The Pearl Saga - Mistress of the Pearl Part 47

"What will you tell Nith Na.s.sam?" he said to cover his apprehension. "Who will you tell him I am?"

"Let me worry about Nith Na.s.sam," Nith Immmon told him pointedly.

"We want your input," Gul Aluf said. "So far, we have been stymied. Nith Batox.x.x has locked us out of every data server, every storage neural net."

"We can't access any imaging pathway," Nith Immmon said. "And believe me we have tried."

"Everything," Gul Aluf added, if only to emphasize their frustration. What they said only increased Sahor's desire to see all of this vaporized in a boiling ball of flame. He wondered how hot the conflagration would have to get in order to purify the s.p.a.ce.

Far better that than allow Nith Batox.x.x's experiments to come out. He could feel this in his hearts in the same way he had known that the destiny of the V'ornn lay somewhere on Kundala.

But he could destroy nothing. They would not even allow him to walk out now that he was here. He began to regret ever leaving the confines of the Museum of False Memory. Had he stayed there he would never have returned to the warehouse he had set up as one of his auxiliary labs, he would never have fallen into Gul Aluf's trap. But what was the point of regrets? He had missed his father. His desire to be reunited with his father had triggered everything.

Sahor first walked over to the dully gleaming egg-shaped goron-wave chamber because it looked soominous, because it so thoroughly dominated the s.p.a.ce.

"We crawled over that inside and out," Gul Aluf said. Of course you did, Sahor thought. It was the first place you looked. "It was the first place we looked," Nith Immmon said. Sahor smiled inwardly and turned his attention to the lab-orb as a whole. He took in the arcana-the waves of redesigned neural nets, holoscreens, the banks of fusion generators, the coils of influx water fibers, thick as his wrist, the curious photon webs. He went to the three separate task stations where Nith Batox.x.x plugged himself into various terminals. On the one closest to the wall he discovered a cylindrical slot, far too small to insert a data crystal.

He pointed it out to Gul Aluf. "Do you know what this is for?" She did not even need to take a closer look. "Another mystery." Behind the task station were the walls of the original temple chambers, with their intricate and colorful murals, covered now by thickly growing orangesweet, vines curling, all the blossoms opened and perfectly symmetrical. He inhaled their scent.

"Have you found something . . . anything." Nith Immmon's voice betrayed his anxiety.

"Not yet." But this was a lie. The fact was, he knew a lot already. Much to his chagrin, he was coming to understand that he and Nith Batox.x.x had been very much alike. He had spent much of his time on Kundala devising ingenious ways in which to keep his research out of the Comradeship's matrix.

Apparently, so had Nith Batox.x.x. In this, they were closer than friends, closer than brothers. Polar opposites, they were in this the same under the skin. He found it odd and more than a little unsettling that he should feel closer to his nemesis in death than ever he had in life, and yet, because he had studied Kundalan for so long, had even lived among them, this very connection was an affirmation of the Ramahan concept of the wheel of life, constantly turning, transforming, connecting the living and the dead.

"All this equipment, known and unknown," Nith Immmon said. "Gul Aluf has been over it with a single-micron flux."

"We know nothing more than when we first opened the lab-orb," she said in disgust.

Now, as Sahor wandered about, his keen eyes saw things that the others would have overlooked, for it was a fact that the deeper the secret, the closer to the surface it should be stored. No one ever looks for secrets in plain sight-their gaze slides over everyday objects. The expected is dismissed by the brain almost before it is fully seen.

What was it here in this particular lab-orb that they all would overlook? He had made a complete circle, he had seen everything, though he had explored not one centimeter of the strange setups that Gul Aluf-and doubtless Nith Na.s.sam-had spent days trying and failing to pa.r.s.e.

He stood completely still, absorbing the particular quality of the light, the relationship of each object with its neighbors, the patterns implicit within the whole. He inhaled the aroma of the orangesweet. He felt a sudden urge to count the blossoms. Why was that? He breathed in, breathed out. Was it a touch too sweet? Was there a hint of the artificial mixed in with the natural scent? And why were all the blossoms fully open?

He blinked.

And then he knew. His heart rate increased. The blood pounded in his ears, making such an infernal racket that he felt sure the others could hear it. He walked to the periphery of the lab-orb, stood near tiers of neural nets that had the appearance of a small stream. Just beyond them, the orangesweet twined up the wall.

"Have you found something?" Gul Aluf asked.

"Possibly."

He ran his fingertips over the neural nets. To the others it appeared as if he was examining them in detail, but he wasn't focused on them at all. For him, they had ceased to exist. He was looking, instead, at the orangesweet blossoms. They were quite lovely-beautiful, even.

But you had to suspect. You had to know what you were looking for, and even then it would take someone with Sahor's long-honed skills at deceit to spot them.

A small percentage of the blossoms were constructs. They were photon-flux fields where Nith Sahor had secreted his off-line data.

24

The Black Guard

Marethyn led Majja and Ba.s.se west through the thickly forested ridge toward Gerwa's camp. The two Kundalan were hard-pressed to keep up with her long strides, especially Ba.s.se, who was not yet fully recovered from his wounds. He was strong enough to keep pace with Majja, though, a fact that astonished them all. Marethyn considered it the greatest good fortune that they had encountered Giyan and Minnum. Without the help of the two sorcerers, Ba.s.se would surely have died.

High above their head, scudding clouds thickened, grew steadily darker. An ominous rumbling, far away but deep and angry-sounding, made its way through the valleys. The air turned wet and sticky, making their clothes cling uncomfortably to their skin. In the dampness, all the fecund effluence of the forest floor rose up like mist to envelop them: the richness of humus, the mint of blue lichen, the chalk of rock, the bitterness of exposed roots.

On another day, they might even have taken the time to savor these scents, but not now. All their concentration was on warning the encampment of the imminent attack by the Khagggun Wing. Marethyn had no idea what would happen once they delivered their message. Doubtless, Gerwa would choose to stand and fight, but given the size of the complement, she did not like their odds.

She was running through a number of arguments for evacuating the camp as quickly as they could when they went down into a thickly foliated dell she recognized. They were not more than half a kilometer from the camp, and she urged them into an even quicker pace.

And so it was that they were fairly running when they came upon it. Marethyn stopped dead in her tracks, her chest heaving, the sweat running down inside her tunic. The others came up beside her and their gaze, too, went to the same spot.

On the far side of the dell, just where the forest rose again to ridge height, stood Kin, Gerwa's younger brother. He was stripped to the waist. His leggings appeared half-burned. He was looking straight ahead with deadly concentration. They waved to him, but his eyes did not move. They called to him softly, but he gave them no indication that he had heard them.

Then they ran to him, spoke to him, shook him, but he did not respond. Ba.s.se put an arm across his lean muscular shoulders. Majja pa.s.sed a hand before his eyes. Marethyn knelt in front of him, spoke to him urgently. Nothing. She put an ear to his chest. His heart beat slowly, but it was as if he had been turned to stone. "What has happened to him?" Majja asked.

Ba.s.se made a little sound. He had taken his arm away. It was covered with blood. Slowly, with trembling fingers, Marethyn turned Kin around. They gasped as one. The flesh of his back had been flayed off. As if her hands on him was a signal, he collapsed without a sound. "Dead," Ba.s.se said.

"It was if he were waiting for us," Majja said.

Marethyn, closing Kin's eyes, wept. She remembered him slipping on that icy patch of leaves, remembered reaching out and clutching him, remembered him slamming the b.u.t.t of his ion cannon into the Khagggun who had grabbed her. She could not believe that he was dead.

They wanted to bury him, but there was no time, so they went on silently and grimly through the deadly forest. They dared not look in one another's eyes for fear of what they might see. Terror had gripped their hearts and would not let go. Their minds were abuzz with terrible possibilities, but such were their natures that hope still thundered like the heartbeats of their comrades amid the darkness of their thoughts. Their ion cannons were unlocked and fully loaded. They wanted nothing more than to find Khagggun to frame in their crosshairs. They tasted the bittersweet wine of vengeance, and its bouquet made Kin's death bearable for the moment.They were within shouting distance of the camp. It was just over the next rise, through the dense stand of Marre pine, but as they moved toward it, they saw something in among the trees. The heavily laden branches made it impossible to discern clearly until they were nearly upon it.

An exhalation of breath escaped them, for a stake had been driven into the ground. It was fire-blackened and blood-spattered. At its top sat the severed head of Gerwa.

It took First-Captain Kwenn a long time to bury his wyr-hound, but it took him longer to sort out his feelings. For one thing, he was a Khagggun; he was bred not only to kill, but to take orders, to serve those above him without question. For another, loyalty was a strict matter of honor to him. It was of no moment that the regent was Bashkir or that he had murdered the wyr-hound. He had done it to teach First-Captain Kwenn a lesson. First-Captain Kwenn should therefore have been grateful. He was grateful. Why, then, was it taking him so long to bury the wyr-hound? Why, then, was he weeping at the sight of its pathetic, almost headless body. He thought maybe it was because it looked so helpless. It was an animal, after all. It could not defend itself from the likes of the regent. But maybe that was precisely why the regent had chosen to make it an example, to teach him that animals were not allowed inside the regent's quarters.

Ever since the regent had slit the wyr-hound's throat, he had had a bad taste in his mouth, and nothing he took as remedy removed it. Worse still, he could not stop crying. This sad state of affairs was not only embarra.s.sing, it was humiliating. Who among his comrades would understand his attachment to the animal? None that he could think of. Save the breeder.

The breeder's name was Tong. Many of First-Captain Kwenn's fellow Khagggun laughed at him behind his back. They asked what kind of life could he have. They joked cruelly that he was already dead. But these Khagggun thought they knew all the answers. First-Captain Kwenn knew they were simply ignorant.

First-Captain Kwenn found Tong outside with his wyr-hounds. A b.i.t.c.h had just given birth, and he was crouched amid a heap of squirming newborns.

Tong rose when he saw First-Captain Kwenn approaching. Perhaps he was bracing himself for a complaint about the wyr-hound he had sold the regent. "It was a difficult birthing," he said, wiping his hands. "She needed all my help, but look at what-"

"He's dead," First-Captain Kwenn blurted out. "To teach me a lesson, the regent slit my wyr-hound's throat."

"Klagh." Tong put his fists on his hips. "He was a good and true beast, that one."

First-Captain Kwenn turned away just in time. He vomited up his breakfast and last night's meager dinner as well, for it was at this moment that he realized the depths of his sorrow. It was also the moment when he let himself taste the anger that had turned his mouth bitter.

Tong ignored what Kwenn had just disgorged but not the sentiment behind it. "I think a drink is called for, don't you?"

Kwenn allowed Tong to take him to a pub, a grubby place with greasy walls and a filthy tile floor. It was populated by Looorm even Tong would not touch. At least, Kwenn hoped that was the case.

Tong ordered them spring mead that, when it arrived in huge, overflowing tankards, was sweet and rich and surprisingly good.

"Life is full of mysteries, eh?" Tong wiped foam off his upper lip with a stubby finger. "Five years ago, I was under Fleet-Admiral Pnin's command. Today, I helped my prize b.i.t.c.h give life to her litter. And now I wonder which of those things gave me more pleasure."

"That is a very un-Khagggun comment."

"Well, First-Captain Kwenn, it is my opinion that you are an uncommon Khagggun."

"Really?"

"You love wyr-hounds, for one thing." Tong had a dry, raspy voice that reminded Kwenn of ggley-threshers at work. It was a solid voice, the voice of experience. "For another, you work for aBashkir."

"He is the regent."

"Nevertheless, and for all his physical prowess in the Kalllistotos, for all his Khagggun-like bl.u.s.ter, he isn't Khagggun. Never will be."

"Still, he is the regent and deserves our loyalty."

Tong took another great swig of mead. "When I was a boy-that was a long, long while ago, mind-we had nothing but war. We flew from world to world, and we did our work, we killed and some of us, at least, were killed in return. In those days, it was us-the Khagggun- who ruled. Without us, even the Gyrgon would not have survived.

"Everything changes," Tong said. "It's not the same now, not for any of us."

First-Captain Kwenn had to agree. Since the death of the wyr-hounds-both of them-nothing made sense to him.

"See, he had no call to do it."

First-Captain Kwenn quick-swallowed his mead. As it was, he almost choked on it. "What?"

"I mean to say, a wyr-hound is a living being. The regent had no reason to take his life."

His words would be considered a treasonous remark by some, certainly by the regent. First-Captain Kwenn knew that he ought to consider it that himself. He didn't, though.

"I mean to say, there were a thousand and one ways to teach you a lesson, eh?"

It was true. Kurgan shouldn't have done it. In fact, now that he thought about it, Kwenn was filled with doubts, about the regent, about himself.

"How well did you know your father, First-Captain?"

"Not well at all. I don't think he cared much for children."

"Pity." Tong raised an arm, and another round was set upon the scarred table. They knew him well here. "I loved my father, loved him in a way I could not imagine loving anyone else. Except my wyr-hounds. They're my family, you see." He cupped his hands around the goblet, and Kwenn could see how scarred and swollen they were. "I was born into a family of five brothers, but they all died fighting the Centophennni. b.l.o.o.d.y frontline work. Never even saw the face of the enemy." Tong shrugged. "What can you do? War is klagh." He drained one tankard, began on the next. "My father loved music. Can you imagine? Didn't matter what kind, he loved it all. He particularly liked to listen to the music of the enemy before he went into battle. He always said there was a great deal to learn from music. It's all mathematical, you see. Logical patterns in the service of creativity. That's why he admired it so. He knew the enemy he fought, except the Centophennni, of course. No one knows klagh about them." He shook his head. "My wyr-hounds like music. Can you imagine? I have all kinds because I took my father's collection. And each time I play something, he comes to visit me again. I feel him listening along with them."

First-Captain Kwenn felt odd, then, because he envied this part of Tong's life. It was something he never had, never would have. And this lack made him feel trapped, as if, like Tong, he had been born into a family of brothers who had all died. Only he was nothing like these dream brothers.

"First-Captain, why did you come to see me?"

Kwenn looked away and licked his lips.

"It's not that you want another wyr-hound. It's not as simple as that, is it?"

When Kwenn remained silent, Tong decided he needed to go a step further. "He disappointed me once, though, my father." Tong was staring down into the amber-colored mead. "Did something he shouldn't have. Took my old shock-sword and had it deactivated. Gave me another one, said it was better." His voice had deepened, sinking down with him into his memories. "Maybe it was, I don't know.

Point was, though, I loved that old shock-sword. It had saved my life more times than I liked to count. It was stout and strong-willed, and it had never let me down. N'Luuura take it, it was an extension of my right arm!" He looked into Kwenn's face. "My father, he didn't understand, so there wasn't even any point in telling him. But I got it back, and even though you're not supposed to reactivate a shock-sword, I took it to the maker and bribed him to do it." Tong pursed his lips. His cheeks were flushed. "What's right is right. And what's wrong is wrong."For a long time, Kwenn was quiet. Then, all at once, he said, "Is there a time when loyalty is wrong?

Because what I am feeling now ... I am thinking that I feel trapped by my loyalty." Maybe that was why nothing made sense to him anymore.

"I require more information."

Kwenn thought for a moment. "I have an acquaintance who is under the Star-Admiral's command.

We play warrnixx. One day not long ago he told me how Iin Mennus and his brother were torturing their enemies, the former Admirals of the high command. It was a strange conversation, and it affected me, not right away, but. . . He said the Mennus brothers live to torture others, that they're obsessed with it.

Afterward, I began to feel a kind of dislocation. I thought, They are Khagggun, I am Khagggun. Do I do what they do? Do I feel what they feel? This dislocation grew stronger until after my wyr-hounds were killed I began to feel like a torch in sunlight. Suddenly I no longer understood my purpose."

Tong rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was clear he took what Kwenn said most seriously. "When you are commanded by an exemplary officer such as Fleet-Admiral Pnin, you never, as you say, feel like a torch in sunlight. Everything you do is right and natural. But when your faith in your commander has been damaged ..." He shook his head slowly. "Well, you never recover from that."

Now Kwenn knew why he had come to see Tong. He was seeking absolution for what, deep down, he knew he had to do in order to keep living with himself.

"Can you help me?"

Tong's eyes rested on Kwenn. "Give me a moment. I will imagine it."

It was a measure of the rapport that had sprung up between these two Khagggun that Tong had no need to ask Kwenn what he meant by his request. Underneath it all, Tong thought, they were like kindred spirits, one a younger reflection of the other. Or was it the other way around?

Kwenn, for his part, felt a little thrill run through his system, the kind of feeling he got on the dagger edge, when the outcome of a battle hung in the balance.

Tong smiled a little smile. He said very softly, "Here is what I am thinking. If Star-Admiral Mennus is discredited with the regent, the regent will be discredited with the Gyrgon. After all, he has already chosen poorly with his first Star-Admiral."

Kwenn's eyes were hard and glittery. "The regent can be that seriously discredited?"

Tong inclined his head.

"If I do this, I will be no one I have ever imagined."

"That is the point, isn't it?"

This remark caused a jolt to rush through Kwenn. All at once, everything made sense to him.

"Continue," he said.

"There is someone you need to see. His name is Sornnn SaTrryn."

Kwenn rose and threw a handful of small coins on the table. "I'd like very much like to listen to your music now."

Gerwa's eyes were wide-open, his teeth bared like an animal. There was defiance in his expression, but also pain and fear. Horrified, the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, knowing the worst had come about. Hope guttered and died, and they felt like the dead themselves as they went the last several hundred meters into the camp.