Paradox (45 page)

Ozone stink in his nostrils, making him cough.

“For Sylvana
—” Corduven's voice, cut off as the beams crackled again and a high-pitched scream laced the air.

The membrane above was blackened, shredded apart. Farther up, much farther, the next one, too, looked scorched—
Destiny, it's all the way up
—and he knew what he had to do.

Stump and two wide-braced feet: hold, using counterpressure. He used his hand to free the harness, then tossed it clear into the void.

Climb.

Graser beams hit close by and molten rock spat white but Tom was already moving. He glanced back down, but the others were exchanging fire.

He was on his own.

Climb.

Although redolent of ancient sweat and fear-pheromones, the mat was soft and very comfortable as Tom lay on his side and closed his eyes.

Strange laughter.

It had bubbled up inside him, inappropriately: the silent laughter as he struggled through the last membrane, climbed the last stretch in the dark—
watch it
—hand slipping, correcting—
almost
—and he hauled himself over the balustrade.

The odd humour was twofold: he had almost fallen right at the last moment; and now he was in a long, shadowed gallery which was very familiar:
his
gallery.

So he picked himself up and began to run, just a slow jog. Despite the exhaustion, he moved very quietly.

No-one stepped from the shadows to shoot him down.

At the gallery's end, he took the old servitors' tunnels and made his way to the salle d'armes. An odd sense of homecoming as he slipped inside.

Adrenaline and sweat.

Microdrones cleaned the place every day, but the traces of decades' effort remained. How many times had he crashed into this mat, beneath Maestro da Silva's watchful gaze?

Lying down, he sighed. Slid into dreamless sleep.

Tickle.

“Wake up.”

Not soft: sharp and stinging as it bit into the skin.

“You'd better have a good—”

Jerked awake, Tom could not react. Lean face above him, silver-grey goatee beard; hand holding the long blade perfectly steady.

Sword at his throat.

Then the eyes widened and the pressure came away. The warm trickle at Tom's throat might have been sweat or blood, but he dared not look down.

He can kill me faster than I can blink.

Lowering the blade.

“You'd better come with me.”

“My Lord.” Major-Steward Malkoril's full formal bow brought a flush to his face.

From his seat, Chef Keldur struggled up, looking stricken. He had forgotten Tom's status; he had remembered Tom only as a subordinate fellow servitor.

“I don't think”—Tom motioned them to sit—“I'm Lord of anything, any more.”

Maestro da Silva spoke softly: “I think perhaps you've become Lord of yourself, which is more than most people achieve.”

It was Tom's turn to bow: student to master.

“I thought you were dead, my Lord.”

Astounded, Tom saw the dampness in Malkoril's eyes.

“I've missed you, my friends,” he said, and realized he meant it.

The chamber was cramped: Malkoril's old office, piled high with battered boxes full of Fate-knew-what among the blue-glass pillars, and filled with crystal-cases and broken pieces of drones. A fine patina of white-grey dust overlay everything. The three were sitting on antique chairs in need of repair. Tom slid onto the desk and sat cross-legged.

“There are two more to come,” said the maestro, “but we might as well start.”

Tom let out a long, shaky breath. This was going to be hard.

“I gather the term LudusVitae is now well known?” he began.

A dignified nod from Maestro da Silva; Malkoril's fleshy face hardened while Chef Keldur looked ready to spit.

“Well—”

“We should all have joined them, before it was too late!” Square-faced, shaven-headed Zhongguo Ren, just head and shoulders inserted through the door membrane. Then, as he stepped inside: “Tom? Is that you?”

“Chaos, Tat! How are you?”

“I've heard a lot about you.” As the other men exchanged puzzled glances, Tat added: “Don't you know who this is? Lord One-Arm himself. Legend of the movement.”

Malkoril's face was blotched with conflicting emotions.

“I think I should explain”—Maestro da Silva's elegant voice was soft, measured—“that we are of all political persuasions in this room.”

Like LudusVitae.

An image of his first meeting with Sentinel and the others sprang up in his mind, but Tom banished it.

“Our common interest,” the maestro continued, “is concern about the fate of our imprisoned former masters.”

“Former
masters?” Chef Keldur's towering rages used to terrify kitchen servitors. “Allegiance is for life, as you damned well ought to—”

“Ahem.” Tom coughed deliberately, and Keldur lapsed into silence.

“Go on, my Lord,” said Maestro da Silva.

“I think it would be best if you called me Tom. For the sake of security”—as Malkoril started to object—“if for no other reason. Agreed?”

Reluctant nods.

“So then. Tat's correct: I was a ranking executive officer of LudusVitae, an umbrella organization of many factions. And, yes, I was one of the coup's planners.”

“But—” Tat stopped.

“What is it?”

“Everyone knows—thinks—you were killed. You're a
martyr.”

A bitter laugh rising, but Tom suppressed it. “I've been away—let's say, in self-imposed exile—for the last two years. No”—
-forgetting the lost time
—“make that four years.”

“So you don't know about Jak?” Tat, quietly.

Chill on his skin.

“What about him?” Tom asked.

“When you disappeared…Your demesne, your palace, were investigated. One of your alpha-class people co-operated fully—”

Felgrinar. I should never have kept him on.

“—and Jak was blamed for misappropriation of funds, other things.”

“Did they—?”

“He's imprisoned somewhere. Not executed: he convinced them that he wasn't a member of LudusVitae, luckily.”

Good for you, Jak. That must have taken some persuasive talking.

More guilt.

“What else do you know, Tat?”

“Not much. They found the cleared-out remnants of some secret project that—”

Corduven's people. Tom started to reach for his talisman, stopped.

How had Corduven recognized it? Tom had worn a wide-necked shirt, instead of high-collared tunic, maybe once or twice in all their acquaintance. Scarily observant.

Don't underestimate him.

“—call it sorcery, but I don't—Damn, it's hard to believe you're here! Not some mythical hero.”

Tom shook his head. “Do you know what happened to my security chief, Captain Elva Strelsthorm?”

“No, sorry. Your demesne was merged back into Lord Shinkenar's, I think. Though that's irrelevant now. He fled in the revolt, sought asylum from Duke Boltrivar.”

The maestro cleared his throat. “You've come a long way, Tom. Can you tell us—?”

Soft chime.

A tall, elegant figure, wearing a gold/yellow cape. Her skin was very black, her features striking.

“You were my finest student, once.”

“Mistress eh'Nalephi!”

She divested herself of the cape.

“So what went wrong, my Lord?”

No-one.

Moving quietly, head down. Plain black cloak.

Tom took a spiralling white tunnel to the smoke-sculpture garden, walked past gentle mag-chimes, and came to the library. Among the crystal-racks, a few browsers. One looked up, and Tom left quickly.

Next.

The third possibility was farther: near the outer courts, a small bonded godown for precious metals only. But the racks were empty, heavy cobwebs—trapped blindmoths unmoving, dead—hung in the corners, and the dust on the floor was undisturbed.

No go.

He worked his way through the entire sequence—
they have to be there
running through his mind—and stopped in the seventh, the last one, a children's ballet studio. No-one.

I can't do this without support.

But neither could he do it with his old servitor friends: they had the knowledge, but not the training.

Losing track of time in the empty studio, haunted by the dark spectre in the mirror: himself, hand resting loosely on the barre.
Did you learn to dance, Mother, in a place like this?
Then he heard the sound of approaching children.

He slipped outside.

Only one course of action suggested itself, so he began the entire exercise again, beginning with the first rendezvous-point and following the sequence, and on the fourth try he found them.

“Catch.”

The crystal sparkled orange as Corduven caught it. “What's this?”

“Everything you need,” said Tom. “Detailed schematics—more detailed than your own—with prisoner locations mapped. Estimated guard strengths.”

Corduven was sitting at a white wrought-iron table beneath tall, dark-leaved bushes with bright flowers and cloying scents. Carp swam in a pool.

It had taken this long—too long—for Corduven's team to reach one of the prearranged rendezvous-points. But when Tom had asked how they had escaped the fighting, Corduven had ignored the question.

“All right,” Corduven said now, leaning back in his chair. “How did you—?”

A low whistle, and he froze.

People coming
, he mouthed.

But a second whistle came, the all-clear, and he continued: “Is it reliable?”

“I'd say so, yes.” Tom turned a chair backwards, sat down.

“How…?”

“Let's just say, the new masters need to keep the old place running. And keep the prisoners fed.”

Corduven took out a small silver infotablet.

“Nice cells.” The schematic blossomed. “The old guest suites. I remember them.”

With teams of revolutionary guards in front of every membrane, on watch at every intersection.

“Me too. The thing is”—Tom gestured: the display rotated and
magnified—“the interim council have anticipated, in my opinion, every possible action.”

Corduven had the rank to mobilize a thousand soldiers for all-out assault—Tom understood that—but their movements would be detected days in advance and the prisoners would disappear. Stealth was the only option, but still uncertain.

“Fate damn it!” Corduven's eyelids flickered. He was showing the stress.

“How are your men?” Meaning:
how many casualties?

This time Corduven answered. “We lost two. The other six are fine. The enemy was suppressed.”

Tom looked away. Then, “Why are you here, Corduven? What's the real reason?”

Corduven answered too quickly: “Is life that simple?”

“Not in my experience. But your marriage with Sylvana was annulled.”

You knew my feelings: that's why I'm here. But what about you?

“Do you think she's beautiful, Tom?”

It caught him unawares. “Oh, yes.”

“I like beautiful women, too, Tom—”

“Naturally.”

“—because I can identify with them, in a sense.”

Tom stared at him. “I don't follow.”

“Not because I desire a relationship with them.”

It took a few moments to sink in.

“Bloody Chaos, Cord!”

I didn't realize.

“Yes, my friend.” Corduven's voice was distant. “That's exactly what it is.”

And it was grounds for disinheritance—at best—among the nobility; within the military, Tom had no idea of the consequences.

He knows the risks in telling me this.

Tom looked at his old friend for a long moment, then held out his hand. “Thank you.”

Gravely, they clasped wrists.

Corduven called the others round for briefing, leaving one lookout.

“Tom, explain your thinking. I'll want pros and cons, gentlemen, so pay attention.”

Two of the soldiers nodded as Tom started: “We can turn their own thinking against them. This is a show trial, so they want an audience in the Aleph Hall. It looks better for the cameras.”

He pulled up a subsidiary holovolume. “They don't want any nasty surprises, of course, so the guest list has been planned. But that gives us something to work with: ID crystals, seating arrangements—I've hacked into those before—and the like.”

“Weapon scans,” interrupted one of the men. “You're not going to be able to suborn their sensor webs.”

Tom noted the
suborn
and the patrician accent. These men held high rank.

“Granted. That's why we'll be going in unarmed.”

Derisive looks, replaced almost immediately by thoughtful expressions.

You picked your men well, Corduven.

Elite-trained, certainly. But there was something else: Corduven's soul-baring had avoided Tom's pertinent question about why he was really here. This operation had the feel of a last-ditch attempt, as if his forces needed to pull off a spectacular
and very public
coup.

Suicide mission? With high-ranking patriotic officers?

“…you think, Tom?”

“I'm sorry?”

“I said—”

“Never mind.” Tom reached inside his tunic, pulled out the talisman and drew it over his head. “Watch carefully, gentlemen.” Gestured,
separated the halves, split the nul-gel with his fingernail. “See this?”

Corduven stiffened: a man used to giving nothing away, but surprised for once.

He didn't know what was inside.

“This,” said Tom, “is a mu-space comms relay. Pilot tech.”