guide Vymezal to her, depending on what was decided. Flandry favored the
latter course--the voivode only, and a secret word to the Gospodar.
He must spell out his reasons for that at length. Finally the Dennitzan
nodded. "Aye," he growled. "I hate to keep the tidings from her mother
... from all who love her ... but if she truly is witness to a
galaxy-sized trick played on us--we'll need care, oh, very great
care"--he clapped hand on sidearm--"till we're ready to kill those
vermin."
"Then you agree Zorkagrad, the planet's government and armed service,
must be infested with them?"
"Yes." Vymezal gnawed his mustache. "If things are as you say--you
realize I'll see Kossara first, out of your earshot, Captain--but I've
small doubt you're honest. The story meshes too well with too much else.
Why is our crisis hanging fire? Why--Ha, no more gabble. Tomorrow dawn
I'll send ... him, yes, Milosh Tesar, he's trusty, quick of wit and slow
of mouth--I'll send him on a 'family matter' as you suggest. Let me see
... my wife's dowry includes property wherein her brother also has an
interest--something like that."
"Kossara will have to lie low," Flandry reminded. "Me too. You can call
me an Imperial officer who stopped off on his liberty to give you a
minor message. Nobody will think or talk much about that. But you'd
better squirrel me away."
" 'Squirrel'?" Vymezal dismissed the question. "I understand. Well, I've
a cabin in the Northrim, stocked and equipped for times when I want to
be unpestered a while. Includes a car. Ill flit you there, telling the
household I'm lending it to you. They can't see us land at Kossara's
hideout, can they?"
"No. We foresaw--" Flandry stopped, aware of how intent the stare was
upon him. "Sir, I've told you she and I aim to get married."
"And aren't yet--and nobody wants a hedge-wedding, not I myself when I
don't know you." The voivode sketched a grin. "Thanks, Captain. But if
you've told me truth, she needs a marksman more than a chaperone.
Anyhow, whatever's between you two must already have happened or not
happened. Come, let's go."
XV
--
The year wanes rapidly on Dennitza. On the morning after Danilo Vymezal
had shaken Flandry's hand, kissed Kossara's brow, and left them, they
woke to frost on the windows and icy clearness outside. They spent much
of the day scrambling around wooded steeps begun to flaunt hues that
recalled fall upon ancient Manhome. Flocks of southbound yegyupka made
heaven clangorous. Once they heard the cry of a vilya, and savage though
the beast was, its voice sang wonderfully sweet. Firebush, spontaneously
burning to ripen and scatter its seeds, spread faint pungency through
the air. By a waterfall whose spray stung their skins with cold, they
gathered feral walnuts. Regardless of what spun around the world beyond
its frail blue roof, they often laughed like children.
At dusk they returned to the log building, cooked dinner together, sated
huge appetites, and took brandy-laced coffee to the hearth, where they
settled down on a shaggy rug, content to let the blaze they had kindled
light the room for them. Red flames crackled jokelets of green and blue
and yellow, sent warmth in waves, made shadows leap. The humans looked
at each other, at the fire, back again, and talked about their
tomorrows.
"--we'd better stay around the house hereafter," Flandry said. "Your
father's man could scarcely have gotten an appointment today, but he
should soon. Your uncle's aides can't all be traitors, assuming I'm
right that some are. Two or three, in critical posts, are the most I'd
guess possible. And they themselves will see no reason to stall his
brother-in-law's personal business. In fact, that'd look too queer. So I
expect we'll get word shortly; and Miyatovich may want us to move fast."
Highlights crossed Kossara's face above her cheekbones, shone in eyes,
glowed in hair. "What do you think he'll do, Dominic?"
I. But in his place, I'd manufacture an excuse to put myself somewhere
more or less impregnable. Like your Nova-class warship; she's the
biggest around, Dennitzan or Imperial, and the pride of your fleet damn
well ought to have a solidly loyal crew. I'd get the most important
persons, including us, there with me. And, oh, yes, a copy of the
microfiles on everybody who might be involved in the plot, Imperial
officers and locals who've worked themselves close to the Gospodar's
hand in the past several years. A clever, widely traveled captain of
Naval Intelligence, such as--ahem--could help me get a shrewd notion of
whom to suspect. I'd order fleet dispositions modified accordingly,
again on an unalarming pretext. When this was done, I'd have the
appropriate arrests made, then broadcast a 'hold everything' to the
populace, then wait on the qui vive to see what the interrogators dig
out."
Memory made Kossara wince. Flandry laid an arm about her shoulder.
"We've a stiff way yet to go," he said, "but we should be home safe by
blossom time."
She thawed, flowed into his embrace, and whispered, "Thanks to you."
"No, you. If you'd lacked courage to visit Diomedes, the strength to
stay sane and fight on--Why quibble? We're both magnificent. The species
has need of our chromosomes."
"Lots and lots of fat babies," she agreed. "But do you mean it about
spring ... we may have to wait that long?"
"I hope not. The creaking sound you hear is my gentlemanliness. I'm
sitting on its safety valve, which is blistering hot."
She touched a corner of his smile. Her own look became wholly serious.
"Are your jests always armor?" The question trembled. "Dominic, we may
not live till spring."
"We'll take no chances, heart of mine. None. I plan for us to scandalize
our respectable grandchildren."
"We'll have to take chances." She drew breath. "I can't become pregnant
till my immunity treatment's reversed. Tonight--We'll not deceive Father
and Mother. The first chaplain we find can marry us."
"But, uh, your cathedral wedding--"
"I've come to see how little it matters, how little the universe does,
next to having you while I can. Tonight, Dominic. Now."
He seized her to him.
A flash went blue-white in the front windows.
They sprang up. The light had not been blinding, but they knew its
color.
Flandry flung the door wide and himself out onto the porch. Cold poured
over him, sharp liquid in his nostrils. Stars glinted countless. Between
shadow-masses that were trees, he saw the craterside shelve away
downward into the murk which brimmed its bowl. Distance-dwindled, a
fireball yonder lifted and faded. The cloud pillar following appeared
against a constellation just as the thunder rumbled faintly in his
skull.
"That was home," Kossara said out of numbness.
"A tactical nuke, doubtless fired from an aircraft," responded a machine
withi
n Flandry.
The danger to her flogged him aware. He grabbed her arm. "Inside!" She
staggered after him. He slammed the door and drew her against his
breast. She clung, beginning to shudder.
"My love, my love, my love, we've got to get away from here," he said in
a frantic chant. "They must have been after us."
"After you--" She tautened, freed herself, snapped at steadiness and
caught it. Her eyes gleamed steel-dry.
"Yes. But we'll take a few minutes to pack. Food, clothes, weapons."
Defiant, he also tried phoning the manor. Emptiness hummed reply. They
trotted to the shed where the car was, stowed survival gear within,
trotted back for more, boarded.
The cabin tumbled from sight. Flandry swept radar around the
encompassing darkness. Nothing registered. A traffic safety unit wasn't
much use here, of course, but at least this bubble carrying them had a
prayer of crawling to safety before the military vessel that did the
murder could find it.
If--"Wait a second," Flandry said.
"What?" Kossara asked dully.
He glanced at her, dim in star-glow and wanness off the control panel.
She sat hunched into her parka, staring ahead through the canopy. The
heater had not yet taken hold and the chill here was no honest outside
freeze, but dank. Air muttered around the car body.
He dropped near treetop level and activated the optical amplifier. Its
screen showed the wilderness as a gray jumble, above which he zigzagged
in search of a secure hiding place. Though belike they had no immediate
need of any--"I'll take for granted we were a principal target," he
said, quick and toneless. "Snatching us from the household would be too
revealing. But if the killers knew where we were, why not come directly
to our lodge? If they even suspected we might be there, why not try it
first? My guess is, they don't know it exists. However, we're safer in
motion regardless."
She bit a knuckle till blood came forth, before she could say:
"Everybody died on our account?"
"No, I think not. Your father, at least, had to be gotten rid of, since
he knew the truth. And there was no being sure he hadn't told somebody
else. I dare hope the enemy thinks we went out with him."
"How did they learn, Dominic?" Through the curbed hardness of her voice,
he sensed dread. "Is Aycharaych in Zorkagrad?"
"Conceivable." Flandry's words fell one by one. "But not probable.
Remember, we did consider the possibility. If we were to land on the
taiga, Chives must proceed to the spaceport, simply to maintain our
fiction. Wearing his mindscreen would make him overly conspicuous.
Anyhow, Aycharaych wouldn't fail to check on each newcomer, and he knows
both Chives and Hooligan by sight. I decided the odds were he went to
Dennitza from Diomedes, but having made sure the mischief he'd started
was proceeding along the lines he wanted, didn't linger. He's no coward,
but he knows he's too valuable to risk in a merely warlike action--which
this affair has to bring, and soon, or else his efforts have gone for
naught. My guess was, he's hanging around Zoria in a wide orbit known
only to a few of his most trusted chessmen,"
"Yes, I remember now. Talk on. Please, Dominic. I have to be nothing
except practical for a while, or I'll fall apart."
"Me too. Well, I still believe my assessment was confirmed when we made
such trouble-free contact with your father. Chives had been in Zorkagrad
for days. Aycharaych would have found him, read him, and prepared a trap
to spring on us the minute we arrived. Anything else would have been an
unnecessary gamble." Bleakness softened: "You know, I went into the
manor house using every psychotrick they ever drilled into me to keep my
knowledge of where you were out of conscious thought, and ready to
swallow the old poison pill on the spot should matters go awry."
"What?" She turned her head toward him. "Why, you ... you told me to
leave the rendezvous if you didn't return by sunset--but--Oh, Dominic,
no!"
Then she did weep. He comforted her as best he could. Meanwhile he found
a place to stop, a grove on the rim beneath which he could taxi and be
sheltered from the sky.
She gasped back to self-mastery and bade him tell her the rest of his
thoughts. "I feel certain what caused the attack tonight was the capture
of your father's courier," he said. "He must have been interrogated
hastily. Aycharaych would have found out about our cabin, whether or not
your father explicitly told his man. But a quick narcoquiz by
nontelepaths--" He scowled into murk. "The problem is, what made the
enemy suspicious of him? He wasn't carrying any written message, and his
cover story was plausible. Unless--"
He leaned forward, snapped a switch. "Let's try for news."
"The next regular 'cast is in about half an hour," Kossara said in a
tiny voice, "if that hasn't changed too."
He tuned in the station she named. Ballet dancers moved to cruelly happy
music. He held her close and murmured.
A woman's countenance threw the program out. Terror distorted it.
"Attention!" she screeched. "Special broadcast! Emergency! We have just
received word from a spokesman of the Zamok--officers of the Imperial
Navy have arrested Gospodar Miyatovich for high treason. Citizens are
required to remain calm and orderly. Those who disobey can be shot. And
... and weather satellites report a nuclear explosion in the Dubina
Dolyina area--neighborhood of the voivode's residence--attempts to phone
there have failed. The voivode was, is ... the Gospodar's brother-in-law
... No announcement about whether he was trying to rebel or--Stay calm!
Don't move till we know more! Ex-except ... the city police office just
called in--blast shelters will be open to those who wish to enter. I
repeat, blast shelters will be open--"
Repetition raved on for minutes. Beneath it, Flandry snarled, "If ever
they hope to provoke their war, they've reckoned this is their last and
maybe their best chance."
The newsroom vanished. "Important recorded announcement," said a man in
Dennitzan uniform. "A dangerous agent of Merseia is at large in
Zorkagrad or vicinity." What must be a portrait from some xenological
archive, since it was not of Chives, flashed onto the screen. "He landed
eight days ago, posing as a peaceful traveler. Four days ago" (the
computer must redub every 18.8 hours) "he was identified, but fought his
way free of arrest and disappeared. He is of this species, generally
known as Shalmuan. When last seen he wore a white kilt and had taken a
blaster from a patrolman after injuring the entire squad. I repeat, your
government identifies him as a Merseian secret agent, extremely
dangerous because of his mission as well as his person. If you see him,
do not take risks. Above all, do not try talking with him. If he cannot
safely be killed, report the sighting to your nearest military post. A
reward of 10,000 gold dinars is offered for information leading to his
death or capture. Dead or alive, he himself is worth a
reward of
50,000--"
Air hissed between Kossara's teeth. Flandry sat moveless for minutes
before he said stonily, "That's how. Somebody, in some fashion,
recognized Chives. That meant I was around, and most likely you. That
meant--any contact between your family and the Gospodar--yes."
Kossara wept anew, in sorrow and in rage.
Yet at the end it was she who lifted her head and said, hoarse but
level-toned, "I've thought of where we might go, Dominic, and what we
might try to do."
XVI
---
Clouds and a loud raw wind had blown in across the ocean. Morning along
the Obala, the east coast of Rodna, was winterlike, sky the color of
lead, sea the colors of iron and gunmetal. But neither sky nor sea was
quiet. Beneath the overcast a thin smoky wrack went flying; surf
cannonaded and exploded on reefs and beaches.
All Nanteiwon boats were in, big solid hulls moored behind the jetty or
tied at the wharf. Above the dunes the fisher village huddled. Each
house was long and wide as an ychan family needed, timbers tarred black,
pillars that upheld the porch carved and brightly painted with ancestral
symbols, blue-begrown sod roof cable-anchored against hurricanes, a
spacious and sturdy sight. But there were not many houses. Beyond them
reached the flatlands the dwellers cultivated, fields harvested bare and
brown, trees a-toss by roadsides, on the horizon a vague darkening which
betokened the ringwall of the Kazan. The air smelled of salt and
distances.
Inside the home of Ywodh were warmth, sun-imitating fluorescents, musky