“How’s all this stuff getting to the pole?” Jay asked.

“Servants from the House will pick it up tomorrow.”

“So it goes in a day ahead of time?”

“Yes.”

“Waiters, bus boys, too?”

“No, Tarhiji are not permitted. The Zal’hma at’ Irg serve themselves at Festival.”

“Do they use living ships?”

“Only to tow the freight barges.”

“And who unloads once they reach the pole?”

“Tarhiji who have ridden with the foodstuffs. Why?” she asked suddenly suspicious.

“I just figured out how to crash that party.”

“Not in my desserts you’re not.”

“Let’s talk about it.” And he drew her arm gently through his.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Twelve thousand years ago (or so legend had it) all the families had banded together to build Festival Hall on the edge of the polar continent. The Crossing Festival was always held on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, to symbolize the blackness of space as the Takisians made their crossing and emerged into the sunlight of the Crystal World. It was the only time when for a brief count of hours the ruling families of Takis set aside rivalry, plots, and murder and celebrated together.

Everyone attended Festival. The old (not too many of those in a psi lord family), the infirm, the very young (there seemed to be about twenty million crying babies in this shuttle), and everyone in between. But no guards. The Tarhiji were not permitted at Festival.

“Perfect time to drop a tactical nuke,” Jay had remarked to Trips as he watched the tailor fit the lanky ace for the Festival. Mark couldn’t remember what he’d said. Maybe nothing. There really wasn’t anything to say when Jay was on the prod.

Mark sighed and wished the detective were here now, but Jay was a mere guard, not adopted, not one of the family like Mark. Maybe that was what had made him so crabby, and why he’d vanished for a day. Probably pissed. If Jay was regretting missing the party, Mark would cheerfully have changed places with him. The ace didn’t want to see Blaise – too many bad memories. And speaking of memories, how the hell is the Doc going to handle this? wondered Mark.

She was in her usual position – head averted from the women and children, gazing out the portal. Or was the port only an illusion projected by the living ship? Trips had never quite worked that out.

This late in the pregnancy Tisianne’s face had grown puffy, but overall she looked pretty good. Her maid had dressed her hair in an elaborate upswept style that made her seem older and far more regal. The dress wasn’t so good. Its bizarre color combinations were shocking to human sensibilities, and the cut was designed to accentuate rather than minimize the belly. Then there was the bare neckline screaming for jewelry, but Tis had remained adamant and refused to wear her mother’s jewels. Mark foresaw an unpleasant scene with Zabb.

Mark sidled over to her. Peered out the port. It was a tight fit, and their cheeks brushed. Heat rolled off her skin. Worried, he laid a hand on her forehead.

She brushed it aside. “Nerves. I’ve always had the power to make myself sick. Maybe someday I’ll do it up really right and end up dead.”

There was nothing to say to that. They returned to their contemplation of dark water, icebergs, and ice floes. What had seemed a puzzling white line on the horizon resolved itself into a wall of ice several hundred feet high. The sea battered against those crystal ramparts – white spume and white ice. Occasionally the patient chew of the water broke free a chunk of ice the size of a train car. The roar of falling ice seemed like a cry of despair while the ocean boomed in triumph. And then the patient millennium-long dance began again.

Tis jerked her chin, and Trips saw it. Building seemed too mundane. Palace was incorrect since this structure stood empty all year long except for this one night. Victorian absurdity, was the best he could do. And enormous! It appeared to be constructed entirely of glass. Probably some sort of high tensile plastic to be able to resist the polar storms, Mark amended, and he was damned if he knew what held it up. There were no struts in evidence, no obvious bearing walls.

The arrival time seemed to be inviolable. As the Ilkazam ships, flying in tight and elegant formation, dived toward the hail, Mark saw other brilliantly lit ships also sweeping in. There was a sense of show-off in the formations the ships assumed as they landed, and then it struck him – this wasn’t at the bidding of their masters, this was pure ship vanity.

Tis slumped back. “No Baby. They would be too afraid she’d bolt. Ideal, I’d probably bolt with her.”

“You can’t give up, Doc.” He laid a tentative, comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I should have agreed to Jay’s scheme,” she said, and her expression was as bleak as the landscape.

The hours had passed in surprising comfort. Food was certainly not a problem, and Jay hadn’t even had to sleep on the floor. This glass cat house came equipped with everything. It was an easy guess what the secluded little rooms containing only beds were for, but Jay didn’t think his performance would be too hot. He’d be too aware of those transparent walls. Further snooping revealed game rooms with decks of cards and score pads at the ready. There were board games of indeterminate goals. Holographic video games. A nursery filled with cribs and toys for children.

A long ramp led deep into the polar ice, and to a great room carved entirely out of that same ice. There was a skating rink. And a track. Jay wondered what ran on it. Then he found the stalls, and he and some critter that looked like a cross between a giraffe, an impala, and a horse scared the bejesus out of each other. As he stumbled back, the detective wondered what kind of people would pack up food for seventy thousand, their kids, and their animals, and take an evening stroll to the pole? The closest analogy he could think of was the Super Bowl.

For the Takisians, though, the big event wasn’t sport, it was dance. The central focus of the great building was the ballroom. The floor was black, and twinkling in its depths were thousands of tiny lights. As he stared at them, Jay realized they seemed to form a stellar map. Spiraling out of the floor like coiling smoke were crystal pillars – clear, amethyst, blue, topaz – frozen jewels or flowers, Jay couldn’t decide which.

On a high podium rested the orchestra’s instruments. Jay walked up the stairs and softly touched the strings of a harp. The single note shivered in the air. Jay thrust his hands behind his back and, though he was not a fanciful man, felt as if he’d stumbled into a fairy tale. It was eerie. The instruments laid aside as if the orchestra had only paused for a break, the plates and cups arranged and waiting on the buffet, the food steaming softly, and there was not a soul in the place.

“Just one lost little soul,” Jay said aloud.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud boom. Jay knew that sound. Something large and very fast had hit the speed of sound. The party was about to begin. He flexed his right forefinger several times like a man checking the action of his pistol and went in search of a hiding place.

“Killed them all.” Gabru, Raiyis of House Ss’ang, sighed. He shook his harlequin head. Each contrasting strand of hair had been separated from the rest, lacquered, and swept up, until they resembled knife blades thrusting out from the skull.

“There are only a handful of women left from the entire House,” Ruek, Raiyis of House Alaa, said.

“A tragic loss,” offered Hazzal, ruler of House Jeban. “Rodaleh had a very powerful strain of psi healers. We’re going to see a lot more insanity with the loss of this gift.”