"Well?"
It was the first time they had relaxed together. On the flight across from the island he had been busy taking reports and giving orders, but now he could take time to talk, to ask her how she had enjoyed her stay.
She looked back at him and smiled, her eyes sparkling. "It was beautiful, Daddy. Just beautiful."
"So you enjoyed it?" He laughed. "That's good . . ."
She looked away. For a moment there was a strange wistfulness in her eyes, a wistfulness he shared and understood.
For a moment he just looked at her, realizing how precious she was to him. She was so like her mother now. So like the woman he had loved.
"You look tired,", she said, concerned for him.
"Do I?" He laughed again, then nodded. "Well, perhaps I am." He smiled and leaned forward again, reaching out to take her hands in his. "Listen, we've got one stop-off to make, but then I've got the evening free. How do you fancy coming to the opera? I've booked a box. It's the T'ang's own company. They're doing The South Branch."
She laughed, delighted, for a moment forgetting her heaviness of heart. She had always liked opera, and if The South Branch wasn't the lightest of subjects, it was still opera.
"Where are we going first?"
He sat back, relinquishing her hands. "It's just business. It won't take long. A half hour at most. Then we can get back and get changed, neh?"
They felt the bolt judder then begin to move, picking up speed very quickly. Jelka looked away, watching the dragon pattern on the wall beyond the window flicker and then blur until it was just seven lines of red and green and gold.
"Did Uncle Jon tell you about the storm?"
"No." He laughed. "There was a storm, was there?"
"Yes." She turned, looking back at him. "It was so powerful. So . . ."
He looked down, as if disturbed. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'd forgotten."
She stared at him a moment, surprised by his sudden change of mood. "What is it?"
He looked up at her again, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just that it suddenly reminded me of your mother."
"Ah . . ." She nodded. Then it was as her uncle had said. Yes, she could see it now, how different her father and mother had been and yet how much in love.
She turned her head, seeing their reflections in the glass of the window, and smiled sadly. It must have been hard for him, harder even than his exile.
She pushed the thought away, trying to cheer herself with the prospect of the evening ahead; but raising her hand to touch her cheek, she caught the unexpected scent of burnt pine on her fingers and felt herself go still.
"What is it?" her father asked, his eyes never leaving her.
"Nothing," she answered, turning, smiling at him again. "Nothing at all."
"Who's that?"
Tolonen came back to the one-way mirror and stood beside his daughter. "That? Why that's Ward. Kim Ward. He's a strange one. Quite brilliant. They say his mind is quicker than a machine."
She laughed, surprised. "You mean, he's one of the team?"
"Yes, and probably the best, by all accounts. It's astonishing, considering . . ."
Jelka looked up at him. "Considering what?"
Her father looked away, as if the matter were distasteful. "He's Clayborn. Can't you see it in him—that darkness behind the eyes? He's been conditioned; but even so, it's never quite the same, is it? There's always that little bit of savagery left in them." He looked back at her, smiling. "Still. . . let's get on, eh? I've done here now and Hans is waiting back home."
She nodded vaguely, looking back at the boy, pressing her face close up against the glass to stare at him. She could see what her father meant. When he turned to face the glass it was as though something else—something other than the boy— looked back at her. Some wild and uncaged thing that owed nothing to this world of levels. She shivered, not from fear but from a sense of recognition. She laughed softly, surprised to find him here when she had thought him left behind her on the island. Then, as if coming to herself, she pushed back slightly from the glass, afraid.
And yet it was true. She could see it, there, in his eyes. Clayborn, her father had said. But he was more than that.
"Come, Jelka. Let's get on."
For a moment longer she hesitated, watching the boy, then turned, following her father, only then realizing what he had said earlier.
"The gods preserve us." she said almost inaudibly. "Hans Ebert! That's all I need!"
kim turned, looking across the table at Hammond.
"Who was that?"
"Who?"
"The girl. The one with Marshal Tolonen."
Hammond laughed. "Oh, her. That was his daughter, didn't you know?"
"Ah..." For a while he had thought it might have been his wife. It was the habit of such men, after all, to take young girls for wives. Or so he had heard. But he was strangely pleased that he'd been mistaken.
"Did you hear the rumors?" one of the other men said, keeping his voice low. "They say the Ping Tiao tried to assassinate her."
Kim frowned. "It wasn't on the news."
"No," one of the others said conspiratorially. "It wouldn't be. Just now they want everyone to believe that things are quiet and that they're in control. But I've heard—well, they say a whole squad of them attacked the Marshal's apartment. She killed six of them before her father intervened."
Kim felt a strange ripple of excitement—or was it fear?—move down his spine. He looked at Hammond again.
"What's her name?"
Hammond frowned. "I'm not sure. Jukka, or something."
"Jelka," one of them corrected him. "Jelka Tolonen."
Jelka. He shivered, then looked down. Yes, the name fitted her perfectly. Like something out of myth.
"What's going on here?"
Kim looked up, meeting Spatz's eyes. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."
"Good. Then you can go now, Ward. I've no further use for you."
He bowed slightly, keeping all expression from his face, but inwardly he felt elated. Spatz had had no choice other than to take him into the laboratories for the duration of the Marshal's visit and Kim had made the most of it, calling up files and asking questions until he was as fully briefed of developments as the best of them. Yet as he walked back down the corridor to his room he found himself thinking not of the Project but of the girl. Who was she? What was she like? What did she sound like when she spoke? How did her face change when she laughed?
He paused at his door, thinking of how she had stood there at her father's side, her deeply blue eyes taking in everything. And then, briefly, her eyes had met his own and she had frowned. As if ...
He shivered, then shook his head, palming the lock and stepping inside as the door irised open. No, it wasn't possible. It was only his imagination. And yet— well, for the briefest moment it had seemed that she had seen him. Not just the outward form of him, but his deeper self.
He smiled, dismissing the thought, then sat down on his bed, looking about him. What would you make of this, Jelka Tolonen? he wondered. It would be too alien, I'm sure. Too dull. Too esoteric.
Yes, for she was not of his kind. She was First Level, powerful, sophisticated, rich. No doubt she was in love with fine clothes and dances, opera and gallant young officers. It was ridiculous even to think . . .
And yet he was thinking it.
For a moment he closed his eyes, seeing her again: so straight and tall and perfectly proportioned, her skin so pure and white, her hair like gold and silver blended, her eyes— He caught his breath, remembering her eyes. Yes. Like something out of myth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
King of the World