The square outside the temple had been cordoned off. Beyond the line of bollards and the soldiers in their sky blue uniforms the crowd heaved, almost like water contained by a sea wall. Butcher leaned against a blank wall, as far away from the surge of people as he could manage while still being able to see the action. Funny how crowds affected you when you'd been on a long tour. He eased his weight against the bricks. His legs ached, just from the short walk he'd taken from the train station to the square. But then he knew from experience that it would take a day or so to regain his land legs, even on his home planet where gravity wasn't so very far different from standard.
A man with a child perched on his shoulders walked in front of Butcher. The child chuckled, one pudgy hand clutching the man's hair, the other waving a small version of the Royal flag, four orange circles on a sky-blue background. Full sized flags fluttered on mast heads, and curves of bunting in the same colors decorated the front of the temple's normally somber gray stone walls. Butcher watched the man weaving his way through the gathering, no doubt searching for a better vantage point. At least it was a happy crowd, enjoying the spectacle of floats, marching bands and performers. Smiles and laughter dominated, the buzz of thousands of people competing with the music.
The last float had passed, its musical accompaniment fading in the distance. The formal part of the ceremony should begin any moment now. Normally Butcher would have slipped away. But maybe he'd get a glimpse of Tarlyn in the queen's party. Not that it mattered, of course. He just wanted to see her for old time's sake, see how the years had treated her.
Trumpets blared. The crowd strained toward the cordon. Butcher, standing on tiptoe, craned his head to see. The processional vehicles appeared, accompanied by the roar of the crowd. Queen Carmela was popular enough on this annual holiday, when she and her family came to the temple to celebrate the arrival of mankind on Validor. Today marked five hundred years, a special anniversary.
The vehicles approached, flanked by pairs of soldiers riding in-line skimcycles. The queen rode in the first ground car, sitting down, smiling, returning the waves of the crowd. Her daughter, Crown Princess Emerda, rode in the second car with her husband, Duke Chaldo, who was resplendent in his red and blue uniform with orange sash, and gold collar and rank insignia. Standing, they waved to the crowd, one way, then another. Butcher's planetary notes, courtesy of Fleet Intelligence, rated this man as one to watch. Even though he'd never fired a shot in anger, never commanded anything more than an orbital patrol ship. But he looked nice in his pretty uniform.
Who was that beside the queen, shorter, wearing a conical headdress? Great heavens, a Ptorix. They'd never had a Ptorix in the ceremony when Butcher was young. The two communities always kept to themselves, humans living on Nestor, Ptorix on Dhnizan, the second, larger continent. Sure, there had always been the small colony on Berzhan Island, but that was to do with their religion. Well, if Queen Carmela was trying to promote détente with the Ptorix that was great. Butcher had been in too many battles, seen too many wars. The galaxy had room enough for two sentient species, and more.
Someone shifted in the crowd.
Fifteen years of Fleet service jangled in Butcher's brain, tensed his muscles. The man didn't look any different to the other revelers but he moved with purpose, shoving his way up to the cordon. Butcher shouted. Danger. But his voice was lost in the noise of the crowd. Surely the soldiers would see the intruder, stop him. Butcher couldn't see past the jostling backs and waving flags. Shouts rang out.
A dull explosion echoed off the buildings. The queen's vehicle had stopped, its front badly damaged. Butcher hung back against his wall as shocked people edged away, dragging others with them. Others surged closer, no doubt wanting a better look. The sing song wail of sirens rose, growing louder. Out there on the road retainers had rushed to the queen's aid. Butcher couldn't see the queen's Ptorix companion, but people were bent over the queen and her driver.
Duke Chaldo crouched in his stationary vehicle behind the wreck, surrounded by his armed guard in their sky blue uniforms. Useless prat. He hadn't moved. Probably too scared.
Butcher had had experience in these situations. Maybe he could help. He strode forward. Some of the crowd had left, but the throng near the cordon was packed tight. He tried to ease his way through, but a shove in his back sent him flying. Face down on the pavement, he peered up in time to see the queen's vehicle disintegrate in a blinding flash.
Butcher's heart hammered. This was a war zone, people screaming, the iron stench of blood, the stink of burnt flesh, shouting, feet crunching over debris. He struggled to his feet. Dust covered his clothes and his hair. Drifting smoke created a surreal mist which obscured details and stung the throat. High-pitched voices laced with pain cried for help. Others lay moaning, writhing in pain. Still others didn't move at all. People ran up the side streets, away from the carnage, while official vehicles converged on the scene. The queen and all her guard had to be dead, along with the poor bastards who'd rushed in to help. This was a typical terrorist attack, designed to do the most damage, mainly to the innocent. Was it carried out because of the Ptorix in the queen's vehicle? Butcher wouldn't be surprised. After the last few years, the Ptorix weren't exactly popular in the Confederacy, even after the khophir's apology in the aftermath of the battle at Carnessa, where the Ptorix fleet was routed by Grand Admiral Saahren's Confederacy fleet.
Chaldo had finally appeared on the paving, his amplified voice clearly audible as he shouted orders. Butcher hesitated. If he went to help, he'd have to explain himself to Chaldo, and he really didn't want to do that. He'd met the man once, many years ago. It wasn't a happy memory. Shots rang out in the distance, and a squad of soldiers ran off in that direction, presumably in the hope of catching the perpetrators. That was all very well, but Chaldo wasn't doing even the most obvious things, like sending troops to secure the rest of the vehicles, and escort the occupants to safety.
Butcher heaved a sigh. He'd better see if the man was willing to listen to some advice, although he doubted it. His feet crunching, he started for where Chaldo stood.
A scuffle around the ground car behind Chaldo's caught his attention. A woman leaped out of the vehicle and ran, hampered by her long white dress. One of the escorting skimcycles came alongside her, firing back at the attackers. As soon as the woman had clambered onto the vacant seat behind the driver, the skimcycle roared off, charging directly at where Butcher stood. The red glare of lasers sliced through the air, coming from the side. The machine lurched, swaying and slowing as the driver sagged. Butcher caught a glimpse of wide eyes as the passenger, hampered by the drooping body in front of her, tried to gain control. Tarlyn. Butcher ran, grabbed the driver's body and pulled it to the ground, then vaulted into the vacant seat.
"Hang on." He shoved the accelerator forward, leaning his weight to take the nearest corner before the laser blasts followed. She had the sense to grab hold, clutching him around the waist, and leaning with him. An alarm blinked. Butcher risked a glimpse at the skimcycle's control panel. Two skimcycles were in pursuit. Still accelerating, he shot around the nearest corner, narrowly avoiding a parked vehicle. Damn. They were still on his track. Another corner appeared. He waited until the very last moment before he slung the machine sideways and up, hurtling over the heads of pedestrians. His passenger snugged tighter to his back, her hands clutching the fabric of his coat. One more corner. The street had been blocked off ahead, but not to the left. Pulling back on the handles, Butcher raised the skim skimcycle and slipped over the bollards, as close as he dared. He doubted he'd fooled them, but they might split up.
He glanced down at the display. Only one behind him now. But at least the road in front of him was empty.
Praying these machines hadn't changed too much from the last time he'd used one, Butcher pressed the rear cannon's firing button and zig-zagged the skimcycle. The alarm disappeared before the sound of the explosion arrived, along with a blast of fragment-filled shockwave.
"You got it." She shouted the words in his ear as she squeezed against him.
A warm glow filled him. How inane. After all these years.
Butcher slowed the skimcycle, looking for somewhere to hide. They weren’t safe yet. He didn't know what the other machine had done, or if there were more in the hunt. This was an inner suburban area, a line of identical, three-story houses standing cheek by jowl without even a front garden. Butcher's back itched, almost feeling laser sights lining up. There. An alley. He slammed on the brakes, bracing against Tarlyn's weight pressing against his back. "Get off, quick."
She slid out of the seat and stood gazing in the direction they'd come from while he set the skimcycle into auto mode and sent it off. As it zoomed away Butcher grasped Tarlyn's arm and hurried her into a narrow alley between two buildings, sidling around a couple of bulging trash cans.
"Thanks," she whispered. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened. "Brett. What are you doing here?"
Was she pleased to see him? He wasn't sure. She'd aged well, still slim and lovely, with those high cheekbones and dark brown eyes like melted chocolate. "Don't thank me yet. They will have followed." Pulling his service pistol out of its holster he dragged her down behind the garbage containers as the whine of approaching skimcycles grew louder. Crouched low, he handed her a narrow cylinder. "This is the skimcycle's scrambler unit. It'll stop them from being able to track your cranial implant. If we're lucky they haven't tried that yet. If they have, let's hope this alley goes somewhere."
"You’ve forgotten. I’m not allowed a cranial implant."
Butcher’s face heated. Thankfully, she wasn’t looking at him. He had forgotten. It didn’t make any sense to him for people not to have the implant. But then, the fundamentalist nutters in the Galactic People’s Republic eschewed technology, too. Except when it suited them. Still, he wouldn’t have described Validor’s Ruling Clan in those terms. Conservative, yes.
A skimcycle rocketed past their hiding place. Butcher waited a few more minutes, his finger poised over his pistol's trigger.
Tarlyn tapped his hand resting on her arm. "Long enough. They hunt in packs." She walked back to the road, her long skirt swirling around her legs, then stood for a moment, listening. "It sounds like it's all over."
No more sirens, shots or explosions, although smoke curled up into the sky from the direction of the temple square.
Tarlyn gazed up at him, searching his face. "You're the last person on this planet I would have expected to see here, now. Are you still in the Confederacy Fleet?"
He swallowed. The years fell away and for a moment he was seventeen again, smitten and tongue-tied. Idiot. "Yes. Still in the Fleet. I'm on leave before I take over a new command. It's been fifteen years since I was on Validor. I thought it was time I came home."
What else could he say? He'd thought about her often over the years, but more so since his wife had ended their relationship six months ago. "Last I heard, you were married?"
He let the question hang. It wasn't true. He knew her husband died two years ago in a boating accident, but then he'd have to admit he'd been looking up her records, and if he did that, she might accuse him of prying, or stalking.
Her lips pressed together. She was about to answer when a skimcycle appeared, heading back from the way the other had vanished earlier. The man on the back of the machine had his assault rifle half-raised.
Time seemed to slow. Butcher shoved Tarlyn aside and lifted his pistol. The soldier aimed, his finger on the rifle's trigger. Butcher fired once, twice. The skimcycle stopped. The passenger slid off to the side, the driver slumped over the handle bars.
White-faced, Tarlyn stared at the bodies. "Are they dead? Did you kill them?"
"No. The pistol is set to stun, but they'll both be out for a few hours. And at least we have transport." He'd love to know what had happened back there at the temple square, but answers would have to wait. "Is there anywhere we can go?"
"Yes. I have family I can trust." She ruffled her skirt with her hand. "But I'm not dressed for this."
No, she wasn't. Her formal robe with blue and orange embroidery at the neckline and sleeves used to be white. Now the fine fabric was smeared with dirt and dust. Her elaborately coiffed hair had escaped from her head band, blown around by the speed of the skimcycle. The smear on her face made her look vulnerable, a slightly older version of the teenager he had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Butcher holstered his pistol under his jacket, strode over to the still-running machine and turned off the engine. The driver was the shorter of the two soldiers. He dragged the soldier off the skimcycle and crouched beside him. "Help me get their uniforms off."
First the helmet. Butcher hardly took note of the man's face. It didn't do to think of enemies as human. He'd seen death in battle too many times before, and at least this lad would survive. The one piece suit the soldier wore unfastened at the front. Butcher kept half an ear on his surroundings as he and Tarlyn peeled the garment off. Pushing the uniform into her arms, he said, "Change in the alley and get rid of the dress."
She hurried off while he started on the second man. He jumped when Tarlyn, dressed in the uniform, returned to help him. Her hair hung around her face as she pulled the sleeves off the fellow's shoulders, then dragged off the pant legs while Butcher supported the man's weight.
Done.
Butcher draped the suit over the skimcycle, took off his coat, and began to unfasten his trousers. His fingers fumbled as his eyes met hers, heat rising up his neck. She didn't quite manage to swallow the smile as she turned around. Oh, great heavens. The woman had seen a half-undressed man before. He pulled off his pants. Yes, but not him. They'd never taken it to that stage, much as he'd wanted to.
The suit was a little too large to start with, but it quickly adjusted to his body. He shoved his own pants and coat into a carrier on the skimcycle's side, and placed the soldier's short barreled RV-5 assault rifle into its holster.
She still had her back to him. "Where are we going?" he said.
She turned around. At least she didn't laugh, or look down her nose at him, although he knew she was amused. "I can enter the coordinates."
He shook his head. "If we do that, we can be tracked. I'd rather not, wouldn't you?"
She looked down, her eyelashes grazing her cheeks. "Yes. Of course. I was thinking my Aunt Cicely's house."
"Isn't your uncle an official in the government?"
"Yes. I think you met him a few times."
Butcher pictured his face before he remembered his name. Cairndon Morphin. Yes, Butcher remembered him, a born bureaucrat, already a junior departmental head, even then. He'd been polite, but dismissive of Tarlyn's inappropriate friend. "You trust him?"
Her brows twitched. "Of course. He's family. But as it happens, it won't matter. He'll be in the city for the ceremony. I'll get help from Quincy, who is the estate manager." She smiled. "He's a lovely man."
Butcher didn't think 'family' meant much. He didn't have much time for his own. He'd never really been forgiven for leaving the planet in search of the stars. But if Tarlyn was willing to trust an old family retainer, then he'd go along with her. At least for a time.
He mounted the skimcycle, and directed her to the passenger seat. "These helmets will have microphones. Tell me where to go."
***
Tarlyn settled herself into the seat behind Brett and pulled on the helmet. "The main highway would be fastest, at least for a little while. But we can take back routes?"
"It's probably safest to take the main routes, at least at first." His voice sounded metallic, but clear, in the helmet. "In these uniforms they're likely to ignore us for a time. Which way?"
"Left, and then the main arterial out of the city."
She clamped her arms around his waist as he accelerated. Brett. How many years had it been since he left? Last she'd heard he was married and on one of the Confederacy's flagships. And here he was on Validor, just in time to rescue her from… what? Some sort of coup? The queen would have to be injured. More likely—she swallowed the tremor of fear—dead. That would make Emerda queen.
"Not that I'm complaining, Tarlyn, but if we're supposed to be soldiers you should be sitting upright with that rifle in your hands."
"Sorry." She felt around near her right knee, and lifted the weapon out of its cradle, a short-barreled laser rifle. She'd never fired one of these, but she'd seen the soldiers carry them at the side, half-slung so they could be lifted quickly. She copied the pose and found the firing stud protruded on the right, just near her forefinger.
Brett drove the skimcycle at a medium speed. Tarlyn wished he'd hurry up, she didn't want to be in the city. She wanted out, away from here. Her own people had been killed in her ground car, she'd been fired at, and the only person she trusted right now was the man in front of her.
The skimcycle passed a family being questioned by soldiers. Tarlyn's heart beat a little faster. What if she and Brett were stopped? But they rode past without incident. Brett seemed so calm, as if he was used to this sort of situation. She certainly wasn't. Already, they'd passed a number of troop carriers and armed squads patrolling the streets. Perhaps Emerda had called in the army, announced martial law. Duke Chaldo had certainly been busy shouting orders back there in the square.
She caught a glimpse of a crowd down one street as they went through an intersection blocked off by military vehicles. That was where the public transit station was. More soldiers appeared, their weapons held to be seen.
"Where now?" Brett's voice interrupted. They were approaching an intersection where slip roads went off in three directions.
"Right. Into the hills."
Brett banked the skimcycle, leaning into the corner on the slip road. Tarlyn moved with him. Under different circumstances this would have been fun. The road narrowed, running between an avenue of trees. Sunlight sparkled between the trunks, offering glimpses of planted fields and a distant row of low hills.
"Ah yes," Brett said. "I remember this road. I drove you to your aunt's villa once."
"You did. You disengaged the speed governor on your Vorteks."
He chuckled. "You were late. It was the only way I could get you up there in time for whatever it was. As I recall, you didn't complain."
No, she hadn't. It was the last time she'd seen him, and even that had been by accident. He'd come up to the house to say goodbye, due to leave Validor for the Confederacy Fleet Academy the following day. Her own ground car's engine had failed and she was due to go to her aunt's house for her temple initiation. It had been exhilarating, rocketing down this very road, the trees blurring into an almost solid wall. He'd slowed down to swoop around the curved driveway, coming to a gentle halt at the villa's steps. He'd hardly had a chance to murmur goodbye. Aunt Cicely had marched down the steps, her lips thinned into a line. Not 'I was worried'. It was 'where have you been with that… boy?'
Brett had shaken his head, just a little, his mouth curved in a sad smile. Tarlyn hadn't even been able to wave goodbye, dragged up the stairs into the house as he gunned the powerful skimcycle and disappeared out of her life.
The skimcycle slowed, the change in momentum throwing her against his back. He'd turned off down a rutted track under the trees. She struggled upright. "What are you doing?"
Brett drifted the machine between two large trees. "Before we go any further I think we'd better have a chat about what happened down there in town."
He dismounted, took off the helmet and ran a hand through his short, dark hair. The expression on his face was different, not the shy young man she'd known. Tarlyn could swear he didn't quite trust her. Or maybe that was his 'in command' face, the one he used for giving orders. Last time she'd heard he was a senior commander, one rung below captain. She replaced the assault rifle into its cradle, slung a leg over the machine and slid to the ground, dragging the helmet off as she did so. Her hair hung into her eyes and she flicked it away with her fingers. She'd find something to tie it back before they went on.
"What do you know about the attack on you?"
She could tell him, but then she'd have to repeat the story to Quincy. "You can find all that out at my uncle's house. That way I only have to tell it once."
"I'd like to be prepared before we get there."
Tarlyn rolled her eyes. "Are you always so suspicious?"
Gray eyes stared down at her. He'd aged well in the last twenty years, still trim and strong, with that square jaw. A few lines creased around his eyes and his lips. "In the Fleet I've found it's wise to be suspicious. I saw people trying to capture you. Two of your escorts intervened. The others didn't."
Tarlyn's nerves tingled. He was right. That had been Maralyn and Jyrn. Jyrn had jumped off the back of the skimcycle, firing. Maralyn had shouted to her to come, quickly. Aarden, the bodyguard in the car, had put himself between her and the attackers, told her to get out, run. He was probably dead, too, along with Maralyn and Jyrn. She swallowed, forcing down the grief. "Men came out of the crowd. They said they were taking me to safety but it felt… wrong." Would he understand that surge of instinct that flashed in her mind like a neon sign? "They shot my bodyguards."
The words threatened to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to stop.
A finger lifted her chin. She forced herself to meet Brett's gaze. His lips quirked in a hint of a smile, but his eyes were sad. "It's not your fault, Tarlyn. Somebody planned a careful attack, and that somebody seems to want you alive. Queen Carmela is undoubtedly dead, and I expect the Ptorix with her is, too. I'd bet my commission the first explosion was intended to stop the ground car and the blast that destroyed the vehicle was from a missile. The second detonation would have killed anyone who came to the rescue. It's a typical terrorist action, designed to inflict maximum damage."
Tarlyn's head swam. "But who would do that?"
Brett guided her to a log and gently pushed her down. "What's your guess? Who would want the queen dead?"
She ran a hand through her hair and hit a tangle of knots. "I can't imagine. Carmela is… was popular. Mainly."
"Mainly?"
"She's changed. Ever since the Prince Consort died three years ago the queen has aged, sunken in on herself. The only thing she took any real interest in is the Ptorix. She surrounded herself with their weird, disturbing art, and tried to learn their language."
"Ah. Anti-Ptorix sentiments. It's simmered for centuries."
"Yes, that's true. But Queen Carmela was trying to mend fences with the Ptorix. The one in the ground car with her was the High Priestess from Berzhan Island. They're our equals: sentient, technologically equipped beings. We should be talking with them. They share our planet. Our galaxy." Even if they did have tentacles for arms, two mouths and three swirling eyes which reflected their mood.
This time Brett really did smile. "Very true. I've met several. And been in battles against them, too. But most Humans find them very hard to take. There's plenty of anti-Ptorix sentiment around."
"You think this is anti-Ptorix?"
He pursed his lips. "Maybe. I wonder if anyone has attacked Berzhan Island."
Tarlyn's heart jolted so hard she gasped. "My daughter's there."
Brett straightened, frowning. "Why? What's she doing there?"
"The queen thought it was a good idea for some of our initiates to spend some time getting to know the Ptorix and their magic dragons." Lena had wanted to go, begged to be allowed. Dread and guilt mixed an uneasy cocktail in Tarlyn's stomach. "I shouldn't have let her."
But it would be all right. Of course it would. "Uncle Cairn is superintendent of Ptorix affairs. He'll know if the island has been attacked and how to get Lena back here." Tarlyn pushed herself to her feet. "I'm certain he'll help."
Brett grabbed her arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. She stopped, staring up at him. Back then he wouldn't have argued with her, wouldn't have tried to stop her. Well, he needn't think he could give her orders just because he was a Fleet officer. She tried to jerk away. "Let go of me."
His fingers dug in. "Tarlyn, wait. I understand you want your daughter back, but I don't trust what's happening. Somebody in the inner circles may well be involved in this."
Tarlyn sat down again. "Why do you say that?"
"Because it happens so often. Power plays in government, where one faction ousts another."
"No. Not in Nestor," she said, shaking her head. "We've had a stable government under the Ruling Clan for over five hundred years."
Brett sighed. "Tarlyn, the Ruling Clan is an oligarchy. Nobody on Validor except the Ruling Clan has any sort of power, and the queen's authority comes from the Goddess. I know it's worked for a long time, but the antics of the Galactic People's Republic have put people off fundamentalists. You realize the GPR was plotting to kill anybody with implants?"
Lowering her head, she chewed her lip. Yes, they'd heard of what the GPR had planned. Everyone had condemned the idea. But a few said at least they'd be safe, because they didn't have implants. Her heart jolting, she stared up at Brett. "You think they're lumping us in with those people?"
He grinned mirthlessly. "Are you surprised?" He ticked the points off on his fingers. "You practice an archaic religion. You don't use implants. You don't even use force shields to protect the ground cars in a public procession. You limit the use of technology——except your police and military units seem to be pretty well equipped. Fleet Intelligence says there has been an increase in detentions, news feeds have been censored. Under the surface, the people aren't happy. The new opposition group, the Nestor Democratic League, is growing."
"You're suggesting revolution. It was probably them, the NDL, who murdered the queen."
"Maybe, but I doubt it. This wasn't a rush on the palace, it was a planned attack to remove the current leadership. I think it's much more likely that some of the people currently enjoying power have assessed the situation, and decided to make a move. And that's why I don't want to talk to your uncle."
Tarlyn stared at him. "Not my uncle."
"Tarlyn, he's a member of the security council—
"Exactly."
He sighed. "Which puts him in the perfect position to plan and execute this attack. He would know the exact timetable for the procession, and the route."
She couldn't accept it. Not Uncle Cairn. He'd always been nice, teaching her to ride and shoot, taking her out to the islands in his boat. And he adored Lena. "I don't believe you. And how do you know all this, anyway? You've been away for twenty years."
His grip loosened. "It's my job to have a passing knowledge of what's happening in the sector of the Galaxy where I'm stationed. That's this one. I have the details on my implant." His eyes took on that faraway look when people accessed their brain implant. Tarlyn had wondered what it felt like to have a sort of computer in your brain, but the Ruling Clan had dictated against them. They were artificial, unnatural.
Brett's focus adjusted back to her face. "Carmela has lost her touch. General Heveran has been quietly accumulating power, promoting his own people to key positions. He's popular with the military. And then there's Commissioner Ruthban. Very efficient, very thorough and completely without conscience. It's reported a few troublemakers have disappeared, including Damien Suderland, leader of the NDL. She's also anti-Ptorix."
.Tarlyn remembered General Heveran at the last formal dinner, punctiliously correct, except for that quickly-hidden sneer when the queen spoke about the Ptorix. And she'd never liked old hatchet-face 'ruthless' Ruthban, the city's police commissioner. "True. The recent wars haven't helped. There was talk about destroying Berzhan Island after the battle of Forenisi. Queen Carmela put a stop to that very firmly."
"But now she's gone." Brett pointed a finger at his temple. "I'm told Crown Princess Emerda is a strong woman who will make a good ruler. She'll have to be, to come back from this. If she survived."
"Yes. She will. But Brett, what if this is seen as a Ptorix plot? What if Heveran decides this is a nice chance to put a few missiles into Berzhan Island?" Her vision blurred. "I have to be sure Lena is safe." Tarlyn bit her lip, damning the incipient tears. "She's just a kid. Ten years old."
Brett put his arms around her and drew her against him. Despite the anonymous blue uniform she felt his strength and his comfort. She longed to relax, lean against his body, but she put her palms on his chest. "This isn't getting Lena back, Brett. Really, I trust Uncle Cairn. At the very least he adores Lena. I'm sure he'll help me get her back."
His body stiffened but he let her go, stepping back a pace. "Let's see what we can find out. Somebody is bound to have made an announcement. I can probably connect to a news service." He released her and returned to the skimcycle, where he fiddled with the controls.
After a moment he handed her a helmet. "Put this on and watch."
Tarlyn slipped the helmet over her head. It sealed to the neckline of her suit, then an image appeared before her eyes. Chaldo, wearing his red and blue dress uniform, his face grim, portraying his part as a resolute man of action like somebody out of a holovid. He spoke solemnly, pausing between sentences to let his words sink in.
"Citizens of Validor, I have grave news. It is with deep sadness I must tell you that Queen Carmela died today in a cowardly attack upon the advent procession. I am grieved to tell you that Crown Princess Emerda, who had hurried to her mother's side, was also killed in a second explosion."
He stopped, waiting for the eruption of dismay to die down. "I'll answer questions when I'm finished. This is clearly an orchestrated attack on the Ruling Clan. Other members have been targeted."
Another gasp from the listeners.
"What sort of attacks?" someone shouted.
"Attacks on property and at least one abduction."
The audience stirred, muttering. Tarlyn was sure she heard 'NDL' from more than one voice.
Chaldo made a stop gesture, palm out. "No details, the incidents are being investigated. I have instructed the police commissioner," here he gestured at Ruthban, "and our military leaders to leave no stone unturned in finding the perpetrators of these outrages. The center of the capital has sustained quite heavy damage. In the interests of law and order, and to prevent looting, we have instigated martial law. A curfew has been declared. All citizens must be off the streets between sunrise and sunset, or risk arrest. Military patrols will enforce compliance."
A voice interjected from somewhere in the invisible audience. "Do you have any clues as to who might have done this? Is it a Ptorix plot?"
Chaldo's mouth jerked in a parody of a smile. "The queen's Ptorix guest was also killed." He leaned forward, frowning. "We have no evidence the Ptorix are involved in this attack, and we will not stoop to revenge attacks. But if the Ptorix were involved, they will be brought to account."
Murmurs of agreement came from the listeners.
"I have taken direct responsibility for finding those who killed my beloved wife and my mother-in-law." Chaldo's lips thinned. "Let the perpetrators take heed."
Tarlyn turned off the vision and removed her helmet. "Huh."
Brett's left eyebrow arched.
She snorted. "Chaldo. All hand on heart and sworn on revenge for his 'beloved wife'. He and Emerda barely tolerated each other. Mind you, I don't blame him." Emerda was an out-and-out bitch.
Something glittered in Brett's eyes. "What he said about a Ptorix plot was right. Berzhan Island isn't in danger. The last thing anybody wants is another inter-species war. I'm sorry to have distressed you. It's my job to consider all possibilities."
"Can we at least call her? Call the island?"
He hesitated. "It's not wise, not if somebody is looking for you."
Brett simply didn't understand what it was to be a mother. Never mind. She felt a little better about it. Lena was with people who would look after her. "It doesn't matter. Let's go to Aunt Cicely's house and maybe at least get a change of clothes."
***
Butcher turned back to the skimcycle, fitting the helmet over his head. Why had he been so idiotic as to try to put his arms around her? She was probably still missing her husband. What had he, Brett Butcher, been to her? Just a lad prepared to help her get into mischief and fix up her math homework. He'd always known there was no future in it. All right, now he was a Confederacy Fleet captain. But he was still the son of a shopkeeper. That would never change.
As for the situation with the Ptorix—judging by Chaldo's words, he'd have to admit it worried him. 'If the Ptorix were involved, they will be brought to account.' How would that be achieved without some sort of attack? He should report to the Confederacy Fleet when he could.
He stood beside the machine, his hand on the seat. "I don't want to go to your aunt and uncle's front door. Is there another way in, less obvious?"
"Why?"
"Because even if you trust your aunt and uncle, you can't afford to trust all their people." She tilted her head, ready to argue. "Remember what happened with your own staff?"
She looked away. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "If you keep inside the trees here, but follow the line of the road, a little further along the road crosses a bridge over a creek. There's a track off to the left."
Excellent. But on this shiny white skimcycle, wearing sky blue suits, they'd stand out like dog's bollocks. Surely these machines were used for more than ceremonial purposes. Butcher checked the skimcycle's specs, looking for its stealth capabilities. The systems were old by Fleet standards, but he could set on the cloak to keep tracking at bay. That also engaged auto-camouflage, so the skimcycle would blend into whatever environment it was in. Yes, indeed. The shiny white skin became mottled and matte, blending into the landscape. The suits would have a similar function, activated via the helmet controls. He found the menu labeled 'suit' and selected the 'camo' option. The toggle had obviously worked. Tarlyn was gaping at him. "Wow," she said. "If I didn't know you were there, I wouldn't see you. How did you do that?"
"There's a menu in the helmet labeled 'suit'. Select the option for 'camo'."
Her sky blue suit shimmered, then settled into a green and brown pattern that matched their surroundings.
He grinned. "Good, isn't it? I feel a lot happier now. Mount up, let's go."
Butcher kept the skimcycle low, zig-zagging between the trees, following the line of the road, occasionally glimpsed between the trunks to his right. The sun was well past noon, now casting long shadows. He stopped once, when an aircraft passed overhead, lower than he would have expected.
"Looking for us? Me?" Tarlyn whispered.
"Maybe. Just being cautious." Even if he did have the cloaking device engaged. If he'd had searchers up there, he would have made sure they knew to look for signs of cloaked activity, like vegetation moving where no wind blew, or startled animals running from nothing.
Butcher lifted the skimcycle over a fence that bordered a field of golden grain, and plunged into deep forest. Huge old trees huddled together, their wide branches providing a thick canopy over a carpet of leaf mold. Bushes and ferns grew in such profusion that visibility couldn't have been more than a few meters on either side.
Something broke from cover and bolted, little more than a flurry of legs before they were well past.
"Pronkhorn," Tarlyn said. "Uncle lets them roam wild here."
Which explained this piece of natural forest. Butcher was grateful. The narrow strip of trees skirting the fields provided only a little cover. He slowed down, dodging between the thick trunks until a glimmer of light appeared ahead. He pulled up next to a forest giant at the edge of a gravel beach. Water burbled in a rocky bed. Away to the right the road rose over a moss-covered stone arch.
"Go around this tree, away from the bridge. You should see the track there," Tarlyn said.
He did as she asked. If she hadn't told him about the track he might have missed it. Narrow and overgrown, it snaked between the trees, little more than a seldom used animal trail. Further along it crossed the stream at a point where the water dug deep between flat rocks, providing a natural causeway. Butcher took note of the sun as they crossed. Late afternoon light bronzed the edges of the leaves, a reminder that Fall was not too far away. On the far side of the stream the track widened.
Butcher stopped. "Where does this lead?"
"To the yard at the back of the house."
It would have to do. If it came to the worst, he'd just pretend he was one of Chaldo's men, on the hunt for Tarlyn. No one would recognize her in the suit. He rode on through the forest until they reached a high stone wall. A blast of power lifted the machine up and over. The alarm started as the skimcycle settled, a high-pitched screech that set Butcher's teeth on edge. The sound competed with the deep baying of two huge dogs bounding from wherever they'd been, their coats bristling, fangs glistening.
Butcher's hand darted for his pistol, but Tarlyn reached out to stop him, resting her hand on his. "Don't." The brief contact set his heart aflutter.
She slipped off the skimcycle onto the ground, stripping off her helmet. "It's fine, boys. It's me."
The larger of the two brutes closed his mouth, his nose twitching as he stretched his neck to sniff. The second animal stood ready, growling, his gaze fixed on Butcher. He put his hand on the pistol, ready if he needed it. The weapon was set to stun. He had no wish to kill a dog doing its duty. Besides, it was clear Tarlyn knew the beasts. She crouched, her arm stretched out. The dog took two steps closer, then he grinned, tongue lolling, tail wagging. A little prance of pure joy and he butted his head into her chest so hard she nearly fell over, catching hold of the massive head by his ears. She laughed as the dog licked her face.
"Razor." The voice was old, but sharp and commanding.
Butcher jumped, his hand back on his pistol. Where had this fellow come from? The old man wore camouflaged clothing and carried an old style hunting rifle.
Tarlyn disentangled herself from the dog, looking up at the newcomer. "Quincy. How are you?"
Quincy's eyebrows shot up. "Mistress Tarlyn." He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the house. "Quickly. Take the skimcycle around behind the barn. I'll be back."
Butcher powered the accelerator gently, making as little noise has he could, glancing at the rear view in the helmet to check that Tarlyn followed. She did, with the dogs trotting after her until Quincy called them back. "Razor, Carson, come."
Butcher switched off the engine and turned up the sensors in the helmet. Quincy was speaking into a comlink attached to his tunic. "Sensors show a gambrel prowling around the perimeter. They're getting bolder as the year passes."
"After my pronkhorn, I suppose. Do something about it, Quincy."
"Right you are, m'lord. I'll set traps," Quincy said.
"Was that second voice your uncle?" Butcher asked.
Tarlyn nodded.
Heavy footsteps approached. Butcher lowered his pistol when he recognized Quincy, but he didn't put it away. He pressed the control to make the helmet's face plate transparent.
The old man stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed. "Do I know you?"
"No. I'm Tarlyn's friend."
Quincy's eyes slid to Tarlyn, who had removed her helmet. "An old friend, Quincy." She said. "You've heard what happened?"
His shoulders sagged. "Yes. Sad about the queen and the crown princess." He frowned, his gaze intense. "But weren't you there?"
"I was, yes. Some men tried to drag me off, but Colm here rescued me and got me out. I thought I'd be safe here."
Colm. As good a name as any, Butcher supposed, as long as it wasn't his real name.
The old man's eyebrows shot up. "You're being chased? Who by?"
"I don't know. Colm and I think it might be someone in the government."
Frowning, Quincy glanced over his shoulder. "You think your uncle's got something to do with this?"
Butcher could have kissed him. Well, almost. Tarlyn couldn't hide her surprise. "I… I don't know. Why do you say that?"
Quincy shrugged. "Lady Cicely went to the ceremony. He was supposed to be feeling poorly, put he perked up after she'd left. Right now, he's talking via holovid with Duke Chaldo. He's been doing that a lot lately."
Butcher noted the hint of derision in the man's tone, aimed at his master or Duke Chaldo, or possibly both. Interesting. Maybe Admiral Duke Chaldo wasn't quite the apple of everybody's eye.
"Is Aunt's skycar still here?" Tarlyn asked.
Quincy shook his head.
Tarlyn chewed at her lip. "Damn. Lena's on Berzhan Island. I want to get her back."
The old man nodded. "If you're planning on getting to Berzhan Island, you'll either have to contact the temple and have the Ptorix fetch you, or go by boat."
Tarlyn's gaze slid to meet Butcher's.
"I doubt the Ptorix will be willing to oblige, since the High Priestess was killed in the procession," Butcher said. "I expect they'd be pretty concerned at events, and not in any hurry to escalate the situation."
"I agree. We'd better take the boat." Tarlyn raised her chin, challenging him. "You don't need to come."
"You don't want me to come?" Butcher pushed aside the pang of hurt. He couldn't expect to just walk back into her life. He'd changed. She'd changed. They both had marriages, daughters.
She moistened her lips. "It's not your problem."
No, but he'd seen the signs, the stalwart 'I'll manage' in the set of her shoulders and the way she swallowed after she'd spoken. Stupid how his spirit soared. "For old times' sake, Tarlyn. It's the least I can do."
Quincy had been following the conversation, looking from one to the other. "I'm not going to ask questions. But if you want to take the boat, best do it now." He glanced back at the house. "He'll start to wonder where I am."
"Won't he notice if we take the boat?" Tarlyn said.
"Nah. This time of year he doesn't come down here much. If he does notice, I'll tell him I've sent the boat for maintenance."
"What about this?" Butcher asked, pointing at the skimcycle.
"I'll hide it for you, in case you come back. Leave it here." Quincy turned, beckoning them with a wave of his arm. "Come on. This way."
They followed him to a paved path that led through a gate in the wall. The dogs came with them, both of them pushing up under Tarlyn's hands for a pat. Now their boss had accepted Butcher, they ignored him. What little breeze there had been had died away with the onset of evening. Ahead the last of the light cast reflections onto a flat expanse of dark water. In the west the sun had begun to sink into a band of cloud.
"That's not a good sign." Tarlyn nodded at the sky.
Quincy glanced up. "It's supposed to slip away."
Butcher assumed the stream they'd crossed flowed into this much larger water course. He brought up the map from his implant as he walked. This was an almost enclosed bay, with a channel between cliffs leading out into the open ocean. Strange that there didn't seem to be any sign of habitation apart from the house they'd just left.
Quincy unlocked the door leading out to a well-maintained jetty where two boats were moored. He stopped at the first one, its sleek black hull perched on the water like a cat poised on a starting line. Her name, Windrush, was inscribed in flowing letters at her bow. "She's ready to go. Good luck. And give Lena a hug from me."
Tarlyn gave the old man a hug and a peck on the cheek. Butcher shoved down the curl of jealousy. Quincy was a friend, that was all. Then again, so was he. Yes, he'd wanted to be more than just a friend. But that happened in the romance holovids his wife used to watch. Quincy locked the gate behind him, then his figure blended into the shadows as he walked away with his two dogs beside him.