The Pearl Saga - Mistress of the Pearl Part 46

The kiss had come upon him unawares, and he berated himself for not picking up on the signs.

Possibly he hadn't wanted to. His last night together with Giyan had shaken him to the core. How could she love him, as she professed to do, if she would not confide in him? Every secret she kept hidden from him was another barrier that pushed them further apart. That she could not see it was unfathomable to him. She wanted him to love her, but only so much and no further. That was unacceptable to him-he, a V'ornn, once a Khagggun who had been responsible for Annon's pursuit and death. He shook his head in consternation. Was this the Kundalan concept of love? But he thought not. He had lived long enough now with Kundalan to know that much. No, it was Giyan's way, this half love, this icy distance that pierced his soul. He had tried to love her on her terms, but it was impossible.

Over the sleeping village he arced. The narbuck was weightless in the air, and he weightless with it.

The fitful wind blew through his long hair. His beard was stippled with moisture.

He was still a long way from feeling comfortable with hair on either his face or his body. Sometimes he felt like an animal, and his nose would wrinkle with the unfamiliar sourish odor as bacteria colonized the strands. At other times, as when Giyan ran her fingers through his luxurious pelt, he felt a strange, fierce pride, and he found himself pitying the hairless V'ornn.

Clearing the lowest houses, small and rickety, defying gravity, he urged the narbuck closer to the rocky, steeply sloped ground.

Inggres. He had felt her desire for him like a living thing. The moment her lips had touched his, he had felt a shock of recognition pa.s.s clear through him. How long had she leashed this part of herself, how deeply had she buried it?

He had no time to contemplate those questions. The narbuck had brought him to within a stone's throw of the Khagggun encampment. He bade the mount to stop, and as it settled to the bare, black ground, he dismounted and left it there, hidden from even the most suspicious V'ornn eyes.

His sorcerous cloak wrapped itself protectively around him so that, save for a V-shaped opening through which he could peer, he was completely enfolded. In that way, he pa.s.sed through the perimeter unnoticed. He made his way through the neat rows of off-world enclosures. Here and there he paused, listening in on the latest Khagggun gossip, bringing himself up to date, feeling something of what Konara Inggres had experienced at the Blackcrow in Stone Border. It was not that he was nostalgic for his old life, far from it. But the hurried, sour whispers brought home to him how out of touch he had become as Nawatir, sequestered behind thick abbey walls.

Presently he found himself at the center of the encampment. He saw that Wing-Adjutant Wiiin had been promoted to Wing-Commander, a field position, the Nawatir felt certain, he was ill equipped to handle. All to the good. Since the promotion was only temporary, Wiiin was insecure, which had made him a bit reckless, ordering this raid on the abbey in order to win a quick and easy victory to prove to those above him that he was fit for permanent field command.

The Nawatir stood in a pool of shadow between glaring portable fusion lamps and digested all the news. Across the stony ground was the entrance to Wiiin's enclosure. It was flanked by two Khagggun guards. He listened to their low, halting, desultory conversation, gleaning from it their disgust with this a.s.signment, which promised no glory, only the taint of derision from their comrades in other Wings.

Watching their grim faces, he saw for the first time what had been bred into them-the l.u.s.t for battle, for bloodletting-and all they had lost because of it. Their world was small and dark, dank with death and the stench of offal glistening on mired battlefields. But in his heart there was neither pity nor contempt for them; only anger at the Gyrgon who bred them like water b.u.t.tren.

With the aid of his semisentient cloak, he "became" a Khagggun with the rank of Line-General. The color of his armor showed that he was a member of the regent's Haaar-kyut. The illusion was visually perfect, but risky. While in another form, he had none of the Nawatir's powers; he was vulnerable. He was now a V'ornn through and through. Although another risk remained, he believed he had overcome it.He had chosen the uniform of the Haaar-kyut not only for the power inherent in the regent's elite cadre, but for the anonymity it would afford him. Not even Khagggun officers were familiar with Haaar-kyut personnel, whose duties were strictly to do the regent's bidding. He stepped out of the pool of shadow and, nodding to the guards who came swiftly to attention, pa.s.sed between them.

The center of Wiiin's enclosure was taken up by two perfectly aligned tables. On one was arrayed crystals displaying maps of the area, broken down by topography, population density, climatic anomalies, and the like. On the second table, more crystals detailed holoviews of the abbey, both aerial and from the ground. It was the quarters of an adjutant, not a military commander.

The would-be Wing-Commander stood between the tables, amid a trio of military advisors, two lean and hungry-looking First-Captains and an older, veteran Pack-Commander with a closed face and wily eyes that could sort friend from enemy even among his own Khagggun.

"A frontal a.s.sault will show the value of our strength," said one of the First-Captains.

"A feint to the front, while we use a flanking maneuver, will befuddle and defeat them," opined the other.

"The abbey's walls are thick and formidable. I strongly suggest we lay siege," the Pack-Commander said forcefully. "That will have the effect both of winning us uncontested victory and demoralizing those in the village."

Wiiin listened to these various strategies while peering first at a map, then a holoview. In his hand he held a photonic pad on which he scribbled with a light pen one plan of attack after another. As soon as he had written it, he deleted it. Clearly, he could not make up his mind.

His advisors had about them the air of silent contempt, but they also exhibited the agitation of animals currying favor from the new leader.

They all looked up, however, when the Nawatir strode into the enclosure, and it was difficult to ascertain which of them exhibited the most anxiety at his presence.

"I am Line-General Kamme," the Nawatir said with just the right amount of acid in his voice. "The regent has ordered me to find out what it is you think you are doing."

Wiiin had only begun to launch into his rationale for sacking the Abbey of Floating White when the Nawatir cut him off.

"This Ramahan abbey has a long history of remaining intact, Wing-Adjutant." His deliberate use of Wiiin's former rank set off a wave of stifled laughter from the two First-Captains. The Pack-Commander was canny enough not to betray his feelings, his expression unfathomable. "It has been a source of invaluable intelligence regarding the movements and composition of the Resistance. The regent wishes to know why you would destroy that."

"Times have changed." Wiiin glared at each of his advisors in turn before deferentially focusing on the Nawatir in his Haaar-kyut guise. "The Ramahan are no longer cooperative. In fact, my own experience with them indicates they are being duplicitous. They flout the terms of the old arrangement."

"The old arrangement, as you term it, was with the traitor Line-General Werrrent, whom you served as adjutant." Instantly, a deathly silence enveloped the enclosure and all its occupants. No one stirred.

No one dared even breathe. "Accordingly, the contact for the arrangement was changed. Of course the Ramahan you spoke with was recalcitrant. You were not her contact. She had no reason to trust you.

Just the opposite, in fact."

"You mean the old arrangement is still in effect?" Wiiin fairly stammered this.

"Our new contact inside the abbey is supplying us with first-rate intelligence," the Nawatir lied smoothly. "Therefore, the regent orders you to stand down from this ill-advised attack. The division of the Haaar-kyut under my command has taken charge of the arrangement. It is no longer the responsibility of this Wing." He turned to go, then swung back, riveting Wiiin's eyes with his hard gaze. "Oh, yes.

Within a week the Star-Admiral, with the advice of the regent himself, will rule on your 'promotion.' Until then, do nothing, plan nothing. Return to your base"-now his stern gaze took in all of them-"and await forthcoming instructions."

So saying, the false Line-General turned on his heel and stalked out of the enclosure. It was not long, however, before the Pack-Commander caught up with him."Line-General, Kamme, a word with you."

The Nawatir did not break stride. "What is your name?"

"Pack-Commander Lucus Jerre, sir."

"I have little time for idle chatter, Pack-Commander Jerre."

"No, sir. I would not expect you to." Pack-Commander Jerre hurried to keep up with the false Line-General's pace. "However, I would very much think that the Line-General would be interested in what I have to tell him."

"Bucking for a transfer, Pack-Commander Jerre?"

They were pa.s.sing through the glow of a photon torch, and Jerre paused. "Begging the Line-General's pardon, but I have important information concerning the Abbey of Floating White."

As the false Line-General swung around, he frowned. Jerre was staring at him with hard eyes. They were at the fringe of the encampment, and he wanted nothing more than to make his escape without incident. Unfortunately, he was stuck in a charade that had outlived its usefulness. It had served its purpose, and he was impatient to return to the abbey, to tell Inggres that she and her flock had nothing to fear. And it was his impatience that made him miss what was, after all, a very little thing, nothing more than a hint of gesture, a shadow of an expression, a patch of darkness creeping into the intonation.

"Why haven't you gone to your superior officer with this information?" he barked in his impatience.

"Because I do not trust my superior officers." Pack-Commander Jerre drew an ion pistol.

The Nawatir was taken by surprise and his elision made him bristle. "What do you think you're up to?"

"Who are you, Line-General?" He pointed the pistol at the Nawatir.

"You can see by my armor-"

"It is your armor that gave you away, Line-General-or whoever you are." He smiled. "You cannot be a member of the Haaar-kyut, you see, because your insignia is wrong. Or at least, it is incomplete.

This new regent is paranoid, and rightly so, I see. Last month he inst.i.tuted a new security initiative. All his Haaar-kyut wear a specially coded star beneath their insignia of rank." The ion pistol waggled from side to side. "Where is yours, Line-General?"

The Nawatir said nothing.

"Just as I thought." As Pack-Commander Jerre reached for his communicator, the Nawatir slammed the ion pistol aside with a forearm and, at the same time, grabbed the Khagggun's armor and jerked him into deep shadow.

Jerre recovered swiftly, smashing his mailed fist into the side of the Nawatir's head. Lights flashed behind the Nawatir's eyes, and he staggered. Jerre managed to squeeze off one shot before the Nawatir gripped his throat, braced an arm behind his neck, and twisted violently. Jerre's eyes went wide as his neck began to crack. But he would not surrender himself to death that easily, and he stamped his foot onto the false Line-General's instep, loosening the death grip just enough.

He ducked under the Nawatir's grip, drew his ion dagger, and went straight for his antagonist's throat.

The Nawatir grabbed his wrist with both hands, turned the point aside. But Pack-Commander Jerre hooked his foot behind the Nawatir's heel and down he went, Jerre on top of him. Jerre smashed the b.u.t.t end of the ion dagger against the Nawatir's temple, reversed the weapon, and made a vicious swipe meant to slit the other's throat.

The Nawatir brought his right shoulder up so that it struck the underside of Jerre's attacking arm, then, as Jerre compensated, he rolled to the left, heaved the Pack-Commander off him. He struck Jerre between the eyes, then grabbed each ear and slammed his head onto the rocky ground. Again and again he lifted the head and drove it back down until Jerre's eyes rolled up, his mouth went slack, and it filled with blood.

Panting and dizzy, the Nawatir dragged Jerre deeper into the shadows, leaving him behind a rocky outcropping. But the effort cost him dearly. He had taken the ion-pistol blast almost point-blank, and with each triple pump of his hearts he was losing blood.First-Captain Kwenn was scarcely out the door with the b.l.o.o.d.y remains of his pet, when Kurgan accessed the secret drawer behind his wall of weapons and drew out the banestone. He sighed deeply even as it burned his hand, for it spoke to him in its voice that was not a voice. It had found Eleana. The pain subsided.

At once, he wiped down his dagger. Then he left the regent's palace by the secret pa.s.sageway he had discovered. The banestone had a way of guiding him. It almost seemed to be a part of him, as if it was speaking to the core of his being. He felt its magnetic pull and he was flooded with a sense of omnipotence and invulnerability. No wonder Lujon wanted it, for he did not for a moment believe that Lujon would turn it over to the sauromicians if it ever came into his possession. No one would be that foolish, least of all canny Lujon. No, he was playing along with the sauromicians-just as Kurgan himself would have done if he had been in the Sarakkon's place. Gradually, he had seen that power was Lujon's currency, his fondest desire. He knew how to handle Lujon. His l.u.s.t for power made him transparent.

Better, even, it made him predictable. It was like a game of warrnixx. You won when you saw how the spiral laid out six or eight moves ahead. It was a heady feeling, that foretaste of victory.

The banestone led him down the Boulevard of Crooked Dreams, west into an area with which he was totally unfamiliar. But he had been to districts like it, stinking of garbage and urine and mange, populated for the most part by bloated-bellied wyr-hounds and limbless Kundalan. Addiction was their only escape from the mutilation caused by the constant Khagggun interrogations.

He hurried on, his fist clamped tightly around his triangular-bladed dagger, while the way became narrower and meaner between crowded swayback buildings, the sky a muddy ripple, narrow as a stream. Without fanfare, the street ended as abruptly as a slammed door. He found himself facing a dun-colored building whose crumbling facade was a disgrace. He rubbed clean a small plaque to the right of the entrance.

firefly, he read. A kashiggen, but one, judging by its exterior, that should long ago have been shut down.

As his banestone-for that was how he had come to think of it- instructed, he ascended the cracked and crumbling stairs, cursing under his breath as he almost lost his footing. The interior smelled like overboiled granth and rotting corpses. In the entranceway no lamps of any sort were lit. What illumination existed, grey, thin as tissue, filtered down from a grime-encrusted oculus inset into the high, domed ceiling. There was about the place a stir of echoes.

A p.r.i.c.kling along his scalp caused him to brandish his dagger, tip tilted upward. He felt the quick hot flow of cortasyne, bringing on the bloodl.u.s.t. His senses were sharpened, honed to fever pitch.

Directly opposite the front door a ma.s.sive shanstone staircase rose like a crippled spine up the center of the building. On either side were closed double doors of heartwood, their intricate carvings half-hidden under layers of dust, grease and grime. He listened for the voice of the banestone, but it was silent. It pulsed powerfully in his hand, though. Eleana was close by.

He moved in a semicrouch to the door on the left, placing his ear near it. Murmured voices. Stepping back, he kicked the center with booted foot. The doors, which had not been locked, flew open, and he raced in, ready to kill, to take possession of her.

Instead, two naked Deirus, their pale heads popped comically up on scrawny bodies, scrambled off the long, seductive settee. They screamed when they recognized him, dashed out past him. He let them go, looked briefly out a grime-streaked window. The fens of the Great Phosphorus Swamp let go their stink. Stagnant pools shiny as oil. Clouds of insects rising, falling, droning. It looked more inviting out there than in here. He turned on his heel.

The chamber to the right of the entranceway was properly furnished for trysts, all manner of s.e.xual fantasy, but it was empty. That left the stairs.

Up them he climbed in a wary semicrouch. The banestone had taken on added weight, as if Eleana was crouched, waiting, inside it. It was possible to think of it as a hole in the Cosmos, a window into another level where light did not exist.

A flurry of echoes, creaks, and moans, greeted him on the landing. It was as if the building were tryingto speak to him, as if it had something on its mind. But of course that was impossible. The building was like any other, nothing more than a pile of granite, marble, and porphyry. A stirring, no doubt about it, as if around every corner someone lay in wait. And so, proceeding down the winding second-floor hallway, he was prepared to defend himself, to kill his a.s.sailant if necessary. But the corners, like the spa.r.s.ely furnished chambers he pa.s.sed, held only shadows, mocking him in their emptiness.

He kept going, keyed up, no thought of turning back, along a corridor carpeted with a long narrow runner, its jewel-tone colors faded. The walls were badly in need of a fresh coat of lacquer. None of the fusion lamps were working. Old-fashioned tallow lanterns hung from bare wires, giving off the heavy scent of rendered fat and smoky flames.

The end of the corridor offered one last chamber. It, too, was deserted. But he discovered a plate of half-eaten food, a tankard of warm mead, an unlit candle. Small smells of habitation, slightly rancid. He reached out and almost burned himself on the blackened wick.

His reflection in the mirror affixed to a narrow door stared back at him. When had he become so hollow-eyed? With a grunt of disgust, he pulled open the door, his reflection wheeling away from him.

Out of sight, out of mind. Peering up, he could just make out a steep flight of spiral stairs. He considered lighting the candle but decided against it, choosing stealth over visibility.

He kept his back against the outer rail of the staircase. The air grew close and stifling. The stench of the moldering past was overpowering. Presently, he reached the top of the spiral and found himself in an attic with a steeply canted ceiling. Joists and crossbeams were visible, thickly laced with cobwebs. Sweet wood must, the sour stench of mildew. Rodent droppings, untidy pyramids across the dusty unfinished floorboards.

A streak of light, the color of a dead bird, slanted in from a dormer window caked with grime, a little finger of water rippling across the arid attic floor. The dormer had been sealed shut decades ago. It would take a c.o.c.ked elbow or the b.u.t.t of a weapon to go through it.

Kurgan stopped in his tracks, for standing in the patch of wan light was the last individual he expected to see.

The Nawatir never recalled how he made it back to his narbuck. Possibly, the sorcerous steed found him. In any event, the next thing he knew he was riding the narbuck into the dense mist, his torso slumped against the animal's powerful neck. His hand was pressed to his wound, but the blood leaked out just the same. He was moving in and out of consciousness. He felt warm and cold at the same time.

The lurching journey was a sickening blur of fog and stars, of wind rushing, of ceaseless shivering, of pain and yawning blackness. In the Nawatir's feverish state, the rhythmic gait of the narbuck sounded like a choir of chanting voices. He felt as if he were being dragged through a rubble pit.

Over the rooftops of the village of Stone Border galloped the narbuck, up the steep slope of the Djenn Marre to the promontory on which the Abbey of Floating White hunkered, pale and pearled in the thick swirls of mist. With a mighty leap, the narbuck sailed over the walls, his hooves clattering in the courtyard, through the triple arches, and into the garden outside Konara Inggres' office, where she anxiously waited with her Ja-Gaar, sipping hot greenleaf tea as an antidote to her exhaustion.

She put down her cup when she heard the sound of the narbuck's hooves, and ran alongside the Ja-Gaar out into the garden, where her worst fears were realized. The narbuck went down on his knees, the better to allow her to swing the Nawatir off his perch. He was still dressed in his Line-General's armor, and he looked like a V'ornn, for he had lacked the strength to command his cloak to return him to his true form.

Stripping off the bottom of her robe, she took his stiff-fingered hand away. She stifled a cry when she saw bone exposed, the Ja-Gaar growling and pacing restlessly as she stuffed the cloth into the wound and pressed down hard in order to stanch the blood. But the wad of cloth was soon sodden. He had been shot by a Khagggun ion pistol, and such was the damage that she knew that it must have been at very close range. She could not understand that. He was the Nawatir. How could he have been injuredso grievously?

The narbuck pawed the ground nervously, and the Ja-Gaar circled as Konara Inggres called to two of her leyna to help her carry the Nawatir into the infirmary. There, she dismissed them and, somewhat selfconsciously, set about stripping him of his b.l.o.o.d.y armor. Unfortunately, because it was not real, but rather a part of the individual the cloak had turned him into, it would not come off. Inggres could see right away that if she could not remove the armor she would not be able to see the true extent of the wound and would not, therefore, be able to treat it effectively. His extreme pallor and weakness told her how much blood he had already lost.

Pulling open cupboards, she brought an armful of ground herbs and mushrooms, along with a mortar and pestle and two or three vials of decoctions. The first thing she did was take off the b.l.o.o.d.y wad and replace it with a pinch of finely ground shanin. The blood flow was so prodigious it took her several times-and several healing spells-to get the proper consistency of herb and blood, but at length the shanin had made a latticework across the wound. At least he would not bleed to death.

Next, she ground Panda.n.u.s with a small amount of datura inoxia. Periodically, she added several drops of liquid from one of the vials until she had a thick paste. This she spread over the shanin. But she could see blood still seeping out from around parts of the wound covered by armor, and her anxiety redoubled. He was so weak that she did not think he could tolerate much more blood loss.

She knew that he must be terribly dehydrated, and she set about brewing him lyme-ginger tea, which was both healing and restorative. This she fed him slowly and steadily as she thought about how to return him to his Nawatir state. She knew that the key was his cloak, Dragon-made and, therefore, unknowable. It had not absorbed his blood, though it had been wrapped around him. She did not understand it at all, and therefore she did not know how to get it to change him back. Only he could do that, and he was all but insensate.

Pulling the cloak closer around him, she conjured up every spell she knew of in an attempt to trigger the mechanism, to no avail. A small moan escaped her lips. The last several moments had been taken up with the busywork any Ramahan healer could perform, but now, with all that done, with her spells rendered useless, there was nothing but to watch him sink deeper into the coma that would surely kill him. She did not know how this could have come to pa.s.s. She had thought him invulnerable. The Khagggun would be there soon enough, blasting their way through the front doors or through the sacred white-stone walls. Without the Nawatir there were only the Ja-Gaar to protect her and her flock. Not enough. And if he were to die . . . She shivered with anguish, suddenly overcome by the terror of never looking into his beautiful eyes again, of never feeling him breathe, of never touching her lips to his again.

Weeping, she bent her head to his, pressed her lips against his still mouth. His shallow breath caught in her throat, and she thought she knew what it was to be on the point of death.

She looked up, suddenly aware of a cold presence, a shadow hovering. Rheumy death had entered the infirmary, holding out its hand for him.

"No," she whispered, holding him all the tighter. "No!"

The presence of death, the imminence of the end seemed to galvanize her, to clear her mind. An idea formed and took hold, and with it came hope. The cloak was Dragon-made, the Dragons belonged to Miina. Miina had once heard her prayers and answered them. Would She again?

Holding the Nawatir in her arms, she forced her eyes shut, slowed her breathing, calmed her racing pulse. Layer by layer, she descended into that place between consciousness and unconsciousness, the place of dreams, of emotions, where all the essential particles of the Cosmos were born, died, and were reborn. The place where Time was banished, where past, present, and future existed all at once.

Dearest Miina, hear me, she prayed. Here lies Your Nawatir, Your protector, Your strong right hand. He has been grievously wounded, by what strange means I cannot pretend to know, and he is dying. Please help me return him to life. Please help me understand how to return him to himself. He is so brave, so fearless. . . . Where is the justice in his dying?

Only silence greeted her-a deafening silence through which she could hear the phlegmy sawing of his shallow breaths, the wild beating of her heart.

Where are You, Miina, in Your servant's hour of need? Why have You abandoned those wholove You most dearly, who cleave to Your covenants, who keep the flame of Your teachings alive in the gathering darkness? Great G.o.ddess, answer Your most humble servant1.

But there came no reply. The ether was still as death, and the darkness she spoke of seemed to close in on them, like a curtain being drawn across the stage at play's end.

And yet there was a voice, deep inside her. The voice of her own true spirit, rising, speaking to her in the wilderness of her despair.

I love him. I can no longer deny it to myself, for surely if he dies I will crumple up and perish beside him, and be happy, at least, for that.

She bent her head, and the tears flowed freely, and she held the Nawatir all the more tightly, feeling her love for him surging like a river in spring, like the tide pulled by all five moons. Live wave upon wave crashing onto a shingle beach.

But I will not let him die. I will not1.

And beneath her, the cloak began to stir, shift, blur. Responding to the pa.s.sion of her spirit, the force of her true love, the cloak liquefied, melting into him. And as it did so, his armor disappeared, his V'ornnish features re-forming into those of the golden-haired Nawatir. And she cried again, but now with delight and relief, and immediately peeled back his tunic and treated the circ.u.mference of his wound, which was larger than she had imagined. And presently, he arose from his terrible coma and drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep within which his body would heal.

And Konara Inggres, having done all she could, having done what was necessary, was at last caught by her own exhaustion, and she lay down beside him, her arm draped across his hips.

Even in her sleep she dreamed of healing him.

There is something unique about each Gyrgon lab-orb that preys upon the observer and casts him in the role of outsider. Possibly it was the intimate relationship the Gyrgon had with their kilometers of neural nets, curled and shining. Where the Gyrgon left off and the neural nets began no one, not even another Gyrgon could say, save Guls, and they were forbidden to speak of it, forbidden to reveal how they genetically manipulated the fathered embryo. Sahor thought he had prepared himself for Nith Batox.x.x's lab, but he was wrong. Nothing could have forearmed him for the atmosphere of evil he found there. It was so pervasive it had infected the neural nets like a virus. It made him want to turn around and walk out, it made him want to dismantle the lab-orb and everything in it. He felt as if touching even a single interface would infect him as, he suspected, it had infected the others who had been in here: Nith Na.s.sam, Nith Immmon, Gul Aluf, even his father. Looking around, he wondered how he would be able to protect himself.