I’m talking. A whim, child, nothing more.”
Stanee’s smile remained fixed. It seemed the predominant feature of her face. “Certainly, m’Dame.”
“Do you have the figures for Sterka last night?—not the gory facts that get attached to them in this barbaric place, just the figures. And I’ll probably ask you to stop halfway through them, so don’t be overly perturbed at your record-keeping being unappreciated.”
Stanee looked down, below the camera’s view. The head and shoulders on the screen moved as her fingers raced over controls. Without looking up, she began reading. “Sterka continent: killed by bloodfeud, three. Assaults, twenty. Incidents that might lead to guild conflicts, four reported . . .” The list went on, number after number sifted from the chaff of the night.
“Enough,” d’Embry interrupted finally. She sigh-smiled and shook her head at Stanee. “Enough for now. Did it ever occur to you that this is a world with damnably little to recommend it—with the exception of ippicator skeletons and some pretty but unspectacular scenery? Ahh, never mind, never mind.” She waved a hand in the air. “Just the normal morning grumpiness. Have a flimsy sent to my office to look over later, will you? You can cram into it all those boring details that I know you’ve been dying to give me, neh?”
Dutiful laughter. “Yes, m’Dame. Is that all?”
“For now. End,” she said in a less personal tone of voice. The comlink cleared to a blank blue-gray. “Off.” The screen darkened and went black as it eased into its niche in the wall, out of sight.
D’Embry went to the window and cleared it again. The sun had risen higher in the sky, pursued by high cumulus clouds, and the light had gone from the honey-thick yellow of the dawn to the whiter, more penetrating glare of full day. The buildings basked in warmth, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the plain of the Port. A freighter rose, its attitude jets throwing off hot gases to waver the air. The ship hovered low over the Port for a moment, and then arced into the Neweden morning, leaving a dirty trail that the wind wiped across the sky. In the city, dark specks of birds wheeled in alarm.
The Port was alive with workers and Alliance personnel beginning a new day. For them, another day of relative sameness. The daily problems came and went without ever being eliminated.
M’Dame d’Embry sighed deep within herself and slapped at the window controls. She watched the glass turn slowly smoky and then deep purple-black, inking out the view of the Port. She leaned against the wall in reverie for a moment or two, forcing her mind to come to full alertness. Finally, rather desultorily, she began to dress.
• • •
The sun warmed the soil of the hills, but the heat and light of the sunstar failed to disturb the cool night that lingered below ground. The caverns of Underasgard, eternally cloaked and ever-mild, paid little attention to the vagaries of the surface.
For Hoorka-kin, however, the rising sun heralded a Rites Day, a day full with the worship of their patron gods. Kin spoke quietly to one another, the kitchens served only cold bread and milk, and the apprentices were kept busy ensuring that all nightcloaks were pressed and clean. A hurried calm held the caverns, a busy laziness. The Hoorka gathered slowly in the Chamber, the largest of the caverns they inhabited, and took their seats before the High Altar.
The Thane, sitting to the utter rear of the Chamber, watched the assembly as if rapt. His mind, however, dwelt elsewhere. He was only marginally aware of Valdisa’s warmth at his side, of Cranmer’s fidgeting, of Aldhelm’s curt greetings. He distantly nodded to the journeymen and apprentices as they entered. When the ponderous chords of the chant of praise rose, his lips mouthed the words and his voice sang, but he heard nothing.
“I love the feel of your body.” Valdisa smiled, faint lines appearing at the
Stanee’s smile remained fixed. It seemed the predominant feature of her face. “Certainly, m’Dame.”
“Do you have the figures for Sterka last night?—not the gory facts that get attached to them in this barbaric place, just the figures. And I’ll probably ask you to stop halfway through them, so don’t be overly perturbed at your record-keeping being unappreciated.”
Stanee looked down, below the camera’s view. The head and shoulders on the screen moved as her fingers raced over controls. Without looking up, she began reading. “Sterka continent: killed by bloodfeud, three. Assaults, twenty. Incidents that might lead to guild conflicts, four reported . . .” The list went on, number after number sifted from the chaff of the night.
“Enough,” d’Embry interrupted finally. She sigh-smiled and shook her head at Stanee. “Enough for now. Did it ever occur to you that this is a world with damnably little to recommend it—with the exception of ippicator skeletons and some pretty but unspectacular scenery? Ahh, never mind, never mind.” She waved a hand in the air. “Just the normal morning grumpiness. Have a flimsy sent to my office to look over later, will you? You can cram into it all those boring details that I know you’ve been dying to give me, neh?”
Dutiful laughter. “Yes, m’Dame. Is that all?”
“For now. End,” she said in a less personal tone of voice. The comlink cleared to a blank blue-gray. “Off.” The screen darkened and went black as it eased into its niche in the wall, out of sight.
D’Embry went to the window and cleared it again. The sun had risen higher in the sky, pursued by high cumulus clouds, and the light had gone from the honey-thick yellow of the dawn to the whiter, more penetrating glare of full day. The buildings basked in warmth, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the plain of the Port. A freighter rose, its attitude jets throwing off hot gases to waver the air. The ship hovered low over the Port for a moment, and then arced into the Neweden morning, leaving a dirty trail that the wind wiped across the sky. In the city, dark specks of birds wheeled in alarm.
The Port was alive with workers and Alliance personnel beginning a new day. For them, another day of relative sameness. The daily problems came and went without ever being eliminated.
M’Dame d’Embry sighed deep within herself and slapped at the window controls. She watched the glass turn slowly smoky and then deep purple-black, inking out the view of the Port. She leaned against the wall in reverie for a moment or two, forcing her mind to come to full alertness. Finally, rather desultorily, she began to dress.
• • •
The sun warmed the soil of the hills, but the heat and light of the sunstar failed to disturb the cool night that lingered below ground. The caverns of Underasgard, eternally cloaked and ever-mild, paid little attention to the vagaries of the surface.
For Hoorka-kin, however, the rising sun heralded a Rites Day, a day full with the worship of their patron gods. Kin spoke quietly to one another, the kitchens served only cold bread and milk, and the apprentices were kept busy ensuring that all nightcloaks were pressed and clean. A hurried calm held the caverns, a busy laziness. The Hoorka gathered slowly in the Chamber, the largest of the caverns they inhabited, and took their seats before the High Altar.
The Thane, sitting to the utter rear of the Chamber, watched the assembly as if rapt. His mind, however, dwelt elsewhere. He was only marginally aware of Valdisa’s warmth at his side, of Cranmer’s fidgeting, of Aldhelm’s curt greetings. He distantly nodded to the journeymen and apprentices as they entered. When the ponderous chords of the chant of praise rose, his lips mouthed the words and his voice sang, but he heard nothing.
“I love the feel of your body.” Valdisa smiled, faint lines appearing at the
Similar Books
