Context (13 page)

While in front of him sat
Muldavika: scalp shaven on the left, straw-coloured hair hanging to her right
shoulder, a row of ruby stars across her forehead.

‘I’m an Iota,’ she said, noticing
his attention. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t try to convert you.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Feldrif s laugh was not entirely
pleasant.

‘She’s a warden,’ he explained, ‘in
the Church of the Incompressible Algorithm. No-one holds it against her.’

There was no way for Tom to
interpret this comment: one culture’s insult is another’s irony. Muldavika’s
expression was unreadable, hard as stone.

After that, they got down to
business.

‘The
first commoner to be elevated to Lordship in Gelmethri Syektor for nearly a
century.’ Holo-tesseracts delineated Tom’s biography; Feldrif read the
highlights aloud. ‘Remarkable logosophical ability, by all accounts. Ruled Corcorigan
Demesne’—he looked up, amber eyes filled with private speculation—‘for only two
SY, before disappearing without explanation.’

Tom said nothing.

‘And you reappeared, after four
SY,’ Feldrif continued, ‘just a few tendays ago. Believed to have assisted in a
special forces operation which ended a show trial of captured nobles. And which
somehow’—frowning now—‘seems to have led to the cessation of violence in that
sector.’

Fate, I hope so.

‘We’re not altogether clear, Lord
Corcorigan, just how that was accomplished.’

‘Just lucky, I guess.’

Muldavika’s face tightened. In
her church,
luck
was blasphemy.

‘You’ll understand,’ said
Altigorn, his jowls wobbling as he spoke, ‘that the Seer is a most, er,
valuable resource within our realm. Any unexplained death in his presence is a
matter of grave concern.’

Elva.

Tom blinked, unable to speak.

Why did you do it?

But then he regained a measure of
composure, and answered: ‘Your Seer was never in any danger. Not from me, and
not from Elva.’

His three interrogators exchanged
looks.

An
hour later:

‘You have our full sympathy’—Feldrif,
speaking smoothly, was covering the same ground yet again—‘Lord Corcorigan. You’ll
appreciate our concern.’

‘I don’t know...’ Tom clenched
his fist, released it. ‘Why she had to kill herself.’

‘Had
to, my Lord?’ Muldavika leaned
towards Tom. ‘You make it sound like a duty.’

‘How else do you interpret what
she said? The way she—’

That was when he stopped,
realizing what was wrong with their line of questioning.

‘Why don’t you know this already?’

Feldrif: ‘What do you mean?’

‘If the Seer is that important,
you have his chambers under surveillance.’

A long silence.

Then Muldavika said, ‘Captain
Elva Strelsthorm’s final words were, near enough,
“I’ve another loyalty, and
this one goes right back to childhood.”
What do you think she meant by
that?’

Tom looked away.

‘I’ve known her,’ he said
finally, ‘since I was fourteen SY old. But I have no idea what she was
referring to.’

A
deeper layer of questioning:

‘Did you work with many agents,
my Lord, who bore thanatotropic implants?’

That told him all he needed to
know about their background knowledge, of both him and Elva.

‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘But
I knew of their ...Look.’ He stopped, wiped perspiration from his forehead.
‘I
don’t know.
You commit suicide to avoid torture, or out of despair, but
neither one applied to Elva. She—’ He choked then, and could not continue.

‘Take a minute, my Lord.’

‘No...’ Tom blinked, essayed a
humourless smile. ‘Your own deepscans didn’t work, did they?’

‘My Lord?’

‘You didn’t detect Elva’s
implant...’ But his voice trailed off as he registered the odd expressions on
his three interrogators’ faces. ‘What is it? Am I missing something?’

It was Muldavika who let out a
long breath, and told Tom more than he wanted to know about the manner of Elva’s
dying.

‘Tanglethreads are undetectable
even by deepscans, Lord Corcorigan. As I’m sure you are aware.’

‘What?’

The term she used was one he had
not heard beyond the realm of fiction, and never within the ranks of
LudusVitae.

‘You weren’t aware of this.’
Feldrif was reading from a lased-in display: Tom’s physiometric readouts. ‘Which
means, of course, you are free to go, my Lord.’

His tone was polite enough, but
still a dismissal.

‘Thank you.’

There was little else to say.

But
as he was starting to walk away, it was Altigorn who said:

‘One other thing, Lord
Corcorigan. What does the term
Blight
mean to you?’

Tom turned, frowning. ‘Nothing at
all.’

‘Or’—Feldrif, this time—
‘Dark
Fire,
my Lord?’

What?

There was a sharp intake of
breath from Muldavika. Tom’s heart pounded; surely his telemetry readings had
leapt off the scale.

‘All right...’

But the answer he gave must have
satisfied them even less than himself.

‘... I’ve been dreaming of black
flames. Every night since Elva... since it happened. It scares me, but I’ve no
idea what it means.’

It sounded insane; but their own
scanners showed that he did not lie.

Elva... What was this other
loyalty you held?

None of it made sense.

I would have helped, if you ‘d
only asked...

But there was no-one to hear his
devastated grief, or to frame a reply which might seem remotely rational.

~ * ~

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