Then came a silent shot from behind glass of Girmeyn, head discreetly bandaged, in a room with the same man; just the pair of them sitting in two small seats facing each other, talking, and the man breaking down, putting his head in his hands, and Girmeyn hesitating, then putting his own hand out, touching the man on the shoulder.
She watched it again, then a third time. The last word on Girmeyn had him in retreat on some asteroid habitat.
She returned to the current news. The usual small wars and civil conflicts, minor and major disasters and the occasional heart-warming filler item.
She sat back in the seat, watching the main news items again. She felt dizzy, the way she had when she’d seen the Lazy Gun and looked into that storehouse of ancient treasure under the stone tower.
After a while she shook her head and switched the screen off.
She showered, and afterwards caught sight of herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror as she towelled behind her back. She stopped and looked at herself. An artificially bald woman in early middle-age. A dressing on one hand. The skin under her eyes dark. A face that had aged recently.
Alone, she thought. Alone.
She wondered what was behind the mirror, looking back at her.
She dressed in a dark suit of trousers and jacket and a pair of heavy, sensible shoes. In the course of dressing she effectively searched the room, but found nothing that would serve as a weapon.
She sat down eventually and watched some screen; an old fast-paced slapstick comedy that kept her from thinking too much. The smartly uniformed young emissaries came calling at her door half an hour later and invited her to an audience with Molgarin.
The two young men walked on either side of her. Two guards followed a few paces behind. An elevator took them even further down, pausing occasionally while muffled whirring and thudding noises announced what were probably blast shutters opening and closing.
Finally a short corridor walled with roll-doors brought them to a shallow ramp leading up to darkness. The guards stayed at the foot of the incline. She walked up between the two young emissaries; they took one of her arms each, gently but firmly. A rumbling noise behind them closed off the light.
The space they arrived in was a giant circular bunker, blackdark save for a series of twenty or so slit-like projections spaced regularly round the walls, apparently looking out across the cold grey desert to the distant ring of ash-coloured mountains she had seen the day before. She wondered if the projections were recorded images, but guessed they were real-time. The sky above the mountains looked clear and thin and blue.
Distance was hard to estimate, but as they marched her towards the centre of the bunker she guessed it wasn’t less than forty metres in diameter. The darkness made the encircling desert views shine, hurting her eyes.
The two emissaries halted; she stopped, too, and they let go of her arms.
Ceiling spotlights blazed in front of her, shining down onto a black circular dais; steps were just visible, gradations of shade against shade. The dais was crowned by a tall, plain throne made from a gleaming black material that might have been glass, jet or even highly polished wood.
The man sitting in the throne was dressed in a sumptuous robe of many colours, though purple and gold predominated. The thick robe hid his frame; he could have been anything between an average build and obese. His face looked plump but healthy; he was clean-shaven and his head, covered in short, black curls, was bare. There was at least one ring on each of his fingers, and he wore two sets of earrings and a pair of jewelled nostril scuds. A brow-brooch glittered over his right eye.
His fingers sparkled magnificently as he clasped his hands lightly together. He smiled.
“Lady Sharrow,” he said. “My name is Molgarin. We met once long ago, but I don’t expect you remember; you were very young.”
His voice was even and quiet; it sounded older than he looked.
“No, I don’t remember,” she said. She thought her voice sounded flat. “Why did you kill Miz like that?”
Molgarin waved one hand dismissively. “He cheated me out of something that was rightfully mine, many years ago. One of the skills one develops during the course of a long life is that of relishing one’s revenge, and both planning and executing acts worthy of that skill.” Molgarin smiled. “Finally, though, the truth is that I had him killed to distress you.” The smile faded. “Please, sit down.”
The two young emissaries took her arms again and urged her forward; the three of them sat on the bottom step of the dais, their bodies twisted slightly so that they could still see Molgarin. He put his arms out to his sides slowly.
“I felt that you insulted my young emissaries here,” Molgarin said. (The two young men both smiled smugly at her.) “And through them,” Molgarin said, “me.” He shrugged. “And so I punished you. I always make a point of punishing those who insult me.”
“Yeah,” the emissary in front of her said. “You should see what we have planned for that cousin of yours.”
Molgarin cleared his throat and the young man glanced up at him, then back at Sharrow with a conspiratorial leer. The spotlights reflected on his bald head.
“Whatever,” Molgarin said, “the wretch is dead. But please don’t imagine that all that has happened has been done to upset you, or as revenge on Kuma. My purpose has rather more substance than that.”
Molgarin settled back in his throne, clasping his hands again. “You have-as you have doubtless realised by now-been used, Lady Sharrow. But used for something infinitely more worthwhile than personal gain or individual glory. The interests I am pleased to represent, and I myself, have little enough concern with the trappings of power. Our concern is with the health of Golter and its system; with the good of our species.”
“You’re not just another dick-head power-junkie?” she said matter-of-factly. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”
Molgarin shook his head. “Oh dear,” he said. “Something worse than cynicism must be abroad if even our aristocracy cannot accept that the rich and powerful may be motivated by purposes beyond acquiring yet more money and increased influence.” He put his head to one side, as though genuinely puzzled. “Can’t you see, Lady Sharrow? Once one has a certain amount of both, one turns to hobbies, or good works or philosophy. Some people become patrons of the arts or charities. Others may-charitably-be said to raise their own lives to the state of art, living as the common herd imagine they would live if they had the chance. And some of us attempt not merely to understand our history, but to influence meaningfully the course of the future.
“I grant that, in my case, because I am beyond the jurisdiction of the chancre we call the World Court, I have a greater personal interest in the future than most, because I expect to live to see it, but…” Molgarin hesitated, anticipating a reaction where she had given none. He went on. “Yes, I am what we choose to call immortal. I have been so for four centuries and expect to be so for considerably longer than that… But I can see you are not impressed. Probably you don’t believe me.” He waved one hand. “Never mind.”
“He is, you know,” the emissary behind her whispered.
“Romantic children like your cousin,” Molgarin continued, “would try to return us to a golden age that never existed, when people respected the aristocracy and power rested safely in the hands of a few individuals. My colleagues and I believe a more enterprising, more corporate style is required: one that releases the natural resourcefulness and entrepreneurial spirit of humanity; freeing them from the dead hand of the World Court and its miserable, gelding restrictions.
“For this, we-like your cousin-thought it prudent to gather as many of the treasures and achievements bequeathed to us by earlier and more progressive eras as we could, especially given the decidedly feverish atmosphere beginning to be generated by the approach of the deca-millennium. Though in our case this sudden burst of acquisitiveness was as much to prevent the artifacts concerned from falling into hands as rash as your cousin’s as to assist directly in our own plans, which do not need to rely on such vulnerably physical specifics.”