Fortune's Light Part 12

Finally it was Lyneea's voice, coming from over his shoulder, that made the reality of it congeal and hold fast: "d.a.m.n it, Riker, it's him."

Even then his impulse was to deny it-if not Teller's presence here, then the fact that he was dead. Clamping the beamlight between his teeth, he began to descend into the pit.

"Careful, Riker. Careful, I said. Blazes, there's no need to hurry like that. He's beyond your help."

But Riker wasn't buying it. He lowered himself by hanging on to a flat rock that had fallen across the opening until he was suspended directly above a short slope of gravel and detritus. Then he dropped, landed on all fours, and slid and crab-walked his way down to the bottom to where Teller lay-open-mouthed as if in surprise, eyes like jewels in the flickering, unsteady light. Unsteady, Riker realized, because he was trembling, and the beamlight was trembling along with him.

Teller was pale, terribly pale. There should have been at least a wisp of breath twisting up from between his lips; there wasn't. Riker took off a glove and felt his friend's neck: there was no pulse.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, where he could still think clearly, where the thing he confronted had not spread its pollution, Riker heard the stones grind on the debris-covered escarpment. Lyneea had followed him into the pit.

"Are you all right?" she asked him.

"Fine," he told her. The word came out of him, anyway. He wasn't sure how or from where, but it came out.

He touched the pallid brow, cold as the stones. Shut the obscenely gawking eyes.

Teller, Teller, Teller.

He had to accept it now; the evidence was only inches from his face. He had to embrace the truth.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

He forced himself to turn around, to look at her. He saw her eyes screw up a little as she looked back.

"I'm sure," he said.

And he was. He could feel the horror leaching out of him into the clammy cold of the pit. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his bare hand.

Lyneea's expression changed, mirroring his recovery. "Yes, I guess you are."

Reluctantly he relinquished his friend to the darkness for a moment and beam-searched the rest of the hole. After all, their work wasn't finished. They had found Teller, but not the seal.

Never mind what you're feeling, he told himself. You've got a job to do.

Meanwhile, Lyneea crept past him. She knelt down next to the body to get a better look-to determine, as best she could, a cause of death. They needed clues; she would do whatever was necessary to find them.

The pit wasn't big, but it was the most confusing s.p.a.ce he'd seen yet. There were lots of little niches where something the size of Fortune's Light could have been tucked away. Lots of places that might be the beginnings of tunnels leading, perhaps, to other pits-places that would have to be scoured out with light before they could be dismissed as dead ends.

It took a while before he could be certain that the seal wasn't there. By that time Lyneea had completed her search as well.

He looked at her. "Well?"

"A knife," she told him. "Once-in the heart. Clean and quick."

It was small consolation, but it was something. He clung to it.

"Unfortunately," Lyneea went on, "his pockets are empty. Not even so much as a chit." She shook her head. "Your luck was no better, I take it."

"No sign of the seal," he confirmed. "Either the killer took it out with him or it wasn't here in the first place."

"Probably the latter," she said. "My guess is that Conlon never saw this hole. He was probably murdered up above somewhere and then dumped here to conceal the fact."

Riker grunted. "But the murderer didn't just stumble on him here in the maze, recognize the seal, and decide to kill him for it."

Lyneea agreed. "The murderer had to know Conlon's whereabouts in advance. Odds are, they were partners in this, one way or the other."

"Maybe the b.a.s.t.a.r.d planned it this way from the start. To let Teller steal Fortune's Light and then to lift it from him afterward. Less risk that way."

"And no one to split the profits with," Lyneea concluded.

Riker no longer argued the question of his friend's guilt, not even within himself. Innocent people didn't get stabbed and left in places like this one.

"So we're back where we started," he said. "No-even farther back than that. Before, we at least knew whom we were looking for. Now it could be anyone."

His partner's face twisted in a scowl. "And the seal could be anywhere. Still in the maze-a.s.suming it ever was in the maze-or wherever Conlon's killer decided to stash it." She glanced meaningfully at the opening above them. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

He looked at her. "What about Teller?"

Lyneea didn't look entirely unsympathetic. "We leave him here," she said, in a softer tone than the one she usually used. "It's not as if we have much of a choice. Even if we could get him out without attracting attention, where would we take him?" She got up, stretched. "And there's the killer to think about as well. If he comes back and the body's gone, he'll know there's someone on his trail-and he'll be twice as careful to hide his tracks."

It made sense. Riker had to admit that. And yet, the thought of leaving Teller here in this G.o.dforsaken hole... .

"Just give me a minute," he told Lyneea. "Alone-all right?"

She regarded him. "Sure." And with an effort, she scrambled up the little slope. Riker didn't see her leave; he just heard the sc.r.a.pe of her boots on some rocks as she kicked herself up through the opening.

He sighed, played the light on Teller's face again, and forced himself to study each feature individually, as if that might make the totality somehow more palatable. Memories came, lots of them-all maudlin, all the stuff of melodrama. He pushed them aside, did his best to dredge up clear thoughts.

Had he failed Teller Conlon? And if he had, did it really matter any longer?

What was the proper course of action now? What did a man do when a friend died, anyway? See this investigation through, as a sort of memorial to the man Teller used to be, as opposed to the man he'd become? See his killer brought to justice?

Of course. All of that.

Would it be enough? When it was over, would he feel that he had set Teller's soul to rest?

There was only one way to find out. Getting up, he took one last look at the dead man. Then, slipping his glove back on, he turned and started back up the escarpment.

He was peering at the rocks above him, trying to determine how Lyneea had hauled herself out, when he heard a sharp, distinct yelp.

d.a.m.n. He scampered up the rest of the slope, saw a rocky projection that might give him the access he needed, and used it to boost himself toward the exit. His fingers caught the cross piece; he swung a leg up, lodged his heel against the lip of the pit, then pulled and twisted his body up after it.

Riker was sprawled on the ground above the hole, one leg still dangling within, when he caught sight of Lyneea.

Contrary to his expectations, she didn't seem to be in any trouble. True, she was kneeling as if doubled over, but there was no sign of pain on her face. In fact, she looked as if she'd just remembered something funny.

"What's going on?" he asked, getting to his feet. "When I heard you yell, I thought the killer had come back."

Lyneea glanced at him. "No such luck." Picking something up off the ground, she held it out so he could see it.

It was an emblem of some sort, with torn cloth and threads around it, as if it had been removed by force from whatever garment it was meant to adorn.

"May I?" he asked, holding his hand out. She gave it to him.

A black field cut into two parts by a large yellow lightning bolt. In the upper right-hand corner, two yellow sheaves of grain. In the lower left, two yellow aircraft.

All along the bottom edge, something had made the material stiff and maroon-colored. Riker recognized it as blood.

"The emblem of Madraga Rhurig," explained Lyneea. "Agriculture, hydroelectric power, air transport-the industries they control in various parts of Imprima." She paused. "The stuff on the bottom wasn't part of the original design."

"Rhurig," Will repeated, recalling Norayan's suspicions but unable to identify them as hers. He turned the emblem over in his hand. "You think they would stoop this low? Would they steal Fortune's Light or arrange to have it stolen?"

"I wouldn't put it past them. They've never seen eye to eye with Criathis."

"And the merger would only have made Criathis more powerful. So they moved to prevent it the only way they could."

"Yes," Lyneea said. "And then-who knows? Maybe it was their intention to kill Conlon from the start, so that he couldn't tell anyone what had happened to the seal. Or maybe he tried to hold them up for more money than was originally agreed upon. To blackmail them."

"Either way," said Riker, "they killed him." He could feel the excitement of discovery giving way to the heat of anger. "And whoever belongs to this patch must have been in on the deed-and lost it in the course of a struggle."

His partner nodded. "This is big, Riker. It's no longer a matter of an individual, or even two. We're talking about a madraga that has helped shape Impriman history for nearly eight hundred years. If Rhurig is involved with this, and it can be proven ..."

"Then Rhurig will be ruined," he said. "Shunned by the other madraggi until it collapses of its own weight."

"Or worse." She shook her head. "It's hard to say what would be done. Nothing like this has ever happened before. But I can tell you this-the economic repercussions would be ma.s.sive. Global."

For the first time since they'd known each other, Riker thought Lyneea seemed uncertain, almost overwhelmed.

"This is big," she repeated. "Very big."

He looked at her. "You're not suggesting that we shouldn't pursue it, are you? Just because of the implications?"

"No," she said. "Of course not. It's just that we can't keep it to ourselves any longer. We've got to contact Criathis-tell the first official what we know. Let him decide what we should do next."

"We can't," said Riker. Not if we're to keep Norayan's secret, as I promised.

"We can't?"

"No."

Lyneea's brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

"Trust me," he told her. "We just can't."

Her eyes narrowed. "There you go again, Riker. Keeping things from your partner." A little muscle in her jaw began to twitch. "If you've really got a good reason to keep this kind of information from the first official of Madraga Criathis-the man to whom I've sworn my loyalty-then I want to hear it." She pointed a gloved finger at him. "But I'm telling you in advance-I don't think there's a reason in the world that's even halfway good enough to make me do that."

Riker started to object and then realized it was no use. There was only one thing he could say at this juncture that would keep Lyneea from going to her superior.

The truth.

Forgive me, Norayan.

He didn't hold anything back. He related the whole story, just as Norayan had related it to him. And by the time he was done, Lyneea's expression had lost some of its hardness.

"Well," she said at last, "that does put a different face on matters. Norayan is a great a.s.set to Criathis. Mind you, I don't approve of what she did. But her exposure could only hurt the madraga."

Riker breathed a sigh of relief. "Then you'll keep Norayan's secret?"

Lyneea frowned. "Yes."

"Good," he said. "I'd hoped you'd see it that way."

"But if we are to handle this ourselves, Riker, we must be careful. Very careful. We can't afford to let Rhurig know of our investigation, or we could find ourselves sharing a pit with your friend."

"I agree," he said, shutting out her image. He held out the emblem. "Is there something we can do with this?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes," she decided. "There is. Every madraga member's emblem is just a little different from any other-a vanity that seems to pervade Impriman society. You or I might be hard-pressed to tell whose tunic that came from, even if we had another of his tunics lying right beside it. But there is one man in Besidia who can identify it at a glance."

"And that is?" he asked.

"His tailor," she told him.

Chapter Eight.

PLUNK.

There was something immensely soothing about repet.i.tion, Picard noted. Automation has relieved us of the need for it, but perhaps that is not all good. For at least the hundredth time in the last half hour, he lunged.

It was an easy, graceful motion-one he had been taught long ago at Salle Guillaume, on the Rive Gauche in Paris. In fact, his old fencing den had provided the inspiration for this dark, hardwood environment he'd created here in the holodeck.

He could almost hear the gibes of his fencing master: "Like a cat, not like your plodding old grandmother. Watch me now, Jean-Luc!"

First the point, as if it had a will of its own, an energy independent of the fencer himself. Then the arm, pulled by that headstrong point, and finally the rest of him, until his right leg had no choice but to fly out and catch his weight.

Head held high, left shoulder back. Trapezius muscles relaxed to permit maximum extension. Balance, always balance.

Of course, none of this really mattered unless the ultimate goal was reached, the ultimate test met and pa.s.sed. Everything depended on that hard black rubber ball hanging by its meter-long cord just a few feet in front of him.

Plunk.

If it swung straight back, he had succeeded. If it bounced or shot off in an oblique direction, he would know that his mechanics had been off, that perhaps he had not been as graceful as he'd thought.