Binary Part 3

Tarlain could barely believe what he was hearing. With difficulty, he restrained his urge to step around the edge of the broad table and grab a fistful of Witness Kovaar's robes. By what right...? He fought for calm. Taking it out on the priest wasn't going to achieve anything.

"Would you please convey a message to my father? I need to speak to him. I will wait here in his chambers until he's ready to see me and his business with Roge is done." Kovaar sat where he was, waiting. "Now!"

Taking his time, Kovaar got to his feet. He stared blankly at Tarlain for a moment or two, and then walked unhurriedly out the door, closing it quietly behind him. It was a full half hour before he returned and by then, Tarlain had barely managed to regain some of his composure.

"I gave him the message as you asked," said Witness Kovaar.

"And?"

Kovaar held his hands outstretched with a shrug, and then proceeded to take up his place behind the desk. He said nothing further.

Tarlain nodded and settled back in the chair to wait. He used the time to look at the man who had become his father's constant shadow over the past few Seasons. The Church of the Prophet was an essential part of all of their daily lives, but with Leannis Men Darnak, it had always been more form rather than substance, and so it was with many of the more powerful Guildsmen. But now, what of the priest? What was it that drew a man to a life such as that? Surely, it had to be more than mere religious conviction, particularly with a man like Kovaar. There was something about him that hinted at things other than religious belief, things that Tarlain wasn't sure he liked. The priest returned Tarlain's gaze unflinchingly. The aesthetic look, the fine-boned hands and face, they all gave the impression of someone barely of the world, let alone in touch with it. The wait grew longer and longer and the silence stretched between them.

Finally, when Tarlain had almost given up hope, the door opened behind him. He sat where he was, not trusting himself yet to meet his father's face.

"So, Priest, what is this about Tarlain?" His father's voice.

Witness Kovaar gestured to the chair where Tarlain sat.

Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak grunted, then crossed to sit next to Kovaar behind the desk. He fussed with things on the desk's top for a moment or two, before finally lifting his gaze and meeting Tarlain's eye. He looked distracted. Finally, he frowned.

"Tarlain. What is it?"

It was as if their previous confrontation had never taken place. Tarlain didn't know where to start.

"Father, I..."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Father, can we not be alone? I'd prefer to have this discussion in private." He looked pointedly at Witness Kovaar.

Leannis Men Darnak glanced from his son's face to Witness Kovaar and back again. He paused, as if considering, and then, with a slight frown, he said, "No. He stays."

"But can't you just -- ?"

"Just what?"

Tarlain sighed. "All right. Fine, he stays. Seriously, Father, on the matter of our earlier disagreement, I know things got a little heated. I apologize. I would ask you to reconsider."

"Reconsider what, Tarlain? Tell me exactly what it is I should reconsider?" The Princ.i.p.al's tone was short, clipped.

"Everything. What you said about my role in the Princ.i.p.ate. We both spoke in haste. Don't let what that Sandon Yl Aris said influence you, Father, I beg you. Together, Roge, Karin and I can make the Princ.i.p.ate stronger, not weaker."

"Stronger? Just as you would have made it stronger by acting against Roge, I suppose." Men Darnak shook his head. "What I have decided, I have decided, Tarlain. This has nothing to do with Yl Aris. Nothing. Yl Aris has been relieved of his position."

Tarlain sat back in his chair, stunned. "But Sandon has worked for you for years. He's always been like a rock to you. What could he possibly -- ?"

Men Darnak waved his hand to cut off Tarlain's speculation. "Nothing that need concern you. What's done is done."

Tarlain looked from his father's face to Kovaar's and back again, but there was nothing to be gleaned from either of them.

"Fine," he said. "But I can still be useful in the Princ.i.p.ate, Father. Surely, you must see that. We've been trained for this. All of us. You've always taken the care and trouble to teach us what's right, how to act. You've been a good teacher, Father. Don't throw that all away."

Men Darnak fixed him with a long hard stare. "Perhaps trained too well, Tarlain. I cannot risk your, your..." A frown flickered across his face, then disappeared. He shook his head and the frown was back again. "It's done, Tarlain. It is done. You should leave now." The last was filled with a depth of tiredness Tarlain had rarely heard in his father's voice.

"But -- "

"No."

Tarlain looked desperately at the priest, seeking support where ultimately he knew he'd find none, but blank disinterest met him in return. He looked back at his father, but the old man was no longer looking in his direction. He was staring down at the desk, his forehead cupped in one hand, gently rubbing his brow.

Tarlain pushed the chair back and stood. "So there's nothing I can say." Anger was starting to creep into his voice.

"Nothing. No, nothing. You disappoint me, Tarlain. That's all." There was no anger in return, only weariness.

Tarlain stood waiting for his father to lift his gaze and meet his eyes, but the old man remained sitting as he was. Closing his eyes, and taking a deep breath, Tarlain turned and stalked from the room. He had tried. There was nothing further to be done. Karin would be disappointed.

Outside the door, he stood and took stock. Roge. He had to see Roge, tell him of his decision. Despite the underlying tension between them, he could not just leave. Where was Roge likely to be? There was no point going back into the room and asking. That leave taking was done. He didn't know where Roge might be, but he could guess. The main business center of the Princ.i.p.ate was the most likely choice. Knowing Roge, he would be quick to cement himself in the seat of power. Tarlain headed up the corridor in that direction.

Roge was exactly where Tarlain thought he would be. He looked up as Tarlain entered the central offices. Large desks, screens, a few low tables and couches filled the room. This was the nexus of the Princ.i.p.ate's business affairs, and there, planted behind the central desk in the heart of the Princ.i.p.ate buildings sat his brother, looking already at home.

"Tarlain. I did not expect to see you."

Tarlain took a few moments, considering, his brother looking at him expectantly. "No, I don't suppose you did," he said finally.

Tarlain was torn. His father and Roge would have already talked about him, already made their judgments. He could have pleaded, asked Roge to intercede on his behalf. It was what Karin wanted, but it was unlikely that Roge could think far enough ahead to worry about that or even consider the implications. Karin had always been more of the thinker.

"Roge, I'm leaving."

His brother nodded. That was all. He simply nodded.

"Did you understand what I said?"

"Of course I did. What do you want me to say, Tarlain? You've made your choice. Father and I have already discussed what it means for us. We will do what we need to do to fill the gap."

Tarlain bit back his first reply. "Do you really think it was my choice? Do you really think this is what I want?"

Roge waved his hand dismissively. "You've shown it by your actions, little brother. What do you want me to say? Father told me exactly what you'd been planning. Do you think I'm just going to ignore that?"

"But I wasn't..."

"Of course you'd say that."

Tarlain stepped forward and placed his hands flat on the desk, leaning across the surface and bringing his face closer. Roge leaned back in his chair, moving away, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"By the Prophet, Roge," said Tarlain. "What do you think I am? Will you stop and think for a minute? Listen, I'm worried about father, the way he's behaving. You must have noticed it too. Doesn't that matter to you?"

Roge avoided meeting his gaze. "Of course it matters. It matters because we need to be strong now. Father's time is done. He's had some good years. Now, it's time for him to step aside. We can't afford your nave little ideals, Tarlain. There's too much to do." He looked up at Tarlain, then, the accusation clear in his face. "You should care about now. You should care about what we have to do. I can't afford to let you make any more trouble. You'll have to work things out for yourself. We will just have to make do without you. I always thought you weren't really good enough for the job anyway."

"Do you care about anything but your grand plans, Roge?"

"Of course I care." His brother stood. "I care about what matters for the order of things, for the Guilds. What do you want me to do for you? Just forget about all that?" He moved around behind the chair, placing one hand on its back, the chair's body serving as an extra wall in addition to the desk.

Tarlain looked at his brother, hope starting to fade. "Will you at least talk to Father?"

Roge shook his head slowly. "It's too late. Far too late. Why the h.e.l.l should I?"

Tarlain looked at his brother for a long time, then narrowed his eyes. "All right. That's how you want it. I wish you luck, Roge. I wish you all the luck in the world."

"It won't be me who needs luck, little brother."

Tarlain shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck, then sighed. "Fine. Then I'll say goodbye." The words were spoken quietly.

Roge simply nodded and Tarlain turned, his steps filled with heaviness as he crossed to the door. Just before opening it, he turned back to look at Roge, but his brother was already seated back in the chair, keying commands into one of the screens. He glanced up briefly.

"Well, what do you want now?"

Tarlain slipped from the room and closed the door gently behind him.

Six.

Sandon stood gazing across the parking area outside the Princ.i.p.ate buildings. There was something wrong here -- something very wrong. Despite his protestations, Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak hadn't even been prepared to discuss the matter further. The realization hit him yet again and the bottom went out of his stomach. He'd just been removed from office. Men Darnak had just dismissed him. It wasn't possible. Everything he had worked for, all of his careful moves, gone in an instant. It just didn't make sense.

He'd spent his life devoted to supporting the old man, supporting his plans and his actions. Leannis Men Darnak was the only man that held their world together, gave them the stability that they needed. Everything that Sandon was, everything he did, was because of Men Darnak. The old man was the only person capable of holding the complex structure of the Guilds together. What was he going to do now? He needed the Princ.i.p.ate. He needed the Princ.i.p.al. Men Darnak needed him. The old man had invested in him, made him what he was. Years of work, of support, of faithful duty. Years of careful counseling, of patient teaching. This simply couldn't be happening. He slapped his hand down on the roof of the groundcar and uttered a curse through gritted teeth.

Shaking his head, he slipped into the groundcar, not even sure which direction he should take. He had a few options: his country estate; one of the many hunting lodges scattered across the rich landscape surrounding Yarik's rocky plateau. He sat, not doing anything for some time, just staring out of the front window. Large stone blocks filled his view, solid, thick, meant to last. A blank stone wall. If they had a large enough quake though, even that expanse of solidity, that smooth surface, might end up as little more than a tumbled ma.s.s of broken stones. He'd seen it happen before. So much for permanence. Nothing in life was truly permanent, but there had been things in his world that Sandon Yl Aris had thought he could rely on.

He reached forward to punch in a destination, but then paused, his hand hovering over the controls. He drew back the hand slowly, reconsidering. Concern about his personal circ.u.mstance had clouded his perspective. He could see that now. There was something at work here that was clearly wrong.

Leannis Men Darnak had always been a reasonable man -- stern, unforgiving, but all his decisions had been informed with good sense, even wisdom. Sometimes they seemed crazy at the time, but the long view invariably told otherwise. Sandon frowned. He should have noticed it sooner and he could not understand why he hadn't. He spent his entire life watching, observing people, but to miss something as basic as this was wrong. Over the past few weeks, the Princ.i.p.al had been preoccupied, moody. Things that would have previously been trivial angered him. True, the approach of Storm Season was always a time of tension, but Men Darnak had lived through more Storm Seasons than Sandon himself. It could hardly be that. He had also been spending far more time with Witness Kovaar, listening to him more readily, actually seeking his advice on important Princ.i.p.ate decisions, something he would not have even considered in the past. Men Darnak had always been careful to show appropriate respect for the Church of the Prophet, at least in public -- it was expected of a man in his position. The traditions handed down from the First Families, their religious foundations, were an essential part of Guild life. That was a given, but now, for some unknown reason, Men Darnak seemed to have taken that legacy and seemingly adopted it as his own set of beliefs.

Sandon tugged at his lower lip thoughtfully. There were things to discover here, things that remained unanswered. Whatever was happening in Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak's mind might just be something that was beyond the man's control. But for Sandon to discover what that something was, he had to be in a position to observe. He could do no such thing in his current circ.u.mstance. To go back, try and reason with the old man, would be courting disaster right now. He had to find some other way. Besides, he had a duty. Years, he had worked with the man. Years he had spent watching as Men Darnak grew older, as his children matured, as the Princ.i.p.al tried to fill the gap left by his wife's loss. Witness Kovaar was a mere newcomer.

This time, Sandon reached for the controls with set jaw. He knew what he had to do. He just had to work out how he was going to do it. The approaching Storm Season just wasn't going to make it any easier. He called up the menu and tapped on the symbol for his country residence. As the groundcar slid back out of the parking s.p.a.ce, Sandon leaned back in his seat, resolved.

The groundcar made a slow turn and headed out of the Princ.i.p.ate's grounds. As it drew out of the complex, he scanned the streets and buildings out of cautious habit. When the quakes started, it was normal practice to keep an eye out for unreported damage. The long flat lines of virtually featureless stone structures were resilient, but from time to time, the unreported crack, a shifting of the stone walls could present unwelcome hazards to the populace. Being alert to these was important. Better to deal with a problem early than let it get out of hand. He grimaced wryly at the irony of the thought.

Gradually, the groundcar skimmed out of the city center, shifting its ratio to cope with the gently increasing slope. As they grew further from the Princ.i.p.ate, the buildings grew more squat, the construction less solid. Out on the fringes was where they'd sustain most damage as Storm Season heightened, and Sandon's scanning became less perfunctory.

The city felt strange. Hardly a soul traveled the long straight streets. Most would have already made their way out to country holdings, closer to the farms, closer to the source of their supplies. With transport an issue, it became easier to live nearer to the sources of primary production. A number of Yarik's residents even held down seasonal jobs, a pattern of work that grew increasingly common as the generations became more attuned to the seasonal variations. During Clear Season, they'd move into Yarik to work, returning to the countryside as Storm Season burgeoned, starting to work land that had lain fallow while they were gone. Not so Sandon. The workings of the Princ.i.p.ate continued throughout all, Clear, Storm and the transitional half seasons between. He had his country estates, but generally, he paid them little mind, being more focused on Princ.i.p.ate business; he had others employed to work the holdings for him.

A cl.u.s.ter of individuals caught his eye and he turned his head to watch them as the groundcar cruised past. Atavists. It was odd to see more than a pair together. One stood by his animal, holding the reins. The baskets strung over its back looked empty. The two others were engaged in an uncharacteristically animated conversation, the third standing by, simply observing. They stood at a street corner, seemingly oblivious to everything else around them. Poor deluded fools. Let them be masters of their own unremarkable futures. He had much more important things to think about. The groundcar slid past and Sandon shifted his attention back to the road.

He was nearing Yarik's true outskirts now. Very soon, the few scattered buildings would give way to open ground, and then, following the main route out of the city, his groundcar would sweep a wide arc around the plateau's edge and commence the gentle descent to the valley floor below. Without the groundcars, the descent would have been far longer, riding down the broad roadway that snaked back and forth from Yarik's peak to the closer smallholdings cl.u.s.tering around its base. In a few weeks, he'd have that to look forward to too, just like everyone else. Back to animals and walking.

A sudden lurch rocked the car. Sandon grabbed for his seat as the vehicle slewed crazily to one side.

"Dammit, not now," he hissed. He stabbed at the controls while trying to steady himself with his other hand. It was too early for this. He cursed again as the vehicle continued its angled drift, tilting further to one side. A wall was approaching rapidly, and he stabbed at the controls again. No! It was far too early in the Season for this. Quickly he slapped at the kill pad, but he knew he was too late. The wall was rushing in on him fast. He closed his eyes and screwed up his face, waiting for the inevitable, his hands in a white-knuckled grip on the edges of the seat to either side. It seemed to take forever. He was wishing it would just happen, when a jarring blow and then...

There was dust in his mouth. He moved his jaw and ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the grittiness. He seemed to be lying at an angle and it felt too dark. Cautiously he opened his eyes. Blank stone faced him. He swallowed, trying to get the taste of earth out of his mouth, trying to work the saliva to sweep away the dryness. He lifted one hand to rub at his face and as he did so, something creaked around him. It was not a good sound. He stopped the movement immediately. Trying not to shift too much further, he tentatively explored his situation.

He could feel his arms and his legs; that was good. His neck and head felt sore. It must have been the impact. He tried shifting his head to get a better view but all he saw was dented wall and crumpled roofing. The groundcar must have slammed into the wall sideways, tilting as it did so with enough force to crumple the roof and leave a deep gouge in the stone where it hit.

A voice was saying something. Sandon coughed, trying to clear some of the dust from his throat, and the groundcar creaked again. Slowly, slowly he put his arm down.

"I'm all right," he said. "I'm in here. Is there someone out there?"

"Are you injured?" The voice was reasonably close.

"No, I don't think so, but I don't like the way the groundcar's moving. I'm afraid it might shift."

"Do not move," said another voice. "We will try and help you."

"Well, be careful, dammit. I don't know how far the damage goes."

"Rest a.s.sured. We will take all care necessary." The first voice again.

Sandon felt the groundcar move beneath him. There was a loud creaking groan and pop as something shifted in the crumpled structure. "Careful!" he yelled.

The groundcar shifted again then slowly righted itself, dropping the last short distance with a shuddering crash. A hammer of pain beat through his head and he winced. Trying to ignore it, he pushed his shoulder against the door, trying to force it open.

"Can you help me here? The door seems to be stuck."

Something wrenched at the groundcar and the frame rocked but the door remained closed. Again, the groundcar rocked.

"It is against the wall. You will have to climb out the other side."

Stupid. Of course, he should have realized.

"Are you hurt? Can you manage, or do you require a.s.sistance?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he tried to clamber across the seat beside him. "I'm fine."

He tried opening the door, but something in the locking mechanism seemed to have seized as a result of the impact. Clamping his jaw tightly, and attempting to get leverage with his legs, Sandon forced his shoulder against the door and heaved, ignoring the throbbing that welled up anew inside his head. It was extending to his face now. His cheeks felt hot. They were aching too. A sharp pain was growing across his nose and one cheek.

Then suddenly the door sprang open and he was deposited half in and half out of the crumpled groundcar to the road. Right in front of his face stood a pair of dusty feet wearing hand-made sandals. Hands appeared and reached for his shoulders, another set from behind, and half lifted, half pushing, he extricated his legs and clambered to his feet. Gently, he ran his hand over the top of his head, gingerly prodding to feel for damage. There was a bruise there, but nothing major, or at least there didn't seem to be. He glanced at the groundcar, but it was clear it wasn't going anywhere soon. Then he looked up. Arrayed in a semi-circle stood three Atavists.

"Um, thank you," he said hesitantly. What did you say to Atavists?

"Are you hurt?" The one who spoke was peering at him with a concerned expression.