A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows Page 23

knew should bear Merseian genes. "Worthies and world," Ywodh was saying,

  "you've heard many a tale of late: how the Emperor wants to crush us,

  how a new war is nearly on us because of his folly or his scheming to

  slough us off, how his agents rightly or wrongly charged the Gospodar's

  niece Kossara Vymezal with treason and--absolutely wrongly--sold her for

  a slave, how they've taken the Gospodar himself prisoner on the same

  excuse, how they must have destroyed the whole homestead of his

  brother-in-law the voivode of Dubina Dolyina to grind out any spark of

  free spirit, how our last choices left are ruin or revolution--You've

  heard this.

  "I say each piece of it is false." He flung an arm in signal. With a

  showmanship that humans would have had to rehearse, his followers opened

  their ranks. "And here to gaff the lies is Kossara Vymezal, sister's

  daughter to Bodin Miyatovich our Gospodar!"

  She bounded from among them, across the floor, onto the dais, to take

  her place between the antlers of the lectern. A moan lifted out of the

  benched humans, as if the fall wind had made entry; the zmayi uttered a

  surflike rumble. "What, what, what is this?" quavered the Chief Justice.

  Nobody paid him heed. Kossara raised her head and cried forth so the

  room rang:

  "Hear me, folk! I'm not back from the dead, but I am back from hell, and

  I bear witness. The devils are not Terrans but Merseians and their

  creatures. My savior was, is, not a Dennitzan but a Terran. Those who

  shout, 'Independence!' are traitors not to the Empire but to Dennitza.

  Their single wish is to set humans at each other's throats, till the

  Roidhun arrives and picks our bones. Hear my story and judge."

  Flandry walked toward her, Chives beside him. He wished it weren't too

  disturbing to run. Nike of Samothrace had not borne a higher or more

  defenseless pride than she did. They took stance beneath her, facing the

  outer door. Her tones marched triumphant:

  "--I escaped the dishonor intended me by the grace of God and the

  decency of this man you see here, Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of his

  Majesty's service. Let me tell what happened from the beginning. Have I

  your leave, worthies?"

  "Aye!"

  Gunshots answered. Screams flew ragged. A blaster bolt flared outside

  the chamber.

  Flandry's weapon jumped free. The tiers of the Skupshtina turned into a

  yelling scramble. Fifty-odd men pounded through the doorway. Clad like

  ordinary Dennitzans, all looked hard and many looked foreign. They bore

  firearms.

  "Get down, Kossara!" Flandry shouted. Through him ripped: Yes, the enemy

  did have an emergency force hidden in a building near the square, and

  somebody in this room used a minicom to bring them. The Revolutionary

  Committee--they'll take over, they'll proclaim her an impostor--

  He and Chives were on the dais. She hadn't flattened herself under the

  lectern. She had gone to one knee behind it, sidearm in hand, ready to

  snipe. The attackers were deploying around the room. Two dashed by

  either side of the clustered, bewildered fishers.

  Their blaster beams leaped, convergent on the stand. Its wood exploded

  in flame, its horns toppled. Kossara dropped her pistol and fell back.

  Chives pounced zigzag. A bolt seared and crashed within centimeters of

  him. He ignored it; he was taking aim. The first assassin's head became

  a fireball. The second crumpled, grabbed at the stump of a leg, writhed

  and shrieked a short while. Chives reached the next nearest, wrapped his

  tail around that man's neck and squeezed, got an elbow-beaking

  single-arm lock on another, hauled him around for a shield and commenced

  systematic shooting.

  "I say," he called through the din to Ywodh, "you chaps might pitch in a

  bit, don't you know."

  The steadcaptain bellowed. His slugthrower hissed. A male beside him

  harpooned a foeman's belly. Then heedless of guns, four hundred big

  seafarers joined battle.

  Flandry knelt by Kossara. From bosom to waist was seared bloody

  wreckage. He half raised her. She groped after him with hands and eyes.

  "Dominic, darling," he barely heard, "I wish--" He heard no more.

  For an instant he imagined revival, life-support machinery, cloning ...

  No. He'd never get her to a hospital before the brain was gone beyond

  any calling back of the spirit. Never.

  He lowered her. I won't think yet. No time. I'd better get into that

  fight. The ychans don't realize we need a few prisoners.

  Dusk fell early in fall. Above the lake smoldered a sunset remnant.

  Otherwise blue-black dimness drowned the land. Overhead trembled a few

  stars; and had he looked from his office window aloft in the Zamok,

  Flandry could have seen city lights, spiderwebs along streets and single

  glows from homes. Wind mumbled at the panes.

  Finally granted a rest, he sat back from desk and control board, feeling

  his chair shape its embrace to his contours. Despite the drugs which

  suppressed grief, stimulated metabolism, and thus kept him going,

  weariness weighted every cell. He had turned off the fluoros. His

  cigarette end shone red. He couldn't taste the smoke, maybe because the

  dark had that effect, maybe because tongue and palate were scorched.

  Well, went his clockwork thought, that takes care of the main business.

  He had just been in direct conversation with Admiral da Costa. The

  Terran commander appeared reasonably well convinced of the good faith of

  the provisional government whose master, for all practical purposes,

  Flandry had been throughout this afternoon. Tomorrow be would discuss

  the Gospodar's release. And as far as could be gauged, the Dennitzan

  people were accepting the fact they had been betrayed. They'd want a

  full account, of course, buttressed by evidence; and they wouldn't

  exactly become enthusiastic Imperialists; but the danger of revolution

  followed by civil war seemed past.

  So maybe tomorrow I can let these chemicals drain out of me, let go my

  grip and let in my dead. Tonight the knowledge that there was no more

  Kossara reached him only like the wind, an endless voice beyond the

  windows. She had been spared that, he believed, had put mourning quite

  from her for the last span, being upheld by urgency rather than a need

  to go through motions, by youth and hope, by his presence beside her.

  Whereas I--ah, well, I can carry on. She'd've wanted me to.

  The door chimed. What the deuce? His guards had kept him alone among

  electronic ghosts. Whoever got past them at last in person must be

  authoritative and persuasive. He waved at an admit plate and to turn the

  lights back on. Their brightness hurt his eyes.

  A slim green form in a white kilt entered, bearing a tray where stood

  teapot, cup, plates and bowls of food. "Your dinner, sir," Chives

  announced.

  "I'm not hungry," said the clockwork. "I didn't ask for--"

  "No, sir. I took the liberty." Chives set his burden down on the desk.

  "Allow me to remind you, we require your physical fitness."

  Her planet did. "Very good, Chives." Flandry got down some soup and

&nbs
p; black bread. The Shalmuan waited unobtrusively.

  "That did help," the man agreed. "You know, give me the proper pill and

  I might sleep."

  "You--you may not wish it for the nonce, sir."

  "What?" Flandry sharpened his regard. Chives had lost composure. He

  stood head lowered, tail a-droop, hands hard clasped: miserable.

  "Go on," Flandry said. "You've gotten me nourished. Tell me."

  The voice scissored off words: "It concerns those personnel, sir, whom

  you recall the townsmen took into custody."

  "Yes. I ordered them detained, well treated, till we can check them out

  individually. What of them?"

  "I have discovered they include one whom I, while a fugitive,

  ascertained had come to Zorkagrad several days earlier. To be frank,

  sir, this merely confirmed my suspicion that such had been the case. I

  must have been denounced by a party who recognized your speedster at the

  port and obtained the inspectors' record of me. This knowledge must then

  have made him draw conclusions and recommend actions with respect to

  Voivode Vymezal."

  "Well?"

  "Needless to say, sir, I make no specific accusations. The guilt could

  lie elsewhere than in the party I am thinking of."

  "Not measurably likely, among populations the size we've got." Beneath

  the drumhead of imposed emotionlessness, Flandry felt his body stiffen.

  "Who?"

  Seldom did he see Chives' face distorted. "Lieutenant Commander Dominic

  Hazeltine, sir. Your son."

  XVIII

  -----

  Two militiamen escorted the prisoner into the office. "You may go,"

  Flandry told them.

  They stared unsurely from him, standing slumped against night in a

  window, to the strong young man they guarded. "Go," Flandry repeated.

  "Wait outside with my servant. I'll call on the intercom when I want

  you."

  They saluted and obeyed. Flandry and Hazeltine regarded each other,

  mute, until the door had closed. The older saw an Imperial undress

  uniform, still neat upon an erect frame, and a countenance half Persis'

  where pride overmastered fear. The younger saw haggardness clad in a

  soiled coverall.

  "Well," Flandry said at last. Hazeltine extended a hand. Flandry looked

  past it. "Have a seat," he invited. "Care for a drink?" He indicated

  bottle and glasses on his desk. "I remember you like Scotch."

  "Thanks, Dad." Hazeltine spoke as low, free of the croak in the opposite

  throat. He smiled, and smiled again after they had both sat down holding

  their tumblers. Raising his, he proposed, "Here's to us. Damn few like

  us, and they're all dead."

  They had used the ancient toast often before. This time Flandry did not

  respond. Hazeltine watched him a moment, grimaced, and tossed off a

  swallow. Then Flandry drank.

  Hazeltine leaned forward. His words shook. "Father, you don't believe

  that vapor about me. Do you?"

  Flandry took out his cigarette case. "I don't know what else to

  believe." He flipped back the lid. "Somebody who knew Chives and the

  Hooligan fingered him. The date of your arrival fits in." He chose a

  cigarette. "And thinking back, I find the coincidence a trifle much that

  you called my attention to Kossara Vymezal precisely when she'd reached

  Terra. I was a pretty safe bet to skyhoot her off to Diomedes, where she

  as an inconvenient witness and I as an inconvenient investigator could

  be burked in a way that'd maximize trouble." He puffed the tobacco into

  lighting, inhaled, streamed smoke till it veiled him, and sighed: "You

  were overeager. You should have waited till she'd been used at least a

  few days, and a reputable Dennitzan arranged for to learn about this."

  "I didn't--No, what are you saying?" Hazeltine cried.

  Flandry toyed with the case. "As was," he continued levelly, "the only

  word which could be sent, since the Gospodar would require proof and is

  no fool ... the word was merely she'd been sold for a slave. Well, ample

  provocation. Where were you, between leaving Terra and landing here? Did

  you maybe report straight to Aycharaych?"

  Hazeltine banged his glass down on the chair arm. "Lies!" he shouted.

  Red and white throbbed across his visage. "Listen, I'm your son. I swear

  to you by--"

  "Never mind. And don't waste good liquor. If I'd settled on Dennitza as

  I planned, the price we'd've paid for Scotch--" Flandry gave his lips a

  respite from the cigarette. He waved it. "How were you recruited? By the

  Merseians, I mean. Couldn't be brainscrub. I know the signs too well.

  Blackmail? No, implausible. You're a bright lad who wouldn't get

  suckered into that first mistake they corral you by--a brave lad who'd

  sneer at threats. But sometime during the contacts you made in line of

  duty--"

  Hazeltine's breath rasped. "I didn't! How can I prove to you, Father, I

  didn't?"

  "Simple," Flandry said. "You must have routine narco immunization. But

  we can hypnoprobe you."

  Hazeltine sagged back. His glass rolled across the floor.

  "The Imperial detachment brought Intelligence personnel and their

  apparatus, you know," Flandry continued. "I've asked, and they can take

  you tomorrow morning. Naturally, any private facts which emerge will

  stay confidential."

  Hazeltine raised an aspen hand. "You don't know--I--I'm

  deep-conditioned."

  "By Terra?"

  "Yes, of course, of course. I can't be 'probed ... without my mind being

  ... destroyed--"

  Flandry sighed again. "Come, now. We don't deep-condition our agents

  against giving information to their own people, except occasional

  supersecrets. After all, a 'probe can bring forth useful items the

  conscious mind has forgotten. Don't fear if you're honest, son. The

  lightest treatment will clear you, and the team will go no further."

  "But--oh, no-o-o--"

  Abruptly Hazeltine cast himself on his knees before Flandry. Words burst

  from his mouth like the sweat from his skin. "Yes, then, yes, I've been

  working for Merseia. Not bought, nothing like that, I thought the future

  was theirs, should be theirs, not this walking corpse of an

  Empire--Merciful angels, can't you see their way's the hope of humankind

  too?--" Flandry blew smoke to counteract the reek of terror. "I'll

  cooperate. I will, I will. I wasn't evil, Dad. I had my orders about

  you, yes, but I hated what I did, and Aycharaych doubted you'd really be

  killed, and I knew I was supposed to let that girl be bought first by

  somebody else before I told you but when we happened to arrive in time I

  couldn't make myself wait--" He caught Flandry by the knees. "Dad, in

  Mother's name, let my mind live!"

  Flandry shoved the clasp aside, rose, stepped a couple of meters off,

  and answered, "Sorry. I could never trust you not to leave stuff buried

  in your confession that could rise to kill or enslave too many more

  young girls." For a few seconds he watched the crouched, spastic shape.

  "I'm under stim and heavy trank," he said. "A piece of machinery. I've a

  far-off sense of how this will feel later on, but mostly that's

  abst
ract. However ... you have till morning, son. What would you like

  while you wait? Ill do my best to provide it."

  Hazeltine uncoiled. On his feet, he howled, "You cold devil, at least

  I'll kill you first! And then myself!"

  He charged. The rage which doubled his youthful strength was not amok;

  he came as a karate man, ready to smash a ribcage and pluck out a heart.

  Flandry swayed aside. He passed a hand near the other.

  Razor-edged, the lid of the cigarette case left a shallow red gash in

  the right cheek. Hazeltine whirled for a renewed assault. Flandry gave

  ground. Hazeltine followed, boxing him into a corner. Then the knockout

  potion took hold. Hazeltine stumbled, reeled, flailed his arms, mouthed,

  and caved in.

  Flandry sought the intercom. "Come remove the prisoner," he directed.

  Day broke windless and freezing cold. The sun stood in a rainbow ring

  and ice crackled along the shores of Lake Stoyan. Zorkagrad lay silent

  under bitter blue, as if killed. From time to time thunders drifted

  across its roofs, arrivals and departures of spacecraft. They gleamed

  meteoric. Sometimes, too, airships whistled by, armored vehicles

  rumbled, boots slammed on pavement. About noon, one such vessel and one

  such march brought Bodin Miyatovich home.

  He was as glad to return unheralded. Too much work awaited him for

  ceremonies--him and Dominic Flandry. But the news did go out on the

  'casts; and that was like proclaiming Solstice Feast. Folk ran from

  their houses, poured in from the land, left their patrols to shout,