Rift in the Races (77 page)

“Captain,” reprimanded the doctor. “I said you could be here, not interrogate him.”

“He’s fine, look at him.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Roberto, crinkling up his face. “That arm doesn’t look … fully cooked.”

“It’s not,” said the doctor. “You can thank your captain for that.”

“Where is Orli?” Altin asked.

All three of them understood it perfectly this time. They exchanged glances. The nurse made a point of going away.

Altin, dim as he was just then, missed the undercurrents of their exchange.

“She’s on Prosperion,” said the captain with authority. “Now listen up, we are on the brink of winning the war against the Hostiles, but for some reason, your people can’t do magic properly. So we need you and your Z-thing to compensate for their incompetence. Clearly you were able to get much farther than they did, and alone. We don’t have time to wait for them to figure it out.”

Altin had to close his eyes and focus very hard on all of that. Meaning took four or five times longer to coalesce than the words did to accumulate. He pushed through the gauze of his memories trying to remember what had happened at the golden star. He knew, somehow, that he’d made it there. Orli had told him how far to go.

He remembered the boulders of ice floating along the system’s edge. He could see Orli in his mind’s eye telling him what they were. They had made it.

He’d tried to do something. He remembered trying to cast a spell. He couldn’t catch the mana.
That’s right, the mana was too thick and too fast
. It had moved as if it were channeled by a million sorcerers, perhaps more, and every one using a Liquefying Stone, pulling in so much, so rapidly, the currents became something nearly solid to his mental touch. He remembered it and then realized he must have passed out trying to force his mind inside. He’d been overwhelmed. Fortunately, so furious were the currents they actually spit him out, rejected him like a stone being skipped off a river and landing on the opposite bank.

He nodded slowly as the memories came fading back. What was that the doctor had said about an amulet? He reached for his, reached into robes he did not have on. He realized he was nearly naked sitting on the bed, only a towel thrown across his waist for modesty.

He looked back at the captain and Roberto. Their expressions remained blank.

“You said I escaped the Hostiles and nearly died?”

“Yes. You and Conduit Huzzledorf theorized that your amulet, the fast-cast device, did not have quite enough of your mana inside to adequately complete the spell.”

“I theorized?”

“Yes, but you were pretty rummy. Still under the effects of a sleep spell or something like that that Doctor Leopold cast on you. But that was the consensus, a fast-cast necklace with too little juice.”

Yes. He had done that. Or no, he hadn’t. He’d gone to add more mana. That’s the spell he was trying to cast.

Then it all connected in his head.

He tried to stand, pushing himself up from the bed. His enfeebled left arm collapsed and failed him. He nearly fell. Doctor Singh caught him, as did Roberto who jumped to give support from the other side.

“Easy, young man,” said the doctor. “You won’t have your equilibrium for at least another day.”

“Where is Orli?” Altin said. His tone was urgent and his mind sobering fast. He could hear the increasingly rapid beats of the heart monitor on the wall.

“I told you, she’s on Prosperion,” said the captain again. “She was assigned to
Citadel
. You need to settle down.”

Altin let Doctor Singh and Roberto sit him back on the bed.

Altin saw that Roberto was making an effort not to look him in the eye.

“Is she all right?” Terror filled him as the words came out. He knew perfectly well what it meant to cast that teleport spell mana-shy, as he knew his amulet had been.

“She’s fine,” said the captain, but Doctor Singh shot him a look that prompted even the hardened officer to relent in his purposeful ambiguity. “As far as we know.”

It wasn’t a lie.

“What do you mean ‘as far as we know’?” That response surprised no one in the room.

“Altin,” said the doctor, stopping the captain’s reply with a raised hand. If anyone was going to break this kind of news to the young man, it should be someone with a better grasp of compassion than Captain Asad. The captain relented; he knew it too. “Ensign Pewter is fine, as far as we know. She did make it back to Prosperion when your tower came back. The tower was a wreck, and Orli was hurt, but not too badly. Your friend, Doctor Leopold, fixed her up better than I could have done. She was actually sitting with you for a while when we put you in the tank.”

Altin looked visibly relieved. He tried to remember seeing her, but he could not recall anything after having tried to channel mana into the amulet. There weren’t even partial memories. Looking at the pathetic frailty that was his arm, it occurred to him that might actually have been for the best.

“However,” went on the doctor, “we haven’t heard from her in quite some time. She was supposed to set up the communications array for
Citadel
over two months ago, but she has not checked in as yet.”

“Two months?” He struggled once again with a rising sense of dread. “Why not?”

“We don’t know. Without her having set up the array on her end, we have no way to ask.”

“You said you spoke to a conduit. Why didn’t his telepaths check?”

“They have. No one has seen her.”

Altin could feel the obvious tension growing in the room.

“What are you not telling me?”

Doctor Singh appeared to wilt visibly before his eyes. This was too much for him so soon. But Altin would not relent.

“Tell me, for the curse of gods. Speak it true.” He looked to Roberto, caught him eye to eye. The demand of friendship swelled in Altin’s eyes.

Roberto looked to the doctor, then to the captain, then back to Altin. He sighed. “Altin, Tytamon is dead.”

Altin stared blankly for a moment. He felt sure the haze in his head must have reordered Roberto’s words randomly.

“He’s dead, Altin.” The truth of it was in Roberto’s face, his tone and the way his shoulders fell. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. The orcs got him. And they think they took Orli captive too.” He knew he was hedging that some.

A cold wave crept over Altin and consumed him like some icy lurking thing. It crawled inside of him and grew, a cold parasitic horror that throbbed as if it were being pumped by the giant bellows of an evil heart. His will fought against it, tried to assert the impossibility of Roberto’s utterance with the heat of his denial. He fought the truth reflecting in Roberto’s eyes.

“It’s true, Altin. It came from the Queen’s own man.” Roberto had to look away after that.

Altin wanted to cry out, to collapse in tears, to … something, but he was suddenly filled only with an agonizing numbness. Even the wave of cold seemed to have gone away as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t be gone. Not Tytamon. The man was ancient. As close to immortal as any human had ever been.

And Orli? Roberto had said they took her. He wouldn’t lie about that, would he? He spoke her name, his voice trembling and nearly gone. “Is she …?”

Roberto shook his head, as did the doctor and even Captain Asad. No, she was not dead. At least not that they knew. Even Doctor Singh would not make that assumption, regardless of probability. Not here, not right now.

“Get me up,” Altin demanded.

“You need to rest,” said Doctor Singh.

“Get me up.” He tried to stand again, this time using only his strong right arm. He swayed heavily and had to sit back down, his vision swimming with black dots like bits of ash in a whirlwind.

“Altin, you need a few more days.”

He looked back at the doctor in whose every feature was nothing but unbridled empathy, his concern for Orli as palpable as his sorrow for Altin’s loss. He glanced at the captain whose face was stoic and clearly forced to patient silence. Only Roberto wept. Altin saw the tears welling in the pilot’s eyes. He watched him try to blink them back. One got away, squeezed out under the pleading scrutiny of Altin’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Altin,” Roberto said. “I’m really sorry. Everything is just so fucked up now.”

Chapter 60

Q
ueen Karroll threw the goblet so hard the impact knocked a large topaz out of it. The soft gold dented when it struck the marble column and ejected the gem, which shot out and rolled to a stop against the front of Ilbei’s boot.

Ilbei, a brave man most times, had never been comfortable around royalty, and this, his fourth time in her presence, was even worse than the other three. This time she knew his name. At least her present fury was directed at the elf. For now.

“That sheep-begotten Thoroughgood is hiding that woman at Northfork?” she raged. “You better be right about this, you elven snake, or I’ll have your fangs out, do you hear me? I’ll send you back to your people with your head on a plate, treaties and prophesies be damned.”

Shadesbreath, unlike Ilbei, seemed impervious to the storm. He waited until he thought she was capable of listening. “We cannot confirm it because, as you know, the spells are blocked. Lord Thoroughgood has implemented defenses similar to those Your Majesty employs.”

If she had another cup, she would have thrown that too. Her scepter was already lying against the opposite wall. That had been the first to go.

“So who is left in the kingdom that has no counter-spells? Will my hunters come to me and say that the deer are casting counter-spells and can no longer be tracked? Will the rat catchers follow suit? Soon the city will be overrun with vermin and the rest of us will starve.” She threw herself back into her throne, fury transformed briefly to something pouty and childlike.

Ilbei felt it appropriate to look away.

“Get her,” she said then, sitting upright and returned completely to regality. “Go get her. And do it quietly. It’s my own fault for ignoring the fact he flouts my laws with that ridiculous menagerie of his. But this time he’s done it. I’ll lose little sleep watching the noble blood he perverts pour from the headsman’s block.”

“It’s a considerable magical defense, Majesty,” said the elf.

“Do it, snake.” She nearly hissed herself, and rage flared fully for an instant, revealing something terrifying in her eyes. Ilbei saw it and in that moment understood how it was she’d brought an entire continent in line.

The assassin nodded, the slightest movement of his head, and then he was gone. One instant he was standing there, the next he was not. No muttering of magic words, no gestures. Just, gone. It made Ilbei shudder. And to think he’d been approaching cozy companions with … it.

The Queen sat back in her throne and seemed lost in the torrent inside her mind. She murmured and mumbled and made spitting noises through her teeth. She seemed to have completely forgotten Ilbei was in the room.

He stood silently for some time. Not sure if he should look away, or look at her, or perhaps slowly back out of the room. He cast a glance over his shoulder, silently querying the guards and the herald standing there. They shrugged, all three in unison. This was Ilbei’s problem, not theirs. So he stood. He was sure it must have been nearly an hour before the Queen finally saw him again.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I was not dismissed, Yer Majesty.”

She grunted. “Well now you are. Get out.”

“Yes, Yer Majesty.”

“And Spadebreaker,” she added, “go see what you can do about
Citadel
.”

“Yer Majesty?”

“You spent time working with the Earth machines, did you not? You were the machinery instructor for our people on the Naotatican moon as I recall, yes?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“So go do whatever you need to do to get that thing working …” her voice trailed off for a moment before she added, “in case something happens to the girl.”

“I ain’t sure I’m takin’ yer meanin’ proper, Majesty. What thing?”

“For Mercy’s sake, you rusty old shovel. The communications machine. Were you not paying attention earlier?”

“I confess I was busy dodging yer scepter, Majesty. What with it comin’ at my face.”

She harrumphed. “Just get it done.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And keep your mouth shut or silence will be made permanent for you.”

“Yes, Majesty.” He made a point of appreciating his tongue, a simple cognizance of its presence in his mouth while he winced at the Queen’s words.

She flicked her fingers at him, shooing him away. He stepped on the topaz as he turned, the gem beneath his boot slick like an ice cube on the marble floor, and he nearly slipped. He managed to catch himself with one of those jolting spasms of body and arms that such an event puts upon a person. He looked back, mortified, but the Queen was back in her own head, once again muttering to herself and formulating plans.

The guards made a point of not looking at him on the way out, which he was grateful for.