A Prison Unsought (9 page)

More interesting was why Brandon watched their progress.
Surely he was not afraid of the Eya’a’s psi powers? Then she remembered someone
saying that these sophonts had also been on the ship that had rescued him.

“I’m sorry about your brothers,”
she said in the mode of companionship, a degree off from intimacy, which
invited him to respond with intimacy.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” he
said, in an exact mirror to her tone. No intimacy, then, but not in the mode of
polite acquaintance, another degree outward, well within the boundaries of
politeness, which would make it an effective cut. Tau Srivashti was an expert
at the cut.

How to interpret Brandon’s response—and should she ask him
about the Faseult ring? Was he too oblivious to see that this would have been a
matchless opportunity to claim power, with its sterling emotional appeal?

That could wait. Important things first: solidifying her
position. “In light of that horrible vid the Navy just released, it seems the
time for the family to draw together.”

Brandon took the lead, spinning them into a tight turn.
Vannis caught a flash of rainbow color as they veered between two converging
couples.

“We all need to draw together,” he
replied, a response so obvious that it was meaningless. Fatuous, even.

It seemed to prove he was as stupid as Semion had said. She
cast about for some kind of opener to give her a hint of what—if anything—went
on behind those blue eyes.

She tried again. “If nothing else was true on that vid, one
thing is apparent, that Arthelion is forever lost to us. What remains of the
Panarchy is here, and so here we must begin to rebuild.”

“There are two facts,” he said as
the music wound down toward a close.

“What are they?” she asked.

“As you say, Arthelion is lost. But
my father still lives.”

She gazed up at him, thinking,
Of course he has to say something of the sort
. Stupid he might be,
but at least he wasn’t the type of brute who would declare the Panarch dead and
crown himself. “What shall we do?” she asked, the important word being ‘we.’

He smiled. “Get him back.”

The dance ended, and here were partners waiting to claim
them both. He gave her a smile that she took as positively vacant, and was
swallowed in the crowd.

By the time Anaris appeared, Gelasaar’s eyes had adjusted
to the Chamber of Mysteries’ gloom, but his olfactory sense had not quite
managed acceptance of what he was fairly certain was the stench of rendered
human fat.

He gestured to the candles, and said, “Does your father come
here often?”

“Every day,” Anaris said, his deep
voice betraying amusement. “The equivalent of the Dol’jharian morning.”

Gelasaar had meant to let Anaris guide the talk, but he
couldn’t help another question. “Does he commune with his father’s spirit,
then?”

Anaris’s amusement was even more pronounced. “I don’t know
what he really believes. Does it matter?”

“Rituals always matter,” Gelasaar
said.

His gentle voice was too instructional for Anaris’s taste.
Perhaps it was time for a reminder that captor and prisoner had reversed roles.
“You asked me what I’d heard of Brandon’s movements.”

“You told me that he lives, and
that he was taken to Ares by the
Mbwa
Kali
.”

“Yes. The cruiser caught up with
him outside of Rifthaven while on duty sweeping up the trash coming and going.”

“Trash?” the Panarch repeated,
showing no sign of his emotions, though he was aware of his heartbeat
accelerating. “Have you not employed Rifters as your mercenaries?”

“The trash comprises those too
inept to be accepted as our hirelings.”

“Or too independent?” Gelasaar
countered.

Anaris laughed. “Or too independent. The only observation I
can make about Brandon’s companions is that they were stupid enough to fall
prey to
Mbwa Kali
’s tractor. Unless
your son took over the ship at jac-point and steered them into the cruiser’s
custody. I suppose it is always possible,” Anaris said. “More to the point is
their movement before they reached Rifthaven. For whatever reason, they ran a
raid on Arthelion.”

Gelasaar couldn’t hide his jolt of surprise. Pleased, Anaris
added, “Yes, while you were there. Brandon was only at the Palace Minor long
enough to plunder some of the artifacts from the display outside the Hall of
Ivory, which he tried to sell at Rifthaven.” And when Gelasaar did not react to
the news that his errant son had raided his old home, Anaris said, “I was able
to retrace his steps later on. He passed right by your chamber on his way out
with his loot.”

Gelasaar closed his eyes, remembering what he’d thought had
been a familiar voice. But as that had occurred during an irregular bombardment
of what he was convinced were manufactured sounds—Ilara’s dying moments among
them—he had not believed it.

He did not believe it now.

Anaris, watching closely, said, “It’s true. You had to have
heard some of the commotion. There were a couple of firefights.”

“I heard a great deal of . . .
noise,” Gelasaar said. “At various intervals.”

“Ah.” Anaris laughed. “Barrodagh’s
attentions. Morrighon reported that Barrodagh was running his own program of
torture. My father had no notion. Would have been appalled had he known.”

“He does not seem to harbor a taste
for pettiness,” Gelasaar said, laying faint emphasis on the last word, the
horror of the Throne Room foremost in mind.

“No, the Avatar is seldom petty,”
Anaris said, disappointed with the Panarch’s reaction. Well, he should have
expected no less.
Brandon’s proximity
that day will give Gelasaar something to contemplate in his cell. Much comfort
will he derive from the might-have-been
.

Another thought occurred: was his own effort here an example
of pettiness? He tabbed the door, and gestured for Morrighon, waiting outside
to take the Panarch away as he said, “This I will give Brandon: his raid,
useless as it was, succeeded in being the only breach of our security.
Arthelion is quite docile now.”

The Tetrad Centrum Douloi met over breakfast the next
morning, the most favored dish the doings of their fellows the previous
evening.

A soft sigh emanated from Caroly ban-Noguchi’s select guests
when Vannis Scefi-Cartano appeared at last. Caroly firmly hid both her relief
and the hot pulse of irritation at the effectiveness of the former consort’s
entrance. Framed against the tall window behind her, the muted white of her
garments echoed the pallid presence of the Arkadic Enclave, a limb of which was
visible away spinwards along the oneill’s curvature, like a frozen moonrise.

As the servant ushered Vannis down the shallow arc of steps
into the carefully tended hanging garden, everyone took in her severely simple
linen walking suit, the trousers loose above her plain slippers. Raised brows
semaphored to pursed lips: Who else would dare?

Caroly reflected bitterly that no one else would dare, for
the Aerenarch might turn up. He must now be invited to everything.
Vannis is presuming on a Family connection
that doesn’t exist, unless she seduces Brandon into making it.

Vannis sensed that critical scrutiny but gave no sign as she
surveyed the setting. Whomever Caroly had displaced had an excellent eye. At
least for the floral arts. Delicate blossoms from countless worlds breathed
scented air into an open room comprising interlocking geometric shapes of
chrome and glass and white tile, a style that seemed to re-emerge every couple of
centuries, and which Vannis thought better suited to transit stations and trade
concourses.

Wealthy Polloi
,
she decided, greeting her hostess. Half the guests clung to elaborate
formality. The other half had attempted a simplifying effect; she read from this
that her social supremacy was more solid, but not secure. Not yet.

Caroly gestured her toward a low seat with a charming view.
Not quite the most important position in the room—that, Vannis saw, was held by
Tau Srivashti—but not the least, where Rista numbered among a cluster of
unknowns. Vannis took her place, sprinkling greetings and compliments around
her.

Ting!

The neurally-inducted chime of Vannis’s boswell indicated
another priority drop, but it wasn’t Brandon. Vannis helped herself to a tiny
cup of fresh-roasted coffee as conversation resumed around her.

“. . . and yet another ship came in
early this morning.” Charidhe ban-Masaud rivaled NorSothu nyr-Kaddes in her efforts
to be first with any rumor. Weeks ago, that had been welcome news, but now,
Vannis could see in the subtle tightening of lips, the lack of spontaneity in
the polite comments, that most were thinking the same thing she was:
Where will they put them?

A girl not yet twenty with looped and bejeweled rainbow
braids said in a too-protracted drawl, “Anyone on it?”

She appeared to be some years off yet from her Enkainion.
The boredom was as false as the drawl; Vannis observed the flickers of
amusement in the guests, before Charidhe gave the girl a quiet smile of rebuke,
the
Of course, or why would I bring it
up?
was all the more potent for being unspoken.

The girl fussed with her breakfast cup to hide her
mortification. Vannis felt no sympathy.

Charidhe turned to their hostess, the pale gems in her body
art glimmering. “A Masaud courier, as it happens, who bore news that a large
group of refugees from the Mandala were located by Captain KepSingh about a
month ago.”

“How many?”

“Who?”

“Where were they hiding?”

Polite expressions from the guests except for Tau Srivashti,
who stilled; the smooth fit of his wine-colored tunic did not alter for
breathing. Who was he listening to with such covert attention?

Charidhe went on, “. . . and Burinka’s
co-husband, a courier lieutenant in the Navy, told her that one is a laergist
who was supposedly assigned to the Aerenarch’s Enkainion. Now we’ll be able to
find out exactly what happened.”

Srivashti’s eyelids shuttered.

The rainbow spoke again, this time with less drawl, “That’s
Ranor. My mother had him trained.”

Srivashti smiled her way, which amused Vannis.
So he still has a taste for youth and
inexperience.

“Will we be seeing this laergist
among us soon?” Rista asked, her carefully modulated tone betraying her
awareness of her exalted company. “He might have a report of other survivors.”
Those who knew her murmured appropriate words of sympathy, as all of Rista’s
maternal family lived on Arthelion. Had lived there?

“I’m afraid not.” Charidhe flicked
a glance at a silent servitor, who began refreshing coffee cups. “There are
apparently several stages, or relays, or whatever the military calls them.”

Someone else spoke up. “Among last night’s other new
arrivals were some Kitharee, and there’s talk about whether they will establish
a chantry here . . .”

In response to Caroly’s signal, servants brought out a
succession of trays and set them on the sideboard. This signaled a general
rising, and a recombining of groups as they moved to load the waiting plates.
Vannis eeled skillfully between knots of talkers, using the opportunity to
triage the drops that had accumulated since her arrival. No one of note. She
shunted most to Yenef to deal with as talk turned to entertainment—who was
here—who was hiring them—Vannis noting who turned her way to speak, and who
listened to her response. Preference her position as relict assured her, but
last night’s coup re-established her claim to deference.

Still nothing from Brandon. He hadn’t said much the night
previous, a point in his favor. Fools ought to remain silent. However, if he’d
surrounded himself with fools the way Semion had gathered militarily minded Tetrad
Centrum Douloi and Galen had gathered artists, it was her duty to guide him.

Srivashti appeared at her shoulder. “I can offer you
something better afterward.” His long, beautifully manicured hand dismissed the
array of hot drinks.

His tone was ambiguous; she returned an ambiguous smile as
musicians struck up from a hidden alcove. Vannis recognized by the slight
fixity to her smile her hostess’s chagrin.
She
thinks I’m bored.
Vannis found this misperception on Caroly ban-Noguchi’s
part interesting; the woman had kept her distance from Vannis since her arrival
on Ares. Until last night.

Vannis altered her path so she passed by Caroly’s chair, and
leaned there, asking what she’d thought of that horrible vid the Navy had
released, and assumed a listening pose as if Caroly’s opinions mattered. Caroly
was married to a Naval captain who, Vannis knew, would not disclose to her wife
anything of real strategic importance.

The room took up the topic, expressing appropriate shock,
dismay, anger. Vannis paid no heed to claims the vid was false or true. No one
here could possibly know for certain. Far more interesting was who echoed whose
opinions, indicating possible shifts in social—political—alignment.

She herself uttered echoes of Charidhe’s opinion, which
succeeded in smoothing the tension in Charidhe’s thin brows. It was stupid to
anger a gossip when ten words sufficed to charm her.

She sat down at last, exerting herself to issue a compliment
to every person there; before she was done, she became aware that Srivashti had
disappeared. Vannis did not see his departure, but she saw its effect in the
pout on the face of the rainbow girl, who betrayed her own privacies as she
looked about for him. In vain.

o0o

Highdwelling dawns were just wrong, Eloatri concluded, the
morning after the reception.

It didn’t help that she had a bit of a head from the one
glass she’d allowed herself last night. Either the Fleurdelys frosh had been
double-spiked, or the Tetrad Centrum Douloi en masse were intoxicating.