The Summer Queen (91 page)

“He must have picked up the expression during the previous
occupation. He seems to have collected a great deal of unexpected information
....” Vhanu glanced at Gundhalinu again; curiosity still glinted through his
doubt and concern.

“He was a user .... I suppose anything is possible,”
Gundhalinu said, still frowning. Even that he is Survey. But not the one they
knew and served.

“A user—of people?” Vhanu asked.

“Of the water of life.” Gundhalinu’s mouth pulled down. “Of
people too. I wouldn’t trust anything he says, if I were you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Vhanu nodded. But Gundhalinu felt
Vhanu’s eyes linger speculatively on him a moment longer.

He shook off his unease, cursing Wayaways under his breath
for making him doubt the one man he really depended on, for making that man
doubt him, even for a moment. He went in under the overhang, into sudden darkness;
pushed through the ancient, windowpaned doors and on into the light.

Superficially the Survey Hall was just as he remembered it
from before: one large main room for social functions, with smaller offices and
meeting rooms above it. Now he knew there were rooms within the rooms, hidden
inside each other like Samathan votive-boxes. The main room was still rather
spartan, with few of the odd souvenirs of other worlds that had formerly
decorated its walls and native-crafted shelves, an accretion of mementos that
had been left there by visiting members over a century and a half. He wondered
what had become of the old collection; supposed the things had been carried off
by the locals, or thrown away.

The room was sparsely populated tonight, even though this
was the night of a scheduled meeting. There simply were not enough Survey
members on-planet yet to fill the Hall. It was late enough for them to have
missed the somewhat tedious pattern of rituals that had opened this evening’s
gathering, at least. Most of the men and few women stood clustered together in
small conversational groups, eating and drinking desultorily, or huddled on the
clusters of cushioned benches in the ghostly light of their dozen gaming
tables.

The air was rich with the mingled odors of various
recreational drugs—none of them on the prescribed list, since the majority of
people in this room were wearing the uniform of the Hegemonic Police. He
wondered what they would think if they knew what kind of mind-altering
substances were sometimes used in the hidden rooms just behind these walls—just
beyond their knowledge. It astonished him to think of some of the drugs he
himself had been forced to take, under strict supervision, to guide him toward
deeper levels of insight and strengthen his concentration.

There were a few random non-uniformed figures, dressed in
the melange of styles typical of the Hegemony’s disparate cultures. Out of
habit his eyes took in each outsider, seeing loose robes, pragmatic coveralls,
lace-edged funeral foppery .... His gaze caught on a figure standing across the
room, leaning against the wall beside the mantel above an artificial hearth.
The figure wore loose pants and robes of a deep midnight blue; face and head
were almost entirely covered by the serpentine folds of a night-blue length of
scarf. All that he could see were eyes, gazing back at him through a narrow
window of exposed flesh. He felt vision and memory make a connection abruptly:
Ondinee. His immediate image of a traditional Ondinean was that the women
covered their faces among strangers, not the men; but this one wore a man’s
garments. He remembered hearing about a perversely independent cult that defied
the dominant theocracy; where the women went unveiled and were not treated like
slaves, where the men covered their faces instead, probably as much to escape
persecution by the government as to preserve their spiritual essence.

The man looked away abruptly, just as it struck him that he
was being studied in turn, and began to inspect some object on the mantel.

Gundhalinu turned back to Vhanu, telling himself that he had
probably imagined the man was staring at him; that his nerves were on edge.
Vhanu had drifted away into a conversation with YA Tilhonne, Pernatte’s grandnephew.
Mithra Kitaro, the , Police inspector he had first met at KR Aspundh’s,
approached him to ask whether j he needed anything. He requested lilander,
allowing himself that indulgence. He sat down on a bench and activated the
gaming table in front of him; not really in the ; mood to play games, but
needing some semblance of social activity to cover a few |moments of
uninterrupted thought.

He was not sure what Kirard Set Wayaways had wanted from
their unexpected Rencounter, but he was certain that Wayaways’ intent had been
neither harmless, nor casual. He decided that he would speak with Jerusha
PalaThion about it, privately, tomorrow ....

He glanced up again, realizing that it was not for the first
time, to check on the Ondinean. The other man had moved a short distance away,
and was talking to a Kharemoughi whose back was turned to Gundhalinu. The Ordinean
glanced past the other man’s shoulder at Gundhalinu, as if he felt himself
being looked at.

Kitaro returned with a tall lilac-tinted glass of lilander.
He touched Kitaro’s arm as she handed him the drink. Gesturing unobtrusively at
the Ondinean, he asked, “Do you know that man?”

Kitaro glanced away, and back. “Only that he’s a stranger
far from home.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Kitaro looked at him, surprised. “Absolutely, Justice. He
wouldn’t be inside, otherwise.” Not only human intervention, but also certain
hidden surveillance checks made certain of it. “I remember seeing him before.
Is something the matter?”

“No.” Gundhalinu shook his head. “Just curious. I suppose I
wore that uniform,” gesturing at Kitaro’s blue tunic, “for too long. A man who
hides his face makes me nervous.” But he knew, in his gut, that what bothered
him was not so simple. It wasn’t the man’s hidden face. Something about the way
he carried himself, the way he moved, was familiar. Gundhalinu knew that body
language, in the same way he might have recognized the work of a familiar artist,
deep in the nonverbal sectors of his brain. But the part of his mind that
thought it knew could not speak, and the part that could, couldn’t remember.

He sipped the lilander, letting its pungent sweetness fill
his senses and still his impatience. Maybe it was only his imagination, after a
day full of nerve-racking, tense debates, and an evening’s walk filled with
unpleasant innuendos .... But he found himself on his feet again, moving
not-quite-casually across the room in the direction of the Ondinean, who seemed
to drift away with equally deceptive randomness ... or was he just imagining
that too? But the part of his brain that was still taking the measure of every
movement the stranger made told him he was not.

He reached the mantel, with its dark, fancifully carved
supports and its liner of small, foreign oddities. He picked up the thing he
had seen the Ondinean handle. It was a silver vial, almost like a perfume
bottle. He studied it for a moment, trying to remember where he had seen such a
thing before. Recognition caught him suddenly, painfully: It was a container
for the water of life. Not the liquor, but the genuine water of life, the
extract from the blood of mers.

He turned it around in his fingers, handling it carefully,
cautiously. It had not been here a few days ago. Where had this come from? Who
would have left such a thing here? He looked up, searching the room. Or had the
Ondinean put it there himself? The Ondinean had his back turned now, as if he
were oblivious to whatever Gundhalinu was doing; although Gundhalinu was
certain he was not. The water of life ... It had been on his mind ever since he
had arrived here. It had been in his thoughts and on his lips constantly for
the past weeks, as he had hammered out his compromise with the Judiciate and
the representatives from the Central Coordinating Committee. Finding this here,
now, he felt as if he had conjured it up out of his own preoccupation.

But he had not. Someone had left it there, intentionally—and
in this Hall, there were no coincidences. He reached into the belt pouch
underneath his jacket and pulled out a scanner, part of the Police-issue
equipment he still habitually carried with him. He ran a full scan on the vial,
measuring and recording everything that could be known about its age and
previous provenance, including the fingerprints of anyone who had touched it.

He put the scanner back into his belt pouch, placed the vial
back on the mantel. Then he glanced away into the room, to see whether anyone
had been watching. Only the Ondinean was looking back at him, standing
perfectly still at the opposite side of the room. Gundhalinu started toward
him, keeping eye contact; unable to see anything about the other man’s
expression. VX Sandrine caught his arm as he passed; he murmured an abrupt
excuse and moved on, willing the Ondinean to stay put. The stranger stood
unmoving, still gazing back at him, until he had almost closed the distance
between them. And then the man turned suddenly, and disappeared through the
darkened doorway behind him.

Gundhalinu started after him; stopped, looking down
suddenly, as the call beeper sounded on his belt remote. He swore, knowing that
the only message he would be getting at this hour would be an urgent one. He
glanced over his shoulder at the room behind him, knowing that he should find a
place to take the call—looked back, to find that the dim-lit hallway ahead of
him was empty. He swore again, in disgust. Standing just inside the hall
entrance, he put the call through on his remote.

“Judiciate,” a disembodied voice said.

“This is Justice Gundhalinu,” he said, as the link came
alive. “You have a message for me?”

“Justice Gundhalinu—?” The voice that answered him sounded
nonplussed. “No, sir. No message.”

“You just called me,” Gundhalinu snapped. “There must be a
message.”

“No, sir—” He could hear the embarrassment in the voice that
answered him. “There must be some mistake. No one called you. There’s no record
of any call here.”

“All right,” he said brusquely. “Thank you.” He shut off his
comm link with an angry motion of his hand. He went back into the main hall,
crossing it to where Vhanu stood in conversation with JK Wybenalle, one of the
Central Committee representatives. Beside them was a table that held a buffet
of native foods, prepared with surprising skill by a local restaurant called,
oddly, Stasis.

“... And what do you suppose this is?” Wybenalle was saying,
in Sandhi, as he prodded a flaccid, glistening piece of meat with a
silver-pronged pick.

Gundhalinu reached past him and speared a slice off the
plate. He put it into his mouth and chewed. The taste was indescribably spicy,
the texture chewy, just as he remembered it. “Try some,” he urged, speaking
Sandhi, as Wybenalle always insisted on doing. “It’s quite good.”

Wybenalle accepted the slice he proffered, looking at him
with raised eyebrows Hnd so missing Vhanu’s look of disbelief, which was plainly
visible to Gundhalinu. Gundhalinu smiled.

“Interesting,” Wybenalle said, chewing gamely. “What do they
call this?”

“It’s pickled squam,” Gundhalinu said. “A kind of indigenous
sea slug, I believe.”

The scattering of pale freckles on Wybenalle’s brown, narrow-featured
face turned a sudden, anemic white. He swallowed the mouthful of squam like a
man swallowing poison.

“Try some of this—” Gundhalinu gestured at a platter of
small cakes heaped with fish eggs.

“Excuse me ...” Wybenalle mumbled, beginning to turn away,
searching the room with desperate eyes.

“We grow or we die ...” Gundhalinu said, smiling pleasantly
as Wybenalle left them abruptly, heading for the bathrooms. “Right, Vhanu?” He
looked back at his Commander of Police, letting his smile widen.

Vhanu grimaced. “Do thou really think that was wise?” he
said, still speaking Sandhi.

“No.” Gundhalinu shook his head, still smiling. “It wasn’t
kind, either. But by all my sainted ancestors, that man has given me enough
grief for a lifetime in the past weeks. Allow me the privilege of being petty.”
He shrugged, trying to loosen the tense muscles in his shoulders and neck. He
reached into his belt pouch, and pulled out the scanner. “I have some data I’d
like you to run a check on for me, NR.”

Vhanu produced his own scanner, and let it replicate the readings
Gundhalinu had taken off the vial. “I should have the analysis for you some
time late tomorrow. Will that be soon enough?”

“Fine.” Gundhalinu nodded. “It’s nothing pressing,” he said,
answering Vhanu’s unspoken question. “Just my curiosity about one of the
objects on the mantel over there.” He gestured casually, leaning against the
table, looking toward the doorway the Ondinean had disappeared through. He was
not sure why he didn’t say more; whether it was simply the fear of seeming
absurd, or something deeper. Maybe tomorrow he would know.

Vhanu looked up as Kitaro approached them. “Excuse me,
sathranu,” she said. “That friendly cycle of tan is about to begin on the upper
level, if you care to join us?”

Gundhalinu nodded; answering both a spoken and an unspoken
question

“Tan?” someone said behind him. “May I join you?” Kitaro
shook her head. “Sorry. We already have our set. Next round—?” He shrugged, and
drifted away. They followed her to the back of the room, and up the curving
stairway. On the second floor they entered the gaming room, where five others
waited expectantly, sitting cross-legged on floor mats around the circular game
board. Gundhalinu looked down at the complex pattern of geometries on its surface.
The board had been hand-crafted somewhere on Tsieh-pun from perfectly fitted inlays
of colored wood. He admired its workmanship as he took his place in the circle.
Vhanu sat down across the board from him; Kitaro closed the door and sat down
on his left. To anyone looking in on them through the single window they would
appear to be doing exactly what they were doing.