Wyrms, Page 3

  "The Heptarch's daughter will find that the prophecies of joy in the Testament will all be fulfilled in her life," said Prekeptor. Patience dutifully translated, but also realized now that the Prince was saying every word to her, the true Heptarch's daughter, with the meaning doubled.

  The prophecies in the Testament no doubt included some of the mumbo-jumbo about the seventh seventh seventh daughter. He was urging Patience to accept the prophecies.

  The Prince had still a third gift. It was a plastic sheath that fitted over the glass rod. Within the sheath were constantly shifting flows of bright-colored but transparent animals. With the light inside, the display was fascinating and beautiful. Prekeptor handed it to Patience.

  "The Heptarch's daughter will see that it can be worn, if she chooses, like a crown, for all the world to see and admire," said the Prince. "It's like the future-you can choose any color and follow it wherever it goes. If the Heptarch's daughter chooses wisely, she'll take a path that leads to the restoration of all that was lost."

  Subtly, in mid-speech, he had ceased using double meanings. Now he was clearly speaking only to Patience, and offering her a restoration to the throne.

  Patience could not possibly translate Prekeptor's last sentence. Lyra would insist on an explanation. However, Patience could not leave it out of her translation, either, or change its meaning, because that would alert Oruc's listeners that she was conspiring with the Prince to conceal his treasonous offer.

  So instead she stood silent.

  "What did he say?" asked Lyra.

  "I did not understand him," said Patience. To Prekeptor she said, "I'm sorry my understanding of Tassalik is so poor, but I cannot understand anything that is said on this subject. I beg the Prince to converse on matters that this poor interpreter can comprehend."

  "I understand," he answered, smiling. His hands were trembling. "I, too, feel fear, here in the heart of Heptagon House. What you do not know is that all of our party are trained soldiers and assassins. They are prepared to penetrate to the deepest recesses of Heptagon House to destroy your enemies."

  Anything Patience answered could be her death sentence.

  In the first place, she herself had been trained as an assassin, and she knew that if Prekeptor's plan had any chance of working, he had just destroyed it by saying it out loud in the open garden. No doubt throughout Heptagon House all the Tassal embassy was now being placed under irresistable arrest, with the words of their own prince as their indictment. That he did not know that he would be listened to here in the garden told Patience that Prekeptor was too great a fool for her to entrust her life to him.

  But there was nothing she could say to stop him and clear herself. If she said, I have no enemies here in Heptagon House, she was admitting that he was somehow correct to call her the Heptarch's daughter. She had to go on pretending that she had no idea of why he was speaking to her, and to do that she had to pretend not to understand the plainest-spoken Tassalik. It wasn't likely anyone would believe it, but it was not necessary to be believed. It was necessary merely to make it possible for Oruc to pretend to believe it. As long as they could both pretend that she didn't know she was the rightful Heptarch's daughter, she could be allowed to live.

  So she put on her most baffled expression and said, "I'm sorry, I guess I'm out of my depth. I thought I spoke Tassalik well enough, but I see that I don't."

  "What is he saying?" asked Lyra. She sounded concerned.

  As well she might be, since Prekeptor, far from coming to marry her, had come to kill her father and, no doubt, her as well.

  "I'm sorry," said Patience. "I understood almost nothing."

  "I thought you were fluent."

  "So did I."

  "Mother of Kristos," whispered Prekeptor. "Mother of God, why don't you see the hand of God in my coming? I am the angel that stands at the door and knocks. I announce to you: God will fill your womb."

  His words were frightening enough, but the fervency with which he said them was terrifying. What role did he have in mind for her in his religion? Mother of God- that was the ancient virgin from Earth, and yet he called her that as if it were her name.

  Still, she showed nothing of the surprise she felt. She kept the vaguely puzzled look on her face.

  "Holy Mother, don't you see how Kristos has prepared the path for his coming?" He took a step toward her. Immediately she hardened her expression, and he stopped retreated two steps. "No matter what you think, God is irresistible," he said. "He has devoted seven times seven times seven generations to create you to be the fit mother of the incarnation of Kristos on the planet Imakulata. This is greater than the number of generations down to the time of the Virgin of Earth."

  She let the helpless, puzzled look return to her face, even as she tried to plan a course of action. In a way, this was just like one of Angel's favorite games. He would give her a complex mathematical problem-orally, so she had no written guide to help her concentrate-and then immediately launch into a complex story. Five minutes or ten minutes or half an hour later, the story would end. At once he would demand the answer to the mathematical problem. When she had answered it, he would ask her to tell him the entire story. In detail. Over the years she had become adept at concentrating on two things at once. Of course, her life had never before depended on the outcome of the game.

  "They have not taught you, I see. They have kept you ignorant of your true identity. Don't pretend not to understand my language, for I know you do, I will tell you.

  God created Imakulata as his most godly planet. Here in this world, the powers of creation run fast and deep. On Earth it took thousands of generations for evolutionary change to take place. Here, in only three or four generations we can breed major changes into any species. Those trifles I brought as gifts-they are new species, and it took only four generations to perfect them. It is as if the genetic molecule understood what we wanted it to become, and changed itself. This is as true of species that came from Earth as it is for the native species. It is only here on Imakulata, God's World of Creation, that every creature's genetic molecule, which is the mirror of the will, obeys the slightest command to change. Does giving off more light increase the plant's chance of reproducing?

  Then immediately every plant gives off far more light-even plants that did not take part in the experiment, plants as much as a half-mile away. Do you see what this means? God had given us here on Imakulata a taste of his power."

  Patience toyed with and then rejected the idea of killing the Prince. If he had been an ordinary subject of the Heptarch, it would have been her duty to kill him for what he had said already, if only because he represented a clear danger to Lyra. But it was not the prerogative of an interpreter to kill the heir to the throne of Tassali.

  King Oruc might regard it as an unfortunate intrusion into his foreign policy.

  "But to himself God has reserved the breeding of humanity. Alone of the life forms of Imakulata, human beings remain unchanged. For God is performing the creation of man. And the crowning achievement is you- for God will cause you to give birth to Kristos, the only perfect man, who is the mirror of God, just as the genetic molecule is the mirror of the will, the cerebRuin is the mirror of the identity, and the limbic node is the mirror of the passion. The Wise thought they could meddle with the genetic molecule directly, that they could alter the plans of God by making your father incapable of bearing daughters so the prophecy could not be fulfilled. But God destroyed the Wise, and your father did bear a daughter, and you shall bear the Son of God no matter what you or anyone may do to try to prevent it."

  Patience could not leave, either. She needed to show a decisive rejection of what he had said, not just a desire to run from it. Besides, she wasn't sure Prekeptor would let her leave. The madness of his faith was on him; he trembled, and there was such fire in him that it was beginning to kindle a response in her. She dared not listen to more, for fear she might begin to doubt her own skepticism; she dared not leave; she dared not kill
him to silence him. Therefore she had only one choice.

  She reached into her hair and carefully drew out the loop.

  "What are you doing?" asked Lyra, who had been taught, as a child of me heptarch, to recognize all the known weapons of assassination.

  Patience did not answer Lyra. She spoke instead to Prekeptor. "Prince Prekeptor, I believe I understand enough to realize that you believe my very existence is somehow a reason to bring down my noble Heptarch, King Oruc.

  Now that I see what a danger my very life causes to my King, I have no alternative, as a true servant of the King's House, but to end my life."

  In a quick motion she passed the loop around her own throat, drew it tight, and gave a tiny jerk that caused the loop to cut into the skin to a depth of about two millimeters all the way around her neck. The pain was surprisingly slight at first. The cut was not uniform-in some places it cut quite deep. But it had the effect she intended.

  Immediately blood streamed thick as a bright red collar around her neck.

  The look of horror on Prekeptor's face was almost fun to watch. "My God!" he cried, "My God, what have I done!"

  Nothing, you fool, thought Patience. I've done it. And silenced you, too. Then the real pain came, and dizziness from the sudden loss of blood. I hope I didn't cut too deeply, thought Patience. I don't want to leave a scar.

  Lyra screamed. Patience felt her legs giving way under her. Ah, yes. I must collapse as if I were dying, she thought. So she let herself slump down to the ground.

  She clutched at her own throat-carefully removing the loop in the process-and was surprised at the great amount of blood that was still flowing. Won't I feel foolish if I cut myself too deeply and bleed to death right here in the garden.

  Prekeptor was weeping. "Holy Mother, I meant no harm to you. God help her, O Lord of Heaven, who sent away the Wise in their blasphemy, forgive now this Fool who gave himself to your service, and heal the Mother of Thy Son-"

  The sides of the world closed up; she could only see in a tunnel straight ahead of her. She saw hands come and take Prekeptor and carry him away from her. She heard Lyra's screaming and weeping. She felt gentle hands take her and lift her up, and someone whispering, "No one has ever been so loyal to a heptarch as to take her own life rather than hear treason."

  Is that what I've done? thought Patience. Taken my own life?

  And then, as they carried her out of the garden, she thought: I wonder if Angel will approve of my solution to the problem. As for the story, I remember every word of it. Every word.

  Chapter 3. ASSASSIN

  PATIENCE WAS ALREADY WEARY OF LYING IN BED AFTER THE first day. Visits from people with nothing intelligent to say made her even wearier.

  "I don't think there'll be a scar," said Lyra.

  "I wouldn't mind if there were," said Patience.

  "It was the bravest thing I ever saw."

  "Not really," said Patience. "I knew I wouldn't die.

  It was the only way to silence him."

  "But what was he saying?"

  Patience shook her head. "He wasn't the ideal husband for you, believe me."

  Lyra looked profoundly worried. Well she should be, thought Patience. Maybe Lyra is realizing for the first time that her dynastic rights might be in danger from me, however loyal I try to be.

  "Was he trying to-to arrange to-you know. With you."

  Oh. Of course Lyra wouldn't have dynastic worries.

  She had never been taught responsibility. "I can't talk about it," said Patience. She turned her face away, though, so Lyra would convince herself that the answer was yes.

  "Right in front of me, wanting to-but why you? I know you're pretty, everyone says so, but I'm the Heptarch's daughter-and I'm not ugly, either. I'm really not. I'm very objective about that."

  "The only men who wouldn't be glad to have you as their wife are the victims of terrible pelvic accidents," said Patience, smiling.

  After a moment, Lyra understood and blushed. "You mustn't talk that way." But she was flattered. And now that Patience had succeeded in convincing her that she didn't owe some debt of guilt for Patience's wound, Lyra left.

  At least I didn't come here yesterday as ignorant of the truth as Lyra still is. Someday, though, someone will tell her who I am, and why my father's ancient claim is seen by some as a bit more valid than Oruc's. Then she'll understand what was really going on today, and perhaps realize that it was my survival I was working for, not my death.

  What worried her was not Lyra's reaction. It was King Oruc's. He was the only audience that Patience's performance was designed to please. If he saw her gesture as a desperate effort to prove her loyalty, then she would survive. But if he actually believed she was trying to kill herself, he would believe her insane and never trust her with anything. Her career would be over before it began.

  The doctor had her wound clamped shut with the jaws of hundreds of tiny earwigs. "Not like regular earwigs, though," the doctor said. "These were bred to provide a powerful and continuous pincer movement until I squeeze their abdomens in a certain way. They respond to the flexing of your skin and promote the healing process. Without excessive scar tissue."

  "Very clever," murmured Patience. Everyone assumed she didn't want a scar. But she wasn't sure. It wouldn't hurt to have a visible reminder, every time people saw her, of how loyal she was to King Oruc. She was tempted to squeeze off the earwigs herself, or readjust their position so the scar would dimple and twist. But no, it would be too obvious if she deliberately left a scar herself. It would diminish some of the power of her act.

  For it was a powerful act. Oruc gave her a room of honor in Heptagon House during her convalescence, and many adults stopped to wish her well. Few of them were skilled at the diplomatic arts, and so she could easily see that most of them were at once drawn to and repelled by who she was. She was a young girl, after all, with only the first bloom of womanhood on her, of an age that often caused wistfulness in adults who ache for their youth and beauty, even though they know perfectly well that they were never really as young and beautiful as she.

  She was also the true Heptarch's daughter, the legendary seventh seventh seventh daughter of the Starship Captain.

  Until now, they could never openly seek her out, for fear of arousing King Oruc's suspicions. But who could criticize them for paying their respects to a young girl who had performed heroic service for the King's daughter?

  So she received them as they visited in ones and twos, to say a few words, touch her hand. Many of them tried to touch her with gestures of respect that properly belonged only to the Heptarch's family; she rejected those gestures by subtly replacing them with her own. Always she explicitly honored her visitor as being someone far superior to her in rank. Some saw this as a clever disguise; others as true humility; to Patience, it was survival.

  For she noticed that Angel did not come to visit her, and that Father did not seem to be hurrying home. It was unthinkable that they would not come to her if they could. Therefore someone must be forbidding them to come. And the only one who could do that was King Oruc. Something in her performance had bothered him.

  He still wasn't sure of her.

  At last the stream of visitors stopped. The doctor came with two orderlies. Gently they lifted her into a litter.

  They did not have to tell her where she was going. When Oruc summons, there is no need for discussion in Heptagon House. One simply goes.

  They set down the litter in Oruc's chamber. His Consort wasn't there, but three unfamiliar heads were. She did not recognize them. And she had spent enough time in Slaves' Hall to know all the faces there. So either these were not former ministers of state, or they were so important to King Oruc that he kept them out of Slaves'

  Hall, so no one else could talk to them. Each head's canister rested on its own table, with a dwelf seated behind it to pump the air bladder.

  "So that's the girl," one of them murmured when she came in. Because the dwelfs weren't pumping righ
t then, he did not make a sound, but she saw his lips move. And though she wasn't sure, another might have mouthed her true name, "Agaranthemem Heptek."

  The doctor fussed and preened, showing off his excellent skill at healing her wound. Without, of course, a scar.

  "Very good, Doctor," said Oruc. "But then, I expect my technicians to perform their tasks well."

  The doctor was miffed at being called a mere technician, but of course he tried to conceal his annoyance.

  "Thank you, Lord Heptarch."

  "No scar," said Oruc. He peered at her neck critically.

  "None at all."

  "But a string of bugs around her neck. I think it would be a hard choice, between a scar and a necklace of earwigs."

  "Oh, no," said the doctor. "The earwigs will come off very soon. Now, if they displease you, sir."

  Oruc looked weary. "What you heard. Doctor, was not my stupidity, but my sense of humor."

  "Oh, of course, I'm such a fool, forgive me, I'm a bit tense, I-" and then, realizing his talking was making things worse, the doctor burst into artificial laughter.

  "Enough. Fine work. I commend you. Go away."

  The doctor scurried out the door.

  Oruc exhaled wearily. "Surely there has been a decline in the quality of court life since the Flight of the Wise."

  "I wouldn't know, sir," said Patience. "I wasn't born then. I've never known any of the Wise."

  Oruc raised an eyebrow. "By heaven, neither have I."

  Then he shook his head. "No, it's not true to say that.

  I've known some Wise among the dead." He did not need to glance back at the three heads behind him. "And one wise man among the living, one man among all my ministers who gives me counsel worth hearing, who cares as much for Korfu as I do."

  "My father," she whispered.

  "A most unlucky situation, isn't it?" said Oruc. "Even the wisest King needs good advice, and there's little of that left in the world. I would give half my kingdom to know what became of the Wise when they left here, and how to bring them back."