He was tired of blinking and shaking his head. Whatever insane part of his mind wanted to play this bizarre game out would just have to be humoured for as long as it took. What it had to do with the Staberinde and the Chair, he couldn’t tell yet, but if that was what it was all about – and what else could it be about? – then there was still no point, in this weakened, dying state, trying to fight it. Let it happen. He had no real choice. ‘With you?’ he said, trying not to laugh.
‘With us. We’d like to offer you a job.’ She smiled. ‘But let’s talk somewhere a little warmer, shall we?’
‘Warmer?’
She made a single tossing motion with her head. ‘The module.’
‘Oh; yeah,’ he agreed. ‘That.’ He tried to pull his other hand away from the packed snow behind, failed.
He looked back at her; she had taken a small flask from her pocket. She reached round behind him, slowly poured the flask’s contents over his hand. It warmed, and came away steaming gently.
‘Okay?’ she said, taking his hand, gently helping him up. She pulled some slippers from her pocket. ‘Here.’
‘Oh.’ He laughed. ‘Yeah; thanks.’
She put her arm under one of his, her hand under his other shoulder. She was strong. ‘You seem to know my name,’ he said. ‘What’s yours, if that isn’t an impertinent question?’
She smiled as they walked through the few flakes of gently falling snow, towards the slab-sided bulk of the thing she’d called a module. It had got so quiet – despite the snow nearby, streaking past – that he could hear their feet making the snow creak.
‘My name,’ she said. ‘Is Rasd-Coduresa Diziet Embless Sma da’ Marenhide.’
‘No kidding!’
‘But you may call me Diziet.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah; right. Diziet.’
She walked, he stumbled, into the orange warmth of the module interior. The walls looked like highly polished wood, the seats like burnished hide, the floor like a fur rug. It all smelled like a mountain garden.
He tried to fill his lungs with the warm, fragrant air. He swayed and turned, stunned, to the woman.
‘This is real!’ he breathed.
With enough breath, he might have screamed it.
The woman nodded. ‘Welcome aboard, Cheradenine Zakalwe.’
He fainted.
* * *
Twelve
He stood in the long gallery and faced into the light. The tall white curtains billowed softly around him, quiet in the warm breeze. His long black hair was lifted only slightly by the gentle wind. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked pensive. The silent, lightly clouded skies over the mountains, beyond the fortress and the city, threw a blank, pervasive light across his face, and standing there like that, in plain dark clothes, he looked somehow insubstantial, like some statue, or a dead man propped against the battlements to fool the foe.
Somebody spoke his name.
‘Zakalwe. Cheradenine?’
‘Whaa…?’ He came to. He looked into the face of an old man who looked vaguely familiar. ‘Beychae?’ he heard himself say. Of course; the old man was Tsoldrin Beychae. Older-looking than he remembered.
He looked around, listening. He heard a hum and saw a small, bare cabin. Seaship? Spaceship?
Osom Emananish, a voice from his memory told him. Spaceship; clipper, bound for… somewhere near Impren (whatever and wherever that was). Impren Habitats. He had to get Tsoldrin Beychae to the Impren Habitats. Then he remembered the little doctor and his wonderful field machine with the cutting blue disc. Digging deeper, in a way that would not have been possible without the Culture’s training and subtle changes, he found the little running loop of memory that took over from what his brain had already stored. The room with the fibre optics; blowing a kiss because it was just what he’d wanted; the explosion, sailing across the bar into the lounge; crashing, hitting his head. The rest was very vague; distant screams, and being picked up and carried. Nothing sensible from the voices he’d registered while he’d been unconscious.
He lay for a moment, listening to what his body was telling him. No concussion. Slight damage to his right kidney, lots of bruises, abrasions on both knees, cuts on right hand… nose still mending.
He raised himself up, looked again at the cabin; bare metal walls, two bunks, one small stool Beychae was sitting on. ‘This the brig?’
Beychae nodded. ‘Yes; the prison.’
He lay back. He noticed he was wearing a disposable crew jumpsuit. The terminal bead had gone from his ear, and the lobe was raw and sore enough to make him suspect the transceiver hadn’t relinquished its grip there without a struggle. ‘You too, or just me?’ he asked.
‘Just you.’
‘What about the ship?’
‘I believe we are heading for the nearest stellar system, on the vessel’s back-up drive.’
‘What’s the nearest system?’
‘Well, the one inhabited planet is called Murssay. There’s a war going on in part of it; one of those brush-fire conflicts you mentioned. Apparently the ship may not be allowed to land.’
‘Land?’ He grunted, feeling the back of his head. Largish bruise. ‘This ship can’t land; it’s not built for in-atmosphere stuff.’
‘Oh,’ Tsoldrin said. ‘Well, perhaps they meant we wouldn’t be able to go down to the surface.’
‘Hmm. Must have some sort of orbiter; a space station, yes?’
Beychae shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
He looked round the cabin, making it obvious he was looking for something, ‘What do they know about you?’ He gestured round the cabin with his eyes.
Beychae smiled. ‘They know who I am; I’ve talked to the captain, Cheradenine. They did receive an order from the shipping company to turn back, though they didn’t know why. Now they know why. The captain had the choice of waiting for Humanist naval units to pick us up, or heading for Murssay, and he chose the latter – despite some pressure, I believe – from Governance, via the shipping company. Apparently he insisted that the distress channel was used when he informed the shipping line of both what had happened to the ship, and who I was.’
‘So now everybody knows?’
‘Yes. I imagine by now the whole Cluster knows exactly who both of us are. But the point is that I think the captain might not be entirely unsympathetic to our cause.’
‘Yeah, but what happens when we get to Murssay?’
‘Looks like we get rid of you, Mr Zakalwe.’ said a voice from a speaker overhead.
He looked at Beychae. ‘I hope you heard that too.’
‘I believe that might be the captain,’ Beychae said.
‘It is,’ said the man’s voice, ‘And we just got informed that we part company before we even get to Murssay station.’ The man sounded peeved.
‘Really, captain?’
‘Yes, really, Mr Zakalwe; I have just received a military communication from the Balzeit Hegemonarchy of Murssay. They want to uplift you and Mr Beychae before we connect with the Station. As they’re threatening to attack us if we don’t comply, I intend to do as they ask; technically under protest, but frankly it will be a relief to be rid of you. I may add that the vessel they intend to take you off with must be a couple of centuries old, and was not thought to be space-worthy until now. If it survives to make the rendezvous in a couple of hours, you ought to have an eventful journey through Murssay’s atmosphere. Mr Beychae; I believe if you reasoned with the Balzeit people they might let you continue with us to Murssay Station. Whatever you decide, sir, let me wish you a safe trip.’
Beychae sat back on the small stool. ‘Balzeit,’ he said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why they want us?’
‘They want you, Tsoldrin,’ he said, swinging his feet off the bed. He looked uncertain. ‘They on the good-guys’s side? There’s so damn many of these little wars…’
‘Well, in theory they are,’ Beychae said. ‘I think they believe planets and machines can have souls.’
‘Yeah, I thought they were,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet. He flexed his arms, moved his shoulders. ‘If this Murssay Station is neutral territory, you’d be better going there, though I’d guess this Balzeit gang want you, not me.’
He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to remember what the situation was on Murssay. Murssay was just the sort of place that could start a full-scale war. There was, in effect, a Consolidationist-Humanist war taking place between relatively archaic military forces on Murssay; Balzeit was on the consolidationist side, even though the high command was some sort of priesthood. Why they wanted Beychae, he wasn’t sure, though he vaguely recalled that the priests were into hero-worship in a fairly serious way. Though, having heard that Beychae was nearby, maybe they just wanted to hold him to ransom.
Six hours later they rendezvoused with the ancient Balzeit spacecraft.
‘They want me?’ he said.