Father made it inside before being soaked—one tiny victory.
Prima was waiting indoors. She looked like every tired, furious human. King assumed that her rage was going to be pointed at Father or maybe at him. His armor reflexively tilted, ready to impress. But Prima ignored King, and she barely nodded at the Archon. The eyes were bright fiery and distinctly crazed, fixed on those left behind on the gangway. She was dressed for no purpose but comfort, her clothes ordinary, even bland. “I’m sorry, that was stupid,” she screamed across the taller heads, apparently addressing the drenching gale. “Give me a moment, sir. Please.”
The next recitation was amusing, educational, and thoroughly bizarre. King would have known that just from his father’s expression or anyone else left standing inside the Panoply’s entranceway. Every face watched the Archon stride straight into the storm. Neither of her hands used the railing as the extended, increasingly strained gangway was buffeted in several directions at once. A few trailing men had to be ignored if not exactly pushed aside. It would be simple to call the woman fearless or brave—two very different natures—yet she was neither. Mostly she was transfixed by one matter that was so simple, narrow and vital and pure, that it would take more than a gale of bathwater-hot rain to make her rational heart throb at all.
The officer who had led her reception committee needed to be reprimanded. Not two recitations from now, but now. In the rain, with everyone watching, a creature half of that man’s size pushed him against the railing and shoved a finger against the tightly clamped mouth, screaming nothing that could be heard over the storm’s roar, yet leaving the fellow in such a state that he squirmed, acting as if he might jump over the railing just to end his withering shame.
And then with no warning, Prima swung about and came back again.
This time she used the railings, bouncing from one to the other. Suddenly she was a slender woman past her physical prime. The strain of the last two days was etched in the thin face. The drenched shirt stuck tight to her body, and she stumbled as she came into the ship, two aides making the mistake of trying to catch her.
Their hands were batted away.
Staring at the wet hallway floor, she said nothing.
King watched her small chest fill with air, and then her cheeks inflated, blowing out the spent gas. There were children who were taller and stronger than this woman, and any shred of poise that she might have carried had been spent. But what impressed King was not her appearance but how the others around her, particularly her own people, treated her. Prima took a half-step forward, and important people suddenly backed away, keeping out of her reach. Prima took three long strides forward, and then she looked at her fellow Archon with a serious, sane intent, telling him, “You have no idea.”
With that, she walked deeper into the Panoply Night.
Father didn’t want to hurry after her. He was too poised for this game. And it was a game: King regarded everything as a pageant, guessing what would happen next and what wouldn’t happen. The woman wanted the monster rattled, out of balance and unmoored. Father had mentioned the possibility. For their mutual benefit, Father had laid out the possible strategies of a person with few weapons of her own. And while he didn’t warn about wild theatrics, at least he remained unaffected enough that he could maintain a leisurely pace, reaching out to tug at his son’s hand, that gesture helping share his considerable amusement.
Their hostess paused before a locked door. Then she looked back at List, just List, asking, “Why did you come here?”
Father paused, blinked.
“The prisoner is one of my people,” she continued. “He was one of my trusted, my stalwarts. Except he’s a spectacular coward and a full-blooded traitor and everything about the plot is coming out now.”
She stopped talking, and Father said, “Good.”
“But I want to know from you, sir,” she said. “Why do you want to meet him?”
Father’s face flushed. “I want to hear the story, of course.”
“That too,” said Prima. “But be honest. You came here because you have every advantage. You want me to accept your dominance. And for a lot of strong reasons, you want to take my prisoner home with you. He’s going to be a prize, a trophy. He is a useful picture of evil to drag before people everywhere.”
When he was furious, Father had a very small mouth.
“I’m tired,” she said. “The games, the political dance . . . if it doesn’t make a person sick, she must not have a soul.”
Father started to disagree with some or all of that speech.
“Just you,” she interrupted, pointing at Father.
King stepped up.
“This is no place for boys,” she said.
King killed the urge to use his eating mouth, but he let his shoulder plates rise until everyone else backed away.
“I hate this,” she said.
But then she turned to a young lieutenant, poking his chest with two fingers. “All right, both of them. And you, Sondaw. Stay at my side.”
“Yes, madam,” the lieutenant muttered.
The locked door was opened. The prison stairs felt small under King’s feet, and he made a fine racket as he followed three humans to the lower floor. Every prisoner had to be terrified, hearing his approach over the storm’s rumbling. He stomped a few times at the bottom of the stairs, for emphasis, causing Father to look back at him with a wary expression, and then, a guarded smile.
Was he being childish?
Maybe so, and maybe he didn’t care.
The interrogation cells were small and locked but only lightly guarded. Every door was heavy wire, and King looked through the wire, watching scared faces. Their destination was at the end of the longest hallway, back where the air was stinking of fresh blood and dried blood and human feces. Two large soldiers flanked a solid steel door, windowless and still warm where its hinges had just been welded to the frame. The soldiers stared at King. He ignored them, stomping where he paused in that fashion that drove everybody mad and always left him stronger. It was the lieutenant who had the key. Sondaw had just that one key, pulling it out of his uniform pocket with his left hand and passing it to his right, his nervous face glancing back at the others.
This was a trap.
King understood that much before the lock came open. Yet what kind of trap would anyone dare use? Hurting him was impossible. Killing or trapping his father was easy enough, but where would the gain find room to stand? Prima and her people were surrounded by a massive fleet that was sworn to serve the state. The state wasn’t his father, but humans loved faces and List’s face was what would rally them. No, King thought. Only a madwoman would attempt something rash, and beloved as she might be, Prima’s staff would never let insanity rule their fates.
The door opened outwards, as any prison door should.
A disheveled young man was sitting on the floor. Various chains had been worn and then discarded as his body broke down. One ankle looked as if it had been pulled out of joint and then shoved back together again. Neither shoulder appeared useable. The man had been crying. Seeing them, he cried again. The smell of urine became stronger, and with a voice shredded of dignity and most of its life, he said, “What more . . . is there . . . no . . . ”
The four of them entered the stinking room.
Prima said nothing. But she looked at her lieutenant with clear hard eyes, and she nodded, and the young man stepped forward quickly and dropped low, picking up the prisoner as if he were a broken child.
The prisoner moaned.
“Easy,” Sondaw said.
Father said, “What. Is. This.”
The words sounded like a question.
“Perhaps I exaggerated,” said Prima, her voice flat and a little loud. “This prisoner hasn’t offered much enlightenment at all. We know he hates Diamond and your boy too, and he’s not altogether fond of me, either. But if he had a role in any plot, it’s a mystery to everybody. Including him.”