He was now in the palace. The monastery building, reconstructed for the Dictator, still bore the features of the old architecture. Low vaulted ceilings, slit windows from floor to ceiling.
The rooms were sumptuously decorated for ceremonial assemblies that were no longer held for fear that the Dictator might be assassinated.
Yar Alt knew how to get through to Mada’s chambers. Subtle taste and a woman’s hand had completely transformed the austere cells and oratories. Yar Alt burst into one that had been decorated with pale blue fabric and silver cords, and it was there that he found Ave and Mada.
Mada was doing her hair. Beside herself with fury, she turned round and stamped her foot.
“How dare you burst in on me, you despicable robot of the Guard?”
Yar Alt showered Mada with threats.
“Silence, you boor!” exploded the furious Ave Mar, drawing himself up to his full height.
Mada shielded him with her body.
“Get out of here, you filthy robot! You’re not worth a hair of my husband’s head!”
“Husband?” Yar Alt bellowed with offensive laughter. “They are no longer alive, the unscrupulous witnesses of your ignominious ceremony under cover of which the enemies of the Superiors planned to wipe out our continent!”
“Blood on your hands and slander on your tongue—that is all you stand for! What can you know of goodness, love and nobility?”
Yar Alt pushed Mada roughly out of the way and hurled himself with his stiletto on the unarmed Ave. The other fended him off with a kick. As he fell, Alt seized hold of Mada and tried to stab her.
Ave Mar gripped his arm and twisted it so that the weapon tore Yar Alt’s own tunic.
Yar Alt was an experienced fighter. Ave Mar was an experienced athlete. They locked in combat, rolling about the ancient oratory and leaving a trail of bloodstains on the carpet.
Mada stared transfixed and could not tell whose blood it was. Ave Mar’s face was smeared all over with it.
Yar Alt stabbed Ave several times, but could not draw his hand far back enough for the fatal blow. Ave Mar sprang to his feet, seized a heavy chair and hurled it at his opponent. The other tried to dodge it, but a leg caught him on the head and he fell onto the floor. He nevertheless managed to draw back the stiletto, taking aim for a throw at Mada.
Ave Mar struck Yar Alt on the temple. His enemy was flung backwards, but threw out his legs and locked them round Ave’s ankles. Turning with a jerk, he threw Ave to the floor, then, getting up onto his knees, raised the stiletto. Ave knocked the weapon out of his hand.
Two shots rang out in succession. Mother Lua crawled through the door, a pistol dancing in her hand. Yar Alt reached for his stiletto again to finish Ave off.
Mada rushed to Lua, snatched the weapon out of her failing hand and pressed the firing button. Yar Alt jerked convulsively, slumped, and lay still.
“He loaded it with poisoned bullets himself,” gasped Mother Lua. “My dear, what will become of you?…”
Ave Mar rose to his feet and, breathing heavily, looked in amazement at the body of his adversary and at the unperturbed Mada. But she suddenly threw the pistol aside with revulsion.
“Blood! Blood!” she said in despair. “Now there can only be death. They will tear you to pieces, my husband. No one will believe it was I who did this.”
Ave Mar himself couldn’t believe it as he stared in bewilderment at his bloodstained hands.
Chapter Six
NO HAPPINESS IN THIS WORLD
Mada Jupi was, of course, a pampered child. Her every wish was fulfilled, she was glorified and bowed down to. But she had nevertheless not become spoiled and capricious, or incapable of doing anything but give orders. Mother Lua, who preserved the wisdom of the people, had managed after the death of Mada’s mother to inspire the girl with the idea of equal rights for all Faetians, whatever their outward appearance. Restrained, always calm. Mother Lua had the rare talent of the story-teller and an innate gift of influencing the minds of others. In another country, at another time. Mother Lua would have been the pride of the people; but on the barbarian continent of Power-mania’s Superiors she was only a nanny-true, of the Dictator’s daughter. She had always held up the girl’s own mother as an example, convincing her that the daughter should follow suit.
Mada grew up resembling her mother, but she also took after her father to some extent. Perhaps in her ability to love and hate to extremes. Consequently, the meeting with Ave swept her right off her feet. She fell in love, and a soft tenderness was combined with ruthless determination, and bewilderment with irrepressible daring. She had shot Yar Alt as if he were a mad beast, yet she was dismayed at the sight of his body.
The nanny was dying. Mada kneeled in front of her, listening as she whispered something almost inaudible.
“Nanny is talking about her son. And she says that Yar Alt murdered Kutsi.”
“Where? How?”
But Mother Lua could not say any more. Her strength had ebbed away. No efforts on Mada’s part were of any avail, neither the kiss of life nor heart massage. The nanny’s eyes closed and her body stretched out The hand that Mada had been holding began to turn cold. There was no pulse any more.
“It’s the end,” said Mada, and she burst into tears.
Ave now saw his companion as a weak and helpless girl. Like a child, she shook her nurse, kissed her cold hands and tried to wake her up.
Finally she turned her tear-stained face to Ave.
“My nanny is dead. She was so kind and clever! And we are finished.” And she glanced at Yar Alt’s contorted body. “Just think! He was my cousin.”
“Maybe we should try and help him!”
Mada shuddered.
“The bullets were poisoned. I don’t know how my poor nanny came by his pistol.” She began sobbing again.
Ave decided that he must do something. He lifted up the dead Alt, who had stiffened in his last convulsions, and carried him into a corner of the room behind the curtains.
Mada stood up determinedly and threw her head back.
“It’s no use. The Guards will be here soon, and then my father.” She picked Alt’s pistol up off the floor. “Forgive me for taking charge of our last step. There is no need to fire a bullet. One scratch is enough. Death will be instant. We shall hold hands with a bullet in our palms. We shall leave this world in which there is no happiness for us.”
Ave looked into her face: determination in her was struggling with despair.
Mada took the last round out of the pistol. The bullet was silvery and its sharp prickles were brown where the poisonous coating had been applied.
Ave resolutely gripped Mada’s hand.
“No! Faetians don’t give in so easily. We can still renounce life, but happiness… No!”
“There is no happiness in this world,” replied Mada.
“Show me the way into the garden,” said Ave masterfully, “and then through the Blood Door.”
“You think we can flee somewhere? Dawn is near, the last in our life. Can you hear the birds singing? I shall follow you because you are my husband. But we shall take the prickly bullet with us. It will be a safe protection for us.”
“Lead the way,” urged Ave.
Mada looked at him curiously. Until now, she had thought herself the stronger.
They carried Lua’s body to a couch and Mada spread over it a pale blue coverlet from her bed. Then she showed Ave a low door leading into a narrow passage that ended in a steep ladder.
Just before dawn, the garden had changed completely. A silvery cloud had filled the avenues, hiding the bushes and tree-trunks from view. It seemed to Ave that he and Mada were walking into another world above the clouds. He clasped her slender hand more tightly.