A Prison Unsought (50 page)

“Perhaps
the former Aerenarch did contrive his brother’s expulsion,” Faseult put in,
“but—if I may be permitted to speak freely—Brandon vlith-Arkad’s subsequent
record seems to underscore the unsavory reputation.”

“Yes,”
Ng said. “So explain this.”

Receiving a nod of permission from Nyberg, she tapped at a
console, which converted an inset mirror on the wall to a screen. The results
of Brandon’s tests appeared. Then she sat back and watched the others’ faces.

She was not disappointed. Nyberg’s craggy brows rose.
Faseult let out a rare and startling whistle. Willsones uttered a crack of
laughter.

“In
addition to a gifted individual,” Ng said, “which is entirely to be expected,
we are seeing the results of a single-minded focus on one goal. Despite what
probably had to be a lethally close watch, if anything I know of Semion is
true, young brother Brandon managed to stay with his studies.”

“To
what end?” Nyberg breathed, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “To
what end?”

“I
can’t begin to guess,” Ng said, “but I’ll wager that Karelian Star his father
hung on me, that it’s all connected with the events at the Enkainion. His
mother gave the impression that she believed in everyone she met and trusted
them completely. I suspect that our new Aerenarch might have retained his
belief in human potential—the way he interacts with individuals, especially the
young, like that poor boy who ended up with the Kelly genome, indicates
that—but he does not trust anyone.”

Nyberg’s brows stayed up; Faseult’s face could have been
carved from stone.

She turned to Willsones. “Back to the Enkainion. Anything on
civ or Naval vessels?”

The communications chief shook her head. “Zottas to the nth
power from incoming ships, and not one clue to what really happened on the
Mandala that night.”

Ng turned to the security chief. “If I had a charge that
important and he appeared with a Rifter in tow, I’d plant a telltale in the
Rifter,” she said, smiling.

Faseult exchanged a glance with Nyberg, who nodded
fractionally. “We did,” Faseult said.

Ng said, “And I’ll bet you’ve had nothing from that,
either.”

“A
raconteur’s delight, according to Vahn,” Faseult replied. “Airs and
humoresques, but no substance. The Aerenarch and Jaim talk about
everything—music, history, dress, Rifters and Highdwellers and
Downsiders—everything but politics.”

“Which
leaves us exactly where we were before,” Nyberg said wryly, “only at a
substantially advanced hour. I suggest we adjourn and get what rest we can:
tomorrow should be interesting.”

“So
we fall in with the plan,” Damana said. “We all appear at Hesthar’s dinner?”

“With
your permission,” Ng said, “I’d prefer to send my regrets.”

Willsones looked mildly surprised, Faseult saturnine.
Nyberg’s face was unreadable as he inclined his head.

“
Grozniy
is almost finished,” Ng said
smoothly. “I should like to be there for the final status run-through.”

“Yes,”
Nyberg said, standing up. His smile widened, then he laughed. “Do that, Margot.
I’d like to know that
Grozniy
is
ready for orders.”

o0o

The tianqi shifted into evening mode as the light outside
slowly dimmed. Eloatri sighed and put the chip viewer down; she missed the
comfort of the leather-and-paper volumes in the library of New Glastonbury
Cathedral on Desrien.

A Downsider born and bred, she felt uncomfortable with the
gradual dimming of the habitat’s diffusers, unaccompanied as it was by any
further change in the angle of the light.

At least there was
weather. Framed by the north-facing window, the strange hook-topped clouds of
the oneill gathered, enwrapped on either side by the up-curving surface as they
were herded by gravitic fields toward an evening rain shower. There might even
be lightning—Eloatri could check the habitat schedule to find out, but that
would make it seem less like weather and more like theater.

It’s a wonder
Highdwellers aren’t even more different than they are,
she thought.

A splatter of rain beat against the slightly opened window,
filling the chamber with petrichor, a scent different on every planet and Highdwelling,
yet somehow evoking the same subliminal response. From the clouds a crooked arc
of light traced its way spinward to the surface, confirming her speculation. A
few seconds later the resultant sound reached her, strangely hollow compared to
planetary thunder.

No storm could match the fury building among the Douloi
factions immured here on Ares.

The book viewer
blinked as, sensing inactivity, it shifted into cover mode. Eloatri stood up
and looked down at the title.

Bearing a Sword: The
Christian Church and Politics on Lost Earth.

Well, now she knew one more reason why the hand of Telos had
ripped her out of her comfortable journey along the Eightfold Path and chivvied
her toward New Glastonbury, to assume the burden of an alien faith. No religion
had a deeper tradition of meddling in the affairs of state. She shook her head
in wonder at the depth to which her predecessors in that tradition on Lost
Earth had lost themselves in politics, most often to the detriment of their
faith. But sometimes, even despite themselves, they accomplished good rather
than evil.

When the time came, would she do as well? Could she?
Somehow, despite the desperate struggle building among the Douloi on Ares, she
suspected her role lay elsewhere, but she also knew that Telos rarely used a
tool for one purpose only.

The comm chimed at her.

“Gnostor
Omilov to see you,” came Tuan’s voice.

As required by courtesy, their conversation began with
generalities, but quickly Omilov steered it to the round of gatherings that had
signaled, to her at least, the onset of decision among the Douloi.

“It’s
my understanding,” she said, “that the Aerenarch will be at the Masaud ball,
while Hesthar al’Gessinav has obtained the attendance of Admiral Nyberg and his
staff at a soiree. I have my suspicions about that arrangement. I imagine that
like me, you also have been invited to both.”

“Yes,”
replied Omilov. “And since the Masaud and the Gessinav hate each other
cordially, they will each assume I am attending the other’s gathering.”

“You
don’t intend to go to either of them?” she asked with care.

Omilov blinked. “I’m sorry, Numen, I’m getting ahead of
myself. But it’s a perfect opportunity to introduce the Eya’a to the hyperwave
and test their reactions. All eyes will be elsewhere.”

Shock stopped Eloatri’s breath for a heartbeat. Was this
what the disorder of her dreams pointed to? Was that why her visions linked the
Dol’jharian to the Aerenarch, despite his utter lack of psychic powers? Were
all of these things part of the political endgame? Her conjectures crashed in
ruin as she struggled to adjust to this new possibility.

“Numen?”
A wash of acid light from the storm outside silhouetted his figure.

“Your
pardon, Gnostor. You’re right.” Evidently Omilov had bowed out of the political
game—but there was no doubt this was equally important. “But you’ll need time
to prepare. Perhaps I could assist you by bringing them all to the hyperwave?”

Omilov began to assent, then suspicion brought his bushy
brows down. “‘Them all’? Just Vi’ya and the Eya’a—and Gnostor Manderian.”

She stood up. “No, Sebastian. Not just Vi’ya and the Eya’a.
We must also have Ivard and the Kelly—they, too, are part of it.”

A part of what?
Omilov did not hide how unsettling he found her strange request. “I’m sorry,
Numen, but I can’t countenance that. It will make things too complex.”

“Have
you spoken to Gnostor Manderian about this?”

He had not, and Eloatri touched the com tab, requesting Tuan
to connect her to the Dol’jharian scholar and tempath.

A landscape on the wall shimmered and became a window into
Manderian’s quarters on the ship he shared with others of his College. Like
him, most of them were sensitives of one sort or another and preferred
isolation—in this case almost 50,000 kilometers out—from the simmering noetic
energies of the crowded souls on Ares. His cabin was starkly somber.

After the briefest light-speed pause, Manderian’s eyes
focused on them. “Yes, Numen?”

“Gnostor
Omilov has suggested introducing Vi’ya and the Eya’a to the hyperwave while the
attentions of the rest of Ares are bent upon the social activities coming up.”

“An
excellent idea.”

“But
he objects to the presence of Ivard and the Kelly.”

“I
feel it would complicate the experiment too much,” Omilov interjected with
polite firmness.

“Experiment.”
Manderian’s voice was flat, conveying a hint of distaste at Omilov’s choice of
words. “Say rather a stage in a process that we are privileged to witness. It
would be a grave mistake to exclude the youth and the Kelly—they are an
integral part of the noetic unity whose perceptions you wish to test. Are you aware
that Ivard has often been seen in the company of the Eya’a—without Vi’ya—in the
Cap, on the periphery of the project security cordon?”

“Ah.” Omilov looked
discomfited. “I see. Well, Gnostor, I defer to your specialized knowledge.”

And not to me, the High Phanist.
She didn’t know what
Omilov had encountered in the Dreamtime, on Desrien, but it was obvious to her
that he had barricaded himself against the memory and would yield nothing to
her on religious grounds. He must have been very deeply hurt, to build such a
formidable wall.

Above them the storm moved anti-spinward. A last flash of
lightning illuminated the garden outside.

Neither the High Phanist nor the gnostor noticed. There was
much to do.

Vahn’s private signal bloomed, and Keveth reported a
visitor—Vannis Scefi-Cartano. He waved Keveth off and trotted up the pathway
adjacent to the garden entrance to the Enclave. From behind the drooping leaves
of the swensoom tree he watched, his augmented hearing picked up Vannis’ soft
footfalls.

He watched as she stood before the door; her hands flexed
once, then buried themselves among the folds of her skirts.

Vahn’s interest sharpened.

At four that morning Faseult had summoned him for a
briefing. They expected a coup that night, with Vannis the mostly likely
prospect for decoying the Aerenarch with Willsones’ barge.
That much we know,
Faseult had said. Then he added:
You will not disseminate any of this
information to anyone at the Enclave. That includes the Aerenarch. Understood?

Vahn understood the orders, but not the reasons why. But
he’d placed his best coverts at that Masaud ball, in case they were needed.

The door opened to reveal Jaim, who then retired back into
the shadows of the garden room as the Aerenarch emerged. He was dressed for the
ball, the candles gilding with rich light the golden leaves embroidered on his
night-black tunic. “Vannis?” he said, his light voice merely inquiring. “Good evening.”

Vahn saw her hands tighten on the fragile silks of her gown,
behind her back. “A surprise,” she said, smiling, her head canted toward the
Aerenarch. “Now, don’t be angry. The Masaud ball will be a hideous crush, so I
arranged a little diversion. Of course you have only to say the word, and you
can be restored to the crowd.”

She stepped back and waved toward the lake. Willsones’s
old-fashioned lovers’ barge floated near the platform, colored lanterns strung
along its low rail. Vahn could see a table and musicians waiting.

She had obviously gone
to a lot of trouble, and it was possible within the complicated patterns of
Douloi etiquette to accept a private invitation from someone of higher rank
than the original host, even at the last minute—though it carried implications.

But it’s a trap. Don’t
walk into it.

“Well, then,” the Aerenarch said,
holding out his arm. “Let us divert.”

Vahn bozzed Roget.
(He’s taken the bait. Teams two and three, ready?)

(You going?)
Roget
bozzed.

(No. They wouldn’t
dare try anything violent; this is the decoy.)

Vahn then bozzed Jaim, careful to make his order sound like
a request. He had come to like the laconic Rifter, for his cooperative spirit
if nothing else. He didn’t like blindsiding him, but that was orders.

Roget, his partner for
over a year now, knew where his thoughts were headed.

(I’ve sent Jaim.
Keveth, shift the Masaud teams along the route from the lake to the ball. If
the cabal does try anything, it’ll be there. Whatever happens, I can’t be stuck
in the middle of the lake on a logos-loving barge.)

He’d had his teams placed in three possible directions; now
that the trap had closed, he could redeploy everyone along predicted lines.

He issued the orders as Vannis and Brandon trod down the
grassy path toward the landing. She was still nervous; Vahn saw that in the
sudden shimmer of the string of gemstones wound through her hair. Poised and
tense as a duelist, she knew something was happening, all right.

He sent Jaim a carefully framed warning, ending with the
request that he stick close to the Aerenarch. Vahn was going to need to listen
to every damn word.

o0o

Ordinarily Ivard would have loved standing on the broad
ring-promenade that fronted the entrance to the Cap, watching the lighting stab
at the curving landscape far below. Up here at the spin axis the view was
unmatched anywhere else on Ares, except for Tate Kaga’s palace at the other
pole. But he could feel Gnostor Omilov’s impatience, tasting like rusting
metal, as he talked to Manderian, who stood quietly, his hands hidden in the
robes of his College.

The blue fire of the Kelly Archon bubbled up inside, bearing
words from Portus-Dartinus-Atos:
“Wethree
are making haste as slowly as possible.”
The accompanying image of the
trinity pirouetting in a complex dance that moved them sideways as often as
forward made Ivard snicker. He swallowed it at the harassed look the gnostor
shot him from underneath his heavy brows.