Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (20 page)

Yarden listened, enchanted by the simple beauty of it, drinking in every nuance of the experience. When she looked along the rail, she saw more than a few eyes shining with tears and noticed her own misting over as well. “It kind of gets to you,” Pizzle sniffed.

The boats slid away from the hills; and although many of the singers followed along the shore, they were soon outdistanced and the song faded on the morning wind. “Wonderful,” sighed Yarden; she felt as if she were coming out of a dream. “I wouldn't have missed this for the world.”

“These people grow on you,” said Pizzle. Yarden noted the way he stared at Starla when he spoke. “There's no doubt about it. This is going to be some trip.”

Morning
came to the Starwatch level of Nilokerus Hage, although Treet, in his sense-numbed stupor, did not comprehend the gray lightening of the great crystal panes above him. He did understand that the floor he lay upon was cold and hard and that his body ached in as many places as it was possible for a human body to hurt.

He had lain here all his life, it seemed. He could not remember a time when his body had not ached and he had not huddled on the cold stone of a strange doorway. This being the case, he saw little sense in moving. And anyway, moving might make the pain worse.

He drowsed and woke and drowsed again. He dreamed that some Nilokerus guards came and trundled him off to their distant torture chambers, glad for another chance at tormenting him. In his dream he heard the crackle of electricity as they tuned their instruments of torture. Faces drifted in and out of his dream—one face in particular: round and lightly wrinkled, with concern in lively green eyes. A woman's face. How odd.

Treet puzzled over this endlessly. It was to him the riddle of the universe. Why a woman's face? Who was she? Where had she come from? What did she want? Why had she joined his torturers?

There were voices, too.
Rest ... rest,
they said.
You are safe ... safe ... nothing can happen ... happen ... to you ... safe ... sleep ... sleep ...

There was comfort in these voices, reverberating as they did inside his head. Treet grasped the comfort and hugged it to him. Such solace was difficult to find in this world and must not be shunned. Cast it roughly aside and it might never return.

Treet hung for the longest time lightly suspended between the conscious world and the unconscious, sometimes more in one than the other, but never totally in either. Thoughts came infrequently into his mental never-never land, and those that did were flimsy, awkward things, insubstantial as phantom butterflies.

He thought about a dark-haired woman with a face made of rain; a great, troubling hole in the ground filled with broken glass; a thundering, yellow sky that burned and burned forever; a man who wore a turtle's shell on his back and hid from the sun. These and other whimsical images floated through his lazy awareness.

Far back in the further recess of his mind throbbed a sense of urgency: a charge had been given him; he had a duty to perform. Time was slipping away. The sense was anesthetized, the urgency dulled. But it was there, a clockwork, muffled and slowed though still ticking ... ticking ... ticking.

“Tell me, Mrukk, what
did Hladik say when he died?” Jamrog reclined lazily in his chair, features slack, eyes half-lidded from the effects of the flash he'd been sampling all day. His hagerobe was carelessly draped over his lean frame. A young woman heated souile in an enameled jar over a small brazier.

The chief of the Mors Ultima studied the Supreme Director carefully, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of man his master was. Certainly he showed little of the restraint or discipline that had helped propel him into the Supreme Director's kraam; he had given in to his vices so quickly. That showed weakness. Mrukk detested weakness in any form.

“He invoked your name, Hage Leader,” replied Mrukk.

“How considerate,” smirked Jamrog. “To think of me at the moment of his demise.” He giggled obscenely at his joke, his head lolling from side to side as his body shook. “I did not know I inspired such devotion.”

Mrukk stood stiffly, eyes narrowed as his cold heart calculated: a quick blade thrust between the ribs—what would be the outcome of such an action?

“Here, Mrukk,” said Jamrog, offering a souile cup from the lacquered tray held by his nubile companion. “A drink to Hladik's memory. Our loss is Trabant's gain, seh?”

Mrukk took the cup, held it between two fingers, and lifted it to his lips as Jamrog did. The warm liquor touched the tip of his tongue and no more. He replaced the cup on the tray. Jamrog lifted himself to his feet, swayed, and gathered his robe around him. “Come, Mrukk, walk with me.”

They turned, moved out from under the multicolored canopy, and strolled into the Supreme Director's garden. “I have another task for you, Commander,” said Jamrog when they were out of eavesdropping range. “One of the Directors challenged me before the Threl yesterday—as much as insinuated that I had no right to take Hladik's life.” He paused, but Mrukk said nothing, so he continued. “I cannot countenance such flagrant impertinence. If left unchecked, it soon renders the office of Supreme Director impotent. I will not be made impotent, Mrukk, do you understand me?”

“I understand. Which traitor challenged you?”

“Rumon.” Jamrog said the word as if tasting his revenge in the sound of it. “I think a lesson similar to Hladik's would be instructive. See to it, Mrukk.”

“As you will, Supreme Director.” The fierce Mrukk stopped and faced his master. “Is that all?”

“Yes, for the time being. However, I expect you will be very busy in the days to come. To tell you the truth, I suspect a plot against me by members of the Threl. You will inform me when the Invisibles have gathered the proper evidence. No doubt your men welcome the opportunity to prove their loyalty and express gratitude to their Hage Leader for his recent generosity.”

Mrukk said nothing, merely inclining his head in mute assent. He turned and stalked away. Jamrog watched him go and then called his hagemate to him, pulled her close, and kissed her violently. “More souile!” he shouted, pushing her away. “I must celebrate. More souile!”

Giloon
Bogney strode through the ruined Hageblock. His cloak—the cloak Tvrdy had given him—was thrown across his shoulders to sweep along behind him like a wing. His nasty face was matched with an equally nasty frown. The diminutive ruler liked the appearance of enhanced power which the strangers gave him before his people. But dealing with the loathsome interlopers was beginning to wear on his goodwill. The Old Section positively reeked with their presence.

It was one thing to tolerate them, but quite another to have to suffer their incessant badgering. Tvrdy's men were at best a continual pain in the lower belly. The Dhog was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to the arrangement in the first place.

“Why Giloon not knowing more Tanais and Rumon coming?” he demanded, bursting through the doorless arch of the ground-floor room he had given the Tanais as a command post.

The leader of the Tanais contingent, an exact man named Kopetch, was as unbending and precise as the levels and plumb lines he'd handled most of his life. His engineer's love for accuracy had made him a formidable disciplinarian: implacable and unforgiving. Tvrdy had assigned him the unenviable task of creating some kind of order within the Old Section, readying the place for its coming transformation into an armed camp—the first step necessary to begin forming the Dhog rabble into something resembling a fighting unit.

If he was unbending and unforgiving, he was also fair. And not easily shaken or roused. He moved with an inexorable and patient logic in all matters of heart and mind. Glancing up unconcernedly as the Dhog leader flew into the room, he said, in words measured and sure, “If you care to explain what you are talking about, I will be happy to listen to you. If you go on gibbering, I will ignore you. There are important arrangements to be made this morning—I assume it
is
morning.”

Bogney ground his teeth and fumed, his face livid through the grime. “Things happening and Giloon not told.”

“As you are speaking of them now, I assume you must have been told about them. Therefore, your anger is irrational.”

The Dhog leader stomped toward the Tanais engineer menacingly, who turned to regard the threat with a calm, equable expression. “Dhogs not needing you, Tanais. You go away!”

“And how would that help the Dhogs become a Hage?”

“Grrr-rrr!” Bogney ground his teeth at the man. “Trabant take you!”

“To answer your initial question, you were not informed because there was no time for advance warning. Rather than waste precious time sending messages back and forth—messages which could have been intercepted by Invisibles—the Tanais and Rumon came directly upon receiving our all-clear.” Kopetch paused and, out of concern for his mission, offered, “If this disturbs you in some way, accept my apologies.”

“Giloon say who coming to Old Section.”

“They came on Tvrdy's order. Would you countermand his order?”

“Giloon Bogney not under Tanais hand.”

“We are
both
under Director Tvrdy's authority—as are the Rumon—until the Purge is over.”

The Dhog glared at his erect and unperturbed adversary. He was not used to being talked to this way. It stung and rankled. Bogney was still searching his vocabulary for a suitable expletive when the Tanais said, “Our leader has sent you a special gift. I was about to have it brought to you. As you are here, perhaps you'd like to have it now.”

“A gift for Giloon?” His eyes swept the room crammed with supplies and weaponry.

Tvrdy was right, thought Kopetch. The Dhogs
were
like children still in creche. “He thought this might be of use to you.” The Tanais reached into a fold in his yos and brought out a slim, tubular object with a flat handle.

Bogney reached out and took the metallic thing, pleased with its dull, blue-black color and its cool weight in his hand. He hefted it and then took it by the handle, which just fit the palm of his hand. He waved it around, pointing, aiming. “This weapon?”

“A projectile thrower. Very old, but still lethal.”

“Tanais sending this to Giloon?” The Dhog smiled happily, eyes glittering at the sight of his new prize. No one else he knew of had ever possessed such a thing.

“He thought you might have need for it one day soon and wanted you to have it.”

“Giloon accepting Tanais gift, but Director talks to Director, not to underman.”

“That might be sooner than you think,” replied Kopetch, moving back to his work. “The Tanais bring word that the Purge has begun. The Directors may not remain in Hage much longer. Also, Hyrgo may be joining us soon.”

“Hyrgo!” Giloon was about to protest the further invasion of his realm by yet another disagreeable horde.

Kopetch headed him off by suggesting, “Of course, with your permission, they will want to begin setting up hydroponics and food processing centers.”

“Food,” said Giloon, rubbing his filthy beard.

“We must become self-sufficient as soon as possible.”

“Dhogs making Old Section good place for growers. Giloon seeing to that.”

“You are steps ahead of me,” replied Kopetch, picking up a map from the stack of papers on the table. “If I might suggest this area here ...” He pointed to a place on the map. “Donner Heights I think it's called.”

Bogney squinted and studied the map, fingering it with his greasy fingers. “This place ruined,” he announced at length, shoving the map back. “Old map.”

“Yes, so I assumed. But since we have so little time, and the Hyrgo will need a place to begin food production ...”

Bogney thumped his chest. “Giloon seeing to it. No making noisy guts on that.”

“I knew you would see the potential,” said Kopetch dryly. “Was there anything else, Director?”

At the engineer's use of the title, the Dhog leader felt a shiver of delight quiver through him. He smiled importantly, eyes round and gleaming. “Much to do. You be wasting good light talking.” With that he swept from the room, leaving only a lingering odor in the air to suggest that he had been there.

Kopetch returned to his work of reordering the Old Section. When his Hage Leader arrived, he wanted everything to be ready. Now, having placated the loathsome Dhog for the time being, it appeared he would have a good chance of getting something accomplished.

Still, he had to wonder whether there was no other way—to join the Dhogs of all things! Who would have imagined it? All they needed now was time. The best plans took time. Patience and time—they would need plenty of both.

The day slid by
easily as the ship carved the smooth water, tugged along by the steady breeze. They lost sight of land a little past midmorning; silver water shimmered on every side, broken only occasionally by shoals of leaping fish, whose bright fins burst through the surface, scattering light in shining fragments. The sky remained clean and cloudless and remote in its blue solitude.

To Yarden it was a magical day. The send-off, as Pizzle called it, provided by the Fieri had cast its spell over her heart, and she felt enchanted still. She strolled the decks wrapped in the gentle glow of a soft inner radiance that made everything she saw seem new-made and charmed. She felt as if this day, this very instant, her life was beginning, that all that had passed before was merely a prelude to this moment.

The other ships—twelve of them stretching out in a staggered line behind, the last one almost too distant to see clearly—plied Prindahl's deeper waters with solemn majesty, sails puffing proudly, painted hulls glistening, graceful outriggers slicing the low waves. Yarden thrilled to the sight; the procession reminded her of something out of the
Arabian Nights
or the
Tales of Sinbad,
and she found herself time and again, on one of her rounds of the deck, simply standing, staring out at the long string of boats sliding over the platinum sea.