Paradox (38 page)

Tom smiled.

His party numbered ten: himself, Elva, four of her troopers, two servitors and two servitrices in the Corcorigan livery. The guest suite was big enough for all of them. It was unusual, though not unknown, for servitors to remain in the same quarters as their masters.

An invitation tricon was hanging, magnified, at the antechamber's exact geometric centre. Tom pointed: unfurling, it gave details of a small gathering to be held late tonight, in the ballroom near Lady Sylvana's apartments.

Sylvana
…

“It's time, my Lord.” Elva.

“Let's go.”

One of the servitors handed Tom an old cape, and he pulled it on. Pausing by the door membrane, he laid his palm against the wall and said, “It's good to be back.”

Then, ignoring Elva's questioning look, he went out into the corridor; four troopers hurried out into protective formation.

“I don't suppose Trude will be there?” He had not seen her since his recruitment into LudusVitae.

Elva shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”

Reaching the Palace boundaries, they entered a round, bronze-panelled, flat-ceilinged chamber. Tom used his thumb ring's control codes, and the entire floor slowly revolved, corkscrewing downwards.

It took a whole minute to descend to the Secundum Stratum.

“Well, that was different.”

Tom chuckled as he led his party out into a rich-looking corridor. Though smaller than a typical counterpart above, it was nevertheless panelled in dark red mother-of-pearl, with glowing surrounds. It was as rich as any part of Tom's palace.

Elva and all four troopers took off their uniform tunics and reversed them, displaying motley patterns. Each garment was different; all were fluorescent and garish. Two troopers shook out bright lightweight half-capes and draped them around their shoulders.

Startling, but an effective disguise.

Tom took off his thumb ring and tucked it inside his waistband, though he would need it for the floor hatches. Normally there were few security checks on descent—none on lower strata—but he was using noble-house privileges: allowing his escort to carry pocket grasers, on Elva's insistence.

There was less anonymity this way, but he could always justify a nostalgia trip.

“Now we look more like a wedding party,” said Elva.

But, as they walked, her four troopers constantly scanned their surroundings—guarding their legitimate Lord and senior LudusVitae executive officer—and their hands stayed close to their weapons.

Five strata down, they stopped in a market chamber while Tom paid too much—unhesitatingly crediting the merchant with an amount which would have kept Father in profit for half a year—for a decorated goblet.

“You think that'll be OK?” he asked Elva, as the merchant's young daughter wrapped the goblet.

“Perfect, my—My brother will love it.”

“Good.”

Later, as the six of them descended once more, Tom said: “I don't even know your brother's name, nor his fiancée's.”

Elva held out a tiny tricon woven from copper and tin: an invitation. “She's Trilina U'Skarin. My brother's Odom Strelsthorm.”

“U'Skarin?” Tom frowned. “Isn't that Arlanna's family name?”

Elva had not known Arlanna during Tom's servitor days, but the two women had attended LudusVitae security briefings together. “They're related. Second cousins, I think.”

“If she's going to be there, we could all have gone down officially.”

“She isn't,” said Elva. “Arlanna's not going.”

“Oh. Families.” Thinking:
Mother.
“Or was it Sylvana, not granting leave of absence?”

Elva looked as though she was going to say something, then shrugged.

Up ahead was a busy crowd, and the corridor was narrowing, so Tom let the troopers lead them through a small Aqua Hall—floating copper sculpture, water fountains, citizens queuing with empty containers—and out into a dank side tunnel.

Tom: “So why isn't Arlanna going?”

Elva mis-stepped into a puddle, and splashed dirty water.

“Because—” A short exhalation. “Because I told her you're going to be there.”

“What?” Tom stopped.

One of the troopers span, expecting trouble. Then all four took up static formation, scanning the deserted tunnel.

“At the last briefing,” said Elva. “I told her.”

Tom shook his head. “I didn't think Arlanna hated me. Have I—?”

“She's got strong feelings for you.” Elva tilted her squarish jaw upwards. “But not hate.”

It took him a moment.

Then, “I'll be heisenberged,” Tom said.

Elva looked at him.

“
True love
, my Lord?”

Butterfly wings, flapping. Turquoise and gold, five metres across, beating steadily above the archway.

“Not bad,” murmured Tom.

“For this stratum, anyway.” Elva.

They went inside, keeping to the semi-ovoid chamber's rear. All the guests were standing: it was the Laksheesh-Heterodox tradition.

A chanting began just as Tom caught a glimpse of short red hair in one of the front rows. A wide-shouldered man. Tom stood on tiptoes, and was certain.

Dervlin!

It had been so long. They had met only on a couple of occasions, but those had been turning-points. Images and questions span in Tom's mind—from memories of the post-funeral meal, to Zen Neuronal Coding.

But the priestess was entering, flanked by attendants—and the whole congregation bowed as the betrothed couple stepped up onto twin floating obsidian discs.

“—
to bind each to the other, meld two into one—
”

Reviewing old memories. So like the dead Pilot's, Dervlin's flowing fighting-style.

“—
since birth until this moment, separate twines—
”

And questioning his remembrance. Why would Pilots out of legend be interested in this world?

“—swear before Destiny to hold this truth—”

And what of the Oracles' origins? Even with the Strontium Dragons' help, LudusVitae had only hints to work on.

“
We do
.”

For that matter…was Karyn's Tale literally true? Or did the crystal's ware rewrite itself, for its own purposes?

“—
may kiss—
”

Smell of incense. Happy applause.

Rustle of purple silk. “I wanted to thank you.” Hands in a mudra of benediction.

From the doorway, one of Elva's troopers gave a slight nod in Tom's direction, wanting to talk; but Tom could not get away just yet.

“For what?”

The priestess had headed straight for him as the rest of the congregation began making their way to the post-ceremony reception.

“Helping me to regain my faith.”

“I don't—”

And then he recognized her: the young priestess who had been with her senior, the Antistita, when Father was dying. And at the funeral.

“When your father died, I had been undergoing a crisis of conscience—and confidence, I suppose—and then the Antistita knew, just knew, when it was time for me to…see you.”

There were lines on her face now, from the constant strain of ministering to the faithful: an endless series of traumas. Tom wondered how many parents, how many children, she had seen die since then.

“I'm honoured”—Tom bowed formally—“to have helped in any way.”

She turned to follow the general movement then, and Tom walked alongside, but dropped away as the plainclothes trooper drew near.

“Thought you should know, my Lord—astymonia patrols. Three teams in the vicinity.”

“Keep alert.”

Up ahead, the priestess's two assistants now flanked her. Tom
smiled to himself, very slightly, and headed towards the reception chamber.

Away from the ceremonial chapel—built by the donations, Tom noted, of people who had practically nothing of their own—the decorations were simpler. The reception's door was a plain ochre hanging, more like a private dwelling.

At least they believe in something.

Running footsteps and he turned, crouching.

“I told ya we was late!”

His plainclothes trooper bodyguards were moving from their posts, but Tom motioned them back with a subtle hand signal.

“Your bleedin' fault.”

“But you said Trindle Chamber, so that's where—”

The trio, puffing, came to a sweaty halt in front of Tom.

“Mind out, mate,” one of them said. “We're goin' in there.”

The short one had a small paunch; the thin one was prematurely bald. But it was the third who caught Tom's attention: burly, potbellied, purple birthmark splashed across his face.

Stavrel
.

Even before Algrin and the Ragged School, there had been Stavrel to make Tom's life miserable.

“You two”—Stavrel addressed his companions—“go get some grub for me.”

“All right, Stavrel, mate.”

The two went inside.

“I know you.” Stavrel.

Astounded, Tom realized that the two men who had gone inside might be Padraig and Levro.

“That's mutual,” said Tom. “Sadly.”

“What're you, then? Freemerchant?” A smirk. “Who'd ya bugger to get that, then?”

The same old feeling prickled up Tom's back.

“I tell ya.” Stavrel wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “I heard you been learnin' how to fight. So you can defend yourself from me, eh?”

He knew of Tom's training, but not his rank. Twisted rumour, or mistaking Tom for someone else?

Involuntarily, Tom smiled.

I don't believe it
.

It was a very gentle smile. It was as though all his birthdays—and Anniversaries of Elevation—had come at once.

“You little—” Stavrel's voice faltered.

Red lights
, but Tom blinked them away, not needing the tacware's overlay.

“Er, well then…” Stavrel's gaze broke, eyes shifting to the left. “I better find my mates.”

Tom stood aside and let him pass.

After a few moments, one of the troopers came up.

“I thought you were going to kill him, my Lord.”

Tom shook his head.

“It wasn't necessary.”

“Dance, my Lord?” It was the bride, Trilina, eyes modestly downcast but cheeks flushed with happiness.

“My pleasure.”

Tom followed her out onto the circular dance floor. He had been looking for Dervlin—that shock of cupric hair should stand out in a crowd—but had seen him nowhere.

With athletic abandon, Elva was dancing a reel with her brother Odom.

“Thank you for coming, your Lordship—”

“Call me Tom. Please.”

There were scarlet ribbons in Trilina's hair and wound around her sleeves; Odom wore crossed sashes of the same material.

“Great ceremony,” Tom added, joining in the dance.

The tune was a complex reel, played by the chamber's in-built system, and it took Tom a while to recognize the refrain: “The Borehole Lilt,” embellished.

“Are you OK, my—Tom?”

“Just tired. I think I need to sit down.”

Too many memories.

Tom bowed and left her. He took a glass of sparkling water from the buffet table, and went to stand by himself against the stone wall.

For a while he was content to watch the dancing, but then the music died softly away, and the guests clapped as Dervlin, appearing from behind a brocade-edged arras, ascended the small stage.

Fate, Dervlin! We've a lot to talk about
.

“I've just got a short speech to make—” Dervlin pulled out a huge mock infocrystal from his pocket and pretended to load up a display as laughter rippled around the chamber. “Since I've known Odom for many years, and there are a few things about his early life he may not have told the lovely Trilina…”

Hoots and guffaws.

“…when the five Tildrilli sisters took him to see their tunnel…”

A bit near the knuckle
, thought Tom, but laughed along with everyone else. He fetched a second glass of water.

“…or the time he—”

An amber beam split the air.

Then a massive thud.

What's happening?

Explosion.

Its percussive wave smacked Tom flat against the floor.

Dust clouds billowing. Screams and low moans.

“My Lord!”

Hands pulling him upright.

“What the Chaos—?”

Sore cheekbone. Warm blood, trickling.

“Come on.”

Slipping on ceramic shards underfoot, sliding on rubble.

“I'm OK.” Recovering, he pushed the trooper's hands away.

“It's Jivrin.” The trooper pointed to a ragged body, opaque eyes staring sightlessly. One of Tom's men.

I didn't even know his name
.

All around them, people were running in random directions, yelling, or cowering silently upon the floor. Tom pulled his cloak across his face, trying to filter out the choking dust.

A wide-shouldered figure stepped easily across the rubble, a child under each arm.

“Dervlin! I've been wanting to—”

“Young Tom.” A grim smile. “All grown up…Here. You'd better take these kids.”

From outside, distant shouts. The sizzle and crack of graser fire.

“What's happening?” Tom took one of the children, a small girl, by the hand; the trooper scooped the other child up into his arms.

“Our people are holding them back. Militia raid.”

Coughing, Tom looked out past the scorched hanging, but the corridor was still clear.

“Right.” Tom glanced around the chamber: amid the confusion, there was a general scramble now towards the chamber's rear.

“Get going, Tom. We'll catch up on old times later.”

A tiny floor-level opening. It must lead into a service shaft: people were already crawling through on hands and knees.

Tom said, “How many action-trained cell members do we have?”

An agonizing scream from outside, suddenly cut short.

“There is no
we
, laddie.” Dervlin took the dead trooper's—Jivrin's—graser in his right hand; in his left, he carried only a monographite drumstick. “You're getting out of here.”

Soft whimperings from the shocked and wounded.

Tom unclasped his cape and threw it aside.

“I'm going to—no, thanks.” He waved away an offered graser as his other two troopers came up. “I don't like the noise they make. If you lay down covering fire”—he pointed—“I can make it outside to that side tunnel. From there I can circle round, with luck.”

The two young children whom Dervlin had rescued blinked, wide-eyed.

“You don't understand, do you, boy?”

Stiffening, Tom looked up at Dervlin. Despite the blistering sizzle of renewed graser fire outside, he almost laughed: no-one had spoken to him like that for years.

“You might be their target, Tom. Hadn't you thought of that?”

Ice across his skin.

This is my fault?

But it might be true. The militia's intelligence could be partial: perhaps they knew that a ranking executive officer of LudusVitae, carrying priceless strategic plans in his head, was in the vicinity…but
they did not know who he was.

Suddenly, travelling under less than complete anonymity seemed a stupid idea.

My fault
.

A corollary: Dervlin knew everything, including the local situation. In his judgement, Tom had to flee.

Good enough
.

“We're going.” Decision made, Tom again took one child's hand. “You three are coming with me. Is there any ID?” He looked down at Jivrin's body. “We'll take him with us.”

“No, I'll deal with him.” Dervlin. “Hurry now, lad.”

“I—Take care, Dervlin.”

“Go on.”

Then Tom was rushing across the chamber, towing the little girl,
while his guards kept in formation around him, one of them with the other child cradled against his tunic. Ahead, by the low exit, Elva was pushing people through the opening.

Triple beams spat and bodies fell.

Fear bathed Tom in sweat. Shame pulsed inside as he crouched down at the tiny exit.

“Elva, you have to come, too.”

“My Lord, I—”

“We can't risk your being identified.”

The bride and groom were already gone. Tom had caught a glimpse of tattered gown, scarlet ribbons flying, as urgent hands pulled them into the escape shaft.

Sizzle, crack of graser fire—yelling—inside the chamber now.

When he looked back, Dervlin's face was bathed in bright blood but he was returning fire.

Move it
!

Tom was galvanized into action, scooping up the little girl, ducking down and scrambling through.

Hurry
.

He carried the child into the grey, dusty horizontal shaft as fingers of light flickered, questing—
very close
—and he could smell his own hair burning.

“Look out!”

Save the girl
.

Then they were upright in the shaft, running—it was high but narrow, their shoulders brushing the walls—but up ahead orange light cut
through
the wall, and a figure dropped in a flurry of rustling purple silk.

Precious bundle.

Run
!

Tom kept the little girl tight against his chest as he jumped over the dead priestess's form and kept running. Behind him Elva shouted to the troopers.

Choking now, vision obscured by dust, Tom half stumbled—
don't drop her
—as they came into a wider, broken-floored space. Service-shaft intersection: eight tunnels met here, and people were scurrying in all directions, splitting up.

“Second right!” yelled Elva, and Tom leaped into the shadowed tunnel's mouth and began to sprint.