Ruler of Naught (51 page)

Whitecode: start up the ship for a fast getaway. Marim
swiftly bozzed Montrose and passed on the message.

As she did, the fight ended abruptly. Everyone stood or
leaned, breathing hard and looking at one another over the fallen guards.

Lokri was the first to move. He stepped over two of his assailants,
who lay on the ground, one moaning, and the other quite still with his knife protruding
from his back. Lokri pulled free his knife, and with a grimace, cleaned it on
the man’s gaudy shirt.

Marim gazed around the ruined shop. Cases glittered with
fragments of crystal and glass. Lokri lurched against one as he straightened
up, holding his bad arm against him. He poked his head inside the case, then
grabbed a beautiful golden torc from the single remaining shelf where,
miraculously, it lay undisturbed. Then he ripped off his mask and swiped his
hair out of his face with shaking hands. The side of his head was dark with
dust and blood mixed. He grinned rakishly as he handed the golden ornament to
Vi’ya. “Truce?”

She took it with red-streaked fingers and laughed softly.
“Now we must run,” she said, jamming the torc over her arm.

As if to concur, an alarm whooped, seeming to come from
everywhere at once.

“General Lockdown,” Jaim said. “But Snurkel will have to
tell the Syndics why.”

“He will show vids of us.” Vi’ya looked grim as she
indicated Brandon.

“Of our masks.” Brandon swooped down and grabbed up a
gleaming length of emerald and gold-embroidered shanta-silk. “Here.” He pitched
it at Vi’ya, who swathed her body and head in it.

Lokri fished something out of a ruined display case.“Put
this on,” Lokri said to Brandon, holding out a domino in ancient style, shiny
with age. “I’ll take this.” He reached down and pulled the jacket from one of
the unconscious guards. “Not much of a disguise, but maybe it’ll get us a
little farther.”

They started out, Lokri shrugging into the jacket, wincing
and cursing as he jarred his healing arm.

The corridor was suspiciously deserted. Jaim smiled briefly,
then said, “It’s time to find some of my old ratways. Come.”

o0o

Montrose arrived at the Chirurgicon, breathing heavily. He
had thought out a story on the run through the twisting corridors. But when he
arrived at the surgeon’s, one of the aides pulled him through a door as soon as
he walked in—as if they’d been watching for him.

Alarmed, he groped for his knife, then
Atropos-Clotho-Lakisus waltzed in, threir headstalks twirling rapidly.

“You must take Ivard/Archon to safety,” the Intermittor
fluted.

“You know—”

“Lockdown,” Atropos continued, its voice reedy. “Wethree
shall aid you, and the vlith-Arkad, but you must—”

“Vlith—everyone knows he’s here?” Montrose cut in, alarm
turning into fear.

“Wethree met him in the corridor a short time ago—the Arkad genome
is known to us. Otherwise, just one vendor, and the Caucus for Public Order,”
the Intermittor said. “But that will change very rapidly. You must promise to
get Ivard to Ares.”

“Ares!” Montrose repeated. “Nobody knows where it is—”

“The Archon’s subphratry is there. Portus-Dartinus-Atos. You
must
get Ivard there.”

Montrose thought of Omilov and nodded slowly. “There may be
a way.”

“It is well. But you must do more, or surely fail.”

Alarm kindled in Montrose. “What do you mean?”

“Dissension burns in Rifthaven. Dol’jhar has overreached. Wethree
shall add fear to the mixture, to break the locks that hold you and yours
within.”

A sharp scent burst from the Intermittor, and a small
portion of its ribbons near its headstalk changed color, shading into a
purplish tone. Atropos’ headstalk looped down in a sinuous motion and plucked
a small portion of ribbon, then held it out to Montrose.

“No harm will come to you, Montrose,” sang the Intermittor.
“You will understand when the time comes.”

There was no time for questions, and he knew the Kelly would
do nothing to imperil the safety of the Archon’s genome. He nodded. The
Intermittor slapped the ribbon against his throat, then Lakisus and Clotho
swathed his neck in a silk scarf as a fierce itching commenced.

“None will stop you now,” said the Intermittor, its
headstalk looping in the curve that Montrose knew indicated amusement.

It waltzed away in step with Clotho and Lakisus, its
headstalk turning back to address him one more time. “Wethree go to help you.
Move quickly: wethree move quickly as well.”

Ivard emerged from a side room, looking thin and pale but
his smile was cocky and his eyes clear of fever.

“We gotta run, huh?” the boy said. “I’m ready.”

Montrose bowed silently to the departing Kelly, then put his
hand on Ivard’s good shoulder to guide him out.

The trip was quick but nerve-racking. Despite his
intentions, it became obvious very quickly that Ivard had not much stamina.
His breath was coming in wheezing gasps long before they reached the refit shop
where the
Telvarna
was docked. And Montrose himself didn’t feel entirely
normal: his whole torso itched, and he felt bloated, like he’d eaten two or
three normal meals in one sitting. He hoped the Kelly had rightly judged his
biology.

Then Montrose came to a halt, ramming Ivard into a narrow
doorway between two shops. A group of tough, dangerous-looking Syndicate
enforcers wearing Draco colors, with their red-stained filed teeth bared, took
up a station before the doors of the dock, armed with pellet-jacs. Nearby, a
smaller group of Yim, wearing the brassards of Public Order, stood glaring at
the larger Draco contingent, fingering their weapons.

“You must disperse. You know the rules,” the Yim declared.

“Not if a fleet of brainburners are trying to take over
Rifthaven,” a Draco declared.

“Brainburners?” Ivard muttered, shivering. “Oh!”

Montrose saw something he’d never seen before—a single
Kelly, the Intermittor of the surgeon triad, Atropos, undulated down the
street, its headstalk quivering.

The heads of the Draco turned sharply. They knew what a rarity
it was for a Kelly to be seen alone. Apparently some of them knew the surgeon,
for one stuck out her weapon in front of the Kelly and said, “What’s your hurry—brainburners
coming, am I right?”

“It is imperative to investigate a worse rumor,” the Kelly
twittered in a loud drone.

“What rumor?” Another Draco stepped forward, his gun at a
threatening angle.

“A worse one?” The Public Order squad moved closer as well,
keeping a wary eye on the Draco.

“The Thismian Bloat has broken out in this sublevel,” the
Kelly trilled. “We must investigate... and encourage all to wear oxygen masks,
and not to touch any surface with any portion of skin... ”

A crowd had gathered, but at this news, the listeners
started backing away.

“Thismian Bloat!” someone yelled. “During a lockdown?”

“Here?” one of the Draco demanded. He looked at the hatch
behind him, evidently weighing his orders against this new information.

“Yes,” said Atropos. “Be alert for anyone with an unusual
rash, or who is covered up. But do not, if you value your life, shoot them or
otherwise break their skin. That will only spread it faster.” The Intermittor
moved on.

The Draco looked at one another, the points of the guns
lowering—then jerking up again as a third group of armed people arrived at a
trot.

“Get out of here!” one of the Draco yelled.

“This is our sector, Draco,” one of the newcomers yelled
back. “We’ll protect our own—”

“We are Public Order!” the Draco leader shouted.

“You Kug can go suck blunge,” a Yim shrieked.

A riot seemed on the verge of breaking out—right in front of
the hatch leading to the refit shop where the Telvarna awaited its crew.
Montrose shook his head as his stomach rumbled in a way he had never heard
before.

“I think it’s my turn,” he breathed, now understanding what
the Kelly had done to him.

“What’s Thismian Bloat?” Ivard asked. “I never heard of that
one.”

“Then you’re lucky,” Montrose said, swallowing rapidly.
“Shiidra used it against humans early in the war.”

“What happens?”

“Starts with an itch, and then you start to belch and fart
like a Nolifer Windsack. It’s all downhill from there, until the virus converts
your guts into gas all at once and blows you all over the landscape.” He pushed
the boy back into the shadows. “Stay put.”

He walked out, scanning the Draco rapidly. None of them had
seen him before, he was certain of that.

Their gazes took in his scarf, and the leader said, “What do
you want?”

Montrose opened his mouth to reply, and the volume of the
ensuing belch surprised even him. “Excuse me,” he said as the echoes died away,
sensing heads turning all up and down the corridor. “A bit of bad yeelm, I
think.”

The Draco glanced at his compatriots uneasily. “Well, you
can’t get through here.”

Phweeeeeet-Pop!
Montrose felt his pant legs flutter,
and the smell was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The Draco
evidently agreed; two of them began backing away. The Yim and Kug also backed
away, in different directions.

But their leader was made of sterner stuff. He stepped forward
and pulled the scarf away from Montrose’s neck with the point of his jac. His
eyes widened.

Braaaaack-Kaboom!
The Draco jumped back, his face
drained of color. Montrose suppressed the urge to look down and see if his legs
were still attached to his body—the Kelly command of their ribbon chemistry was
truly awesome. He hoped there were no open flames nearby, or this part of
Rifthaven would be blown right out of orbit.

“It’s the Bloat!” screeched a bystander, and the corridor abruptly
transformed into a riot scene as everyone, the Draco included, fled in terror.

“Come on, boy,” he said, trying not to laugh. “Let’s get the
ship fired up.” He only hoped the Kelly-induced symptoms were gone by the time
the rest of the crew got back, or he might end up living in the airlock for the
rest of their journey.

o0o

The run for freedom was a revelation for Jaim.

He had realized within an hour of his arrival at Jucan’s
shop that a return to his family was a mistake. The reasons why he had left,
which had seemed diminished to insignificance by Reth Silverknife’s death, had
returned, like carrion birds, to feed on his spirit.

Jucan was happy to see his twin again—too happy. His
life-mate Tura made it clear he was less welcome now than he had been on his
last visit.

They had carried out all the food rituals, but Tura with
many dark looks in his direction, looks which made the drink bitter and the
bread taste of ash.

When Jaim had tried to tell his brother he needed to talk,
for he had lost the path—if the Path had ever existed—she had somehow
overheard, and interrupted to request him not to poison the light in their
home with his disharmony.

It had been in his mind to say that the disharmony was
brought by her, but he was silent. He never answered her jibes, even though
they surprised his brother, who insisted that she was mild as milk most times.
Jaim would never tell his brother that it was he, and not Jucan, whom Tura had
wanted first, and the poison had been her gift to him for his refusal.

Lokri’s call for aid had been a relief. he had gone with
only a word of peace to his brother, and no words at all to Tura. But he had
felt her eyes watching him, long after the door was closed between them.

It had half been in his mind to lose this fight, to find nothingness
in death, if there was no peace. But once he arrived at Snurkel’s, his training
had taken over his body, and soon a kind of balance was restored between the
present and need.

And what he observed brought to his awareness a new window,
a new light. The window was Brandon Arkad in action.

The warrior whose feet stay on the Path does not become
tangled in the jungles of anger. The leader of warriors keeps the Path clear
for all who follow.

The spiritual truths had burned to ash with the
Sunflame
but the martial ones had rekindled themselves. Vi’ya, and Jaim himself, possibly
Lokri, could best Brandon in a fight, but none of them led so effortlessly.

Jaim had thought Vi’ya a good enough leader: she knew strategy
well and issued clear orders. And she had, after her own fashion, considered
the welfare of her crew, something she had learned from Markham.

But as the five of them ran through the tortuous byways of
Rifthaven, encountering danger at nearly every intersection, it was Brandon who
kept them laughing with a stream of absurd commentary on the passing sights,
interspersed with snatches of song. Once, even, the nonsense rhymes of
childhood, used to set a rhythm as they fought their way through a gang of
angry Draco that set upon them without warning.

Lokri once joined in a song, his clear baritone marking a melodic
counterpoint to the light tenor voice; somehow it was easy to disable, and not
to kill, the gang of angry Yim who accosted them. And though the Arkad was not
the best fighter, it was he who watched for the others, calling exhortations, encouragements,
and warnings when a platoon of roving Kug met them, or some drunken spacers
enjoying the sudden outbreaks of fighting all over Rifthaven did their best to
join in. It was he who first detected the dissension among their enemies and
adroitly turned their intent aside so that the five might pass safely.

It was the Path. The light.

Even Vi’ya was smiling as they ran down the last street toward
the refit shop. Her smile disappeared, though, when they saw the
Telvarna
.
Jaim noted the utter absence of people in the street. Alarm’s flame cooled into
purpose.

As they ran up the ramp, he felt under his feet the thrum of
the engines winding up, and he homed straight for them.