In the company of demons …
Tal Diamond is an Outsider whom Adrian picked up at a trade stop. He’s a product of engineered Elaphite/Human mating, an illegal being in the Republic and Empire. Under sentence of death, at least if Republic authorities discover him—you can see why he’d find life in the Cities more comfortable.”
Iolanthe blinked, but she was taking it in. “I don’t understand why he’s under sentence of death from the Outside.”
Quince said patiently, “Because Elaphite/Human mating is forbidden.”
“Why?”
“Because it produces demons. They don’t call them demons, they call them sociopaths, but it comes to the same thing. ‘Children who never learn to socialize properly.’” She swallowed, hoping she didn’t look pale, and tried to rally. “He’s not a child, though. How old is he?”
“Ah, there you have me. There are four things all Apheans—that’s what they call these Elaphite/Human products, by the way—have in common. Genius IQs, the inability to socialize normally, and a theoretical lifespan that goes on for miles. This one seems about your age; but who knows?”
Iolanthe looked at him with forced coolness. “That’s three things. You said four.”
“So I did. The fourth thing is that none of them ever manages to turn theory into practice in the lifespan department Every one of the little criminals listed in my research managed to get executed by the state or just plain killed by some outraged person before their fortieth birthday—a fair number while still in adolescence, in fact. Makes you wonder what they were like as toddlers, doesn’t it? Talk about hiding the kitchen knives.”
Io had a sudden, horrifying thought. “You’re not making all this up, are you? You don’t seem very … serious about this. You’re telling me about a creature of hell.”
“Oh, a bit of hell here, a bit of hell there.” He shrugged cheerfully. “One gets used to it.”
Copyright © 1996 by Jane Emerson
All Rights Reserved
Dedicated to
Bennett Claire Ponsford,
who knows why
Prologue
City Year 542
Everyone knew he was dying. By rights, he thought irritably, the bedchamber ought to be filled with hangers-on and low-voiced mourners waiting to catch his final words and pass them on to the packed waiting rooms outside.
Except the waiting rooms weren’t packed and all he had was one fifteen-year-old valet for company. What a comedown for the leader of four million people. “It’s not as if it were a bloody secret,” Saul Veritie muttered.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” asked Lucius, as he stopped clearing the table of the smokeless cigarettes the councillors had left behind in their hasty departure. His whisk broom paused and he turned an inquiring expression toward the Protector.
“Where’s Adrian?” Saul demanded querulously. “Doesn’t he know I’m ill?”
“He was here this morning, sir. He brought you the picture.” Lucius nodded toward the portrait that hung opposite the sickbed. “You spoke for an hour.”
“Oh.” Saul gazed at the portrait, a blamelessly correct version of a younger Saul Veritie at the head of a council meeting. “Bet Brandon picked it out for him. The boy’s got more taste than to get me something so dull.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucius saw the pain come over Saul’s face. He put down his whisk broom, walked over to the bed, and moved the pillows so that Saul could lie back. The Protector was only fifty-six, but he looked eighty. Two weeks ago the trade team had brought back a fever from their last days planetside, a bug that had gotten past the medical screening. It happened sometimes, and as usual, this one was no worse than a bad cold for most people. It was unfortunate that one of the rare exceptions to the rule happened to be the Diamond Protector. It had made the last few days very … eventful, Lucius thought, for everybody else.
Saul lay back and muttered to himself some more. Then he said—very loudly for a dying man, Lucius thought, “Well, where is Adrian?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can, sir.”
“I named him my successor. You’d think the least the boy could do would be to show up and fake some tears!” Lucius didn’t respond. He was aware of Saul’s genuine fondness for Adrian. Instead he poured a few swallows of medicine into a shot glass and held it to Saul’s lips. Saul pursed them like a three-year-old. “It’s time,” said Lucius. “The doctors said every four hours—”
“I’m dying, dammit. I don’t have to drink that stuff if I don’t want to.”
Lucius sighed and set the glass on the bedtable. He helped Saul to lie down again. After a moment the Protector said weakly, “Lucius? Where’s Adrian, isn’t he coming today?”
“He was here this morning, sir.” Lucius knew very well where Adrian was, but there was no need to burden a dying man with that knowledge.
“He was? I need to talk to him, you know. There’s something I have to tell him.”
“You told him, sir.”
“Well, how the hell do you know?” asked Saul, in a sudden return of spirit. “You don’t know what I want to tell him.”
“No, sir, but when he left, you led me to believe you’d given him some information.”
A slow smile came over Saul’s pallid face. “Did I?” He relaxed, seeming to lose interest in the conversation. Lucius took advantage of the moment to try the shot glass again; this time Saul downed it obediently.
While Saul was quiet, Lucius returned to sweeping up the remains of the deathwatch. He started into the next room to fetch a trash bag. “Lucius!” came the cry from the bed.
“Yes, sir?”
“I wanted to tell Adrian something, but the boy’s not here. I’ll have to tell you instead.”
“No, you don’t, sir,” said Lucius, in a reasonable tone, as he continued his efficient circuit toward the outer rooms. Lucius was fifteen, but he’d been born in service and had every intention of living a long and happy life in it. He had no desire to hear anything that had to be passed to the next
