Context (5 page)

The man was white-haired and bent
with age or injury, and a freedman’s narrow bracelet encircled his bony left
wrist.

‘Yes, I’m—’

For a moment, Tom swayed beneath
a wave of weakness.

I’ve lost my cane.

The old man’s weight was half
upon his burgundy glass walking stick. Tom realized that his own cane was gone,
that his lev-support was back in the apartment, and that his leg was almost
free of pain.

‘Good, good.’ The old man turned
away, muttering. ‘Good, good, good ...’

Xyenquil... He did this to me.

Feeling oddly disconnected, Tom
made his way to the helical down-ramp, let the laminar flow take him slowly down
to the boulevard’s marbled floor. It glimmered with inner life, beneath amber
glowglobes floating near the opalescent ceiling.

He walked then, almost without
volition, cocooned from the passing throngs by a muffled sense of dislocation,
until he reached the square archway leading to the med centre.

They had gone too far.

There was a floating tricon,
complex yet discreet, by the glassine arch. The motile holo ideogram was dense
with meaning: a clumped configuration overall, redolent of strength; calming
pink/gold facets of a hundred hues, denoting care and healing, while the
complex folding/unfolding of its topology furnished staff resumes and the med
centre’s prestigious history.

Tom pointed at a facet, made a
show-me-more
control gesture.

Rectilinear facets, indicating a
lack of irony, laid bare the facts of Xyenquil’s expertise. Elva had chosen
well: Xyenquil was more than capable of implanting regrowth factors while
combating a life-threatening infection.

Damn you
—

Tom’s fist (his proper fist)
tightened, and for a second killing rage swept through him. Then it was gone,
and he turned away, deliberately relaxing the hand, trying to recall the way to
his apartment.

I have to talk to Elva.

She
was performing triceps dips, hands on a glassine chair and heels on a desktop.
Purple dark-stained leotard top, revealing creamy skin: athletic shoulders,
strong upper body. Sweat plastered strands of hair across her forehead; her jaw
was hard with determination.

Her long trousers were baggy,
pale grey, and her feet were clad in training slippers. A discarded skipping
rope lay in twisted loops upon the black polished floor.

‘Don’t stop,’ said Tom, standing
in the chamber’s archway.

She pumped through the remaining
repetitions, her core muscles tight with strengthening tension, in perfect
form.

‘Not bad.’ Tom smiled, a little.

‘Thank you.’

Icy words, as exact and correct
as her exercises.

I never realized how disciplined
you are.

He’d known she spent less time
than he on endurance conditioning, but had not factored in the intensity of her
workout period, and the daily weapons training. She had been his chief security
officer, back when he had a demesne to command—a shorter rule than most—but in
those days he had appreciated her intelligence work (and her eidetic memory)
more than her warrior attributes.

When he had met up with her again
in Darinia Demesne, five tendays ago, he realized just who it was he had always
depended on, however much Sylvana’s unattainable beauty had entranced him.

And the last forty days, spent
travelling in each other’s company, had shown him her true sterling worth,
wrapped up though he was in the misery of his hurt.

‘I hope,’ he began, ‘you weren’t
worried when I—’

‘My Lord can spend his nights’—with
an unaccustomed flatness to her tone—‘wherever he pleases, of course.’

‘Perhaps it pleases me to
explain.’

‘Sir.’ Standing at ease, her chin
raised. ‘But Grand’aume Security informed me of your whereabouts, when I
considered initiating a search.’

‘I—That’s good.’

‘Their having you under constant
surveillance? A double-edged sword, if I may venture an opinion.’

‘Elva...’ Tom was exasperated. ‘Of
course you can speak freely, whenever you like.’

‘Thank you.’

Silence rebounded off the cold
elegant walls.

Chaos, this is hard.

Aware suddenly of the closeness
of the chamber, the slick highlights of her sweat-damp skin, her
exertion-soaked tight leotard top. And her infinity-gaze—pale grey eyes: strong
and unambiguous—directed away from him.

He took a deep breath, then asked
the question he could no longer contain.

‘Elva, what did you do to me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I thought—’ Tom shook his head,
turning away. ‘Xyenquil’s achieved ... more than I intended.’

‘And you’re not—’

What?
he wondered.
Pleased?

Very softly: ‘So was his
femtoregime to your specification?’

‘Sir.’ Her tone was formal, and
pulled him round. ‘I ordered full healing capabilities, regardless of cost.’

After a moment, ‘You’re not just
my servitrix,’ Tom said. ‘Don’t call me sir.’

But she was hurt, and a scowl
lurked beneath the controlled mask of her features.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

Damn it!

‘For Fate’s sake, Elva. You think
I haven’t had the chance for cell-regrow before?’

‘What?’

‘Lord A’Dekal, did you ever meet
him? No... Crusty old bastard, presided at my ascension ceremony. Offered me
the use of his med facilities, at a price.’

Elva said nothing.

‘He wanted,’ Tom continued, ‘my
support for his reactionary think-tank, the Circulus Fidelis. The cost’—grimly—‘was
too high.’

‘You could have found a way.’

The chamber seemed to spin.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘To use the facility, and infiltrate
A’Dekal’s group.’

“This was earlier ...Before you
recruited me into LudusVitae.’

‘Before you killed General d’Ovraison’s
brother?’

‘What?’
Sudden rage, his words bouncing
back from the glassine walls. Logically, she had always known about the Oracle;
yet her raw words now—answering back, in this place, after what she had done—flayed
like a deadly insult. ‘You
dare?’

All his anger and frustration
expanded, ballooned, and blood-rush pounded in his ears.

‘... dare to help you, Tom, with
no strings att—’

‘Silence.’

And Elva was rigid then, locked
into her attention stance; her contained fury seemed to swell and coruscate
around her. Her jaw muscles flexed with tension.

But perhaps it was not just Elva
who had gone too far.

‘By the fourteenth article,’ she
said stiffly, ‘of the Artifex Conjunctonis, I formally request
allegiance-transfer—‘

‘No.’

‘—to General d’Ovraison, who has
already indicated his willingness to recruit me into the new Academy. Failing
that -’

‘Don’t push me, Elva.’

‘—to Darinia Demesne’s interim
governing—’

‘Request denied.’ Tom reined in
his anger.

His words seemed to hang in the
charged air between them.

Then she gave a small formal bow
in salute. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

Elva turned on her heel, and
marched towards her chamber, as though her sweat-soaked training clothes were
full military uniform.

Damn you, Elva. Why did you have
to force the issue?

For some words, once spoken, can
never be retracted.

And behind it all lay an old, old
knowledge: that he was Elva’s liege Lord, a position he had seen abused too
many times to count.

Frost-sparkle.
Evaporation.

There was a message-chime, which
Tom accepted. Now, in the archway, where the doorshimmer had stood, waited
Nirilya and the red-haired medic, Xyenquil.

A wave of tension washed through
the chamber.

‘Come in.’

Tom perched on a lev-stool, and
directed the visitors to a couch. Nirilya gathered her black robe and sat; then
Xyenquil, fidgeting with his tunic’s silver clasp, took his place beside her.

Elva entered, stood at the
chamber’s rear with her arms folded, leaning against the glassine wall.

Xyenquil cleared his throat. ‘Nirilya’s
reported some fever-like symptoms in yourself, sir. And, ah, we’ve completed
our post-op analyses.’

By the wall, Elva unfolded her
arms, re-crossed them.

Holding out an infocrystal,
Xyenquil gestured to the chamber’s systems, and a holo grew into being:

Splayed shapes, like alien
creatures torn inside out: bright beaded lines forming streamers, spirals,
twisted glowing knots.

Xyenquil rotated the image—a
shining jagged landscape—then froze it.