Alien Chronicles 3 - The Crystal Eye (30 page)

Gossiping fools,
she thought bitterly.

Temondahl was waiting to greet her just inside the massive doors of hammered gold. Holding his staff of office, he bowed very low.

“Lord chancellor,” she said formally.

When he straightened, his heavy-lidded eyes met hers with an expression of great sorrow. She could not bear to gaze upon his grief, so unexpectedly revealed. For a moment she wondered if he had sons or nephews serving in the military. But then she forgot to inquire as her young Kelth heralds came running up to take their place in front of her.

“Reports?” she asked the chancellor wearily.

“In the morning perhaps,” he said, surprising her again. “The Imperial Mother looks fatigued.”

She nodded her thanks to him, and went on to her private apartments. As soon as it was possible, she dismissed all her ladies in waiting, all the attendants and slaves. She did not want assistance in changing her gown. She was not ready to have her bath filled.

“We want no one at this time. Leave us now,” she said sharply.

Staring at her with concern, everyone tiptoed out, jingling with bells and dragging scarves, their perfumes a cloud in the air.

As soon as the doors finally shut on the last one, Israi whirled around and smashed a priceless vase against the wall. It shattered with a crash that brought her guards immediately.

“Get out!” she shouted at them, and they withdrew.

She broke another vase, one that had been her favorite, then felt new fury at its destruction. Raging to herself, she paced back and forth, her silk slippers making no sound on the polished floors.

But releasing her pent-up emotions brought her no ease. She knew she could smash everything in her chambers and still fix nothing.

They had been defeated, and there was nothing she could do about it. Probably at this moment other colony worlds were plotting rebellions of their own. Her world was dying, and her brother was back to scheme against her. And she, the Kaa of the Viis Empire, the Imperial Mother of all creatures, she could not change any of it.

She paced back and forth until she grew weary. Then she flung herself onto the silk cushions atop her bed and switched on the newscast.

There was no news of the defeat. The blackout still held, but she doubted that would last much longer. Somewhere in the palace, her speechwriters were busy preparing her statement. She switched channels, seeking anything to distract herself.

A report came on about the latest weather-related tragedy. Israi flicked out her tongue and started to turn it off, but the reporter’s voice started droning on about how in previous centuries the Viis had the technology to control their weather.

Israi sat bolt upright on her bed and curled her plump tail against her legs. “What technology?” she asked the screen.

The report ended, and she switched off the vid. Suddenly her mind was whirling with renewed energy. If they had once possessed such technology, then there was no reason why they could not do so again. That would put an end to the drought. The people would have food again. The general unrest would die down.

Leaving her bed, she summoned her slaves. “Activate the uplink,” she commanded “We wish to speak to the scientist Ehssk.”

He could not be immediately located. The longer she waited, the more Israi fumed. Here she had discovered the perfect solution, and she was kept waiting. It was intolerable. By the time Ehssk’s oiled countenance appeared on the link screen, Israi’s temper was short indeed.

“Majesty, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, sounding a bit flustered and breathless.

He was dressed in a very fine coat of lavender brocade, with jewels winking on the cuffs and a great deal of lace beneath his rill collar. Israi’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was dressed too finely. Over the years, she had continued her father’s practice of funding Ehssk’s research with generous grants. Perhaps he was spending that grant money on his own tailor instead of on finding a cure for the Dancing Death. Certainly his results, published annually in a report bound in leather and silk which she never read, were less than productive.

“Your majesty honors me greatly,” Ehssk said. “Forgive me for keeping the Imperial Mother waiting. I was giving a speech at a dinner for the—”

“We wish to know about weather-control technology,” Israi said, breaking in on his flustered apology. “Inform us of all you know.”

Ehssk’s eyes held bewilderment. His rill drooped on his shoulders, and he gestured vaguely. “Weather control, majesty? Um, I don’t . . . that is, I believe it was once . . . Forgive me, majesty, but my field is biogenetics.”

She stared at his likeness on the screen as impatience filled her. “You will not answer our question?”

“I’m afraid I cannot, majesty. It is not my field.”

She turned her back on him and gestured for the channel to be cut. The screen popped as it went blank. Then a low beep told her the operator had returned.

“May I direct another call for the Imperial Mother?”

“Yes,” Israi said. “Find another scientist, one whose field has to do with weather.”

The hold delay seemed to go on forever. Israi went back to pacing, gulping down the wine her slaves brought to her in jeweled cups, a fresh cup for each refill.

Finally another scientist whose name she could not remember came on. He was plump with pale yellow skin and large wings of blue spreading out from the corner of each eye. He bowed to her, and would not look at her thereafter.

“Majesty?” he said nervously.

“Tell us all you know about weather-control technology.”

“Weather?” he repeated. “Ah, yes, the weather has not been cooperative lately.”

“We could once control it. Why don’t we now? Has the technology been lost?”

He seemed daunted by her bluntness. “No, majesty. Not lost. Certainly not lost. Adjustments have been made to the . . . well, we have studied the problem for quite some time now . . . The drought is a considerable distraction. and we—”

“Can you end the drought?” she broke in.

“Of course, majesty, given time and, of course, official funding. We are a small division of the—”

“Fool,” she muttered beneath her breath and gestured for the channel to be cut once again.

Furiously, she circled her apartments. It seemed no one would, or could, supply her with an answer. She knew she could make an official request for information, but several weeks would pass before a report was issued. Israi wanted action
now.

For years she had been vaguely aware of problems with failing technology in the empire, but now the problems had begun to impact on
her.
Her hunting lands were dying. Her guards could not find her because their scanners malfunctioned. Within the imperial palace, some of the mirrors no longer activated. The automatic doors had not worked since before she was born, necessitating that servants be stationed everywhere to open them on command. She had grown up thinking her father was old-fashioned and preferred antiquated traditions, when in reality he had just been concealing the many breakdowns in the general operating systems of the palace.

There was only one other place she could think of that could provide her with an immediate answer.

Israi summoned her servants. “Bring our costume of incognito,” she commanded them. “At once!”

Down in the Archives, Ampris hefted her pack and found it far too heavy. Smiling to herself, she opened it and lifted out three carefully wrapped bundles that she had not placed there.

“Mystery gifts?” she asked, holding them up.

The Myals ringed around her looked disconcerted.

“Ampris,” Quiesl said chidingly. “Those were to be a surprise.”

“Thank you,” she said, her smile widening. “But you have given me far too much already. I can never repay your kindness and hospitality.”

“You are our hope,” Prynan said. “Our only hope.”

“No,” Ampris said firmly, wanting to squelch that idea once and for all. “I am not. You—the brotherhood of archivists—have done the most to keep the idea of freedom alive.”

Quiesl stepped forward and gestured at the bundles she held. “Please, take our small tokens. They are to help you with your journey.”

“Thank you, but I cannot carry so much,” she said. “If I am to travel swiftly, I must travel light.”

Ignoring their murmurs of protest, she went through her pack again, removing about half of its load. They had provided her with a tent that folded to a square hardly bigger than her two hands, blankets, extra clothing, credit vouchers, a folding shovel, fuel for cooking fires, ration packets with military seals on them, charge packs, sacks of fruit, a medicine kit, a small torch, and an illegal hand-link. Ampris kept one blanket, the food, the medicine, and the hand-link.

“Ampris, that is not enough to sustain you,” Quiesl protested while the others looked shocked.

She added a water carrier, closed the pack, and strapped it over her shoulder. “More than enough,” she said. “I can live on very little, and I must travel fast.”

“But, Ampris.”

“Please,” she said. “Thank you for the rest of it. Please keep it for me until I return.”

They looked both hurt and disappointed. She was sorry she had injured their feelings, but none of them could really imagine what lay ahead of her. She didn’t want to think of the grueling journey either, but it had to be done. The quicker she left, the quicker it would be over.

“Good-bye, my dear friends,” she said. She placed her hand on each archivist’s shoulder in turn. “Thank you.”

When she reached Quiesl, it was he who clasped her shoulders. “Come back to us quickly and safely,” he said.

She smiled brightly to deflect the worry in his eyes. “I will.”

Turning away, she went down the corridor and up two levels to the exhibition floor. At this late hour, they had decided she could safely risk exiting the Archives by an easier route than she’d come in.

Quiesl had prepared a crate of instructional materials to be shipped to Malraaket’s small auxiliary library. Ampris was to exit the city inside it, then break out and be on her way.

“Wait!” Quiesl called, hurrying to catch up with her. “Not so fast. I am old, Ampris. I cannot walk so quickly.”

She slowed down as she came to the exhibition rooms, giving him a chance to catch up. Then her nostrils caught a whiff of perfume, costly and rare. Beneath it ran the fragrance of scented skin oil and Viis.

The fur bristled around her neck. She stopped dead in her tracks and Quiesl bumped into her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

She lifted a hand to silence him, and gazed around with all senses on alert. The exhibition rooms were unlit except for the dimmed lights in the display cases. Ampris studied the shadows, knowing that an intruder was with them.

“What is it?” Quiesl asked. “What’s wrong?”

A shadow at the far end of the room moved, turning around and walking toward them. Ampris stiffened, but she knew she’d been seen. There was no point in hiding now.

Beside her, Quiesl uttered a low moan of despair. She gripped his arm in reassurance. One Viis could be dealt with.

As the figure drew closer, Ampris saw that it was female, very tall and swathed in heavy purple robes patterned with a strange design she had never seen before. The female was masked with a hood drawn over her head. Ampris knew from her old days at court that sometimes great ladies would go forth dressed incognito to secret assignations. If this one was escorted by guards, they weren’t in evidence.

Ampris kept sniffing the air, however, to make sure.

Quiesl gulped in air several times and coiled his tail tightly against his leg. Casting Ampris a look of worry, he walked forward to meet the visitor and bowed low.

“Great lady, how may I serve you?”

The female halted and stared at them through the slits in her mask. “We come seeking information on weather.”

“Weather? Ah,” Quiesl said as though this were an everyday request. “Perhaps during normal hours of—”

“Fool!” The Viis female’s voice cut him off viciously. “Do not toy with our patience. We are here now. Serve us at once!”

Ampris’s head snapped up and she stared very hard at the masked figure. She knew that voice, that temper, that imperial arrogance. But most of all, she knew that scent masked beneath the perfume.

She stared, stepping forward without being able to stop herself. “Israi,” she said in astonishment.

The masked lady drew back, flicking out her tongue in affront. “Who dares—”

“I do,” Ampris said. She crossed the distance between them, gently shoving an agitated Quiesl out of the way, and plucked off the lady’s mask.

Israi’s aristocratic, golden-skinned face was revealed, still as chiseled and lovely as ever, but now looking frozen with outrage.

“Lights, brighter,” Ampris said, and the overhead lights came on.

Israi was very tall, her regal posture making her seem even taller. Her skin had darkened over the years to a deep golden hue, with a tint of bronze. Too much wine had puffed Israi’s jawline and carved little lines around her eyes. As a consequence of egg-laying her body had thickened, a look considered extremely beautiful among the Viis. Ampris supposed she herself must look very changed too, with her scars and crippled leg and tough muscles. In all her dreams and imaginings, she had never believed she would ever again stand face-to-face with Israi.

It seemed like a dream. Their worlds had grown too far apart for such a meeting to happen, yet here they stood.

She faced Israi, still holding the mask, and tilted her head to one side. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Israi’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, and her tongue flicked out. She lifted her hands to push back her hood, and her rill rose to its full extension behind her head. “Ampris,” she whispered.

CHAPTER
•TWELVE

The sunset arched over another hot, hungry day. Crouched on a jutting finger of rock that gave him a vantage point above the road winding across the Plains of Filea, Elrabin wiped the sweat that matted his fur and stung his eyes.

For the past two hours, he had been sitting here, watching the road for Ampris. There was no sign of her. Nothing moved at all out there on that broad, brown flat. It was as though all living creatures had died, and only the land remained.