Under the Eye of God (10 page)

For his part, Drydel didn't share the Lady's particular disdain; he found d'Vashti's cruel ruthlessness attractive. That d'Vashti stank of dangerous ambition only made him more interesting, not less. If d'Vashti kept on consolidating his authority, who knew what might happen—especially if Khallanin suddenly disappeared from the political equation. Would d'Vashti pick up all the pieces? Or would they scatter like spores on the wind? How many would land in his garden? Or the Lady's? The situation held no small potential—and Drydel had his plans too.

—Finally, at long last, the Imperial Heralds raised their horns and blew their most expectant notes. Everyone looked up in expectation. And then, as if in answer to a prayer, the towering dark gates at the crest of the stairs parted in majestic glory, opening to reveal a lambent white blaze of light beyond.

Now the Heralds trumpeted with new excitement, and a procession of glistening warrior-lizards entered in proud precise formation; they wore the black and scarlet uniforms of the Zashti clan and carried the colors of their individual Houses on high standards. They all had gaudy ornaments and warpaint appropriate to their high stations. As they descended, each pair of Dragons peeled off from the front of the march and took up ceremonial positions on either side of the staircase. Thus, they lined the course of the Lady's downward procession.

Following them came the Lady Zillabar's personal retinue, Captain Naye-Ninneya and the squad of six personal Dragons. Much larger than the warrior-lizards, more brutal-looking and more dangerous, they came down the stairs as if they owned them. They fanned out at the bottom and waited.

The Heralds paused—the silence smelled of heady expectation—then proudly, the musicians played the
Zashti Entrance March
. The blaring notes of triumph filled the hall and as they echoed loudly, the Lady Zillabar appeared . . . she looked almost tiny in the towering light of the doorway. She waited for the applause to start, and then began a stately measured descent to the floor of the gallery.

Having found discretion impossible, the Lady had gone for impact instead. She wore a luminous blaze of twinkling diamond mist and sparkling crystal shards—no color at all and all colors at once, it reflected and dazzled and blinded. The Lady Zillabar had become a fantastic apparition of woven light. One could not look directly at her; neither could one look away politely.

d'Vashti squinted and frowned and shielded his eyes. His vision burned painfully. He could see only blurs. The Lady had outsmarted them again, himself and Lord Khallanin. She had upstaged the Prefect in his own palace. The applause came thundering in waves around him. It rose and rose, roaring in his ears like the Lady's own rebuke; the tumultuous clapping went on and on and on. He glanced sideways at his mentor, unsurprised to see that Lord Khallanin applauded as enthusiastically as all the rest. Whatever feelings he might have written on his inner face, he showed only delight on his outer one. The Prefect had not survived this long by luck.

d'Vashti had to admire the Lady's style. He recognized the elegance of her maneuver. She'd never say a word about this; she wouldn't have to. Instead, she'd treat him with exquisite courtesy while he squirmed in shame and resentment.

She approached. Lord Zarr Khallanin and Kernel Sleestak d'Vashti both went down on one knee before her, bowing their heads low and spreading out their arms in total deference. The Lady let them stay that way for a long painful moment, much longer than usual, while she regarded them both dispassionately. She made them hold the position to the point of embarrassment; her way of reminding Lord Khallanin—and in particular, d'Vashti, the architect of this moment—exactly where the real power still rested. d'Vashti thought he heard a stifled laugh behind him; he flushed with anger; later he'd run the tapes and find out exactly who found his public mortification so amusing. He'd show that one the meaning of true humor. At last, the Lady acknowledged their devotion with a nod and bade them rise.

To Lord Khallanin, she displayed her most gracious smile. She did not hold him responsible for the attempt at her public embarrassment. The Lady knew better. She allowed him to kiss her outstretched hand, and she responded with a throaty purr. “Your service always brings me satisfaction.” Then she turned to d'Vashti. She did not extend her hand, she merely met his shadowed eyes with cruel study. “Never forget,” she said so quietly that only he could hear, “that service must flow upward before it can flow down again.”

Kernel d'Vashti stifled the first thought that came into his mind. Instead, he carefully inclined his head in a curt, socially correct, nod of gratitude. “I thank you for your wisdom, Lady Zillabar. As always, you bring—
enlightenment
.” He spread his hands wide to include the painfully bright, shimmering veils that enveloped her. Soon, his eyes would begin watering. If he used his handkerchief to dab at the tears, people would notice. If he did not, they would still notice.
The cunning witch
.

“Thank you for noticing.” Zillabar beamed disarmingly. She looked to Khallanin and said, “Come now, let's conclude this tedious ceremony and all go someplace where we can sit and chat together.” She reached for Lord Khallanin, pulling him forward in her wake, and then she paused as if remembering, turned back and laid one delicate hand across d'Vashti's arm—a touch that felt disturbingly like the cold flicker of a snake—and she smiled sweetly. “Do please join us. I have so much to say to both of you.”

d'Vashti bowed again, a gracious and courtly movement. “I welcome your words, my Lady.”

“How kind of you to say so.”

The Pavilion of Night appeared to float high above the distant red-baked sands.

Towering panels of diamond-flecked obsidian outlined the hall. Tall windows opened out onto the distant desert floor so very far below. The lights of the rift-city glimmered softly on the horizon. The foreglow of the Eye of God had already begun to light up the edge of the world and the entire vista had taken on a peaceful desolate quality that only a Vampire's eyes could truly appreciate.
²²

Lady Zillabar took her time admiring the view and collecting her thoughts. She wanted to let the others stew for a long terrifying moment in their own anxiety, but at the moment, she didn't have the patience. She still carried too much anger and frustration; she had to let it out
now
. Despite her temporary return to dreamtime, she knew that she still remained much too irritable. She would have to keep this meeting short.

Abruptly, she turned to Khallanin, to d'Vashti, to Drydel, and to the Dragon Lord. “The TimeBinder on Burihatin appears to have died—or so my sources believe. Unfortunately, his death apparently did not occur in circumstances conducive to our goals. We have not yet found the headband. The officers who accepted the assignment of procuring the headband did not complete their mission satisfactorily—they have also died.” She looked to each of them in turn; her piercing gaze stabbed from one to the next. “I hope that you will have much better news for me . . . ?”

The Dragon Lord did not react. He yawned deliberately. He knew the Lady would never threaten him. She didn't have the power to hurt him. He examined one steel claw abstractedly. Beside him, Drydel waited silently. Nor did Lord Khallanin speak.

Kernel d'Vashti kept both of his faces impassive, the inner as well as the outer. He would not demonstrate any weakness of any kind. He would not volunteer anything. He would wait passively and allow the Lady herself to control the course of the discussion; in that way, he would control her—by letting her have her way.

Lady Zillabar moved to a glowing couch and settled herself gracefully onto its evanescence. Again, she became hard to look at, hard to see clearly. Lord Drydel moved behind the Lady, to stand as protector and consort. She glanced up at him with only casual affection, then she looked across the room at d'Vashti and said, by way of small talk, “I trust that you have taken the appropriate care of my vessel. As I recall . . . ?” She let her sentence trail off into ominous silence.

d'Vashti returned her cold smile with an expression equally polite. He ignored the Lady's sly implication. He had not specifically subverted the maintenance of her powerful war-cruiser; he had simply allowed the occurrence of a few small logistical delays, enough so as to ensure that the completion of several necessary modifications would not transpire in time for the Lady's mission to Burihatin. A number of important replacement modules had mysteriously become unavailable. And the personnel who could have installed them in time had prior commitments elsewhere. d'Vashti had thought to neutralize some of the Lady's grander ambitions, at least temporarily, by delaying her departure from Thoska-Roole and allowing him time to complete his own schemes. His plan had almost worked.

Had d'Vashti's subtle efforts not subverted the Lady's intentions, the resources of her flagship would have given her efforts at Burihatin a significant advantage; instead the lack of those resources had seriously crippled her efforts. Under her original plan, she would have had the authority of her personal guard to enforce her wishes on the moons of the great ringed world, but her inability to provide transportation for them on her personal warship had brought her instead to a dependency on the sympathies of Burihatin's local authority. d'Vashti believed that her possibilities for success had become problematic. She should not have gone.

d'Vashti had expected her to recognize that. He'd expected her to cancel or postpone her trip. Instead, the Lady had secretly shifted her plans and secured other transportation—
lesser
transportation—and slipped away into the dark between the stars. She had opted for secrecy, and . . . as d'Vashti had expected, she'd failed.

Now she had returned with vengeance in her mouth.

She knew of his efforts on her behalf—and she hated him for those efforts. But, he wondered,
did she hate him enough?

d'Vashti put on his sincerest outer manner, the one he always used for dissembling. “You may rest easy, Lazy Zillabar. The previous state of affairs no longer maintains. We have punished the parties responsible. Those who failed to live up to the standards you require will no longer have the honor of working in your Stardock. As long as I have the privilege of this responsibility, you will never again have to suffer the indignity of seeking an alternate conveyance for your desires.” Behind the Lady, Drydel frowned at this double-edged reference. d'Vashti noted the other's displeasure only in passing. “Your vessel now stands ready to carry you to the far reaches of the Cluster—and beyond—if you so choose.”

“And . . . what punishment did you apply to those who failed?” The Lady asked with only the faintest show of interest.

“They fed the Dragons,” d'Vashti replied. “A task they executed with no small enthusiasm.”

“Yes. I can imagine.”

The Dragon Lord belched loudly. Neither the Lady Zillabar, nor Lord Drydel, nor Kernel d'Vashti acknowledged his comment. Lord Khallanin looked as if he had fallen asleep; d'Vashti would have bet otherwise.

The Lady's gaze remained fixed on the rival of her consort. She understood the subtext of these events even better than the participants. Idly, almost casually, she let the nails of her right hand trace a delicate course up and down the line of her exposed cleavage. Precisely as she intended, the action drew d'Vashti's instant attention. She smiled inwardly. She could control this man. That made him worthy only of her contempt. She stroked herself meaningfully; she would arouse him to the point of lustful irresponsibility . . . and then she would rebuke him; a rebuke of deliberate sexual fury and rejection that would inflict the most painful sting.

d'Vashti's eyes followed the movements of her fingertips. But he did not react as the Lady intended. He had prepared for this meeting by dosing himself with an especially powerful restricting agent. Let the Lady wonder at her inability to arouse him and it just might increase his mystery to her, and eventually his attraction as well.

Abruptly tiring of this ebb and flow of subtext, Lord Khallanin looked up and waved a slender finger at someone unseen. A servant-wasp appeared instantly from behind a screen, wheeling a silver cart before it. On the cart stood slender wine glasses and a decanter of frothy pink liquid. “Would you care for some refreshment, m'Lady?”

Zillabar ignored the invitation, her gaze still focused on d'Vashti. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously—she understood immediately. d'Vashti had made himself immune to her sexual pheromones. By so doing, he displayed not only his intention of independence, but he implied a greater insult as well—that he might not choose to mate with her, even if given the opportunity. The Lady considered his subtle taunts as a very dangerous game. And yet—d'Vashti clearly understood that she found
danger
stimulating.

Drydel had recognized it too. He placed one hand gently on the Lady's shoulder. She acknowledged the gesture by glancing backward at him; then she allowed her diamond-tipped claws to slice delicately across the back of his hand. The gesture had a twofold meaning; she demonstrated ownership of his affections at the same time as she rebuked his impulsiveness. To Drydel's credit, he left his hand on the Lady's shoulder, even though delicate beads of blood appeared where her nails had drawn their edges.

Watching, d'Vashti wondered if this time, perhaps, her nails contained a poisonous essence. One day soon, he knew, she would tire of Drydel—but Drydel wouldn't know it until
after
the stricture had closed his throat for the last time.

They waited in silence, each studying the others, while the servant-wasp poured the wine into the goblets. The creature wheeled the cart around for each to select a glass. The Dragon Lord waved her away, but the four Vampires each helped themselves.