Ruler of Naught (5 page)

“The only thing the Dol’jharians would pay is a protracted
death, whatever they promised,” Vi’ya said. “The Panarchists won’t be much
better.”

“Their Bourse having been taken over,” Lokri drawled. “The
nicks won’t have anything to pay
with
.”

“Either side would string us up and pick the insides of our
skulls dry,” Vi’ya stated. “I hope Norton and the others haven’t left Dis yet,
in spite of my orders. We are going to have to change our plans. Until then, no
stray bits of information in front of either of the Omilovs or the Arkad. And
be on the watch for whatever they might try.”

“Schoolboy is too stiff-rumped to try anything,” Marim
scoffed. “And Brandon has a pretty face, but he’s a party boy.”

Montrose shook his head silently, and noticed Lokri’s
tightened lips.

Vi’ya gave her head that odd twisting nod and said, “Markham
always claimed that Brandon was smarter than he was.”

Montrose was surprised. Vi’ya seldom brought up the name of
their former captain.

“Markham thought everyone was interesting, and all his
friends smart,” Marim said, hitching her elbows over the back of her chair.
“That’s why
he
was so interesting.”

Lokri gave a tight shrug, and said, “The Arkad did get us
free of the Palace. But it was his home ground. Whether he has brains or just a
knack at games remains to be seen.”

“Until then,” Vi’ya said, “boswells.” She touched her wrist.

“So you don’t want us talkin’ to ‘em?” Marim jerked her
thumb toward the cabins aft of the rec room. “Soon’s I see Schoolboy’s ugly mug
I’ve got to poke at him for his own good. And Brandon’s too pretty not to bunny
with.”

“Poke and bunny all you like,” continued Vi’ya. “Bozzing or
your cabins, hatches closed, for any other communication.”

“You’re not going to have time for that anyway, Marim,” said
Jaim. “You and I, and anyone else I can grab, will be spending every spare
minute on inspection and whatever repairs we can accomplish before we get to
Dis.”

Marim flipped an obscene gesture at Jaim, then followed the captain
as she walked out. As she passed Lokri, the little blond tech grinned up at him,
a grin that faded to speculation when Lokri bowed ironically to the captain’s
back.

o0o

There’s going to be trouble
, Montrose thought as Jaim
got to his feet, and shambled Montrose’s way, his Serapisti chimes tinkling in
his long braids. Already the journey was going to be full, what with Ivard’s
medical condition, and canid biology to learn to deal with the wounded Arkad
dog from the Mandala.
I wonder how similar they are to felines?
And Lokri
was sure to make things interesting.

As always, Montrose kept this observation to himself. He’d
lost the habit of sharing his thoughts when his wife died, back on Timberwell.
He often wondered if his habitual isolation was in part due to that, and in
part due to his age, a full generation older than most of the Dis company.
Two
generations ahead of young Ivard.

I can’t be that old
, he mourned as he led the way
back to the dispensary, followed by the silent engineer.

As soon as they got inside the dispensary, “Montrose? Jaim!”
Ivard’s voice held a wheezy, hectic note that Montrose did not like. “Jaim?”

Montrose gestured toward the door to Ivard’s berth, which
the boy had opened. The low-gee warning cycled above it. Ivard sat up on the
bed, clutching his bandage to him and shivering, his pale skin mottled with
bruises and feverish color, except for the dark green band around one wrist, so
integrated it may as well have been body art.

Ivard’s console was mostly green or yellow lights. In the
next berth the wounded dog now stirred on the floor as it recovered from the
drug Brandon had administered in the palace, whining faintly, almost an
ululation. The sound worried Montrose. The other dog sat next to the next of
blankets cushioning the wounded animal, brown eyes steady, one ear cocked
towards its companion, the other towards Montrose.

“Calm Ivard, would you?” Montrose murmured to Jaim as he
punched up information on canine medicine.

“Jaim!” Ivard’s voice cracked.

“Ivard. I’m sorry about your sister.”

Ivard’s voice dropped. “She died quick.” He licked his lips.
“Vi’ya said she waits in the Hall of Ancestors. What does she mean?”

Jaim raised a hand and sketched one of those stylized
Serapisti gestures, the chimes in his braids tinkling sweetly. “We’ve talked
about the Flame. I think she means the same thing.”

Ivard stirred restlessly. “That’s no answer. Nobody gives me
a good answer, and I can’t find her Greywing coin, that she picked for herself.
She told me she’d never sell it, that it was special. I get to keep it, don’t
I? Even if she’s dead?”

Jaim touched his forehead, a curiously gentle gesture,
though his long hands were callused, and criss-crossed with fine scars from his
childhood on Rifthaven. “Be easy,” he said soothingly. “You know the rules. Now
that you’re full crew, you keep one item out of your loot, and the rest goes to
the pot, to be divided according to our articles. This goes for Greywing, too.
She died in an action, so the thing she would have kept comes to you. Pick
anything of hers you want.”

“I want the coin, but it’s gone. I had it in my hand all the
way back, I know I did. But it’s gone, and so is my flight medal that Markham
gave me.” Ivard’s voice rose. “And my arm hurts!”

“Probably fell on the way up the ramp. We’ll find it,” Jaim
said. “You’ve got to rest first. That’s orders.”

Ivard lay back down, muttering protests. “It’s hot in here.
My arm itches...”

Montrose half-listened as the engineer’s deep voice soothed
Ivard’s fever-driven complaining, most of which settled around the loot.
Montrose was not surprised to learn that Lokri had apparently pushed the boy
into loading extra artifacts into his clothes for Marim, being too selfish to
carry them himself. Typical for them both.

The soft ululation from the wounded dog, which was getting
louder, was apparently typical behavior when recovering from anesthesia. The
animal’s vital signs seemed within the ranges stated. Montrose had already
taken blood, and hunted up the protocols for further analysis. He made notes on
what he should be feeding the dogs and relayed the data to the galley. Osri
Omilov could be assigned dog-food duty, Montrose decided as he waved Jaim
aside, and ran his gaze down Ivard.

He and his sister were throwbacks, with their unappealing
pale, freckled skin and watery eyes. But Greywing, at least, had been tough.
She had gone on the run with a bad burn only three weeks healed, without saying
a word. It was difficult to tell if Ivard possessed a similar toughness, or
owed his survival so far to an ebullient nature and his older sister’s
unswerving protection.
No more.

He hoped that the Dol’jharians had learned nothing from her
corpse, regretting (as he suspected he would for a considerable time) that
they’d been forced to leave her behind.

He checked Ivard’s vitals, administered a painkiller, and
watched in satisfaction as Ivard’s eyes rolled around. The boy lay back, and
still muttering softly, slid into sleep.

Montrose closed the berth door, and found Jaim waiting.

“That thing on his wrist,” Jaim said. “Making him sick?
We’ve all taken jac burns, most of us worse than what he got.”

Montrose sighed. “It’s far too early to say for certain, but
so far, my meds and his body chemistry are interacting in a troubling manner.
Listen, Jaim, I heard the captain say that she’s going to send you and Reth
Silverknife to Rifthaven to liquidate the loot. If you’ll take Ivard to the
Kelly surgeon there, I’ll tender ten percent of my share to you two.”

“No need.” Jaim shook his head, his chimes tinkling. “Reth
and Greywing were friends. As much as Greywing was friends with anyone. Reth’ll
say first thing that we should watch out for Ivard.”

“Good,” Montrose said. “Though consider the pay. I’ll want
the medical write-up. Kelly biology still has large mysteries in it.”

“That, you arrange through them,” Jaim said. His long,
somber face split in a smile. “My guess is, they’ll stick you for that full ten
percent.”

Montrose laughed. “Well worth it, if I can learn more about
them. Go get some rest.”

Jaim raised a hand and walked out, his tread silent except
for the sweet tinkle of chimes.

o0o

The next few ship days were a boring blur as far as Marim
was concerned, with what seemed like every waking moment spent working on
repairs. She’d seen the Arkad only in passing, when Jaim dragged him off for
other tasks, and assigning the glowering Osri Omilov to assist her. Her verbal
pokes provoked only sour looks: Osri spoke in monosyllables and moved through
his tasks as though sleepwalking. When off shift, he stayed in the cabin he
shared with Brandon.

(Lay off of him),
Jaim finally bozzed her at one
point.
(We’ll get better work out of him without you rizzing him all the
time.)

(Gotta get some fun somewhere),
she replied.

(Get it somewhere else. He’s pretty tightly wound, and
getting tighter the longer Montrose keeps him from his father. I don’t want to
scrape your brains off the deck, or his.)

So Marim stuck Osri with a particularly unpleasant session
with the recyclers—work he could perform alone—and went off looking for
Brandon. She was delighted to discover him and Jaim in the rec room.

“How’s your back?” Jaim said to the Arkad.

Brandon rolled his shoulders, looked from side to side, then
said, “Better. Much better.”

“You know Ulanshu,” said Jaim. “Saw it. Think a light
workout would help?”

Brandon winced slightly. “Probably a good idea, although I
doubt I’ll much enjoy it.”

Jaim dipped his chin down in approval. “We’ll start slow.”

It would take some time for Jaim to reconfigure the room for
sparring, so Marim dialed up a drink, then drifted past the dispensary, but
Ivard was not alone. He watched Montrose tending to the wounded dog, while the
other dog lay nearby. The door to the third berth, where she knew the old man lay,
was closed. Above all the berths a quarter-gee warning rotated.

She walked up to the gee stripe on the deck, but no one paid
any attention, not even the unwounded dog. It was a snooty animal. What had
Ivard named them? Gray and Trev, Gray being the wounded one.

She ignored the stupid dog, smiled at the stupid boy, and
waited for the stupid surgeon to shift his stupid bulk so she could talk to the
stupid boy... but he was obviously going to stick right there for eternity, so
she laughed, drained her cup, and retreated.

She could check later—and by now the fighters should be good
and warmed up.

She skipped back down to the rec room, now cleared for
close-contact practice. She leaned against a bulkhead to enjoy the show.

She liked watching men fight, especially handsome men.
Double that when they were well trained. Jaim and the Arkad circled one
another, their bare feet touching the edges of the floor mat. Jaim lunged,
feinted in a blur of movement, and brushed the side of his hand against the
Arkad’s shoulder. Brandon staggered back, then recovered his balance with an
effort Marim could see in the tightened muscles down his slim body.

Marim smiled appreciatively and shifted her hip against the
dyplast curve of the bulkhead.

“Back leg,” Jaim said. “Need to pivot.”

The Arkad nodded, lifted a hand to swipe his dripping hair
off his forehead—and Jaim attacked.

The flurry of movement was too swift to follow. Brandon
flipped, rolled to his feet, and shifted—too late. Jaim was already behind him,
and once again hit him with a light blow that threw him off balance.

“Tighter roll,” Jaim said. “Too slow.”

Marim watched them circle once more, Jaim’s ropy body taut
with the control exhibited only the masters of all four Ulanshu Levels. In
comparison, the Arkad appeared less trained, but never clumsy. Marim grinned,
observing his light, quick breathing, the watchful eyes and slight smile. Jaim probably
never thought about his face. His mouth hung open, his breath whooping.

The Arkad probably never thinks about his face, either,
Marim thought. Jaim had spent maybe half his life learning the four Levels;
Brandon had been trained since he was born to hide behind that pleasant Douloi
non-expression.

Air stirred at Marim’s shoulder. Lokri’s pale gray eyes,
startling in his dark face, narrowed in appreciation.

“He sure is pretty, isn’t he?” she said. “I wonder if those
Arkads use gennation on their brats despite all their whiff about morality.”
She flexed her long toes and wiggled her foot, regarding the black
microfilaments furring its sole for free-fall adhesion.

“Idiot,” Lokri said without heat. “That,” a jut of his
sharp-cut chin toward the Arkad scion, “is the product of forty-seven
generations of absolute power.”

Jaim and Brandon grappled, swaying, and this time Jaim threw
Brandon over his shoulder, then dropped astride him, knees pinning arms to the
mat, and two knuckles pressed against Brandon’s larynx.

“Number forty-eight.” Marim savored the words. Brandon lay
flat on his back, arms pinned to either side, blue eyes crescents of laughter.
Above him Jaim’s face was crimson, sweat dripping off the metallic chimes all
devout Serapisti wear woven into their braids.

“Dead,” Brandon said. “Again.”

Jaim’s long, somber face reflected Brandon’s laughter, then
he swung to his feet. “You been lazy.”

“So I have,” Brandon agreed, and got to his feet.

“Here.” Jaim began reviewing the match, demonstrating improvements.

Marim bozzed Lokri.
(And he’s mine.)

Lokri snorted.

Marim glanced at him, delighted.
(A wager? Who jumps him
first?)