Part 3 (2/2)

”I did all I could to find out what happened to her without getting my head taken, I a.s.sume you know the habits of your male relatives.”

”Of course you did.” Cool, steady and very bitter.

”You've got an adder's tongue, you know that?”

She shook her head though she knew he couldn't see it. Anything she said would make things worse.

”My name gets around. She could have found me if she wanted to.”

”Yes.”

”Ah.”

She could feel him staring at her; his short stocky body vibrated with . . .

what? . . . something . . . that made demands on her she didn't want to answer. After a moment of thick silence, with a whine in her voice that appalled her when she heard it, she said, ”Adelaar made a good life for us, she didn't need anyone, she didn't want anyone sticking his nose in.” He stirred, but before he could speak, the door rattled, Parnalee moved away to let it open (Aslan jumped, cursed under her breath, she'd forgotten he was in here). The guard whapped his prod against the door. ”Out.”

Parnalee ambled out, not about to hurry himself at the order of some snirp who didn't reach past his ribs. Aslan followed him, struggling to regain control over her emotions, wanting a mirror to see what was writ- ten on her face. She heard Churri behind her though he was softer footed than a thief. Perhaps heard wasn't the right word, felt was more apt. She was intensely aware of him; part of it was a s.e.xual awareness that she half-feared, half-understood; she'd never known him in the role of father, she had to keep reminding herself who he was (for the first time she understood why her mother kept such fond memories of him). Part of her reaction was a mix of needs that were more intense than s.e.x. She needed a father. She didn't want to. She wasn't a child, she hadn't missed him when she was, or so she told herself, refusing to acknowledge the old angers that drove her into sniping athim a few minutes ago. Now, with him there, so close, too close, she ached for what she hadn't known; it seemed somehow a betrayal of her mother, of herself, but she couldn't deny the feeling.

The guard took them high into the tower, left them in a six-sided room with wall to ceiling windows in four of the sides, windows that looked out across the city and the lake. Churri went at once to one of the windows and stood staring across the lake toward mountains on the far side, mountains that were little more than a ripple of blue in the paler blue of the sky, their peaks touched with pink from the sunset he couldn't see. Parnalee walked to the middle of the room, looked casually about, eyes half-shut, his face sleepily bovine, then he went to inspect the two walls that had no windows, only tightly pleated drapes woven from a fiber like raw silk and dyed a matte black, drapes meant to be drawn across the windows when the sun was coming up and its light struck directly into the room. He ran his hands across wood panels behind them, thick short fingers that seemed clumsy but were not.

Rather like Sarmaylen's hands, Aslan thought, and s.h.i.+vered with the memory; when she realized what she was doing, she swore under her breath and crossed her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as if she were trying to shut herself away from him and everything else. A low, backless bench angled out from the wall near the door; Aslan dropped onto its black leather cus.h.i.+ons. A moment later Parnalee joined her.

”Anything interesting?” She crossed her legs, turned a little away from him.

”Built into the walls if there is.” He inspected her, chuckled She looked round. ”What . . .”

”Nothing.”

Aslan scowled at her feet, angry at him and herself. He was too perceptive and what he saw mattered too little to him. The same thing happened when she visited her mother, Adelaar ended up hitting her in every one of her vulnerable spots.

The door they'd come through opened again and two men walked into the room.

Aslan got to her feet. Before the door closed behind the men, she saw guards lounging in the triangular antechamber beyond.

Churri came away from the window and stood beside her; he was vibrating with anger, but managing to control it. His hand closed over her shoulder, tightened hard.

Parnalee sat where he was.

One of the newcomers moved to the last window and settled his shoulders against the gla.s.s, folded his arms across his chest. He was a tall man, as handsome as an addiction to biosculpture could make him; he had skin like thick ivory, smooth and unblemished; his hair was a burnished silver-gilt helmet brus.h.i.+ng his broad shoulders. He wore trousers and tunic of Djumahat spider silk, immaculate pewter gray with crisp white accents. Bolodo rep, Aslan thought, and no junior on the make, not him. Slaver, you pretty s.h.i.+tface. She blew him a mental raspberry and turned to the other.

He strolled to a large armchair beside that window, settled himself, waved a long-fingered hand at three smaller chairs arranged in a shallow arc facing him. ”Come,” he said, ”sit.” In tone it was an invitation, not an order, but ignoring it would be stupid.

When they were seated, he said, ”I am Fangulse Tra Yarta, the Divine Imperator Pettan Tra Pran's chief security officer, in effect your slavemaster, subject, of course, to the will of the Divine. With that proviso always in mind, I tell you this: contract law doesn't rule here, I do. How you live depends on me.

Whether you live rests on my good will.” He smiled at them, tapped his fingertips on the chair's arms. He was a broad man, not fat, only big; he had a lined, square, intelligent face, a long square torso, heavy arms and legs, large hands with tapering fingers, rather beautiful hands; he posed them in ways that showed off their elegance. ”You are, of course, indulging in the fantasy of escaping and capturing a Bolodo transport. Forget it. You won't get near that field and even if you do, the Bolodo guards have had much experience in puncturing such fantasies. The dreamers that survive their attentions spenda few months working in the mines and emerge quite anxious to cooperate.”

Parnalee s.h.i.+fted his feet, gazed dully at Tra Yarta. ”Now that we've had the obligatory warning, what do you want?”

Tra Yarta reached inside his overrobe, pulled out a sheaf of folded fax sheets. ”You are Parnalee Pagang Tanmairo Proggerd.”

Parnalee's eyelids drooped. ”Amazing.”

Tra Yarta ignored the sarcasm. ”You design spectacles and propaganda campaigns.” He riffled through the papers, stopping to scan several before he set the sheaf aside and posed his hands in a narrow steeple. ”You will have noticed that two peoples share this world. Hmm. Share is not the precise word, of course; however it is close enough for the occasion. The Hordar make up most of the population, the Huvved rule them. We can discuss the history and mechanics of that later, it is sufficient, I think, for the moment to say that the civility between us, a civility that had lasted for nearly three centuries and was profitable for both sides, this civility is falling apart. You will be required to provide spectacles and other campaigns to reverse this rot. I want celebrations of past glories, I want idealized versions of life on Tairanna, I want heroes to make the blood thrill, I want good feeling to replace the current rancor. I want the Hordar made happy with who and what they are, I want them made comfortable with the way the world is run, I want Huvved to be seen as elder brothers, wise and caring elder brothers. You understand. I do not wish to teach you your business, merely to indicate my desires as to the results.”

Tra Yarta did not wait for an answer, but turned to Churri. ”You, Churri diZan, will use your talents to underscore the impact of Tanmairo's spectacles; the Hordar are a people drunk on words and a poet is more powerful than a hundred guns. According to my information you are adept at using whatever language is appropriate to your audience and part of your gear is a learning device that is supposed to be rather remarkable in its sensitivity to the nuances of those languages. I understand you will need time and access to information sources; you will have whatever you need, subject to security requirements.” Again he left no time for response, but turned to Aslan. ”Aslan aici Adlaar, skilled though they are, these men are strangers to this culture.

You are a student of cultures. I expect you to study the Hordar and advise Parnalee Tanmairo Proggerd and Churri diZan how to accomplish what I require of them. I asked Bolodo to provide someone like you; to know a society as you can know it is to understand how to manipulate it. If I could do this, I would. I can't. I have some practical experience, but it's limited to pulling the strings on one or two people, at most a family. I don't know how to drive ma.s.ses without having to slaughter half of them. People never jump the way you expect when you squeeze them.”

Aslan leaned forward, held out a hand, palm facing him. ”Please.”

”Yes?”

She dropped her arm onto the chair's arm, straightened up. ”I don't think you understand precisely what it is I do. I record and to some extent translate the histories, the various artistic expressions of dying pre-or non-literate cultures. This has nothing at all to do with manipulation of those cultures. I wouldn't know how to start. You want a number cruncher, a sociometrician who can put his thumb on the swivel points.”

Tra Yarta smiled at her, amus.e.m.e.nt softening the harsh yellow of his eyes.

”I'm sure you realize I had to take what I could get. Scholars don't ordinarily come onto the contract market lists and University is regrettably, from my viewpoint, alert as to what happens to its people. However . . .” He shuffled through the fax sheets. ”... I am not all that displeased with what Bolodo has provided.” He found the ones he wanted, glanced over them.

”According to your University records, aici Adlaar, you have had considerable training in that direction. Admittedly you have not used that training for the past several years, but I doubt that a scholar of your ability will have forgotten so much so soon.”Aslan looked past him at the Bolodo Rep, saw him smile and pressed her lips together to contain her fury. Before she could say anything, Parnalee closed a hand over her arm, stared at her until she had to look at him.

He shook his head.

She pulled her arm away but kept her mouth closed.

He glanced at Churri who was simmering but silent, then laid his clumsy shovel hands on his ma.s.sive thighs and gazed thoughtfully at Tra Yarta. After a moment's silence, he said, ”Why should we do this?”

”Why not? These aren't your people. You have no responsibility for them.”

Again he looked through the sheets, folded them into a sheaf and tapped the sheaf against his chin. ”Considering some of your other clients . . . hmm?

This is a commission like any other.”

”Not quite.”

”True. You don't have the luxury of refusing.”

”That isn't what I meant and that's not true either. There is no way you can force us to perform if we're willing to back our refusal with our lives.”

”Are you?”

”I am if I'm driven to it. I can't speak for them.” He held up a hand, pulling Tra Yarta's attention back from Aslan and Churri. ”That's rather beside the point, isn't it? What I intended you to understand is that you should give us inducements not threats. You're asking us to dirty our self-images, to engage in acts of betrayal and cynical manipulation. You should at least make it profitable. For example, you could send us home after we've done the job.”

Tra Yarta lowered the sheaf of fax sheets, looked at it with raised brows.

”Cynical manipulation? Well, Tanmairo, you should know it when you see it.

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