Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (24 page)

Treet gazed calmly at the woman whom he had come to think of as his savior, and guessed what was coming. And although he had thought about it a great deal since regaining consciousness, he still did not know precisely what he would say to her.

He'd learned from his nursemaids, as he called them, that he'd been left on the healing center's doorstep, which meant, he guessed, that he was still somewhere in Nilokerus Hage. He had also found out that Hladik had been assassinated, and suspected his release had something to do with that. As for the rest, he didn't know how much anyone knew about him. At any rate, it was too late to invent anything now. He'd have to play it by ear. He waited for her to begin.

She did not waste any words. “I know who you are.” This was accompanied by one of her most direct, probing gazes.

“You do?” gulped Treet, dashing down some of the hot herb mixture.

“You need not fear me. I have pledged my life to help you.”

“You have?” This was not at all what Treet had expected.

Ernina glanced cautiously around, as if checking that the room was still empty. “I know that you are a Fieri.” She sat back, satisfaction glowing in her brilliant green eyes.

Treet sipped the medicinal tea through pursed lips. “How long have you known?”

“From the first.”

“I see.”

“No one else suspects. To my staff you are simply another patient—one of Hladik's victims. We have seen many of those. Only I know the truth, and I have kept your secret.”

“Why?” asked Treet. He needed to know how far he could trust her.

“It is difficult to explain, but I will try. Some time ago I was summoned to Cavern level to resuscitate a dying prisoner—another victim of Hladik's conditioning, I thought. And so he was, but when I examined him closely, I discovered the secret: he was a Fieri.” Ernina said the ancient word, and her eyes shone with the wonder of it.

Treet nodded; it had to be Crocker she was talking about. So that's what had happened to him. “I know all about conditioning,” replied Treet.

“The priests say that the Fieri don't exist anymore—maybe never did. But there are old, old stories, and many Hagemen still believe. The nonbeings are said to know how to find them. They—”

“Nonbeings?”

“The Shadow People, the Dhogs. They are Hage outcasts whose poak has been erased and stent forfeited. They live in the Old Section, it is believed, though no one ever sees them. They exist, but do not exist.”

“Why are they called Dhogs?”

Ernina lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “No one knows.”

Treet was silent for a moment—something the woman had said ... what was it? “Go on with what you were saying—about the other Fieri.”

“I vowed to save him and, eventually, to help him escape. But Hladik came for him—took him from his bed before he was completely healed.” She added sadly, “I never learned what became of him.”

Better you don't know, thought Treet.

“But I will
not
let those murderers succeed a second time.” She smacked a tight fist into her palm. “I have made plans. Hladik is dead. They say Subdirector Fertig is responsible, but I smell Jamrog's handiwork in it. And that isn't all: rumor messengers have been saying that a Purge is beginning. Two Threl Leaders have disappeared.”

Treet groaned. “Not Tvrdy and Cejka?”

The physician nodded gravely. “Tanais and Rumon, yes. You know them?”

“I—ah ...” He paused to rephrase what he'd been about to say. “Yes, I was helping them—we were trying to prevent the Purge. But then Hladik caught me.”

“He won't catch you again, nor will anyone else. I will see to that.” She stood and took his cup, then placed an experienced hand against his throat. Treet felt comfort in the gesture. “Rest now. We will talk again soon and make plans. You are safe here for now. Rest and grow strong.”

“All right, I'm all yours,” he said. He was tired of talking anyway, and she had given him more than enough to think about for a while. Treet settled back and closed his eyes.

In
the room adjoining Treet's, the young physician replaced the broken tile near the floor and crept from behind the multicolored Bolbe hanging. His breath was shallow and his feet unsteady as he moved off. A Fieri! his mind shrieked. The patient was a
Fieri!

No one, not even the Nilokerus, who contacted him and persuaded him to become a lipreader, could have guessed he would discover anything this important. His Nilokerus instructor would be pleased. But should he tell?

Yes, that is what his training had been for. And think of the shares he would earn. But who would pay the most for this information? The priests? The Hage Leader? The Supreme Director himself?

The
boats lay motionless, the water making little licking sounds as it lapped between the hulls. Laughter echoed from the rafters of the pavilions scattered around the bay as stories were remembered and recounted. Firelight glittered through the clustered groves, and music sighed on the soft night air.

The white sand beneath his feet shone blue in the starlight as Pizzle wandered the beach, lost in the enchantment of the night. Starla walked beside him, humming now and then as snatches of tune caught her fancy. The Empyrion sky was alive with stars, and their winking faces were mirrored in the calm deep of the lake, and in Starla's eyes.

“Tomorrow we start upriver,” said Pizzle absently.

“Taleraan,” replied Starla just as absently.

“What?”

“The river's name—”

“Right. Preben told me.” They walked on in silence a while longer. “Too bad Jaire couldn't come along.”

“She chose to remain at the hospital with the children.”

“I know.” He put an arm around Starla's shoulders and drew her to him. “I'm glad you're here, though. I wouldn't have wanted to experience this without you.”

“I have spoken to my brother,” she said.

“That's nice,” said Pizzle absently. “What did he say?”

“He said he trusted me to make a wise decision.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“I've decided to ask the Preceptor.”

“Good.”

“She will know how to advise us.”

“Advise us?” Pizzle replayed their conversation back in his mind. “Starla, what are we talking about exactly? What did you ask your brother?”

“About our marriage.”

Pizzle stopped and held her out at arm's length. “You what? Marriage?”

“Out of respect for her parents, a woman seeks their wisdom regarding her marriage. But my parents are with the Infinite Father. Therefore, I asked my brother. Vanon likes you. He still talks about the story you told him—what was it?”

“The Rune Readers of Ptolemy X,”
sighed Pizzle. “It was one of Z. Z. Papoon's best efforts.” He wondered what ol' Z. Z. would have said to the notion that the plot of one of his novels would endear a woman's family to the idea of marriage to an alien on a world eleven light-years from his home in Mussel Head, Massachusetts.

“Yes, that was it,” continued Starla. “He allowed me to make my own decision. I think, though, it would be wise to ask the Preceptor to advise us.”

“In case there's a regulation against someone marrying an alien, huh?”

“The Preceptor would know.”

Pizzle reflected on this for a moment. “Are you saying you
want
to marry me?”

“You spoke of marriage. You haven't forgotten?”

“I haven't forgotten. But I thought you had.” Now what was he going to do? He looked at her standing before him in the starlight, watching him expectantly. She was beautiful, desirable, a joy to be with and behold—what was he waiting for? Still, there was something holding him back, and he knew what it was. How could he tell her? Well, see, Starla, it's nothing really major, it's just that I'm from another planet and all.

“What's wrong, Asquith?” she asked softly.

“N-nothing ... well, it's just that ... we're different.”

“I know that. I love you, Asquith. I believe you love me, too.”

Pizzle looked at her and melted. “Oh, I do, Starla, believe me I do.” He drew her close and held her for a long time.

Yarden
sat alone, her back against a tree, watching the firelight shift the shadows of those gathered around the campfire, enjoying its warmth and light. She heard the songs and stories, heard the laughter, but felt herself slipping further and further away from those convivial sounds into a barren and lonely place.

And it was all because of Treet.

One way or another, Treet was behind her unhappiness. Therefore, one way or another, he was responsible.

Yarden had never been one to show any dependence upon men. Why all of a sudden she should be mumbling and fretting over someone she didn't even particularly like, confused and upset her more than she cared to admit.

Sure, there had been a time when she thought she was in love with Treet. But likely as not, that had merely been a physical infatuation: two people surviving a harrowing experience, glad to be alive and eager to show it—that sort of thing. Had she, in her heart of hearts, ever had any genuine feelings for Orion Treet? At all?

Well, maybe. But whatever she felt—if anything—had flown right out the door the day Treet decided to go traipsing back to Dome on his lunatic crusade.

She still believed that she had been right to cut off their relationship right then and there. To sever it cleanly, once and for all. That was the best way. The only way. She wouldn't live with the anxiety of not knowing where he was, what he was doing, whether he was in trouble or hurt, alive or not—any of a jillion things a lover could find to worry about.

But we
aren't
lovers, Yarden insisted to herself. Not now. Not ever.

No.

She would
not
change her mind. In spite of everything Ianni might say, she had chosen her course and Treet had chosen his. There was nothing she could do about him anyway. He was back in
Dome
—the very word filled her with sick dread. There was no way she would go back there, and nothing could make her. Yarden had felt the evil of Dome, felt it most powerfully. She knew it for what it was. And because she knew, she would not go back lest the same power seize and overtake her as it very nearly had the first time.

If no one else could understand that, too bad. No one—not Ianni, not the Preceptor, not the Infinite Father himself—was going to make her change her mind.

Saecaraz Subdirector Osmas stared
at the two Nilokerus before him. Two Saecaraz underdirectors, their faces pursed into identical scowls of authority usurped, stood behind. “What do you mean coming here like this?” he demanded. “Application must be made—”

“A matter of utmost urgency, Hage Leader,” replied the more intrepid of the two. The other, a young man, hung back with an expression mingling awe and fright on his beardless face.

“It must be if you expect me to disturb the Supreme Director at this most inconvenient hour,” Osmas growled. “What is it?”

“That, I think, we must wait to tell the Supreme Director.”

“Wait you will—he sees no one at this hour.”

The Nilokerus looked at one another. The brave one said, “Tell him that it—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “That it concerns an escaped Fieri.”

Osmas eyed the two suspiciously. “What are you saying? Explain yourself!”

The Nilokerus only shook his head slowly.

“I can have your poak erased.” The Subdirector's voice was taut, but the threat brought no response from the Nilokerus. “You insist on meeting with the Supreme Director? All right, I warned you. Wait over there.” Osmas pointed to a long bench against one wall of the anteroom, turned, and disappeared into the convoluted corridor leading to the cluster of kraams and chambers making up the Hage administration center beneath Threl High Chambers.

The Subdirector returned a few minutes later, bothered and anxious. “Come with me,” he said and led them back into the cluster, where they entered a lift and rode up several levels to the Threl Chambers. Osmas said nothing, but his dark glances let the two Nilokerus know that he was not at all pleased with this development. Without ceremony he ushered them into the cylindrical meeting room and brought them to stand before a disheveled-looking man flopped in the Supreme Director's chair who frowned drowsily at them and demanded, “What's this about an escaped Fieri?”

Osmas nodded to the foremost Nilokerus, who stepped forward cautiously.

“Well? You have dragged me from my well-deserved sleep to hear this lie—” He yawned. “Let's hear it.”

“I am a Nilokerus trainer, security section—” the man began.

“Yes, yes, we know all that. What about this Fieri?”

The Nilokerus turned to his young companion and said, “Tell him what you told me.”

The young man crept forward timidly, although the Supreme Director appeared more sleepy than fierce. “There is a patient in Hage who claims to be a Fieri—I've seen him myself ...”

Jamrog glanced at his Subdirector. “You brought me here for this?”

Osmas sputtered. The first Nilokerus spoke. “He's nervous, Supreme Director. I can speak for him.”

“Then do so!”

“He is a lipreader—a first-order physician on Starwatch level.” The young man nodded to authenticate the detail. “Yesterday he discovered that one of the patients in their care was a Fieri spy—escaped, apparently—who had come seeking help from the physicians.”

“Escaped?”

“Apparently.”

“How? Escaped from where?” These questions were directed to the physician.

The young Nilokerus plucked up his courage and said, “We found him one morning—many days ago now. He was wearing a Nilokerus yos, but was unconscious, unable to move. Believing him to be one of Hlad—” A terrified expression blossomed upon the young man's face as he realized what he was about to say.

“One of Hladik's prisoners?” Jamrog supplied the words equably.

“We took him in,” the physician continued, “and stabilized him. He improved. Yesterday Ernina came to talk to him. She was the one who discovered he was a Fieri. She told him she knew—he didn't deny it. She told him she has vowed to protect him.”