relieved my boredom, and few have ever done that.”
He looked up at her, suicidal in his mood. He had been pushed far. The same desperation which had kept him from withdrawing from the game still possessed him.
“You could have dropped out,” she reminded him.
“I could have won.”
“Of course.”
He took a last swallow from his glass, mostly icemelt, and set it down. The thought occurred to him again that the Kontrin was quite, quite mad, and that out of whim she might order his termination when they docked. She evidently travelled alone. Perhaps she preferred it that way. He was lost in the motivations of Kontrin. He had been created to serve the ships of Andra Lines. He knew nothing else.
She walked over and took the bottle from the Istrans’ table, examined the label critically and poured again, for him and for her. The incongruity of the action made him sure that she was mad. There should have been fresh glasses, no ice. He winced inwardly, and realised that such concerns now were ridiculous. He drank; she did, in bizarre celebration.
“None of them,” she said, with a shrug at all the empty tables and chairs, the memories of departed passengers, “none of them could dice with a Kontrin. Not one.” She grinned and laughed, and the grin faded to a solemn expression. She lifted the glass to him, ironic salute. “Your contract is already purchased. Ever borne arms?”
He shook his head, appalled. He had never touched a weapon, seldom even seen one.
She laughed and set the glass down.
And rose.
“Come,” she said.
Later, high in the upper decks and the luxury of the Kontrin’s staterooms, it came to what he thought it might.
BOOK FOUR
i
“Commercial,” Moth muttered, and steepled her wrinkled hands, staring at them to the exclusion of the several heads of Houses who surrounded her. She laughed softly, contemplating the reports of chaos strewn in a line across the Reach.
“I fear,” said Cen Moran, “I lack your perception of humour in the matter. This involves Istra, and the hives, and the surviving Meth-maren. I see nothing whatsoever of humour affordable in the combination.”
“Kill her,” said Ros Hald.
Moth turned a chill stare on him, and he fell silent. “Why? For trespass? I don’t recall that visiting Istra is grounds for such extreme measures.”
“It’s a sensitive area, Istra.”
“Yes. Isn’t it.”
The Hald broke eye contact. Moth did not miss that fact, but glanced instead at Moran and the others, raised querulous brows. “I think some Kontrin presence there might be salutary, provided it’s discreet and sensible. The Meth-maren’s presence is usually quiet toward non-Kontrin.”
“A hive-world,” said Moran, “another hive-world, and critical.”
“The only hive-world,” said Moth, “without Kontrin permanently resident. We’ve barred ourselves from that…sensitive…contact point, at least by custom. Depressing as Istra is reputed to be, I suspect we simply lack enthusiasm for the necessary privations. But majat don’t seem to mind being there, do they? In my long memory, only Lian had the interest to visit the place after the beta City was set down there—and that was very long ago. Maybe we should reconsider. Maybe we’ve created a blind spot in our intelligence. Reports from Istra are scant. Perhaps a Kontrin should be there. It surely couldn’t hurt their economy.”
“But,” said Kahn a Belo, “ this Kontrin, Eldest? There’s been trouble across the Reach. And the Meth-maren, of the hive-masters—of that House—the simplest prediction would tell us…”
“We will let her alone,” Moth said.
“If it were put to a vote,” said Moran, “that sentiment would not carry. Than would be the logical choice, trustworthy. The Meth-maren, no.”
Moth looked at him steadily. A measure would have to be written up formally: some one of them would have to put his name on it as proponent. Someone would have to risk his personal influence and
He looked up at her, suicidal in his mood. He had been pushed far. The same desperation which had kept him from withdrawing from the game still possessed him.
“You could have dropped out,” she reminded him.
“I could have won.”
“Of course.”
He took a last swallow from his glass, mostly icemelt, and set it down. The thought occurred to him again that the Kontrin was quite, quite mad, and that out of whim she might order his termination when they docked. She evidently travelled alone. Perhaps she preferred it that way. He was lost in the motivations of Kontrin. He had been created to serve the ships of Andra Lines. He knew nothing else.
She walked over and took the bottle from the Istrans’ table, examined the label critically and poured again, for him and for her. The incongruity of the action made him sure that she was mad. There should have been fresh glasses, no ice. He winced inwardly, and realised that such concerns now were ridiculous. He drank; she did, in bizarre celebration.
“None of them,” she said, with a shrug at all the empty tables and chairs, the memories of departed passengers, “none of them could dice with a Kontrin. Not one.” She grinned and laughed, and the grin faded to a solemn expression. She lifted the glass to him, ironic salute. “Your contract is already purchased. Ever borne arms?”
He shook his head, appalled. He had never touched a weapon, seldom even seen one.
She laughed and set the glass down.
And rose.
“Come,” she said.
Later, high in the upper decks and the luxury of the Kontrin’s staterooms, it came to what he thought it might.
BOOK FOUR
i
“Commercial,” Moth muttered, and steepled her wrinkled hands, staring at them to the exclusion of the several heads of Houses who surrounded her. She laughed softly, contemplating the reports of chaos strewn in a line across the Reach.
“I fear,” said Cen Moran, “I lack your perception of humour in the matter. This involves Istra, and the hives, and the surviving Meth-maren. I see nothing whatsoever of humour affordable in the combination.”
“Kill her,” said Ros Hald.
Moth turned a chill stare on him, and he fell silent. “Why? For trespass? I don’t recall that visiting Istra is grounds for such extreme measures.”
“It’s a sensitive area, Istra.”
“Yes. Isn’t it.”
The Hald broke eye contact. Moth did not miss that fact, but glanced instead at Moran and the others, raised querulous brows. “I think some Kontrin presence there might be salutary, provided it’s discreet and sensible. The Meth-maren’s presence is usually quiet toward non-Kontrin.”
“A hive-world,” said Moran, “another hive-world, and critical.”
“The only hive-world,” said Moth, “without Kontrin permanently resident. We’ve barred ourselves from that…sensitive…contact point, at least by custom. Depressing as Istra is reputed to be, I suspect we simply lack enthusiasm for the necessary privations. But majat don’t seem to mind being there, do they? In my long memory, only Lian had the interest to visit the place after the beta City was set down there—and that was very long ago. Maybe we should reconsider. Maybe we’ve created a blind spot in our intelligence. Reports from Istra are scant. Perhaps a Kontrin should be there. It surely couldn’t hurt their economy.”
“But,” said Kahn a Belo, “ this Kontrin, Eldest? There’s been trouble across the Reach. And the Meth-maren, of the hive-masters—of that House—the simplest prediction would tell us…”
“We will let her alone,” Moth said.
“If it were put to a vote,” said Moran, “that sentiment would not carry. Than would be the logical choice, trustworthy. The Meth-maren, no.”
Moth looked at him steadily. A measure would have to be written up formally: some one of them would have to put his name on it as proponent. Someone would have to risk his personal influence and
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