Laldasa (45 page)

It gave, at last, and swung away with what seemed like a deafening protest.

She sat up, poking her head into a darkness as complete as the vat of black below, yet radically different. Close, cottony warmth pressed against her face and neck. She scanned for a light source, but hadn't found it when the metal beneath her vibrated.

The gentle touch of the unknown electrified her, sent her flying up through the trap and onto the floor above. She scrambled, rolled and felt something feathery brush by her in a direction she took to be up. She struck something solid—a frame of some sort—and used it to stop her wild roll.

She lay silent now, tangled up in herself, cursing the folds of fabric that had fallen on her from overhead. She felt movement from that direction—rhythmic and diminishing. She reached up a hand. It met cloth—soft, silken cloth. She was lying beneath a clothing rack.

She dragged the swinging clothes into noiseless submission, begging total silence—and it was silent here. No scurrying, no scream and crash of dripping water; just solid, dust-covered silence.

Still waiting for Something to drag itself out of the sublevel abyss, she moved carefully into a more or less upright position, then slid whatever had fallen on her to the floor. Using the clothes rack as a landmark, she tried to pinpoint the trap door. With help from some God-sent trickle of light, she made out its squared edge toward the center of the room. It was still angled upward just as she'd left it.

Orienting herself, she guessed her back was to a wall that abutted the backstage area of the main Salon. That put one exit on her left, and two somewhere along the wall at her back. It was that left-hand one she wanted. It fed into a connecting corridor to the rear foyer, from which she had her choice of lift basket or back stair. She got her feet beneath her and started to rise.

A door opened somewhere on the periphery of her senses. The lights came on. She froze, not so much as breathing on the fabric hanging about her face. She couldn't see who was shuffling toward her hiding place from the unseen doorway in the wall to her left; she could only hear their tuneless humming and the swish-scuffle of their feet across the floor. What she could see, between barely parted veils of color, was the trap door. It was shut.

She tried to make herself believe in some well-lubricated, fully automatic mechanism; some system of counter-weights that had just now came into play. Something she'd failed to see when she forced the door. She didn't believe in it.

The shuffle-hum was closer now, making her shiver with tension. It stopped not two paces off.

“MM-hm,” murmured a female voice. “Blue. Bl-ue.” The rack trembled and creaked, hooks scraped wood—closer, then closer. “Blue, blue, blue,” the voice chanted.

Ana could see the woman's feet—silver-shod—through the diaphony to her left. Dear Tara-Ji ...
 

“Ah! Blue!” The rack jolted. There was a moment of silence, then, “Ah! Tsk!”

A hand appeared between Ana's knees. It reached for and grasped the fabric that lay over her toes, whisked it away. The voice muttered about dirt. Then, the shuffle-hum commenced again and moved away. The lights went out, the final stream cutting off as the door closed.

Ana slid to the floor. Three seconds later she made a mad, but silent dash for her far away target—the door to the outside corridor. It took all the courage she possessed to open it into the empty rear foyer; more than that to navigate the length of that to the back stair.

Reaching that goal with ragged nerves, she slipped upward toward her goal.

oOo

It's a strange and startling coincidence that the very evening of the day I poke my photonic nose into the accounts of the Kasi-Nawahr Consortium, Scar-Eye and his companions cross my path. Cross it! By God, they very nearly cut it in two. Scar-Eye is short on both patience and gentility, but fortunately the bruises do not show when I'm fully dressed, and if I constrain myself around Mel (a damned hard thing to do), I might be able to hide them from her as well. That much is imperative.

I am now fully apprised of my mortality and weakness of character. The confrontation gave me pause to wonder why I must go on with this, suspecting, as I do now, that it could cost me more than a few bruised ribs. Yet, if what I suspect is true, if the Consortium is trying to grapple the reins of government, must I not go on? Must I not obtain some proof the Inner Circle can use to prosecute the grapplers?

I have spoken only to Sri Radha about this latest development. She, alone, has a transcript of the conversation I intercepted two evenings ago, and I am not certain, but only hope she is to be trusted. That the KNC has gotten to the Vrinda Varma is clear. What is not clear is which members they own.

I'm certain Duran Prakash is serving as the agent of the person or persons at the head of this dragon. I am not certain whose face the head wears. I had even begun to suspect Nigudha Bhrasta before Ram-eve, but Namun tells me he was in Vatapur recovering from a surgery. Bhrasta's heart is not good, Namun confided, and I can tell from the irony in my friend's eye, I am invited to take him metaphorically. Of those present at the banquet that evening, I remember only that three people were absent from the room when I entered the study and caught the outgoing message: Sarad Valli, Duran Prakash, and Ranjan Vrksa, Bhrasta's able lieutenant. There may have been others and I curse my memory for its inattentiveness. I suspect that Prakashsama or even Vrksa may have been the sender of the message. Perhaps both of them are implicated.

There may yet be a way to attempt a retrieval of the log file they so carefully erased. If I can retrieve that, I can track the call.

oOo

Gar looked up at Jaya from the amber glow of the com-journal's little screen, his eyes strained. “Are you supposing, Nathu Rai, that the Vadin Adivaram is one of those owned by the KNC—and that Prakash-sama may be the purchaser?”

“I'm inclined to fear that, yes.”

The Sarngin shook his head. “What prompted your father to embark on this investigation?”

“He thought he was seeing an unhealthy trend in Vrinda Varma consultation. Some of the junior members would back a particular opinion so stubbornly, it would block resolution. Things would get tabled or just drag out interminably. It wasn't anything he could pinpoint precisely enough to warrant an investigation, so he didn't say anything, just took notes on the various issues that seemed to cause the most trouble.

“Then, Duran Prakash suggested to him that his friendship with Namun Vedda should also extend to the Consortium. There was a particular issue on the Council docket that indirectly affected Vedda Technologies and Prakash indicated that if Father was really a loyal friend he'd throw his vote toward the KNC. Father rejected the idea so thoroughly, he didn't expect to hear any more about it. Then he started thinking about that trend in consultation and looked at his notes. The issues that caused the most contention, the ones the junior members were so stubborn about, were all issues that affected the KNC either directly or indirectly, through their various suppliers and contractors.

“After that, Father wondered if he should have cultivated the situation with Prakash—led him a little to see how far he was willing to go to own the Sarojin vote. He had some thought of getting Prakash into a compromising position, then reporting him to Uncle Namun.”

“Uncle Namun, you call him. He is not really your Uncle.”

Jaya shook his head. “My godfather and an old family friend—fanatical in his insistence that government, business, and friendship be kept in their separate spheres. He would have decapitated Prakash if he thought he was trying to coerce Father into throwing his vote, perhaps even default on his contracts with the Consortium.”

“Which would have devastated his own company,” observed Gar.

“Namun Vedda is a man of principle. He has always put family, friendship, and honor before business interests. Something that has never endeared him to the members of the KNC board.”

“This conversation your father intercepted—he never discovered who the participants were?”

Jaya shook his head. “Evidently he had a house full of guests. Father was in the study when he caught the outgoing message on the vicom. It was startling enough that he monitored it and traced it to the terminal in the library, but by the time he got to the terminal, whoever placed the call was gone. There were about four members of the Kasi-Nawahr Board here that night, plus quite a few members of the Vrinda Varma, some of whom were, according to the message, Consortium targets.”

Gar nodded, tapping the com-journal with one finger. “He says he was peeking into their accounts. He was then looking for—what—pay-offs?”

“He wondered if money was moving out of KNC coffers into the accounts of individual Varmana. He used his Council access rights to try to track that.”

“And he found ... ?”

Jaya shrugged and lifted the com-journal from Gar's hands. “This entry was made less than a week before his death. I don't know what he found ... if he found anything at all.”

“Who is this Scar-Eye he speaks of? It occurs to me that this is not unlike your description of one of the alleged Workers' Coalitionists who attacked you.”

Jaya glanced at the journal. “'A man with a scar running across his right eye,'” he read. “Yes, it occurs to me too. Only, five years ago, there was no Workers' Coalition.”

“How did your father die, mahesa?”

Jaya felt the muscles of his chest constrict. “He was run down by an aircar left sitting with its engines idling. The Sarngin called it an accident. I'm beginning to have my doubts.”

oOo

Hunger was what finally drew Govi to the kitchen of the House Sarojin. He satisfied that, but found a full stomach did not completely still the dim anxiety that wriggled somewhere in his shaggy head.

Aridas was there, sharing a cup of channa with his wife. They had spoken and fallen silent to watch steam wraiths escape their mugs. Govi twitched his shoulders and threw a chuckled comment onto the table.

“That Ana creature,” he said.

Heli looked up from her channa. “That Ana creature?” she repeated. “What of her?”

Govi shied away from the defensive gleam in the woman's eye and shrugged his shoulders. “She's a curious curiosity.”

“That's about as clear as a closed door,” said Heli dryly. “Before you explain it, know I won't hear insults to the Rani Ana.”

“Insults? No. No insults,” Govi promised. “Compliments, only. She's just not molded to rita. Not ordinary, I mean. Full of questions ... like a man, see.”

Ari produced an odd grunt and Heli's brows ascended.

“Like a man?”

Govi raised a calloused hand. “Now, don't run off at the brain. I just mean she—well, she comes to me asking all this and that about my alley. How this lays and that. What time this happens and that. Same things the Nathu Rai and his Sarngin friend are asking. Now, what the Niraya Hell's a woman be doing with that? Putting it in her chatbook?”

Ari and Heli were now looking at Govi in such a way as to make him wish he'd kept his mouth shut.

“She asked you these things?” Heli asked.

“I said so, didn't I? She asked and I told.” He shrugged.

Heli leaned toward him across the table. “Did you tell Jaya Rai?”

“No. Why should I? What's she going to do, after all? She's a woman.”

Heli sat up. “She's not a Mehtaran woman, Madman. She's Ana.”

“And that means what?”

Ari pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and stood. “It means you'd better tell Jaya Rai, Govi-sama. Because this woman is like to do anything at all.”

oOo

The corridor was empty. At least, there were no people moving through it—but it was full of sounds and aromas and auras that extruded into the red velvet hall from beneath the closed doors. Chatter, laughter, sobbing. Foods and perfumes. Desire and satiation. Fear.

Ana shivered and retracted herself from the swirl of sensation. There was no business done on this level.

After a moment of thought, she decided the top floor was the most logical place to lodge the private zones of such a business. Taking the stairs, she by-passed the next two floors and made her way directly to the penthouse, where she was met by a sturdy wooden door whose polished plaque told her she was about to violate a private area. An equally polished handle told her the door opened on a manual slider.

She scanned the edges of the door for any sign of an alarm system or surveillance network. There didn't seem to be any, but the situation dictated caution. She got to her knees and slid the door carefully aside, hunkering into the lowest crouch possible as she slipped through. She glanced down the corridor; it was opulent and empty. Everywhere was the product of Avasan gaur mines. Door handles gleamed with it; it adorned cornices and moldings; it dripped from light fixtures.

The fruits of our labor.

She shook the anger out after a moment and checked the doors here for surveillance gear. She saw none. What she did see were more golden plaques. They labeled the private quarters of Ashur Badan and Kareen Devaki, their respective offices and a shared Salon. An ornate lift cage reposed midway down Ashur Badan's side of the hall.