Ruler of Naught (81 page)

Efriq gave a quick shake of his head. Brandon looked from
one to the other, his pleasant face completely unreadable. What does the
prospect of Ares mean for him?

“It gives us enough to go on,” Eloatri said, sitting back in
her chair. “I thank you gentlemen for your patience.”

Nukiel hesitated, then essayed a gamble. The High Phanist
had taken them by surprise when she joined the Aerenarch and the Rifters on
their return from Desrien. Her arrival had thrown his crew into almost as much
turmoil as the appearance of the Arkad heir on the Rifter ship had.

But she had been a perfect guest, self-effacing, content for
the most part to remain in her own quarters after the official tour, except for
attendance at various religious observances she was invited to, in which she
firmly declined any official participation.

“I confess to curiosity,” he said. “Is it the war that
brings the Magisterium to Ares?”

Eloatri gave a small chuckle. “It’s not war,” she said.
“It’s your passengers.”

Nukiel exchanged a quick glance with Efriq. On his other
side, Brandon just smiled.

“All of them,” she said. Adding sympathetically, “Their
appearance—so sudden—must have been quite a shock for your crew.”

Efriq choked on a sip of tea.

The clerk’s lips thinned, obviously suppressing a smile.
Eloatri did not hide her amusement. “I thought so. Well, it was no less of a
shock for us.” Then a slight line appeared between her eyes. “But there’s one
more I... saw,” she continued, her voice musing. “I don’t know who he is.”

Her face smoothed. “But no mind. For now, I find I must try
to communicate with the Eya’a better. And as for the youth bearing the Kelly
Archon’s genome... ” She made a large gesture. “I am delighted, by the way,
that your medical technicians report that he is on the mend.”

“Well, his fever is gone,” Nukiel said cautiously. “And his
burn seems to be healing at last.”

Eloatri nodded. “He has excellent care. I will have much to
say in your praise when I do meet your Admiral Nyberg.”

Relief ballooned inside Nukiel. Perhaps he would not face a
court martial after all, but merely an inquiry. Regardless, he could hardly
wait to hand all his passengers over to a higher authority. He knew that once
he had done so, every action, every conversation would be picked over by anyone
who had enough clout to get clearance. Brandon would be the civs’
responsibility—the civs and the Navy high brass, he corrected silently. There
were laws set up, just to protect citizens against military encroachment, and
these laws would in turn protect the military.

“Tell me, Your Highness,” Efriq said. “What did you think of
Desrien?”

The Aerenarch looked up, his gaze abstract, then he smiled.
“We only saw a small portion,” he said. “But what we did see was unforgettable.”

Eloatri chortled in delight. Even the clerk smiled.

“So I would imagine,” Efriq murmured, his tone so devoid of
innuendo the High Phanist laughed anew.

Brandon glanced at her appreciatively and then introduced an
unexceptionable topic: the artwork in the New Glastonbury cathedral.

They were still on the subject of art when Nukiel signaled
to the waiting steward to clear away the dishes. The interview was at an end;
his job was officially over, all except for delivering them to Nyberg.

He resisted looking at his chrono, but he did glance at
Efriq, to see understanding in his old friend’s eyes. He was counting the
hours.

o0o

The chronometer in his cell seemed broken even as it
remorselessly counted off each hour that brought Lokri closer to Ares. He stood
up and banged on it, then began pacing. He couldn’t sleep. Whatever drugs had
guarded the secrets of New Glastonbury were still buzzing in his mind and
through his limbs, days after their departure from Desrien, despite what the
Navy medics said. They wouldn’t let him see Montrose.

His pacing brought him to the door of his cell. He raised
his arms and slammed both fists against its hard-locked rigidity. Locked,
locked, locked.

Locked, locked, locked.
Lokri thought religious
people were supposed to be more trusting. But here was a set of stairs leading down.
Maybe there’d be an exit somewhere beneath the cathedral.

The halls below were cool, smelling of ancient stone, lit at
intervals by iron-wrought sconces. The air was cool and still, as if it had not
stirred for centuries. He never passed anyone, and all the doors he tried were
locked.

From time to time he heard faint noise, and saw a rhythmic
flicker around a corner. The first half-dozen times he saw this evanescent
light he plunged down an adjacent hallway to escape populated areas.

But the seventh time he neared the end of a long, cold
hallway and saw the now-familiar purple flicker he suspected that he was
wandering around in circles. So he turned toward the light and noise, figuring
he could hide among the crowd, and make his way to an exit.

Rounding the last corner, he was surprised to see an open
door with lumensquiggles in an unfamiliar script above it, giving off the
pulsing light. The noise, the smells, reminded him of the Galadium on
Rifthaven. He laughed, breaking into a run. Why had he not guessed that the
high-end religious nicks would have their own gambling den?

I wonder if there's one for every faith? All designed to
take money from the gullible, just like those long-faced fools upstairs do
.
And of course this place would give their off-duty clerics something to do with
their time and money.

He passed through the door. A hulking masked man held out a
hand.

Lokri lifted his own, palms out. “I'm broke,” he said with
cheerful honesty. “But I won't be long if you'll point out the Phalanx or Xi
tables.”

The man shrugged massive shoulders, reminding Lokri—uncomfortably—of
one of Vi'ya's Dol'jharians. “We don't play in that kind of coin.” The man’s
voice rumbled.

“I'll play in any kind of coin,” Lokri said. “Let me in.”
And
if I don't like it, I'm out the other side.

This time one shoulder lifted, and the hand waved him
forward. Lokri passed on inside, breathing deeply of the head-twisting scents
of expensive dream-smoke. The room was crowded with flash and shadow
pleasure-seekers, their outlines diffused by a weirdly glowing red haze. Lokri
watched the smoke swirl up from censers, back-lit by the ruby lumens overhead. The
affect was like something from the lowest precinct of hell, an observation which
Lokri found highly entertaining.

“Jess,” came a pleasant tenor voice, one Lokri hadn't heard
for a long time.

Stung at first, for he hated reminders of his real name and
origins, Lokri swiftly turned to see the crimson outline of a short, thin man with
long, wispy hair.

Lokri choked on a laugh. He would never have expected to
find in a place like Desrien the most dangerous man in Rifthaven.
I never
expected to see him again at all
. “Digge Kelar,” he exclaimed aloud. “I
thought you were dead.”

Kelar lifted his hands, his round, young-seeming face beaming
with boyish delight. “Appearances belie.”

“What brings you
here?
” Though Lokri was beginning to
appreciate Desrien—the
real
Desrien—more each moment.

“To play,” Kelar said. “For greater stakes. The greatest.”

Lokri laughed. “I might have known.”

“Come, Jess. Join us.”

“Willingly,” Lokri said, “but please. Call me Lokri.”

Hearing his old name reminded him of the damned nicks and
their battlecruiser, waiting to take him to his execution—if he didn't escape
them.
Except I met Kelar after I changed identities, not before...

The anomaly made Lokri wary, but Kelar just laid his hand on
Lokri's shoulder. “Come within. I'll have you know that we play for souls here.”

“Souls,” Lokri repeated, instantly diverted.

“Everything open and understood, always, in matters of play
or pay.” It was the same thing he'd said when he first started the Galadium,
out of nothing but a plasma-scarred derelict ship he'd flown in, empty except
for a mysterious case in the cargo bay, and no hint where he'd been or how he'd
gotten it. Within two years he had the best club in the station.

Lokri laughed.
Souls.
He'd walked into the Galadium
without money before, which had not stopped him from the risk of betting
anyway. How much easier to stake something that didn't exist?
It's what you
might expect on a planet like this—but still, finding Kelar talking religious
comes as a surprise.

“Xi game's this way,” Kelar said.

Lokri followed to the most elaborate Xi setup he'd ever
beheld. Twelve circles of speeding lights intersected in a tall, revolving
column, with brief lineups of one color, then another, at odd intervals. Gathered
around the base of the holographic display were intensely focused players,
hitting their freeze-key when they thought the next color bar would line up.

Lokri watched. The circles spun faster than he was used to,
and he'd never seen a tower of more than eight bars. But the odds for Xi had
always been a lure—sometimes as much as fifty to one for color bars, and
exponentially higher for repeated patterns.

Lokri gauged the players. In his experience, pilots and
navigators were drawn to Xi; anyone who had a knack for seeing patterns in
objects moving in space.

He remembered Ivard's sister Greywing being drawn to Xi, and
felt mild regret at her loss, followed by a jolt of recognition. He blinked,
tried to rub the reddish dreamsmoke haze from his eyes, and stared at the
short, scrawny female in the old flightsuit. Short spacer-style haircut, ugly
freckled skin, guarded expression: it was Greywing.

A player fell away from his position, giving a low cry, and
Kelar, who had slipped into the dealer's cage, motioned Greywing to take the
man's place.

Greywing stepped forward, her thin, wary face underlit in
ghostly hues by the glowing colors on the console at her fingers.

“Five tries, pilgrim, five tries,” Kelar said. “Your call or
mine?”

“Mine,” Greywing said. It was definitely her voice. Lokri
stood back, nausea crawling up his gut; he knew he’d seen Greywing fall to a
Tarkan's jac in the Mandala.

“Red,” Greywing said.

“Try red,” Kelar repeated.

The whirling lights reflected in Greywing's unblinking eyes
as she watched the tower, her chin uplifted, shoulders braced. She'd always
faced the universe in that stance, ready for attack, but she'd had courage. Lokri
hoped she'd win now.

“Bets?” Kelar turned to the crowd. Some raised hands,
betting for or against Greywing's ability to call a solid line of red lights
intersecting. Her head moved unconsciously in the rhythm, her gaze abstracted,
then her hand pounced on the large key—and the tower froze, nine red lights,
two yellow and one blue.

“Ooooh,” a sigh went up.

“Four left,” Kelar said, smiling. “Your call or mine?”

“Mine,” she said firmly. “Red again.”

This time she hit only seven; she caught all the rest
orange. She called for red a third time, and lost to three lights.

“Two left,” Kelar said. “Your call or mine?”

“Yours,” Greywing said, looking uncertain.

“Green.”

A green line-up was promised, and she only had to watch for
it. But the lights whirled faster, and when she hit the key, she was badly off.
A cry went up from the watchers.

“Last try,” Kelar said. “Give you four to one. You get this,
walk free. Pattern: blue-white-yellow.”

The patterns were the hardest, and took the longest to pay
off, but when they did, the payoff was great. Bets ran up into high numbers
among the watchers, but Lokri’s focus stayed on Greywing, who stared up at the
tower, her lips parted and her breathing still.

She slammed her hand down—and missed the pattern by four
lights. As Lokri watched, her eyes went wide with horror and a neat red hole
appeared in the center of her chest, then she fell away into the crowd,
swallowed by the shadows.

“What's—” he started to say, but the roar of the crowd
swelled, and a new victim took Greywing's place: a huge, broad-faced man who
Lokri recognized as his very first captain.

“Ghosts,” Lokri whispered as Kelar told the man he had five
tries. “The place is filled with ghosts.”

Lokri watched, tightlipped and silent, as the old man lost. At
the end, his face grayed and he too disappeared into the shifting shadows behind
the game.

Whatever the game behind this game is, I will not play
,
Lokri thought narrowly, and turned to go, but the crowd pressed against him,
keeping him in place.

He fought the urge to shove his way out and smash his
knuckles against Kelar's smiling teeth. But when he looked at the nearest
players, he recognized people he'd killed in action, others he'd crewed with or
had known. All dead.

The ones who played the Xi game appeared as he had seen them
last, and when they lost, their death-wound took them from sight. Four times
this happened as Lokri tried gently to sidle free, a step at a time. Yet
somehow the smoke and shadows led him inexorably right back to the Xi game.

So he crossed his arms, his jaw aching around clenched
teeth, determined to wait it out. Three more people from his past came and lost
and disappeared, and then a tall, rawboned figure sauntered through the crowd,
his grace and assurance painfully familiar.

Lokri tried to look away but couldn’t, and there the laughing
blue eyes of Markham vlith-L'Ranja, the long yellow hair as Markham smiled at
Lokri, then stepped up to the Xi console.

Markham had always admitted that Lokri was his superior in
this game. The urge to push through and take his place gripped Lokri, but he
shook his head. Markham was already dead; whatever Lokri did would make no
difference to the nightmare being spun out here.