A Prison Unsought (64 page)

The Dol’jharian motioned him to a chair and took up his
accustomed position in front of it, the familiar sinuous black shape of his
dirazh’u in his fingers. Anaris rarely sat except to work, a characteristic the
Panarch remembered from the young man’s days on Arthelion.

“Would you prefer a lower gee
setting in your quarters?” Anaris asked.

Gelasaar shook his head. “Gehenna pulls one standard gee;
there is no sense in getting too comfortable.”

If the Dol’jharian heard the irony in his voice he gave no
sign of it. “I was astonished at how little information about your prison
planet there was in the Palace computer,” he remarked. “Little more than its
location, the orbit of the Quarantine Monitor, and the landing zone.”

“I know little more than that
myself,” the Panarch replied. “Access is controlled by the Abuffyd family, as
established by a decree centuries ago. They are closemouthed, and I never had
any reason to inquire.”

“You know nothing of
conditions on its surface aside from its acceleration?”

It is not the surface
conditions that matter.
“The habitable zone is said to be small.”

“‘Ruler of naught,’ ”
quoted Anaris. “But that is not what I wish to discuss.”

Nor I, though it is
Gehenna that gives me the power to judge you.

“We are running out of time,”
Anaris said. “Gehenna is less than three days away.”

The Panarch felt a shock of—what? Fear? Anticipation? He let
nothing of it show as the Dol’jharian continued.

“So I have spent some time trying
to sum up our conversations since we left Arthelion. I have decided that there
are two aphorisms that encapsulate your philosophy of government. We will spend
our remaining time considering them.”

Gelasaar made a brief motion with one hand:
I am at your disposal.
Anaris evidently
recognized it, showing a brief gleam of teeth in an almost-smile before he
continued.

“The first is the statement carved in
the stone over the entrance to the Concordium on Lao Tse.”

“‘Do that which consists of no
action and order will prevail,’” Gelasaar quoted.

“Yes. I remember my tutors on
Arthelion telling me that is a fundamental axiom of your government, and you
recently tried to convince me that ritual maintains the balance of power. I
don’t believe the latter, and I still do not understand the first. If one does
not act, how can one govern? Power flows from action.”

“Lao Tse did not say not to act. He
said to do that which consists of no action.”

Anaris waited.

If I cannot bring you
to understand this, you must die, for your partial understanding will make you
far more dangerous than your father.

“Do you remember what I said about
ritual having no contraries? How hard it is for a participant to conceive of
going against the flow of a ritual?”

“Yes.”

“So it is with political events.
The action which is no action is to discern that flow, which contains within
itself all possibilities, and then conform to it. . . .”

As Anaris began to question him more closely, Gelasaar found
his thoughts splitting along two tracks: one the philosophical argument he was
building, the other a consideration of all he had learned about Anaris since
the first meeting in the Chamber of the Mysteries on the
Fist of Dol’jhar
.

Eusabian’s son had changed since he’d left Arthelion as
hostage, of that there was no doubt. He was less aggressively sure of himself
now, which meant he had attained enough wisdom to question his own motives as
well as those of others. Yet the savage will bred into him by his culture had
metamorphosed into a sophisticated ruthlessness.

Which would be a lot more dangerous if he had not learned to
question as part of his reasoning process, the Panarch thought.

“I see,” Anaris said. “This much I
can agree with: the fewer orders given, the fewer opportunities for defiance.”

“Exactly. As Lao Tse also said,
‘When frying small fish, don’t stir.’”

To his great surprise, Anaris laughed. “Whereas the
Dol’jharian approach is to use a ruptor on them.”

“Which leaves you with little more
than a nasty smell,” the Panarch agreed, “and still hungry.”

Anaris nodded
thoughtfully. “But I am not yet convinced that your model of government is not
due to the lack of control imposed upon you by interstellar distances.”

Perhaps I have reached
him, then.

“Ah. Control. We return to that
again,” Gelasaar said. “Your emphasis on that is not surprising, as a scion of
such an uncontrollable planetary environment.” He paused, and when Anaris
lifted his brow in question, continued. “Was that perhaps the subject of the
other aphorism you mentioned?”

Anaris turned away and walked over to the data console. He
laid one hand lightly on the keyboard, not activating it, and spoke without
turning around.

“Yes. It is the same one we have
discussed many times: ‘Ruler of all, ruler of naught, power unlimited, a prison
unsought.’” He turned back to the Panarch. “Your son Semion did not accept
that, did he?”

“No.”

“In fact,” Anaris continued, “there
have been many Panarchs who did not.”

“If you know your history that
well, then you also know that they were also, almost always, the least
successful of my line. The worst of them was literally obliterated; to this day
there is a phage running in the DataNet that holds the only surviving record of
his face or name—for the sole purpose of eradicating any memory of him that may
still exist. Like my son, he forgot that the more power one possesses, the less
one can use it.”

Anaris began to speak, but Gelasaar held up his hand.

“I grow tired, and would ask that
we defer completion of this discussion until tomorrow. But think on this,
Anaris achreash’Eusabian. Your father may already have shattered the Thousand
Suns beyond recovery: it may be your hands that mend it, or complete its destruction.
To decide which it is to be, I suggest you meditate upon the Jaspran
Unalterables, which have made us what we are. They are the subject of the
second Polarity: ‘Seek not control, nor multiply laws; the cracks in the system
are blessings, not flaws.’”

Anaris stared at him for a long beat, then nodded. “Very
well. We will speak again—after the Karusch’na Rahali.”

Something of Gelasaar’s surprise must have shown, for again
Anaris smiled with sardonic amusement as he touched his console. The door
hissed open, revealing the Bori secretary, Morrighon.

“For that is a Dol’jharian
Unalterable, which has made us what
we
are.”

o0o

“It’s tomorrow,” Tat said.

Moob threw back her head and howled with laughter. Tat
looked away from those terrible red-dyed teeth.

“They want a fight, isn’t that what
you said?” Kedr Five lounged over to the galley access. “What happens if you
don’t fight? If you play dead?”

Half the crew snickered, and the other half made leering
remarks. Tat shrugged. “Don’t know. Look it up yourself. I saw my last
Dol’jharian when I was four.”

“I’ll duff Dhestaer,” Hestik said,
making obscene gestures.

Tat pictured the tall Tarkan woman and thought:
She’ll probably duff you, stupid blit.

“She’s mine.” Kedr Five smirked. “You couldn’t hold off
these Bori.”

They all roared. Tat hid her annoyance, glancing sideways at
her cousin Larghior, who went right on with his game.

Sundiver thrust her long hands through her bright hair.
“Take any of those stone-backs you want, just leave Anaris to me.”

Howls of derision rent the thick air in the rec room.

“You gonna put a sign on your door?” Moob poked at the
silver-haired woman. “Or you goin’ down to heavy grav to smoke him out?”

“He wants the best, he’ll find me,” Sundiver said, and again
the derisive howls, though they lacked conviction. Sundiver could have anyone
she wanted on the ship—and often did.

Problem was, Tat thought narrowly, watching Sundiver admire
her own reflection in a polished section of steel inlay, she conquered simply
to have more lovers to play off against each other.

“Hope Anaris crushes her,” Larghior muttered.

Only Tat heard. For the most part, everyone ignored the
three Bori—unless they wanted things done. Or wanted victims who couldn’t fight
back. She said nothing, as usual.

Larghior continued playing Phalanx with Daug, the tough,
mustache-chewing old engineer, until the game was done. Tat stood watching with
a couple of other crew members, and tried to ignore the speculations that went
on and on.

She was uncomfortable with the acuity of Morrighon’s
insight. He did not know the crew, at least he’d scarcely spoken more than a
few sentences with any of them. Yet with one suggestion he got most of them so
busy anticipating the Dol’jharian sex hunt that they had little time for their
usual skip-time pursuits.

“Think of it,” Moob sneered. “Tarkans chatzing those old
withered nick logos-chatzers. Won’t that be niffy to watch?”

“Ah, they’ll be off-limits. You wait,” Hestik grumped.

“What I want to know,” Sundiver said, still watching her
reflection, “is if that ugly little gug Morrighon will get any.”

Chill tightened Tat’s neck. Morrighon was a Bori—from him to
the Bori in the crew was a predictable connection.

Unexpectedly Daug spoke up and deflected the subject. “He
warned us. Could have kept his tongue fused.”

“Probably used to it,” Griffic said from across the room.

“Used to what?” Kedr Five leered.

As they started again with speculations on sexual variations
likely to be preferred by the big-boned, heavy Tarkans, Larghior finished his
game and gathered Tat with a quick glance.

They slipped out of the rec room, Tat experiencing a strong
sense of relief. She hated spending rec time with the others in the primary
crew, but they were likely to get nasty if they thought someone was
standoffish. And if she was there, it was slightly less likely she’d find
herself the target of the games they contrived when bored, as ‘surprises’ for
anyone not there.

“Have to check com,” she said to her cousin, who ducked his
head and vanished into the transtube.

Tat took another route to her cabin. She was too tired to
listen to the recordings from the captain’s telltales in the Panarchist cabin,
so she ran a quick search on the various words the captain had expressed
interest in. From the size of the files, the Panarchists had talked and talked,
which was as usual. The lack of any even simple key words (war; Eusabian;
Infonetics; Fleet) indicated they discussed little of interest.
Probably more of their endless philosophy
,
she thought, clearing her console. Then, throwing her clothes on the bed she
never slept in, she pulled on her nightshirt and left.

Larghior and Demeragh were in Larghior’s cabin, Dem already
asleep. Lar looked from Dem’s face to Tat, then he sighed, sitting down to pull
off his boots.

“Will he be safe?” Tat asked,
worried.

Lar gave her a sour smile. “From Tarkan stone-bones, sure.
He’s double safe: he’s only a Bori, and there’s the head wound. Stone-bones
want a fight first.”

Tat winced, looking down at the livid purple scar marring
the side of Dem’s head. Hit when the brothers’ first ship was attacked, Dem had
moved and spoken as if in a dream ever since. Luckily he was as deft as ever in
the galley, and no captain minded a quiet, well-behaved slub.

“How about us?” Tat asked. “This
isn’t home for them, it’s ship.”

Lar nodded. Raised on a Bori refuge, he’d been steeped all
his life in history. He even knew some of the Dol’jharian language. “We’re just
weak, small Bori, so we’ll be safe,” he said. “Though we’ll stay away from
crew.” He grinned. “Ever think you’d live to be glad you were considered
beneath contempt?”

Tat laughed as they got into bed.

There was no discussion; the brothers sensed that she was
tense, so she got the middle, Dem moving sleepily to the back of the bed. Soon,
sandwiched between her cousins, Dem’s arm draped over her shoulder and Lar’s
soft hair nestled against her cheek, their legs all a-tangle so her feet rested
on warm flesh, Tat felt some of her fears drain out.

She lay silent for a time, then, hearing from Lar’s
breathing that he was not asleep, either, she whispered, “What makes them like
it?”

Dem muttered sleepily, “What makes who like what?”

“Go back to sleep, Demeragh,” Tat
said.

Dem relaxed obediently, his breathing deepening. Tat stroked
the inside of his wrist, her affection for her cousins acute. “I just hope
Lutavaen and Pap are all right,” she muttered. “Do you think Dol’jharians
retook Bori?”

“Don’t know,” Lar whispered.

“I wish they’d never gone back,”
Tat whispered fiercely.

Lar’s fingers twined in hers. “I miss Lutavaen, too. And
your pap.”

Tat wished, as she had for a year, that her sister hadn’t
felt it necessary to go back with their father. But he’d decided he was too old
for the Riftskip, and of course he couldn’t go home alone. Bori never went
anywhere alone if they could help it.

A new, chilling thought occurred. “I think I know why
Morrighon sleeps with his feet on the wall.” Sundiver and the others had
screamed with laughter when they found it out after the Dol’jharians came on
board.

“Of course,” Lar murmured, surprised
she hadn’t figured it out already.

Tat contemplated what it must be like for a Bori to sleep
alone—and what the Dol’jharians must have done to wrench him out of centuries
of habit. To be totally alone at night, with nothing but cold sheets, and no
family around one!

She winced, remembering the Panarchists’ occasional mentions
of Barrodagh, and the things he’d done to them according to reports over the
hyperwave.
Morrighon all twisted in his
body, and Barrodagh all twisted in his mind. What can their lives be like?
“Why doesn’t he just leave them? He doesn’t seem to be a prisoner.”