his neurojac out of his boot and handed it over. The door slid open, inviting
them into cool, clean air.

Soft music greeted them as they went down a fast lift to a
lower level, then entered a wide room with terraces built around a central
waterfall. Greenery hung over the terrace walls.

On each of the levels people milled about, involved in games
of chance and skill. Lokri led the way to the highest level, having to give
another code before they gained entrance.

Here, the men and women were nearly all young, or as
young-looking as expensive medtech could make them. Handsome bodies were flattered
or revealed by expensive clothing.

“There you are,” a man drawled, his tone arrogant. “I’d
begun to fear for your courage.”

“A concern I salute you for, sho-Glessin,” Lokri answered
blithely, moving toward a tall, hard-faced man who lounged against the low
terrace wall.

Sho-Glessin raise a glass in answer, seemingly unaware of
the fifty-meter drop just beyond him.

“We’re all here,” he said. “And ready.”

Another man and a woman moved out from the shadows of a
booth and sank into the padded seats around an octagonal bank of consoles. One
man already sat there, wearing a full-face mask. ‘Thousand suns per round,” the
Mask said.

Lokri shrugged.

“Boring.” The woman’s voice was hard. “Let’s add some fun to
it. Hundred sun per ship, and five for supply centers.”

“As you wish, Piriag.” Lokri lounged over to a console.
Brandon sank slowly into the chair next to him, his expression pleasantly
bland, but his eyes watchful as he punched himself into the game.

The Mask raised his arm and stripped off his boswell,
placing it in full view on the top of his console. The others followed his
example—except for Brandon, whose wrist was bare. Lokri watched the others
noting that.

“Level?” the Mask inquired neutrally.

“Three,” Lokri said.

Brandon gave Lokri a muted glance, and Lokri realized he’d
dropped the Rifter tonalities in his speech. Inwardly he cursed, resolving to
keep Douloi patterns from marking his words.

Then the consoles before them lit up, and Lokri’s entries
flowed across Brandon’s screen, indicating what was about to happen: the two of
them were going to play Level Three Phalanx against all these others, for
astronomical sums of money.

And now he’s wondering why I didn’t warn him.

Brandon looked up in muted question, to receive a
challenging grin in return. The Arkad said nothing, running his hands over the
keyboard to imprint its feel.

“Ready,” the man in black stated. “Begin.”

Lokri had played often enough against Brandon to guess where
he would lead; still, it was all he could do for the first desperate minute or
two to provide a solid backup. Lokri’s throat dried when he paused once, and
the weight of the chance he’d taken pressed on his skull, but it was not in his
nature to regret it. A chase was only worth commensurate risk.

This first step in this chase was meant to shake the Arkad
out of that affable but relentless control, and to do it he had to jam up the
stakes. If they lost they’d both be dead, or worse, but he didn’t think they’d
lose.

The Arkad dropped the mask of vacuous amiability just long
enough to cast him one slightly pained look, which Lokri only laughed at, then
Brandon’s gaze went back to his console.

Lokri divided his attention between his board and Brandon,
whose fingers danced rapidly across the keypads.

Brandon pulled a coup, fell back, Lokri provided backup, and
once again Brandon launched to the attack. Across from them, the fat man gave a
short cry of dismay, and Lokri saw his board go dim.

One down.

Piriag took her lip between her teeth. Lokri moved to block
her himself, hoping Brandon would not waste the time doubling his efforts.
Perhaps
I should have discussed a basic strategy with him, he thought, feeling his own
control slip.
Piriag was not a pleasant loser, but she’d be a dangerous
winner. She dealt almost entirely in the slave trade and Lokri guessed where
she would send them if she could...

The console beeped softly, and once again Brandon made a
desperate maneuver that netted a big win.

Lokri glance covertly at his opponents in time to catch
Piriag exchanging a fast look with sho-Glessin. Had they recognized Brandon’s
Phalanx style? But their play did not change, as it would have were that the
case.
No, different worlds. These are gamblers, not tournament players.
In any case, as far as he knew, no one except Ivard and Lokri had recognized the
famous Constable Murphy in Brandon’s style. Physical recognition was
more likely, and that only on sho-Glessin’s part. The man had made and lost a
fortune running gambling halls for the Douloi until he’d been caught cheating a
few years back.

Lucky, this new fashion for mate-masks.
Lokri caught
a flickering glance from Piriag, and he hoped his smile unsettled her.

Another attack: a win. The first round ended, and Brandon
sat back, flexing his long hands.

“Do we get anything to drink, or do we just dance in the
arena?” he asked.

Dance in the arena?
Lokri ignored this inanity,
lifting a finger to signal one of the hovering waiters. Nothing but human
servants in this place; Lokri wondered if the Arkad took this rarity for
granted. Brandon showed only mild interest as he surveyed the company. Brandon
had no money, no weaponry, no boswell, and he was wearing Jaim’s cast-off
clothing, yet it never seemed to occur to him he might not have been permitted
entrance.

He knows he’s better than anyone in this entire hellhole.
He knows it so well it’s probably never been a conscious thought, and if I were
to point it out to him he’d deny it, and mean it as well.

The waiter approached and asked their desire. Lokri ordered
drinks and threw his last remaining hundred AU onto the gleaming obsidian of
the table.

Their opponents moved away, ostensibly to order, but Lokri
knew it was to confer.

Brandon leaned toward him. “I thought you didn’t have anything
but a hundred.”

“I don’t,” Lokri murmured. “In fact, less.” He swept up the
few remaining tokens and pocketed them.

Brandon’s brows lifted. “What if we lose?”

“Then we belong to the winners.”

The drinks came. Brandon whistled softly. Lokri sipped with
care, aware how quickly the alcohol dimmed his speed, but Brandon drank one cup
straight off, setting the crystal down with a musical
ching
.

Lokri saw their opponents take this in, and smile.

Round two...

o0o

Montrose opened pain-blurred eyes and gaze up in uncomprehending
silence at the two faces above him. He struggled, wincing, to a sitting
position, and discovered he was on the deck plates.

“Eh?” he grunted. His protesting brain reluctantly comprehended
similar pairs of beetling brows, pendulous ears, and twin expressions of worry:
the two Omilovs.

“Drink this.” Sebastian handed something down.

Montrose sipped one of his own pain-reduction concoctions,
laced with good brandy. The resulting fire seemed to cleanse out the pain and
restore enough brain function for memory.

“I turned my back on Lokri.” Montrose grimaced in disgust.
“No less than I deserved.”

“You were tired.” Omilov’s expression was tight with concern.
“And a fellow crew member, presumably trustworthy—”

“I don’t trust anybody,” Montrose said, wincing as he felt
over the back of his head. “Damn! Broke the skin. Telos knows I have a hard
head.” His feeble attempt at humor brought no answering smile from the
Omilovs. “We were making coffee … He didn’t drop you, too, did he?”

The gnostor shook his head, as Osri said, “Locked him in
there.” A jerk of his head toward the berth. “I heard noise. By the time I
figured out how to unlock the galley, whatever had happened was over.” His voice
was dry as he exchanged glances with his father.

“What is it?” Montrose demanded, recognizing that the concern
on Omilov’s face had, if anything, increased. “Where’s Lokri?”

“Gone,” Osri said curtly. “And so is the Aerenarch.”

o0o

“Round three, game to the challenged.”

Lokri kept his face bland as they rose from the chairs.
Brandon shot him a glance, the mask not quite hiding his question before Sho-Glessin
handed him a small chip and said, “If you ever leave this chatzing cheat, you
can name your salary with me.” He laid down his share of the money and stalked
off.

Piriag gave them a murderous glare but said nothing as she
paid up. The Mask noted the proper amounts changing hands, utterly impassive.

“What now?” Brandon breathed, looking amused.

“We get out of here as fast as we can, because they’ll both
have friends watching,” Lokri muttered.

Laughter quirked Brandon’s eyes behind the mask.

“Let me show you the Xi games,” Lokri said loudly.

After he retrieved his neurojac, they went a level down in
one lift, then he shoved Brandon into the next lift and they went up a level.
They stepped out, Lokri motioned downward, and Brandon laughed as they saw a
man and woman wearing green, with shiny green eye implants, move close to the
lift. Both of them held some sort of weapon in their right hands.

“Piriag’s hired flash,” Lokri said.

Brandon shook his head. He did not seem unduly worried—as if
none of this were real to him. “So what now?”

“We buy our way out the back, of course,” Lokri said. “Say
nothing, just follow me.”

“Here she is,” Montrose said, his voice sounding husky with relief
to Omilov.

The hatch slid open and the captain appeared, tall and composed.
“Lokri has disabled his locator,” Vi’ya said, her accent very marked.

“There’s worse.” Montrose moved to the console. “Listen. I
just talked to Marim.” He touched a control.

“Have you seen Lokri? He’s gone and so is the Arkad.”

“What?”
The shriek made the console crackle
. “And
I just told him why that was dangerous—”

‘Told him why and what?”
Montrose’s recorded voice
sharpened
.

“I got it from Rex off the
Tantayon
—what we
guessed is true! Eusabian knows that the Arkad is alive, and he’s got the
biggest reward ever posted hanging over his head. But I
told
Lokri not
to do anything, because you know what will happen if anyone tries to collect—”

“Where do you think Lokri would be?”
Montrose cut in
.

“Galadium, of course. I’ll go myself,”
came Marim’s
voice
. “And when I’m through with him, you’ll have to put him back together
with specimen tongs. Him
and
that chatzing nick!”

Montrose ended the recording.

Vi’ya turned her black gaze Omilov’s way. “Did you know
about this?”

“No,” the gnostor said.

“Marim told Lokri about the reward,” Montrose rumbled, his
ugly face fierce with anger. “He could be doing anything—”

But Vi’ya made a slight, impatient gesture, cutting Montrose
off: she didn’t care about Lokri. “According to Jaim, Arkad being alive is not yet
general news,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she stared down at the deck.

Omilov studied her, trying to see if she carried the Heart
on her person. Frustration kindled a helpless anger in him. There was nothing
he could do.