Nemesis

CHAPTER 13

Beset and bewildered, Belbe escaped the intrigues of the palace by retreating to the factory. No one else could stand the noise and crackling atmosphere of the flowstone works for long, so it was an ideal place to hide-no, sequester herself. Amid the intake jets, centrifugal distributors, and flow regulators she found a measure of serenity.

Or so she thought. Even under the faceted dome of the control center Belbe was haunted by memories and choices she didn't want. Her life, her total existence she owed to Abcal-dro and Phyrexia. There was no disputing that. But did she have the right, as Ertai suggested, to exist for her own sake? She had never considered what would happen to her once her task on Rath was done. Would she be recalled to Phyrexia? Life there would be severely circumscribed by her need for an unpolluted environment. Could she live under Abcal-dro's dome like one of Volrath's experimental animals, always under the eye of her polymorphous master?

Clearly no, if it was up to her.

Could she remain on Rath? This option had positive and negative aspects. Once an evincar was chosen, she'd no longer have any role to play. Belbe might stay on as advisor to the new governor, but tolerance for her position seemed doubtful. Perhaps she could find some minor role in the Citadel-maintaining the flowstone production facility, for example.

No, even that job was destined to be short-lived. The conjunction of Rath and Dominaria was not far off. The final invasion would begin then, and she'd be lost in the tidal wave of the Phyrexian onslaught.

Belbe gazed through the many-paned dome at the energy beam pouring through the heart of the artificial crater. Beyond it, like an azure-tinged ghost, was the pinnacle of the palace, topped by Predator's high landing dock.

The Accelerator broke into her daydreaming. "Output flow is sub-maximum," it bleated. "Increasing output to 114 percent."

Absently, Belbe dialed the output meter down to 86 percent and recalibrated it to read 100. The entire factory shifted with the fluctuation in production.

The Accelerator accepted the doctored information with a flat, "Increasing output to 114 percent."

Her hand was on the dial. What did that suggest?

She had only a moderate knowledge of planar mechanics, but she knew enough to know Rath and Dominaria were slowly coming into the same planar coordinates. When they matched, the worlds would interlock and become one. Rath would overlay on top of Dominaria and be the bridgehead for invading Phyrexian forces.

She looked over the mosaic of dials and switches, and the image of the massacred hostages filled her sight. All those people, those innocent, loyal subjects, killed to gratify the vengeful hunger of one man. How is it different, her remorselessly logical mind went on, to allow the Hidden One to slake his hunger for power with the lives of innocent Dominarians?

How is it different? How?

"There is no difference," she declared out loud.

The critical factor in the congruence of Rath and Dominaria was mass. The two worlds actually occupied the same interspatial niche, but Rath had insufficient mass to affect a hold on the older, naturally created world. The greater Rath's mass, the slower its vibrational rate became, until at last it resonated at the same rate as Dominaria. That's why the flowstone factory had the highest priority for resources on Rath-each layer of nano-machines, no matter how thin they appeared to be, increased the mass of Rath and hastened the day when the two worlds would be joined.

What if it didn't happen? What if Rath lacked sufficient mass to permanently overlay Dominaria?

Belbe's hand still rested on the output meter. She could make a choice-the choice-for Rath. If the final conjunction failed to take place, Rath could be changed. The absolute rule of the evincar could be dispelled. Negotiations with the rebels could put an end to the guerrilla war. Law and reason could take the place of rule by fiat. The overlords would surely strike back, but before that could happen, the energy imbalance on Rath could be reversed, resulting in a toxic environment for any potential Phyrexian invaders. Ertai knew enough about magic to help make this possible.

Unfortunately, for all his talents, Ertai was no match for Crovax. She could not depend on him alone to alter the course of Rath's destiny. Greven was more capable, but his control rod prevented him from openly opposing Crovax. Dorian and the court were useless. The real subversive power to change things lay in her hands alone.

Belbe touched the Lens lightly. Ertai claimed he had blinded the implant. Did she dare believe it?

She had to. Belbe could not face the balance of her life, no matter how short it might be, knowing she was responsible for the destruction of two worlds and the deaths of millions.

She adjusted the output meter to 50 percent. Warning lights flashed throughout the factory until she curtly ordered them stopped. Belbe quickly recalibrated the meter to read 100. If she could maintain the sub-normal flow until the predicted time of conjunction, the mass of Rath would be too low to overlay on Dominaria.

She was confident no one in the Citadel would notice her tampering. The meter would have to be adjusted daily if the reduced output was to be maintained, otherwise the selfregulating factory would compare flowstone production to past rates and correct its output. Belbe regularly visited the factory anyway, so no one would suspect her if she made daily trips to the control center.

As she was permanently disabling the alarm system, Predator entered the crater, passing several thousand yards over the control center. The dome vibrated as the powerful airship circled around the energy beam. Belbe watched the vessel glide smoothly to the upper dock and moor there, wings folding back against the hull. She finished her alterations and left the dome.

She'd just reached the central corridor of the palace when Greven il-Vec and the airship crew arrived on their way down from the dock. Belbe noticed among the usual crew a tall figure, wrapped in a floor-length brown cape and hood. No one else in the crew was so attired. She used her infrared vision to peer through the disguise, but discovered she couldn't penetrate the apparently simple cloth wrap. What was going on here? Curious, she changed her path to intersect Greven's. They met at the foot of the staircase that led to the grand convocation room.

"Excellency," said Greven, bowing.

"Greetings. How do you find your repaired vessel?"

"Sound enough, though I'll be glad when the armament is back aboard. Scouting is weak tea for a fighting ship like Predator."

The crew waited patiently in Greven's shadow-all except the hooded one. He sidled to one side, as if to slip away unnoticed. Belbe stepped directly in front of him.

"I don't know you, do I?"

The hood snapped sharply in Greven's direction.

"Excellency," explained the warrior. "This is a delicate matter. I'd be glad to explain it to you in a less public place."

She gestured up the steps. "The room is empty, I believe."

Belbe mounted the steps, followed by Greven and the hooded figure. The doors to the convocation room-once the throne room of evincar Burgess-consisted of a series of giant disks rolled together to form an irislike barrier. At Belbe's command, the enormous door dilated to admit them. With a scrape like glass on glass, the disks rolled back together.

"Well?" said Belbe. Her voice echoed in the vast empty hall.

"Your Excellency knows we have a network of spies and assassins operating outside the Citadel?" Greven said. "This is one of our agents."

The hooded figure kept his distance, standing aloof with his hands crossed. Belbe tried once again to see through the heavy cloak but with no more success. She had a fleeting impression the person beneath the cloth was evading her, changing even as she tried to identify him. It was an unsettling experience.

"Is there anything else you require?" asked Greven impatiently.

"Let me see your face," she said directly to the hooded one.

"Excellency-"

"Let me see your face."

Gloved hands rose and folded back the deep rim of the hood. A lean, feline head emerged with a wispy goatee and bifurcated upper lip. Greven's mysterious companion was a Kor.

He pressed his hand to his chest in formal fashion and said, "I am Furah, chief of the Fishers of Life."

"Furah must not be recognized inside the Citadel," Greven said. "It would compromise his safety as our agent."

"Of course," Belbe said. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity."

Belbe departed and Furah raised his hood again.

"Simple enough," said the Kor. "She won't be a problem."

"Don't underestimate her," Greven replied. "She may look like a child, but she was made by the overlords and has many talents."

"You've grown cautious, Greven. You didn't used to be."

"We're playing a very dangerous game. I value my life, wretched though it is."

Furah folded his hands into his voluminous sleeves. "Don't betray me, Greven."

The bitter warrior held his chin up and replied, "I betray no one! Just understand, this is your gamble, your fight. I will not hinder you-but I can't help you much, either."

Greven stalked away. The doors opened for him. Furah remained in the convocation room for a time, contemplating the tapestries and bas-reliefs commemorating the deeds of the previous evincar.

Ten rebels, clad in captured Rathi uniforms, walked single file across the dry plateau. The six Dal were lead by Teynel en-Dal, Darsett's nephew, wearing the helmet of a Rathi corporal. The four Vec followed Liin Sivi, now disguised as a Vec male. She'd cut off her long black hair close to her scalp and disguised the break between her hips and waist with a bloodstained bandage. The blood was realSivi had taken the wrapping from a dead Rathi soldier. Her ancestral weapon, the toten-vec, she coiled around her waist under the bandage. The toten-vec consisted of a bone handle, six feet of braided snakeskin leather fashioned like links of chain, and a double-ended, double-edged knife blade eight inches long. The snakeskin whip was threaded through a hole at the base of the knife. Because Vec nomads had so little access to good metal, they developed weapons like the totenvec in lieu of traditional swords. A skilled user could cut an enemy's throat from six feet away or take out an eye with a flick of the wrist. Sivi was an acknowledged master of the whip-knife, hence her title "Liin," which literally meant "striking viper."

Eladamri, suitably clothed in rags, sat on the back of a plodding kerl, his hands shackled together. The kerl's reins were carried by Medd, one of the Dal impostors. The elf had a copy of the shackle key hidden in his sash, so he could free himself if necessary. He was unarmed and bareheaded. He squinted against the steady stream of dust blown in his eyes. The tall cone of the Stronghold broke the silver horizon ahead. They were still a day's walk away.

The rebels were bored. They sang for a while, the Dal teaching the Vec their songs, and the Vec returning the favor with their own ululating repertory. After a few hours the songs ran out, and their throats grew dry. Eladamri refused to let them bring adequate water rations. They were supposed to be stragglers, survivors, not well-equipped commandos. If they arrived footsore and dried out, so much the better for verisimilitude.

Teynel shaded his eyes. "No sign of the airship," he said. "I kind of hoped they'd spot us and pick us up."

"Are you mad?" Sivi responded. "You couldn't get me into that flying machine!"

"It's better than walking," offered Khalil, one of the Vec warriors.

Sivi shook her head vigorously. "That machine is an unnatural creation. Some day the gods will strike it from the skies!"

"Strike away, but until then, I'd rather ride than walk," said Teynel.

"Want the beast?" said Eladamri, holding up the reins in his manacled hands.

Shamed, the young Dal declined. "I wouldn't ask Your Lordship to walk."

"I'm not a lord," the elf said sharply. "I don't carry any rank, either. Call me Eladamri, or brother, and nothing else."

"I thought only elves called each other 'Brother,'" said Sivi.

"Anyone who fights at my side can call me brother."

This put new spring in the rebels' step. They had covered a lot of ground by midday when they paused for a scant meal of Rathi army rations.

What little breeze there was died. Shamus, the Dal on lookout, spotted a rising column of dust in the distance.

"Someone comes," he announced.

"Keep your places," Eladamri advised. "You're not supposed to be alarmed by the sight of your fellow Rathi soldiers."

The origin of the dust proved to be a band of Kor a hundred strong, males, females, and children, marching in loose formation and bearing everything they owned on their backs. The sight was so unusual even Eladamri got to his feet. He whispered a few words to Teynel, who hailed the Kor band.

"Hold!" Teynel shouted. "Who are you people?"

Four male Kor bearing a stretcher on their shoulders promptly lowered their burden to the ground. The women squatted in the grass with the children, fanning themselves in the heat. A Kor elder approached Teynel with arms folded.

"Greetings, soldier of Rath!" he said. "I am Theeno, and these are my people, the Fishers of Life."

"Where are you going?"

"To the mountains far to the south, brave soldier. Our chief is dead, and we must leave our homes on Bluefire Mountain."

Now Teynel understood. Many people living outside the Stronghold referred to it as Bluefire Mountain.

"Why must you leave?"

"It was the dying wish of our chief. He was well known to your commander, Lord Greven."

Teynel stepped past Theeno. The body of a middle-aged Kor lay on the stretcher, draped in a diaphanous shroud. Midway between the collar and the hips, a dark brown stain was soaking through the shroud.

"This man died violently!" Teynel said.

"It is too true, soldier of Rath," Theeno said. "Our chief went to meet the lords of the crater, as was his wont, only this time he returned with his death wound."

Eladamri stood over the body. Ruse or no ruse, he had to know who lay dead on the carrier.

"Forgive me. I mean no disrespect…" The elf lord knelt and turned down the drape.

The dead Kor was Furah.

Eladamri covered the body again and stood up. He frowned at Teynel.

"Be on your way," Teynel commanded. "We have to deliver this prisoner to Lord Greven."

The Kor stared at Eladamri with slitted eyes. "This is Eladamri? He is an enemy," said Theeno. "Give him to Lord Crovax. He will dispatch him as he did the others."

Sivi stepped forward. "What others?"

Theeno smiled, showing prominent eye teeth. "Lord Greven gathered six thousand from the peoples of the crater to hold as hostage against those who would aid the vile rebels of the forest. When Lord Crovax returned from battle, he spared us, the Fishers of Life. He knew we were his loyal servants. The rest-" Theeno held two clawed fingers in front of his eyes and made a stabbing motion. "They burn even now."

"Crovax killed them all?" asked Sivi, voice rising.

"All but the Fishers of Life. Our chief was friend to Lord Greven, and so we were spared the great lord's wrath."

Teynel again ordered the Kor to move along. The women and children stood, and the bearers hoisted the body of Furah to their shoulders. With much churning of dust and no speaking, the Fishers of Life moved on.

When they were far enough away not to hear, Sivi exploded.

"The butcher! Six thousand people-his people, from his own cities-killed at once! What kind of devil are we fighting, Eladamri?"

"Apparently one with great bloodlust," the elf replied. He divided his gaze between the retreating Kor and the distant cone of the Stronghold. "I thought Volrath ruthless and cruel, but this Crovax can only be pure evil. My overtures to the people of the crater have been roundly ignored, you know. I thought them too afraid or too comfortable to fight their oppressors. Now Crovax and Greven have slain six thousand. The Oracle en-Vec saw it happen, but she couldn't describe it to me, it was so horrible. It's a monstrous crime, but it may yet rebound in our favor. If I send agents to the crater again, this time the response should be favorable to our cause." He folded his chained arms. "Do I sound callous?"

"A little," Teynel said. "Finding advantage in a catastrophe seems cold."

Eladamri remounted his sleepy kerl. "A revolution is not a country dance. We can't save those already dead, but we can pay back their murderers for their crimes.

"See clearly what we're doing, all of you. This isn't a game or a contest of honor. It's bloody, vicious business. The difference between us and Crovax or Greven is that we do what we do to put an end to oppression and bloodshed. For them, violence is a way of life and always will be."

He directed the team to follow the Fishers' track back to the Stronghold. It gave them a clearly trodden path and helped obscure their own footprints should Predator or a Rathi patrol discover them. News of the massacre put new strength in their step. When Teynel proposed they walk all night to reach the Stronghold by the next morning, no one objected.

Dorian il-Dal left his chambers for the first time three days after the hostage massacre. He'd not slept in all that time. Hunger finally drove him out, and he roamed the halls of the Citadel in his dressing gown, trying to remember where the kitchens were.

He found no one but guards in the corridors. The first dozen he asked gave him directions to the dining hall, but each time he moved on a few yards, he forgot what he was told. One soldier took pity on him and gave him two salty biscuits from his ration bag. Mumbling profuse thanks, Dorian wandered on, nibbling the hard bread and leaving a trail of white crumbs on the polished black floor.

Once he'd eaten his biscuits, Dorian was thirsty. He drifted aimlessly into one of the less used areas of the palace, the storerooms clustered outside the bridge to Volrath's laboratory and the map tower. Dorian knocked on faceless doors, saying, "Water? Has anyone a cup of water for Dorian?" The storerooms were sealed, and he encountered no helpful soldiers in the hall.

He started to cry. Tears wore tracks through the flour on his lips and chin. Sniffing, he shuffled along, shaking door handles and muttering hoarsely for water. After trying more than thirty sealed rooms, his hand fell on a door handle that turned. Dorian brushed the tears from his eyes. Someone in here would give him a drink.

The room beyond was short and wide, with a low, ribbed ceiling. Dorian went in, and he was roughly grabbed by the front of his robe and jerked into the room. He stumbled and fell to his knees. The door slammed shut behind him, and a light flared on.

He was surrounded by burly men in rough clothes. Arms were piled on the floor-swords, scabbards, breastplates, helmets. As he lifted his head, he saw who held the lamp.

Crovax.

"Ah! Help! Help!" Dorian shrieked. Lips curled in disgust, Crovax indicated he wanted Dorian silenced. A callused hand clamped over the chamberlain's mouth, and fists pounded his back and belly. Gasping, Dorian sank to the floor and whimpered.

"Be quiet, and no one will hit you," Crovax said. "What are you doing here?"

"I want a drink of water."

The sergeants exchanged puzzled looks. Nasser and Tharvello lifted the rotund Dorian to a kneeling position and shoved a stool under his rump. The chamberlain's face was streaked with fresh tears.

"What's the matter with him?" Tharvello wondered aloud. "The old fool's never been a hale warrior, but I've never seen him wander about the place weeping."

"He seems distressed," Crovax said, rising. Dorian shrank from Crovax's slight movement. The latter smiled, sharp highlights growing on his face from the lamp in his hand.

"It's me, isn't it?" he said. "Do I frighten you, Dorian?"

He shut his eyes and shook his head furiously. "May I have a cup of water?"

Nasser looked to Crovax, who shrugged. A sergeant handed Dorian a bottle. The chamberlain drank greedily, water flowing down his chin.

"Enough," said Crovax. "He's revolting." The bottle was taken away. Dorian grasped at it and cried when it was taken beyond his reach.

"Be quiet!" Crovax snapped.

"I'm sorry," sniffed Dorian. "Why are you hiding in here?"

"Who says we're hiding?" asked Nasser.

Dorian pointed to the heap of arms. "You're not supposed to have those in the palace."

"Your mind hasn't completely left you, I see," Crovax said, setting the lamp on the table. "Too bad. As an idiot, you were harmless. As a witness with his wits, you're a danger."

Whatever else was wrong with Dorian, he knew when he was in peril. He struggled to rise, but six strong sergeants forced him back on his stool. He tried to scream, but someone shoved a rag in his mouth. Gagging, Dorian lost his recent meal of biscuits and water.

"Hold him," said Crovax. He drew a double-edged dirk from his belt.

Dorian's eyes widened in terror. He fought feebly to stand.

Crovax pressed the needle-sharp point of the dirk into the fleshy underside of Dorian's chin. The chamberlain lost all his color and ceased struggling. Crovax looked down at the helpless man and stayed his hand.

He turned to Tharvello and then tossed the dirk to the young sergeant. "You do it."

"Why me?"

"Because I told you to."

Tharvello put the edge of the dirk to Dorian's flabby throat. Just as the blade was about to cut the chamberlain's skin, Crovax shouted.

"Stop!"

All eyes were on him. Crovax held out his hand for the weapon. Tharvello laid the dirk pommel first in Crovax's hand.

In one swift motion, Crovax closed his hands around the handle and slashed horizontally with the dirk. He cut a throat in one clean stroke, but it wasn't Dorian's. Tharvello reeled back against his fellow sergeants, blood pouring down his chest.

"Traitor!" Crovax snarled. "You meant to sell me out to Greven and that worm Ertai!"

"What?" said Nasser. His question was echoed by every man in the room.

Crovax shoved his hand into the crumpling Tharvello's tunic. Out came a percher, its legs and wings tied with strips of ribbon. Crovax held it up and bade it speak.

" 'I serve Rath, not any one man,'" the creature repeated.

"Your words?" Crovax asked Nasser.

"Mine, but I said more than that," the senior sergeant said calmly.

"You're right." Crovax gave the percher a little shake, and it spoke again.

"'If you think Crovax is finished, you're badly mistaken. Defeat or no defeat, he'll be back stronger than ever. Mark what I say.'"

Crovax crushed the percher to a bloody pulp in his hand and threw the remains on the dying Tharvello.

"Very prescient of you, Nasser. Our friend Tharvello recorded what you said and went to see Greven il-Vec with it. When Greven wouldn't act on what he heard and appoint Tharvello chief of the Corps of Sergeants-over your "retired" corpse, Nasser-Tharvello swore he would take his percher to Ertai and the emissary. As it turns out, I have a certain amount of influence with Greven, and he revealed the whole sordid story to me."

Tharvello's eyes rolled back. His flesh had taken on the color of new parchment. From his stool, Dorian lifted his slippered feet and tried not to let the blood touch him.

"You'll find me tolerant of many things," Crovax said, wiping the dirk on the terrified chamberlain's gown. "Drunkenness, dueling, gambling-these are normal recreations of fighting men. As long as they don't compromise your duties, I don't care what you do on your own. I can even tolerate failure. We all fail, now and then." He laughed, though no one else in the narrow room joined him.

"What I won't tolerate is treachery. This is the fate of traitors." He kicked Tharvello's still-warm corpse. "Do you know why I gave him the knife first?" The sergeants nodded or grunted ignorance. "To give him a chance to kill me. If he'd tried to strike me down with a quick thrust, I would've spared him. Assassins I can use. Traitors are just carrion.

"You know your places for tomorrow's operation. You're the best men on Rath, the best fighters and true leaders. When I am evincar, you will all share in the bounty of my victory."

Nasser raised a fist in salute. "Crovax! Victory!" The sergeants took up the cry. "Crovax! Victory!"

Dorian swallowed the bile in his throat and croaked, "Crovax, victory."

"Oh, yes, the chamberlain. I almost forgot you."

He grabbed Dorian by his thick throat and hoisted him into the air. The portly chamberlain weighed easily as much as two normal-sized men, but Crovax lifted him with one hand. Dorian's eyes bulged, and froth formed on his red lips.

"I can't trust you any longer," Crovax gritted. "You've always been a fool, but at one time you had enough sense to keep your mouth shut. Losing your wits has cost you your life."

He threw Dorian against the flowstone door and it held him fast. The door panels flowed outward, gripping Dorian's head, arms, waist, and legs.

Crovax twirled the dirk between his fingers. "Observe," he said. "I'll show you the stroke I used on Tharvello was no fluke."