Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (21 page)

Pizzle found her standing at the aft rail, her hair streaming in the breeze, eyes glazed in wonder. “I've been looking for you,” he said.

“Umm,” was all she said.

“Haven't seen much of you—I thought we might talk.”

With an effort she turned her eyes away. “What about?” she asked dreamily.

“If you're busy, I can come back.”

“Busy?”

“You want to be alone?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath. “The air is so fresh!” She gazed back out at the colorful sails of the trailing barges. “So beautiful.”

“I'll come back.”

“How have you been, Pizzle?” she asked absently. “I haven't seen much of you lately.”

“Is that so?”

She turned to him again with a questioning glance. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. It's just that you seem a little preoccupied right now. I guess you're thinking about Treet, huh?”

“Who?” She appeared genuinely puzzled.

“Orion Treet? A friend of ours—yours. Tall guy with lots of hair everywhere, likable, if a little poached topside. Remember him?”

“Treet ...” A look of sharp vexation crossed her features. “I don't want to remember—to talk about him, I mean.”

“Huh? I thought you two were real close.” Pizzle wagged his head in amazement at female fickleness. “What happened? Lover's tiff?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Pizzle was quiet for a moment, and Yarden thought he had gotten the message. “I guess he was probably too bullheaded for his own good,” he said after a while. “Imagine, him going back there—back to Dome, I mean. I can't figure it. I didn't think he'd really do it.”

“How dare you inflict him on me!” Yarden snapped. “I told you I don't want to talk about him. You're ruining everything. Just leave me alone.”

“Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know you two had scrapped it up. I was just wondering, okay?”

“Go away. Just ... go away.” Yarden turned abruptly, setting her jaw.

“Right, I'll see you later,” said Pizzle, shuffling off.

Curse that Pizzle, she thought. Everything was beautiful until he'd mentioned Treet. I don't want to remember. I
won't
remember him. She pushed herself forcefully away from the rail—as if she were shoving away his memory. She continued her stroll once more around the deck, determined to regain the magical mood that had, like dew in the desert sun, evaporated at the drop of Treet's name.

“I
told you that he was not to be left alone—not even for a moment,” said Ernina, raising an accusing finger at the slacker. “Where were you? Answer me.”

“I just stepped out for—”

“I don't care. I don't want excuses, I want obedience. Someone is to be with him at all times. Understand?”

The first-order physician nodded ruefully.

“All right.” The flinty old healer softened somewhat. “I know you are tired; I will send someone to relieve you soon.” She studied her newest patient as she placed the fingers of her right hand against his throat. “I don't want anything to happen to him,” she muttered.

“Is he someone important?” asked the young man.

Ernina delivered her answer with a look of reprimand in her quick, green eyes.
“Everyone
who needs our help is important.”

“More important, I mean?”

The old woman evaded the question. “He has a mental disorder that requires constant attention. Should he awake, I wish to be notified at once.” She turned on the young physician again. “When was the last time you read his aura?”

“Green, stabilized,” he answered at once, “some shrinkage in the red, passing to yellow. His blue is still well below range.”

Ernina nodded. “Any black showing?”

“Transient flares—nothing stable.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at the man in the suspended bed. “He speaks aloud.”

“It's to be expected.”

“He speaks of his mishon. What is a mishon?”

Ernina shrugged. “Perhaps he will tell us when he is again in his right mind. Anything else?”

“Just muttering—nothing coherent.”

She nodded and said, “I'll send your relief at once.” Ernina left the room. This patient had a good chance to recover if his will to live was strong enough. Time would tell. She had done all she could for the moment.

How he had come to appear at her door, she didn't know. But she recognized Hladik's handiwork readily enough. The tortured man was a Fieri—that she also knew the moment she had seen him lying there shivering. Now that he was here, she was determined to protect him at all costs.

The news of Hladik's assassination had shaken the Hage. Not that she cared for the licentious Director, but his death augured ill for the future. Jamrog was, if possible, a worse tyrant than Sirin Rohee. And if, as the rumor messengers suggested, Hladik's death was the beginning of a Purge, her choice was clear.

Her patient could not be moved now—maybe not for a long while. But as soon as he was able ...

In the meantime, there was so much to be done, so much to get ready before that eventuality.

She smiled grimly to herself; she had been given another chance to save the life of a Fieri. I lost the first one, she thought. One that I pledged to protect. I will
not
lose this one.

Cejka
climbed the steps of the communications tower which rose like a spearhead from the center of Rumon Hage. He paused to look out over his domain, peaceful in the hazy midday light. Clumps of trees in a long sinuous line marked the banks of Kyan; low, blue-tinted Hageblocks, scattered among green quadrangles, stepped up from the river's edge.

Rumon was not large, but its people were fiercely loyal—a fact Cejka had always appreciated and never abused. Within Rumon's neat borders, Hagemen came and went without fear and spoke their minds freely, for Rumon priests were not given to greed and petty malice as were most others. Cejka saw to that, keeping the bloated priesthood in check just as he kept his rumor messengers quick and subtle.

Under Cejka's leadership rumor messengers had become the main, often the only, source of reliable information for the common Hageman. Consequently, there was not a single Hageblock in all of Empyrion where a Rumon rumor messenger was not welcome. The swiftness of the network contributed to the messengers' high stent among the people of the various Hages, who for the most part considered rumor messengers on a level with magicians, so quickly did they appear and vanish.

The Rumon Director was now grateful for the speed and efficiency of his beloved network. He had known within seconds the precise moment that Mrukk had set foot in Rumon. Even though the Mors Ultima commander had appeared in disguise as a Rumon Hageman, he was instantly recognized and reported, his movements since then carefully observed.

There could only be one reason for the assassin's sudden appearance, and Cejka knew what it was: Jamrog had ordered his death, no doubt in retaliation for his remarks in the Threl session the day before. Now Cejka had two choices and a decision to be made quickly.

Reluctantly he turned his eyes away from the deceptively calm landscape before him. Death waited out there. He hurried inside the tower and rode the lift to the top, where he had established the heart of the rumor network. Subdirector Covol was waiting for him when he entered.

“Where is he?” Cejka came into the large, machine-crammed room. As always it was humming with activity, but today there was an edge to the excitement. Hagemen glanced up briefly as the Director walked by and then returned to their tasks, many of them staring into glowing screens or speaking softly into microphones; others, their heads encased in remote viewer helmets, sat motionless, their fingers twitching on the lighted panels before them. And everywhere magicians scurried, tending the machinery, keeping it going.

“Still on Riverwalk level,” answered Covol. “He appears to be working his way toward Hage center, slowly; he is in no hurry.”

“Has he attempted to contact any of the known Invisibles within Hage?”

“We have detected no contact. None of the Invisibles are near him at present.” Covol regarded his chief. “What is your decision? Should we try to apprehend him?”

Cejka clasped his hands and bowed his head. When he raised his face again he said, “No.”

“He is alone. We can take him.”

“It would be too difficult and the loss of life too great. If we fail, we will have shown Jamrog the strength of our network.”

“We can take him,” insisted Covol. To Cejka's quick dismissal he said, “At least let us kill him. We can have him surrounded by weapons carriers within two minutes.”

Cejka considered this. It was tempting. Yes, they could have Rumon snipers within range in minutes, and at least one enemy would be eliminated. But it wouldn't stop Jamrog. Losing his prime assassin would drive the Supreme Director into a killing frenzy; he would order a massive strike on the Hage, and thousands would die.

“No,” he said.

Covol heard the finality in his leader's voice and despaired. “Do you propose to do nothing to protect yourself?”

“Where I am going, Covol, I will be well protected.” The Subdirector stared. “What's wrong? We have planned for this day. The time has come, sooner than expected perhaps, but it has not caught us unaware. Are you ready to assume the Directorship?”

“You'll still be Director,” pointed out Covol.

Cejka nodded. “Yes, yes, but since I will not be here to take care of them, our Hagemen will look to you for leadership. Jamrog may even have you formally installed.” He silenced a quick protest. “You know what to do. We have agreed on the plan, and we will follow it.”

“Yes, Director.” Covol squared his shoulders.

“Good. I will leave with Hyrgo tonight. Now, alert Tvrdy; he must be informed of my plans at once.” Cejka took a last look around the busy command center he had worked so hard to create. It was possible that he'd never see the place again.

He pushed the thought from him. The Purge was just beginning; many decisive battles remained to be fought, and Cejka meant to see Jamrog's head on a bhuj in Threl High Chambers before it was over. That, he considered as he disappeared into his private rooms, was a prospect worth further contemplation.

Near sundown on the
fifth day, the Fieri sailboats reached the northernmost shores of Prindahl. The sails were furled as the first ships slid into a sand-rimmed cove and anchored in the clear, shallow water. The passengers disembarked to make camp on dry land for the night. The cove had been used by the Fieri as a stopping-place for generations; there were open-air pavilions and fresh-water wells scattered among the cool groves of flat-leafed shade trees lining the cove just above the sand line.

No one seemed to mind that they had to wade ashore, and the festive atmosphere was quickly rekindled among the convivial travelers. Yarden sloshed through the warm, knee-deep water, and would have given in to a swim—as many of the Fieri were doing—if not for the fact that she wanted to find Ianni and Gerdes as soon as possible. She looked among the laughing, splashing bathers from the first boat for her friends, but didn't see them.

On the beach, she wandered along the fine, white sand, stopping at each boat to search among the passengers in the water and coming ashore. The fifth ship, spring green sails with a bright yellow hull, was just gliding in when Yarden arrived. She waited as the anchor dropped with a splash and the gangplank was thrust out into the water. The first passengers off were youngsters who dove off the gangplank and into the turquoise shallows like seals too long pent-up for comfort. Amidst their happy squeals, the other passengers filed off. Among the first was Ianni.

“Over here!” Yarden cried, waving an arm above her head.

Ianni glanced up, smiled, and waved. “So you found a berth after all,” she said as she joined Yarden on the beach. “I knew you would, or else I would have come back to look for you. I'm sorry, I guess I should have warned you about the boarding.”

“It doesn't matter. I've enjoyed every minute of the trip so far, and I'll enjoy the rest even more now that we're together. Where is Gerdes?” Yarden asked, searching the oncoming throng for her teacher.

“She'll be along. I saw her earlier this afternoon,” replied Ianni. “I know she's eager to get her pupils together. You're not the only one to get separated from her.”

They began walking along the sand, listening to the laughter ringing in the still air. “As much as I love sailing,” said Yarden, “it's good to feel solid ground beneath my feet.” She fell silent then and was quiet so long that Ianni turned her head to study Yarden from the corner of her eye.

“Something is troubling you,” observed Ianni. She stopped and drew Yarden down beside her, stretching out her long legs as she reclined.

Yarden's first impulse was to deny her friend's assertion. But it was true. Off and on the last few days she had been moody. “I'm ... I don't know—I feel restless, unsettled.”

Ianni said nothing, but merely waited for Yarden to continue. The sun touched the flat, metallic surface of the lake and spread white fire across the far horizon and long shadows on the beach. Yarden sat with her legs drawn up, arms folded on her knees, eyes closed in searching thought. Finally she lowered her head onto her arms. “It's Treet,” she said.

“Go on.”

Yarden sighed heavily. “I thought I could forget him. I nearly did—at least I thought so. Until that stupid Pizzle ...”

“It wasn't Pizzle,” Ianni said softly.

Yarden lifted her head. “No, I suppose not. Not really.”

She fell silent again, watching the sun slide into the water. The remaining boats had slid into the cove, and their passengers now strolled the beach or swam, their voices clear as light in the air. There were tears in her eyes when she turned to Ianni. “I didn't want this to happen. I wanted to be free of him. I wanted to start a new life. It isn't fair. Why should he have this hold on me?”

“Are you certain it's Treet?”

Yarden nodded. “Who else?”

“The Seeker has His ways.”

Pondering this, Yarden said, “I have been faithful to my call. I have sought the Infinite's leading. I have asked to be shown how to grow in belief and understanding. I have—”