The air was rich with the mingled odors of various recreational drugs—none of them on the prescribed list, since the majority of people in this room were wearing the uniform of the Hegemonic Police. He wondered what they would think if they knew what kind of mind-altering substances were sometimes used in the hidden rooms just behind these walls—just beyond their knowledge. It astonished him to think of some of the drugs he himself had been forced to take, under strict supervision, to guide him toward deeper levels of insight and strengthen his concentration.
There were a few random non-uniformed figures, dressed in the melange of styles typical of the Hegemony’s disparate cultures. Out of habit his eyes took in each outsider, seeing loose robes, pragmatic coveralls, lace-edged funeral foppery. … His gaze caught on a figure standing across the room, leaning against the wall beside the mantel above an artificial hearth. The figure wore loose pants and robes of a deep midnight blue; face and head were almost entirely covered by the serpentine folds of a night-blue length of scarf. All that he could see were eyes, gazing back at him through a narrow window of exposed flesh. He felt vision and memory make a connection abruptly: Ondinee. His immediate image of a traditional Ondinean was that the women covered their faces among strangers, not the men; but this one wore a man’s garments. He remembered hearing about a perversely independent cult that defied the dominant theocracy; where the women went unveiled and were not treated like slaves, where the men covered their faces instead, probably as much to escape persecution by the government as to preserve their spiritual essence.
The man looked away abruptly, just as it struck him that he was being studied in turn, and began to inspect some object on the mantel.
Gundhalinu turned back to Vhanu, telling himself that he had probably imagined the man was staring at him; that his nerves were on edge. Vhanu had drifted away into a conversation with YA Tilhonne, Pernatte’s grandnephew. Mithra Kitaro, the , Police inspector he had first met at KR Aspundh’s, approached him to ask whether j he needed anything. He requested lilander, allowing himself that indulgence. He sat down on a bench and activated the gaming table in front of him; not really in the ; mood to play games, but needing some semblance of social activity to cover a few |moments of uninterrupted thought.
He was not sure what Kirard Set Wayaways had wanted from their unexpected Rencounter, but he was certain that Wayaways’ intent had been neither harmless, nor casual. He decided that he would speak with Jerusha PalaThion about it, privately, tomorrow….
He glanced up again, realizing that it was not for the first time, to check on the Ondinean. The other man had moved a short distance away, and was talking to a Kharemoughi whose back was turned to Gundhalinu. The Ordinean glanced past the other man’s shoulder at Gundhalinu, as if he felt himself being looked at.
Kitaro returned with a tall lilac-tinted glass of lilander. He touched Kitaro’s arm as she handed him the drink. Gesturing unobtrusively at the Ondinean, he asked, “Do you know that man?”
Kitaro glanced away, and back. “Only that he’s a stranger far from home.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Kitaro looked at him, surprised. “Absolutely, Justice. He wouldn’t be inside, otherwise.” Not only human intervention, but also certain hidden surveillance checks made certain of it. “I remember seeing him before. Is something the matter?”
“No.” Gundhalinu shook his head. “Just curious. I suppose I wore that uniform,” gesturing at Kitaro’s blue tunic, “for too long. A man who hides his face makes me nervous.” But he knew, in his gut, that what bothered him was not so simple. It wasn’t the man’s hidden face. Something about the way he carried himself, the way he moved, was familiar. Gundhalinu knew that body language, in the same way he might have recognized the work of a familiar artist, deep in the nonverbal sectors of his brain. But the part of his mind that thought it knew could not speak, and the part that could, couldn’t remember.
He sipped the lilander, letting its pungent sweetness fill his senses and still his impatience. Maybe it was only his imagination, after a day full of nerve-racking, tense debates, and an evening’s walk filled with unpleasant innuendos… . But he found himself on his feet again, moving not-quite-casually across the room in the direction of the Ondinean, who seemed to drift away with equally deceptive randomness … or was he just imagining that too? But the part of his brain that was still taking the measure of every movement the stranger made told him he was not.
He reached the mantel, with its dark, fancifully carved supports and its liner of small, foreign oddities. He picked up the thing he had seen the Ondinean handle. It was a silver vial, almost like a perfume bottle. He studied it for a moment, trying to remember where he had seen such a thing before. Recognition caught him suddenly, painfully: It was a container for the water of life. Not the liquor, but the genuine water of life, the extract from the blood of mers.
He turned it around in his fingers, handling it carefully, cautiously. It had not been here a few days ago. Where had this come from? Who would have left such a thing here? He looked up, searching the room. Or had the Ondinean put it there himself? The Ondinean had his back turned now, as if he were oblivious to whatever Gundhalinu was doing; although Gundhalinu was certain he was not. The water of life… It had been on his mind ever since he had arrived here. It had been in his thoughts and on his lips constantly for the past weeks, as he had hammered out his compromise with the Judiciate and the representatives from the Central Coordinating Committee. Finding this here, now, he felt as if he had conjured it up out of his own preoccupation.
But he had not. Someone had left it there, intentionally—and in this Hall, there were no coincidences. He reached into the belt pouch underneath his jacket and pulled out a scanner, part of the Police-issue equipment he still habitually carried with him. He ran a full scan on the vial, measuring and recording everything that could be known about its age and previous provenance, including the fingerprints of anyone who had touched it.
He put the scanner back into his belt pouch, placed the vial back on the mantel. Then he glanced away into the room, to see whether anyone had been watching. Only the Ondinean was looking back at him, standing perfectly still at the opposite side of the room. Gundhalinu started toward him, keeping eye contact; unable to see anything about the other man’s expression. VX Sandrine caught his arm as he passed; he murmured an abrupt excuse and moved on, willing the Ondinean to stay put. The stranger stood unmoving, still gazing back at him, until he had almost closed the distance between them. And then the man turned suddenly, and disappeared through the darkened doorway behind him.
Gundhalinu started after him; stopped, looking down suddenly, as the call beeper sounded on his belt remote. He swore, knowing that the only message he would be getting at this hour would be an urgent one. He glanced over his shoulder at the room behind him, knowing that he should find a place to take the call—looked back, to find that the dim-lit hallway ahead of him was empty. He swore again, in disgust. Standing just inside the hall entrance, he put the call through on his remote.
“Judiciate,” a disembodied voice said.
“This is Justice Gundhalinu,” he said, as the link came alive. “You have a message for me?”
“Justice Gundhalinu—?” The voice that answered him sounded nonplussed. “No, sir. No message.”
“You just called me,” Gundhalinu snapped. “There must be a message.”
“No, sir—” He could hear the embarrassment in the voice that answered him. “There must be some mistake. No one called you. There’s no record of any call here.”