Exile (22 page)

"I wish to know," Sam-Sei asked, "when Wrath-Pei will be returned to Mars."

"Ah," Prime Cornelian said, momentarily caught off guard. "That is ... something 1 am working on."

"It is not in process?"

"No," said the High Leader, trying to think of something to placate the Machine Master. "There is no possibility of his return before this Venus business is completed."

The Machine Master looked for all the world like a cadaver standing and talking to him; his wan complexion, the scarred pits around his sunken eyes, the tuft of greasy yellow hair high up on his forehead, made him appear anything but alive. Not for the first time, the High Leader wondered just how alive the man was, save for his work and his burning passion to face Wrath-Pei once more.

"You will have no trouble on Venus. I wish Wrath-Pei to be brought home as soon as possible," Sam-Sei said.

The High Leader had heard the words of assurance he had sought; now he let anger flow into his voice. It was time to poke the snake with a stick. "It will happen when I command it," Prime Comehan snapped.

Seeming to ignore his ire, the Machine Master said distractedly, "Perhaps I will have something that can aid you in his retrieval."

Cornelian began to speak, but the Machine Master had disappeared; the ghost of his outline was barely visible, like a soap bubble's edge.

"Sam-Sei—speak to me now!"

But there came only silence from the Machine Master's underground chambers. And now the High Leader could see nothing of Sam-Sei at all, only the track of dust motes caught in a beam of sunlight from the high slit of windows, which fell across the flanks of ancient machines.

"T
abrel?"

Through the gauze of what reality had become to her, Tabrel Kris heard her father's voice.

It was not a strong voice—as his voice had always been strong. It was weak, like a bent reed, hollow and wispy—but it was him nevertheless.

For the first time in a week, she had been left alone. That in itself had lessened, the tiniest bit, the constant pressure exerted on her by Kamath Clan's drugs. Being in the presence of the queen, as she had been during her "ministrations," and more horrible yet, being in the constant company of Jamal Clan, whose annoying voice, continual whining, and perpetual state of anxiety drove what little there was left of her own personality to distraction, had only made the drugs' powers more effective. In some sense even welcome, since it made the pain of her being on Titan more endurable. It had almost been with sorrow, then, that she had witnessed the recent reduction of the dosages, which had come at Jamal's insistence. Claiming that Tabrel's love for him was bound to flower and that the potions would soon no longer be needed, Jamal had finally convinced his mother. Tabrel had wisely chosen to mimic the same air of obeisance with the reduction, even though it meant that Jamal's clinging, in his belief that her feelings for him were. truly growing, had become all but unbearable.

Even now Jamal Clan stood outside the door to her chamber, proclaiming loudly that leaving her alone was a mistake. The boy was like a dog; and his true feelings for her were pathetic in their earnestness. At least he had a sense of chivalry, which had spared her from his bed. Proclaiming that he would not have her until she would have him without the aid of his mother's methods, he had left her to her own bedchamber, even on their wedding night. Still, she had not passed that night in peace, listening instead to his pathetic sobbing from the room next door.

But now here she was alone, feeling almost herself again.

And here was her father speaking.

So he was alive—though barely. On the Screen he looked as if he had aged ten years since she had seen him last. Which had only been. . .two months ago? Three? Inside, where there was still something of herself left, she wept for him, seeing him this way.

He sat on a thin chair, but looked as if his bag of bones had been set into it. His hands trembled,
as did his lip, though his eyes were still strong and clear.

"Tabrel?" he said again, and it was only now that she realized he was not speaking to her on the recording, but to Prime Cornelian, whose vile voice was heard, though his visage, thankfully, remained unseen.

"Yes, Senator," Cornelian said, "we are speaking of your dear daughter Tabrel. Would you like her to come and visit you?"

"No!" her father said.

"Are you sure, Senator? Are you afraid she wouldn't like to see you this way?"

"I've told you, Cornelian, that you will never get near her!"

"Now, now,, there's nothing to get excited about." One of Cornelian's horrid metallic limbs stretched into the picture, patting her father with Cornelian's thin metal simulacrum of a human hand. The hand withdrew. "How do you think she'd feel if I told her that I would spare your life, restore your property and title, and nurse you back to health if she would only agree to come?"

Here Senator Kris broke down completely, a shaking, sobbing bag of bones.

The Screen, mercifully, went blank.

In the darkness, Tabrel Kris felt something she had not felt since Queen Clan's ministrations had begun—a tear of her own, on her own face.

Though she knew that Prime Cornelian had manipulated her into feeling exactly what she was feeling at the moment, she didn't care. She would go to her father.

That evening, as the lights of Titan dimmed to darkness and the stars moved aside like a folded blanket from rising Saturn's majesty, Tabrel Kris stole from her own bed and went to the room of Jamal Clan.

The Titanian prince slept with the pale glow of Saturn-light on his face; his mouth was open distastefully, his breathing loud, and Tabrel thought fleetingly of her first view of him. How handsome she had thought him. A shiver ran through her; but even so, she made her hand touch his face lightly, to bring him awake.

"Mother?" he said apprehensively, sitting up. Then his eyes lit on Tabrel. "My princess!"

Fighting through the layers of Kamath's potions, Tabrel put a finger to his lips.

"Be quiet. And listen to me .. . husband." The last word stuck in her throat, but the drugs in her helped her to continue to smile.

Delirious with joy, Jamal put a hand on her arm. "You have come to me! And on your own!"

"Yes," she whispered. "And I wish to be with you. But not until I am myself again."

Dismay crossed Jamal's face. "My mother! Damn her interference!"

Tabrel nodded. "I have been fighting to be myself
since her first ministration. It pushes me into myself and makes me who I am not."

"I will kill her!"

Tabrel set her hand lightly on his face. "No. But you must help me stop her. Do you know where her potions are kept?"

"Yes."

"Can you get to them?"

Jamal became thoughtful; finally he nodded. "She makes her rounds tomorrow. The room will be accessible to me."

"Good. Then you must bring the potions to me so that I can switch them with something harmless."

"I will switch them for you, my bride!"

"No, you must let me do it. If your mother asks you later, you must be able to tell her the truth, that you did not exchange them."

Jamal thought a moment, then nodded vigorously, caught up in the plan. "I will do whatever you ask!"

"My father is very ill."

"Then we must help him! Perhaps Wrath-Pei--"

"There may be a way," Tabrel said. "If you are willing to help me."

He scrambled out of the bed and knelt before her. "I would do anything for you, my bride! I would
die
for you!"

Though she was thinking
That may be necessary,
Tabrel only forced herself to lay her hand gently on his head—which made her think once more of him as a dog.

Leaving him there in rapture, she padded back to
her own room, slept all that night, and late into the next morning.

Jamal's knock upon her door found her already awake and dressed.

He had brought the case, as she had prayed he would.

She took it from him and said, "Now go outside and make sure no one bothers me."

Immediately he left.

Tabrel turned her full attention to the case of potions. From its blue velvet cradle she drew out the green bottle labeled "Obedience" and the slim red carafe designated "Truthfulness." The blackened bottle called "Death" she slipped into her tunic, after making sure it was tightly closed. She also withdrew and hid the clutch of silver syringes filled with "Sleep."

She emptied the carafe containing "Truthfulness," refilling it with water. She did the same to "Affability."

"Jamal!" she called, and when he had returned, she put into his palm the opened bottle of "Obedience."

"Drink, and see if I have done well!"

To allay any suspicion, she drank from the carafe of Truthfulness.

"I have replaced them with water!" she said. Eager to please, Jamal tilted the green bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

He lowered it almost immediately, his eyes growing heavy. "Oh . . ."

"You will follow my every command," Tabrel said. "You will not disobey."

Dreamily, in his singsong voice, Jamal said, "Yes."

"You will use whatever power you have while your mother is away. You will feign emergency. You will book passage for me offworld on the fastest and most untraceable ship possible. You will do everything in your power to get me home to Mars."

Jamal nodded.

"You will do all these things for me, Jamal Clan, and you will tell no one; no knowledge of these things will ever leave your heart."

"Yes . . ."

She put her hands on him and turned him to the door, "It is time to go."

He opened the door obediently and walked straight into the monstrous form of Kamath Clan. Behind her, lounging in his chair, which floated on the air like a suspended bird, sat Wrath-Pei, looking languidly amused.

"Hooray for us!" he said to Kamath Clan. "We were both right! I guessed
why
they'd do it, and you guessed
how!
I'm shocked that Cornelian thought something so crude as that transmission to the girl would work! The Bug must be losing his touch!"

"Mother . . ." Jamal said.

Kamath pushed past him into the room, brushing Tabrel aside to gather her bottles. She turned to Tabrel and held out her hand.

"Give them to me."

Wrath-Pei chuckled while Tabrel, refusing to move, was roughly searched by the queen, who produced the bottles and syringes. Kamath Clan's face darkened at the sight of the bottle marked "Death."

"You would have used this," she said.

Tabrel said nothing, but stood defiant.

The queen said, "My mistake was to reduce her dosages. I should never have listened to the boy."

Wrath-Pei eyed Jamal with interest. "Perhaps if you let me interview the prince ..

"No!" the queen said. She quickly added, "He needs my care now."

Wrath-Pei smiled and shrugged. "Ah, well."

"You must leave me alone with the children now," Kamath Clan said. "There are measures I must take to assure this doesn't happen again."

"Of course," Wrath-Pei said. "We can't have anything happening to our little princess. She seems to be so valuable to Cornelian." He continued, "Lawrence found an amusing reference to her situation in the ancient literature. It's a pity her name isn't Helen."

Kamath Clan looked at him blankly, but he did not elaborate.

"When I am done here, I will come to you," she said. "There are two matters we must discuss."

Wrath-Pei nodded. The boy Lawrence, barely visible behind the chair, nudged a mechanism-with the stump of one hand, and the chair slid back smoothly and began to turn.

"Don't be long."

The queen assented, and then, behind closed doors, began ministrations in earnest.

For some reason, Wrath-Pei had decided to install himself in the residence of the late Commander Tarn; though Kamath Clan knew there was irony in this, she did not see amusement.

Tarn's residence, like his office, was in the Ruz Balib section. The Sacred Grounds always gave her a measure of peace, though today she found herself too preoccupied to find this repose. Using the central walkway of the tree-lined quadrangle, she passed the late commander's offices and walked on. Soon the drab colors of office buildings turned to brighter shades of residences; and, behind the guarded gate of Tarn's property, the orange-red of the house's ornate front for a moment arrested her. Though she had never been here, she had assumed from Tarn's bureaucratic demeanor that his home would be as boring as his office or himself. This did not appear to be so.

She was further surprised by the interior, which was stuffed to overflowing with trinkets and furnishings from the Four Worlds. Tarn, it seems, had been either a secret collector with a private income or an embezzler of state funds. Some of the items, such as a tea service of nineteenth century Earth and a painted tarp of early twenty-first century Mars, were museum pieces even to the queen's barely trained eye. The rooms were spacious and airy, in vague Martian style; and, on closer inspection, the home
itself seemed to be built of Martian sandstone, a luxury in itself.