Prince of Storms (32 page)

When they had all read the letter, Tai rolled it up and took charge of it.

Master Quinn stood and took Anzi's hand. He turned to speak to her, but she shook her head with great dignity. “Certain things we do not say.”

Tai thought he would never forget the look that the regent gave his wife, or the one that she gave him, both looks more peaceful than he could have thought possible.

Nistothom broke this moment by saying, “I will come for you when Titus Quinn is ready to depart.”

Tai asked, “How long?”

“That depends. Normally it would be a very long undertaking.”

Master Quinn said, “We've already decided these things. The process must be fast.”

“The faster, the more dangerous. Dangerous for you personally. Dangerous for your intentions. If we push in the wrong way, you will not have all your faculties—even those needed to execute Geng De.”

Titus Quinn said impatiently, “We've discussed all this.”

“Yes,” Nistothom said, “but I would like each person here to remember my words—and yours. What we have agreed, and what the consequences may be.”

Master Quinn looked around at the group as he said, slowly and evenly, “Make it as fast as possible so that I retain my purpose.”

“I will try.”

Nistothom turned to Anzi. “I was wrong to blame you. My mistakes were my own—I know that now. I ask you to pardon me, Anzitaj.”

Tai thought it was a fair speech, and well done on Nistothom's part.

Anzi nodded. But she did not seem able to speak at that moment.

Then Master Quinn turned to Tai. “In my country, we have a custom. It is meant to give respect to someone. Give me your hand, Tai.” Master Quinn
held out his right hand, and Tai held out his. Then Master Quinn gripped his hand, and moved it up and down once, in an odd but moving good-bye ritual. Master Quinn smiled at him. “It's a good custom to learn, if you ever visit the Rose.”

He turned to Anzi and, before she could protest, he took her in his arms and held her a very long time.

Then Nistothom opened a travel slit, and he and the regent stepped through and disappeared.

There were two kinds of sleep, Sen Ni knew. The simple, healing sleep of her body, and the leaden unconsciousness of the Nigh. She woke now from the latter, from the binds, struggling to come fully awake.

She saw Geng De standing over her, saying things to her. Though she despised the sound of his voice, she struggled to hear. He towered over her, a great, misshapen form, bloated in body and desire. She would strike out and kill him at the first chance. But she was weak, barely able to see or hear.

He bent close to her.

“Your father,” he hissed, sending spittle onto her face. “You should have handled him. There's been so little I've asked of you. But you haven't handled him. He's going for a
navitar
. I saw it in the binds. A
navitar
.”

He kneeled beside her, bringing his face next to hers, nuzzling her as though for comfort. “He's coming for us, coming…” His lips swiped her cheek, leaving a wet track. “Can't you tell him to leave us alone? I was going to untwist the cables, Sen Ni, the
cables
. The very roots of the storm walls. I have to untwist them, and dip the little ones in the river. I have so much to do....” He jerked away in irritation. “But you're
useless
. All you do is sleep.”

Her father, a navitar? And what cables?

Geng De put a hand behind her to lift her head enough to drink. A cup of water came to her lips. She swallowed what she could.

“There, see how I take care of you in spite of everything?” He laid her down again. This close, she might have struck out at him, but her body would not obey her commands.

“Now the children will have to wait. I have to go into the binds again. He mustn't become a navitar. Or if he does, it must go wrong. Otherwise we'll never have any peace. I was counting on the Nigh bringing us peace, but it won't if he's in it with us.”

Her father, a navitar? She thought this must be a dream. If it weren't for the terrible pain, she might have convinced herself it was
all
a dream, and she was still in her bed in the crystal mansion.

There was, however, no mistaking the plunging deck of the ship. They were diving again. Up came the suffocating embrace of the Nigh.

Nistothom's hut had many rooms. He led Quinn to one no more impressive than any of the others. It had a narrow bed, a desk, mollusks up the wall.

“No equipment?” Quinn asked.

“A forma or two.”

He had forgotten how everything the Jinda ceb used spent off hours folded up. He sat on the bed waiting as Nistothom called down the mollusks.

“How did you learn the navitar process?” Quinn asked. He felt cold, his conversation irrelevant. Events were coming at him so fast he could hardly prepare himself.

Nistothom now had a handful of forma and placed them on the bed. “Manifest. All information you might ever want is there. If it is not, Manifest can create it.”

“Tell me again why you're helping me.”

“I am helping us all.”

Although Nistothom might be woven by Geng De, Quinn's instinct told him that this was his clearest chance, his only chance. He might have persuaded Lord Inweer to help him, but where in all the Entire was Inweer? Nor did he have any time left to hunt for him. And Inweer was not by any means a sure ally. It was too late for these thoughts. He had decided. It did no good to review it all, and now, it was too late, with Nistothom here and ready to proceed and his good-byes having been said.

He sat on the cot in numb apprehension.

Oh, Anzi
, he thought. Over the previous hours he hadn't shared his fear with her. If she had seen his true heart, she would have faltered and then he would have. It helped to adopt the appearance of courage. Somehow, it helped, and for all he knew this sick dread
was
courage.

He might not emerge from this transformation in any way recognizable to himself or others. What would be left of him if he became removed from emotional life, if he saw others as
under-sentients
? Would he, in fact, lose control of his body
and
his mind? He hoped not to survive his journey into the binds. He hoped never to step off that ship.

But he would kill Geng De. It would be his last thought as he went under, and he prayed that upon waking, he remembered it and knew how to use a knife.

“Lie down,” Nistothom said.

He did. Nistothom opened the first forma. It unfolded into a small box. Opening it, Nistothom took out a round, gelatinous button. “I press this against your skin. Inside the delivery packet is an extremely small incisor. It will deliver the first packet of information.”

“DNA.”

Nistothom paused. “Do you wish me to explain what this is?”

“Yes.”

“The little cells that compose your material body have inside them instruction centers. We will give them new instructions.” That was, apparently, the explanation, or as much of it as Nistothom judged Quinn could understand, or as much as he felt he had time to explain.

Quinn glanced at the pile of forma on the bed. If they all contained genetic instructions, his skin was soon going to be pitted like the surface of the moon.

“Nistothom. When this is over, when Geng De is gone, there is still the question of—”

“Of survival, yes. For your Rose world.”

“It's not the Rose that needs help. It's the Entire. Remember that. It was the Entire's problem from the beginning.” He didn't know if it was any use to make one last plea to a Jinda ceb, but he did so. “Each realm sovereign. It was Jin Yi's maxim.” He explained it to Nistothom. He thought he saw
understanding in Nistothom's eyes, unless it was only pity. Quinn was giving his mission to others. None of them wanted it, but none of them could outright look at a man in his position and say no.

Caitlin
, he thought. She came to mind now, the emblem of all those he'd tried to save.
Caitlin, I've done what I can.

Nistothom said, “Are you ready to begin?”

“How long?”

“Two days. Perhaps three.”

“Then we'd better start.” He looked up at the Jinda ceb former Beautiful One. He wanted to thank him, but in the end, he couldn't.

Nistothom said, “Unbutton your jacket. I need to find unscarred skin.”

Quinn unfastened the front of his jacket, then his shirt. The first button that Nistothom affixed to the skin of his chest felt cold.

As Nistothom hesitated, Quinn said, “I'll do the first few.” He pressed the gel button firmly and felt the underside release with a cold, pricking stab.

After a few minutes during which he continued to administer the drugs himself, he murmured to Nistothom, “Do you believe in God?”

“Sometimes yes,” Nistothom's voice came to him. “Sometimes no.”

“I do not.”

Another cold button on his chest.

Nistothom murmured, “If God exists, it operates without your permission.”

Quinn had always known the world would get along fine without him, but he liked hearing that.

MORE THAN EVER
, the ship was a prison. It sped on, now traveling in the bright, windows occluded. Breund kept to his sleeping quarters, refusing to deal with Lord Inweer. He had abandoned all conversation, it being useless to pretend that the lord would repent of his mutiny. The lord sat in his chair hour upon hour, neither pressing his advantage nor expressing remorse. How had Breund ever thought that he could have a salutary influence on Inweer's nature? The lord was a king among sentients, or had been. His knowledge vast, his origins stranger than any mortal could know. In contrast, even among Jout, Breund had never risen high. They were not equals, nor could this Tarig lord even conceive of the mild interior landscape most sentients occupied.

Breund rose from his chair and began to pace in the confines of his room. He walked from one side of his bed to the other, and back around again, his thoughts no more divergent than that. What was it his duty to do? Why had not Inweer killed him already if he meant to join with the solitaires to take control of the engine at Ahnenhoon? How could the regent ever have judged this ship arrangement sound? He wondered what Titus Quinn would do, for surely by now he must know the prison ship was compromised.

His anger simmered and grew. Inweer had not accounted for himself in any measure, not even to declaring his sedition. Let it at least be said, so that his perfidy would not be softened by silence. Breund was done with the
respectful distance he had chosen to adopt for his dignity's sake. He stormed into the main cabin.

The lord sat in his pilot's chair, unmoving as a statue. Detecting movement, his eyes flicked open.

“My lord,” Breund said, drawing himself up to as tall as a Jout could. “You have chosen to spare my life, but I am your captive. Now that our roles are reversed, you can choose to treat me with the dignity of a prisoner or, by keeping silent, leave me to suffer disrespect. I am not a thing to be carried here and there and not know my standing or fate. Say what you mean to do.”

Inweer shifted his position, watching Breund, listening. But Breund had finished his speech. A subtle shift in movement of the ship signaled that they had emerged from the bright.

It was outrageous that Lord Inweer refused to answer. What danger could Breund be if he knew at least a partial answer to his query? “My lord. I demand that you declare your intentions!”

With a flick of his wrist, Lord Inweer cleared the view ports. Windows dimpled and spread. A gloaming light claimed the cabin.

He walked to the nearest view port and looked out.

To Breund's surprise, they were skimming past a chaotically dark storm wall, so close that they might have set off sparks. Inside the wall, submerged lightning traced its ephemeral energies against the black.

Breund gripped the counter, staggered at the sight. Then, a banking of the ship took them around to face another storm wall.

By the navitar's mind, they were at a Reach. As his mind groped toward the unpleasant, inevitable conclusion, the proof sprawled below him on the plains: Ahnenhoon. It was the Repel. Unmistakably, with its concentric layout and brooding dark stones, it was the fortress.

So. The lord had come for the engine.

Inweer would take back the fortress that he once had held. Oh, Breund thought, how close our natures hue to past ways! Lord Inweer would reprise his role as master of the Repel. Master of the engine. What else did such a being have but a pathetic grasping for past grandeur?

“It is an offense to both duty and honor,” he said, turning back to the lord. “You have forsworn yourself.”

“Hnn. Do you say so? But what else remains, Master Warden? They have burned each lord who dared to walk forth.” He looked to the view port. “My cousins went to each sway in turn to petition for life. All refused. The Gond, Laroo, Jout, Ysli. Lastly, the Hirrin, when all that was asked was shelter. And you wonder that we come to the fortress?”

“You do not come for shelter, but for the engine.”

“The engine pumps blood into our veins. Shall the Entire cool because you are offended by violence?”

“If it is fate that the Entire cool, then it is only brave to accept it.”

“That is your judgment?”

Breund wondered that after so long a silence Lord Inweer cared to know such a thing. “Yes, my judgment.”

He had long been reconciled. He would not steal another realm's soul.

Turning back to the view port, Breund spied three specs in the distance, swooping down the sky.

Ci Dehai sweated under his armor as he climbed the stairs to the ramparts. At his side were his adjutant, Han, and behind him, his personal guard, their weapons clattering on their armor and echoing against the stony walls.

“Four brightships?” Ci Dehai asked again. There could not be four. Only three remained, unless the fiends had secured the regent's own ship.

“The watch counted four, General,” Han assured him.

Was Titus among this fleet? If so, then it was not to be a fight, and Ci Dehai was mistaken in setting two hundred soldiers to pull apart the engine. But if the Tarig had reclaimed four ships, they would be formidable. It was well that he had begun the dismantling. These were the regent's standing orders: In case of Tarig assault, destroy the engine. Hold them at bay until the engine is in rubble.

They came out on the roof of the innermost keep, the Centrum. A massed body of six hundred soldiers stood in ranks, ready with ax and sword. He had always feared an attack would come on the roof, thus limiting the
access of his overwhelming force. Once the brightships landed, good deployment of Tarig could cut fresh arrivals down at each of two stairwells.

They would be fighting to get down to the engine room to stop the dismantling, and in that situation, Ci Dehai's forces could tactically use the stairs, so the chokepoints could work in his favor.

He skimmed the Early Day sky, seeing the brightships approach. But there were only three. Han squinted into the bright too, frowning at the mistake.

Ci Dehai said, “When we take casualties, Han, replace them. If necessary, establish siege hooks and come up the sides. We need three hours below.”

His adjutant nodded. “We will surround and overpower them, General. There are only fourteen of them.”

Ci Dehai rubbed the bad side of his face. “Yes, but they are
Tarig
.” A stirring from the troops showed they'd seen something Nighward. Another ship. This one was coming in low. The fourth brightship. Except it was not a brightship. It was the prison ship.

“Fifteen,” Ci Dehai muttered.

He strode onto the middle of the rooftop, making clear he would lead. “No one advances until my order,” he told Han, who hurried to pass the order along. He turned to a waiting lieutenant who had the Jinda ceb communication device. “Send word to the regent.
Dismantling under way
.” It was all the regent needed to hear; by this message, he would know the Tarig had come.

They should have taken the engine apart forty days ago. He had told the regent so. But Titus Quinn, erring on the side of caution, said no, lest the army rebel; or the Entire. The Tarig could of course build a new engine. But destroying this one bought time. Ci Dehai's job was to deliver that time.

It was curious that the lords had not
started
the Engine, which they could of course do from a distance. But no matter the opening move, he was determined that the lords would not address his troops. The Tarig lords would deal with Ci Dehai, or none at all. He was well aware that a powerful argument could be made for the engine. The lords would not have a chance to do so.

He looked to the storm walls. There had been reports of thunder earlier. Well, one thing was certain, the sound had not come from the walls. Storm walls did not
rumble
.

The first ship fell down from the sky. At Ci Dehai's command, the troops gave way, and the brightship rushed toward the Centrum roof, landing with a careless precision. It settled heavily on its struts.

The sensation was of sinking. Slowly, helplessly. Flat on his back, Quinn floated down, down through clouds charged with light. He was anxious about what lay under him, how far the drop would be. Though unconscious, his thoughts were vivid. He had never been so awake. He saw things in the clouds.

Things past.

His father. Dancing with Johanna at their wedding; an old-fashioned waltz. Over there, Rob and Caitlin clapping.

Sydney carrying her tote bag to the space elevator. Waving at Caitlin. “See you before summer!” Sydney said.

Floating down. A flock of realities swarming around him.

Rob shaking his head. “What's happened to you, Titus? Jesus. Look at you.”

A dimple in the storm wall where Lord Hadenth had walked through. The fragmental ship waiting to take Quinn to the Rose. Anzi at his side. The words, “Come home with me,” never uttered.

Finding her again. On the banks of the Nigh, her hair whipping about her face. She pointed to Lord Oventroe's ship skimming across the flats, the navitar ship that would take them to Ahnenhoon.

The navitar Jessed. Eyes maddened, holding the cirque. Nan bubbling from it.

Sydney, dressed in yellow silks. He, seated on his bench in the great plaza. Her voice, a terrible low whisper: “Prince of the Ascendancy again, then.”

Sinking. Down, down. He began to worry about how far he had traveled in this cloudscape, that he was irretrievably leaving something behind, could never get back to that place again.

Relentlessly down. Now entering a new region. The future.

Anzi walking away up the minoral. Storm walls on either side pointing the way she must go. He felt his heart cut out of him. On her bare back, a strange light.

Down.

Anzi sat in the commons garden of Hozz, watching the juveniles play at blood and death, the game that Venn had started, now a great favorite among juveniles throughout the commonality. Anzi was relieved to find the youngsters happily unconcerned with the events engulfing the Entire.