and he laughed as he strode. Beside him, she herself walked. Wind tossed
her hair and roared in green boughs. They would never leave each other.
Nicky … dead … why? These people didn’t kill him; no, not even those
back yonder who wanted to wring him empty. They’d have been his friends
if they could. The Empire wouldn’t let them.
She looked again and found Ydwyr waiting. “Seeker,” she said timidly,
“this is too sudden for me. I mean, when Qanryf Morioch tells me I
should, should, should become a spy for the Roidhunate–”
“You desire my advice,” he finished. “You are always welcome to it.”
“But how can I–”
He smiled. “That will depend on circumstances, my dear. After training,
you would be placed where it was deemed you could be most useful. I am
sure you realize the spectacular escapades of fiction are simply
fiction. The major part of your life would be unremarkable–though I’m
sure, with your qualifications, it would have a good share of glamour
and luxury. For example, you might get a strategically placed Terran
official to make you his mistress or his actual wife. Only at widely
spaced intervals would you be in contact with your organization. The
risks are less than those you habitually ran before coming here; the
material rewards are considerable.” He grew grave. “The real reward for
you, my almost-daughter, will be the service itself. And knowing that
your name will be in the Secret Prayers while the Vach Urdiolch
endures.”
“You do think I should?” she gulped.
“Yes,” he said. “Those are less than half alive who have no purpose in
life beyond themselves.”
The intercom fluted. Ydwyr muttered annoyance and signaled it to shut
up. It fluted twice more in rapid succession. He tensed. “Urgent call,”
he said, and switched on.
Cnif hu Vanden’s image flicked into the screen. “To the datholch,
homage,” he said hurriedly. “He would not have been interrupted save
that this requires his immediate attention. We have received a messenger
from Seething Springs.” Djana remembered hearing how fast a Ruad could
travel when he had no family or goods to encumber him.
“Khr-r-r, they must be settling down there.” Ydwyr’s tailtip, peeking
from beneath his robe, quivered, the single sign he gave of agitation.
“What is their word?”
“He waits in the courtyard. Shall I give the datholch a direct line?”
“Do.” Djana thought that a man would have asked for a briefing first.
Men had not the Merseian boldness.
She couldn’t follow the conversation between Ydwyr and the lutrine being
who stood in the snow outside. The scientist used a vocalizer to speak
the messenger’s language. When he had blanked the screen, he sat for a
long period, scowling, tailtip flogging the floor.
“Can I help?” Djana finally ventured to ask. “Or should I go?”
“Shwai–” He noticed her. “Khr-r-r.” After pondering: “No, I can tell
you now. You will soon hear in any case.” She contained herself. A
Merseian aristocrat did not jitter. But her pulse thumped.
“A dispatch from the chief of that community,” Ydwyr said. “Puzzling:
the Ruadrath aren’t in the habit of using ambiguous phrases, and the
courier refuses to supplement what he has memorized. As nearly as I can
discern, they have come on Dominic Flandry’s frozen corpse.”
Darkness crossed before her. Somehow she kept her feet.
“It has to be that,” he went on, glowering at a wall. “The description
fits a human, and what other human could it be? For some reason, instead
of begetting wonder, this seems to have made them wary of us–as if
their finding something we haven’t told them about shows we may have
designs on them. The chief demands I come explain.”
He shrugged. “So be it. I would want to give the matter my personal
attention regardless. The trouble must be smoothed out, the effects on
their society minimized; at the same time, observation of those effects
may teach us something new. I’ll fly there tomorrow with–” He looked at
her in surprise. “Why, Djana, you weep.”
“I’m sorry,” she said into her hands. The tears were salt on her tongue.
“I can’t help it.”
“You knew he must be dead, the pure death to which you sent him.”