Nightsword Page 7

  Merinda gazed down the wide avenue of Aden city and could feel the world coming back to life. There were a few people walking down the broad, paved street, marveling at the soaring architecture of an ancient city now returned to life just for them. Several couples walked hand in hand under the warming sky. In the distance, she could see yet another of the massive Irindris transports settling in at the starport—its cargo of new settlers more anxious than ever to be welcomed to this Promised Land.

  Yes, she thought, I am a pawn who has crossed the board but is the game yet over? That thought troubled her slightly, and she was annoyed at the thought that such peace as she had so recently attained could be disturbed so easily.

  “Seven-alpha-three-five,” she said, turning to face the TyRen warrior that now was not only her guardian but had become something of a companion as well. “When is Phandrith J’lan supposed to be here? He promised my orders were coming from Central. That officious little drig has kept me stuck here for the last fifteen days.”

  The TyRen raised two of its four appendages in a relatively good imitation of a shrug. Merinda chuckled softly to herself. The TyRen had been the fiercest warriors the Order of the Future Faith had to offer—they were indeed formidable mechanisms both in terms of their appearance and their capabilities. Created by the synthetic minds of the Order, they were pure machines of destruction: headless torsos with four mechanical arms floating in the air. Yet their intelligence had ultimately worked against the Order—and now the entire assault century that had been present when Avadon was awakened had changed allegiance. They were still fanatical, only now they were fanatical about protecting Griffiths and this world. Griffiths had assigned Seven-alpha-three-five—who had resisted all attempts she had made thus far to change his name to Babo—to watch over Merinda as her guardian. It had proved to be a pointless assignment. Merinda was a Vestis, after all, and certainly well capable of taking care of herself in even the worst parts of the stars.

  Moreover, with the planet being populated by the Irindris—a deeply fanatical religious people—the most horrid crime committed in the last two weeks had been the accidental dropping of a cargo trunk on a neighbor’s foot. The man who had dropped the trunk had settled this crime, however, without the need of a court system by a quick apology and a few days of concerted care.

  Yes, she thought with smug sarcasm, I find myself in a real hothole of criminal iniquity. Good thing I’ve got my big TyRen brother to take care of me.

  “I am sorry, Vestis Neskat,” the TyRen replied to her question. “I have not had any further communication from Vestis J’lan this day, other than that you should prepare your ship for departure with all speed with—Just a moment.”

  Merinda turned her soft oval face toward the TyRen, her dark eyes suddenly focused and intent. Something was up. “Report.”

  “An unregistered human has been apprehended at the starport having landed without authorization. He seems to have put up something of a struggle against the TyRen at that location and has to have been forcibly subdued.”

  “Subdued?” Merinda’s eyebrows shot upward. “Someone actually tried to fight off the TyRen?”

  “Yes, Vestis Neskat. However, the TyRen were victorious in their conquest of the individual. He has demanded an audience with Emperor Griffiths at once and is currently being escorted there by a squad of TyRen warriors.”

  Merinda shook her head, tossing her long honey hair with amusement. “Poor Griffiths! His days are long enough without having to deal with some idiot free trader who wants to get the jump on commercial traffic to a new world.”

  She turned toward the wall mirror and gave herself the critical eye. Merinda’s face maintained a neutral expression that many people newly acquainted with the Vestis Inquisitas took to be cold and unfeeling. She had to admit that more often than not they were probably correct. Members of the Inquisition were never known for their warmth or humanity. Getting the job done, one way or the other—usually the other, she thought ruefully—was what her calling was all about. Over the years the soft oval of her face had become a chilled blank to those who watched it, her small mouth bowed into a perpetual frown—and the dark eyes were cold as steel. It was a practiced look, which she had worked hard to acquire; it was now as much a part of her as breathing.

  Yet something was missing in the face she had looked at so many times before. Hatred. She no longer hated herself. In her redemption, however, she secretly worried. That same hatred had given her the edge she used in her work. The great emptiness within her that could not be filled had driven her to the top of her profession. The hunger had made her great.

  Now, she was experiencing something new—peace. The pain was gone and now she wondered if her drive had vanished with it. She may have gained her soul, but she wondered privately if she had lost her edge. Merinda eyed the cascade of golden hair that framed her face with a softness that she rarely displayed. Doubt still in her mind, she reached up and pulled it back tightly, methodically winding it back into its more usual, tightly controlled stalk that hung down her back.

  “Babo …,” she said absently.

  “I am Seven-alpha-three-five,” the TyRen reminded her.

  “Couldn’t you just answer when I call you Babo?”

  “I am Seven-alpha-three-five.” Just that simple.

  “Very well, Seven-alpha-three-five, do you suppose that Griffiths will need any help with this new individual?”

  “I would think not. The TyRen are perfectly capable of handling security in this matter …”

  “I’ve no doubt of that!” she laughed.

  “… And in any event, our records to date indicate that Griffiths considers himself to be on good terms with the Vestis Inquisitas.”

  Merinda turned from the mirror, still bringing strict order to her hair. “What did you say?”

  “I said that Emperor Griffiths considers himself to be on good terms with the Vestis Inquisitas.”

  Merinda’s eyes narrowed. Phandrith J’lan was the Vestis assigned to relieve her and keep an eye on things here on the planet—but he was registered with the TyRen. “Just who is this intruder?”

  “He has identified himself as one Targ of Gandri, although his papers are not …”

  “Targ!” Merinda cried out, suddenly shaken. “Targ of Gandri? E’toris Prime Targ of Gandri?”

  “Yes, Vestis Neskat, that is the identification which he gave—is there something the matter?”

  Merinda had already grabbed her cloak and was moving through the doorway by the time the TyRen recovered enough to follow her out of her apartments.

  merinda rushed past the petitioners lined up in the circular hall of the Supplicants’ Walk, her progress unimpeded by the TyRen located there to keep order. She passed directly through the Fifth Gate of Enlightenment unchallenged. Seven-alpha-three-five floated behind her, his massive presence sufficient passport to his brother soldiers. Yet even if he had not been present they would have let her pass. She had proven herself a friend to the synthetic minds—the synths, as they were more commonly called—and thus she was worthy of their protection and honor as well.

  Merinda didn’t pause in her course. She quickly stepped across the polished floor of the throne room. Even as she did, she could hear the booming voice of the priest near her cry out.

  “Lord Father of our People! I beg present a supplicant—Two hundred and thirty-eight! Come forward and hear the will of the prophet!”

  Merinda caught sight of a young man about to step forward with a sweet girl at his side. The Irindris often asked a blessing on their marriage from their prophet—Griffiths claimed it was one of the few things that he really enjoyed doing in his new role—but Merinda thought that their blissful happiness was just going to have to wait for a few more minutes. She stepped quickly in front of them and, without apology, began charging up the stairs two steps at a time.

  “Griffiths! We’ve got to talk!” she called out up the stairs.

  The priests were horrif
ied. Such a breach in protocol could eventually cost them their positions and smacked of sacrilege.

  The young couple stood confused at the bottom of the stairs.

  Griffiths, who had been leaning his head on his hand, suddenly seemed to wake up on the throne above her. “Merinda!” he said with genuine joy. “I thought you were leaving! I had hoped that you would stay—I can’t tell you how much this means to …”

  “Quiet, Griffiths!” Merinda growled just loudly enough for him to hear. “Trouble’s about to follow me into the hall.”

  “What?” the prophet-emperor of Avadon said warily. “What’s coming?”

  Merinda opened her mouth to speak but it was too late.

  The doors of the Ninth Gate of Enlightenment suddenly slammed open, knocking several petitioners to the floor. The deep-throated rumble of the TyRen lifter drives thundered into the hall. Four TyRen warriors held a human above their heads, clad in a black jumpsuit. The hooded cape had fallen away from his head, revealing a brilliant mane of white hair above the strong, lined face.

  Merinda closed her eyes. It is him.

  The TyRen rumbled past the young couple still waiting, now doubly confused, at the bottom of the stairs. The priest standing next to them, his petitioner’s book still open, was horrified at this new breach in etiquette and suddenly realized he didn’t know the proper form by which he should lodge a protest.

  The warrior machines deposited the black-clad human, his arms pinned under his black cape, without ceremony ten steps below the throne. The man rolled quickly to his feet, his face a brilliant red in contrast to his white, and now disheveled, hair. Merinda had seen many moods in this man but had never seen him quite so completely frustrated and enraged.

  “Lord Emperor,” Merinda said, taking two steps down the stairs and gesturing grandly with her hand toward the newcomer, “may I present Vestis E’toris Prime Targ of Gandri, Master of the Inquisition and Voice of the Nine Oracles.”

  Targ looked up sharply toward Merinda at hearing his full title spoken.

  “E’toris Prime,” Merinda continued, her voice even and directed straight at the unquestioned master of her order, “may I be permitted to present Prophet-Emperor Griffiths the First, Lord of Avadon and bearer of the Mantle of Kendis-dai.”

  Targ turned to look at Griffiths.

  To either side of the throne, twin TyRen guards instantly reacted, their eight arms raising upwards and forward, aiming their multiple weapons directly at the E’toris Prime.

  There was something definitely wrong here. Merinda had been in service enough to know the smell of power being played. Targ was a formidable sorcerer and the quantum zone in which Avadon moved was absolutely rife with magical power—yet the man had allowed himself to be dragged here by the TyRen. She had to wonder: what would bring the head of the entire Omnet out into the wilds of the stars?

  A moment passed in silence as both sides tried to evaluate their relative positions.

  Targ spoke first: “Lord of Avadon, what might I be permitted to call you?”

  Griffiths smiled tightly. “Well, I’ve been called a lot of things. Captain, Jeremy—and sometimes Jerry to my close friends …”

  “As you wish,” Targ said.

  “… But I think you should just stick with Lord Emperor for the time being,” Griffiths finished through the same tight smile.

  Merinda closed her eyes. She had yet to understand the humor of the Earthers although she had the impression from the others of Griffiths’s former crew that they didn’t understand his humor either. The emperor from Earth seemed to have a sense for the wrong thing to say. This was not going well.

  “As you wish, Lord Emperor,” Targ continued smoothly. The man had been in too many imperial courts—some of them run by people far crazier than Griffiths—to be distracted by Griffiths’s peculiarities. “I demand to know the meaning of this attack upon my person! I am the Master of the Inquisition—an authorized diplomat of the Omnet—and I protest being treated this way.”

  “Your protest is duly noted,” Griffiths continued with some caution behind the cool in his voice. “What is the meaning of your interrupting my loyal and patient petitioners?”

  Merinda stifled a laugh. Griffiths hated dealing with petitioners.

  “Lord Emperor,” Targ said softly, “the Omnet has, for over three hundred years, been the keeper of knowledge and wisdom throughout the galaxy. We have sought diligently to uncover the secrets of the Lost Empire and to bring knowledge and truth to all sentients throughout known space. Ours has always been a mission of truth and knowledge.”

  “I am acquainted with both truth and knowledge,” Griffiths said. “What does either have to do with your mission here?”

  “Lord Emperor, with all due respect to you and your people, the Mantle of Kendis-dai is too large a project for you and your limited resources to properly administrate. The Omnet has been serving the Nine Oracles—synths from the time of your own Mantle—for centuries. Indeed, the Nine have directed me to come to your world and offer our services in administering and more properly utilizing the facilities which you have so recently and fortuitously recovered.”

  “Uh, I see. You mean to take the Mantle from me,” Griffiths said so simply and sweetly that Merinda wasn’t sure that she had heard the meaning of the words correctly.

  “No,” Targ countered. “The Nine Oracles have directed us to …”

  “… To steal the Mantle from me?” Griffiths offered, to conclude Targ’s sentence.

  Targ’s face went hard.

  “You know, people come to me all day and ask questions,” Griffiths said, leaning back into the throne. “I think I’d like to ask them for a change. Tell me, Targ of Gandri, why is an entire fleet of Omnet ships now maneuvering over my world?”

  Merinda looked back at Targ.

  “Lord Emperor, the Irindris fleet has just narrowly survived the attack by the Order of the Future Faith. We have come to offer our assistance …”

  “Your assistance is not needed, Targ of Gandri, nor that of your Omnet,” Griffiths said evenly. “However, I don’t think assistance is what you have in mind. An armed assault on our world would be foolish—you would quite possibly destroy the one thing you hope to gain—this very Mantle. Furthermore, the TyRen would quite effectively hold you at bay.”

  “Perhaps,” Targ said slowly, the words forced smoothly between his teeth. “Yet I regret to inform you that your world has been quarantined until further notice. We may not be able to land on your world at will, Lord Emperor, but no ships will enter or leave without my permission. The Nine Oracles have decreed …”

  “Liar,” Griffiths said with a half smile.

  Merinda caught her breath.

  “You’ve come with a question that the Nine refused to answer; a question that you will convince me, bully me, or threaten me into answering for you.”

  Merinda blinked, shocked.

  Targ leaned forward as he spoke in a steel-cold voice. “I will have my answer, Jeremy Griffiths, or I will see to it that this world is leveled so flat that not a centimeter of difference will remain in its circumference.”

  Griffiths leaned forward on his throne, looking down on the Vestis Prime. “And you shall have your answer, Targ of Gandri, but only from me—and only when I’m ready to give it.”

  Griffiths turned to Neskat and shrugged.

  “Hey, they don’t call this the Mantle of Wisdom for nothing!”

  9

  A Little Treason

  “By the nine!” Targ raged. “who does he think he is!”

  Vestis Phandrith J’lan struggled to keep up with the long strides of his superior. The Vestis Novus had only moments before learned of the arrival of the man he considered to be the single most important sentient in all the known galaxy. J’lan had been unsuccessful in his all-out, panicked attempt to get to the cathedral before Vestis Prime Targ. He had only arrived in time to be nearly flattened by the Ninth Gate of Enlightenment as the outraged Targ cha
rged out of the audience hall. Now, as Targ slammed open the main cathedral doors, the young Omnet operative still didn’t know what had happened or why they were being escorted out of the building accompanied by no fewer than six of the TyRen. J’lan had arrived late in many ways, it seemed, and had been trying to catch up ever since.

  “Vestis Prime,” the young man puffed, still out of breath from his dash to the cathedral. “The Lord Emperor is new and inexperienced. I’m sure that in time …”

  “Time?” Targ roared as he abruptly stopped atop the cathedral stairs. J’lan passed him in his rush to keep up. “I don’t have time, Novus! The Order will be filling these skies again with death in the next two days, maybe three on the outside, and this barbarian insists on playing word games with me! Me!”

  J’lan skidded to a stop on the shining stone of the landing. “Vestis Prime, I’m sure that …,” J’lan began but Targ was already moving quickly down the steps. The Novus turned quickly in pursuit and tried again. “Vestis Prime, I’m sure that Emperor Griffiths will cooperate. I’ll see to it that your wishes are conveyed at once.”

  “You do that,” Targ said, not looking back nor breaking stride. “These clockwork-clowns,” Targ gestured angrily at the TyRen surrounding him, “have been instructed to take me somewhere to ‘cool off and calm down,’ as your vaunted barbarian-emperor put it. You’re the liaison assigned to this world. Go and liaise. But be sure you convey this to that pompous idiot on that mighty throne of his: I will have my answer within the day or I may just side my fleet with the Order when they show up. He’d best remember that!”

  “Yes, Vestis,” Phandrith J’lan said, stopping in the street and allowing the great Targ of Gandri to continue down the avenue under escort. He wasn’t a timid man—no sentient was accepted into the Vestis ranks who was timid—but he was also smart enough to know that he was in way over his head. He hadn’t a clear picture of what was going on here, and operating in the dark was never healthy.