Year 1130 E. R.
ERAASI:
NIGHT’S-BEAUTIFUL-DAUGHTER
DEMAIZEN OLD HALL
HANILAT STARPORT
SUS-RADAL EXPERIMENTAL SHIPBUILDING FACILITY
V
ai brought
Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter
down from low orbit into Eraasi’s atmosphere.
She knew the surface coordinates for Demaizen Old Hall, both from her first journey to the Hall in a rented flyer and from her later tampering with the local communications system and power grid. Now she used the
Daughter’s
console keypad to enter the remembered figures. With those, and with the information from the ship’s sensors and internal status boards—and if the prototype ship-mind continued accepting the sus-Radal shuttle commands—she ought to be able to plot herself a basic course.
So far, the black, winglike ship had handled smoothly, although Vai hadn’t asked the
Daughter
to do anything that might fall outside the scope of normal shuttle maneuvers. She knew from her talk with the family representative that the ship was capable of a great deal more—but she herself was only a novice pilot compared to the fleet experts. ’Rekhe needed a spaceship, and she had found him one; it wouldn’t do for her to damage it through ignorance or recklessness on the way to give it to him.
The ship-mind finished its calculations, and Vai entered the commands for the new course. The
Daughter
headed into Eraasi’s night side and began a long, steady descent.
The sky above remained as dark as before, and the marauders had not yet finished their search of the unburned basement area, but Arekhon had been fighting with Kief Diasul for what already felt like hours. Exhaustion, adrenaline, and the heightened awareness of the working all combined to stretch out his sense of time until the minutes and seconds were as taut-drawn as the
eiran
whose silver network patterned the night.
He struck; and Kief met the blow with his own staff so that the wood shivered in their hands and the combined red and violet of their staves flared up in a many-colored dazzle. Then Kief slid in with a head blow that would have sent Arekhon reeling if he hadn’t managed to drag his staff upward in time to block. This time the impact sent a wave of pain through the newly-repaired tissues of his chest and side.
Pain and blood fed into the working. The glowing staves dripped with light, shedding sparks like logs in a hot fire.
This was not like the working with Yuvaen—that one had been fast and brutal, an outpouring of raw energy strong enough to break down space and time and drag Garrod syn-Aigal home. This was deliberate and careful, almost a dance, releasing life and energy in precise amounts to draw the pattern tighter strand by strand.
Arekhon kept in his mind the completed pattern as he had seen it in the nonmaterial world: A tapestry in silver thread, wide enough to cover the galaxy from one side to another. The design here was rougher, and scarcely a corner of the greater work—
—
but every move we make brings it closer to the true pattern
. A fierce joy burned in him at the thought.
“Look around you!” he shouted at Kief, heedless of a barely-turned grazing blow that drew a line of pain across the muscle of his thigh. “You were wrong—the working
can
be mended!”
“Yes.” Kief stepped back and let his staff hang loosely from his hand. His voice was hoarse and sad. “But there’s not enough time left for us to mend it. They’ve found you again, ’Rekhe, and this time there’s no place where you can go for shelter.”
Arekhon cried out in wordless frustration. He could hear the footsteps himself now—heavy-footed ones thundering up the passage into the root cellar, stealthy ones working their way around the sides of the burned-out building—and he knew that Kief spoke the truth. There was no time left for careful, measured work, only for a final intention: A last desperate giving of all his energies when the projectiles struck.
And die in the hope that someone will take up the work again,
he thought, and readied himself for the end.
Any moment now
—
But the
eiran
refused to fade. Instead they flared still brighter, until he thought that the design of the true pattern would burn itself permanently into his sight, and a huge roaring sounded in the sky overhead.
A black shape larger than any three of the Hall’s outbuildings came thundering down out of the night like some great, dark-feathered bird of prey, and hovered above them on a column of bright blue light. It spat a fiery beam at the open mouth of the cellar, and more beams into the grass and hedges to either side. Then, with all the footsteps silenced, it settled gently to the ground and became a black spaceship of unfamiliar design, wreathed around with cords and threads and tendrils of luck.
In Hanilat Starport, the noon sun shone in through the bay window of Natelth’s study, adding a lustrous sheen to the polished wood of the chairs and table, and highlighting the blues and crimsons in the carpet. Natelth had been working at his desk, with only brief moments of respite, since the morning of the day before. The unsettled state of public affairs—and the fleet-family’s new ventures in shipbuilding and weapons design—demanded long hours from everyone.
So, at least, Natelth would have told Isayana, if she had ventured into the study to ask.
He was not surprised, in the beginning, when no messages came from the first person with whom he had spoken over the voice-comm. The journey to what remained of Demaizen Old Hall would have taken some time, especially if his contact had any specialized equipment to deal with. Natelth had made a point of not inquiring about methods; provided that the desired result was obtained, he was willing to leave the details to an expert in the business at hand.
As noon came, then evening, then midnight, and no word came, Natelth’s tension increased. He took lunch and dinner in his study, scarcely tasting the kitchen’s excellent sunbuck stew and home-made bread. The bread had been one of Arekhon’s favorites, especially spread with
neiath
jam; Isayana had instructed the house to make a fresh supply of the jam only two days ago. The kitchen added a small crock of jam to the tray one of the
aiketen
brought up in response to his summons, but he sent the crock back to storage unopened.
He slept that night at his desk. If he left the study and went to his bedroom, he might run into Isayana along the way, and she would ask him what he was doing about ’Rekhe. But the expert whom he had sent to Demaizen never called, and Kiefen Diasul walked into his study unannounced at noon the next day.
Natelth wondered what the Mage had done to the
aiketen
and the house-mind, not to mention the liveried guard, but he didn’t ask. Arekhon could have slipped past all of them without ruffling a hair, on his own head or the guard’s, and Kief had trained with the same Master.
He gestured at Kief to take the empty chair, but the Mage shook his head.
“There’s not much to say. I’ll stand.”
“As you will,” said Natelth. “Is the honored guest safely in custody?”
“No.” The Mage laughed. “And you can ask about your hired killers as much as you like—they’re all dead.”
Natelth half-rose from his chair, the cold anger rising again like the incoming tide. “You did this. You let them get away.”
“No,” said Kief again. “I did just what you asked me—offered your brother one more chance, then gave the signal.”
“What happened?”
Kief Diasul smiled. “The Circle didn’t choose to go quietly, and your killers forgot that death only lends strength to a working. They died themselves when the ship came down out of the sky.”
“‘The ship came down … . ’ Are you mad?”
“Not mad,” said Kief. “Just very unlucky. Your brother is gone, sus-Khalgath … escaped, vanished, taken elsewhere by the strength of the working, and your honored guest has gone with him.”
Natelth let his breath out slowly. “The ship
—whose
ship?—what happened to it? And where is my brother now?”
“No names were ever spoken. The ship came, and it went away again. And your brother is … I don’t know. Alive, I’m certain. But a long way away.”
“Not far enough,” said Natelth. He stood and walked into the center of the room. “House-mind!”
The synthesized voice came over the room’s hidden speakers. “Yes, Lord Natelth?”
“Listen and record. The name of Arekhon Khreseio sus-Khalgath sus-Peledaen is erased from the family records. It appears on no tablet, no plaque, no scroll. His name is cursed in the homeworlds, and his luck is severed from ours forever. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” said the voice of the house-mind. If there was regret in it, Natelth thought, it was only his own imagination. “I hear and record.”
The evening sky over the sus-Radal’s northern construction site rippled with the colors of an auroral display.
Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter
stood on the hard ground of the landing field, hatch open and ramp down. The remaining members of the Demaizen Mage-Circle stood close together in the lee of the
Daughter’
s matte-black side, sheltering from the raw chill of the wind.
Arekhon pulled his quilted jacket tighter around his shoulders. He was still tired and drained after the fight with Kief Diasul, and the cold bit into his bones.
“You two go ahead and strap down in crew berthing,” he said to Narin and Ty. “And Karil can take the Pilot-Principal’s chair. There’s no point in all of us standing around and freezing.”
“You’ll be along soon?” Narin asked. “You’re still wobbly from that patch-job the
aiketen
did on you, and if you get a chill—”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go on.”
They went into the ship, leaving Arekhon alone except for Iulan Vai.
“So,” she said. “This is where we part ways.”
“You’re sure you won’t come with us?”
“I’m sure. I had to make a lot of promises to get this ship, and I can’t keep them unless I stay behind.” She gave an unsteady laugh. “Think of me once in a while, and wish me luck.”
“All the luck in the world,” he promised. “In whatever you do. You’re a part of the great working, now and forever.”
She put a hand on either side of his face, palms warm against his cold skin, and pulled his head down and kissed him. “Goodbye, ’Rekhe. And be happy, if you can.”
Vai turned and departed. Arekhon stood watching until she reached the lighted buildings at the edge of the field, but she didn’t look back. When she was gone, he went up the ramp and cycled the hatch shut behind him.
A few minutes later, the engines began to rumble, and a column of blue light slowly raised the vessel above the hard-packed ground. Fire blossomed as the main thrusters roared into life, and
Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter,
named in reverence to the moon, left Eraasi for her place among the stars.
T
he enclosed porch of the summer house looked out over a wooded slope leading down to the open fields below. The Mestra liked to take out her deskpad and sit there in pleasant weather, going over correspondence and paperwork. There was more and more of it these days. The Meteunese war had ended in a stalemate, but everyone expected the fighting to start again soon. The loose coalition of smaller states that occupied the continental heartland needed a voice—someone to negotiate on their behalf with larger, more belligerent powers—and Elaeli Inadi meant to have the position for herself. She hadn’t intended to be a politician, except to make her way up the sus-Peledaen family ladder, but she was never going to make it to fleet-captain now. Speaker for the Central Quarter would have to do.
She had not been grateful when the troopers of Councillor Demazze pulled her out of the rubble in the late Councillor’s underground retreat. None of her pleading had convinced them to turn back and pull Arekhon from the wreckage as well, and she suspected, then and ever afterward, that they had received specific instructions to the contrary.
The Councillor had been specific enough in all other things. Within a week the troopers, still acting on Demazze’s orders, had escorted her to a safe house in the neutral state of Lillepont. She herself, according to the troopers, was not Lillepontan, but a refugee from Immering: A wealthy and well-born refugee, from a district already twice broken by war. Councillor Demazze’s portfolio, which Elaeli had brought with her out of the wreckage, contained enough records to substantiate her claim, and a duplicate file—somebody hadn’t believed in taking chances—waited for her in Lillepont.
She had not yet at that point given up hope. Only a few days had passed, and the crew of
Rain-on-Dark-Water
would need a while to familiarize themselves with the controls of
Octagon Diamond
. Using the name that the Councillor’s false records had given her, she contacted Entiboran Inspace Control.
The starship that had waited in orbit GG-12, she learned when she enquired, had left normal space a week before.
Councillor Demazze was never seen again. General opinion held that he had died in the fighting at his retreat, though when the complex was excavated several months later no body that could be identified as his was ever found.
Elaeli was not surprised. She had lost the capacity for that particular emotion, as for most others; they had died in the rubble of Demazze’s underground reception hall. She never knew what the Councillor had truly intended for her to do: Lay the groundwork for an Eraasian trade mission to Entibor, protect the homeworlds from discovery, or simply to survive. ‘Rekhe had spoken of bringing together the galaxy, but ’Rekhe was gone. In the weeks after
Octagon Diamond’
s departure Elaeli considered what she had been given—rank, wealth, and troops once belonging to Councillor Demazze but now, by his final orders, loyal to her—and chose for herself.
The voice of her majordomo at the summer house broke into her thoughts. “Mestra Elela, there is a message for you on the private link.”
She set her deskpad aside for later and went to the alcove holding the secure line she used for important political conversations. “Elela Rosselin,” she said into the audio pickup. By now the alias—another construction of Demazze’s—seemed almost as familiar as the long-unheard syllables of her true Eraasian name. “And you are—”
“Entiboran Inspace Control,” the caller said. “According to our files, you expressed a wish to be notified if certain events took place.”
“Yes,” she said, though in truth she had all but forgotten making the request.
“Then it is my pleasure to inform you, Mestra, that an unregistered ship has come from deep space to assume Standard Orbit GG-12.”
“Her name?” Elaeli was glad that the representative of Inspace Control could not see her face; she’d gotten a local reputation for icy, unwavering calm, and one look at her now would destroy that image forever.
“She calls herself
Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter”
—the representative’s voice stumbled over the unfamiliar Eraasian syllables—“and her pilot claims to be a survivor of
Swift Passage Freight Carrier Number Forty-two.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I won’t forget your help. If you could do one thing further—”
“Whatever the Mestra wishes.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Keep the ship’s people away from military intelligence and the gossip lines,” she said, once she was able to speak without fear that her voice would break or quiver. “And bring them straight to me. Do this discreetly, and you can count on my gratitude.”
She closed the communications link and returned to the porch, where she stood for a long time looking outward at the clear blue promise of the sky. She had been wrong, she thought; it seemed that she had not lost the capacity for strong and distracting emotions after all. Especially hope.