The Summer Queen (138 page)

Vhanu swore, looking toward the city, his face suddenly
naked. Jerusha had never seen him show an emotion as spontaneous as the
disbelief, and then the fear, that filled his eyes. The fear frightened her
more than any threat. “Take me back to the city,” he muttered, into his own
link. He turned away as if he had forgotten that she existed, and climbed into
the hovercraft.

Jerusha watched the craft rise, bank sharply, and soar away
toward Carbuncle. The city looked unchanged to her, from where she stood, in
broad daylight. But that was the thing about Carbuncle—it held its secrets
well. She wondered what would happen when night came ... wondered if Moon had
done this, somehow. She was certain that was what Vhanu must be thinking. Her
hands tightened on the rail as she remembered the look in his eyes.

She called on her link, alerting the constables who were out
on the sea with the locals, ordering them back to the city. She tried to raise
her headquarters in Carbuncle, getting only static; her skin prickled suddenly,
as if the sound had invaded her very flesh.

She glanced down over the rail again, searching the water beside
her for Silky The mers nearby had scattered as the hovercraft came down; some
of them were returning to fill that gray, restless space now, although suddenly
the entire surface of the sea seemed to have grown almost empty of them. “Atwater,”
she called, glancing into the ship’s cabin. “Get me a reading on Silky, will
you?” She waited, her hands tapping a silent rhythm on the rail as the time
stretched and still she got no answer. “Atwater—?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Atwater said, at last. “I can’t trace
her beacon. It’s gone.”

Hegemonic Police Commander NR Vhanu was met at the gates of
the Summer Queen’s palace by an escort of two city constables, carrying
lanterns. They studied him and his escort with guarded expressions, saying
only, “Come with us, sir,” as they led the way back through the heavy doors. He
felt their hostility like a wave of heat as soon as they turned their backs on
him.

He followed them along the hallway, catching fleeting
glimpses of the primitive murals that defaced its walls; struck more profoundly
by the complete darkness that surrounded him. He had never even thought about
what an immense, dark tomb this city was, without the artificial light and life
support that the Old Empire’s technology had given it. The storm walls at the
end of every alley had opened, as if in some strange, programmed ritual,
letting in the chill breath of the open air, so that Carbuncle did not become
uninhabitable when its systems failed—only massively inconvenient. As if
someone had planned it that way.

They reached the Hall of the Winds. It was brighter here, because
there were windows to let in the bleak silver light of day—although, he
realized with some surprise, these windows had remained closed. He remembered
suddenly being told how once only these windows remained perpetually open, so
that the winds interacted with the sail-like curtains high above, making what
was now simply a rather nerve-wracking passage over the city’s open access well
into a trial by air.

According to the story, the Summer Queen had caused the
windows to close, controlling the city’s arcane, self-perpetuating machinery in
a way that no one seemed to understand .... He crossed the bridge almost
without being aware that he did, for once; looking up, studying the sealed
windows, and wondering.

They climbed the wide stairway on the other side, and
entered what was still called the throne room, although its once-elegant decor
had been usurped by rude examples of Tiamatan arts and crafts until it looked
to his eye more like a village marketplace. He was always secretly surprised
that he did not find live animals wandering among the visitors there.

Today, in the unexpected darkness, he felt as if he were
entering a cave. It had never struck him before that this room had no natural
light source. The Queen was waiting for him, sitting on the crystal throne
which was the only surviving relic of Winter’s reign. He had wondered before
why she had not had that single striking piece of furniture replaced with some
crude native-made chair. Perhaps even she had been awed by the exquisite
workmanship of its gleaming convolutions. It seemed almost beyond human design;
as if it were a creation spun from ice by the forces of wind and sun.

And now, led by lamplight as he entered the shadow-hung
chamber, he saw the throne illuminated by candles and oil lanterns. In the
flickering light, it shone as if it held a fire of its own: the patterns of
reflection flowing along its undulant surfaces reminded him of the aurora that
filled the night sky of his homework). The play of light and shadow gave the
anemic paleness of the Queen’s face, the whiteness of her hair, a strange,
almost unearthly luminosity that his startled eyes persisted in finding sensuous.
The Queen’s eyes were no color that he had ever seen before, no color that he
could put a name to; they watched his approach with smoldering hostility.

He felt a moment of vertiginous uncertainty as he stopped before
the throne; as he found her beautiful in spite of himself, and remembered the
silent air in the Hall of Winds. What was it that Gundhalinu had been unable to
resist about her, that had transformed a friend into a stranger, a hero into a
traitor? For a moment, remembering Gundhalinu and seeing her before him,
shining like aurora-glow, he wanted to find out for himself what it was about
her, what it was she had made Gundhalinu feel; how it would feel to possess
her, to be possessed by such an obsession ....

His sudden guilt and shame suffocated the images filling his
mind. He drew himself up, making a perfectly controlled bow. “Lady,” he said,
his voice flat.

She nodded, a barely visible acknowledgment in return. “Commander
Vhanu. What is it you want now?”

“Two things,” he said harshly. “I want you to order your citizens
to clear the waters around Carbuncle. And I want the city’s power restored.”

She raised her eyebrows; her expression was surprised to the
point of mockery, but he saw her hands tighten over the arms of the throne, her
fingers searching its convolutions. “What makes you think that I can control
either of those situations, Commander?” she said softly.

He took a deep breath. “You are the leader of this world’s
people, or so you claim. You ordered them out there.”

“I am ‘technically only a religious leader, with no real
authority to rule,’ I believe you said, to justify yourself when you declared
martial law. I spread the word among my people about the gathering of the mers,
because it is a religious matter to them. They chose to make pilgrimages, to
witness for themselves this marvel of the Lady’s blessing. How do you expect me
to order them not to do that?”

He saw in her eyes that she did not believe anything she
said, any more than he did. He had always taken her for a religious fanatic; it
shocked him to realize suddenly that she was an exquisite hypocrite, mouthing
religious platitudes about the Lady as an excuse to exercise secular powers to
which she had no legal claim. He swore under his breath as the once solid
ground beneath his convictions crumbled further. “Then you leave me no choice
but to control your people for you, Lady,” he said.

But it was an empty threat. He had had to pull the force
back from their task of arresting the protestors to maintain order in the
paralyzed city. And there were disturbing reports that the mers were suddenly
disappearing from the seas around Carbuncle.

If this went on too long, he would lose his opportunity to
show the tribunal the kind of productivity and control he had been so sure he
could demonstrate to them. If he could not find out how to get the city’s power
functioning again, he would lose everything.

He was a rational man, not a man who liked to take risks. He
had gambled on what seemed to be a sure thing; he had put his judgment, his
political prowess, his honor, on the line to secure the water of life. If he
failed, he would have sacrificed Gundhalinu’s trust and friendship, Gundhalinu’s
distinguished career, his own career—all for nothing. All of them would be
brought to ruin by this damnable enigma of a world, and its elusive, seductive
Queen.

“I suppose you will tell me next that you had nothing to do
with what’s happened to the city?” He gestured at the shadows around them.

“I had nothing to do with it,” she said, shaking back her
long, silver-lit hair.

“They say you stopped the winds, in the Hall down below. You
know things about this place that no one else does—” he thought she stiffened
imperceptibly, “and how to control them.”

“I control nothing about Carbuncle,” she murmured. “Any more
than you do.”

He felt his chest constrict, as her blind dart struck too
close to home. “I may not control the power source for Carbuncle,” he said, “but
I control far greater powers, as you know. We have weapons capable of
destroying this city completely—there would be nothing left of it, do you
understand me?” He thrust the words at her. “No structure, not even wreckage,
no human beings left alive. A crater, filled with the sea.”

Her face flushed. “You don’t have the authority. You wouldn’t
dare do such a thing. Why would you—?”

“Perhaps because you left me no alternative. Perhaps simply
because I could.” His anger fed on her sudden reaction like fire on air. “But
if it happens, your last thought will be that you could have prevented it from
happening ... that you drove me to it—” He forced his voice back under control.
“A tribunal committee from Kharemough is coming here to investigate the
situation that led to my removing the Chief Justice from office. There will be
an inquiry, and it will involve your part in his dishonor—”

“There was no dishonor—” she began.

“—And if things continue here unchanged from how they now
stand, the tribunal committee will undoubtedly back any measures I am forced to
take against your people.”

The Queen was silent for a long moment, looking back at him
with her changeable eyes. “It strikes me, Commander Vhanu,” she said at last, “that
we have more in common than simply our roles in bringing a good man to undeserved
grief. Gundhalinu is gone because you and I both possess a certain amount of
power, which comes to us from some greater source; and we both try to use it to
further ends we believe in. Whether we succeed is not always our choice. But it
remains our choice how we go about it. I was taught, when I became a sibyl,
that my duty was to serve all who needed the power that passed through me; not
to use it to serve my own selfish ends .... I am simply a conduit, Commander,
which is why I cannot give you what you want. I am a vessel. And you are a hollow
man.” She rose from the throne in a motion as fluid as water, and stepped down
off the dais into the protective gathering of her advisors and lightbearers,
who had waited for her as silently as shadows. She started away toward the far
door, leaving him behind without acknowledgment.

But she stopped at the door, turned back to look at him. “Anything
you do to this world or any of its people will come back to you threefold in
misery,” she said. The stagnant, lifeless air of the throne room gave an
unnerving quality to her voice, as if something else were speaking through her.
Only a vessel ... She turned away, and did not look back again before she
disappeared.

He turned, frowning, and pushed a path through the silent
stares of his own retinue. He started back the way he had come, forcing the
lantern-bearing constables to hurry after him through the unchanged darkness.

Reede Kullervo opened his eyes with the confusion of a man
wakened after too little sleep; heard his own slurred voice mouthing sounds
that should have been questions, or demands.

“Boss ...” someone else’s voice was saying, with more effect
than his own. “Boss—?” Niburu. His last memory was of Niburu, fog-gray, melting
away. Niburu’s face was perfectly clear in front of him now; his hand crossed
Reede’s line of vision to shake his shoulder with hesitant insistence.

“We’re there—?” Reede asked, managing somehow to speak
intelligible words this time. He sat up, surprised that his body would obey
him; clutched the seat-arms as he began to float upward, until he saw that
restraining straps held him in. “Tiamat space?”

Niburu nodded; Reede filled in the slim, silent shadow of
Ananke behind him, wearing a headset. “What about—?” He jerked his chin at
Ariele’s seat, where the smoke-gray shield still rested undisturbed.

Niburu shrugged, and nodded.

“They’ve closed with us, Kedalion,” Ananke said suddenly. “They’re
locking on to our hatch.”

Reede released his restraint harness and pushed up from his
seat unsteadily. He clung to the solid support of the seatback until his sense
of balance stabilized. “What is it? Have we been contacted?”

“More than that,” Niburu said grimly. “We’re being boarded.
They barely gave us time to set orbit before they were on our backs; they must’ve
been tracking us since the minute we came out of the last jump. The Hedge’s nearspace
security wasn’t this paranoid before we left.”

“Move—” Reede gestured them aft with sudden vehemence. “Clear
out of the LB, and seal it up. I don’t want them snooping around in here,
fucking with those stasis units and asking a lot of questions. Hurry up!”

They followed him without protest; Niburu sealed the hatch
behind them and led the way out of the Prajna’s holds toward the passenger
area. Reede worked his way through the serpentine corridors that Niburu had
filled with extra cargo storage so that there was barely space for a
normal-sized man to pass through without banging his head on something. He
swore under his breath, watching Ananke swimming lithely along the passageway
ahead of him. His own sluggish body was made dizzy by his every movement. “Damn
it, Niburu, why didn’t you turn on the gravity?”