Ruler of Naught (31 page)

Sanctus Hicura, you’re an ugly little blit.
“Firehead!”
She leaned down to kiss him.

Ivard hunched his skinny shoulders, his eyes going furtively
to the med console. “You said not here.”

Marim had wanted him out of the dispensary, which was far
too easy for Montrose to overhear conversations. She was determined to find
that old coin, and had been making progress with him after Montrose let him
return to his cabin.

Now this. He was probably back in the dispensary for good.

So she kissed him again—
sgatchi
, he was ugly, but
she’d kissed worse—and tweaked his chin. “We can talk about that. Right now,
you’ve got to rest or you won’t be any good, no matter what cabin we’re
tumbling in.” She watched the ugly flush of color below his mottled skin, and
played with his fingers so she wouldn’t have to look at his face. “And rest you
shall, or Montrose won’t let you get off
Telvarna
when we reach Granny
Chang’s. But he’s in the galley counting over rations with Schoolboy so I
thought I’d just sneak in. I missed you.”

Ivard’s stupid grin almost made her laugh in his face.

“So what happened? I heard Montrose muttering something to
the captain about how you been going crazy.”

Ivard blinked, his pale eyes going opaque for a moment.
“Voices,” he said. “I think it’s this.” He touched his freckled wrist just
above the Kelly band, now completely melded with his flesh. “But when I’m in
here I don’t hear ‘em,” he added, looking hopeful.

“Good. Don’t want anyone spying on us when we bunny.” She
leaned forward to kiss him again, and paused when he winced, his blush now
going purple. “Here, what’s this?” She touched his hot cheeks. “Don’t tell me
you’re bunking me out—”

Ivard shook his head, his lips pressed together.

She could tell from the lack of humor in his averted gaze
that whatever was in his mind bothered him deeply—and she was not going to
hear anything about it.

He couldn’t have been there when Vi’ya duffed Lokri.
Marim bit her lip against a laugh. She’d been the one to find her bunk-mate
after Vi’ya was through with him, and he’d refused to go to the dispensary so
she’d brought Montrose to him. Even sedated, Lokri had refused to talk about
what had happened.

Marim grinned at Ivard.
I’ll get that story out of him.
She patted his head and talked of inconsequentials. Just before she left, she
brought up his loot again, but he never mentioned his missing coin. That had to
mean he still hadn’t found it, right?

o0o

Jaim moved swiftly through the kinesic form, blocking a
blow, striking lightly with fist and then foot. The Arkad countered these competently
enough that he receded from person to nexus in the pattern of action and
reaction, stress and release.

This semblance of pattern soothed Jaim.

Or it almost soothed him, for he was conscious of the effort
he made to be soothed.

“Keep focus on the pattern, move within the pattern, and
you will see how it extends out through space and time.”
That was what
Jaim’s mother had told him long ago.

The pattern which Jaim had thought was the harmony the
universe strove toward, the syncretic that bound Serapisti and Ulanshu thought:
the joining, the unity.

Corrosive bitterness ignited anger.
There is no unity,
and there can never be joining again.
The bright inner path he had always
found so comforting was gone, replaced by the image of Reth’s claw-slashed
body stiffened in death.

‘Unity’ was the indulgence of the young and strong and
successful.

Jaim moved faster, trying to force thought and memory into
oblivion. Whirling speed, unending movement, brought a limited semblance of
peace until he sensed a faltering in his partner. He shifted abruptly out of
the fight trance to see the Arkad backed against a wall, his chest heaving,
with Jaim’s own fingers extended knife-stiff against his neck.

Jaim dropped his arm. The Arkad closed his eyes, wiping
dripping hair out of his face with a hand that shook. Jaim glanced at the
chrono and was amazed at the time that had passed.

“That was too long,” he said. “Should’ve stopped me.”

Brandon smiled briefly. “Good test... ” He fought for
breath, his light voice hoarse. “In a real fight... I can’t call time... if I’m
tired.”

Doing a rapid mental review, Jaim realized he’d not only
gone long over the time for a practice bout, but he’d forgotten to pull some of
his moves. Yet the Arkad hadn’t spoken up.
He’s fighting his own shades, I
think.
Out loud he said, “You learn quickly.”

“Not quickly enough... ” Brandon said, dropping onto a
chair. He smiled ruefully. “You killed me half a dozen times.”

Jaim was about to say something when he became aware of
noise that unconsciously he had been shutting out: the patterns of classical
music. Once, too, they had been part of the great patterns, but in unraveling
they became monothread filaments, whipping through memories and causing pain to
well afresh.

“KetzenLach,” Brandon said unerringly, his head tipped to
one side. And then, “Who is that playing?”

“Montrose,” Jaim said. “Keyboard.”
He has not played that
since Markham died. Why is he doing it now?
Perhaps he thought it would
help Ivard.

Brandon leaned back against a bulkhead, eyes half-closed,
sweat shining down his shirtless body. “He’s good.” The faint emphasis on the
last word evinced surprise.

Jaim pulled on his tunic, then mopped his stinging eyes with
his sleeve. He could have told the Arkad that the
Telvarna
carried a
remarkable range of recorded music of every kind, from every era, but always
Markham had preferred music made by living hands and voices.

And now I’d rather have silence.

The Arkad was staring off into the distance, his face
reflective. “Markham used to listen to that cycle. All the time.”

“He liked music. Reth said... ”
Jaim winced, tried to
force away the memory, and because it wouldn’t stay forced, he spoke it
instead. “Reth said he was changing crew around so he could have music whenever
we went into skip.”

“Who else plays?”

The question was idle, the Arkad’s gaze still off in the
distance.

Jaim forced himself to speak. He had to live with the pain,
just as he had to live with the knowledge that there was no pattern but that
which humans imagined. “We—Reth Silverknife and I—with sansa-drum and
twelve-tone cymbals. Paysud with windpipes. Lokri, if he drinks enough, knows
songs from every octant. Sings. Well,” he added.

“So Markham had a better conservatory than he had a crew.”

Jaim considered before answering. “Not all of ‘em,” he said.
“Jakarr hated music.”

“Jakarr... He was the one who tried the takeover when Osri
and I arrived, right?”

Jaim nodded, slinging back the mourning-short hair around
his face. That gesture, small as it was, hurt as much as all the other whipping
filaments.
Memory
hurt. “Was Fire Control on
Telvarna
until
Markham found out Vi’ya was faster. Trouble started then.”

The Arkad tipped his head back. “Vi’ya? Makes music, too?”

“No.” Jaim hesitated again, wondering how much to say, then
decided there was nothing to say. “But she listened.”

Brandon got to his feet. “Thanks,” he said, indicating the
mats on the reconfigured rec room floor, and went out.

Jaim walked out, enduring the musical scourge, and walked
straight to Vi’ya’s cabin.

o0o

Marim leaned against the bulkhead, her foot propped behind
her in her favorite position—it looked and was comfortable, but if she had to
propel herself into action, all it took was a push.

Had Jaim really run the Arkad twice as long as usual, or was
it just that she was waiting—and bored?

But at last he appeared, his breathing fast, sweat defining
his bare torso above the old, borrowed work pants. She jabbed her teeth into
her lower lip.

His gaze was distant, and he would have passed right by without
noticing her had she not reached out and caught him by the arm.

The muscle under the smooth brown skin hardened and he
stopped. She noticed with interest the expression of watchfulness, almost a
warning narrowing his blue eyes, and then it was gone, replaced by the courtesy
he used as a shield.

So born nicks don’t touch each other, do they?
Reckless, she had to test it: she grinned at him, then swooped a hand down to
pinch his crotch.

The courtesy disappeared. His eyes widened in surprise and
he stepped back, blocking her hand before she could connect.

A totally human reaction. She laughed in delight. “You’re
nacky,” she said. “Want to bunny?”

“I’m grubby,” he said, his hands out in a deprecating
gesture.

“I like it.”

Red ridged his cheeks, and she laughed again.

He smiled, a smile of irony as well as humor: his control
was back. “Am I being baited? What would you say if I said yes?”

“I’d say my bunk is this way, except Lokri’s there, and he’d
try to steal you. So we can use yours.”

Brandon continued on his way to his cabin. “Are you always
this direct?” he asked as she followed.

She shrugged. “Usually. I don’t see the value in hinting. The
answer is no, or yes, and if you chatz up the scanners too much, you might be
askin’ to bunny and they might hear an invite to view your collection of
Divtish gumslugs.”

Brandon laughed. “But it’s not always that simple.”

“Sure it is,” she chirped, and waited for the informative
lecture on Douloi indirection, and how every human interaction carried
unending consequences. Thus convincing himself of the innocence of her
intentions.

They reached the cabin. He tabbed the annunciator to green,
but leaned against the hatch instead of opening it. He was still smiling, but
the irony was very much in evidence. “In any society,” he observed,
“disingenuousness makes an effective tactic.”

Warning tingled in her, causing her to laugh in surprise and
delight.
But of course he assumes Markham described nick doings. Which he
did.

And because she really was reckless, she leaned past him and
hit the control. The hatch slid open, and she gave him a gentle push. “You
think I don’t want to bunny?”

“Maybe you do,” he said, obligingly stepping inside, “but I
don’t.” It was said so lightly, and with a rare, wide smile, that she was
charmed.

And she was also in.

Wandering the perimeter, she scanned here and there, then
grinned over her shoulder at him. “What’s the matter?” she challenged. “You
just like nicks? Or is it men only?”

He sat down on his bunk, spreading his hands. “What matter
either way?”

“Because the first, I can show you things I bet those nick
ladies only watch on their secret vids, and as for the second—well, I never
did like following a dead trace.” She finished her circuit of the room: nothing
in sight. She found herself hoping that she wouldn’t find the coin too soon.

Brandon sat back. “Since we’re being direct, won’t it hit
that boy hard if you rack up with someone else?”

She pursed her lips. “He’s on the sick list.”

Brandon nodded. “And it won’t help him recover any faster if
his first love bunks him out for someone else.”

She opened her mouth to say that Ivard wouldn’t notice, except
he would, and they both knew it. Even sick, Ivard was as sensitive as something
with antennae. Besides, she’d known since they walked in that she wasn’t going
to get into Brandon’s bunk—this time—so she got back to business. “It would
cheer him more,” she said, “if the stuff he lost would find its way back into
his pocket.”

Brandon looked surprised. “You mean he lost Markham’s flight
ribbon?” His face went serious.

“And something Greywing gave him.”

“He never mentioned that,” Brandon said absently. “Where?
When?”

He’s still thinking about Markham’s chatzing Academy
thing.
“Here,” she said, pointing outside. “When you got back to the ship
after the raid on your palace.”

Brandon looked relieved. “Then it ought to turn up.”

Dead trace indeed.
“Hope so,” she said cheerfully.
“If you happen to find it, or them, I should say, let him know.”

“What else am I looking for?”

She shrugged, moving toward the hatch. “Little metal
object,” she said carelessly, “Old. But that flight ribbon is real important to
him.” She waited for Brandon’s nod of acknowledgment—he believed her. “So I’ll
try you later. When you’re clean!” Grinning, she disappeared.

o0o

The green light glowed in the annunciator.

Vi’ya never answered knocks. If the light was green, the hatch
was unlocked.

Jaim tabbed it open. Seldom did anyone go to the captain’s
cabin, though it was the most spacious one on the ship. It had a second cabin
off it, for servants or lovers in more sumptuous days. Now that room housed the
Eya’a in a refrigerated atmosphere, bare except for the complicated fluttering
hangings that the Eya’a wove themselves.

The main cabin was large and seemed larger, so barren it was
of furniture. A narrow bunk was set directly beneath a viewport. On the opposing
wall hung an age-battered tapestry, full of dark fires and destruction. Most of
these things were familiar, save the tear-shaped stone hanging next to the
tapestry. As always, no personal items were in sight. Nor was there any sign
of blood, or destruction.

As Jaim crossed the white-tiled, antiseptic floor, colors
muttered deeply within the tear-shaped stone, distracting him.
That’s the
stone the Arkad gave her on the Mandala.
He was surprised she’d put it up,
like some kind of trophy; but then, raiding the Mandala successfully was an
event that required commemoration if ever there was one.