Ruler of Naught (54 page)

Meanwhile a businesslike warrant officer ran the scanner over
Osri’s body and stopped short at his armpit. “Hand it over,” the man said.

“But I—”

“Now.”

Pressing his lips together, he unzipped his suit and
withdrew the coin and the flight ribbon, then laid them in the steel box
indicated by a pointed weapon. He noticed Marim staring at the box.
At least
I kept it from
you.

The warrant officer motioned him toward a hatch, through
which the Rifters were now being conducted. He tried to see what was happening
with his father and Brandon.

“Eyes front,” snapped the officer. “Move it.” The push that
accompanied the order knocked Osri off balance, and he stumbled towards the
hatch. He hadn’t even managed to note the warrant officer’s name for the formal
letter of complaint he would be writing soon.

o0o

Sebastian Omilov obediently took the position indicated as
Marines in standard fatigues lined everyone up against the long wall of what he
took to be an interrogation room. Backed by two Marines in battle armor, whose
bulk made the good-sized room seem small, their movements were brusque and
assured.

Omilov stood next to his son, whose breathing betrayed his
anger. Osri was scowling at Marim and Lokri as they continued cracking jokes at
the impassive figures in battle armor. Omilov could hear the bravado in both
their voices and, oddly, the trace of a Torigan accent in Lokri’s, something
he’d not detected before.

On the other side of Montrose, Ivard slouched, his face pale
and vacant, his good hand clutching his other arm. The bandage on his back
under his coveralls made him look lopsided. His eyes moved restlessly without
focusing on anything and his body swayed, following an unmistakable though
subtle triple beat

Vi’ya and the Eya’a stood like statues at the front of the
line. The big cat paced restlessly back and forth between the limits of its
leash, its tail snapping, the fur on its back slightly fluffed. Omilov could
hear a throaty growl. He didn’t think it was a purr. Jaim was equally still, his
expression inward.

Then Omilov forgot them all as Brandon entered, preceded by
the two dogs, whose leashes he held like reins. For a moment the scene took on
a numinous clarity in Sebastian’s eyes as it recalled to him the image on the
ring now glinting on the Aerenarch’s right hand.
Or, a smiling charioteer,
sable, vested proper, driving a chariot gules, drawn by two sphinxes, sable and
argent, all affrontee, in base a ford proper.
Ancient symbol of will and
discipline, the Faseult line had paired it with laughter in their family motto.
Only hours before he was murdered by Rifters, Tanri Faseult had entrusted that
ring to Brandon for delivery to his brother, now Archon of Charvann, if he
still lived.

But there was no laughter in Brandon’s face. Only, Omilov
thought, the dawning realization that his will would account for even less on
one of his father’s battlecruisers than it had among the raffish crew of a
Rifter ship.

Of all of us here, Brandon’s sentence will be the
longest.

o0o

Osri felt his father stiffen next to him when the Aerenarch
came in. At first Osri thought Sebastian shared his surge of hope that Brandon would
be recognized and save them from being shot when Marim and Lokri finally went
too far.

But a glance at Brandon made it clear that even his own father
would have trouble recognizing him now. Though, Osri thought with that detached
and astringent humor that took hold of him now and then, the disreputable
condition of Brandon’s clothing and the bruises on his face seemed to highlight
the differences between his walk and the wary surrender that informed the
movements of the Rifters around him. It affected the Marine guards: it could be
that the guards were no more conscious of the difference than Brandon seemed to
be as he watched Ivard, yet the Marine guiding him did not touch him as he took
his position with the others.

A hatch behind the console hissed open, revealing a short
man with slicked-down glossy black hair and a narrow mustache. His uniform—the
insignia marked him as a commander—was crisply pressed, making Osri feel even
grubbier in his shapeless Rifter clothing. The commander was followed by an
ensign, a young woman. The older officer looked around, his face revealing
nothing, and then seated himself with mannered precision next to the console.
Marim muttered a bawdy comment to Lokri, then both fell silent as a prod from a
firejac.

The ensign seated herself at the console, glanced at it
briefly, and said, “Two of them identified.” She looked up at the crew. “Ivard
il-Kavic, step forward. Jesimar vlith-Kendrian, step forward.”

A hiss of surprise brought everyone’s attention to Lokri. He
had stilled, unbreathing, his eyes wide. Ivard’s face was as white as the wall
as he stepped away from it. Then Lokri then took a step forward, lips twisted
in contempt.

The man at the console said dispassionately: “Ivard
il-Kavic, bond-breaker, Natsu IV, year 960.” Then, with a glance at Lokri,
“Jesimar vlith-Kendrian: praecidens.” He paused.

Disowned?

“Murder, both parents and four Polloi, crime registered in
Torigan, year 951,” the officer continued. “None of the others registered in
criminal records.”

They only scanned for registered criminals.
“If
you’ll just listen—” Osri began.

“Quiet,” the ensign warned.

One of the armored figures motioned his weapon at Osri, and
Omilov murmured, “Be patient, son.”

“YST 8740
Maiden’s Dream
,” the ensign behind the
console said. “Registry transponder seals broken. Who is the captain?”

Vi’ya stepped forward, one of the Marines tracking her with
a jac. “I am,” she said.

“Someone else here you’ll want to speak to first.” Marim
snorted with laughter.

“Quiet.”

Brandon had been watching Ivard, a slight frown of concern
in his eyes. When Marim spoke, he straightened up from his relaxed posture
against the wall. It was a very subtle movement, so unthreatening that none of
the Marines re-aimed their weapons at him, yet somehow it drew everyone’s focus.

Osri remembered their arrival on Dis, and Brandon
straightening up that very same way after the shock of hearing about Markham
vlith-L’Ranja’s death.

An old professor had said once to Osri of the High Douloi,
Don’t
watch their faces, watch their hands.
It was not Brandon’s hands, it was
his whole body, that expressed his thoughts, Osri realized.

Marim’s forcing him to assume the Aerenarch persona.

But that wasn’t it, not quite yet. Reaching further back
into the past, Osri had another insight:
There are two sets of prisoners
here, the Rifters—and the Aerenarch Brandon vlith-Arkad.

Osri stood stiffly, his heart hammering. Omilov merely
looked tired: had his father seen that transformation as well?

If so, there was no surprise in his face. Had his father
known it all along? Brandon’s gaze lifted as the hatch slid open once more. Osri
recognized the man who entered: it was the captain of the
Mbwa Kali,
whose image had appeared on the viewscreen of the
Telvarna:
Nukiel.

When the captain first laid his gaze on his prisoners, he
stopped as suddenly as if he had run into an invisible dyplast wall. His throat
worked, and—and Osri refused to believe it of a high-ranked naval officer—he
looked almost afraid. Then the mask of command tightened his features again.

“Commander, I assumed you scanned them under regulations.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the officer, his face reflecting question.
He’d seen the captain’s reaction, too.

“Release the jurisdiction lock on those scans.”

Now
the computers would compare their retinal
patterns against the general subject rosters—normally forbidden without
permission of the person scanned. Osri breathed out in relief. Soon things
would be back to normal, the Rifters imprisoned, and he, his father, and the
Aerenarch free.

The console hummed and twittered as the discriminators went
to work; it would take some time, Osri knew, for them to sift through the
immense mass of data represented by the citizen roster.

Ivard swayed, and Montrose steadied him.

“Cold... ” Ivard whispered, the sound loud in the room.

At that moment the console bleeped, and the captain looked
up, his startlement plain. “Ten-hut!” he barked, stepping around the console as
the commander and the ensign leapt to their feet.

The servos of the two armored figures at the entry hatch
whined as they grounded their oversized weapons briefly, then brought them to
attention.

“Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad—”

“Aerenarch,” Omilov corrected softly, his tired face
quirking with rueful amusement.

“Aerenarch—?” Captain Nukiel repeated, his eyes manic with
shock, “I have the honor to welcome you aboard.” He dropped on one knee before
Brandon.

The Aerenarch held out his hands palms-up as the captain
placed his, palms-down, over them. Then Brandon raised his hands, bringing the
captain back to his feet.

Abruptly the room was a swirl of motion as the captain
ushered the Aerenarch across the room. Osri stepped forward, only to be
motioned back by a Marine; Brandon began speaking to Nukiel. Finally,
finally
,
Osri was permitted to separate himself from the lawless Rifters.
Lokri, a
murderer? It figures!

As they approached the hatch, the commander addressed Nukiel.

“Captain. Set course for Ares?” he asked.

Nukiel turned slowly, stress and even pain lining his
features as he gazed first at the Aerenarch, then at the Rifters, especially
Ivard and the Eya’a.

He shook his head. “No, Commander,” Nukiel said, almost inaudibly.
“Set course for Desrien, maximum speed.”

Total silence met this command—this outrageous order—as the
Aerenarch stared, and Omilov’s lips parted. Then Montrose began arguing with
the guards, seconded by Marim.

At the console, the commander’s mouth fell open.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Ivard slumped to the deck in a
faint.

“See? See what you did, you blunge-eyed nickblits?” Marim
yelled.

In the distance they heard Lucifur growl and hiss. A dog
barked.

I know what’s happened,
Osri thought wildly,
I’ve
finally gone mad.

He slid his hands over his eyes and gave himself up to
helpless laughter.

o0o

It was night, and the windows in the library of the Palace
Minor reflected his image blackly as Eusabian moved along a wall of books,
fingering their spines and drawing one out occasionally for a closer look. A
floating lamp followed him as he moved slowly along. The rest of the room was
mantled in unquiet shadows from a fire crackling on the hearth. The room
smelled of leather and glue and the less identifiable scents of an ancient
technology that would never be entirely displaced by electronics.

The Lord of Vengeance pushed a book back into alignment,
then seated himself in one of the flare-backed leather chairs fronting the
fireplace. To one side was an elegantly fragile table made of some twisted,
twining, highly polished wood, looking more like it had been grown than
constructed. It held a number of record chips scattered around a small box with
a data socket in it.

Eusabian picked up one of the chips and regarded it
musingly. On its surface, in a bold, spiky, upright handwriting, was indited
“Testamentary—Jaspar Arkad.” The ink was faded, more visible by the indentation
in the surface than any remaining pigmentation. He placed it in the socket and sat
back expectantly.

There was a long pause, then a flicker of reddish light and
a subtle tingling in his bones. The Avatar of Dol sat up in momentary
startlement.
It scanned me. Why?

Then an image wavered into solidity in front of him as some
unseen mechanism damped down the fire and the lamp, so that the only source of
illumination in the room was the ghostly figure of the founder of the Arkad
dynasty, Jaspar hai-Arkad. He was a spare man; his face echoed that of the
Avatar’s defeated foe, but it was old and seamed. Nonetheless, he stood rigidly
erect, unyielding to age, and the force of his personality reached out
undiminished across the centuries.

The image’s eyes came to rest on him and seemed to focus,
causing a prickle of awe which Eusabian suppressed angrily; but for the first
time, he understood the near-mythical stature the man had attained, and how it
was that the polity he had fashioned had lasted so long. Behind him he heard
the door to the library open quietly, but his mind was held in the thrall of a
man long dead, and he ignored the interruption.

Then the image spoke.

“Since you are not of the house of Arkad,” now Eusabian
understood the purpose of the scan, “you cannot know that this record is only
viewed by the ruling member of the Family upon his or her accession. That
message you will not receive. But, as I know, perhaps better than most men,
that nothing in Totality lasts forever, I now address myself to whoever, or
whatever, has usurped my descendants.”

o0o

Barrodagh stood indecisively in the doorway, his exultation
dying out of him, replaced with a shiver of awe as he watched his lord lectured
by a ghost.

“... only when the counterbalances of civilization are flung
awry by great misery and massive suffering, so that a touch in the right place
can redirect into a new path the upwelling energies that drive us toward the
Telos, can one man or woman make a difference in his or her own lifetime. I was
one who was both fortunate and unfortunate enough to be so placed... ”

Barrodagh crept forward, hugging his arms to his sides to
keep from shivering. He’d been among Dol’jharians too long, with their ghosts
and demons. Now, unbidden, the legends of his Bori childhood rose up from
memory. He remembered the terrors that had made his nights a misery, especially
the tales of the Vengyst, most famous and horrible of all Bori haunts, told him
by his unspeakable older sister just before she turned off the lights and
locked him in the darkness. The Vengyst, which cries
Willa-Drissa-Will
from the corner before it pounces and sucks out its victim’s eyes with its
purse-like mouth.