Conquest

  What was she expecting? thought Syl, and the answer came to her.

  My mother.

  Then that disappointment was gone, and Syl might almost have believed that she had imagined it were it not for the small, lingering sense of hurt—and, yes, rejection—that she felt.

  “Please,” said Syrene, “sit. You will have some wine?”

  Two glasses stood on a side table, two leather library chairs adjoining it. Between the glasses was a decanter of red wine. Syl drank little as a rule, and would have preferred not to do so here. It was important that she keep a clear head. On the other hand, it was more likely that Syrene would relax with her if she accepted a drink. She agreed to a small glass.

  “It is Italian, and very old,” said Syrene. “One of the things that this world does well is intoxicants. This is one of a handful of vintage bottles salvaged by a dealer in Rome before the city became an example to the rest.”

  The destruction of Rome had been a terrible mistake, according to Syl’s father, a war crime that he believed would haunt the Illyri for generations to come. He had advised against it, but had been overruled by the Council back on Illyr. “You disapprove of what happened to Rome?” asked Syrene.

  “It was a great city, a beautiful city,” said Syl.

  “You visited it, then?”

  “Only once.”

  “Would you have preferred it if an uglier city had been made an example of?”

  “I would have preferred it if no city at all had been destroyed,” said Syl.

  “You speak with your father’s voice,” said Syrene.

  “No,” said Syl, “I speak with my own.”

  “Earth grows unruly,” said Syrene. “It does not fear us. Without fear, there can be no rule of law.”

  “Do you speak with your husband’s voice?” said Syl, and she was surprised to see Syrene laugh.

  “Why, there is something of your mother in you after all!” said the Archmage. “Do you know that she once called the Supreme Mage Ezil a witch to her face?”

  “No,” said Syl. “I did not know.”

  She felt hugely proud of this woman she could not remember, who had died when she was so young and whom she knew only from pictures and video projections. Sometimes Syl would instruct the castle’s systems to fill a room with images of her mother, and she would converse with the ghosts. Syl cherished every mention of her, drinking in the anecdotes and memories of those who had known her, keeping them fresh by regularly removing them from her box of experience and examining them in the light of the world that had killed the Lady Orianne. She dreamed of her at night, keeping her locket beside her pillow in a velvet box wound with a ribbon from one of her gloves, and occasionally she allowed herself to open a yellowing crystal bottle that contained the last traces of her mother’s signature perfume, musky and warm.

  “It was unwise, of course,” continued Syrene, “and hugely disrespectful. Had Lady Orianne not fled Illyr with your father, the Sisterhood might well have found a way to make her pay for the offense she had given.”

  “She did not flee,” said Syl. “She loved my father, and wanted to be with him.”

  “Your father was the only Illyri who was more disdainful of the Sisterhood than your mother was. They were well matched.”

  “Were you among those who wanted to make her pay?” asked Syl.

  “Outwardly, yes. But inside I rather admired her spirit. She would have been an adornment to our order. In time, she might even have ruled it. In that sense, I was glad that she rejected a place in the Marque, and relieved when she left with your father. Had she not done so, but instead reconsidered the Sisterhood’s offer, she would have risen in authority just as I have, and we might now have been competing for power in the Marque.”

  “Is that what you want: power?”

  Syrene looked at her slyly over the rim of her wineglass.

  “You ask a lot of questions, little one. Did your father put you up to this? Did he think he might learn something by putting you in a room with me? I expect he did. He was always clumsy in his methods. He plays the game poorly.”

  Syrene sipped her wine. A little of it ran down her chin darkly, but she seemed not to notice.

  “In answer to your question, life is all about power. The powerful survive. The powerful thrive. So yes, I want power, for myself and for my kind.”

  “Your kind? You mean the Sisterhood?”

  “The Sisterhood, and more. You are of my kind, just as your mother was. The Sisterhood is the great source of female power. Through it, we influence an empire, and the rule of worlds.”

  For a second, the red fire glowed in her eyes once again, and then was gone.

  •••

  “We’ve lost visual,” said Balen.

  He was standing with Lord Andrus and Danis, watching the array of screens that showed Syrene’s chambers from a dozen angles, thanks to the tiny cameras secreted throughout the room. Those screens revealed nothing but static.

  “Check the rest of the system,” said Danis.

  Balen moved to the feeds for the cameras elsewhere in the castle. All appeared to be working fine, even the ones in the bedroom of Grand Consul Gradus, which revealed him to be fast asleep on his bed.

  “It’s the witch,” said Danis. “She’s done something to the cameras—again.”

  Following Syrene’s brief time in the Great Hall, the surveillance equipment had already been replaced after what was believed to be a malfunction, or sabotage. Now it was clear that the Archmage herself might have been responsible.

  “We still have sound,” said Balen. “They’re talking. I can hear your daughter. She seems fine.”

  “Send in a lurker,” said Andrus. “Maybe we’ll have more luck with that. In the meantime, tell Meia that we’ve lost visual contact. Make sure she’s ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  Balen got through to Meia, and then activated one of the lurkers, the tiny spybots that were scattered, dormant, throughout the castle. This one was a modified beetle: it had been enhanced with electronic components at the pupal stage, so that its own tissue would grow around the wiring and microcircuitry, sealing them in place, and the movements of its legs provided power for the tiny camera embedded in its head. These little spies—modified moths, wasps, flies—were the bane of the Resistance, for they could never be certain if an insect was being controlled by the Illyri or not. For that reason, insects did not tend to survive long when the Resistance was about its business.

  The lurker beetle responded to Balen’s signal, and moved through the darkness toward Syrene’s rooms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  P

  aul knew that he and Steven were doomed as soon as Sedulus appeared, Vena at his heels like an obedient, vicious dog. Behind them were half a dozen Galateans dressed in full body armor. Two of them carried long metal poles that ended in open magnetic collars. The next two bore pulse rifles, and the final pair were armed with electric batons that were almost as long as the collared poles. Before the boys could react, they had both been brutally shocked, and the collars were placed around their necks while they spasmed on the ground. Once again their hands were bound, and straps were placed across their mouths and around their heads so they could not speak.

  Sedulus stepped forward. He moved a hand casually through the air, conjuring up a screen. The screen showed a swab being placed in a device not much bigger than a shoebox, and then being sprayed with ink. An ultraviolet light was activated and shone on the swab. Most of the swab was illuminated, but at its center was a single dark area. A second swab was placed in the box, and the procedure repeated, with the same result.

  “Those were the skin swabs taken from you earlier this evening,” said Sedulus, freezing the final image on the screen. “The ink is fluorescent, but explosives eliminate its fluorescence. It’s very sensitive, and capable
of detecting traces of both organic and inorganic material. Your skin swabs showed significant traces of urea nitrate, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is an inorganic compound used in some homemade explosive devices. Earlier today, two such devices exploded on the Royal Mile, and the compounds detected on your skin are a perfect match for those found at the scene of these outrages.”

  He squatted before them, and spoke slowly and carefully.

  “Just to be certain, we compared your DNA with samples retrieved from the scene, and carried out reconstructions.”

  The Illyri had perfected the art of reconstructing human faces from minute samples of DNA. Genetic factors had been found to contribute to nine elements of facial appearance, including the position of cheekbones, the distance between eyes, and the dimensions of the nose. Combined with DNA analysis that already enabled scientists to predict eye and hair color, a small sample of human genetic material could provide a near-photographic likeness of the individual from which it had come.

  The image in the air changed, and Paul and Steven found themselves looking at representations of themselves. They were not perfect copies, but nobody could have mistaken them for anyone else.

  “Damned by your own DNA,” said Sedulus. Something about Paul caught his eye, and he extended his right hand toward the teenager. Paul tried to back away, but a Galatean held him still. Sedulus’s index finger pushed aside his collar, exposing the silver cross hanging around his neck. Their mother had insisted that both of her sons should wear one. She hoped that it would keep them safe.

  “You believe in God,” said Sedulus.

  “Yes,” said Paul.

  “Do you know what God is?”

  “No.”

  “God is simply a technology that you do not understand.”

  He covered up the cross.

  “You young gentlemen are members of the Resistance, and you are guilty of terrorist outrages against the Illyri Empire and the citizens of this city. Your crimes present irrefutable evidence that a policy of gentle occupation has not worked on these islands. It is with great regret that the Council of Government on Illyr has decided to institute the death penalty for the murder of Illyri for all citizens of Earth over the age of fourteen years. You will be hanged in the courtyard of the castle as an example to others.”

  He stood, and looked down on them with something like pity.

  “May your god have mercy on you, for we will have none.”

  •••

  Syl’s eyes felt gritty. It seemed to her that she had been in the room with Syrene for a very long time, for a terrible tiredness had come over her, yet she had barely sipped her wine. But even as her head sagged, and her chin touched her chest, she could hear her own voice speaking, responding to all that Syrene said. She forced herself to look up. There was a double image of Syrene in the chair before her. She blinked hard in an effort to clear her vision, but then one of the Syrenes stood while the other remained seated. The standing Syrene was almost transparent, a ghost of the other, but it had more life to it. The seated version’s eyes were blank, and it was reciting a long and tedious history of the Sisterhood. Occasionally Syl’s mouth would open and she heard herself say “Really?” and “How interesting!” but she did not do so of her own volition. She was like a doll controlled by another, and across from her was a figure without essence, an empty vessel with a far-distant voice.

  The spirit Syrene placed her hands against Syl’s head, and Syl could do nothing to stop her. She felt pressure on her temples, and then the Red Sister was inside her, hunting for secrets. With a huge effort of will, Syl tried to perform a trick that Meia had taught her a year or two before, when Lord Andrus had been away and Meia had been solely responsible for Syl’s safety. Syl had asked her about spying, and the danger of being discovered, and Meia had told her that as part of her training, she had learned to visualize locked doors and tall, impenetrable walls to keep interrogators at bay.

  “I have been questioned by enemies, and they have gotten nothing from me,” said Meia. “Not even with truth serums. Pain is harder to resist, but it can be done. Doors and walls, Syl, doors and walls. And you must never get angry, never. Anger is an absence of control, and if you lose control, then they have won.”

  Now, as Syrene invaded her consciousness, Syl fought her, building brick walls that shot up before her thoughts and memories, guarding secrets with heavy metal doors secured with huge locks and bolts. As Syrene opened one, so Syl would quickly create another. She felt the Red Sister’s frustration grow, but at the same time Syl was growing more and more tired, and the walls and doors were becoming harder and harder to sustain.

  Not you!

  Syrene’s voice sounded loudly in her head. It was no longer bright and melodious, but harsh and cracked. It was the voice of a crone in a younger woman’s body.

  If it was not you that I felt, then who else? Who?

  Syl threw up more walls, but they were crumbling rapidly now, the mortar falling from between the bricks. She tried doors, but the metal rusted, and the bolts would buckle. The walls disintegrated, the doors fell from their hinges, and each time they did so she saw a vision in red, a woman of flames and tendrils, advancing upon her, and she was forced to retreat.

  Who? Who?

  But as Syl tried to hide the name from her, some terrible imp inside her kept trying to speak it. It formed letters from bricks. It scratched them into the paint on the door. Syl did her best to obscure them, striking them out before they could become fully formed, but Syrene was determined, so determined.

  Tell me, the awful voice screeched. Tell me!

  But Syl had no energy left. She was about to lose the fight. She would betray—

  Suddenly, Syrene withdrew. Syl’s ears popped painfully, and as her vision cleared she saw the shadow Syrene melding once more with the figure in the chair. The door crashed open to reveal Meia, Syrene’s novices unconscious on the floor beside her, along with two of Gradus’s private guards.

  And with her was Ani.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  S

  yrene was furious at the intrusion, and threatened dire consequences for the harm done to her novices. But there was something theatrical about the way she protested, as though she were conscious that she had an audience, and the words were what was expected of her in such a situation. Meia ignored her entirely, and simply swept the bewildered Syl from the room.

  But Syl was no sooner over the threshold than a squad of Securitats appeared to their right. Almost simultaneously, a dozen heavily armed soldiers, led by Danis, arrived from the left. When the Securitats saw Gradus’s guards lying motionless on the floor, they immediately raised their weapons, and Danis’s troops responded in kind. The three females were trapped between them, and all Meia could do was draw Syl and Ani to her and force them to the floor, shielding them with her own body.

  “Stop!”

  The voice was Syrene’s, and her tone brooked no opposition. Even Danis, who was clearly spoiling for a fight, raised a hand to his soldiers and ordered them not to fire, although he kept his own blast pistol trained on the guards before him.

  Syrene appeared at the door.

  “Let them go,” she told the Securitats.

  “But Your Eminence,” said the Securitat sergeant, “your guards and novices have been assaulted.”

  Syl peeked out from beneath Meia. Already the stunned guards were struggling to their feet. The novices looked like they might be out cold for a little longer. Good, she thought, recalling how they had looked at her when she had first arrived.

  “Are they dead?” Syrene asked.

  The sergeant checked the novices. “No, Your Eminence. They are merely stunned.”

  “Then they, along with my dignity, will recover,” said Syrene. “Let the children rise.”

  Meia stepped back, and Syl and Ani got to their feet. Syl felt as
though a cloud were being blown from her mind, clearing her thoughts. She tried to remember what had happened in Syrene’s chambers, but she couldn’t hold on to the memories. They slipped through her mind like smoke. She was aware only of a feeling of intrusion, of violation, and that the Red Sister at the door frightened her. She was unsteady on her feet, and Ani had to support her.

  Syrene stared at Meia, as though imprinting the image of her face upon her memory.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am Meia.”

  “Meia.” Syrene repeated, tasting it with her tongue. “What is your bloodline?”

  “I am an orphan. My heritage is lost to me.”

  Syrene looked displeased with the answer. Bloodlines were important in Illyri society, and one of the roles of the Sisterhood was to record the histories of Illyri families, both major and minor. Births, deaths, and marriages, all were noted in the Sisterhood’s archives. Even an orphan would have a notation in their file, unless . . .

  “You are a bastard?” said Syrene.

  “I dislike that word,” said Meia. “I prefer the term free agent.”

  The double meaning of agent was clear to Syrene.

  “I know you now,” she said. “You are Andrus’s spymistress. Are you his mistress in other areas too? His bed has been cold for too long, and even the noble governor has needs.”

  Meia did not take the bait. Her calmness under provocation was considerable.

  “Your question contains its own answer,” she said. “The governor is noble. No more need be said.”

  “Well then, spymistress, tell me why you assaulted my guards and my novices, and entered my chamber without permission.”

  “We were concerned for Syl’s safety,” said Meia.

  “On what basis?”

  Meia paused. “Intuition,” she said at last.

  “Mistaken, it seems.”

  “As you say,” replied Meia.

  Danis stepped forward.

  “It did not help that every monitoring device in your room appeared to malfunction shortly after Syl entered your company,” he said, joining Meia, and in doing so making it clear that he supported her actions. “We were concerned that it might presage another terrorist attack. We were fearful for your well-being as much as for Syl’s.”