Knew the Halds, and the man Pol, who was dangerous, whose House and sept had clear reason to hate the Meth-marens. He fought the muffling hand, and had no strength in his limbs or his hands, scarcely even the power to lift them.
“Be very still.” Pol leaned close, his breath fanning his cheek. “I’ve talked my way in here, you see. The majat is watching…such moves as they have eyes to see. Do you hear me, azi?”
He tried to nod against the hand. He could scarcely breathe; words passed out of sense again.
“I told you to stay downstairs.”
“Let him go.” Max’s voice. Jim struggled back toward the sound, toward understanding. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”
“But you have. Get the Warrior out of here. Guard the door if you like. Leave me with him.”
Max, Jim wanted to say. He murmured something. Max did not answer.
“Get downstairs,.” Pol Hald said. “Hear me?”
The crack of authority was in his voice. Jim winced at it. Max went. The door closed. Pol Hald rose and locked it, and Jim rolled onto his side, holding the chair arm, fighting to move at all. Pol returned, caught his arms, jerked at him. His head snapped back with a crack: muscle control was gone. He could not even lift it.
“Shuttle’s down,” Pol said, “but not in either port. Where is she? Come out of it and answer me.”
He could not. He tried to shake his head to protest the fact. Pol flung him down, let him alone; steps retreated, came back—he was roughly lifted and a cup held to his lips.
“Drink it, hear? If there’s a mind left in you. Was it her order you did this?”
He drank. The water eased his throat. Pol let him back then, and touched wet fingers to his temples. He shut his eyes and drifted, came back again to a faint rattling of plastic.
“Kontrin tapes,” Pol muttered. “History. Law. Comp theory—blast! where did she get that one?” He thought that it was safe to rest while the voice railed elsewhere, but suddenly the hands fastened into his toneless limbs again and pressed to the bone. “Why, azi?”
He lay still, looking at Pol, and Pol at him.
“You know me,” Pol said. “ Don’t you?You know me.”
He blinked, no more than that. It was truth. Pol understood it.
And slowly Pol sank down beside the chair, gripped his arm quite gently. “You’re sane. Don’t think you can pretend it undid you. I’ve seen suicides by deepstudy. You’re not gone. You’re lying there with your teeth shut on everything, but I understand, you hear? You’ve studied what you ought not. I’m not dealing with an azi, am I? You’re something else. How long have you been delving into those particular tapes?”
He answered nothing, and there was knowledge in his mind, memory of the Family, what he could expect of Halds.
“She ordered this? She set you to suicide?”
“Not suicide.” The accusation that touched her, stung him. “No. I. My choice. To learn.”
“And what have you learned, azi?”
“My name is Jim.”
“You have, haven’t you?”
He thought that Pol would kill him. He expected so, but there was nothing he could do about it; he tried to move, and Pol helped instead of hindering, hauled him forward to sit on the edge, put a glass into his hand. He expected water and got juice, gagged on it. “Drink it,” Pol snapped at him, and when he had done so, dragged him bodily into the bath and into the shower, turned the water on him. He sank down, too weak to stand, and leaned against the glass.
It was Max who pulled him from it. Max’s strong hands lifted him, half-carried him to the bed.
“Pol,” he objected. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs.” The guard-azi looked at him in anguish. “He came to the gate outside—said she’sin trouble. What do we do? What orders?”
Max was asking him. He stared at the azi. Nothing made sense. There was only the single word. She.
He snatched at his abandoned clothing, looked up suddenly at a move in the open doorway. Pol stood there, a shape among shadows.
“The mind’s working now, isn’t it? More than these that could be argued into letting the likes of me into the house.”
It was. Jim looked reproach at Max, and suddenly realised a gulf between. He did not know what he should and knew more than gave him comfort. His knees went out from under him and he had to lean, caught wildly at the chair.
“You’ve thrown yourself into shock,” Pol said “The body won’t stand that kind of insult; throws metabolism into erratic patterns. Help him, azi.”
Max did so, caught him and set him down, grasped his arms. “What do we do?” Max asked of him. “He’s not armed. We saw to that.” Max tugged and pulled the clothes onto him, shook at his arms. “Warriors are all about. He can’tdo any damage. Can he, Jim? He talks about her, about some trouble. What are we supposed to do? You’re to give the orders. What?”
He fought nausea, looked up at the Hald. “The first thing is not to trust him. He’s older and wiser than we.”
Pol grinned. “You’ve studied Raen’s tapes. Her mind-set. You reckon that, azi? That you areher mind-set?”
“The second thing,” Jim said, resisting the soft voice that unravelled him, “is to make doubly sure that he isn’t armed.”
Pol solemnly spread open his hands. “I swear.”
“And never believe him.” He was shaking, violently. He sat still, conserving the energy he had in him, tried to think past the pains in his joints and the contractions of his stomach. Blood pressure, a forgotten tidbit of information surfaced, explaining the intense feeling that his head was bursting. “You think you can take this house. You won’t.”
The Family would kill him, he thought If Raen were lost, he would die. If Raen survived, it was possible that she would kill him for what he had done. Neither was important at the moment. The necessity was not to let the Hald get control of the staff.
“Search him again, Max,” he said.
Pol bristled. Max approached him with deference—evidence of how little thorough that first search had been; but Pol submitted, and it was done, with great care.
“I’m not alone now,” Pol said, the while Max proceeded. “There’s another of the Family here. I have to contact the Meth-maren. You understand me. The time has come. He’ll be here. He’ll not be subtle; he’ll not need to be. The whole house is vulnerable.”
“Who?” Jim asked.
“Morn. Morn a Ren hant Hald.”
That name too he knew. First cousin to Pol. Travelling companion. Experienced in assassination.
“You often appear together,” Jim said. “You make jokes. He kills.”
Pol’s face reacted, to Max’s searching or to an azi’s presumption. He frowned and nodded slowly. “Morn is nothing to trifle with. You understand that at least. I’ll get her out of here. You listen to me, azi.”
“Jim.”
“I can get her off this world. Elsewhere. Out of the Family’s hands. I have a ship waiting at the port. I have to reach her in time.”
Jim shook his head slowly.
“You know,” Pol said, as Max finished; he brushed distastefully at his clothing. “You know where she is.”
“No, ser. You know well she wouldn’t tell me.”
“She would have established other contacts. Other points. Numbers, records. Names.”
“She wouldn’t have confided them to me.”
“There had to be records.”
“Max!” Jim said. “Have Warrior keep a guard about the comp centre. Now. Do it! Warrior!”
Max moved, drew his gun: Pol’s instant move was stopped cold. The Hald stepped back, then.
And there was a shadow in the door, that filled it, moiré eyes that swept them. “This-unit guardsss,” it said.