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The raven fluffs his wings, shakes himself again, spreads his wings, and
departs.
XXVI
According to the universal time, Aurore Standard, it is 0600. Not that the
clock matters on Aurore, but heredity and biology are stubborn. Martel knows
that, knows they are the reasons why most businesses, except for
entertainment, credit, and others catering to basic needs, are closed or
part-staffed.
He strides through the portal out of the CastCenter and down the glowstone
steps two at a time onto the Petrified Boardwalk. Imported slab by slab,
legend has it, it was carted all the way from Old Earth to appease an early
demigod, Avihiro.
Martel makes a two-hand vault up and sits on the low parapet, letting his feet
dangle in midair above the sand, watching the ever-parallel waves hit the
surf-break, climb, and crash down onto the straight lines of the beach. The
waves are higher than normal tonight, if one can call very early morning night
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on the planet of eternal day.
He takes a deep breath, lets it go with a long hiss which is lost, a hiss less
than a transitory footnote against the text of sand, sea, and surf.
A single figure retreats farther northward along the North Promenade of the
boardwalk.
Like Kryn? No. . . step's all wrong. . . why. . . why do you keep thinking
about Kryn?
He takes his eyes from the distant woman and looks down at the sand under his
boots.
Why? . . . You'll never see her again. . . remember, Martel, she didn't
protest when the Grand Duke had you Queried. . . sorry, Martel, and what will
you do? He looks up at the surf.
Your unattainable bitch goddess. . . that's Kryn. . . that's why you lost
Rathe. . . wouldn't give up your impossible image. Martel shakes his head.
How could you ever believe you meant anything to her? Does it matter? Does it
matter?
The tight beam from Karnak has only opened the old doubts, the old questions.
And the carefully phrased statements from New Augusta had only stirred the old
confusions.  The Regent is dead. Long live the Emperor!
 Grand Duke Kirsten sits tonight at the foot of the Amber Throne, faithful to
the Emperor, and faithful to the Regency, awaiting the decision of Emperor
N'Troya.
That was what he, Martel the faxcaster, had announced to the tourists who
wanted the news. The natives never watched faxnews. They didn't care that much
about the rest of the Galaxy, and the gods knew it all before it happened. Or
so it seems.
Martel still doesn't understand the Regent's  accidental death. Was it
suicide? Was Duke Kirsten, or the Duchess, that power-hungry? What of Kryn?
Who attacked Karnak? How? Why? . - . And what of Kryn? He frowns, for he has
no answers.
Something has happened in Karnak. Something like a black nuke cloud has
appeared next to the Tree of the Regent at the daily Moment of Silence. The
Guard Force attacked, and most of the park has been wiped out. An enormous
crater remains.
The dislocation destroyed the majority of the convenient power grids, and the
weather system collapsed. A storm followed, the father of all storms, and the
crater is now a lake.
Fine enough, Martel reflects, if such an unforeseen catastrophe can be called
fine. .. but who would dare? Has the Brotherhood reacted at last to the Edict
of Exile? Has some Brother smuggled in a mininuke? Is the whole thing an
enormous hoax? Martel shakes his head again.
No one on Aurore seems to care. Not a single call back to the CastCenter. The
whole report sinking into the pond of public unawareness like a stone cast
that created no ripples.
An accident with a hunting laser? Why would the Prince Regent suicide?
Especially when the .old Emperor is nearing the' end.
The Regency Fleets are on full alert, but no unknown ships have been detected
in the entire Karnak system.
No radiation has been detected in or around the lake that was the Regent's
Park. Early reports mentioned a scorched faxtape recovered from the debris,
but once it was turned over to the Grand Duke, all mention of it has been
omitted. And on Aurore, no one seems to care.  No one cares, mutters Martel,
knowing the words, all too self-pitying, will become one with the sound of the
all-too-regular surf.  The Regent suicides. The park is destroyed, and the
reports drop into Aurore like a stone into the sea. A faint sound of bells
tinkles in the back of his mind. Martel jerks his head up, scanning both sides
of the Petrified Boardwalk. He sees no one. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]