Chapter 22
Gillie leaned against the airlock wall and watched Mack thunder through the gangway connecting the Serendipity to the station. His voice, and his anger, was directed at his commbadge. But it carried clearly in the confined space.
"We should have been notified before this and Halbert damn well knows that!"
She didn't doubt that Senator Halbert did. She also didn't doubt that Prime Hostess Honora Syrella Trelmont wielded considerable power.
Not unlike Carrick Blass.
I need his magename, Simon. Among other things. She shoved herself away from the wall, headed for her bridge.
He's still on board the Windchaser, My Lady.
Doesn't fancy Cirrus's hotel accommodations, I guess. She swiveled her chair around and ran her hands over the console. Colors crested, flared. Let's see what we can find without disturbing his beauty sleep.
After an hour of frustration, Gillie didn't care if she disturbed Blass's beauty sleep or not.
But Simon did. I still advise caution, he said as she headed down the corridor in search of hot coffee. As you and Admiral Makarian agreed last night, we gain nothing by tipping our hand too soon. If you force a confrontation, innocents might be injured. Or killed.
Gillie perched one hip on the edge of the small conference table in her ready room, coffee mug in her hands. The pungent aroma was reassuring, comforting. So was the fact that Mack had accepted her military status with only the most minor of qualms, though she had the feeling there would have been more personal questions last night had they not also been concerned over Blass's arrival. Mack was Khalaran military. He prioritized. And the priority right now was the safety of Cirrus One.
She took a short sip of the hot liquid before answering. "Blass isn't as good as he thinks he is. Okay, his spellforms are fairly complex. But we got in before-"
When he was not in residence.
"-and I think I understand him a little better now."
The Fav'lhir have obviously not forgotten how you broke through their warding shields three hundred and forty-two years ago. So they have taken to layering their spells.
"We only know Blass does. I can't say for sure that's a result of their defeat."
I think we can assume that.
"Assume? Simon." She grinned wryly. "You were the one who taught me to never assume. Because to assume makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me.'"
In this case-
"Didn't I make that one of my guidelines?"
However, in this case I think history speaks for itself. Their mageline did reappear and has learned something. Therefore, let's also assume that's not the only thing they've learned. I advise caution.
"I will be the very definition of caution. The epitome of caution. The-"
Lady Gillaine.
"Umm?"
Be careful. You're starting to sound like me.
Gillie retrieved the small metal case from her cabin, placed it on the ready room conference table. Touched a panel on the wall on her left. It misted open. She chose four warding runestones from within, cupped her hand around each one, whispered to it before withdrawing it.
Ladri. For clarity, openness of mind.
Nevri. For wisdom.
Vedri. For strength, loyalty, honor.
Khal. For power and protection.
She placed each one on opposite side of the case. Then touched her index finger to her forehead, spoke the ancient Raheiran words...
"T'cai l'heira, Ixari."
...her thumb to her cheek...
"T'cai l'heira, Merkara."
...and last, her index finger again to her mouth.
"T'cai l'heira Raheira, Tarkir."
The table lowered to the floor, its surface rippling as a magecircle appeared on its top. Gillie again named the stones softly as she lay them on their corresponding symbols. "Vedri, Ladri, Nevri, Khal."
The circle shimmered, pulsed. A silvery curtain misted up from its edges, surrounded the circle and the stones. Gillie stood before it, hands raised, palms out. Energy crackled against her skin. The curtain parted, closing behind her as she stepped through.
She sat cross-legged in the middle and drew the case into her lap. Unlocked it with a touch. The glow of her short crystal sword flowed out like a rushing river and wrapped around her. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting its warmth, its power, its song run through her. It was a familiar song, yet wildly exotic each time she encountered it.
She clasped the jeweled hilt of the sword in both hands. The crystal's power surged through her. She answered with her own. Felt Simon's shields close around her. Nodded her thanks, even though they'd done this many times before.
I'm ready, My Lady.
She stepped out of her self and took Simon's offered hand.
* * *
Mack spied Donata Rand standing in front of Hebbs's station in Ops. Neither woman looked particularly happy. Mack sympathized. He was still trying to process, intellectually, everything Gillie'd shown him, told him. He couldn't afford to delve into his emotions until this latest crisis was under control.
But he did know that some of his current displeasure at Halbert and the Prime Hostess's untimely arrival did, illogically, have Gillie's name on it. Sometime during the early morning hours, his heart and mind had begun to swap theories. His professional understanding of her actions had taken to bickering with his personal feelings for her as he tried to meld Gillie, the woman he loved, with the Raheiran Captain Davré. And not everything melded to his satisfaction. For that reason he let Rand handle Hebbs. He knew when he wasn't at his best.
And right now, he wasn't.
Hebbs scrolled down the personnel roster on her screen. "Sure, I can give you live bodies, but not ones with Code A security clearances." She glanced up at Mack. "If Fleet had been a little more aggressive in clearing my people, we wouldn't be in this situation."
He had no argument. HQ hadn't been expedient in reviewing the files he'd sent to them, three months ago. He hadn't pushed, not seeing the need. The Prime Hostess was supposed to be accompanied by the chancellery security force. Eleven highly trained men and women for close security work.
Halbert's response to Rand's request showed they were traveling with only three. And those were Halbert's personal security.
"Who can you give us?" Rand leaned on the edge of Hebbs's console and frowned.
"No one with your clearances." She squared her shoulders, as if bracing for a fight.
Mack had no time to fight. He needed answers. He needed live bodies.
"I'm willing to waive that," he put in evenly. And was rewarded with Hebbs's expression of surprise at his extension of faith in her. "Who can you give us that, in your opinion, is best suited to this situation? I trust your guidance here."
Hebbs's gaze held a question but his flattery won out. That and the fact she was undoubtedly no more happy about the Prime Hostess's unscheduled arrival than he was. She nodded slowly. "I've got fifty-seven sec cops on station under Sergeant Bridger's command. To be honest, they're more used to breaking up drunken brawls than baby-sitting dignitaries. But there are eight, maybe ten that I think can handle high-profiles well. That's what you'll need here."
Ten plus fifteen of Rand's people with Code A clearances might work, at least to get them through the ceremonies in the shrine. He'd considered calling the Vedritor in. Now, he might not have to. Especially with the Prime Hostess on station, he needed his best warship out there, watching. Ready.
Because Blass was on station, too. He didn't know who else might be coming in behind him.
"Trans their files to my office," Rand said. "Have them report to me in half an hour."
"That's not enough time," Mack told Rand as they left Ops. She followed him through the flow of traffic, leaned on the railing of the atrium when he did. They kept their voices low. The public corridors weren't the best place to have these kinds of discussions, but Mack no longer trusted the confines of his office. Or any office. And he no longer laid his suspicions on Hebbs. Not since Gillie had told him about Rigo and Carrick Blass.
"We don't have a choice in the matter, sir." She glanced at her watch. "You said you'd fill me in on this new problem. It shouldn't take Hebbs more than five minutes to get those files to me."
Mack nodded. Through Tobias, he'd relayed only the barest of outlines to Rand. A commbadge conversation was the least secure of all. "I'll lay it out quickly. You know Rigo's a risk, possibly Fav'lhir. Last night Carrick Blass arrived, quietly, to meet with him."
"The Carrick Blass?" Rand raised one eyebrow. "Left his sailing yachts and posh parties to come here?"
"We have reason to believe he's Honora Trelmont's lover." Mack waited until Rand's gape of surprise passed. Then hit her with the second fact. "He's also Fav'lhir. A Melandan mage."
"Blass?" Her voice was a harsh rasp.
"Confirmed."
"By your Raheiran friend?"
He nodded.
"And you trust this person, this information-"
"Completely.
"You've seen proof?" Rand was not one to take anything on face value. She'd been in Fleet long enough to know leveling charges against a well placed higher up could be a ticket to a dishonorable discharge.
"Of Blass's love affair? No. But of my friend's identity? Would a Raheiran crystalship be acceptable as proof?"
Rand's mouth opened and closed again. "Here. On Cirrus."
"Don't go looking for it. You won't find it. It's cloaked, can change its appearance."
Rand's fingers tightened on the railing. She stared at a flock of parrots darting downlevel. "Gods. Goddess." She turned back to him. "That crystal section. It must have come from...." She stopped and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Sorry. I'm not thinking straight. That section couldn't have come from your friend's ship. It's from the Lady's."
"Of course."
"I'd better go get those files. We'll handle this. Don't worry, sir." Rand pushed herself away from the railing, headed down the corridor.
Mack watched her go without actually seeing her. His mind replayed her comment and his automatic answer:
That section couldn't have come from your friend's ship. It's from the Lady's.
Of course.
Of course. Gillie's ship had taken significant damage to the starboard side. The section of the Lady's ship, according to Tobias, was from the starboard side.
But the Serendipity was a disguise. His mind grabbed that fact, held onto it. Therefore, logically, the damage and its location were more than likely false.
It was nothing more than coincidence. There was no way that Gillie would be in possession of the Lady... the Kiasidira's ship, he corrected himself. What would a captain in the Raheiran Special Forces want with a three-century-old relic? After all that time, he doubted a ship of that age would be functional. And the Serendipity-Simon appeared to be functioning satisfactorily. They'd traveled halfway around the station to the exterior dock last night with no problems.
Coincidence. Mack hated coincidence. But he had another crisis blossoming on Cirrus One and had no time to puzzle over it any further.
Senator Halbert's ship was due in Executive Bay 1 in fifteen minutes.
* * *
Impressive but not impossible. Gillie studied the mesh of spellforms before her that made up Carrick Blass's primary security wall. It was strengthened at the moment by the mage's presence on his ship.
A presence she could observe, undetected. She was in Simon's non-physical plane now, moving as essence, as energy. It was not without effort and it was not a form she could maintain for long. She hoped she didn't need to.
Blass's crystalship was transparent to them as they sat, so to speak, on the outer hull of Cirrus Station. Simon touched her shoulder, pointed toward the left through the shimmering wall. That's the third time he's checked his image in the mirror. I wonder if Honora realizes her biggest rival for Blass's affection is Blass himself.
Gillie chuckled softly. Seeing the Melandan mage primp and preen made him seem a bit less fearful.
He's devious and crafty. Even cruel, My Lady. But he is not a Ki'sidron.
It's the cruelty that worries me. She saw it in the spellforms before her. The wardings Blass created were not merely to deter intruders. They were to kill them, and quite painfully. It was what she'd warned Mack about hours before.
Carrick Blass was a powerful learned mage. A sorcerer with considerable skill. His spellforms showed creativity, even ingenuity. She couldn't examine the wardings before her and not, in her own way, admire them. The man knew his craft and knew it well.
She just knew hers a little bit better. She hoped.
Plus, she had Simon.
Thank you.
She heard the undercurrent of amusement beneath his always gracious tone. Slanted a glance at him, caught the slight twinkle in his deep lavender eyes. Appreciative of my recognition of your superiority?
I am hardly superior.
To Blass, you are.
Well, yes. But he is fielgha. Simon was fond of that particular Raheiran term for indescribable filth.
He is also leaving. Come on. She stood.
Simon rose also, laid his hand on her shoulder. Wait. Let's see what wardings he takes with him, and what he leaves behind.
Good idea. She glanced up at Simon as he studied the spellformed wall. He was in Raheiran fatigues. His close-fitting tan shirt and pants were topped by a collarless jacket of the same soft material. A short sword, in an unadorned sheath, was strapped to his thigh.
His pale hair, pulled back and bound at the nape of his neck with a thin gold cord, reached the middle of his back. Her own hair had at one time been longer-she thought of that horrible depiction of Lady Kiasidira the Khalar worshipped-but not by much.
In height, Simon was about as tall as Mack, and not dissimilar in build, though in appearance Simon would look younger. Or perhaps ageless was a better word. And it wasn't just due to the translucent gold hue that colored his skin.
She'd asked him once for a count of his years. Not a day over twenty-five, give or take a few hundred millennia, he'd said. He looked more the former than the latter.
Yet in spite of his youthful appearance, no one seeing him could doubt his power, his authority.
Of course, outside of herself, very few had ever seen Simon. He'd taken semiessential form, in appearance like a translucent humanoid, only twice in the years she'd known him. He was essence; physical existence in the mundane realm drained him considerably.
I have been working on that.
Beneath her gaze, Blass made his way down his ship's corridor to his airlock. You have no need for physical form.
Years ago, no. Life was simpler. Kiasidiras and Ki'sidrons were simpler. A blessing here. A healing there. But if I'm not to become antiquated I need to be able to do more.
Are you saying I need a chaperone?
I'm saying that I was of little use to you when you were injured, on the floor of the bridge. And little use to you when you collapsed in the corridor. Frustration tinged his words.
You sent a message to Mack, didn't you? She'd wondered how he'd just happened to come by that day. And you let him in. Her ship, like Blass's, was warded and sealed.
Blass is leaving. Simon ignored her question. Let's take a look at what he's left behind. And what he doesn't want the Khalar to know.
Gillie held out her hands. Her skin was gold-hued like Simon's. She touched the mesh of colors. They pulsed, flared. Writhed. Easy, my pretties. Energy was energy, whether used by Raheiran or Melandan.
Simon's fingers drifted over a section to her right. We were once all the same people.
She found a loose thread, plucked it gently, listened to its song. Simon's hand covered hers for a moment, blended his energy into the mix. Then he moved his fingers higher up the thread. He grasped it firmly. Now.
In a swift motion, she stretched the thread of energy back as far as her arm allowed, singing to it, chanting to it, stroking its colors with her mind. It vibrated under her touch. Then dissolved.
The mesh before them unraveled into a sizable, gaping hole.
Simon ran both hands around the edge of the opening, sealing the spell points. They stubbed off as if cauterized, their energy no longer leaking, but no longer merging. We have at best a half hour before they'll replicate.
He held out his hand. They stepped through into Carrick Blass's ship.