He could keep coming up with reasons all day. They drove further, and his directional sense kept telling him this was wrong.
Christ, Willie, be sensible. If you think she ’s a murderer, why didn’t she kill you back at the villa? What could she possibly want with a Sangaree sergeant?—I don’t know, he responded mentally. But I don’t think it’s in my best interests. I just don’t feel a long life line in this direction.
Then he did something that he hadn’t known he was going to do, but that was just as well or he wouldn’t have done it. He reached over and put an arm around Miranda’s shoulder. After all, a woman as beautiful as that must be used to men behaving obnoxiously.
“I need to concentrate on my driving, sergeant,” said the voice like pearls.
“Sorry.” He removed his arm.
Her neck and cheek had been cold. But machine-cold? Or just chilly? His own hands weren’t very warm.
The mountainside dropped off to his right in a forest of green trees and undergrowth, bushes and wildflowers.
He opened the door and rolled out in one motion. And kept rolling, over sharp stems that whipped up to cut him, and stones, and tree roots. The slope was too steep to stop himself. When he finally fetched up against the hollow of a grandfather tree, he’d come much further than he’d planned.
And the wind was knocked out of him, and he couldn’t move.
Way up above, the car had stopped. She’d powered it down to hear better. “Sergeant?” he heard her call. “Will?”
He couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He felt his heartbeat as though it belonged to someone else. Could she hear him? Could she see the heat of his body here in the dirt and stones? Nothing would surprise him.
You’ve just lost a free ride to the port, Willie. Now she ’ll tip-tap over to the car in those cute little boots and drive away and leave the crazy Diamonder to fend for himself.
A bolt of white light hit a tree a few yards to his left. The tree crisped and began smoking. Where the hell had she gotten a light-rifle? He hadn’t seen one in the car.
He had his wind back. Will sighed sympathetically for the cuts and bruises his body already had garnered, and dived down the slope again. Gravity took him, and the undergrowth covered him in a tomblike highway.
On the Diamond, Keylinn was admitted to Adrian’s suite. Iolanthe was perched on a lounge chair in the sitting room, reading a book. She glanced up at Keylinn and back down again without commenting. Adrian said, “What is it?”
Keylinn handed him the paper that the Transport deck link-boy had given her half an hour ago. She knew the contents by heart.
>17:06<
>RETRANSMIT FROM BARET STATION<
>TO KEYLINN GRAY, TECH<
>THE CITY OF DIAMOND<
You have lately had in your possession a crown of 28-karat gold, weighing 5 kilos, with an abstract design of twisted rope, bearing three main Redemptionist eternal life Symbols, and a number of minor representations worked into the design.
This crown was lately constructed in Everun, at the instigation of two agents from the City of Opal.
Should you wish the genuine Sawyer Crown, seek for it in the possession of Hyram Det Arbrith.
Adrian looked up. “There’s no signature?”
“And Baret Station denies any knowledge of the 1 sender. It came along a regular communications path, and was sent with normal port messages. Credit to pay for the retransmission accompanied the original message.”
The Protector started to pace. Iolanthe put down her book and watched. He said, “Of course, it could be a hoax.”
“Yes,” said Keylinn. “Although—”
“Although they know what the crown looks like so awfully well.”
Iolanthe said, “Adrian?”
He put up a hand. “Wait.” He paced some more, then said, “We’ll go take another look at Tal’s vault. The Oracle from Pearl will be here tomorrow at two. Damn! If only I could reach him! He would stay behind on a worldful of revolutionary crazies—”
“I can reach him,” said Keylinn. It was a gray area, but she felt Tal would want her to tell Adrian in these circumstances. He looked at her sharply and she corrected, “Theoretically, I can reach him. I’ve got a protocol to Baret Station that Tal’s matched his hand-corn to.”
“What’s he doing with a Baret hand-com? Never mind. Do it, do it.”
“With your permission,” said Keylinn. She sat down at the link in his sitting room and addressed a greeting through the Baret connection. There was no response. She tried again. A message appeared: VOLUNTARY FAILURE.
Adrian was beside her. “Who fails voluntarily?”
“They mean Tal has his com turned off. He knows that at the very earliest we couldn’t pull out of Baret System for hours yet. And he doesn’t want to be disturbed.” Adrian looked at her—a heavy look, a veil of sheetmetal, and it occurred to her that perhaps her discussion of Tal’s motivations should not appear so effortlessly certain.
“The hell with him,” said Adrian. “We’ll break into his damned vault without him.”
Iolanthe had stood up pointedly and was waiting for some attention to be cast in her direction. “Sir, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
He seemed to wince very slightly at the “sir.” He said, “Yes, of course. We’ll all go. Come on, Io, we’re going to talk to a security lock.”
“I’m very sorree,” sang the lock.
