Part 13 (1/2)

People she liked, lots she didn't. Nic Reece interested her more than most, but there was something almost unsettling about him. He had charm, he had very old-fas.h.i.+oned boyish looks, he clearly looked after himself physically and he knew how to flirt. But there was something missing. His eyes. They didn't have quite the sparkle that his body language suggested they should have. It was as if he was masking something, something he had to concentrate hard on hiding. Anger? Frustration? Pain? Yes, that was it, Bernice decided. He was terribly hurt and doing his very best to hide it.

To most people, he was successful - but to a dyed-in-the-wool, experienced student of human behaviour like her, there was obviously something wrong.

Suddenly she was aware that her stare was being returned.

Am I wrong?' Reece was saying. 'Don't tell me you do like all this glitter and glam?' 'Hmmm? Oh . . . no. No. In fact I find absolute monarchies distasteful. Almost like dictators.h.i.+ps hiding behind respectability.'

Oh, very good. Remind me not to use that one on young Tarrol when I'm trying to sell him my next batch of tourism ideas.'

Kort suddenly stood up, his chair sc.r.a.ping noisily unnecessarily so, Bernice decided - across the floor. 'Well, I'm just going for a tidy-up,' he announced loudly. 'See you two later.' With which he marched out, pointedly pulling the double doors closed behind him. An engraving of Aggedor's face glared morosely back at them as a result.

Reece indicated the picture. Ugly old sod, isn't he? Aggedor, I mean, not Kort. Royal beast and protector of Peladon. Extinct. Like the economy and viability of the whole planet.'

'You mean, the Federation have got what they wanted out of the planet and have now left it to rot,' Bernice snapped without realizing why.

Reece defensively put his hands up. 'Hey, me no makea-da rules, lady. I'm just here to find a way of keeping Tarrol and the other courtiers in the mink and ermine they're used to.'

I know. I'm sorry. I could do with a walk.'

'Company?' Reece held out a hand.

For a moment she paused and then took the hand. If the gallant gentleman would not object to escorting the miserable lady around uncharted waters?' 'My pleasure, ma'am.' Reece bowed. 'Follow me, I know some great catacombs.'

'Bet you say that to all the ladies,' Bernice laughed.

'Not many of them say yes, though.' The quip was jocular enough but again, just for a fleeting second, Bernice thought she heard a catch in his voice and he looked away just for a second. 'Come lady, allow me to show you up the back pa.s.sage - as the holovid producer said to the trainee tea-boy!' With a laugh they both exited the Federation Representatives' room.

Opposite the Federation Representatives' room was a small recess, draped off by a vast yellowing tapestry with the same image of Aggedor's visage as on the interior of the double doors.

The tapestry flicked almost unnoticeably as the pair closed the doors and wandered off down the corridor.

Behind it, someone was crouched down, watching them go. As they disappeared from sight, the tapestry flicked once again. Behind it a hand reached up and tugged at an unlit flambeau. The stone wall behind the tapestry suddenly creaked and slowly swung back on a hinge. The figure nipped through the s.p.a.ce and adjusted a corresponding flambeau, this time lit, on the rocky wall. The doorway closed and even the most inquisitive eye would have had difficulty spotting the join.

'How very interesting,' the inhuman figure breathed, and walked into the darkening catacomb.

Seconds earlier another person had walked quietly towards the Federation Representatives' room. He'd watched as the boy had almost jumped away from the doors as he slammed them. Shaking his head, he watched the boy slowly stomp off around the corner. Youth! With a furtive look behind him, he hurried on. Suddenly the door ahead was flung open again and Bernice's and Nic Reece's voices could be heard, loudly and happily.

Like a cat caught in torchlight, he looked from side to side. He didn't want to be seen. Not yet. The only hiding place was a doorway beside him. His hand darted out and pulled back the wooden bar. He pushed the door open, holding his breath and hoping the hinges wouldn't squeak. Luckily there was no noise and he pushed the door to, just as Bernice and Reece wandered past, arm in arm.

He watched them through the crack by the door's hinges. Oh it's a jolly 'oliday wiv Mary,' he muttered quietly. He counted to ten and crept out.

They were gone.

He continued toward the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tapestry opposite the door move. Of course, it must just be a breeze - the Citadel wasn't renowned for its double glazing and the ever-present storm outside was a constant reminder of how well the building was made.

Especially considering Peladon's natural elemental resistance to construction.

He tugged the tapestry aside and looked at the unlit flambeau. Licking his fingers, he reached up on tiptoe and felt for the gas element inside. Cold.

No element. This was a real torch, not a Federation construct or adaptation. It probably hadn't been lit for . . . oh, somewhat over fifty years.

He ran his hand over the wall behind. Sensitive finger nails sc.r.a.ped along the outline of a doorway with calm expertise.

'So it was someone else keeping an eye out. And I thought I knew them all.

A rustling noise alerted him - someone was coming. Pulling the tapestry back across, cutting out any light, he listened.

I'm positive everything is quite all right. Nothing can go wrong. We've both seen to that. Now, you better go or you'll be missed.'

He didn't hear any footsteps, but his keen and experienced senses told him that the silent companion had gone. Then the door to the Federation Representatives' room opened. And closed.

He put his head gingerly round the tapestry. The corridor was empty. He stared at the closed doorway opposite and grimaced. 'Now that was an unusually surrept.i.tious, even melodramatic conversation, especially for Alpha Centauri. I wonder who he was talking to.'

Deciding not to question the amba.s.sador just yet, he sloped off down the corridor, the way he had originally been going: following the first person who had come out of the Federation Representatives' room, the Cantryan boy, Damakort. Professor Bernice Summerfield could wait. Angry teenagers, hidden doors and conspiratorial Centaurians were far more exciting.

Damakort was bored. Very bored. He knew he was bored - it was an experience he frequently felt on Io when his father was busy on Federation business and sent Damakort to go and play on the computer net. Which was all too often.

The result of this of course was that while Damakort might not be the greatest conversationalist or diplomat, he was something of a computer genius. Unlike most of the other youngsters on Io, most of whom were just kids anyway, Damakort excelled in hacking.

It had been his skills that the encryptors on Io had called on when Jina's information came through the net. He had sorted out the corrupted files and unburied the various references to the Ancient Diadem of Pakha that Jina had neatly packaged away in suitcases with personal pa.s.swords and an anti-theft virus.

At that time he hadn't realized his sister had died pa.s.sing on that information.

'Thought you got me there, Big J,' he had sent back. Of course, there'd been no reply. He had alerted his father to this fact and an investigation was immediately mounted. At the same time, Pakha was sending a diplomatic bag back with Jina's body and an apology.

The apology had come in the form of a fussy Pakha governor whose whiskers were stained with nicotine and whose fur smelt of stale straw.

Damakort and his father had watched as the body bag was taken from the shuttle and straight to the crematorium. Although Cantryans were not a particularly religious race, they did have certain rituals surrounding death. A group of other Cantryans gathered at the simple ceremony and slowly waved goodbye to Jina's casket as it entered the laser furnace. Damakort remembered two things from that day - his mother, or rather, the lack of the same. And the Pakha diplomat, intruding on their grief by attending. It is our custom, Kort. He may be ignorant of our solitude,' explained his father.

Somehow, Kort doubted it. The Pakha was just being nosy. It was almost as if he wanted to make sure that Jina was gone. Forever. Totally. His sister . . .

Damakort kicked out at a nearby footstool, sending it cras.h.i.+ng against the corridor wall.

'Problem, yeah?' said a soft voice beside him.

He looked down slightly - just about level with his shoulder was a female Pakha. Ker'a'nol - the famous holovid reporter. 'No,' he replied and carried on walking.

Oh. Just thought I'd enquire. Didn't know stool-kicking was a traditional Cantryan habit,' she called after him.

Kort spun round at her. Oh, very funny. I forgot, you Pakhas know b.l.o.o.d.y everything, don't you? Sticking your snouts in where they're not welcome!'

Keri's eyes widened slightly in quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. In my business, ”sticking my snout in”, as you so politely put it, tends to get it shot off. I've learned not to stick it in unless I'm sure it isn't going to get stasered.'

'Well, you haven't learned very much, then.'

'Probably not. So tell me, what's a handsome Cantryan like you doing on a sc.r.a.p heap like Peladon?' 'What's it to you?' 'Only trying to make friends.

What've you got against that, yeah?'