Chapter Nine

Rachael felt tired by sundown. She’d spent the day combing the garden, climbing to the roof of the palace, walking the walls, exploring every avenue of escape until an exasperated guard let slip the possibility of an auto-da-fe. It was probably on the Pontiff’s instruction, for they did little on their own initiative, and that made it strike deeper. She’d seen auto-da-fes before and liked nothing about them. The night shadows intensified her fear, and she lay curled in a fetal ball on her couch, eyes tightly closed against the phantoms inhabiting her chamber, the guard’s final words echoing in her mind. “Heard there were going to be two. One an off-worlder,” he’d said. “No ritual strangling. Should be a great show.”

The context left no doubts who the main players would be, and announcing it suggested a degree of confidence on the Pontiff’s part. She didn’t want to die, and the prospect of the flames horrified her.

* * * *

The Pontiff smiled. Her restless search had been a background irritant on a day when nothing went right, and he’d quashed it out of petulance rather than any logical reason. The spacer was still free and absorbing more and more resources as he came closer to the Treaty Port.

He didn’t want to rely on the Federation officials handing him over, but his cupboard grew a little bare. The troublesome Elite had eluded capture too, tying up more men, and all he had left was the guard contingent of the palace. He felt reluctant to commit them. They weren’t particularly effective in the field and it would leave the palace vulnerable. Keeping up appearances was everything in maintaining power and the rumors surrounding this spacer had grown to threaten the illusion of omnipotence that underpinned this regime. He must capture the spacer for public execution—the girl with him—so they could concentrate on the Alliance agent.

Without looking up, he said, “Scribe.” He knew the guard would pass on the summons.

“Yes, Holy Father.” The answer from the corner of the room surprised him. He’d not sensed the man’s presence.

“What are the latest reports?”

“All negative, Holy Father.” He heard a rustle of parchment. “Do you wish me to ask for updates?”

Something about this scribe disturbed him. “Come into the light.”

“Yes, Holy Father.” The figure came forward willingly and stood so the candlelight illuminated his face.

The Pontiff studied him, every sense alert to any discordance. No one had ever managed to approach before without his knowledge. Apart from an expression of alert interest, the man’s face was guileless, and he sensed nothing in his mind but a formless hope that his sisters would please the Pontiff.

“How long have you been in my service?”

“Twenty years, Holy Father. I was promoted to your personal staff six months ago.” He looked pleased with himself, and the Pontiff felt his ambition. It made him smile. This simple man could be trusted to serve his own interests first. His single-mindedness was the key to escaping detection. His thoughts faded into the background noise because they never varied.

A little encouragement never went astray. “You’ve done well. Continue to do so, and you will reap your reward.”

“Thank you, Holy Father.” The scribe bowed and stepped back into the darkness.

It was some time before the Pontiff remembered he hadn’t dismissed him, and by then, he wasn’t sure if his memory were at fault.

* * * *

Anneke went looking for her father. He, Karrel, and the absent Jean-Paul had this infuriating ability of disappearing whenever they chose. Everyone else remained beacons in her mind, and she could track them without thought. Father and sons were different, all elusive.

Peter stepped out from shrubbery leading to the beach. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes. I’ve lost track of Jack.”

“I seem to recall asking you not to interfere.” His tone sounded mild and a slight smile curved his lips so she knew he’d expected her to follow her nephew’s progress. Another frustrating aspect of her father was his ability to close his mind against intrusion, even against her mother, whom he worshipped.

“I want to go and see.”

“He’s doing what he was sent to do.”

Anneke changed tack rather than challenge her father’s authority directly. “What about Rachael?”

“She’s providing a distraction while Jack works.” He gave her piecemeal information and the opportunity to retreat.

“Where’s my brother?”

“Probably with his wife.” He sighed and shook his head at her. “Anneke, everything is going to plan. Have patience and let it happen. We can’t hurry things.”

“What’s your interest in Rachael?”

“You liked her enough to interfere. I wanted to know why.” Peter’s tone sounded mild.

Anneke remembered the shambles caused by Federation stupidity, Thanatos, and her desperate journey to help Rachael escape the sergeant. The commoners had so little time. It seemed tragic to cut it short.

She knew Peter. His motives were rarely simple. “Nothing else?”

“There was a Chinese proverb about saving another’s life. It claims you were responsible for them afterwards. It makes good psychological sense.”

Anneke sighed. Conversations with her father were minefields. Nothing was ever as it appeared, yet she remembered best his understanding when Jesse died, old age taking her husband. There’d been no shadow of his opposition to the match, just a boundless compassion absorbing her pain. “So, you’re sharing my responsibility.”

“I should have anticipated better.” Peter allowed himself no opt-out clauses in his responsibilities, a trait shared by his children.

Anneke grasped the straw provided by logic. “Then you won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I’ll watch over her.” Peter qualified his answer, letting her take what comfort she could.

* * * *

Jack sensed the shark’s interest and stopped paddling, lying still on his makeshift raft as the predator circled. The headland was over a mile away. Passive sensing created no psychic signal and was safe, while any attempt to divert the beast would stand out like a beacon. He’d have to wait and watch.

Darkness was still his friend, just as it was with the Pontiff’s schooner. Poor seamanship had put them alongside his upturned boat with the last of the light, and a quick slash of his knife had parted the lashing of the oars and mast so they’d tumbled out when they righted the boat. The confusion gave him cover as he scrambled up the other side of the hull and found sanctuary in the noisome bilges of the main hold, lying there with only his nose above water during the first search at daylight. He left before the second, slipping over the side as soon as he heard the lookout’s hail that land was in sight. All their attention was on the shoreline and the seas were choppy enough to hide him, the schooner’s speed carrying her away before he surfaced.

The land search in the area of the semaphore station was a logical step, and he’d avoided it easily, keeping ahead of the expanding parties by running all night and stealing a ride in a drunken trader’s wagon during the day. If he could reach the headland undetected, he’d be on the same island as the Treaty Port.

A pressure wave confirmed the shark’s approach, and the twin logs jerked as it tested their texture with its teeth, gently at first, and then with a violent shake that came close to dislodging him. He hung on, thankful for the nine feet that separated him from the shark. He’d needed the two thirty-foot bamboos to give him flotation.

Satisfied, the shark sank from sight as a school of fish fleeing the commotion on the surface distracted it. Jack felt it go, but his raft was now six feet shorter and no longer buoyant enough to support him. His head went under the surface with every wave. It was time to abandon ship.

He rolled to one side, and the bamboo raft surged to the surface. Movement was dangerous so he relaxed in the water, one hand holding onto the raft, every sense alert for the predator’s return.

* * * *

Rachael woke in the pre-dawn stillness, surfacing from a dream of formless horror, and lay there until the pounding of her heart subsided. She couldn’t remember what frightened her, only the terror of an implacable enemy hovering, ready to strike. Two days had passed since her day in the garden and her night terrors following the guard’s comment, and she’d thought herself in control of her emotions. Obviously, she was wrong.

She rose from the couch and poured water from the jug into her washbasin, to lave the sweat of terror from her limbs and torso. The scented water felt good, its coolness on her burning skin a comfort, and she washed herself from head to foot.

The thick towel was fresh, her change in status not affecting the attentions of her servants. They still went about the business of providing her creature comforts with the same silent efficiency. They never spoke, never smiled, answered her questions with nods or gestures, and yet were ever-present, regardless of the hour. She rarely thought of them.

“Mistress,” said the older one, a male. “Will you break your fast?” It was the first speech she’d ever heard him make. Normally they waited for her instructions.

She felt grateful for his attention and uncomfortable because it felt wrong to have ignored him until now. If he was aware of her discomfort, he showed nothing, his expression of polite inquiry contained and impersonal.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He gave his usual bow of acknowledgement and withdrew, leaving Rachael wondering at her inadequacies. She couldn’t remember acknowledging his attentions before. She hoped she’d done it unconsciously, but there was no conscious memory to reassure her. In her mind, he and his female companion had been part of the furniture from the beginning.

She assumed they were man and wife, or whatever variation of a conjugal relationship this planet boasted. Both were from the same minority ethnic group, taller and more handsome than the remaining population but without an identifiable homeland. Collectively called the Elite, They Who Were Once Chosen, any explanation of their title was lost in the mists of time. Questions drew a blank stare from the larger ethnic group, as if she asked why the sky was blue, and ignored by the Elite themselves. All the Pontiff’s wives came from the Elite, as did the majority of his senior priests, but not the guards or minor functionaries. A puzzling feature lay in the DNA gathered surreptitiously by the Federation. Both groups had identical patterns, with no more than the normal statistical variations common within a race. She’d heard one Federation scientist postulate that the Elite were the future of the others, individuals who had somehow short-circuited the evolutionary process.

It sounded nonsensical until she experienced the reality.

The male servant returned with a laden tray, his female companion two steps behind with the cutlery and napkins to set the buffet. “Mistress.”

“Thank you.” Rachael stepped clear to give them access.

She was tempted to believe she detected some sympathy in their manner, but too intellectually honest to allow herself to accept it. Off-worlders were not part of their society, just a passing nuisance they endured and then forgot. Her only chance was to be mistaken as one of them, and red hair was an oddity here.

“Your Federation colleagues are meeting the Pontiff today,” the woman said softly, her mouth close to Rachael’s ear, putting an end to any chance she’d been mistaken for one of the Elite by identifying her clearly as a Federation agent.

“Thank you,” Rachael said normally, knowing any listener would assume she was referring to the service.

The woman nodded and followed her companion from the room.

Rachael filled a plate from the buffet and sat down by the window, using the ledge as a table, a position she’d used more frequently since the curtailing of her freedom. She felt tempted to take her servants’ support at face value, but she didn’t dare. The Pontiff was the most likely source, pacifying her fears for these final days. The servants might know she was out of favor, but it was a gigantic leap to assume she was a Federation agent, not without some external source confirming it—the Pontiff most likely.

She saw the small procession heading toward the palace. It was too far away to distinguish faces, but the dark green of the Federation uniforms told her part of the woman’s story was true. She fought down a surge of unrealistic hope. She was still on her own. No Federation official would risk the treaty for an individual agent.

* * * *

The Pontiff didn’t rise when the four men entered the audience chamber. He’d scanned them routinely while they crossed the courtyard and was puzzled. Some new influence affected their attitude.

He concealed his anger. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” They’d presented themselves at the gates thirty minutes before the agreed time and their bows were niggardly.

“Holy Father?” the Federation ambassador asked, ignoring protocol.

The Pontiff didn’t respond. It would do no harm to make them wait, and he sensed a barrier in their minds. They had learned mind discipline and used it to limit his power. He would need time to unravel the threads.

“Holy Father?” The question was repeated, its tone sharper. The ambassador grew bolder.

“Leave me. Advise your superiors I am naming you persona non grata. You have forty-eight hours.” This would test their resolve.

The ambassador straightened, his shoulders stiffening in anger. “Holy Father, I am instructed to express the Federation’s concern for one of our citizens in your employ. She acts as a temple maiden under the name of Lorelei. Please have her report to the Federation Compound,” he paused to give emphasis to the insult, “within forty-eight hours.” The two audience chamber guards had their pikes at his throat now, but he ignored them. “Forty-eight hours.”

The guards tensed, waiting the order to kill, and the Pontiff was tempted. The treaty protected the Federation personnel, and naming the woman extended its protection to her as well. This was not the time for an angry response. He had forty-eight hours to break down their mind barrier and discover the Federation’s intentions.

“Your words confirm my decision.” He turned his head to the guards. “Escort the former ambassador to his compound and close all its exits until diplomatic relations are reestablished.” One more drain on his guards. He must find the spacer quickly and dispose of him, the woman too. He had forty-eight hours to reestablish his regime, or it would fall.

* * * *

Jack felt the weariness seeping into his muscles. He was inside fifty miles of the Treaty Port and the narrow escapes were coming hard and fast. He didn’t think he’d been identified positively yet, but time was running out. Eventually, he’d be just a fraction slow and they’d be on his heels, broadcasting his position to the world. He must go to ground for a while and let things cool down a little before going on.

He moved on, a denser shadow in the darkness.

The lightening of the eastern sky caught him still moving, crossing an open expanse over a mile wide. The woods beckoned on the further side, urging him to speed, but he knew haste was a trap and kept to the stealthy progress that had saved him so far. It allowed him to spot the camouflaged watchtower first and slip into the concealing shrubbery of a small copse in a dip of ground. The ground beneath him felt boggy with runoff from the rain showers the day before.

Half an hour later, the growing daylight showed him the men gathering for a sweep of the field, and he spotted the second and third watchtowers. He’d allowed weariness to suck him into a trap.

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty vision. They herded him skillfully by concentrations of guards, channeled into a suitable path to this field. He still doubted they’d seen him, just set a trap and hoped he’d fall into it. They probably searched this field the same way each morning. The thought gave him pause. Was there a glimmer of hope in the regularity of the task? Could he exploit the carelessness of men following a routine?

He set himself to scan their minds, accepting the risk of raising his profile by doing more than passive listening. With luck, his grandfather would understand.

It was hard going. These were largely palace guards, discontented with interruption to their normal duties and unused to living in the field. They would vent their spleen on the cause of their discomfort if they captured him. He shrugged and continued his search. Dying from the rough handling by his captors might be preferable to what waited him at the temple.

He chased down a stray thought regarding Lorelei and lived the guard’s memory of warning her about the auto-da-fe. The deliberate cruelty made him angry until he clamped down on the emotion and returned to his task. He could serve her best by evading capture.

The first hint of a solution was elusive, the guard’s embarrassment hiding the details. The men on either side had laughed until tears ran down their cheeks and the sergeant cursed him as an addle-pated fool, buffeting his shoulders soundly for his stupidity and he was determined to give them no repeat cause. Jack cleared his mind of everything except the picture in the guard’s mind and left the bushes. It would be a close run for him to reach the spot and prepare.

* * * *

“He needs help,” Anneke said. “You’re asking too much of him.”

“I’ll meet you halfway.” Peter acting reasonable was a danger sign. He’d caught her too often. “Go and watch over him, but don’t interfere unless he asks for help.”

“That’s no concession,” she said. “There’s too much of you in him. He’ll never ask for help.”

“The best I can do.” Peter was offhand, part of his mind far away. “Don’t interfere unless he asks specifically. Stay in Limbo.”

She opened her mouth to protest and met his eyes. She saw no give in them. She could wheedle her way around Karrel, her mother, and the absent Jean-Paul, but Peter, in this mood, was another matter. Karrel called it his battle rage, the fixed focus that came when he was juggling lives against results. It meant things were coming to a head on the Pontiff’s world and Peter had all the balls in the air at once.

Anneke closed her mouth, nodded, and left.

Limbo was a strange place, named by Peter when he came first to this world. It existed outside the physical universe. A pale blue void reachable only by those who could translocate—shift from location to location by pure mental effort—it had many properties. Within its boundaries, time could be manipulated, vast distances covered instantly, and many places monitored intimately. A physically created version of opposite polarity was the heart of the space portals giving instant transport across the universe. She, Karrel, and Peter had helped Gabrielle’s people develop it thirty-five millennia ago.

For the moment, Anneke used its simplest property, the ability to monitor events without detection.

She opened a portal a thousand feet above the open expanse where Jack was hiding and settled down to watch.

The line of searchers had reached the copse of shrubbery in the hollow, and two men were crawling through the bushes looking for signs. Anneke bit back a laugh when their clumsy progress wiped out the two indents from his toes. She tried to imagine Peter’s reaction to their ineptness and failed. He might have applauded their thoroughness elsewhere, for they probed every bush, every tussock, with the long pikes, the bright ceremonial blades glinting in the morning sun.

She frowned when she saw Jack slide into a low clump of scraggly bush. Except for its denser core, it offered little in the way of concealment and contained a menagerie of reptiles, insects, and rodents living together under an uneasy truce. She wasn’t particularly worried about them attacking Jack. Even for a telepath, he had an unusual affinity with animals, but the concealment was poor and the pikes were long enough to reach the central core.

The search line was on the move again, the spacing between individuals kept to the length of the pikes so no piece of ground went un-probed. The Pontiff had committed all his reserves to this operation and must be operating the palace with a skeleton staff. He even had priests in the line, their clumsiness with the pikes marking them.

The line reached Jack’s hiding place and the guard began probing the edges gingerly. He had the attention of the searchers on either side, both of them trying to watch him and their sectors at the same time. One of them, a priest, had edged away a little. Anneke swooped down invisibly for a closer look. Jack had a plan, and she knew his sense of mischief.

The guard had probed the edge closest to him and had raised the pike to probe the central core when a movement within it made him leap backwards. An angry black and white rodent with white stripes running down its back emerged from the shrubbery and turned so its raised tail faced the guard. He fled, and so did the searchers on either side while Anneke roared with relieved laughter. She knew that animal and its malodorous defense mechanism.

Jack had done it again.

A non-commissioned guard officer came running down the line to investigate the disturbance and berated all three. “Leave the bloody bushes alone and get on with the search. If there were anyone in there, we’d smell them for a mile by now. My best uniform still stinks from the last time you upset that bloody animal.” Like most of the guards, the sergeant was a townie, but he’d learned this lesson the hard way. “We need to be finished and back in concealment before full light.”

The search line reformed beyond the shrubbery and Jack was safe.

* * * *

Rachael’s circumstances changed. She was now a prisoner in the palace, secured to the guardroom wall by a chain locked snugly around her waist. It gave her just enough slack to lie down on a pallet placed against the wall for sleeping. During the day, she folded the pallet and sat on it with her back against the wall. Apart from the sleeping off-duty guards, she was alone, the normally bustling guardroom quiet. Her servants still brought her food, although the guards plundered half of it, and they had arranged a curtained enclosure for her privy, a concession granted grudgingly.

The temple maidens were idle, the palace compound quiet. There was a brooding air of expectation over everything, the sense of an impending explosion—even the guards spoke quietly. The Pontiff saw no one, spending the time in his chamber monitoring the search. Everyone knew the net was closing on the spacer. They’d discovered proof he’d passed the first ring and was less than twenty miles from the Treaty Port. The prestige of the Papacy hung on his capture, particularly now word had leaked of the ambassador’s deadline. There was even talk of Federation cruisers lurking the other side of the portal, ready to invade, an idea Rachael knew to be preposterous. The Federation didn’t have cruisers.

Her servants arrived with a washing bowl filled with warmed scented water, thick towels, and her temple maiden’s outfit. “Mistress. You will want to look your best today.”

They woke one guard and chivied him into unlocking the chain around her waist, forcing him to stand with his back to her corner while she stripped and washed herself. The guard was of common stock and surrendered to the ingrained respect all his kind showed the Elite of their race.

This morning there was a touch of fear as well.

Rachael took her time, enjoying the unrestricted movement. She didn’t understand the undercurrents. The Papacy had long crushed all resistance, its guards more a symbol than a military force, yet she’d felt this air of expectation before. It usually preceded an uprising against the establishment, a welling up of dissatisfaction waiting for a trigger—the one element missing. No focal point waited to concentrate the groundswell of opposition.

Why?

The spacer, Jack, was the son of an Elite, and he was becoming more of a hero everyday. Had the Alliance found the perfect means of denying this world to the Federation—depose the Pontiff and replace him with one of their own? It had the mark of their thinking.

Her male servant touched her shoulder. “Mistress. The Pontiff comes. You must be as he expects.”

Rachael nodded and lifted her arms so the guard could lock the chain around her waist. He did it half apologetically, but it was still too snug for her to escape.

She didn’t want them implicated. “Withdraw. I will face him alone.”

The two servants bowed and took their leave, impressing Rachael with their simple dignity. Either something had changed, or she’d been incredibly blind.

The Pontiff entered, trailed by a silent priest/scribe. “Woman, the deadline approaches for your return to the Federation.” He looked tired, but his voice sounded strong. “I’m of a mind to do it, threats or no.” He turned to the guard. “Give me your pike while you unlock her chain.” The man hesitated. “Now. Do it now.” The Pontiff’s voice rose and he held out his right hand for the weapon.

The guard handed him the weapon and took the keys from the table as he approached Rachael. She held up her arms and watched him unlock the chain. He needed a bath and her nose wrinkled at the sourness as he stepped closer to take the weight of the chain.

“Drop the chain and step away from her,” the Pontiff’s ordered.

Rachael looked up. He’d raised the pike for a killing thrust, its needle-sharp point aimed at the base of her throat.

* * * *

Jack could see the gate leading into the temple and the other leading into the Federation compound. Only a hundred yards separated him from his goal—a hundred yards and twice as many guards.

He hadn’t expected to make it this far, but it seemed a pity to fail this close to victory. He would have to trust this last throw of the dice to his disguise, but the ploy was so obvious.

He’d stolen a guard’s uniform.

“Arm me, audacity.” He made the plea aloud as he set his face in sullen weariness, walking toward the knot of guards as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. None of them were happy, and he had to fit in seamlessly to succeed. A second glance would bring him undone. If he was close enough to the gate, he might just break through. If he wasn’t...

The distance shrank and no one noticed his approach, all focused on something happening behind him. He didn’t dare turn around, just hoped their distraction would last.

“There he is.” He recognized the voice, the deep cover agent from Trygon.

As one, the guards came to ceremonial attention, pikes vertical at their sides, the crash of their hobnailed sandals on the pavement sending the birds flying into the air in fear. A non-commissioned officer turned to face him and gave a full honors salute. “Your orders, sir.”

* * * *

Rachael saw her death in the Pontiff’s eyes and played desperately for time. “Why?” Her body shook uncontrollably. The reversal of fortunes had been too complete. She was a little girl again, an adult looming over her bed in the dark.

“I allowed you and the spacer to distract me. It gave them time to prepare while I stripped the palace of its defenses. It’s too late now, and I can’t reach the spacer, but you’re here.” He gathered himself for the thrust.

“Holy Father,” Lothar, spoke from the doorway.

She could see the shock in the Pontiff’s face. He’d thought himself alone.

“You’re one of them, too,” he said and the pike point wandered.

She tensed herself to run, but the air shimmered and a man stood between her and the Pontiff. She was transfixed as he took the pike from the Pontiff’s hands.

“Yes, he’s one of us.” The newcomer’s voice sounded pleasant, but his presence was magnificent. Put this man in the middle of a crowd, and he would still be a king. “It’s time for you to come home.”

The Pontiff had turned back as the pike dropped from his hand. “Who are you?” His voice quavered slightly. “How did you get here?”

“Feodar always called me the soldier, but my name is Peter. It’s dangerous for you to stay. I’m taking you to where you’ll be safe.”

The air shimmered again and they disappeared.

“I will escort you to the Federation compound,” the priest said, holding out his hand. “You’re safe now.”

Rachael heard him from a distance. Her knees were jelly and she was falling. A black pit opened before her and she dove in.

* * * *

“Rachael needs you.”

Jack ignored the deep cover agent’s explanation at Peter’s summons, sprinting like a madman through the cheering crowd who emerged from the village and swirled through the grounds of the temple. They made way for him with smiles. He was their hero, the local boy who’d defied the Pontiff for months. He hardly saw them, driven by a terrible fear. A figure beckoned at the palace door, a priest by his clothes, and Jack cursed Peter’s prohibition on translocating here, his breath rasping in his throat as he ran.

“Please, let her live,” he gasped and ran on, forcing his body beyond its limits.

“She’ll live.” Peter’s thought was gentle. “I have plans for her, but she needs you now.”

Jack reached the palace and his hob-nailed guard sandals skidded on the marble floor of the guardroom. He brushed aside the two Elite servants kneeling at Rachael’s side and lifted her in his arms.

She stirred, her arms going around his neck as her eyes opened. “Are you going to spank my bottom now? You promised.” Her words had the child-like quality of deep shock, but the arms around his neck tightened as she buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so tired,” she whispered. “You took so long coming.”

“I’m here now. Nothing can harm you.”

“I know.” Her eyelids drooped and the relaxation of her arms told him she slept.

* * * *

Peter stood in Limbo, the Pontiff at his side, and watched Jack carry the unconscious Rachael toward the Federation compound. She’d have to go back to her people for a while, but they’d send her back, and Jack would be happy. He’d failed Jesse and Anneke. Perhaps Jean-Paul would come back with an answer in time to save these two.

The Pontiff turned to him inquiringly. “Is she worth it?”

“What do you mean?” The man had proved himself an able adversary and, for Feodar’s sake, they owed him much.

“You’ve compromised your security. The Federation will work out these portals exist when they debrief her. It will make them harder to defeat.”

Peter sensed Jack’s emotions. “She’s worth it,” he said. “These two will hold your world against the worst the Federation can do. In fifty years time there will be a stable democracy here.” Jack didn’t yet know about his first independent operation, or that he’d have Rachael’s help.