Tom turned to look at the Collegiate guards.

  ‘Nice to be back,’ he murmured.

  The last time he and Elva had been here, the entire realm was under the control of Blight forces, and they were fighting for their lives. Now, less than a hectoday later, they had little idea what to expect.

  It’s a debt of honour, he reminded himself.

  What if he was risking Elva’s life in trying to repay the near-dead cyborg, the Jack which had helped him to rescue her? But Tom had talked it over with Elva, and she had been firm: ‘At the least, I had extra days of life, and the chance to marry you, my Lord.’

  There had been nothing Tom could say to argue against that.

  Now an officer in a black-and-yellow cape was marching forward. As he drew close, the troopers behind him raised their weapons to port-arms. The officer halted, and stamped to attention, then bowed deeply.

  ‘My Lord and Lady Corcorigan. I bid you welcome here.’

  The troopers quick-marched to fall in all around them, forming an escort.

  ‘The guest quarters,’ the officer added, ‘have been made ready. I hope you’ll find them adequate.’

  Then they moved off along the broad stone platform on foot, followed by the floating drone.

  Farsight Broadway was long and richly furnished with velvet hangings, and with morphglass sculptures dancing in its marble alcoves. The central carpeted strip slid into laminar flow, carrying Tom and Elva and their armed escort. Collegiate scholars and other noble visitors were walking among the cloisters and colonnades which stretched off to either side. Everything, it seemed, had been restored to its accustomed glory ... except that, looking carefully down side-corridors, Tom glimpsed the occasional burn-mark, or channels carved in stone by wild graser fire. Collegiate forces had fought hard before falling to the Blight.

  Elva looked up at a decorative bronze ceiling-sculpture.

  ‘Milligrasers,’ she murmured. ‘In gatling arrays.’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. He had not noticed.

  ‘I wonder how legal the targeting system is.’

  ‘Not very, if they’re sensible.’

  For centuries, the anti-Turing provisions of the Comitia Freni Fem’telorum had kept weapons relatively dumb. Handheld grasers were the energy weapons of choice; and blades were used for formal duelling among the nobility ... but none of this was state of the art, for it was over a millennium since smartmists and other killing femtotech had been developed. The problem was that, when you utilized such weaponry, all tactical choices (and ultimately strategic and even political decisions) were made by the weapons themselves: they acted and reacted too fast for human intervention.

  Yet the recent War Against The Blight was making people reconsider. Perhaps humankind needed the deadliest armaments it could muster, not having the luxury to consider the drawbacks of entrusting their Fate to devices of their creation.

  The flowing carpet was decelerating.

  ‘I guess we’re here.’

  Before a peaked archway, a holo bird formed of orange flames manifested itself.

  ‘This way,’ it sang.

  The soldiers bowed and remained on the spot as the bird floated slowly along the corridor and Tom and Elva followed, with their mesodrone moving alongside.

  What happens next? Tom wondered.

  Steam rose gently from three red-brown bowls of indigoberry daistral, which stood on the purple glass conference table. The aroma made Tom smile. While the Collegiate Magister was dismissing the servitor who had brought the drinks, Tom reached over for the nearest bowl, then sat back in his chair, holding the daistral but not yet drinking: that would be rude.

  ‘Don’t wait for me,’ said Magister Strostiv. ‘After that long journey, you must be dying for a decent daistral.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Tom, and took a sip. ‘Ah, thank you. That’s excellent.’

  Elva waited until Strostiv was sitting down before she picked up her own bowl and drank. ‘Mm. Not bad.’

  Strostiv ignored his drink, and sat with his elbows on the tabletop, fingers steepled together. His white hair, unkempt as always, stuck out at odd angles. He was an Altus Magister of the Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum, and no-one would dream of telling him to smarten up his appearance.

  ‘Congratulations on your wedding, both of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Strostiv.’

  When Tom had last talked to him, Strostiv had been acting as a tactical adviser to Corduven’s military Academy, and had revealed as much as was understood about the Blight’s true nature to Tom and the other executive officers. He and Tom had not exactly been friends; Tom wondered if they were enemies now.

  ‘Your message said that you wanted to reclaim a damaged Jack-class cyborg, designated Axolon.’

  ‘Is that his name?’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Strostiv frowned at the word his, rather than its. Perhaps a man who helped create Oracles had difficulty in assigning personal qualities to those who were no longer truly human.

  ‘At any rate, the Collegium is happy to renounce all title to the Jack. As far as we’re concerned, it - he, if you like - is a written-off asset. We have checked with the Klivinax Toldrinov, and they have no particular wish for you to return Axolon to them. They consider it irreparably damaged.’

  Tom looked at Elva. If the Klivinax Toldrinov, the Guild which created cyborgs, had written off the Jack, then what hope was there?

  But we have to try.

  Elva nodded, as though she had read his thoughts.

  ‘We’re going ahead,’ she said. ‘No matter what it costs.’

  Tom tried not to wince at the thought of their dwindling wealth.

  ‘That,’ said Magister Strostiv, ‘is very noble of you.’

  Elva placed her daistral bowl down on the tabletop, very quietly. Strostiv might do well not to provoke her, Tom reckoned.

  ‘The thing is,’ Strostiv continued, oblivious to the threat, ‘we’re all very grateful to you. Corduven’s forces have received all the credit, but those of us in the know are aware that you, sir, provided the crystal and the strategy which brought us victory.’

  The replacement crystal suddenly seemed large and hard, tucked inside Tom’s waistband.

  ‘Avernon,’ Tom said, ‘was the one who implemented the strategy. A team of world-class logosophers might have produced the same results, given several tendays. No-one else could have pulled it together in a few hours, singlehandedly.’

  ‘You might be right. Do you know where Lord Avernon is now?’

  ‘No ...’ Tom thought that Strostiv’s tone had become falsely casual, and he wondered why Strostiv would need to contact Avernon. ‘The wedding celebrations were still in full flow when Elva and I left. Avernon was there, but we didn’t really get to make proper farewells.’

  It had been a whirl of happy impressions, accompanying their sudden departure in a tiny yellow arachnasprite built for one person (inside which they had both squeezed, laughing) while a similar hired ‘sprite followed with their small amount of luggage - and Eemur - stowed aboard.

  ‘And ... Lord d’Ovraison? What of him, my Lord?’

  ‘There was talk of rebuilding the Academy,’ said Tom. ‘And of promoting Corduven again, though to what rank, I’m not sure.’

  Corduven was already Brigadier-General Lord Corduven d’Ovraison; there was not much else for him to achieve within a strictly military hierarchy. Any higher appointment would be overtly political.

  ‘I’m ... not sure, either.’ Strostiv’s gaze shifted, betraying some concealment. ‘He is your friend, isn’t he?’

  When Tom had been a servitor, Corduven had been the first Lord to treat him as a human being.

  And how did I repay him? By murdering his brother.

  Tom had killed the Oracle who had foreseen - and in doing so, caused - the death of Tom’s father, and who had stolen away Tom’s mother. The Oracle had foreseen his own eventual death of old age, but Tom had given him the first surprise of his life ... and death: a violent, bloody death; a paradox unexpectedly resolved.

  Redmetal poignard, sinking in to the hilt...

  The Oracle was Gérard d’Ovraison, brother to Corduven whom Tom had called friend, and still did.

  ‘What are you getting at, Strostiv?’

  For a moment, Strostiv stared at him. ‘The Jack called Axolon was part of the manhunt, after Oracle d’Ovraison was killed in the terraformer sphere. You can’t appreciate the scope and depth of that search. We knew that truecasts had foreseen the Oracle’s long, uneventful life ... It shook the foundations of everything.’’

  It was supposed to, thought Tom.

  Beside him, Elva grew very still.

  ‘You were the first commoner in Gelmethri Syektor,’ added Strostiv, ‘to be upraised to Lordship during the past hundred Standard Years. Your logosophical potential might not have been at Avernon’s level - his kind appears once every three or four centuries - but you were still outstanding. And yet you failed to contribute anything to official research ... until you came on the scene with astounding techniques of war and access to mu-space.’

  ‘Not many people are aware of the details.’

  ‘But some of us are in a position to put the picture together. You weren’t a prime suspect at the time of the Oracle’s death, but in retrospect your guilt is obvious. Even though the killer directed the terraformer’s drones to clean up the interior, there must be some forensic evidence we can retrieve, even after all these years.’

  Tom kept his composure.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, my Lord, I think you do. But the point is, it doesn’t matter’ -Strostiv formed a control gesture, and a holo image winked into being above the purple glass tabletop - ‘because of this. You’re specifically exonerated, by the one man I should have thought would want to see you dead.’

  The image held a legal declaration, Tom saw, witnessed by officials at a Convocation, and at the heart of it was one simple statement:

  I do hereby forgo all vengeance-claim upon Lord Thomas Corcorigan, in my absolute faith in his innocence.

  Below it, a simple signature-knot tricon hung:

  Brigadier-General Lord Corduven d’Ovraison

  Tom closed his eyes.

  ‘In the light of this’ - Strostiv’s words sounded from far away - ‘no-one could bring you to task. No-one, my Lord.’

  Corduven.

  Tom could not understand why Corduven would support him. With such a document, even if a tribunal were to find Tom guilty, they would have to absolve him from punishment.

  You did this for me?

  Tom opened his eyes and looked at Strostiv.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘To help.’ Strostiv spread his hands. ‘Only to help, my Lord.’

  ~ * ~

  6

  NULAPEIRON AD 3423

  Two hours later, Tom and Strostiv stood on a rough stone balcony overlooking a quadrangle which was decorated with purple and scarlet moss. Below them, on the hexagonal flagstones, stood a dozen-strong team of techs and engineers. A pair of utilitarian mesodrones hovered a metre above the ground.

  Elva was briefing the technicians as though they were commandos going on a raid.

  ‘You ... Harm, is it? Good. Your team consists of Alen, Xindor and Frayne.’ She pointed to them in turn. ‘You’ll take that drone.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘The preliminary analysis is your job. I’ll want a rundown of whatever additional gear we need. Debriefing at Snapdragon Hour, on the dot.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ And, to his team: ‘OK. We’re moving.’

  As they left, Elva addressed the others. She had met them minutes ago; already, she knew their names. ‘You’re with me. First stop is the scanner workshop, and I’ll need your recommendations, Sharlyn,’ she said to a heavy, strong-looking woman who bowed. ‘No need to go for the most expensive gear, people, but no skimping either. All right?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Right. Let’s get on it’

  As they left, Elva made a small nod towards the balcony, not looking up at Tom. Then they trailed out, and were gone.

  ‘Good luck,’ Tom murmured.

  Strostiv frowned. ‘Is everything all right, my Lord?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lady Corcorigan didn’t wave goodbye, so I... I beg your pardon, sir. Not my business.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ said Tom. ‘Military officers don’t make emotional farewells; not in front of the troops.’

  ‘But they’re not—’

  ‘—soldiers, right. With Elva in charge, they might as well be.’

  Strostiv said nothing for a moment, then: ‘You’re proud of her, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Are you married, Strostiv?’

  ‘No. A long time ago, nearly ... But it doesn’t matter.’

  As he turned to go, Tom reached out and touched Strostiv’s sleeve. ‘It’s not the done thing to talk in these terms,’ Tom told him, ‘but you know, love is the only thing that matters. What else makes life worthwhile?’

  Old sorrow darkened Strostiv’s eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’

  Tom left it at that. He followed, as Strostiv walked back to the inner chamber and sat down at the purple table.

  Strostiv had asked that Tom remain behind, while Elva began the task of evaluating the ruined Jack’s situation. As their talk proceeded along the minutiae of restoring the Collegium to its pre-war condition, Tom began to grow impatient. Just what was it the man wanted?

  Then Strostiv said: ‘I’ve a technical expert called Zilwen who would love to talk to you, my Lord. We’ll meet back here in an hour, if that’s all right’

  ‘Um ... OK. If I’ve an hour to kill, I might as well follow Elva and offer my—’

  ‘If you like, of course. But I thought that you might want’ - Strostiv gestured; antique bronze doors swung open at the chamber’s far end - ‘to meet up with an old friend.’

  The antechamber beyond was in shadow. A narrow, cloaked figure stood in the gloom.

  Corduven?

  Then the man moved forward into the light, his oriental Zhongguo Ren features lighting up in a broad smile. ‘Tom, old man. Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘Zhao-ji!’ Tom had seen him at the wedding, but there had been so little time to talk.

  They embraced, pounding each other’s backs, then stepped away.

  ‘I guess,’ said Tom slowly, ‘I’ve always known you must have dealings here.’

  More than once, he had come across glowing sapphire fluid which was somehow linked to Oracular (and possibly Seers’) abilities; and there were hints that it was Zhongguo Ren secret societies who transported the stuff in clandestine fashion. And no society was better at technical matters than the Strontium Dragons, to whom Zhao-ji belonged.

  Strostiv said: ‘I’ll leave you two to reminisce.’

  ‘No, please.’ Perhaps Tom had judged Strostiv too harshly. ‘You’re welcome to stay with us.’

  ‘I think Zhao-ji wants to give you the full tour—’

  ‘Definitely. I’m ready to go now.’

  ‘—and I’m afraid I can’t follow.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Tom.

  Zhao-ji wouldn‘t lead me into danger...

  Yet things had changed since their days in the Ragged School; Zhao-ji’s allegiance was to the Strontium Dragons now.

  ‘Come on.’ Zhao-ji took hold of Tom’s arm. ‘You’re going to be impressed, I tell you.’ And, to Strostiv: ‘See you later, old chum.’

  It was not the most respectful way to address an Altus Magister.

  A few minutes later, Tom learned why Strostiv had left them. Zhao-ji led the way through a glistening membrane into a vertical shaft. As magnetic gel surrounded them and whisked them upwards, Tom shouted: ‘Are we going where I think we‘re going?’

  His words echoed faintly through the thick gel. The shaft wall appeared to slide downwards, but it was relative motion: they were ascending, and fast.

  ‘To the surface, yes!’

  So Zhao-ji had undergone agoraphobia-desensitization. It was in character: Tom remembered his first days at the Ragged School, seeing the slight figure of Zhao-ji launch himself at three much bigger praefecti, hands and feet swinging in hopeless bravery. Tom had never known him to back down from a challenge.