The Nemesis Blade (23 page)

“Come, Tris,”
Teroux said and led the way.

Torrullin met
them at the eastern stairwell, his face calm. He studied them. “Not
much sleep?”

Heads
shook.

“This comes as
a shock soon after Curin,” Torrullin murmured, “but you need to
remember something now. Only the living grieves those moved on -
us, left behind. And that is how we are, and grief is natural, as
well as part of healing. Samuel, however, has forgotten grief and
pain and missing Curin where he is now, for he is with her and he
smiles and laughs and is renewed, and that should bring each of us
a measure of comfort.”

Tianoman said,
“Stock phrases. I am sick of platitudes.”

Torrullin laid
a hand against his cheek. “Aaru is real, Tian; I have seen it.
Samuel was a good man, as was Curin, and both deserve the best
Afterlife. They are in Aaru and there is only joy.”

Tianoman
appeared doubtful.

Torrullin
paced away and leaned over the outer wall. “I would still be
grieving Tristamil had I not seen him in Aaru. I saw my beloved son
standing under the most beautiful trees I have yet encountered and
I saw his face light up with inner peace when he told me he found
his place of rest and tranquillity. More than a fervent heart’s
desire, however, was seeing my parents Taranis and Millanu together
and whole after thousands of years apart. They truly loved each
other and were thus reunited, as it is with Samuel and Curin. Yes,
we grieve, but we grieve for ourselves, our losses, for they are
now beyond all that.”

Tristan leaned
against the parapet. “He always said he was connected to my mother,
that he loved her beyond death even.”

“Well, I am
glad to hear they are together,” Teroux murmured. “Kind of makes it
easier.”

Tristan smiled
at his cousin. “Yes, it does.”

“Tian?” Teroux
prompted.

Tianoman
watched Torrullin. “Do you grieve for my father still? Do you miss
Tymall as much as you do his brother?”

“Tian!” Teroux
gasped.

Torrullin sat
on the wall facing Tianoman. “I miss Tymall as much as I miss
Tristamil, but the missing is in this realm, for both are alive. In
fact, Tymall is more reachable than his brother and thus the burden
of grief is easier to bear.”

Tianoman’s
eyes dropped.

“What do you
seek, Tian? Do you want to know if I loved your father? Are you
asking how that can be if Tymall didn’t qualify for Aaru?”

Tianoman
lifted his head, but said nothing.

Tristan and
Teroux glanced at each other.

“I love Tymall
as much as Tristamil. They are my twin boys and no oversight in
recognition ever influenced that.”

“Tymall turned
on you,” Tianoman muttered.

“Yes, and I
turned my back on him for a time also, but I couldn’t stop loving
him. He was and is my son. He tried to kill me, he killed Taranis,
he hurt Saska, he spat on his twin, and a host of other evils, but
he was my son. He remains my son and I love him; here, there, it
doesn’t matter.”

“And you say
he is reachable.” There was a new note in Tianoman’s tone.

“Yes. I know
where he is and I know how to go to him and we made our peace. I
consider Tymall an ally, not an enemy. Aaru is by far the harder
realm to enter.” Torrullin ignored what Tianoman really asked.

“Le
Maximillian Dalrish said I should talk to you about my father and
he said Tymall was not all bad.”

“He is right.
In the end Tymall rescued Valaris from a terrible fate and he chose
life for you, his son, in this realm, although it meant he had to
stay in Digilan. I would say that smacks of lumin ideals, wouldn’t
you?”

Tianoman
dipped his head and then managed a weak smile.

Torrullin rose
and clasped Tianoman’s shoulder. “The time comes when I shall tell
you all, son; be patient a while longer.”

Tianoman
nodded and shifted his gaze to Tristan. “Sorry; this is about
Samuel, not me.”

Tristan
shrugged. “It helped, actually, to know Tymall was redeemable also
-means my father has definitely gone off to the right place.”

“Yes,” Teroux
added and smacked Tianoman on the back.

Torrullin
said, “I aim to remain until after the funeral. Let us use this
time to get to know one another. We’ll nag someone to give us
breakfast and take it into the valley and talk until we run out of
words.”

It sat well,
for the three heirs grinned.

Subterfuge,
whether a small lie or a large manipulation, eventually turns back
onto the wielder.

~ Book of
Sages

Lax

T
he planet Lax was situated in the same galaxy as
Beacon, yet never had two worlds been as diametrically opposed.

Beacon was a
giant city-world and its sister planet, Beacon Farm, was an
agricultural haven; Lax was neither of these. Once, yes, it had
cities, as once it had land for crops, but in present day Lax could
only be described as a dumpsite. Akin to Xen III, which destroyed
itself historically with war and bombs, Lax accomplished the same,
but without nuclear holocausts.

On Lax, once
proud cities lay in ruin, steel girders reaching to dirty heavens,
and once fertile soil was barren and lifeless; rivers and lakes
were choked with rubbish and bodies. The atmosphere was not
rendered poisonous by wars, but the insidious march of pollution.
When the wind blew on Lax, which was often, dust storms raised up
on the plains to inundate the ruins of cities, ruins where millions
eked out an existence in shanties, makeshift shelters amid fallen
buildings, grottos under old foundations and the like, and the sand
found every tiny space. Always there were deaths after a sand
storm.

Lax earned
money by accepting rubbish from other worlds; it was, literally
also, a dumpsite. Beacon, guilty of many exploitative actions, was
guilty in Lax, but so was Ceta, Ymir, Nuthtu and a host of others,
yet it was a guilt that did not occur to Lax. Without rubbish, Lax
would die. Not only did another’s rubbish herald broken treasures
for Laxians, but it also earned them much needed capital, and it
brought them fresh produce; the latter was part of every dumping
deal - bring your rubbish and bring your money, but bring also your
food. In this way, Beacon and others assuaged guilt.

In such an
environment was it any wonder criminals flourished?

Jimini, shifted
into Ymirian guise, walked away from the spaceport.

The spaceport
was the only clean place, for offworlders insisted on it in fear of
contamination, and thus the giant warehouses for off-loaded produce
was situated adjacent, cleanliness being vital to Lax’s source of
nourishment.

As Jimini
walked by the massive buildings, she wondered how much of the food
reached those who needed it most. Even that supply was regulated by
criminal families. They ate well while others starved, and some
paid exorbitant rates. She saw money change hands and many furtive
looks.

Reel’s contact
on Xen gave them a name, a starting point for this mission, a small
fish in the pond, true, but a lowlife who would know who the bigger
fish were and could reveal the head shark of the whole sorry ocean
that was the filthy waters of Lax’s underground. His name was
Fantam, Laxian born and bred, and he held court in a bar blocks
from the spaceport, and thus Fantam was the one she sought.

The bar was
hard to find for two reasons. One, every corner was a drinking
hole, and, two, none of the ‘bars’ looked like what they were meant
to represent. After an hour of fruitless wandering she knew she had
to risk asking someone. Already she drew mean looks and derogatory
comments, but was left alone; it would change the moment she
started asking questions.

The bag slung
over her shoulder felt heavier with every step, containing as it
did, the bait - bloody weapons.

If she asked
questions, she could be searched. The weapons could earn her
instant death or they could be stolen and with it her leverage, or
she could be beaten and never find out what she came for, or drawn
into slavery. Being ‘Ymirian’ meant Laxians would want to ‘explore’
her sexual proclivities. That bad reputation was known universe
over.

She was not
afraid of slavery, for she could depart this hellhole in an
instant, but she did not want to go back empty-handed. Drawing her
courage close, mindful of Lowen’s bad experiences here, events that
led to Torrullin becoming, well, frightening, she chose to approach
a group of filthy boys playing dice in the street.

They looked up
as her shadow fell over them, raked her with eyes far too mature
and weary for their ages, and then ignored her, returning to their
game. Except one. He was older, perhaps thirteen, and he rose
looking her over insolently and suggestively.

She shuddered.
Dear god, they were kids!

“What you
want?”

Jimini ignored
the hand that went to his crotch. “Looking for Fantam,” she
muttered in her Ymirian voice. “Know him?”

“Yeah, know
the scumbag. Hey, why him? I can give you better than that scum,”
the boy grinned and swayed his hips, his intent obvious.

Gods. “Maybe
later, pretty boy. Right now I need Fantam. Where can I find the
ugly son-of-a-bitch?”

The boy
cackled and hands smacked thighs in appreciation. “Ugly sum-bitch,
alright!” Then he eyed her. “Tell yu’n what, give us a lick there
and this finga’ll point the way.” He held his middle finger up and
wagged it at Jimini’s chest area. “C’m, just want me some Ymir
nippals!”

The other boys
stopped playing and stared up with lewd expressions.

A small crowd
gradually formed as well; she could walk away, spitting her
disgust, but that was out of character. She could smack some sense
into the filthy-minded boy, but then she would be assaulted by the
ruffians lurking nearby and lose her weapons. She could not leave
just so, for that was failure before she started.

Biting down a
shudder, she smiled at the boy and swiftly undid the top button of
her tunic, drew the zip slowly down, trying to be suggestive, and
was horrified inside. Big, round tits popped out - she took on full
Ymirian guise, after all.

The boy licked
his lips and then grubby hands gripped, squeezed, pushed and pulled
with delight. He squashed the two orbs together until the nipples
were touching and then sank his mouth down onto them, licking and
sucking with noises a child would make over a milkshake.

She shuddered
and could not prevent it rippling through her, but the kid assumed
she enjoyed it as much as he was.

Jimini pushed
him away, saying, “Enough, pretty boy. A deal is a deal.” She
covered up and in the process noted the hardness in his dirty
breeches. Gods. She leaned forward to stroke him, whispering,
“Point your finger, pretty boy, point it now.”

The boy shook,
his finger pointed, and she walked away.

One shouted,
“Must want ol’ Fantam badly!”

She ignored
everything, including her own disgust, and headed for the bar the
shivering finger indicated, hoping the kid pointed true.

A corrugated
shack perched in a broken lot. The open door suspended at the head
of a flight of crumbling stairs, down into what was once the
basement of the crumbling ruin above. The smell of stale smoke and
urine assailed her and she blocked her nose as she headed down.
Looking behind her, she was relieved to note nobody followed. She
noted as well the boys had returned to their dicing.

Fantam was
easy to spot. He was the ugliest man in the universe. Sharp,
ferret-like teeth grinned at her from the bar counter amid a haze
of cigar smoke, and dead, calculating eyes raked her. He was not
alone in his perusal - there were six other men nursing drinks -
but his looks set him apart, not that the others could be described
as oil paintings fit to adorn palaces.

She sashayed
up to him, having realised Ymir’s sickening reputation was the one
advantage she possessed in this depraved place.

“Fantam?”

The cigar was
removed and smoke wafted into her face. “Who’s asking?”

“Idori. We
have a contact in common, I hear.”

The ugly man
grunted. “Which family, Idori?”

“Catu, Third
Ring of Ymir.”

The man
blanched. “What does Catu want with me?”

“Information.
Can we talk?”

The cigar
popped back in and he nodded, sliding off his rickety barstool.
“This way.”

He preceded
her across the dark space and through another door. Beyond were
tables and chairs, smoky candles guttering in the movement made as
they entered. Without supplies for food the room was empty of
patrons.

Jimini sat to
face the door, forcing Fantam to sit with his back to it, which he
did not like. His nervousness would aid her. The man was clearly
afraid of a knife in the back.

“Holland of
Xen, know him?” Jimini asked.

“Yup, but
never met.”

“Holland has a
big mouth and kinda let slip a few nuggets recently, to Icari Catu
of all people.”

Fantam’s beady
eyes grew over large. He said nothing.

“Icari Catu is
my uncle,” Jimini whispered, “and he wants a slice of this weapons
deal or there will be hell to pay. You, as contact, will be first
in line, of course.” She smiled into the paling face before her.
“You wonder how Holland and Icari were in the same place together,
do you? I’ll tell you - you know of Adri of Ymir, yes? Seems Adri
was excluded from a deal and Adri had Holland hauled in, nabbed him
from Xen, can you imagine that, and Adri presented his prize to
Icari, knowing well the benefits.”

Fantam
spluttered, “It has nothing to do with me!”

“Redeem
yourself, then, before my uncle decides he is impatient.”