Читать книгу Vortex (Sten #7) - Allan Cole - Страница 14

CHAPTER SEVEN

THERE WERE ABOUT twenty beings cloistered in the room. The atmosphere was conspiratorial. Thick with talk — and smells. The sweet musk of the Suzdal. The mint/fish odor of the Bogazi. And the methane and ammonia aroma of humans. “Like privies smell,” the Bogazi male clicked. “Own privies.”

“Shush. Might hear,” one of his wives warned. She fussed over him, tucking a stray feather back into his fabulous tail display. His name was Hoatzin.

He tapped the big hammer of his beak against hers, showing pleasure. “Humans I study in books only,” Hoatzin said. “Some in school I see. But not close.”

He waved a delicate grasping limb at the humans in the room. “This very close. Like it. Not smell. Like study close.” Hoatzin was a teacher, as were most males in his society. They reared the young. Their domain was the nest and the book. For the wives, it was the hunt.

Hoatzin looked over at the main table with pride. This is where the leaders of each group held forth, seeking a way, or, at least, agreement to agree. His chief wife, Diatry, was one of the four. She was speaking now.

“In circles we talk,” she said. “Big egg circles. But big nothing in egg. Could all night stay. Talk and talk. Still egg not hatch.” She peered down the hammer beak at the much smaller forms around her. Even by Bogazi standards she was tall: nearly three meters.

The Suzdal pack leader made a tooth display. The dim light glittered all along the sharp edges. “Summed up like a true Bogazi,” Youtang said. “Forget the flesh. Get to the bone of the thing.”

The flattery to a former enemy was not intended. Youtang was getting weary of all the fencing. She would probably be surprised to learn that she had one other thing in common with the Bogazi: In their hatred of the smell of humans, they were sisters.

The general sighed. He wasn’t sure how he had let himself be talked into this meeting. Except that the Tork, Menynder, was notoriously persuasive. Douw was frightened. What had started as an information-only probe had developed into a full-scale engagement. The current griping irritated him. As the Jochian secretary of defense, he certainly had the most to lose.

“What more am I supposed to say?” Douw gave his shoulders a helpless shrug. “That conditions are intolerable? Of course they are.” He looked nervously around. “I mean . . . some conditions are bad. On the other hand . . .”

“There’s a foot,” Menynder broke in.

“What?” Douw’s face was a blank.

Like a cow, Menynder thought. A silver-haired cow. “This isn’t a staff meeting, General,” he said. “Every being here has a life on the line. We gotta start talking plain. Otherwise the risk isn’t worth it.”

He motioned around the room. “I told you the place was clean. I had it scoured for bugs stone by stone. Now, so far I have provided a safe place to meet. Right in the middle of the squeakiest clean Tork neighborhood on Jochi.”

He ticked the rest off on his fingers. “Youtang stuck her neck out contacting the Bogazi. And Diatry, here, is probably on the Khaqan’s Most Suspicious list, so she risked it even coming out of her roost.”

The Tork shifted his heavy weight in the chair. “Face it, General, if he knows we’re here we are already dead. Now, let’s go.”

Douw soaked this up, slowly churning it through his conservative military mind. Menynder was right.

“After close observation of the Khaqan,” he said quite formally, “I have come to the conclusion that he is insane.”

No one laughed. Every being in the room realized the step Douw had just taken. It was almost as if the words had been delivered in a courtroom.

“Furthermore, I believe he has become a danger not only to himself, but to all the beings living in the Altaic Cluster.” The general sucked in breath and let it out in a great whoosh. There. It was done.

The room erupted.

“I’ll say he’s insane,” Youtang said. “Killed every one of his own cubs, didn’t he?”

“One hatchling was trouble,” Diatry said. “With rebels he plotted.”

“Sure. But what about the others? Three daughters and a son. He killed them all. Afraid they wouldn’t wait until he died for them to try to take over.” Youtang was especially outraged by this sin. The Suzdal were highly protective of their young.

“In gluttony he lives,” Diatry said. “Food. Drink. Sex. Money. Power. Too much of all he has. All over Altaics, roosts are cold. Markets they are empty. Stores outside we line. For hours and hours. What a life is this?”

“Drakh. That’s what,” Youtang snarled. “What do we do about it?” Menynder pressed.

“Do? What’s to be done?” Douw asked.

Menynder boomed laughter. “Well, from the looks of things in this room, we’re all pretty much in agreement that the old buzzard has to go.”

“Three questions we must decide,” Diatry said. “One: Do we kill? Two: If kill, how? Three: Once gone, who rules? In these I am correct, yes?”

There were no arguments.

“Let’s start with the last part,” Menynder said. “Speaking as a Tork, I’m tired of us getting short-ended because we’re a minority. Whoever takes the Khaqan’s place is going to have to deal with that.”

“I agree,” Youtang said.

“Same for Bogazi,” Diatry said.

“What if we felt out Dr. Iskra?” Menynder wondered. “He’s respected all over the cluster. And he has a rep for seeing all sides of a problem.”

Iskra was a member of the Jochian majority. But he was a famous professor who had made his mark in Imperial circles. Another plus was that he was currently the Emperor’s territorial governor of one of the conquered Tahn regions.

There was a long silence, as the beings in the room pondered the suggestion.

“I don’t know,” Youtang said finally. “Lots of smoke. Not a lot of substance. I mean, who knows how he really thinks?”

They all turned to see what General Douw had to say about the proposal. The general’s brow was furrowed with thought. “Do you really think we need to kill the Khaqan?” he asked.

There was a frustrated murmur around the room, but before anyone could speak, the door crashed open!

Every being in the room lost a lifespan as they looked up to see their worst nightmare: the Khaqan. Standing in the doorway. Flanked by gold-robed soldiers. Riotguns leveled.

“Traitors!” the Khaqan roared. “Plotting my murder!”

He strode forward, face a bloodless mask of death, bony finger jabbing like a specter to pierce each heart, emptying lungs and defecating organs.

“I’ll roast you alive,” the Khaqan shrieked. He was at the table now, his fury pouring over them. “But first, I’ll take you apart — small piece by small piece. And I’ll feed the pieces to your children. And I’ll feed them to your friends. And they’ll be the ones who stand at the Killing Wall.”

He gathered up the fury into a chest-bursting balloon and shouted: “Take them to my-”

Sudden silence. Everyone stared at the Khaqan. His mouth was a wide O. His eyes bulged. The death face had turned swollen red. Even the soldiers were gaping at him.

The Khaqan plunged face forward on the table. Small bones cracked. Blood gouted from his mouth. Then the body slowly slid to the floor.

Menynder squatted beside him and put a practiced hand to the Khaqan’s throat. He stood. Removed his spectacles. Cleaned them. Put them back on.

“Well?” Oddly, the question came from the captain of the guard.

“He’s dead,” Menynder announced.

“Thank God,” the soldier said, lowering his weapon. “The old son of a bitch had gone looners.”