Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (26 page)

It was the slow, solemn shaking of Amik’s head that stopped him. He asked the question because it had to be asked, but he had already read the answer in Amik’s face.

“Where is he?”

“In the Heavenly Realm, if you believe in such things. He’s dead, Alex. He wasn’t a young man, and he suffered from chronic hypertension. The circumstances of his escape naturally enough put a great deal of strain on him. The very day he was to be brought here, he suffered a stroke. We maintain infirmaries in every clan HQ, but his situation was beyond human remedy.”

Alex, stood with his hands clenched at his sides. “But isn’t there—the clanhead, didn’t he record anything Monig said? For the God’s sake, he must have realized . . .” But Amik was again shaking his head in somber silence, and Alex turned away, aching in every muscle, body chilled, it seemed, to the bone.

A weapon against Selasis that came like a gift from the God, made impotent—that word! The cruel irony in it now—because there was no proof, nothing to present to the Board of Succession, to force an investigation, to force the physical examination that would provide the proof.

Hearsay evidence from a Brotherhood clanhead? That would never even reach the Board. Monig’s death? That proved nothing, and undoubtedly was on record as having occurred in Pars.

Karlis was sterile, yet that didn’t stop Orin Selasis from arranging a marriage for him. Selasis
would
have an heir, and genetically it might be Karlis’s; it wasn’t unusual for Lords to maintain sperm reserves. The Board of Succession would under no circumstances accept “unnatural conception.” but the risk of discovery was too remote to curtail the practice. And if this marriage couldn’t be stopped—

The weapon was Karlis’s sterility, and yet, unless it could be used, it was also Adrien’s death warrant. If this marriage couldn’t be stopped, there was no way she could avoid learning the deadly secret that Monig had recognized as his own death warrant. Selasis would let her live holding that secret only until she provided an heir.

And if she tried to reveal the secret before she gave birth to an heir? She would be discouraged from that by any means imaginable to a dishonorable Lord and his conscienceless minion, but if all else failed, she would be disposed of, and another wife found for Karlis.

A voice reached him finally from a long distance; from a few meters away; now and here, in this room.

“Alex, if I had the proof, I’d give it over to you willingly. No tax on that, brother. But the proof was snatched from my hands, and all I can offer is knowledge. Still, in the right circumstances, knowledge is as powerful as proof.”

The words seemed blurred at first, although Alex understood them. But only two loomed into comprehension.
I offer
. . .

That was the purpose of this involuted game of Amik’s. A gift. No tax, brother. The gift of knowledge.

Alex turned slowly and looked down at the Lord of Thieves, cushioned and swathed in silks, brocades, and furs, all bought with the profits of illegal and even corrupt and corrupting enterprises, and at his waist, in its fancifully embellished sheath, the knife that symbolized his Lordship by the very fact that it had not always remained clean.

And yet—
I offer
. . .

Alex said softly, “Thank you, Amik.”

“I told you, the debt is between you and Jael. I take no part—”

“No, Amik, this one is between you and me. Now, you have people waiting for you. I can’t ask you to delay that longer.” He didn’t add that, for himself, he could no longer delay some time to be alone.

As Amik maneuvered his bulk out of the chair, Alex went to the table by the couch where he’d left his glass, found a swallow of bragnac left in it, and turned, lifting it in a salute.

“Fortune, brother.”

Amik laughed, then said pointedly, “Thank you.”

“Good evening, Dr. Radek.”

“Hello, Maya. Good to see you up and about after that virus siege.”

The woman smiled pleasantly, but didn’t break step.

“Thank you. It’s good to
be
up.” That ended the conversation; they were past each other now.

Erica continued down the corridor, crowded as the section dining hall disgorged its sated throngs. Two months ago, she’d have stopped to talk to Maya Bezain. A thesis had just been published at the University in Leda on anxiety translation processes, a subject of particular interest to both of them. But, except for pleasantries in passing, they didn’t talk openly now. Maya was a loyal, and Erica didn’t want to call Predis Ussher’s attention to her. He kept both Erica and Ben under constant surveillance, and one object was to identify loyal members. Anyone seen too often in their company was suspect, and that was why the only conversations Erica indulged in outside her work, or in the strictist privacy, were with those members she knew to be uncommitted, or those she knew to be Ussher converts. And that was why she passed by old friends in the dining halls and sat down to eat with the “safe” uncommitted or converts.

It didn’t make for pleasant meals, but she refused the alternative of eating in her apartment. She found the company people chose to keep as informative as Ussher did, and probably more so. The loyals had learned to choose their company carefully to protect each other, but the converts tended to group together with increasing exclusivity.

She stepped into a crowded lift shaft, found an empty hand-loop, and exchanged brief smiles with its occupants as she floated to Level 12. The corridor was empty as she approached HS 1, except for the person following her. She didn’t turn to see who it was, but she could hear the footsteps.

Then her step faltered, but only briefly. A faint shock against the skin at her waist like a silent buzz.

Someone was in her office or apartment.

The warning sensor was attached to the waistband of her slacsuit, and like the X
¹
in the springsheath on her wrist, she never left HS 1 without it.

She glanced at her watch: 19:10. It would be Ben.

The lights were on in the work room, a signal that assured her it
was
Ben whose presence set off the contact alarm. She locked the ’screens behind her with a lectrikey, then turned on the vis-screen by the door and watched her follower pass. He would turn at the next cross-corridor and wait there out of sight. John Renz, comtech, Communications. He wasn’t new to this duty.

She crossed to the office door, pressed her thumb to the lock, and waited the necessary ten seconds to be sure the security mechanisms were disengaged. The office was lighted, too, but it was empty. She locked the door and reset the sec-system, then repeated the entrance procedure at her apartment door. At this point the knotting resentment always threatened to slip out of control, and she had to concentrate on every move. She lived in an armed fortress, even though no crenellated battlements were visible; it was a pattern of living and thinking that was all bitterly alien to her.

Ben was waiting for her just inside the door. Erica turned with a sigh to the final locking and sec-system reset, and Ben smiled.

“I’m finally getting you trained. How are you, Erica?”

He was still in SSB black, and it emphasized the shadows ringing his eyes, the pallor that seemed so unnatural on his ruddy skin.

She said, “I’m fine, Ben, and I won’t ask how you are. That way you won’t have to tell me you slept like the Blessed—whenever it was you last slept—and the ulcers haven’t given you a twinge for days.”

She went to the comconsole, tried two music bands, and settled for the quieter selection on the third. The music wasn’t for confusing possible monitors; with Ben here she knew this room was safe. Habit; she always turned on a music band when she came into the apartment, and she wondered as she reached into the cabinet above the console for the brandy bottle if this weren’t also becoming a habit.

It would never become a dangerous one. Ben brought the brandy from Leda, and he seldom had time to waste on such trivial errands.

“Will you have some, Ben?”

“Yes, thanks.”

It probably wasn’t good for his ulcers, but then what was? She poured a small amount into two plasex cups, frowning in annoyance. Brandy deserved crystal. Lately, she found herself resenting inconsequential things like this, resenting the three styleless slacsuits that constituted her wardrobe, the sterility of the prefab, modular furniture, and the processed, vitamin/protein-enriched, tasteless meals.

She handed Ben one of the cups. “Any news?”

In their personal code, that question had only one meaning: Any news of Andreas?

“No. We’re still checking classification numbers and trying to trace SSB psychocontrollers.”

She expected that negative response. If there
had
been news, he wouldn’t have waited so long to tell her. The next inquiry was fast assuming the same ritualistic character.

“Any news about Val?”

He tasted his brandy, but without savoring it.

“Nothing. We’ve about exhausted all the Concord sources; DCs, hospitals, Guild centers. She didn’t have an ident card, so she couldn’t have gone off planet; without an ident, she couldn’t get a ticket to anywhere.”

“The Outside, Ben. That’s the last resort, and that’s probably where she is.”
If
she’s alive. Neither of them put that into words.

Ben nodded. “Alex said he’d talk to Jael about the protocol for enlisting the Brotherhood hounds. That’s about the only hope if she’s in the Outside.”

“You talked to Alex?”

“Just signed off a few minutes ago, and to answer your first question, he’s fine; safe and well.”

Erica laughed and sat down at one end of the couch. “Then what’s the answer to my next question? How did he fare in his bargaining session with Amik?”

Ben showed a little animation at that, and even a hint of the old off-balance smile.

“With flags flying. He got everything he asked for, including three Falcons free for six months—he got it all, Erica.”

She tilted her head back against the cushions, smiling, savoring the heady and unfamiliar sensation of success.

“Thank the God. When will he have the equipment?”

“When Amik has the Ivanoi Egg, and that’s set up with Fenn Lacroy and the loyals in the Concordia chapter. Alex gave Fenn all the information he’ll need about the museum alarm systems and made recordings of the code words for the voice locks. They’ll still work; nobody bothers to change voice codes for the dead.”

“Does Alex have any idea how long it will take to get his HQ operational?”

“Two months, but he plans to take up full-time residence in two weeks.”

“In a cave. Poor Alex. He has a tendency to claustrophobia. But he shouldn’t have to tolerate it too long. One of these leads on Andreas
has
to pay off soon.”

Ben only nodded as he tossed down the rest of his brandy; he put the cup on the console counter, then sat down in a chair near her.

“Erica, there’s more. Amik told Alex another one of his stories today. This one was about Karlis Selasis.”

She refrained from downing her brandy in one nerving swallow like Ben, although she had the feeling she might need it. Ben recounted the story in flat, matter-of-fact tones as she was sure Alex had told it to him. At first, she was too numb with shock to move, then she found herself on her feet, pacing. Just like Alex. The music became nerve-wracking. She went to the console and turned it off. Ben finished his account in a pressing silence.

She asked tightly, “Is it true, Ben?”

His elbows were propped on his knees, and his big hands moved, palms up, then fell limp again.

“Nothing we know about Karlis’s stay in Lima refutes it. Alex believes it. He called this a gift from Amik. I can’t quite swallow that, but he’s right about one thing. Knowledge isn’t proof, but it’s better than ignorance.”

At that, she was hard put not to weep. She didn’t doubt it was very close to an exact quote. So tantalizing, this knowledge—was it better than ignorance for Alex?

“Will the knowledge alone stop this marriage, Ben?”

His head came up, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but eventually it could destroy Selasis. Sooner or later we’ll find a chink in his armor, and we’ll have that blade ready to ram in.” “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He rose and went to the console counter to pour more brandy into his cup. She thought of his ulcers, but said nothing, nodding when he offered her a refill.

“Erica, we’ll use this . . . knowledge in every way we can to stop the marriage; you know that.”

“What
can
you do with it?”

“The old gossip ploy. Get the rumors circulating in Elite circles. Supposedly they’ll come from the Outside, and we’ll feed it out in bits so every few days there’ll be a new piece of the story to be passed around. They’ll love it in the Elite.”

“But any concrete action must come from Loren Eliseer.”

“Yes. All we can do is fire up the rumors and hope we produce enough smoke to make Eliseer think he’s justified in asking for a Board of Succession investigation before he trusts his daughter to the Selasids. We can make Orin more uncomfortable by hinting that Monig left some sort of death testament, but in the end it’ll depend on Eliseer.”

“And if he doesn’t have the courage to risk his House on a rumor? If this marriage does take place, Adrien will be in a very dangerous position.”

He went back to his chair, shoulders set tensely. “Don’t you think I know that? We’ve got agents in the House. We’ll protect her as best we can, but Adrien Eliseer isn’t our only problem right now.”

“Ben, don’t you think I know
that
?” She smiled as he looked up at her, relieved to see him relax slightly.

“Sorry, Erica, I’m just . . .”

“Worried,” she finished for him, “and if you weren’t,
I’d
be worried about you. And one of the things you’re worried about is Alex’s relationship with Adrien, isn’t it?”

He sagged back, staring unhappily into his cup. “I guess so. I just don’t understand why, after nearly five years, he decided to revive an old . . . romance. Whatever you want to call it.”