He supposed he needed Admiral Lasowski’s permission to challenge this librarian. The admiral might not want to grant it for diplomatic reasons. If she didn’t, Daniel would have the problem of finding his way back to Cinnabar as a private citizen with no funds and no prospects.
Assuming he survived the encounter, of course.
Birds with red throat-sacs trilled as they spun vertical caracoles in the air. At the bottom of their circles they clipped the foliage with their wings. The quick rapping was like rain.
Like a vast black pit, gaping in front of him. He couldn’t believe this had happened.
Daniel’s flat pocket chronometer binged at him. He looked at the sun with a sigh. Kostroma’s days were shorter than Cinnabar’s; this one was nearly spent. He was giving a dinner for the Aglaia’s junior officers in an hour and a half.
Daniel stood up, feeling a trembling weakness in the long muscles of his thighs. That was reaction to the hormones he hadn’t been able to burn off by instant battle in the Electoral Library. He wasn’t sure where this garden was. He didn’t have a good sense of direction on land despite—or perhaps because of—being a natural astrogator.
He didn’t have enough money to pay a jitney driver to take him to his apartment, but Hogg could probably find the amount. Perhaps he’d do that.
Daniel Leary walked toward the gate and the boulevard beyond. Like a vast black pit . . .
Adele Mundy walked to the data console and seated herself. Her three assistants were whispering among themselves. It was the first time she could remember that the lovers had paid real attention to anything beyond one another’s bodies.
The console felt cool beneath her fingertips. She saw it only as a blur. Nothing of this world was in focus, and there was a ball of compressed ice somewhere beneath her rib cage.
The Elector was giving a dinner for dignitaries tonight. Adele was invited. Her electoral office, her high birth, and the fact she was a foreign intellectual all caused her to be added to the guest list.
She’d be at the lowest table in the hall, where the food was likely to be leftovers from the previous day though arranged on an engraved dinner service. Even so, earlier this morning she couldn’t have imagined that she’d want to turn down a free meal. No doubt the cold shock would wear off sufficiently for her to eat nonetheless; and she wasn’t fool enough to think that her attendance was optional.
The young lieutenant had seemed as open as a garret in summertime. Leary was a common name on Cinnabar—as was Mundy, for that matter. It hadn’t occurred to her to connect the fellow with Speaker Leary, who’d linked undoubted political unrest to fanciful Alliance plots and funding, then had drowned his fiction in the blood of the Mundys of Chatsworth.
Daniel Leary might be just as guileless as he seemed. The Leary family hadn’t made its political name so much by subtlety as by the ruthlessness with which its members acted if threatened. Speaker Leary brooked no half-measures: his proscription covered every Mundy of Chatsworth over the age of twelve. When inevitably a number of younger children were killed as well, the Speaker added their names to the original list.
Adele hadn’t been close to her parents, but she knew they were Cinnabar patriots. They were no more likely to take Alliance money than they were to sacrifice infants to Satan!
And yet . . .
Adele’s eyes hurt. She’d sat in a brown study, unseeing but not blinking to wipe her corneas with the necessary moisture and lubricant either. She closed her eyes and rubbed them, then looked grim-faced around the library.
The assistants had gone back to their affairs; literally, in the case of the couple. Vanness was industriously digging out volumes of bound broadsheets from the past century, works which had nothing but size in common with Moschelitz. A good-hearted soul; probably too stupid ever to handle research questions, but the perfect man to shelve works properly when they were returned.
And yet . . .
Adele’s parents would never have accepted Alliance help, but some of the others proscribed with the Mundys wouldn’t have been so scrupulous. Samir Chandra Das was a high-living lecher whose only choices were bankruptcy or an immediate change in the political establishment and the cancellation of debts. Adele had known that even at sixteen; and had known Chandra Das as well, because he was a frequent visitor to Chatsworth.