“It’s your funeral.”
“If I become so lax as to let her reach me here, then House Tregesser deserves more alert, more aggressive leadership anyway.”
“Such is the custom.”
“Watch them. See their every hair fall.”
“And the woman they send you?”
“Yours, if you want her.”
“Grace, Lord.”
Simon Tregesser’s bell clouded. Outside, the show ached up toward a shattering crescendo. Lightnings and coils of darkness slithered around the bell till no eye could have pieced it out of the chaos.
The bell rose into the belly of the machine. Chaos died. Silence took mastery of the cavity. A lone winged form glided the stillness.
Simon Tregesser’s prosthetic eyes stared through the bell wall at his special secret. The thing had adopted an especially repugnant arrangement, almost demonic, perhaps in response to the show outside. Tregesser smiled as much as he could with ruined lips. Valerena did not know, but this thing from Outside would give House Tregesser its Guardship.
He hoped.
Down in the shadowed heart of him he nurtured the very doubts his daughter had flung in his face.
And he did not trust this emissary from Yon, this ally whose urgings had led him to push House Tregesser’s plans beyond endless preparation to considered action. Simon Tregesser did not trust anyone or anything he did not own completely, excepting Lupo Provik. Lupo was his good arm and good body and, sometimes, his brain.
An infantile display, Simon Tregesser. What do we gain by spawning machinations within machinations? There is but one goal. Let us devote ourselves with an appropriately holy fervor.
Tregesser sensed its contempt. The disgusting monster. A shot of oxygen into that methane murk would set it dancing in the fires. Someday... the moment the Guardship surrendered. “You heard my daughter. Here, in private, between us, I second her doubts. You want me to dice with fate depending entirely upon your screens.”
They are the ultimate possible within the laws of this universe. They are identical with those deployed by Guardships.
“So you say.”
Our observations during the Enherrenraat incident leave no doubt.
“There’s always room for doubt when you tempt the invincible. If you were that close to the action then, you were dead.”
The thing did not respond.
“I suppose it’s too late. I’m committed.”
You are committed, Simon Tregesser. Forever.
Simon Tregesser’s methane breathing ally set a thought vibrating along the Web. Every development must be registered lest it be lost.
The Tregesser creature was right. To observe the Guardship screens under pressure, it had been necessary for observers to be too close to survive. They had left their data vibrating on the Web.
This creature, too, would leave such a legacy if the time came.
What mattered was that the Guardship should come. That it should be tested and, if conquered, be rescued from the false ambition of fools and unbelievers.
The Guardships threatened to doom the truths of the Shadowed Path.
Death did not matter. Death was but a destination. The Shadowed Path led away in ten thousand directions but always ended in the same place, the maw of the Destroyer.
Always better to be the knife than its victim.
— 7 —
Third WatchMaster strode out the hatch. The stench and uproar and alien perspectives of the curving station dock hit him like blows, stunned him momentarily. Those creatures beyond the STASIS cordon... most were not even human!
His body kept moving till a portly, florid man said, “Commander Haget? I’m Schilligo Magnahs, Station Master. This is Gitto Otten, Director, Station Security and Investigation Section.”
“Gentlemen.” He clicked his heels. “The situation is?” He had no patience with ceremony. It wasted time.
“Static, Commander. The Traveler was brought to dock and locked in, per directive. STASIS seals were placed, quarantine was established. Not an electronic whisper has escaped. We awaited your arrival before proceeding.”
“Satisfactory. WarAvocat will be pleased. Let’s examine this Traveler that spits mythical aliens.”
“Mythical, Commander?”
“Legendary and extinct, if you prefer. Probe showed the pod occupied by a krekelen shapechanger.”
“But that’s...”
“Exactly. Impossible. Yes. Soldiers are searching Cholot Varagona now. We’ll have the thing soon. Then we’ll see if it’s genuine.” Third WatchMaster continued to scan the dock, struggling with discomfort. He had not been off VII Gemina in too long. He had forgotten how mongrelized Canon space had become.
The Station Master sensed and misinterpreted his malaise. “Pardon the confusion and gawking, Commander. We see your people so seldom, curiosity tends to cause chaos dockside.”
Third WatchMaster loosed a dry chuckle. “Diplomatically said, Station Master.”
Station Traffic had brought VII Gemina’s courier gig in four bays from the Cholot Traveler. The walk was shorter than Third WatchMaster’s daily trek to his station in Hall of the Watchers. It gave him no time to regain his equilibrium.
The quarantined dockhead was properly sealed and cordoned. Third WatchMaster overheard onlookers discussing his party.
“Bunch of bloody zombies.”
“Think if one of them smiled, his face would break?”
Third WatchMaster looked at the man. He flushed, lost interest, hurried away.
The STASIS Director returned the comm to its cradle. “They’re going to open up now.”
Machinery grumbled. STASIS agents leveled weapons. Vehicle doors thumped on the concourse as drivers dismounted and prepared to take on detainees. The personnel lock of the Cholot Traveler opened.
Third WatchMaster strode inside.
The Traveler’s operating officers were shaky. One lean, red-faced passenger waited with them. The piping on his apparel pronounced him prominent in House Cholot.
A little man stepped forward, extended a hand that Third WatchMaster ignored. “Commander Haget? I’m Chief Operating Officer Timmerbach.”
Third WatchMaster nodded. “How do you do?” He looked down the tight passageway beyond the crew, at the passengers. “Everyone turned out?”
“With the exception of two nonhumans requiring special environments.”
“This farce must cease! I demand you end this absurd imprisonment immediately!”
Third WatchMaster did not glance at the civilian. He told the nearest I & I man, “That one fails the attitude test. Make certain he’s the last processed out.”
“Yes sir.”
“You bloody... do you know who I am?”
“No. Who you are is a matter of supreme indifference.”
“You bloody well better get interested. I’m Hanhl Cholot, of House Cholot Directorate.”
Sweating, red, shaking, Chief Timmerbach tried to calm his owner’s representative.
Turning away, Third WatchMaster said, “STASIS, after you process the Director, hold him as a material witness. If his attitude fails to improve, we’ll transfer him to VII Gemina.”
Cholot’s attitude improved instantly, if not sincerely. Even a first trip downside functionary ignorant of the ways of the Web knew you did not get yourself dragged aboard a Guardship if you had hopes of feeling earth beneath your feet again.
Glorious Spent was exactly like every other Traveler. The shipbuilders of House Majhellain constructed only three basic forms: the fat bulk cargo Hauler, the more common cargo/passenger Traveler, and the yachtlike Voyager for the rich. Every ship of a class was exactly like every other.
The horror Third WatchMaster found while inspecting passenger compartments was on the manifest. He had been warned by Timmerbach that Glorious Spent carried two aliens who had boarded on the Atlantean Rim. But...
It looked like a group-grope involving giant hydras and starfish atop a heap of exposed intestines. It was
some sort of colonial, symbiotic intelligence. It was a methane breather, which explained why it had not turned out for the passenger muster.
It was revolting.
What the hell excuse was there for letting something that hideous run loose? What was Canon coming to?
By contrast the second alien, shimmering golden as it stared back from the corner of its cabin, seemed almost natural. Third WatchMaster did not recognize it. The manifest was vague. But its documentation was in order.
There was something calming about it. After a minute in its presence he felt relaxed and incurious. He moved on without asking a question.
I & I went over every millimeter of the Traveler. Every datum in every bank got sorted and tasted, then sifted and sniffed again. Nothing turned up. The Cholot Traveler was innocent of wrongdoing. There was only a feeble case for negligence. Any secrets there existed only in the minds of passengers or crew.
Those got sifted, too, excepting those of the aliens, for whom adequate probes were unavailable. Hanhl Cholot suffered examination three times, Third WatchMaster blandly excusing the harassment by wondering why the shape-changer had masqueraded as a child of House Cholot.
Hanhl Cholot was as stupid as the krekelen had been clever. He had believed its portrayal completely.
There was no guilty knowledge aboard. Third WatchMaster was not surprised. He had expected to learn nothing useful.
Maybe something would turn up once Gemina digested the data.
— 8 —
Turtle looked at the soldiers, shuddered, sighed. Fear dragged the cold fingers of old ghosts across his flesh. He derided himself quietly. He had nothing to fear. His documentation was genuine. Fear was for when you had to risk the other kind.
But it had been so long since he had faced the disdain and suspicion of Canon troops, so long since he had put his nerve to the test. “Getting flabby,” he muttered, and stirred himself before the indecision attracted attention.
Warned he would be coming, the sentries barely glanced at his passes at the UpTown escalator. They were more troublesome at the High City lift. The garrison did not much care if terrorists reached UpTown. But the holies of the High City must be shielded by every strength at hand.
The sentries in the lift could find no excuse to deny him. After all, he had orders from Lord Askenasry.
The soldiers took no chances. One rode up with him. Two more were waiting. They bustled him into an armored carrier more jail for those inside than protection from the world outside. He saw nothing of the High City’s fairy spires, half energy construction skittered by rainbows. He saw nothing of the so-perfect people on their heavenly wind-washed streets. He saw nothing but metal bulkheads and the indifferent face of a Canon trooper whose conversation ranged from sniffs to grunts.
The machine whined to a stop. Turtle’s companion did not move. Turtle remained seated till the back panel dropped and a vaguely familiar old woman beckoned him. He stepped out into a sun-washed courtyard. Surrounding walls masked the rest of the High City.
“Lona, is it?” It had been many years since he had been to the High City.
“I’m Carla. Lona was my mother.”
It had been a long time. And he had forgotten that the Canon lords — those who stayed ahead of their enemies — rejuvenated themselves alone, not those who served them.
This woman might not have been born when last he had visited Merod Schene High City.
Lord Askenasry was a frail old stick figure, wrinkled, so black his skin had indigo highlights. A phalanx of machines kept him breathing. He had been past his prime when last Turtle had visited, but then had been healthy and virile and in command of himself and his environment.
One other man shared the sickroom. He stood out of the way, motionless, features concealed inside a cowled black robe, arms folded, hands hidden inside his sleeves. One of the physicians of House Troqwai, the unknowns, as much priests as healers, as much a harbinger of the inevitable as a hope. Turtle was uncomfortable under the creature’s impassive gaze.
He thought of it as man, but it could as well have been woman or nonhuman. There was no evidence obvious to the eye.
The stench of decay permeated the room. Time, the great assassin, rested heavily there, its presence patient and implacable. The myriad sorceries of House Troqwai could hold the killer at bay for a time that seemed unimaginable to the harried children of DownTown, but still the murmurer gnawed and clawed and insinuated its dark tentacles through cracks in the walls. There was no escape for even the rich and the powerful.
Turtle recalled Askenasry as a merry youth, rambling the sinks of DownTown with rowdy contemporaries, accumulating the debt he would have an opportunity to discharge now. All those friends had fallen already. Now he was alone of his kind, like Turtle.
His eyes were open in slits. They tracked Turtle without emotion or apparent interest.
“I have come.”
Askenasry’s response came from a machine, a laryngal whisper amplified. “You have taken your time.” His words came in little rattle-tat bursts interspersed with soft coughing.
“I have come before.”
“At my insistence. Refusing payment for a service.”
The argument was ancient. Turtle refused the bait. Let the man fade into the darkness not understanding that he would have helped anyone that faraway night. The ancient did not need the strain of a clash of philosophical sabers. “I have come now.”
“To collect? At last?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? Passage? Credit? Documentation?”
“No. I want you to save some hotheaded young fools from the consequences of their foolishness. As I once saved other youngsters from their foolishness.”
Askenasry stared the grey steel stare that had made him so intimidating in his prime.
“A krekelen came to Merod Schene. It carried the old whisper of rebellion. There were ears to hear it. And now there are hands to dabble at revolution.”
“The krekelen were exterminated when I was a pup.”
“A krekelen came. I saw it.”
Askenasry did not argue. “Where is this fabulous monster now?”
“Aboard the Cholot Traveler Glorious Spent bound for P. Jaksonica 3. Cholot Varagona.”
Disbelief faded to doubt in old grey eyes. “What do you want?”
“This time they call themselves the Concord. They have the usual plan for taking down the High City and making a punitive landing impossible by seizing the garrison arsenal. They are immune to reason. They do not believe in Guardships. I want you to whisper in the right ears. I want them forestalled till the Guardship comes.”
“What Guardship?”
“The Guardship that will come after the krekelen tries landing on P. Jaksonica. Cholot Varagona lies under the Ban.”
“This is all you require?”
“It is enough. Lives for lives.”
“I have no power these days.”
“People still listen when you speak, Lord.”
“You would be surprised at their deafness.”
“I doubt it. Your species’ indifference to reason ceased to amaze me long before you were born. Let the garrison make a show of force. Let them round up known instigators. Let the boot rest heavily. Let it cause a howl. But stop the nonsense. So there will be a Merod Schene when the Guardship goes its way.”
The old man did not respond. His eyes had closed. For a moment Turtle feared he had wasted his passion. He looked at the Troqwai, appealing....
The physician did not move. Turtle relaxed. The killer had not come. Otherwise the magician would have been plying his artifices. House Troqwai gave no quarter when it wrestled Death.
Lord Askenasry’s eyes opened. He struggled after a smile. “I’ll do what I can. To repay you, not because I give a damn what happens DownTown.”
“I understood that before I came. Your motive is not important so long as you do the deed.” Turtle offered a slight bow, added that little propitiating
gesture of crossed fingers expected by the Troqwai, backed from the room.
The physician moved toward his charge as though floating. He bent to look into the old man’s eyes.
Carla took Turtle to the carrier. Soldiers hustled him aboard. He saw nothing of the High City going home, either.
— 9 —
Tension chained knots of muscle across Third WatchMaster’s shoulder and up the back of his neck. He lusted after another relaxant, dared not indulge. Another would turn him goofy.
It was the intimidating judicial formality of Hall of Decision. He hoped the inquestors would discover no reason to interrogate him.
Hall of Decision had been opened for the first time in decades. The Deified had come down from their screens and donned hologramatic guises.
Third WatchMaster shared the witness dock with the krekelen (wrung dry by I & I and passive as a potato), the soldier who had captured the beast, her battalion commander, several citizens of Cholot Varagona DownTown, Chief Timmerbach, Magnahs, and Director Otten. Facing them on a lone elevated throne was the avatar of the Deified Kole Marmigus, nominal master of VII Gemina. True power resided in the Dictats, enthroned at either side of Marmigus at a lower elevation. Marmigus’s main function was to oversee the annual election of the pair who commanded the Guardship.
Significantly, one Dictat’s throne was empty. Hanaver Strate had chosen to sit as WarAvocat, centering the rank of three thrones below those of the Dictats. He was unwilling to maintain a Dictat’s objectivity.
Banks of thrones to the sides of the Hall were occupied by the Deified. This was the first Third WatchMaster had seen them all together.
So many! Hundreds upon hundreds.... But three millennia was time enough for countless deifications.
Third’s gaze crossed that of the soldier who had captured the krekelen. She was tense and bewildered, out of her depth.
The ceremonials in honor of the tutelary ended. The Deified Kole Marmigus rose. “That’s the folderol out of the way. Let’s dispose of the cut and dried so we can get to the entertaining part.”