A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows Read online

  dance, weep, laugh, sing, embrace perfect strangers; and every church

  bell pealed.

  From a balcony of the Zamok he watched lights burn and bob through

  twilit streets, bonfires in squares, tumult and clamor. His breath

  smoked spectral under the early stars. Frost tinged his beard. "This

  can't last," he muttered, and stepped back into the office.

  When the viewdoor closed behind him, stillness fell except for chimes

  now muffled. The chill he had let in remained a while. Flandry, hunched

  in a chair, didn't seem to notice.

  Miyatovich gave the Terran a close regard. "You can't go on either," he

  said. "If you don't stop dosing yourself and let your glands and nerves

  function normally, they'll quit on you."

  Flandry nodded. "I'll stop soon." From caverns his eyes observed a

  phonescreen.

  The big gray-blond man hung up his cloak. "I'll admit I couldn't have

  done what got done today, maybe not for weeks, maybe never, without

  you," he said. "You knew the right words, the right channels; you had

  the ideas. But we are done. I can handle the rest."

  He went to stand behind his companion, laying ringers on shoulders,

  gently kneading. "I'd like to hide from her death myself," he said.

  "Aye, it's easier for me. I'd thought her lost to horror, and learned

  she was lost in honor. While if you and she--Dominic, listen. I made a

  chance to call my wife. She's at our house, not our town house, a place

  in the country, peace, woods, cleanness, healing. We want you there." He

  paused. "You're a very private man, aren't you? Well, nobody will poke

  into your grief."

  "I'm not hiding," Flandry replied in monotone. "I'm waiting. I expect a

  message shortly. Then I'll take your advice."

  "What message?"

  "Interrogation results from a certain Mers--Roidhunate agent we

  captured. I've reason to think he has some critical information."

  "Hoy?" Miyatovich's features, tired in their own right, kindled. He cast

  himself into an armchair confronting Flandry. It creaked beneath his

  weight.

  "I'm in a position to evaluate it better than anyone else," the Terran

  persisted. "How long does da Costa insist on keeping his ships here 'in

  case we need further help'?--Ah, yes, five standard days, I remember.

  Well, I'll doubtless need about that long at your house; I'll be numb,

  and afterward--

  "I'll take a printout in my luggage, to study when I'm able. Your job

  meanwhile will be to ... not suppress the report. You probably couldn't;

  besides, the Empire needs every drop of data we can wring out of what

  enemy operatives we catch. But don't let da Costa's command scent any

  special significance in the findings of this particular 'probe job."

  The Gospodar fumbled for pipe and tobacco pouch. "Why?"

  "I can't guarantee what we'll learn, but I have a logical suspicion--Are

  you sure you can keep the Dennitzan fleet mobilized, inactive, another

  couple of weeks?"

  "Yes." Miyatovich grew patient. "Maybe you don't quite follow the

  psychology, Dominic. Da Costa wants to be certain we won't rebel. The

  fact that we aren't dispersing immediately makes him leery. He hasn't

  the power to prevent us from whatever we decide to do, but he thinks his

  presence as a tripwire will deter secessionism. All right, in five

  Terran days his Intelligence teams can establish it's a bogeyman, and he

  can accept my explanation that we're staying on alert for a spell yet in

  case Merseia does attack. He'll deem us a touch paranoid, but he'll

  return to base with a clear conscience."

  "You have to give your men the same reason, don't you?"

  "Right. And they'll accept it. In fact, they'd protest if I didn't issue

  such an order, Dennitza's lived too many centuries by the abyss; this

  time we nearly went over."

  Miyatovich tamped his pipe bowl needlessly hard. "I've gotten to know

  you well enough, I believe, in this short while, that I can tell you the

  whole truth," he added. "You thought you were helping me smooth things

  out with respect to the Empire. And you were, you were. But my main

  reason for quick reconciliation is ... to get the Imperials out of the

  Zorian System while we still have our own full strength."

  "And you'll strike back at Merseia," Flandry said.

  The Gospodar showed astonishment. "How did you guess?"

  "I didn't guess. I knew--Kossara. She told me a lot."

  Miyatovich gathered wind and wits. "Don't think I'm crazy," he urged.

  "Rather, I'll have to jump around like sodium in the rain, trying to

  keep people and Skupshtina from demanding action too loudly before the

  Terrans leave. But when the Terrans do--" His eyes, the color of hers,

  grew leopard-intent. "We want more than revenge. In fact, only a few of

  us like myself have suffered what would have brought on a blood feud in

  the old days. But I told you we live on the edge. We have got to show we

  aren't safe for unfriends to touch. Otherwise, what's next?"

  "Nemo me impune lacessit," Flandry murmured.

  "Hm?"

  "No matter. Ancient saying. Too damned ancient; does nothing ever change

  at the heart?" Flandry shook his head. The chemical barriers were

  growing thin. "I take it, then, in the absence of da Costa or some other

  Imperial official--who'd surely maintain anything as atavistic as

  response to aggression is against policy and must in all events be

  referred to the appropriate authorities, in triplicate, for debate--in

  the absence of that, as sector governor you'll order the Dennitzan fleet

  on a retaliatory strike."

  Miyatovich nodded. "Yes."

  "Have you considered the consequences?"

  "I'll have time to consider them further, before we commit. But ... if

  we choose the target right, I don't expect Merseia will do more than

  protest. The fact seems to be, at present they are not geared for war

  with Terra. They were relying on a new civil war among us. If instead

  they get hit, the shock ought to make them more careful about the whole

  Empire."

  "What target have you in mind?"

  Miyatovich frowned, spent a minute with a lighter getting his pipe

  started, finally said, "I don't yet know. The object is not to start a

  war, but to punish behavior which could cause one. The Roidhunate

  couldn't write off a heavily populated planet. Nor would I lead a

  genocidal mission. But, oh, something valuable, maybe an industrial

  center on a barren metal-rich globe--I'll have the War College study

  it."

  "If you succeed," Flandry warned, "you'll be told you went far beyond

  your powers."

  "That can be argued. Those powers aren't too well defined, are they? I

  like to imagine Hans Molitor will sympathize." The Gospodar shrugged.

  "If not, what becomes of me isn't important. I'm thinking of the

  children and grandchildren."

  "Uh-huh. Well, you've confirmed what--Hold on." The phone buzzed.

  Flandry reached to press accept. He had to try twice before he made it.

  A countenance half as stark as his looked from the screen. "Lieutenant

  Mitchell reporting, sir. Hypnoprobing of the prisoner Dominic Hazelt
ine

  has been completed."

  "Results?" The question was plane-flat.

  "You predicted aright, sir. The subject was deep-conditioned." Mitchell

  winced at a recollection unpleasant even in his line of work. "I'd never

  seen or heard of so thorough a treatment. He went into shock almost at

  once. In later stages, the stimuli necessary were--well, he hasn't got a

  forebrain left to speak of."

  "I want a transcript in full," Flandry said. "Otherwise, you're to seal

  the record, classified Ultimate Secret, and your whole team will keep

  silence. I'll give you a written directive on that, authorized by

  Governor Miyatovich."

  "Yes, sir." Mitchell showed puzzlement. He must be wondering why the

  emphasis. Intelligence didn't make a habit of broadcasting what it

  learned. Unless--"Sir, you realize, don't you, this is still raw

  material? More incoherent than usual, too, because of the brain

  channeling. We did sort out his basic biography, details of his most

  recent task, that kind of thing. Offhand, the rest of what we got seems

  promising. But to fit the broken, scrambled association chains together,

  interpret the symbols and find their significance--"

  "I'll take care of that," Flandry snapped. "Your part is over."

  "Yes, sir." Mitchell dropped his gaze. "I'm ... sorry ... on account of

  the relationship involved. He really did admire you. Uh, what shall we

  do about him now?"

  Flandry fell quiet. Miyatovich puffed volcanic clouds. Outside, the

  bells caroled.

  "Sir?"

  "Let me see him," Flandry said.

  Interlinks flickered. In the screen appeared the image of a young man,

  naked on a bed, arms spreadeagled to meet the tubes driven into his

  veins, chest and abdominal cavities opened for the entry of machines

  that kept most cells alive. He stared at the ceiling with eyes that

  never moved nor blinked. His mouth dribbled. Click, chug, it said in the

  background, click, chug.

  Flandry made a noise. Miyatovich seized his hand.

  After a while Flandry stated, "Thank you. Switch it off."

  They held Kossara Vymezal in a coldvault until the Imperials had left.

  This was by command of the Gospodar, and folk supposed the reason was

  she was Dennitza's, nobody else's, and said he did right. As many as

  were able would attend her funeral.

  The day before, she was brought to the Cathedral of St. Clement, though

  none save kin were let near. Only the four men of her honor guard were

  there when Dominic Flandry came.

  They stood in uniform of the Narodna Voyska, heads lowered, rifles

  reversed, at the corners of her bier. He paid them no more mind than he

  did the candles burning in tall holders, the lilies, roses, viyenatz

  everywhere between, their fragrance or a breath of incense or the

  somehow far-off sound of a priest chanting behind the iconostasis, which

  filled the cool dim air. Alone he walked over the stones to her. Evening

  sunlight slanted through windows and among columns, filtered to a domed

  ceiling, brought forth out of dusk, remote upon gold and blue, the

  Twelve Apostles and Christ Lord of All.

  At first he was afraid to look, dreading less the gaping glaring

  hideousness he had last seen--that was only what violent death

  wrought--than the kind of rouged doll they made when Terran bodies lay

  in state. Forcing himself, he found that nothing more had been done than

  to cleanse her, close the eyes, bind the chin, gown and garland her. The

  divided coffin lid showed her down to the bosom. The face he saw was

  hers, hers, though color was gone and time had eased it into an inhuman

  serenity.

  This makes me a little happier, dear, he thought. I didn't feel it was

  fitting that they mean to build you a big tomb on Founders' Hill. I

  wanted your ashes strewn over land and sea, into sun and wind. Then if

  ever I came back here I could dream every brightness was yours. But they

  understand what they do, your people. A corner of his mouth bent upward.

  It's I who am the sentimental old fool. Would you laugh if you could

  know?

  He stooped closer. You believed you would know, Kossara. If you do,

  won't you help me believe too--believe that you still are?

  His sole answer was the priest's voice rising and falling through

  archaic words. Flandry nodded. He hadn't expected more. He couldn't keep

  himself from telling her, I'm sorry, darling.

  And I won't kiss what's left, I who kissed you. He searched among his

  languages for the best final word. Sayonara. Since it must be so.

  Stepping back a pace, he bowed three times very deeply, turned, and

  departed.

  Bodin Miyatovich and his wife waited outside. The weather was milder

  than before, as if a ghost of springtime flitted fugitive ahead of

  winter. Traffic boomed in the street. Walkers cast glances at the three

  on the stairs, spoke to whatever companions they had, but didn't stop;

  they taught good manners on Dennitza.

  Draga Miyatovich took Flandry by the elbow. "Are you well, Dominic?" she

  asked anxiously. "You've gone pale."

  "No, nothing," he said. "I'm recovering fast, thanks to your kindness."

  "You should rest. I've noticed you hour after hour poring over that

  report--" She saw his expression and stopped her speech.

  In a second he eased his lips, undamped his fists, and raised memory of

  what he had come from today up against that other memory. "I'd no

  choice," he said. To her husband: "Bodin, I'm ready to work again. With

  you. You see, I've found your target."

  The Gospodar peered around. "What? Wait," he cautioned.

  "True, we can't discuss it here," Flandry agreed. "Especially, I

  suppose, on holy ground ... though she might not have minded."

  She'd never have been vindictive. But she'd have understood how much

  this matters to her whole world: that in those broken mutterings of my

  son's I found what I thought I might find, the coordinates of Chereion,

  Aycharaych's planet.

  XIX

  ---

  The raiders from Dennitza met the guardians of the red sun, and

  lightning awoke.

  Within the command bridge of the Vatre Zvezda, Bodin Miyatovich stared

  at a display tank. Color-coded motes moved around a stellar globe to

  show where each vessel of his fleet was--and, as well as scouts and

  instruments could learn, each of the enemy's--and what it did and when

  it died. But their firefly dance, of some use to a lifelong

  professional, bewildered an unskilled eye; and it was merely a sideshow

  put on by computers whose real language was numbers. He swore and looked

  away in search of reality.

  The nearest surrounded him in metal, meters, intricate consoles,

  flashing signal bulbs, dark-uniformed men who stood to their duties, sat

  as if wired in place, walked back and forth on rubbery-shod feet.

  Beneath a hum of engines, ventilators, a thousand systems throughout the

  great hull, their curt exchanges chopped. To stimulate them, it was cool

  here, with a thunderstorm tang of ozone.

  The Gospodar's gaze traveled on, among the view-screens which studded

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sp; bulkheads, overhead, deck--again, scarcely more than a means for keeping

  crew who did not have their ship's esoteric senses from feeling trapped.

  Glory brimmed the dark, stars in glittering flocks and Milky Way shoals,

  faerie-remote glimmer of nebulae and a few sister galaxies. Here in the

  outer reaches of its system, the target sun was barely the brightest, a

  coal-glow under Bellatrix. At chance moments a spark would flare and

  vanish, a nuclear burst close enough to see. But most were too distant;

  and never another vessel showed, companion or foe. Such was the scale of

  the battle.

  And yet it was not large as space combats went. Springing from

  hyperdrive to normal state, the Dennitzan force--strong, but hardly an

  armada--encountered Merseian craft which sought to bar it from

  accelerating inward. As more and more of the latter drew nigh and

  matched courses with invaders, action spread across multimillions of

  kilometers. Hours passed before two or three fighters came so near, at

  such low relative speeds, that they could hope for a kill; and often

  their encounter was the briefest spasm, followed by hours more of

  maneuver. Those gave time to make repairs, care for the wounded, pray

  for the dead.

  "They've certainly got protection," Miyatovich growled. "Who'd have

  expected this much?"

  Scouts had not been able to warn him. The stroke depended altogether on

  swiftness. Merseian observers in the neighborhood of Zoria had surely