The Phoenix in Flight (11 page)

I could take his head right now
.

Deralze was expected to. Some collector on Rifthaven,
anonymous behind an escrow account, was waiting for the perfectly-preserved
head of an Arkad.

But that could wait. Lenic Deralze leaned down, hesitated,
then ignoring the residual habits of his training, touched the bare shoulder of
the young man lying asleep on the
dormaivu
.

The reaction was instantaneous and violent.

Brandon flung aside the bedcover and lifted his arm as
though sighting along a firejac. Taking aim directly at Deralze’s face, he
mumbled, “Under fire. Where’s the comm?”

The dog came to alert, his fur ruffing up.

Habit forced Deralze back a step and poised his wrist just
short of delivering his sleeve-weapon... but there was no weapon in the
Krysarch’s hand.

Nemo barked once, ears intent as he focused on Deralze, then
he relaxed as Brandon collapsed back in the bed.

“Dream,” Brandon said, the hand that had pointed at Deralze
dropping. “Hell. That you, Deralze?”

Deralze pointed up at the ceiling.

“No telltales,” Brandon murmured hoarsely. “Long ago learned
how to get around Semion when I needed to. Damn, what a headache. And what a
nightmare. Markham and I, under attack—” He squinted around the room as though
shards of his dream images still lingered in the silent, vaulted corners. Then
gave a twisted rueful grin that reminded Deralze of the young Krysarch he had
served.

The dog padded back to one of the many dog couches all over
the suite.

Markham.
Deralze stared down in some bemusement at
Brandon, who sat naked in his bed, digging the heels of his hands into his eye
sockets.
Under attack?
Deralze had spent years making sure that the
nyr-Arkad had never seen any kind of action, and had never experienced a threat
from anyone.

Nor, if rumor was correct, had he since Deralze left. The
first and last time Brandon had been attacked had been the occasion of
Deralze’s assignment to guard him, sixteen years ago. Brandon’s nightmare could
only have been a residue of some expensive wiredream, compounded, no doubt, by
a hangover, sexual exhaustion, or both. From the condition of the
dormaivu
,
and the settings Deralze had glimpsed on the console, he guessed the party
hadn’t happened here.

Ten years of anger welled up in Deralze with undiminished
strength. No telltales? He flicked a glance at Nemo. The dog’s head was down,
but he was watching Deralze, the sable accents above his clear brown eyes
underscoring his attention.

Then caught a brief, speculative glance from Brandon’s
blurred, bloodshot blue eyes.

Does
he
see the threat, then? He hasn’t asked
where I went after I disappeared from his service.

“What did Eleris put in those drinks?” Brandon asked the
ceiling, and yawned.

“Shall I call up some detox, Highness?” Deralze spoke.
Of
course he just assumes my loyalty. He doesn’t see the threat—can’t imagine a
threat—and so Markham was ruined, and he sits here pretending to hold a firejac
after a night of carousing. Markham thinks Brandon was Semion’s real target?
Markham was blinded by loyalty. And see what result it got him.

“Detox.” Brandon sat up. “And coffee. Real, not caf. Bath.”
He thrust his dark hair out of his eyes, then winced as if even that much
movement was painful. “Chatz, my head hurts.”

Deralze moved to the dormaivu’s console and tabbed the
inlaid keys. From the bain came the sounds of water running. The door stood
open, and Brandon breathed deeply of the drifting steam.

Abruptly the wait hum ended and the dumbwaiter door opened
above the console. Two glasses stood there, accompanied by the aromatic smell
of real coffee, but Brandon picked up the cold glass of milky liquid first,
grimaced at it, and gulped it down. He shuddered, then reached for the coffee,
his face relaxing slightly as the detox diminished what must have been a lethal
hangover.

When Brandon looked up, his eyes were noticeably clearer.
“Anyone see you come in?” he asked.

“No one, Highness.” Deralze tried to hide his irritation.
The stupidity of the question was a measure of Brandon’s hangover

Brandon grinned, once again looking young despite the marks
under his eyes and the bristle of day-old beard on cheeks and chin. “Doesn’t
matter anyway, does it? With Nemo you’re basically invisible.”

“Noticed a few more dog doors since my day.”

“Always room for more dogs.” Brandon rubbed his eyes a last
time. “But the Enkainion made it easy to bring you in. I can count the times
I’ve been truly alone since...” He half-lifted a hand, almost a gesture of
appeal, then opened it outward, toward the door. “You’ve done what I asked?”

“The ship sits at the booster field right now.”

Brandon grinned. It transformed his face, reminding Deralze
of the old days, when Brandon and Markham studied together through nights, then
sneaked out to get extra time in the piloting sims when the seniors were asleep
or on duty. When they talked out every hundredth-point on the exams that they
earned top scores at—scores that Markham was falsely accused of cheating for
and cashiered while Brandon stood by and did nothing.

I just wish you’d be able to find out how Semion is going
to pay for that, before you pay
, Deralze thought.

The comm interrupted with its quiet bell-tone.

“Yes?” Brandon said.

The house computer’s even, singsong voice was just audible
above the rushing of the water in the bain. “Holocom from the Aerenarch Semion
vlith-Arkad, recorded, urgent, released
12-15-65
Standard from the
planet Narbon.”

“It can wait.” Brandon carried his coffee into the bain. A
faint hiss indicated one of the dog doors opening, and in trotted a smaller
edition of Nemo, an Arkad bitch, with a lanky pup at her heels.

“If you want any coffee, help yourself,” Brandon said as the
dogs sniffed each other and danced around Brandon.

The Krysarch knelt down, wincing at his headache as he ran
his hands over the new pair of dogs
.
“You saw Markham? And he asked
about me?”

“Yes, and yes.” Deralze did not intend to permit any of his
ambivalence to show, but Brandon must have heard something because he gave Deralze
an odd, narrow-eyed look, then straightened up, and the dogs trotted into
another room and vanished.

Brandon stepped down into the rushing water of the bath.
Deralze saw little of the effects of what gossip reported to have been a
spectacular ten-year drinking orgy in the slim figure. There was no flab on
Brandon’s frame. The smooth brown skin was innocent of any scars, except the
one along the back of his shoulder blade from the day Anaris, the hostage,
attacked him.

“Are you regretting your duplicity?” Brandon’s smile was
wide, his gaze intent. “Now’s the time to make your choice.”

“Choice?” Deralze’s heart slammed. His wrist flexed slightly
below the sleeve jac. “Duplicity?”

Brandon’s smile was twisted. “You made vows once to protect
the system, and now you’re helping me to escape from it. My oldest brother, at
least, would classify—”

The bell toned again. “Chival Eleris vlith-Chandreseki,
real-time, urgent,” the indifferent voice of the comm reported. The blue light
on the little console indicated a two-way visual request.

“Sorry. I’d better take this.” Brandon splashed to the edge
of the bath, next to the inlaid console, and looked down, water dripping off
his nose. “One last try,” he muttered under his breath; Deralze wondered if he
was supposed to hear it. Then Brandon lifted his head. “Comm. Voice only.”

At once, a musical soprano filled the steamy room. “Brandon
darling...”
Deralze had heard about the heir to the once-prominent
Chandreseki shipyards.
Looks of a holovid star and the morals of a
chatz-house professional.
He sidled a glance at Brandon. Why didn’t he take
this com privately?

“Good morning, Eleris.” Brandon grinned up at the afternoon
light streaming in the high window on the other side of the bain.

Her laugh rippled. “Good
evening,
my love! You
could
have stayed. Your special day is not yet over. I have many more delights
planned for us.”

“It was a wonderful day, Eleris, as was last night and the
day before.”

Her musical laugh rippled again, as calculated and lovely as
a waterfall onstage. “Only I know how much you value your independence, Brandon
dear, for you know I am exactly the same way.”

She thinks Brandon is stupid
.

Brandon splashed water over his head, then sent an
expressive look at Deralze. “Forgive my being stupid, Eleris,” he said, his
words running in unsettling parallel to Deralze’s thoughts. “But I have to
understand you. Are you suggesting we run away together—and kiss our hands to
our relatives, and our lives of dreary protocol—and the Panarchy?”

“Oh, Brandon!” The pretty sigh betrayed just a hint of
exasperation.

Deralze remembered the Gnostor Omilov taking Brandon and
Galen
semmata-
fishing
the first summer of his duty as bodyguard,
in the Gulf of Luan on Charvann: the delicate play of man and massive fish,
linked only by a gossamer thread that either could easily snap, but for the
skill of the fisherman. Eleris’s voice reminded him of that thread.

“So you won’t run away with me, then,” Brandon’s voice
expressed only disappointment.

“Brandon, there’s very little time left, and I must discuss
tonight with you.” Eleris’s Douloi singsong became somewhat brisk. “I
understand that the Arkads must ally with the Vakianos cartel, and you will
signify your marriage with Phaelia Inesset by escorting her to the Enkainion
Ball. My concern is the private reception afterward. Really, my dear, should we
not begin as we mean to go on? If you are with me, you will find yourself
pestered by fewer of the upstarts who wish to use your family connection to...”

“Eleris.”

The aria stopped. “Yes, my darling?” Her voice sounded as
breathy as silk.

“I’m sorry, but an urgent com from Steward Halkyn is
incoming.”

“Then I shall use the time to get ready for your Enkainion.
But, Brandon, do not forget our arrangement. This is not the night to be
abstracted, and it’s only for your own good...”

‘Good-bye, Eleris.” Brandon ended the com. “Abstracted,” he
said to the water. “Extracted, rejected. It was the money after all, or maybe
it wasn’t the money, but it was not me. The fool is always the last to know.”
He splashed back, his mouth wry. “Money. Deralze? What was I talking about?
Either you take the money and run—”

The tone sounded again, and the computer softly identified
the caller: “Dowager Archonei Inesset, real-time, urgent.”

“Fire away!” Brandon squirted water between his hands,
watching it shoot into the air and splash down again. “Audio, no image.”

“Your Highness,” an imperious female voice drawled in the
purest Tetrad Centrum Douloi singsong. “I am calling you at the express request
of the Aerenarch your brother. He indicated that he was sending you a
congratulatory holocom...” She paused expectantly.

Brandon hit the mute on the bath-side console. “Semion can’t
be here, so he’s sent the heavy guns in,” he said, as if discussing someone
else’s affairs—someone far away, not very well known, or liked.

He lifted his finger off the mute. “I’ve not seen my
brother’s communication yet,” he said pleasantly, letting his head fall back on
the soft tile surrounding the bath so he could gaze at the sunburst mosaic on
the ceiling.

“I can tell you the content, Your Highness.”

There was a stinging emphasis on the honorific. Deralze’s
memories of Phaelia, encountered the year before Brandon went to Minerva as a
cadet, stung with similar insistence: a sanctimonious girl who tattled on
Brandon and Galen’s practical jokes, she’d insisted on rank precedence at all
times, exhibiting a martyred affront when Brandon had relaxed it at social
affairs.

The Archonei’s voice thinned with false-ringing
graciousness. “The Aerenarch, your esteemed brother, enjoined me to emphasize
that should you wish to please your father. . .”

“My father,” Brandon repeated voicelessly, and with a surge,
rose out of the bath, then buried himself in a towel, his head bent—leaving
Deralze wondering why Brandon did not want the Archonei hearing the Panarch
named, yet permitted her to hear the surge and splash of the bath.

The Archonei’s tone tightened a degree. “...you will escort
Phaelia to your Enkainion. As a member of the Family I believe I may speak
frankly, and I think it ramshackle to be arranging these things so late. You
might have answered anytime during these last three days. I find it difficult
to believe that you had business that necessitated remaining incommunicado.”

When Brandon didn’t answer, the Archonei switched back to
the graciousness, even coaxing. “But I do not intend to rebuke you on your day
of honor. My daughter is willing to forgive these little slights as
heedlessness resulting from the press of obligations surrounding your
Enkainion. She has never failed in her duty, and stands ready to escort you to
the Enkainion Ball, as a preliminary step toward the marriage treaty that will
be to the benefit of us all. I say nothing about the reception after, though
your accompanying her to it would enable you to avoid the impositions of those
who wish to use your private life as a vector for their ambitions.”

“No danger of that.”

Archonei Inesset’s fastidious phrase
private life
had
been delivered in the tone of voice usually reserved for the discovery of a
sixteen-legged
sleggishin
in one’s after-dinner mousse.

“I must say, I am relieved to hear it,” the Archonei went
on. “You will send your personal phaeton for Phaelia and me? We three can
dispatch a holocom to the Aerenarch before we depart for the ceremony. I know
well how much it would please him, and therefore your esteemed father.”