Stardogs (32 page)

Mark Albeer sighed and shouldered the pack. “I was supposed to let her get killed, you know. I’d been told to step aside in the firefight that was planned for your crowd. I wasn’t… I wasn’t even getting any sleep. I was so bloody glad you Yak struck early.”

Teovan paused mid-step. He grabbed the bodyguard. “WHAT?”

“I was supposed to step aside and let Hayley, my fellow bodyguard, shoot her. Shoot her myself if he failed.”

“But you were her fuckin’ bullet-stopper, man! How the hell…”

“Orders. Orders from the Emperor himself. Now let go of me. I didn’t do it. I didn’t know if I
could
do it. I’m just bloody glad I never needed to.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Man… Forget it. She’s dead.”

“Caro, I mean, the Countess… How in the hell am I going to tell her?”

Sam shrugged. He avoided saying ‘nice tits but nothing upstairs’. His instinct told him that that could get him killed. “Maybe she’ll just be glad you didn’t cook too,” he said dryly.

In some ways Mark Albeer was very young. A ready blush betrayed him.

They met the entire party coming to look for them a few hundred yards further on.

In the psuedobat-cave Shari held her hands over her ears, and doubled over Otto who was sensibly hiding his head in her midriff. Her hearing had just about returned to normal after the first blast. In a way the steamy gust that found its way in here was welcome. She was cold and wet, and between geyser-blasts the cave chilled off rapidly. It was why the drip-pool, from which she had so gratefully drunk, existed. Her thirst being slaked Shari felt she’d settle for not shivering herself to death. If only she’d brought her pack. She could have wrapped something around her ears and maybe even found some dry clothes to put on. Also Deo should have a blanket over him… He had his pack with him! As the geyser blast-noise died away she began feeling for his pack. In the dark it was difficult to find the opening. She took the pack off his back. It was a struggle but at least he’d be able to lie more comfortably. He groaned slightly, but remained on his side. The pack was no easier to get into now it was off. Oh for a light! She remembered the lumitube Deo had produced when they were trapped in the dark of the crashed ship. He must still have that!

She knew he wore a bandolier under his tunic. He’d produced weapons from it on occasion. Now she felt under his jacket. He was colder than she was. For a moment she was terrified that he was dead. But he wasn’t that cold, and yes, she could feel a pulse, fast and soft, but there. It was awkward to get in to his tunic at the neck. She went down to the waist and lifted it. Her fingers touched a narrow belt as she did this. The fingers explored. His body stirred beneath her hand. She flushed pulling back… If he were to wake up now! He lay still. After a few moments she went on, telling herself not to be so stupid. All the same she felt a bit depraved with her hands inside an unconscious man’s trousers, and, in the back of her mind, just a little curious.

A piece of silky cloth. A handle… The lumitube. She pulled it out, and bent it to activate the device. In the pale light she could see that in lifting the tunic she’d exposed not one but two bandoliers, carrying a pharmacopoeia of small bottles, four flat-pak grenades, an assortment of tools and electronic instruments, several slim-bladed knives, spikes, tiny cases and a piece of narrow tubing. And two more lumitubes. How like Deo! “Better to die with cards in reserve than to show your entire hand too soon, Princess”. He must have said it a thousand times. The memory tightened her throat, made her eyes burn. She pulled his tunic down, and, using the lumitube opened his pack without difficulty.

The blanket wasn’t wet, unlike most of the rest of the pack. Gently, ever so gently, she rolled him in it. A pair of trousers and another grey tunic were the total contribution she could find for her own warmth. The food he’d been carrying had unfortunately got wet. It could only improve the five day old pastry of the
boeuf et poivre en croute
. She felt faintly guilty as she and Otto shared most of it, but comforted herself that it would have gone bad anyway. In the distance the geyser roared to life again, its regular cycle disturbed by the rock-choking.

Dry clothes and food helped, even if wearing trousers felt very odd. She’d have given anything for dry footwear… Deo still felt cold. The geyser had been silent awhile. She wondered whether she should risk trying to find her way out now, and bring the others to help her with Deo. She’d decided on this, after all, she had a light now, when the geyser told her to stay put. She would have to wait it out. She did, getting colder. Eventually she took off her wet shoes and burrowed under Deo’s blanket. She felt a bit self-conscious about it, but he still seemed to be colder than she was. At least Otto provided a patch of warmth in the crook of her knees.

It was dark in the canyon, much darker than it had been in the open valley. The darkness was appropriate to the bleak spirits of the party. In the blackness Caro had come to take shelter in his arms. Mark Albeer had often dreamed of holding her. Now the actuality was clouded by her grief and his guilt. They didn’t know that they’d been observed by the lean leaguesman, who certainly felt no remorse about the death of Shari and her servant. His feelings meant no good for Albeer or the quietly sobbing girl he held, however. The group were still too shocked to do more than doss down for the night where they were. Several of them spent the better part of the night thinking and planning.

Viscount Brettan started the ball rolling the next morning, before they’d even had their ration of water or food. The bottle, an apple-green one with a grape-vine pattern from Mark Albeer’s pack, stood waiting on the rock slab. “I’m afraid now that the Princess is no longer with us, and we’ll miss her sadly,” he said sententiously, “we need a new leader.”

There was a wary silence.

Then Caro burst out. “It’s too soon, Martin. I just can’t bear it. She’s hardly… hardly gone and you’re scheming for her place. “She turned away sobbing. Mark and Tanzo went to comfort her. Prince Jarian poured a mug of water from the apple green bottle, and took it to her. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that it nearly startled the Countess out of her tears.

“Here,” he said awkwardly. “I’m very sorry she’s dead.”

“You! YOU! You hated her!” exclaimed Caro.

“I didn’t know her. I was starting to realize just how… good she was. I wish I’d had more time…” The prince swallowed convulsively, and turned back to the others. “Viscount Brettan,” he said thickly, “I think we need to eat and drink first. I… I know we need someone to take decisions, but let’s all eat and drink first, before we discuss it. Personally I think you’re the right person, but, later, eh?”

“No, let’s settle it now,” said Kadar viciously, fumbling at his belt.

Lila tapped the barrel of the .22 pistol in her hand against the rock and smiled at him, all teeth and no humor. Whatever Kadar had been planning died stillborn. The others all said “Shut up, Kadar,” with various degrees of force, except for Johannes, who said that a drink first was what was really called for.

So they drank. The reformed Jarian took each person their ration. He didn’t take one for himself. “I stole water, that first night. I… I owe it to my late aunt to make up for it. I’ll go without,” he said, looking longingly at the bottle.

Johannes, trained in the same arts, found his performance poor. The rest of the audience were not so discerning, however. Perhaps they wrote off his voice tones to inexperience at remorse. “Don’t be silly, Jarian. Shari didn’t expect you to do that. At least have a little.” Tanzo’s tone showed that she at least was impressed.

Jarian hung his head. “No. Not this time. I need… to make amends, somehow.”

So he sat out while the others drank. Nobody tried that hard to make him drink.

After they’d finished Martin Brettan stood up, and cleared his throat. “I don’t want to seem callous, but we really do need to choose a new leader for this party. On the basis of experience I think that I had better take it on. I don’t expect to do as well as the Princess…”

“Actually, I am your new Master,” interrupted Prince Jarian, his voice was so changed it was hardly recognizable. Gone was the put-upon whine they’d all become so accustomed to that they hardly noticed it any more. Now his voice was ugly with triumph. “You all live or die at my pleasure.”

“He should’ve drunk that water. He’s finally flipped,” said Sam, beginning to gather his gear.

Jarian held up a small bottle. “You’ve all just drunk water containing ectipain. Do know what that means, Yak scum? I’ve a good mind to let you die for that.”

By the sudden silence most of the audience knew exactly what ectipain was. Faces became white and drawn. Jarian, too self-centred to understand other people, did not realize how close he stood to death. “What is it?” whispered Caro to Mark Albeer.

“Ectipain? It’s what they call the ‘slave drug’. If the victim doesn’t get the antidote regularly the nervous system starts to disintegrate. It is so incredibly painful that most victims try to kill themselves, but as they lose control of their hands and feet first… It takes up to a day before the heart and lungs are affected. The brain is always the last to go,” he whispered back, hands clenching and unclenching.

Martin Brettan had both thought and moved fast. He seized the prince, holding him in
Qua Teng
position, which is
not
comfortable. It was unnecessary. The flabby little princeling was no match for the gym-honed muscles of the big Viscount anyway.

Jarian squalled. Instinctively, Mark Albeer stepped forward. “I wouldn’t,” said Brettan coldly. “For starters I’d break the little poisoner’s neck before you could get here. Secondly, for his attempt to poison his own father, the Emperor has struck away his titles, disinherited him and put him under a death sentence. You owe him no loyalty.”

Mark Albeer stopped dead in his tracks. “I… it was just my training. He’s just poisoned C…us. I don’t want to save him.”

“Right. Which is why I want him searched. I want that antidote. Not you, Albeer. That bottle came out of your pack, and you just moved to defend him. You, um, Macrae…Lila. Put the gun away and search him.”

“It won’t do you any good,” spluttered the ex-Prince angrily. “Let go of me. You’ll suffer for this. Especially you, Viscount. It is all a lie, bodyguard. Force him to let go of meeee!!” he ended with a squeal as Martin Brettan tightened his grip.

The burly Viscount snorted. “I heard it from Selim Puk himself, ten minutes before we left the palace. How do you think you managed to get onto the ship, little cock-o’-the whoop? Did you think we didn’t know about you?”

Lila searched. She searched with most awesome thoroughness. Under his testicles she found a tiny vial. She held it up. “I thought I was going to have to search his anus,” she said with distaste.

“That’s what you all need now. I’ve hidden the rest,” said Jarian. “And I won’t tell you where.”

“Oh yes, you will,” said Kadar, coming forward, a thin-bladed knife in his hand. “Let me, Viscount. I am an
expert
at this sort of thing. He’ll talk. He’ll be glad to.” The Leaguesman had an evil glitter in his eyes.

But Jarian had anticipated this, although without the possibility of being in pain. He’d imagined it rather as a triumphal showdown with them uttering threats, rather than someone stalking in on him with the morning sunlight shining off their knife-blade. “It’ll do you no good,” he squeaked. “I can last longer than you can survive without the antidote. And I promise you, the ones who touched me are going to be left to suffer.”

Kadar Shilo didn’t seem to have heard. He stepped forward, moving the knife slowly before his victim’s eyes. They all watched, hypnotized. Suddenly a look of unease crossed the lean man’s features. He paused. Put a hand to his stomach.

“See! It’s starting already, Leaguesman,” said Jarian, his moment of terror turning to triumph. “Put the knife away. I’ll treat you well. I’m going to need someone to administer punishment. Especially to you, Brettan.”

Kadar had dropped the knife. He doubled over, and was clutching his stomach. “Oh Gods! What have you done to us!” He lay down and groaned.