Free The Thrones of Kronos by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page A

distorted him memory of the heir,
Anaris, whose indifference at the nicks’ obliteration of the Samedi had been matched by his smile of
irony when he ordered the destruction of the shuttle containing the Panarch of
the Thousand Suns.
    Lar paused at the door to Morrighon’s inner office to make
sure none of his thoughts showed, then he tabbed the annunciator and was
instantly bade enter.
    Morrighon’s twisted fingers were keying with amazing
rapidity on a compad. He looked up as Lar entered, his squinty expression impossible
to interpret. “The heir wants someone assigned to the Rifters,” he said in Uni,
his whiny voice reminding Lar of an engine in super-crit. “That will be you.
Your duties are simple. You will relay directly to me any messages or requests
they have, and you will conduct the tempath to the experiment site or to
Lysanter’s lab when she is required. You will be issued a compad interface for
this purpose, coded to this office. Are there any questions?”
    Mindful of the fact that either Barrodagh or one of his
narks was observing, Lar said only, “Yes. Am I relieved from my other duties,
or do I stay with these Rifters?”
    “You will not stay with the Rifters unless instructed to do
so. Your hours will be readjusted. Any more questions?”
    “No.”
    “Begin immediately. Farniol has the compad. Go to the
Rifters and introduce yourself. They’ve been told to expect someone.”
    Lar gave the short bow of respect that Bori servants made to
those in the Catennach. Morrighon turned back to his work without
acknowledgement.
    Farniol was waiting. In a voice devoid of any emotion, she
explained quickly how the interface worked: an optical link to the computer
system, which had simple data sensors almost everywhere there were cables. She
touched it twice, first in the spy-eye signal, then in the one indicating
possible removal.
    Lar gave no sign that he understood, but he was grateful.
Data sensors were harmless; they didn’t sense anything but light-borne data
packets. The problem was, no one knew how many of them were also acoustic
sensors or even imagers. The cables that supported them ran everywhere, a maze
of redundant systems with overlapping functions like communications, life
support, and stasis clamping. Everyone suspected that Barrodagh’s private cadre
of Bori techs—the ones who never spoke to anyone else, ever, even in rec
time—had piggybacked spy equipment on these everywhere they could get away with
it.
    After clipping the compad to his belt, Lar checked his
chrono, then ran down the corridor, slowing only when he heard footsteps coming
from the other direction. He had a mere ten minutes before Tat was to report
for duty—if she went to the hyperwave chamber, there would be no way to consult
her until she was done. Security was as tight there as around the Throne area
and the Lords’ section.
    She emerged from the shower, her spacer-short hair ruffling
up in drying curls all over her head, and her skin glowing. “Lar!” she
exclaimed, then frowned quickly “Problem?”
    At least there were no narks in their own chambers: Tat had
seen to that herself. “Morrighon just assigned me to the tempath. Know
anything?”
    Tat pursed her lips as she pulled on her coveralls. “They
were imprisoned on Ares, all I know.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Imprisoned
here, now, with the rest of us.” She paused in the act of tabbing her shoulder
strap as she frowned down at her bare toes. Then she looked up at Lar. “Why
you? Anything that gets too much attention on us is bad.”
    “Know that,” Lar said, grimacing. “Been quiet, cooperative,
word ‘Rifter’ never out of my mouth.”
    “Maybe it’s good.” She sank onto the bed and reached for her
boots. “Morrighon twisty here.” She touched her body. ”But Barrodagh here.” She
tapped her forehead. “New tempath is Dol’jharian in birth, but she’s been a
Rifter. Maybe Morrighon doing us right. Look. Listen.” Her mouth went