Crown Of Fire (23 page)

Tel glanced up. On one of the observation screens, several gleaming objects accelerated away from Netaia. Four small darts escorted a larger, blunted craft. Out of the west came a second flight, three darts pursuing the first group.

"Caldwell?" Tel demanded.

The Sentinel bent toward the console. He fiddled with controls, enlarging the image. Numbers scrolled across the monitor. "Probably. The others are Netaian heavy fighters. Origin looks like Sitree."

"Friendlies?" Kenhing asked.

"No!" Tel exclaimed. "That would be Micahel—he was to prep two crewmen for the clean-up mission! They're on their way here—"

"No," Hoston said, drawing a blazer to check its charge. "Citan-gelo isn't in any danger if Micahel has General Caldwell in sight."

"They're closing," the man at Sensors announced. "According to calcs, they won't reach intercept range before we can slip, unless they haven't fully accelerated yet."

Brennen answered, "I suspect they have." A suite of monitors enclosed his raised chair on
Sapphire's
small command deck. The heavy Netaian fighters drew steadily closer on his aft screen. He had no doubt who was on board. He hated to run from Micahel, but this time he couldn't turn back and fight.

Unfortunately, even if
Sapphira
escaped being shot down, its north-spinward heading would leave Micahel no doubt of his destination. Those long-range fighters were slip capable, and Micahel wouldn't lose precious hours decelerating to rendezvous with a Thyrian battle group. Unless Brennen's pilot coaxed more acceleration out of
Sapphira,
Micahel would beat the Sentinel force to Three Zed.

From the previous messenger, the DS-212 launched from Arctica Base, Three Zed's defenders might even know exactly what threatened them. Shirak's home forces could have time to mount a fierce resistance, doubling or even tripling their fielding staff, even though Micahel might report that Brennen was coming with only this small force.

Brennen touched a com panel. "Engineering, can we safely exceed maximum normal speed? How long, and by how much?"

"I'll calculate and get back to you, sir."

"Push it while you calculate," Brennen ordered.

"Preparing to slip," Shields announced from the next seat over.

The slip-shields took hold. Brennen let himself relax slightly. Micahel wouldn't have time to catch them on this end of the slip.

The odd vibrational sensation nudged Terza out of her induced alpine reverie. At the same instant, a heaviness—something like her father's epsilon presence—slipped away from her. Along with it went all thought of suicide.

She had been taken shipboard, then, and they'd just escaped watch-link range. Shutting her eyes against the magnificent up world view, she turned deep inside to hide behind her inner shields again. Was she free?

No. From this vantage, examining her own alpha matrix, she still sensed something unstable. She might be clear of watch-link, but Talumah had performed deep epsilon tampering, and she could do nothing to counteract it.

Then she hoped these people had locked her down securely. They'd promised they would do everything in their power to free her.

In the next moment, she knew where she was bound, and what her captors would want from her en route. Of course they meant to destroy Three Zed! They wouldn't take her to Tallis or Thyrica, and certainly not to their own fortress world. She'd faced that fact once today—what her defection could mean to others—but that had been under her father's compulsion. She had no emotional tie to anyone left in the Golden City.

Traitor!
The accusation blasted through her mind anyway, from no source but her own stricken conscience.

She pressed her palm to the warm place below her belt.
This is for you,
she thought at her child.
It's the only way you ever will be safe.

And, she realized, it was also for the Netaians—and others—that Juddis Adiyn would have infected with gene-modifying organisms.

On the observation screen in front of Tel, the blunted craft vanished, followed almost instantly by its escorts.

"They're away," murmured one Sentinel.

"Headed back to Hesed House, I'll guess," Tel said, doubly relieved. Caldwell had escaped, and Citangelo wouldn't be turned to a crater.

The two nearest Sentinels stared at each other, obviously speaking mentally. One said, "I hope so."

Hoston spoke up from the floor. "Don't frighten Countess Esme, but it's vital to get Rogonin in custody. He can be released from whatever they've done to him if he lets us try."

Tel remembered Firebird's assurances and Caldwell's self-restraint, proving that Sentinels could only use their gifts under special circumstances. "I understand," he said. "So you won't. . . dispatch him . . . without giving him that chance?"

"Not if there's any way to save him."

Tel rejoined Esme in the corridor, seizing her hand again. Her fingers felt cold between his. "Esme," he said, "listen. You were right. Your father is not himself. These intruders are Shuhr, and they've done things to his mind."

"Obviously," she snapped.

Tel didn't take offense. A frightened daughter would tend to snap. He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. "The Sentinels have promised me they will try to heal him—"

"Don't promise him," she demanded, glaring into the storeroom. "Promise me. You have no idea what a leap this is, trusting Sentinels."

Whatever they did behind his back, it must've satisfied her. She gripped his arm with her other hand.

"I promise, too," Tel said. "I will not harm your father." He drew his little blazer out of that deep pocket.

Esme nodded solemnly.

Hoston stepped toward the door. Now Tel saw that his livery jacket was burned open, low on the left side of his chest. Pale pink biotape showed through the gap.

The group followed Paskel up another service stairwell, placing feet softly, shifting weight carefully. With the observation post put down, there was less worry about being spotted, but "less" worry wasn't little enough for Tel.

He thought instead of the man with Rogonin. Modabah Shirak was probably the one who had ordered Firebird killed at the Hall of Charity. More than likely, he watched Phoena die. Tel didn't doubt he had the emotional strength to kill
that
man, if given a chance.

The Sentinel behind him must've picked up his determination or else spotted his small personal blazer. He nudged Tel's arm, silently offering a Federate service model butt-first. It looked twice as powerful as Tel's own, but Tel shook his head. He didn't want his life depending on an unfamiliar weapon.

The Sentinel returned his spare to an odd-shaped holster.

At the landing nearest the main-level kitchens, one more part of the palace Tel never had thought to see, the senior Sentinel halted the group again. "Have your people pair off with us," Hoston directed. "We'll have to hope we can shield your minds, so they won't sense us coming as we get close."

Tel passed the order down the line, then stepped closer to Hoston. Six of his own, unpaired, fell back.

Again he thought of Hoston's warning. This must seem utterly simple, or they had little hope of succeeding. The slightest alarm or mishap could doom them.

Tel and Hoston emerged shoulder to shoulder at one edge of a kitchen. Clattering noises covered their footfalls. A large man supervising kitchen machinery stared, wiping his hands on a floury towel. He barely nodded to Paskel, eyes wide, lips firmed.

Tel spotted a closed-down service window, where higher-ranking servitors out in the dining area would bring spent dishes to this crew for sterilization. He waved the others back. Hoston stayed at his elbow, breathing quickly but quietly. Tel edged closer to the window. The other four Sentinels, paired with four of Tel's guards, hurried to the main door. Tel's people held blazers. So did two Sentinels. The others drew silvery handgrips out of sleeve sheaths—their ceremonial crystaces, Tel realized.

Footsteps approached on the window's other side. Tel raised his blazer, steadied his elbows against the windowbar, and waited. He would have only one chance. The instant they saw him, they would attack.

Simplicity or failure, the quickest of surgical strikes or slow death. He would rather die here than live on a Netaia ruled by Shuhr.

The service window blinked like an eye, and Tel glimpsed the private hall. Several plainclothes men and women stood along the walls. Beneath a jeweled chandelier, two men sat at the table's near end. Tel recognized Rogonin's broad back. He knew the other man from the tile-image—Modabah Shirak.

In that moment, the intruder raised his head. Evidently Tel's escort couldn't shield his disgust.

Modabah would warn the others! Tel squeezed his trigger and held it down, pumping out three energy bursts.

Shirak toppled with a patch of his scalp smoking.

"Go!" exclaimed a voice behind Tel. Tellai-liveried Sentinels and Netaians spilled into the dining hall. Tel let the blazer fall from his hand, staring at that smoking hair. His gorge rose. He rushed to the corner, gripped the sterilizer's edges, and emptied the contents of his stomach. He vaguely heard shouts, eerie humming noises that had to be crysta-ces, the sharp crack of furniture and the duller sound of bodies falling.

By the time he turned back to the private hall, guards stood at every exit—his own guards, joined by several kitchen staff wielding knives and other kitchen tools. Bodies strewed the parquet floor. Six wore Tellai livery, and Tel cringed at the sight. Rogonin stood beside his chair under the chandelier. Scorch marks spotted the ceiling and walls.

He hurried out into the hall. "Call your med, Paskel," he ordered.

"On his way." The footman coolly covered one fallen Shuhr with his blazer.

I'd never make a soldier.
He'd told Firebird and Brennen that months ago. Now he knew how true it was.

He joined Kenhing at the long table's near end. Rogonin spotted Tel and laughed shortly.

"Your Grace," Tel said, "I have the dubious honor of asking you to submit to arrest."

"Arrest?" As Esme suggested, Rogonin had a giddy light in his eyes, a defiant lift to one eyebrow. Even during the fracas back at Hunter Height, Rogonin had always maintained some dignity. "I'm a sovereign head of state," he declared. "You can't arrest me."

Tel drew up as tall as he could. "The sovereign answers to the Electorate, Your Grace, and there are several electoral charges that must be brought against you."

"What charges?" Rogonin put out a fleshy hand and grabbed the back of a chair. "In desperate times like these, strong leaders take stern measures."

A gilded entry opened. Three medical staff hurried in.

"First," Tel said, trying to sound firm and self-assured, "a charge of sedition against the noble house that you serve as regent. You have tried, consistently and illegally, to discredit and disempower House An-gelo."

Rogonin laughed sharply. "The traitors deserve to be discredited. Every one of them—except young Iarla, of course." His lips curled in a smile. "And I don't think Her Majesty will be found soon."

Something like a cold hand gripped Tel's emptied stomach. "Do you know that for certain?"

"Of course not—"

"He's lying," said a voice behind Tel.

Aghast, Tel turned his head slightly. One of the Sentinels frowned at the regent. "He knows."

Rogonin had known Carradee's daughters would not be found, and he'd done nothing? That was treason! "What else did your . . . guests. . . tell you?" Angry now, Tel gestured toward the nearest body. Two servitors and a Sentinel crouched over it, draping it with kitchen towels.

"I am not on trial," Rogonin growled. "I only asked to hear what trumped-up charges you think you can bring against me. Speak carefully, Tellai. You too can be accused. So can you, Drake."

Tel exchanged dark glances with Kenhing. "Second charge," said Tel. "Subverting electoral procedures, by excluding House Tellai from two known electoral sessions, and probably others."

Kenhing spoke up. "That is an indictable offense," he added, "though not as serious. The Sentinel just accused you of the highest treason, Rogonin, and complicity with murder. Have you nothing to say?"

Rogonin lowered himself into his chair, then pushed the remains of his meal aside. "You're in on the uprising, too, Kenhing?" He laced his fingers across his stomach. "Go on."

Rogonin hadn't denied the charge! "Finally," Tel said, clenching his own hands in dark fury, "you will be charged with collaboration with offworld enemies of the Netaian state. The evidence is overwhelming, Your Grace." He looked pointedly at the nearest body—his own recruit!—and then laid Paskel's tiles on the table. "These individuals brought outworld gear into the palace and established an observation post downlevel. Much of it can be identified by world of origin. Some of it plainly—plainly, Your Grace—originated on Three Zed. This evidence also implicates you in the second attempt on Firebird's life, as well as a pending attack on Citangelo. On the people you are sworn to serve, Rogonin."

Rogonin's left cheek twitched. "You would have to convince twenty-six electors, Tellai."

Kenhing stepped forward. "I'm convinced. I don't think there will be any difficulty with the rest of them. You will be charged, Rogonin. You are plainly guilty. And if you're implicated in Iarla and Kessaree's disappearance, even by Sentinels, I will—"

"Traitors," Rogonin cried, clenching a fist. "Have you no idea what the Federatization of Netaia would mean? Workers displaced, commerce and government disrupted. Common influences taking over all arts and media, low elements ruling our schools, poisoning our children—"

Tel leaned both hands on the table, facing the regent. "Sir," he said sharply. He must try to show mercy.

Rogonin shut his mouth.

"Sir, these so-called guests of yours tampered with your mind. Let these Sentinels help you. They say they can undo Shuhr mind-work, but they will do nothing you will not allow."

Rogonin straightened. "Tell that to Caldwell," he barked. "He forced mind-access on me." He lowered his voice. "Who brought these creatures into my home? Wait—I think I know. Esmerield looked furtive at supper."