It occurred to Ruiz that he was probably as close to death as he had ever been — but the notion carried no urgency. He considered that, his thoughts painfully sluggish. Drugs? Cerebral suppressor field? Terminal weariness? It hardly mattered, if he could not somehow push himself past the cobwebs that wrapped his mind.
The clatter of steel-shod boots echoed through the hall, much louder than the soft shuffle of bare feet. He looked up to see a pair of mirrorsuited guards moving toward them.
They halted in front of him. “Come,” one said.
He got to his feet, feeling dizzy. The guards turned and moved away; Ruiz staggered after. As he passed Nisa, he glanced down. She looked up at him, eyes huge, beautiful mouth trembling. She reached toward his hand, but he was already past and her fingers missed his by a meter.
He didn’t dare turn back.
The guards conducted him to a transport coffin, an alloy box with padded restraint cuffs. He considered escape just before they thrust him into the coffin, but the thought of a naked man whose muscles could barely respond to his will attacking two well-trained armed men in mirrorsuits — it was so ludicrous that a smile twitched at his mouth, even as they closed the lid.
He waited in the darkness of the box, a stink of ancient terror filling his nostrils.
After a while the box jerked, and they began to move. Ruiz tried to feel the changes of direction, to get some notion of where they were going, but several times they paused and the box whirled, so that Ruiz was completely confused long before they reached their destination.
He waited in stillness for another measureless time.
Finally he heard the clatter of latches as the box was opened. Light flooded in, stabbing his eyes.
He squinted, and after a moment he saw the affable face of Gejas peering into the box. “Ruiz Aw?” asked Gejas. “Comfort boy?”
Something in the tongue’s manner told Ruiz that his small deception had collapsed, but he had no choice but to play it to the end. “Yes, sir.”
“Come out, then,” said Gejas.
Ruiz stumbled forth, almost falling in his weakness. Gejas caught his arm in a crushing grip. “Steady, Ruiz,” he said.
Ruiz raised his eyes. He was in a small sumptuous room, lit softly by golden lamps, which threw their light up against sparkly white quartzite walls. A desk of polished copperwood filled one end of the room. He stood ankle deep in a carpet of some soft blond fiber, fine as baby hair. He looked down and shuddered. Perhaps it was baby hair.
Gejas shook his head. “This will never do. Presently The Yellowleaf will arrive, and you must be coherent.” He took a small skinjector from his pocket and pressed it to Ruiz’s thigh.
Almost instantly Ruiz began to feel better. Gejas released him and stepped back. The Roderigan’s eyes glittered and to Ruiz he suddenly seemed an avatar of alertness, wariness personified — as though he could never be taken by surprise.
“Stand easy, now, Ruiz Aw,” said Gejas. “The Yellow-leaf comes.”
At the far end, behind the desk, a door slid open silently, and The Yellowleaf stepped through. She wore the same shipsuit, but now her ear ornament was a string of tiny jade beads, from which hung a black opal carved in the shape of a rose.
Ruiz glanced aside at Gejas and was caught by the strangeness of the tongue’s affect. That preternatural wariness had shifted and narrowed its focus; Gejas appeared to be oblivious of everything but the hetman, eyes shining, vulpine features alight with concentration. Ruiz had the impression that he might do almost anything, and Gejas would not notice, could not notice. It occurred to Ruiz that for each new defensive adaptation, a new vulnerability appeared.
On the other hand, if he were now to attempt to wring Gejas’s neck, The Yellowleaf would surely notice, and then Gejas would know.
He shook himself. Were these pointless fancies the result of the drug Gejas had used to revive him? Even if he managed to best Gejas, The Yellowleaf was probably at least as formidable physically, and surely her safety was guarded by automated weapons systems.
“The Yellowleaf greets you, Ruiz Aw,” said Gejas in a voice subtly different from his own — slightly breathless, a little higher pitched.
Ruiz was unsure of the proper etiquette, so he smiled as obsequiously as he could and bobbed his head.
Without seeming to take any of his concentration from the hetman, Gejas swung his fist up and into the back of Ruiz’s head. Ruiz found himself on all fours, shaking bright spots from his vision. Apparently the drug hadn’t entirely restored his strength.
“Kneel to greet The Yellowleaf,” said Gejas.
Ruiz nodded groggily. Gejas’s boot lifted him off the carpet and he landed on his back, clutching his ribs.
“Say ‘Yes, Master.'”
“Yes, Master,” said Ruiz. He wondered how they managed to get the bloodstains out of the thick carpet; it looked so clean.
“On your feet,” said Gejas.
“Yes, Master.” Ruiz struggled to his feet and found that he could stand up, despite the pain in his ribs.
He looked up to find The Yellowleaf examining him with an intensity almost as great as Gejas had directed at her. Her regard was a vastly colder thing, however, and in that passionless gaze Ruiz felt small and insignificant.
Ruiz looked back at her as humbly as he could, but he was conscious of a great fascination. What did Gejas the tongue see in those frozen eyes, that still face? What dreadful deeds had she ordered with that nonexpression? Had Gejas ever misinterpreted her will, and what had the consequences been for the tongue? His manner suggested a man trapped in an obsessive passion; how much was love and how much terror?
“The Yellowleaf asks: You claim to be a comfort boy named Ruiz Aw; is this true?”
“Yes, Master.”
She smiled a tiny cruel smile. Gejas said, “The Yellow-leaf asks: Where have you plied your trade?”
“Master, I’ve worked on Dilvermoon, in Bo’eme… at the Palace of Passionate Pulchritude, at the Club Demesne, at the Red Donkey. I’ve also served on SeedCorp liners, though in an unofficial capacity.”
“The Yellowleaf observes: An engine-room whore.”
“Yes, Master.”
Her smile widened fractionally. Gejas spoke on. “The Yellowleaf observes: A rough trade. The Yellowleaf asks: How did your beauty survive intact?”
“Master, I was lucky enough to obtain a patron.”
“The Yellowleaf asks: How did you come to Sook?”
“Master, my patron sold me.”
“The Yellowleaf observes: An old story.”
“Yes, Master.”
A silence fell. In that small room with two other people, Ruiz had never felt so alone. The air seemed charged with communication to which he was deaf; but he could feel it, like a bone-deep shiver.
Finally Gejas spoke again. “The Yellowleaf mentions: She has a squad of Daccan shock troops who have recently worn out their playpretty. Perhaps she will give you to them. The Yellowleaf asks: Would you like that?”
Ruiz knew he must respond or be hurt, but it wasn’t easy. Several times he had come into unwilling contact with Daccan troops; they were little better than flesh and bone killmechs, living only for cruelty and the most basic of pleasures, bred down to loyal bestiality. They were a poor choice for a tactically demanding mission, but excellent for punishing helpless conquered populations.
“Yes, Master,” he finally said. What choice did he have, but to play out his role?
The Yellowleaf smiled a little more broadly, showing red-enameled teeth.
“The Yellowleaf observes: You are either incredibly brave or abysmally stupid. The Yellowleaf asks: Which is it?”
“Master, I’m not brave.”
The Yellowleaf laughed soundlessly, an eerie thing to watch. But almost instantly her face smoothed back into an expressionless mask.