The Coming Event

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Once, when a girl, her mother had taken her to see a forger lose her hands. The girl had been young and well-made but too ambitious for her own good. Trying to gain quick advantage she had forged bills of lading, using her body to seduce a willing trader, sharing the gains and hoping to build a quick fortune. A trick discovered after a hint from an associate. The sentence had been automatic.

Su Posta stirred in her high-backed chair, seeing again the slim wrists held hard against the block. The gleam of the blade as it had lifted to hang poised for long moments so as to increase the punishment. Then the sudden flash, the dull thud as the curved edge had bitten through skin and fat and flesh and bone to bury itself in the wood. The blood had gushed like fountains from the slashed arteries, splashing the attendants who had run to stanch the flow. Only when she had tried to move her hair back had the girl realized what had truly happened. Only then had she begun to scream.

The scream had echoed down the years, reflected in a thousand such punishments; scenes of scourgings and brandings and ceremonial maimings. The fruit of long-established tradition born in the early days when life was hard and incarceration a luxury they couldn't afford.

A scream she intended to hear again.

"My lady?" Dana had come to her as was her custom. "Lucita is ready for bed now."

"A moment." She needed the time to prepare herself for a ritual she would no longer willingly forgo. Her own children had suffered from the neglect necessitated by the pressure of office but now, no matter what the cost, she would bid her granddaughter good night, give her a kiss, be warmed by her smile. Only when something is almost lost, she thought bleakly, do we really treasure it. "Is she alone?"

"No, my lady. Dumarest is with her." He stood in a room furnished with a profusion of toys, legs apart, arms extended, hands hooked to grip the wrists of the girl who threw herself at him to be caught and swung and set down then raced again into his grasp, with gurgles of laughter and squeals of pretended fright.

"Granny!" She had seen the matriarch and the shape of the hovering governess. "Dana! Watch me swing!" This time the squeals were louder.

A minx, thought Su Posta. Already learning to act, to attract attention and hold it. A useful trait for any ruler and one she must encourage even while disciplining the wild spirit the small body contained. Yet it was hard to halt her play and she waited until, breathless, Lucita screamed for mercy.

"That's enough!" Her tone brooked no argument. "Time for bed now, my poppet. Make your farewells to Dumarest and go with Dana to get your bath."

She came to him, wide-eyed and very serious, small hands on his as she said, "Thank you for playing with me, Earl. When I am older I'll take you for my consort. That's a promise."

"She could do worse," said the matriarch as the girl was led away. "A damned sight worse. I suppose you haven't changed your mind?"

"No, my lady."

"Stubborn," she said. "And a fool. You could have a good life here, instead you want to go off voyaging among the stars. What can you hope to find better than what I offer?" Change, she thought as he made no answer. Adventure and what the poets called romance. Danger and excitement and the novelty which was supposed to hold such enticement. For her as for any sensible woman such things were the stuff of foolish dreams. Adolescent yearnings quickly eroded by time. "You should have children," she said abruptly. "Take some advice-get them before it's too late. The wasted years can never be regained."

Advice given from the heart as he knew but he made no comment as she touched a fluffy toy, caressed a nodding doll which made thin, piping sounds. A parody of laughter which she found disturbing-how many laughed in such a manner as they mocked her behind her back? Too many, but they had to be tolerated as so many other irritations had to be borne-but tonight would see the end of one.

"My lady!" Venicia was at her side, her face smooth but her eyes revealing her concern. "You should rest. A warm bath and a few hours' sleep will help you to look your best for the ball."

"I can manage."

"Yes, my lady."

"You worry," said the matriarch. "But without cause. I'm not an invalid tottering on the edge of collapse and neither am I senile." That point she followed by a reluctant admission. "But perhaps a warm bath would stimulate me. Earl!"

She took the arm he proffered, leaning on it, as Venicia led the way to her private apartments. A strong arm; she could feel the hard firmness beneath the sleeve of his tunic and again she chafed at his refusal to obey her wish to guard Lucita.

"Stubborn," she said. "I sensed it from the first. Strong and, in my world, a strong man is not to be tolerated for long. Is that why I resented you?"

"A conflict of personalities, my lady," said Dumarest. "It often happens." He looked down into the face lifted toward his own, old, raddled, yet still revealing an iron determination. "No one likes to be dependent or beholden-and you are the ruler of a world."

"And you are a diplomat." She straightened as they reached her door. "Leave me now. I will see you at the ball."

It was a flamboyant affair with strident music and fancy dress and streamers, together with drifting balloons which emitted pungent odors when pricked, just as the food held surprises and the wine.

"Ugh!" Ysanne pursed her lips as tart astringency stung her mouth. "Stay away from this stuff, Andre. God knows what's been put in it."

Spices, she guessed, and herbs together with subtle flavorings and compounds which could loosen tongues and release inhibitions. Turning, she looked over the great hall. The tables were set on a raised platform which ran around the entire perimeter enclosing the dancers in a contained space over which they jerked in stilted movements.

Like robots, she thought, or mechanical dolls. Dressed and painted and following mathematically precise steps to the pattern set by the pulse of drums and shrilling pipes. Music not to her liking though the instruments were familiar. On her own world they would follow a different rhythm, catching at the heart and accelerating its beat with quickening tempo, the pipes a scream of released emotion echoed by the natural sound of those reaching orgasmic climaxes.

"Try this." Batrun handed her a goblet filled with a rich, dark ruby. "It seems to be normal wine." He sipped at his own then warned, "Be careful. You know you can't hold very much."

He stepped back as she nodded to allow a couple to pass close, the man wearing the costume of a bandit, the woman the plumage of a bird. Against this splendor his uniform seemed dull, despite the added touches of braid.

She said, "Can you see anything of Earl?"

"No, nor the others. Can you?"

Ysanne shook her head, braids flying. She had dressed them with ribbons and tufts of feathers and had painted her face with streaks of vermilion and orange, ochre and white. Decoration which, with her beaded leather, made her one of the costumed rest. Olga had worn only her faded uniform, Craig doing little more than mask his ravaged face, but Shandhar, more adventuresome, had adopted the garb of a trader in charms; hat, cloak and tunic covered in small metal symbols reputed to bring luck and ward off disease, guarantee success in love, war and the hunt and to enhance the chances of extended life.

"My lady?" A man no taller than herself looked at her with frank appraisal. "Will you dance?"

To refuse would have been impolite and she stepped down from the raised platform to the dancing area there to stand and move and respond to the stilted gestures of her partner in the artificial measure of the dance.

"You're a stranger," he said as it ended. "I can tell. That's why I approached you-you have a charm our local women lack. My name is Gergio Yate. And you are?" He frowned at the answer. "Ysanne? Just that?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"For the purpose, yes, but it tells me so little. Nothing about your family, for example. I could be talking later to your brother and never know it. Or to your partner. You have one?"

"If you mean a husband, no."

"I was thinking of a consort. Or perhaps a-" He broke off, wary of treading on dangerous ground. "Another dance?"

Again she suffered the mechanical tedium wondering what pleasure anyone could gain from the stilted posturing. As the music ended Gergio led her to a table where he began to select a variety of morsels for her to eat.

"Try this." It was a combination of nuts and sour milk blended with a spice which tingled her tongue. "And this." A paste of honey and flower petals bound with flour. "What do you think of this?" Something which crunched as she bit it and made her think of chiton and spindled legs. "And this one really is unusual." He looked hurt as she rejected it. "No?"

"No."

"Well, at least have one of these. They say they are the matriarch's favorite biscuit."

It was small and round with a spongy center which yielded a flavor of fruit and spice. A subtle burn which filled her mouth with perfume and exotic tinglings.

Refusing another, she said, "Do you know her?"

"The matriarch? Not personally, but I know her by sight, of course. You want me to point her out?" He looked around the hall. "I can't see her but she's sure to put in an appearance soon. But there's Maria Hutch!" He pointed to a woman who glittered in a web of spun crystal flaring with gems. "She owns most of the land fringing the Ferrado Lake and has shares in the mines on Calvardopolis. A horrible place. And there's Joan Gruber. She's almost as rich as Maria but far younger. Even her consort wears clothing more extravagant than that worn by the matriarch's late consort. A lucky man but unless he's careful she'll replace him with another. Joan has no patience with illness and he's been sick twice since they came back from Hoorde." Gergio selected another morsel and, after he had chewed and swallowed, said, "If you're getting bored we could do something else."

"Such as?"

"Take a raft and go to the Chameon Hills. I've a place out there and we could spend a few hours searching for hilex and wild choum. Interested?"

"I might be."

"You'd love it. We could spend a few days if you wanted. At dawn the mists come to hide everything in purple veils and the hilex, when they wake, fill the air with soft susurations." He stepped a little closer. "Please say you'll come."

For answer she nodded at a tall woman who had just joined the throng. One regal in a shimmering gown of golden threads which hugged the contours of her body. Long streamers fell from both shoulders and a tall hat crested a wealth of golden hair. Beneath it her face was hard, arrogant, wearing paint like a mask.

"Who's that?"

"Where?" Gergio looked to where she pointed. "She's Tammi Canoyan."

"Is that all?" She smiled at his expression. "No financial report or social status? Come on, Gergio, tell me something about her."

"She's rich," he said. "And ambitious. Some say she would like to rule. Treason, of course, but who can stop gossip?" He drew in his breath at a sudden flurry in the hall. "That's odd. The guards are closing the doors. I wonder why?"

Ysanne paid him no attention. She was looking at the matriarch, who had just entered the hall with Dumarest at her side.

The warm bath had helped but her brief sleep had been tormented by dreams so that now, despite her gown and the cosmetics masking her features, she felt old and vulnerable, her fear exposed for all to see.

"Steady, my lady! Steady!"

Dumarest was at her side, his arm firm beneath her hand, his voice a comfort in her ear. So Donal would have spoken at such a moment of crisis-but he would never have urged her to take such a gamble.

But was it a gamble when she had no choice?

"Silence!" Venicia called from her place at Su Posta's side. "Silence for the Matriarch of Jourdan! Our ruler by tradition and by right!"

A novelty, it had to be that. Ysanne heard the soft buzz of speculation as, leaving Gergio, she made her way to where Batrun stood with Craig, amid a glitter of medallions; Shandhar came to join them but Olga remained out of sight.

A blare of trumpets drowned the soft murmurings and in the following silence Venicia's voice rang with the clash of iron.

"I speak for my lady. Does any deny my right?" A formality and she continued, "The charge is one of treason against established authority. Of murder planned against my lady and her granddaughter during their return voyage to this world. To expose the culprit has this assembly been gathered. Does any question the right?"

Again the silence and then the soft whispering as questions rippled across the gathering.

"Madness," said Shandhar. "What the hell's going on?"

"It's tradition," corrected Batrun. "Trial by consensus."

"Either way it could be trouble." Craig lifted his mask and let it ride on his cropped hair. "And Earl's caught up in it."

"Hear me!" Venicia's voice lifted as the trumpets ceased their demand for silence. "Does any deny the right?" A pause, then, for the third and last time, "Does any deny the right?" A longer pause then her hand lifted to point. "Tammi Canoyan! Step forward so you may be judged!"

"What?" Anger flushed the cold features with a tide of red beneath the paint. "This is insanity. You accuse me of attempted murder. Of treason. On what grounds, for God's sake? I wasn't even with you."

"You were the instrument."

"Of what?" Canoyan glanced around for support. "The woman's gone mad, can't you see that? Who will she accuse next? You, Belle? You, Fleur? Let her get away with this and who will be safe?"

"You deny the charge?"

"What charge? I traveled to Lomund with the matriarch and her party. I fell sick and needed medication. The Galya left without me. Later when I'd recovered, I took passage to Jourdan and arrived to learn the Galya hadn't arrived. I was as distraught as anyone at the thought of what could have happened. As relieved as the next when I heard of the rescue. Now I am being accused of attempted murder. Where is the evidence? The proof?"

Dumarest said, "The proof lies in what happened and how it happened. Sabotage and the one who arranged it."

"Proof?"

"Some may think it so." Dumarest looked at the ring of attentive faces. "I speak for the matriarch but have no personal interest. I shall have no vote in the final decision. I am only-"

"Get on with it, man!" Canoyan was impatient, already tasting the final victory. This apologetic fool could have nothing but empty words to back the accusation. "Where is your proof?"

"It is circumstantial," admitted Dumarest. "But, I think, conclusive. The background is common enough; a ship chartered to conduct a party, a usual arrangement. But the handler fell sick after departure with a virus condition which affected his mind and caused him to run amok. He killed, was restrained, broke free and ran into the engine room and opened the casing of the generator. The point is-why did he run into the engine room at all?"

"He was mad. You said so."

"No," said Dumarest. "I said his mind was affected. It's only a guess but I think he must have been ill for some time prior to the Galya's leaving Lomund. The condition could have sharpened his senses which is probably the reason he ran amok. An attempt to escape from overwhelming sensory stimulation." Pausing, he added, "The stimulation could have affected his hearing and that enabled him to learn something he was never intended to know."

"So?"

"A handler doesn't have much interest in the engine room. His job is to stack cargo, check supplies, take care of any passengers riding Low and livestock if any are carried. So what made him run into the engine room and remove the cover of the generator? To me there is only one logical answer-he tried to get rid of the device he knew had been planted there. The attempt triggered it with the results we know."

"So he heard something. What?"

Instead of answering the question Dumarest said, "Who would have been most suited to have set the device? It would need knowledge, skill and unquestioned access to the generator. Of the entire complement of the vessel the best person to do the job would be the engineer." Raising his voice, he called, "Guards! If you have arrested Olga Wenzer bring her here!"

She was still small, still brown, but now there was nothing meek in the way she stood and glared at Dumarest.

"Clever," she sneered. "You're too damned clever. Why should I have wanted to blow the generator? It was my neck too."

"Maybe not," he said. "I checked the sacs in the hold and one was equipped and supplied for a flight of long duration. And the handler jumped the gun. What if you'd left the Galya at a predetermined spot? The generator would have blown to leave it helpless but you could have altered course and drifted to a rendezvous, where you could have been picked up-maybe."

"Why should I have done all that?"

"That question bothered me but the answer lies in the records. Your sister was maimed for having stolen a collection of gems. Your mother was exiled. You have had good reason to hate the matriarch for years. Who found you, Olga? Learned you were a native of Jourdan? Got in touch with you and fed your hatred? Who suggested getting revenge?"

"No one!"

"So it was all your own idea? The device to blow the generator? The sac in which you hoped to escape? But there would have been no escape, Olga. You were to have been abandoned. Left to drift in the void, hoping for a rescue which would never come. Rescue had never been intended- dead you would no longer be an inconvenience."

"No!" She turned, her eyes, searching the crowd, setting on the tall figure of Tammi Canoyan. "No, she wouldn't-"

"Don't be a fool," snapped Dumarest. "What would she care about you? You're already frightened of her so why not make a clean breast of it? Tell the truth and the matriarch will be merciful-I promise it in her name. Why protect someone who would have left you to die?"

"Mercy?"

"I promise it."

"Then-" She turned, hand lifting, to stagger and slump, blood welling from her throat, the humming dart which spun in the center of a growing crater of cellular disruption.

The dart fired from the ring, which glowed like a baleful eye on the pointing finger of Tammi Canoyan's hand.