A Prison Unsought (35 page)

The benefit of silence, he’d thought, would be the healing
of the remnants of the Thousand Suns, but would it heal if even the Panarch’s
own family were somehow implicated? Ingrained in his psyche were the impulses,
and later the training, to fix, smooth, ease, to hide the fissures in a
creaking structure. Social harmony had been his calling. His talents had been
honed by years of explaining high-powered people to one another, making them
appear amenable so that the diplomatic process might carry on under the guise
of pleasant discourse.

Dissonance was anathema to him. His belief in the system had
been clawed into blood-drenched shreds by that bomb. The grinning death’s-head
of chaos, so unthinkable until the day the Krysarch deliberately shunned his
Enkainion, now was inescapable fact.

At the end it was personal loyalty that made the decision
for him. Leseuer, newest citizen of the Thousand Suns, had entrusted him with
this last testament—had died in the process of handing it on. Though his reason
for living had died with her, it was his duty to see that her death was not
completely pointless.

He got up and threw his few possessions into his valise.
Last was the original chip, which he briefly considered hiding among his
clothes.

A waste of time.

He shut his eyes, reconsidering yet again the process that
had led him to his decision. He had used the long flight to Ares to think
through the consequences of all that had happened.

Couriers had gone both ways. People far more experienced in
the lethal byways of political infighting would assume—would know—the existence
of a chip just like what lay on his bed now.

The thing to do had been to make a copy—and then to gauge,
as best as he was able, his fellow passengers, to find the right one to entrust
the copy to.

The person he chose had to be Douloi first of all. Nyberg
had to be faced with numbers tripled beyond the station’s normal capacity. No
one else but a Douloi would be able to force a personal interview—and it had to
be personal, he would impress on his carrier. Beyond that . . .

No Navy, he’d decided.
Most of them were loyal—to the Panarch. He did not believe that an officer
would heed his exhortation not to view the chip, whereas another civilian, one
born to the ties of politesse and one’s word of honor, might.

Most likely I’ll never
know if she betrays me,
he thought, an image of Fierin vlith-Kendrian’s
beautiful face in mind.

It had been instinct, not logic, that made him select her.
Logic would have ruled her out early and put someone else—even that drunken sot
Gabunder—ahead of her. Gabunder’s brains were so sodden he’d do anything to
guarantee a liquor supply so that he could drink himself to death. The man had
lost family, place, home, and status when the Dol’jharians blew the Node out of
Arthelion’s sky.

The young Kendrian woman had managed to accrue an
encrustation of gossip in a very short life. The Kendrian name was tarnished;
murder had disposed of her parents and their chief executives, the blame laid
on the shoulders of the brother, who had run off to the Rifters, among whom he
presumably still lived under an unknown name.

Fierin had directed the family business as soon as she was
able to take the reins, but she refused to take the title.
My brother is not a murderer,
she’d maintained—although not to
Ranor. They had never discussed anything so serious. Gossip followed her,
whispers like the train of a robe on marble.
I will not make my own Enkainion until we know the truth, and Jesimar
takes his place,
she’d said. Such altruism was remarkably rare.

He’d decided. Now, with the courier nearly touching down in
the Cap, it was time to act.

While he crossed the ship to her cabin, Fierin
vlith-Kendrian wrestled with her own dilemma.

She was still in her cabin when the annunciator chimed. She
paused in her preparations, surprised that anyone would wish to visit now. The
ship was about to dock.

A trace of impatience flashed through her: it was so very
important to look her best when she debarked.
If it’s that drunken Gabunder again, I think this time I will be rude.

Tabbing the door open, she assumed an expression of remote
politeness. But instead of Angelus Gabunder, it was the tall, thin, sad-faced
man who had rescued her from the old sot’s attentions.

“Ranor,” she said, her expression
altering from a tense hauteur to instant, unshadowed concern at the haggard
demeanor of her caller.

He drew in an unsteady breath, aware of being poised on a
precipice. What decision was the right one? He sensed that he might not be
granted an opportunity to make a second try, and was surprised to discover that
after all he did care enough to wish to remain alive.

He bit his lip, then took the first step.

“I must talk to you. Please,
Aegios.”

“I am not an Aegios,” she began,
her dusky skin blooming rose beneath it, and her amazing dark-fringed eyes
widening like a kitten’s, then narrowing warily. “I am only the conditional
heir until my brother has been found,” she added, though she knew Ranor knew
that.

Ranor gave a quick shake of his head, as if dashing aside
her words. He had never been rude before, nor had he appeared like this,
disheveled, even sweaty.

“Come in,” she said, and locked the
door behind them.

“I’ve come to request—beg—your
aid,” Ranor said.

“Would you like to sit down?”

He did not seem to hear her, striding the few short steps to
one wall, then turning to face her. He thrust one hand through his disordered
hair; his fingers trembled, causing her sense of alarm to sharpen.

“What is it?” she said.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he
said quickly. “I . . . find . . . myself in a . . .
strange position.” His breathing was quick and shallow, the words almost
inaudible, as if they were being wrung out of him.

“Ranor, we are about to dock.
Speak, please!”

He stared at her. “I believe I can trust you,” he breathed.
“My . . . instincts were always good for that, anyway.”

Fierin’s entire body heated up. Fourteen years of a stained
name, and more recently, the fallout resulting from her first liaison, had
sensitized her to innuendo.

But Ranor did not notice. “Will you hold something for me?”
he asked. “Just for a time, until after we’ve debarked?”

She had expected anything from a sordid confession to a
declaration of passion. Numb, she nodded.

“Understand, I believe I am in
danger,” he said. “Though I do not think that any suspicion would fall on you,”
he added quickly. “If you do not mention my—that is, my item to anyone.
Any
one. “ He repeated the word with
sudden vehemence, his dark eyes distended and wild.

Chill prickled Fierin’s nerves. Fifteen years ago, the
possibility of danger, of people acting irrationally, had been remote—the stuff
of wire-dreams. She had learned, at the cost of her family, that violence could
lurk behind a smile, that death was an eye-blink away.

“Why?” she said.

“Because it . . . because,”
he said, breathing heavily. “I can’t say anything—I guess the years of conditioning
are too hard to overcome. But I . . . I vow to you that my cause
is justice . . . and so . . .” He paused, reached
inside his robe to a hidden pocket, and withdrew an ordinary data-chip. “If you
would just hold this for me. For a time. I will claim it from you . . .
if . . . I feel it is safe. You needn’t do anything or say
anything.”

“But what if—” She stopped, shaking
her head.

He took another deep breath. “What if something happens to
me?” He gave her a crooked smile. “That is why I’m asking you to hold this chip
for me. If something happens, then you must deliver it into the hands of
Admiral Nyberg. Do not tell anyone else, or permit it to pass through the hands
of intermediaries, for then . . . whatever happens to me will
happen to you.” He held out the chip, then snatched it back as a deep thump
reverberated through the ship. They were docked.

She bit her lip. “I—do have a connection, with a highly
placed Archon—”

“No,” Ranor said quickly. “
No one else!
Nyberg only. Or his
replacement. Will you do it?”

She held out her hand. “I’ll do it.”

He placed the chip on her palm. It was warm and slightly
moist. Grasping her hand between his, he said, “Please don’t run it: no system
is safe.”

She smiled. “I realize that,” she said.

He withdrew his hands, then went to the door. “Thank you.”
He bowed the deep obeisance of obligation to a superior.

His harsh breathing caused the chill to spread through her
nerves to her heart as he keyed the lock open, looked both ways, then sped off.

As Ranor hurried from the young Aegios’ cabin, lifelong
habit smoothed his face. When he reached his own cabin, he sank onto the bed,
covering his face with his hands.

A slight trembling through the ship broke his thoughts. The
locks were open.

It was done.

He picked up his valise. A sense of relief lifted the
tension from his mind, from his soul. Leseuer seemed near; tenderness breathed
through him as he looked beyond the narrow causeway leading to the forward
lock, and contemplated the question of eternity.

Fierin kept her fingers steady as the ship trembled. The
general comm lit. “We are docked. All passengers come forward for debarkation.
Those who require living space should proceed to . . .”

Fierin flicked it off. Tau Srivashti would have space for
her, she knew that much.

She sat back, studying the effect of the diamonds she’d
woven into her hair. Eyes so pale a blue they were often called gray, or even
silver, stared back at her, wide and slanting under dark lashes and winged
brows. She shared those same eyes with her brother. The light eyes contrasting with
dark skin characterized their family.

Her hands dropped to her tight bodice, the embroidery and
draped lace hiding the outline of Ranor’s chip. It had been impulse to put it
there—in keeping with the poor man’s obsession with secrecy.

She thought about telling Srivashti, and letting him secrete
it for her until Ranor came for it. He’d certainly have the wherewithal, far
more than she.
And he loves secrets. Just
like a boy.

It would be fun to surprise him with the chip.

Or would it? It was difficult to predict his reactions. He
was kind to her, most of the time, and when he wasn’t he was extravagant with
presents afterward: a fascinating but utterly unpredictable partner both in bed
and out of it. He exuded power and grace, and she had reveled in the admiration
and envy of his friends. Yet separation from his orbit had brought to her ears
ugly rumors and glances of hatred. Archon Srivashti was not universally loved,
she had discovered when separated from his orbit.

Ambivalence made her
hesitate. She did love him, but who exactly was the man she loved?

He promised me he
would use all his connections to find my brother and clear his name.
Well,
Jesimar had been found: she’d discovered that when going through a news base in
the computer of the ship that had shuttled them to Ares from a refugee staging
point in a system not yet overrun by Dol’jhar’s Rifter allies. But according to
that, he was in detention.

She touched the trunk, which hummed slightly as it rose on
its gravitors. She guided it into the corridor.
Srivashti has the power to get Jes free, and if he has spoken true to
me, he will have exerted that power already. If Jes is free, then I’ll believe
in Srivashti, because I’ll know he believes in me. If Jes is free, then I can entrust
Srivashti with Ranor’s chip.

She rounded a corner just in time to see Ranor’s tall head
above a crowd moving into the lock. Hurrying her steps a little, she decided it
might be a nice gesture to debark with him.

She was the last one through, held behind Ranor by an eager
group of techs who kept bobbing about and jumping to see over heads. From her
few meters’ distance Ranor looked pale but calm.

The concourse thronged with people, who surged forward when
they saw the passengers. Fierin scanned the crowd, and her heartbeat quickened
when she spotted Srivashti’s familiar hawk face. So he had come, and had not
just sent Felton, as she’d told herself to expect.

A very good sign, she thought happily, searching for Jes’
head nearby. What a great surprise that would be!

The first of the
passengers reached the greeters, and hugs and cries of gladness rang out. Ranor
walked alone.

No one is here to meet
him.

A wave of compassion for the man’s dead mate made her hurry
her steps. At least he could walk with a friend! Maybe Srivashti could find
space for him, too, aboard that huge yacht of his.

She tried to duck around the techs as Ranor reached the
front of the crowd.

Another surge in the press of humanity almost swallowed him
up. Fierin cleared her throat to call, but then stopped when she saw Ranor jerk
aside, then spin around, his eyes wide.

Pain and shock flashed through her, reflected in Ranor’s
face. Their eyes met for a long instant: the crowd’s roar seemed curiously
distant, and time suspended. His brow contracted pleadingly, and she fancied
she heard the words his lips shaped:
Remember.
Remember.

Then he vanished.

Shrieks and shouts
surrounded her as she pushed past the techs, ignoring their startled words of
protest. Concerned people bent over Ranor’s recumbent form; Fierin saw Srivashti
use his authority to force the crowd back. Then he bent over Ranor, his long
hands competent as they checked for pulse, then slid into the laergist’s robe
to seek a heartbeat.

Ranor was right. He was in danger,
Fierin thought, and
the chill inside her turned to the ice of terror. She resisted the urge to
touch the chip in her bodice:
Whatever happens to me will happen to you.