A Prison Unsought (11 page)

Tuan took a steadying breath, catching a sharp glance from
the High Phanist. She already knew him too well.

“Your pardon, Numen, gnostor.” He
bobbed a slight bow toward Omilov. “Basilea Risiena has sent your wardrobe.” He
paused, making certain of his voice. Then: “Thirty-seven left shoes, fourteen
right boots, and it appears that at least some of the jackets and pantaloons
have had their sleeves or legs sewn shut. A decon team has already dealt with
the underwear.”

“Tuan,” said the High Phanist, a
line appearing between her eyes.

Omilov’s lips parted, and he chuckled, forestalling the High
Phanist with an upraised hand. “Let us just say that her tastes along those
lines were somewhat . . . esoteric. Thank you, Tuan.”

Omilov thought Tuan looked disappointed as he bowed and
departed. But the secretary’s mention of underwear had triggered an image of
Barrodagh with one of Risiena’s vile toys leeched to his thumb, and Omilov’s
dark mood began to fade; he’d become expert at not thinking about what had
followed.
I hope he does trigger it.

“I did not see the Basilea at the
ball last night,” said Eloatri.

Omilov winced. Such blunt statements were something he’d
come to expect from the High Phanist, especially when her odd little secretary
was involved. But Omilov had already endured the verbal consequences of his
wife’s failure to obtain an invitation for herself and her two daughters. The
vandalism of his wardrobe left him unmoved. Two suits of clothes were all he
required. But. “I fear my son Osri will bear the brunt of that . . .
oversight.”

Eloatri shifted in her chair. The disorienting
pekeri
fog of Desrien had its parallel
in the house-of-mirrors existence of the Douloi. “Would it help were I to
invite her to tea?”

She saw the answer in an undisguised flash of horror, then
he smiled, urbane again. “My wife has styled herself a head of state, as her
position entitles her. That would make your tea a diplomatic event.”

“A ladder to heaven for her,” said
Eloatri. Risiena, at least, was easy to understand. She had no standing in the Tetrad
Centrum Douloi forming a new elite on Ares, for no major Ghettierus clients or
patrons were among the Douloi refugees so far. Her diplomatic status was her
only claim to consideration, and it had not been enough for last night’s
reception. The woman’s personality made Omilov’s reluctance to intervene easy
to understand, as well.

Omilov nodded agreeably, but then he glanced sideways, in
the direction of the Arkadic Enclave, a kilometer or two away spinward along
the oneill’s disorienting curve, looming uncannily above the eaves of the
Cloister’s outer gallery.
Another ladder to heaven
, thought Eloatri. Why
had he turned down the invitation to stay there?

Even an upstart Polloi promoted to Gate of Telos couldn’t
ask that question. The novosti would. She suspected they’d have little luck.

Omilov shifted his gaze from the Enclave floating like a
geometric moon above the roofline, aware of fatigue. Like a moon, its pull—the
millennium-weighted symbolism of the Arkad line—was already raising tides on
Ares. He’d felt their pull at the reception last night. He might have done some
good if he’d accepted Brandon’s invitation.

But that was immediate. And the very same reason made it
impossible to accept Brandon’s invitation. As an Invisible, he might yet have
to execute justice on his one-time charge. He would not make the betrayal
greater by accepting his bread and salt.

Omilov’s exhaustion manifested as a longing for the Cloister
library in its fusty, narrow solidity, antonymic to his hallucination in the
cathedral. It was time to make his excuses to his hostess.

Eloatri watched as Omilov walked slowly toward the wing
housing the library. Her conscience panged again: she’d found a hidden
transtube entrance only steps from this verdant cove; it would have whisked him
right to the elevator nearest his destination. But she wasn’t ready to reveal
that and the other transtubes and similar secrets that were unfolding to her.
She supposed there was some protocol in operation that was slowly accepting
her.

She glanced up at the Enclave again, wondering if the
smiling, blue-eyed Aerenarch was going through a similar process, and how many
secret egresses he’d found. Was it such that had saved him at his Enkainion?

Regardless of how he’d escaped death, Brandon vlith-Arkad
was now heir to the Panarchy of the Thousand Suns. At their first meeting he’d
seemed to be as slippery as glass and about as deep, but in the New Glastonbury
Cathedral she had seen underneath his shock a flash of intent, the same kind of
high-energy focus that seemed to reach out from old vids of his ancestor Jaspar
Arkad.

Last night he had surprised her yet again, when he abandoned
the mask of Douloi politesse to communicate with a dancing trinity of Kelly in
un-Douloi trills, hoots, and slaps.

Those same Kelly were to perform surgery on Ivard today, the
boy for whom the Graal had apparently manifested on the altar of New
Glastonbury, arresting his ongoing possession—there was no other word for it,
really—by the genomic ghost of the Kelly Archon. But that genetic entanglement
would still kill him in the end unless the Kelly succeeded in removing the
emerald band fused into his wrist.

She glanced at her chrono. Less than an hour to go.

Time to try one of her private transtube accesses.

o0o

Osri Omilov sat up in bed, fighting a massive headache.
He’d not trusted the
dormaivu
in his
room—doubtless bugged like everything else—and he’d slept with his boswell on.
The delicate chiming in his inner ear counterpointed the throb in his temples;
he killed it hastily. Two hours of sleep, and less than that before his leave
ended, requiring him to report for duty in the military portion of Ares
Station, known as the Cap.

The good thing was that he’d be given quarters among the
rest of the Naval personnel. Reminded of the prospect of quitting his mother’s
space, he found the energy to get up and into the shower.

When he came out, his boswell blinked at him from the
dressing table. He put it on, angled it to his gaze, and saw a single line
across his field of vision.

Need a favor. Meet me
at 07:45? B.

Brandon? Osri’s heart thumped in counterpoint to his
headache as he dressed in his uniform and packed his few belongings.

He picked up his duffel and tiptoed down the hall toward the
entrance. The other bedroom doors were shut; his half-sisters still slept.
Good.

But exit was not to be achieved so easily. A servant in Ghettierus
livery hovered before the door. “Her Grace desires speech with Your Honor.” And
effectively blocked the door.

Perforce Osri turned aside, and braced himself as he entered
his mother’s room. She sat straight-backed in a huge bed draped with embroidered
silk. At least she was alone.

“Osri,” she said. So strange, to
see his own dark eyes in her face, when he didn’t feel any kinship beyond the undeniable
genetic.

Risiena glared at her son as he bowed and said, “Mother.”
How annoying, to see those Ghettierus eyes staring from a pudding-featured
Omilov face. And those ears! She would have clipped them to decency after he
was born, but that idiot she had married had insisted—legally—on leaving him
be.

“Who was that message from? How
rude it was to send it to you alone when you are
en famille
.”

His doughy face spasmed, causing her to scowl. Was that
laughter? Osri was sadly lacking in respect for her rank. Just like his father.

Osri looked away, unwilling to mention Brandon and start the
hideous arguments all over again.

Unexpectedly she relieved him. “It was your father, I
suppose.” She made a rude gesture. “Gloating, no doubt, about his trick with
the High Phanist. If he had simply told me—”

Osri had been hearing her on this subject for three days.
“My father congratulates me on my new teaching duties,” he said largely,
glancing at the chrono. “Which begin in a few minutes.”

“Teaching! Why aren’t you assigned
to the Aerenarch’s personal staff . . .”

“Have to depart, Mother.”

If he reached the tube in about two minutes, he might make
it to the Enclave in time.

“You’ll be here when I entertain.”
It was not a question.

“As my duties permit,” he promised
his mother, and departed, glad at least that he’d not had to promise his sibs
as well.

Osri found nothing to complain about. His mother’s domicile numbered
among pleasingly designed buildings set on low hills, with farmland visible
from all the windows. His mother, he knew, was angry because her neighbors were
Naval captains and lower level Douloi. She felt that a Basilea ought to be
ranked among the Tetrad Centrum Douloi housed around the lake near the Arkadic
Enclave—those who had not claimed space on one of the luxurious yachts attached
to the station. “
We can’t even see the
Enclave from here,”
she’d complained.
“Even
at night.”

Osri punched in his destination, then sank gratefully onto
the tube seat, relieved to be alone, if only for a minute. He leaned against
the window with his eyes closed.

He’d meant to leave that damn party early, to rest before
starting his new job, but he’d been detained not just by fellow Navy officers,
who wanted to hear about his adventures since the attack on Charvann, but by a
number of Douloi as well. Despite their smiling questions and open admiration,
and despite the liquor offered as lubrication, Osri had kept his answers short
and vague. Though his father seldom gave directives (unlike his mother), one of
the lessons Osri had recently learned was to listen to his father’s occasional
mild suggestions. Just before the party Sebastian had murmured, “I say as
little as possible at these things. Less to defend later.” Osri heard it as
advice, and took it.

The tube eased smoothly to a stop. Osri debarked and walked
quickly across the grass to the Arkadic Enclave gate.

He exchanged salutes with the Marine honor guard, the
gesture underscoring his safe return to the clear-cut world of the military;
she murmured into her boswelled gorget as he entered the garden.

The door stood open. Brandon, Montrose, and Jaim sat on a
low, circular couch before a dyplast table so transparent their porcelain
breakfast dishes appeared to hover in midair. Jaim’s long face was somber. Only
Brandon showed no evidence of lack of sleep or excess of liquor—his eyes were
clear.

It was a testimony to Brandon’s practice at dissipation
during the last ten years of his life, a fact that had angered Osri once. Too
many things had changed since the days when he saw the universe in terms of Naval
regs. Too much had been lost.

Jaim thought Osri looked more sour than usual, although not
as bad as he’d been on
Telvarna
. The stiff
angle of his head made it obvious that he was suffering from a monumental
hangover.

“Good,” said Brandon as he looked
up. “You’re here. Thanks for coming.”

Jaim tapped his boswell. “This time of day it takes twelve
minutes to get to the Cap.”

Brandon swallowed his coffee and stood up. “Let’s go. Wait.”
He eyed Osri.

Montrose grunted, and said, “One moment.” He moved to the
kitchen, and returned with a glass of milky liquid. “Here,” he growled, pressing
the glass into Osri’s hand. “I made up plenty.” He jerked his finger at Brandon
and Jaim. “Thought they’d need it.”

Osri accepted it gratefully, remembering the efficacy of
Montrose’s nostrums on
Telvarna
, and
drank off the thick liquid. His stomach gave one lurch, then settled into
quiescence. A cool, cottony sensation soothed the inside of his head.

Montrose said, “You’ll pee it out in half an hour, and it’ll
leave you thirsty.”

When Osri nodded his thanks, Brandon said, “Let’s go, Osri.”

“Where?” Osri asked. “What?”

“This.” Brandon held up his hand.
The gleam of ruby in the signet ring jolted Osri, eliciting a brief vision of
his last sight of his father in the Defense Room on Charvann, with the Archon
next to him. “Commander Anton Faseult goes off duty in . . . fourteen
minutes.”

As Brandon started out, Jaim rose, looking a question, but
Brandon motioned him back down again. “Take a seat. Vahn can run shadow.”

Jaim nodded and sipped at his coffee, his dark eyes bemused.
The lack of protocol, echoing the Rifter life aboard the
Telvarna
, made Osri feel peculiar, as if the military world was
receding like an invisible tide.

He followed Brandon, with relief returning the Marines’
salute, which meant they were back in the world of hierarchy and protocol again.
Brandon greeted both Marines by name, as Solarch Vahn fell in at precisely the
correct distance behind them.

The tube was empty again. Brandon keyed in the destination,
then dropped into a seat, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“You wanted a favor?” Osri asked,
conscious of the listening ears behind them. But a surreptitious glance showed
the Marine several seats back, busy with his boswell; he seemed beyond earshot.

Brandon glanced up, and this time his tiredness was evident.
“Two, actually. One: will you witness my handing off the Archon’s ring? I
didn’t want your father along.” He gestured, hand chopping at his neck.

Osri’s stomach
tightened. He wondered if he was about to witness Brandon’s first command. Why
do it in private? Everybody by necessity must find out, if Anton vlith-Faseult
appeared at his watch in uniform, and left it in civilian attire.

Stick to the
immediate,
he thought. “I don’t think my father wants to have to relate the
manner of Tanri’s death. And your other request?”

Brandon leaned his head back. “I’d like you to get me some
study chips—the course on real-time tactical vector analysis and maybe the
advanced course on tactical semiotic matrices.”