The Thrones of Kronos (33 page)

She obeyed with an impassive composure that belied her
youth. Juvaszt appraised her as they conversed—and he sensed her own appraisal.
Following the careful strictures of rank and custom, they discussed family and
clan, establishing the degree of consanguinity created by the complex relations
resulting from the wars of progeny between the noble families. Only nobles
served as officers in the Dol’jharian Navy—what was left of it.

The talk turned eventually, as it so often did among the
naval officers on board the one ship left to the Avatar’s Navy after Acheront,
to their Rifter allies. The necessity of their dependence on a lawless,
undisciplined mob of culls grated on all of them.

The memory of the Rifter’s abortive, protective movement in
the corridor prompted a question.

“You were present when they searched the Rifters, yes?”

To his surprise, Tiademet grimaced with distaste.

“Yes, sir.”

“What was in that case he was carrying? And why was it not
stowed with the rest of their kit?”

Her voice was husky with an emotion he couldn’t at first
identify. “He would not give it up, and it did not seem important. It was not . . .
a weapon.” Then she frowned. “Not really.” Her voice failed, and Juvaszt
realized, with puzzled amusement, that she was deeply embarrassed. Aware of a mild
warmth in his groin, he smiled slowly, waiting for her to continue, as she
must, and he enjoyed his wordless power.

“It was a . . . proteus.”

“A what?”

“A proteus. A perversion.”

Juvaszt stared at her averted face. By the Avatar’s seed,
was she mocking him with a reference to that depraved vid that had nearly cost
him his ship? But he saw no humor there. Only disgust.

“A simulation of the male organ,” Tiademet said quickly, in
the flat voice of repudiation.

But the case was almost a meter long. “Was that all that was
in there?” he asked.

She evidently misinterpreted the tightness in his voice as
anger, for she could only dip her head signifying assent.

Juvaszt’s tension released itself in a bellow of disgusted
laughter. “He thinks to arm himself for the Karusch-na Rahali?”

She stared, then answered his amusement with a strong
contralto trill of laughter that kindled the warmth of anticipation. Maybe he
wouldn’t need to look further on the station; he could detach her as his
amanuensis.

“That’s what I thought it was at first: somebody’s arm.”
Then she sobered, her mouth twisting in revulsion. “And you should have seen
how the Barcan looked at it.”

Juvaszt’s laughter ceased as well. “They are all perverts in
the Thousand Suns. No doubt the jacker and the troglodyte play with this thing,
or worse abominations.”

“Surely. But he claims honor of the Avatar, with the Barcan,
on account of the Ogres.” She grimaced. “A promise by Barrodagh, he said.”

“Bori twistiness.” Juvaszt grunted. He waved his hand in the
air, as if dispelling a bad smell. “Perverts dealing with perverts. Leave them
to it. We have duty and honor. That is enough for us.”

She nodded, then looked directly into his eyes. “Duty and
honor,” she repeated, arms crossed, muscles flexed. “And the struggle that
keeps us strong.”

He dismissed her, and returned to the console to while away
the tedium until he could sleep.

o0o

Juvaszt showed himself to Hreem and Riolo only three times
on the butt-aching journey from the
Fist
of Dol’jhar
to the Suneater, and each appearance revealed to Hreem a facet
of the Dol’jharian character. The first time Juvaszt ignored Hreem,
demonstrating the unthinking superiority common to Dol’jharians and Douloi
alike, provoking familiar resentment.

“Chatzer’s as tilt-nosed as old Tanri,” Hreem commented when
the Dol’jharian officer was gone.

He smiled, remembering the satisfying crunch as he’d broken
the Archon’s bones with an iron bar. He wondered if Juvaszt, too, would remain
silent under such treatment. Not much chance of finding out.

Riolo lifted his gaze, but refused to speak. He was afraid
of narks in the walls.

Hreem didn’t care. He had a deal, even if it was with that
twisty slug Barrodagh. And Riolo’s careful work might give him the means to
enforce that deal. An army of a hundred Ogres wasn’t as good as a
battlecruiser, but in the close confines of the Suneater, it would be far more
useful.

And that chatzing
Vi’ya and her brain-burners can’t touch them.
He wondered how Norio was
dealing with her. Could be the mindsnake would be glad to see him. That would
permit the settlement of two affronts at once. Hreem settled back in the hard
dyplast seat and lost himself in a pleasant daydream of revenge and humiliation,
until Juvaszt’s second appearance, which demonstrated Dol’jhar’s expectation of
obedience and the dwindling options of his Rifter allies.

Hreem’s tailbone ached with a deep pain that no amount of
shifting could assuage. They’d been stuck in that narrow cabin-corridor for
more than forty hours, with occasional trips to the disposer, under guard. The
air smelled stale, and it was too cold.

He glared at Riolo, who was unimpressed by his bad temper,
being comfortably asleep. The Barcan had detached his immense codpiece and
coiled it up as a pillow. That, and his smaller stature, made the horrible
seats almost comfortable, it seemed.

Hreem’s gaze fell to the case in which his shestek reposed.
He hadn’t realized what almost two days without it would feel like. But he’d
seen the look the Dol’jharian officer had given it when she had searched the
case. He’d toyed with the thought of putting it on inside his trousers, but
even if he was desperate enough for that, they’d no doubt kill him on the spot.

Damn Dol’jharians. All
they understand or trust is pain.

He looked up as a shadow fell across him. It was the female
officer, staring down at him impassively.

“What do you want?” Hreem snarled.

“Not what I want, but what the kyvernat wants,” she replied.
Her lip twisted. “Unlike you, we understand the difference.”

When Hreem did not move, she leaned over and hauled him up
by the front of his tunic, without apparent strain. The shock of her strength
was so great he just blinked at her. Then came anger, but she had already
released her grip and turned away. The insult implied by such confidence made
him even angrier.

He felt a hand on his sleeve.

“Captain, do nothing rash,” said Riolo, blinking
sleep-gummed eyes. “There may be data to be gained in this summons.”

“Everything is data to you, you chatzing trog.” He shrugged
off the Barcan’s hand and stooped to pick up the shestek’s case. Anything was
better than this utter boredom, and he might indeed learn something. Nobody in
the Sodality knew anything about conditions on the Suneater. Hreem had found
the stories, each more horrifying than the last, rather entertaining.

Until now, only hours away from the station.

He’d taken no more than a couple of steps toward the hatch
when the woman, turning back to him for a moment, spoke sharply.

“Leave that here.”

“It’s not a weapon,” said Hreem, “and I won’t leave it.”

“I know what it isn’t,” she said scornfully. “And you will
leave your perversion here or I will jettison it.”

Glowering, Hreem placed it back in his seat and followed
her, imagining his hands around her neck. After she was securely bound and
manacled. Bad enough her ill-concealed amusement near the beginning of the
flight, giving him that incomprehensible vid chip with Dol’jharians in skimpy
costumes standing around waving their arms slowly and making weird faces. Her
strength, so suddenly revealed, made him hate her all the more—she, her
captain, and Riolo, who found Hreem’s reaction to the vid funny.

Inside Juvaszt’s cabin it was even colder; the skin on
Hreem’s arms roughened. The Dol’jharian captain ignored him long enough for
Hreem to know he was being insulted, so Hreem sat down unasked, crossed his
arms, and stared at Juvaszt until he raised his eyes from his console.

Those eyes were black wells that seemed to swallow the harsh
desk light without reflection. “Why do you call yourself Hreem the Faithless?”

Hreem blinked. That was an odd opening for a conversation.
After considering a range of responses, and seeing no hint of any tolerance in
Juvaszt’s face, he finally said simply, “It means I don’t rely on—trust—anybody
but myself.”

“You command a shipful of men and women. Are you not relying
on them?”

“They do as they’re told. They know what’ll happen if they
don’t.” Betrayed by ancient habit, Hreem extended one leg and flexed his
heel-claws by way of demonstration, then reddened as nothing happened,
remembering too late that they had been taken from him as he entered the
shuttle.

Juvaszt’s lips curled.

“Same as you,” Hreem added, and had the satisfaction of
seeing the sneer vanish.

“We have nothing in common,” Juvaszt snapped.

“Then how come we’re on this shuttle together, going in to
see the Avatar?” He drawled the last word, edging as close to a jeer as he
dared. This ghosts-and-demons fart-noise the Dol’jharians went in for was about
what you’d expect for a bunch of Downsider nullwits from a planet nobody else
wanted.

A muscle jumped in the Dol’jharian’s jaw. He did not speak
for almost a minute, studying Hreem intently. Hreem returned his gaze,
wondering what Juvaszt wanted.

Then he had it.
I made
my deal through Barrodagh. He wasn’t in on it.
Hreem relaxed. It just might
be that Juvaszt wanted information about the deal as much as Hreem wanted to
know about the Suneater.

Juvaszt relaxed slightly, as if he’d sensed Hreem’s
confidence. “You may be right, to some small degree,” he said finally. The
words sounded like they hurt him. “We may have a certain . . . one . . .
in common, whose intentions neither of us can be sure of.”

I was right!

Hreem shrugged. The silence dragged on, and Juvaszt’s face
flushed with anger.

“Do not press me, Hreem the Faithless,” the officer said.
“You are not so secure as you think.” He tabbed a key on his desk and a wall
screen behind him lit.

Hreem sat up with a startled exclamation. It was the bay of
the
Flower of Lith
, filled with Dol’jharian
soldiers.

“You did not think we would leave you with functional spin
reactors, did you? You are here until the Panarchists are dealt with, like all
your brethren.” Now it was the Dol’jharian’s turn for a sneering drawl on the
last word.

As Hreem sank back into his seat, stricken, Juvaszt
continued. “It will repay you to be more forthcoming. You know nothing of the
Suneater, of Bori plotting, and of the struggle that even now is building
there.”

Trying to retain some advantage, Hreem protested. “I know
all about this Karusch-na hoopla coming up—”

“I was not speaking of that struggle.” Then Juvaszt stopped,
appearing to reconsider. “There is much you need to know, and one fact in
particular. That I will share with you, but you will first tell me of all your
dealings with Barrodagh.”

Hreem shrugged. He really had no choice, and no leverage
until the Ogres were activated. But Juvaszt held up his hand before Hreem could
speak. “And feel free to report this conversation. In fact, I insist you do so.
Barrodagh knows I will do this, and will disbelieve anything you say, looking
instead for what you and I really intend.”

“Huh!” Hreem snorted, heartened by the venom in Juvaszt’s
voice. “That slug’s so twisted he can look up his own blungehole.”

The barest hint of a smile lifted one corner of the
kyvernat’s mouth as he replied, “Indeed. Not an edifying view.”

Hreem laughed, and the interview proceeded, if not with
ease, at least in mutual agreement on the detestable nature of their common
nemesis.

But when Hreem reminded him of the important fact he’d dangled
out there, Juvaszt said merely, “It is perhaps the most important piece of
information you will need, so it must be revealed at the proper time.” He
smiled in a disconcerting fashion, and Hreem left discontented and even more
impatient.

The third time Hreem saw Juvaszt occurred on the shuttle minutes
before docking on the Suneater.

This time he learned first-hand the Dol’jharian penchant for
cruelty, which was indulged even in the fulfillment of an obligation.

Summoned again to Juvaszt’s cabin, Hreem got up promptly.
Finally!

As before, Juvaszt sat behind his desk, which now was
littered with flimsies. They were obviously now back in real-time communication
with the
Fist of Dol’jhar
and Juvaszt
was back in command.

He snapped off his console as Hreem entered, speaking in
order to get things on an equal basis. “I’ve got one more question, before
whatever you’ve got for me. Why are you still only a captain? That’s what
kyvernat means, right?”

Juvaszt stared as if questioning his intelligence, before
speaking. “No,” he said in a reflective voice. “You would not understand. But I
will explain this much: better captain of the Avatar’s ship than admiral of a
rabble.”

He stood up, and that disconcerting smile was even stronger.
“I also promised you one last datum about the Suneater.”

Hreem did not like that smile. There was too much of
anticipation in it. With a flux of uncharacteristic insight, Hreem realized
that many had seen just such a smile from him; he rarely from others.

The Dol’jharian tabbed on the screen.

“We have taken a very slight detour, that you might see the
Trophy Reef.”

“The what?”

“On Dol’jhar it was and is customary to take the heads of
enemies as trophies. On the Suneater, the heads of the dead are ejected into
space; the schedule of disposal is such that they have taken up a common orbit
around the station.”