The central figure was Lesho, squat and swarthy, with black, curly hair and a tufty beard. He was wearing a suit woven from silvery thread, with a jeweled pendant over his shirt and heavy rings on his hands. The two Jevlenese with him could have been underworld thugs anywhere from Manila to Marseilles. There was no channel fifty-six available, and the talk had to be via Murray’s pidgin Jevlenese.
“He’ll take us to the local Ichena capo,” Murray yelled into Hunt’s ear. He pointed at Cullen. “Just him, you, and me go. The two Frankenstein brothers stay here.”
“You expect us to trust human nature?” Cullen protested. “They’re our security.”
Murray showed his empty hands. “You want to talk, not him. That’s the deal.”
Hunt looked at Cullen. Cullen shrugged and nodded. “What’s the choice?” He called Koberg and Lebansky over and explained the position. They looked uneasy, but accepted it.
Murray exchanged some more words in Jevlenese. Lesho finished his drink and stood up. “Let’s go,” Murray said.
On a sacred mount in the Rinjussin wilderness, Thrax stood on the Ascension Rock, staring up at the night sky. Shingen-Hu was nearby, arms outstretched, while around them the circle of cowled monks focused their minds on the shimmering thread of current curving down from the blackness, trapped by their combined powers and being drawn ever closer to the peak.
Thrax had never seen a current flowing so closely before. Inside it he could discern the filaments of iridescence, twisting, dividing, pulsing, recombining, as if each one moved with a life-force of its own. He could make out the patterns formed within the whole, coming together and dissolving, ever-changing as they danced and mixed with the rhythm of the flow.
In normal times, he would have spent much of his training absorbing the visions of Hyperia that the currents carried, before he rose up with them. Shingen-Hu, however, had relaxed that requirement, since these days the currents were too few and too precious for an attempt not to be made. Thrax trusted the Master’s judgment and had accepted the decision.
“Prepare thyself, Thrax,” Shingen-Hu called across to him. “The current comes lower. In a moment you must reach out.”
“I am prepared, Master,” Thrax replied.
He took a last look around him at the hills outlined vaguely in the darkness, which was the last sight he would see of the world he had known. When an adept arose out of Waroth, his physical body dematerialized to merge its substance into the current, so that only his spirit would enter the new being that he was to become. If he ever saw Waroth again it would be through the eyes of one of the Inspired, inside whose mind he would return to speak.
“Remember, your task shall be to serve the spiral of Nieru,” Shingen-Hu intoned. “Seek those who follow the sign.”
On another peak, not far away, Keyalo was watching the glowing ribbon of current looping downward above the mass of rock rising dimly on the far side of a gorge. Ethendor was with him, with a company of priests projecting their own attractive powers upward toward the current. Also standing by were two of the rare fire knights, adepts who had chosen to dedicate their powers to the development of martial skills, and whose services were sought by the kings of all nations. Behind them, flexing their wings and rattling their tether chains in their impatience to be released, stood six fearsome griffins with their handlers.
“The moment is near. Prepare thyself,” Ethendor warned. “I am prepared, Master!” Keyalo cried.
The rendezvous was at a corner opposite a small park. Remembering from the drive into the city the canopies with their simulated skies that enclosed some parts but not others, Hunt was unable to tell if the pale green darkening into evening overhead was real or artificial. It seemed a better class of neighborhood, cleaner and with the buildings well maintained, although Lesho had brought them only a few blocks. One of the things that had struck Hunt about Shiban was the way that the entire character of the surroundings could change abruptly, sometimes by simply crossing a street.
A shiny limousine drew up noiselessly. Two men-strong-arm characters by the look of them-climbed out from the front and checked Murray, Hunt, and Cullen for weapons. One of them said something in Jevlenese to Lesho, who raised a hand in salutation to Murray, nodded briefly at the other two, and walked away. Then a door of the rear compartment opened, revealing two sets of seats facing each other, with those on one side occupied by three more men: in the center, a broad, craggy-faced man with cropped gray hair, who reminded Hunt vaguely of Caldwell and who was presumably the capo, and what looked like two bodyguards. Murray stepped forward to the doorway, and there was another muttered exchange of Jevlenese. Then he climbed in and moved across the empty seats, motioning for Hunt and Cullen to follow. One of the two men who had gotten out first closed the door behind them, then returned with his companion to the front. There was the sound of more doors closing, and the vehicle pulled away.
“His name is Scirio,” Murray informed Hunt. “He wants to know why it’s so important for you to find this guy Baumer.” In an aside he added, “He knows you’re from PAC, and suspects anyone who’s mixed up with the Administration-especially Terrans. They know what Earth-style governments tend to mean for their kind of business.”
“Tell him I’m not interested in his business. That’s why we’ve come here unofficially like this. Baumer has information on somebody whose gone missing, who we’ve reason to believe might be in danger.”
Murray conveyed the message. Then, “Why should he help you? He’s a businessman. What’s in it for him?”
“He understands protection, right? This is to do with an interplanetary situation that involves the politics between Jevlen and Earth. If we don’t get any satisfaction unofficially, then other people are going to do it officially. And they won’t fool around. In other words, it’s either a friendly favor to us or a police bust. Which does he want?”
Murray translated. Scirio laughed and spat out a stream of what was clearly derision, emphasized by gestures and a final throwing-away motion.
“He farts in the faces of the Shiban police. They’re all assholes, and wouldn’t know how to bust their way into an empty room. In any case, he owns them. We have to do better than that.”
“Then try this,” Cullen said, cutting in. “There are big players moving to get the Ganymeans out of Jevlen and replace them with a Terran occupation backed by a military force. That’s what we’re
trying to stop. If we fail, what would that do to his business?”
Murray passed it on, and Scirio went very quiet; Then he called out something in a raised voice to one of the two men in front.
“He’s gonna call the head office,” Murray muttered.
A tone sounded from somewhere. Scirio opened a small compartment in a divider between two of the seats and took out a telephone handset-apparently whoever was on the other end and what was said were private matters.
Speaking in a low voice, Scino told Grevetz the situation. Grevetz, in his villa outside the city, pondered. The German that the Terrans were trying to trace was the one Iduane had said to get rid of. But if the Ganymeans and Terrans were showing that much concern, it might lead to real problems. He ought to double-check with Eubeleus before doing anything drastic, he decided. He could always get rid of Baumer tomorrow if Eubeleus still wanted him to. But if he did it today and it turned out to be not such a good idea for some reason, that would be less easy to fix.
“Have you got any idea where this guy they’re looking for is?” he asked Scirio.
“If he’s not anywhere they’ve tried, then he’ll be freaking out in the club,” Scino replied.