The Thrones of Kronos (38 page)

Jaim’s unblinking gaze followed her until the door shut.

As soon as Vi’ya and Morrighon disappeared, Jaim moved
restlessly to the sideboard and poured the last of the caf into a cup. The
liquid was thick and sharp-smelling from the hours it had sat on the warmer.
Holding his breath, he tipped his head back and swallowed it down fast.

Stalking over to his bed, he flung himself down to hide the
shudder he couldn’t control. With wry self-mockery he reflected on how quickly
he had become accustomed to premium-grade, blended-to-taste coffee while he was
on Ares.

The crew of the
Telvarna
had never been stinted on excellent food and beverages—not with a Golgol chef
in charge of the galley. But except for occasional binges of coffee when they’d
done well on a haul and were feeling flush, Montrose’s culinary gifts had been
limited to creative combinations with the stores they bought on Rifthaven and
the herbs and vegetables he grew in the Columbiad’s hydroponics tanks.

At the Enclave, the variety of foods had been unending, and
Montrose had been the first to point out that the chef who had been hired while
he and the crew were scouting the Suneater was by far Montrose’s superior.

The Suneater’s fare was a considerable shock to the system.
Unvaryingly bland, Dol’jharian food seemed to come in either two consistencies:
dry or mushy. Though undoubtedly nutritious, it was nothing one looked forward
to, and Jaim, who was apt to see symbols in every aspect of life, contemplated
how attitudes toward foods reflected cultures’ attitudes toward the individual.

We are to be kept
healthy as long as we serve their purpose,
he thought as he looked around
the chamber.
Past that purpose we hold no
value at all for those in power.

Those in power . . . he wondered if Vi’ya had reached Anaris
yet, then tried to bend his mind away. He turned to Ivard, who had dropped
deeply into rapport. Physically Ivard was better than Jaim had even seen him,
and he bounced up eagerly to spar when Jaim offered. But the rest of the time Ivard
seemed stranger each passing day; he alone was content to be locked up on the
Suneater. Aided by the Kelly, his mind ranged freely into unknown paths. The
only danger was the terrible dreams that oppressed him.

Montrose sat on the end of his bed, a comfortably familiar,
hulking form. He was desperately unhappy. He hated being helpless, not even
being able to cook, much less take action to help his captain and crewmates.
Jaim strongly suspected that if it had not been for the growing friendship
between Montrose and Sedry Thetris, the big man would have sunk into
depression.

Thetris perched on the end of her bed, chin in hands,
frowning at the console. She looked up at Montrose, who murmured something in a
soft rumble. Her shy smile in answer smoothed years from her plain, worn face.
Being locked up with her in such close proximity, Jaim had come to appreciate
her honesty and inner tranquility. She seemed to have no trouble accepting
everyone she met on his or her own terms, and she found everything and everyone
interesting.

Lokri was still sleep-tousled and heavy-eyed. He sat near
Ivard. He had altered a great deal in the last months—and not just because he
had endured a trial for a murder he had not committed. Jaim had never liked
him, nor had he trusted him. He still found Lokri’s flippant remarks jolting,
but his sense that Lokri would be good to have at one’s back in a fight was
increasing daily.

Marim lay in her bed, hand tucked under her cheek, staring
at the wall. She’d woken, but she hadn’t said anything, which was unusual.
Something had changed with her, and though Jaim couldn’t define it, he didn’t
think it was for the better.

Vi’ya liked Marim—probably, Jaim had surmised, because Marim
had the freedom in personal interactions that Vi’ya’s nature did not permit her
to have. It had been Jaim who insisted they not tell Marim about the Suneater
plan, during those last desperate days on Ares. Exhausted almost past her
limits, Vi’ya had agreed, though she had pointed out that Marim’s inability to
keep a secret had always limited itself to personal issues.

Too late Jaim had seen that this was true, but he’d shrugged
it off. Now he had a sense that Marim held a grudge, and he was trying to find
some way to assuage the problem without being obvious. Though Marim wasn’t
subtle, she was far from stupid.

Locked as they were all together in this room, with only a
refresher alcove and the Eya’a chamber as variety, they were able to observe
one another to whatever degree they wished. Marim and Sedry had found ways to
get out, Marim’s all the more remarkable as she had no special skills to offer.
Although apparently she was increasingly popular with the dour Dol’jharian
ordinaries. Sedry endorsed her boasting remarks about how she’d managed to make
the rec area fun. Even Lar had added in how much the Bori workers now liked
being there.

Until recently, that is, Jaim thought. Chill tightened the
back of his neck when he thought of the Karusch-na Rahali, and how the dark and
primeval lusts of the hunter, and the fear of the hunted, imbued every aspect
of life on the Suneater with yet more tension. This ritual, so deliberately
carried out, was to Jaim more symbolism of the lack of worth of the individual.
Which is not something I have been able
to discuss with Vi’ya
.

And now she was shortly to be locked up alone with Anaris.

o0o

At the other end of the inhabited portion of the Suneater,
Morrighon remained silent as he and Vi’ya traversed the corridors. She scanned
each intersection: no one was in sight, save one or two scurrying grays, their
aspects furtive. Double guards were posted at tunnels that intersected with the
recycling area. Even from these Tarkans Vi’ya felt the simmering sexual energy
that pervaded the station. But unlike the ordinaries, the Tarkans were alert,
battle-ready, their fear and frustration skillfully mutated into anger.

Morrighon announced their arrival outside Anaris’s chambers,
then motioned her inside, his face wooden and eyes averted. Suspicion laced
with a kind of angry amusement shot through Vi’ya, spiking her own adrenals.

She walked in, her boots silent on the thick hand-woven
carpets with their dark, ancestral images.

Anaris sat in his great carved chair behind the massive
desk, his strong-boned face saturnine.

“Sit.” He waved at a second carved chair. “Want some real
coffee?”

He moved to a heavy beaten-gold service on a sideboard, and
poured steaming coffee into two ebony ceramic mugs. Into both cups he dashed a
liberal quantity of some kind of liquor; a pungent scent followed that of the
coffee. Both aromas were sucked away by the high-powered tianqi, leaving the
room clean-smelling and cool.

The mugs had been made for large hands. Anaris set one down
near her, and she closed her fingers around it, aware how well the mug fit her
palm.

She took a sip of the scalding coffee, then said, “We have
better on our ship.”

He grinned.

She said, “Will I have to get the station powered in order
to get some variety in our diet?”

“There
is
no
variety here,” he said. “Pander to the senses? Perverted softness!”

She hid her surprise at this blatant mocking of the myths of
their ancestors.
But then he spent all
that time on the Mandala as hostage
.

“I wonder if that will last past one generation of easy
access to planets with excellent farming,” she said. “My crew and I have plenty
of stores on my ship. Why can’t we access them?”

“A whim of my father’s.” Anaris gestured toward one wall
with his cup. Today he was dressed informally, in shirt, trousers, and boots.
“Start the station, and you can cook and eat Barrodagh if you want.”

She took one more sip of the coffee, enjoying the fire of
potent liquor burning its way down her throat.

“Cook,” she said, “but not eat.”

He smiled, watching her over the rim of his mug. She took a
third sip. The liquor had already begun to move into her bloodstream, muting
the psychic bombardment. But all her other senses remained heightened; she felt
Anaris’s focus, stinging and laser-direct.

“Sit,” he said again, dropping into his own chair.

She lifted a shoulder, leaning one hand across the back of
the empty chair. “I don’t plan to stay long.”

He grinned. “Warning or threat?”

“Statement,” she said.

He leaned back. “Talk.” He gestured. “Drink.”

“No better prey?”

He lifted his brows. “Of course not.” So he thought it was a
matter of when he’d choose to exert himself. “It’s as well,” he said, “that you
plan to move soon.”

His tone had altered slightly. He didn’t bother to diffuse
his appraising gaze when she met his heavy-lidded gaze. Knowing the effect her
own gaze had on people, she returned stare for stare.

His amusement increased. “Barrodagh won’t tell you this, and
I expect he won’t permit Lysanter to, either, but your last attempt initiated
an autonomic power-up sequence.”

A sharp pang of fear lanced through her temples, but she hid
it. “I take it the station has not fully awakened.” As before, he did not react
to her organic simile.
But he doesn’t
know how accurate it is.
She put aside thoughts of the vastness asleep at
the heart of the Suneater; now was no time for that.

“No,” Anaris said. “Lysanter calculated maybe sixty days.”

So my life is measured
against the Avatar’s patience.
She would consider that—and what it meant for
the Panarchists’ plans—later. Now she shrugged. Anaris had told her this for a
reason, which she interpreted as an opening attack. It was time for her own
return thrust.

She set down her cup. “Who knows that you carry the taint of
the Chorei?”

He gave no visible reaction, but she felt his emotional
spectrum—so complicated, and in incalculable ways similar to Brandon
Arkad’s—beat with sharp discord, then ripple through the complexity of
reassessment. “How did you know that?” he asked.

She shrugged again. “No answer?”

“No one,” he said, “of any importance.”

She placed her other hand on the back of the chair and
gripped. “Threat?” She matched his tone exactly. “Or warning?”

He laughed. “Sit,” he said a third time. He drank off his
coffee, then rose to his feet. “Stay! For the first time in days I am not
bored. Tell me, what will you do with this piece of news—assuming, of course,
you can get anyone to believe it?”

“I should think that the mere accusation would be enough for
your father,” she said, remaining where she was.

He walked to his console. “I am the only heir. He was a
little too precipitate in killing the others, and the physicians could do
nothing to reverse the radiation damage he took at Acheront. If I die, his line
dies.” He stepped back to his chair and stood facing her. “I suspect he knows
about the taint. But he will do nothing as long as he gets what he wants.”

“A commendable effort in adaptation,” she said.

“More?” He moved to the sideboard to pick up the pot. In his
hands the beaten gold gleamed ocher, the color of a dying sun. He set it down
again and touched a control on the side, causing the thermal insert inside the
gold pot to heat the water again.

“No.”

“Question,” he said. “What did you think of my old friend
Brandon Arkad?”

She did not mistake the use of the word ‘friend’ for
anything but irony. “Gratitude.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, brows aslant.

“For the opportunity to make the raid of a lifetime.”

Anaris gave a short laugh and saluted her with his cup. “You
caused considerable annoyance.”

“Got a respectable haul as well,” she said.

“Yes, and I expect my father will take that up with you once
all this is over.”

“If he can find me.”

Anaris did not answer, and she knew that even if she did
start the station, sooner or later Jerrode Eusabian would order her to be
killed.
Sooner, if he can.

“Your opinion of Barrodagh?”

“If I were that hag-ridden, I’d be a hopper addict. Or
dead.”

Anaris said, “And Morrighon?”

She shrugged, indicating neutrality. “What happened to him?”

“No idea.” Anaris’s tone indicated he didn’t care, either.
“Lysanter?”

“Lives for his work. Will it threaten his life if I admit
that I like talking to him about the Urian artifacts?”

“If you tell Barrodagh, it will probably be just one more
datum in a long list.” He set his cup down.

She heard the decisive chink of clay on metal. To her left,
the gold coffee service glittered in the light of two candles that flared
fitfully. To the right, the light was from a lamp set high; the heavy metal
candelabra were unlit. The stillness of the shadows in the alcove leading to
the bed indicated a path that had been anticipated, and seeing it, she laughed.

Her gaze returned, and met Anaris’s black eyes. The intent
he made no effort to hide was almost a physical blow and sent her blood
drumming in her ears.

For a moment they stood thus, face-to-face across the width
of the room, neither moving.

Then he flexed his wrist and his peshakh dropped from its
hidden sheath into his hand. Reversing the blade with a quick gesture, he sent
it speeding across the room to thud, vibrating, in the back of the wooden chair
between Vi’ya’s hands.

She did not move or blink.

“Take it,” he said, his handsome mouth curving in a
merciless grin.

“Why?”

“So I can have the fun of taking it back,” he said.

o0o

Hreem jerked upright with a curse as the door to his
chamber puckered open noisily. He’d forgotten the time.

The dour Dol’jharian ordinary yanked the covered tray off
the gurney-like conveyance outside his door and stalked in. As usual, she said
nothing, merely gave a grunt as she dumped the tray down on the dyplast table.
Hreem could hear the constituents of his dinner sloshing around messily under
the tray cover, but he said nothing. She was as big as he was, and the first
time, when he’d protested, she’d casually backhanded him into a wall.