Context (46 page)

Across her flat stomach, a
silver-scaled reptilian shape slid and curled. Then, within the layers of her
skin, it slithered smoothly round her torso, out of sight.

‘That’s a femtautomaton,’ he said
as she re-sealed her garment. ‘She’s using you as a courier.’

‘Exactly right, my Lord. It’s not
urgent, but it’s important: safety before promptness.’

‘Ah ...Perhaps we could forget my
rank, all right? Just call me Tom.’

‘Whatever you say ...’

The
‘my Lord’
was
unspoken, but still implied.

‘So tell me, where are we going?’

In answer, she held out a
travel-tag, above which a tiny holo thread shone scarlet, woven among labelled
outlines of the realms they would be travelling through. The itinerary
meandered, in places almost looping back upon itself—but the quickest route was
not always the shortest distance, when there were journey privileges to
negotiate. Particularly during uncertain times.

The demesne she was headed for
was unknown to him. But beyond it lay another realm, one he had visited in his
youth: ruled then by Duke Boltrivar.
And may his soul dissipate in Chaos for
all eternity, if he has one.

Twenty-four days before the event—Tom
remembered the exact figure, would never forget it—he had seen a truecast of
the floods which would devastate the tunnels, drown thousands of Boltrivar’s
loyal subjects.
A small girl’s pudgy fingers, disappearing beneath roiling
waves.
He had tried to warn people ...

But everyone knew that a truecast’s
predictions were incontrovertible; that there was no point in even trying.
Instead, the authorities had allowed him to help in the rescue mission
afterwards, and when Corduven d’Ovraison collapsed in a nervous breakdown, it
was Tom’s decisions -though he was still a servitor—which had saved so many
lives, and made him someone whose progress was watched and encouraged by
powerful allies.

Corduven, my friend…

The last that Tom had heard, the
dead Duke (who ‘by chance’ had been away from his realm when the floods struck,
but had perished later during the Flashpoint uprising) had left no heirs to his
ravaged realm, and Corduven had been granted that site for his new Academy. The
place where Elva had threatened to go, when she asked for allegiance transfer
and Tom refused.

Sweet Fate, Elva. If I’d only
told you what I really felt.

And was this a sign, that he
should be obligated to travel so close to his old friend’s new demesne? Was
this where he should go, in order to find the reborn Elva’s whereabouts?

Or was it all the delusion of a
driven commoner pretending to be a Lord, who had seen too much in his eventful,
violent life?

‘What’s wrong, Gazhe? I mean ...
Tom.’

‘This travel-tag, Draquelle…’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s for three people.’

‘Ah.’ With a brief smile: ‘I wondered
if you’d notice that’

It
was the next dawnshift, long after Draquelle had left, when a large figure
strode in to join Tom beside the boiling lava pool.

‘Tom, my friend.’

‘Kraiv. How are you doing?’

‘Horush is gone.’ There was a
strange look of acceptance in Kraiv’s eyes. ‘He was a warrior.’

‘Yes, he was.’

Like firelight, orange
reflections slid across Kraiv’s dark skin, stretched tight over massive muscles
which bunched and flexed as he sat down beside Tom, and stared into glowing
lava.

‘I’ve come to say farewell.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ said Tom.

‘I journey to the Manse Hetreece,
where Horush’s family live. The arrangements are already made, my friend.’

He would be travelling with access-permissions
organized by the Bronlah Hong: their obligation, under their contract with the
carls. But the Manse was situated by the Dorionim Goldu, Draquelle’s
destination, and it was no coincidence that Draquelle and Kraiv were travelling
in the same direction. The Hong’s long association with the Blue Lotus Zhongguo
Ren society in Goldu—and their trading front, the Blue Lotus Hong—had led to
their contract with the carls, some ten SY before. And possibly to Madam
Bronlah’s marriage, though Tom could not be sure of that.

‘I know about your travel plans.’
Tom held his hand out to Kraiv, the travel-tag upon his palm. ‘I’ve got the
details right here.’

But
there was one last thing to deal with, before leaving the Bronlah Hong for
good.

‘Well met, my Lord Corcorigan.’
Lord Sumneriv, in the med centre’s antechamber, gave a small nod whose nuances
spoke of frosty disapproval, without going so far as to deliver an insult which
might lead to confrontation. ‘He is on the mend.’

Unspoken:
No thanks to you.

‘He’s lucky,’ said Tom with only
partial irony, ‘to have such good friends.’

‘More than one of whom’—with the
tiniest of sneers -’needed treatment in this place.’

‘And you’ve checked what
les
Accords d’Honneur
have to say about interference on a duellist’s behalf?’

A flicker behind Lord Sumneriv’s
eyes told Tom that he had hit the mark.

‘Don’t worry, Sumneriv. I said it
was over, and it is.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘Well?’

‘All right, Corcorigan. You can
see him now.’

Vassals slipped out of sight as
Tom walked along the corridor towards the treatment chamber. That was a bad
sign, though not unexpected, given the nobility they had been dealing with
recently.

Or perhaps they had heard about
Tom’s brutality, and the injuries he had inflicted upon the men who were
supposed to be his peers.

You think I’m as bad as
Trevalkin?

The Viscount had tortured another
man’s vassals, put them to horrific death. And who knew what atrocities he had
committed in the past?

But while Tom had killed or
injured only a handful of people, over the past half-dozen years, he had
designed the simulation techniques which had led to the deaths of three
thousand Oracles, and helped enable the uprisings which had cost tens, maybe
hundreds of thousands of lives, without ever bringing freedom or equality to
those troubled realms.

Perhaps I’m worse.

Viscount
Trevalkin was sitting up in an autodoc.

‘So ... My resourceful adversary.’

Tom brushed aside a memory of
Horush in a similar position.

‘Did you rehearse that greeting?’

‘No more than you practised that
duel. The choice of surroundings was exquisite. What did you call it? The Maze of
Light and Dark?’

‘I also referred to it as
Trevalkin’s Grave.’

Trevalkin chuckled, though not
pleasantly.

‘Happily, Fate has turned that
into a misnomer.’

‘You tortured seventeen people,
Trevalkin.’

‘And they screamed beautifully,
for such a long time.’

Tom raised his hand, clenched
into a half-fist.

‘You wouldn’t get far,’ Trevalkin
said. ‘The Halberdiers would hunt you down.’

‘Try me.’

‘I didn’t come down here without
doing some research. You’re an intriguing man, Lord Corcorigan.’

‘An interesting endorsement,
considering the source.’

‘I didn’t torture seventeen
people,
Corcorigan. I questioned a bunch of traitors to their species, who allied
themselves with ...something ...whose presence is spreading, growing. And I
mean throughout Nulapeiron.’

Tom’s skin prickled. ‘Explain
that.’

‘There are realms which have
fallen under some dark influence, like the Aurineate Grand’aume ...Ah, I see
that you’re not totally out of touch with current events.’

Tension—and the memory of pain—tightened
Tom’s entire body.

Then, ‘I was in one of their
dungeons,’ he said.

‘And escaped? You must talk to
our strategic command. Anything you can tell them would help.’

‘I don’t have anything to say.’

‘Pity.’ There was a long pause,
then: ‘No-one knows how it begins, Corcorigan. People disappear, a realm’s
government becomes oddly organized, strange civil movements become coordinated,
and then the repression starts. Opposition disappears. The previous rulers act
as mouthpieces for something behind the scenes—or are replaced.’

‘Perhaps that’s no bad thing.’