A Prison Unsought by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge

shall we do?” she asked, the important word being ‘we.’
    He smiled. “Get him back.”
    The dance ended, and here were partners waiting to claim
them both. He gave her a smile that she took as positively vacant, and was
swallowed in the crowd.

TWO
ABOARD THE FIST OF DOL’JHAR
    By the time Anaris appeared, Gelasaar’s eyes had adjusted
to the Chamber of Mysteries’ gloom, but his olfactory sense had not quite
managed acceptance of what he was fairly certain was the stench of rendered
human fat.
    He gestured to the candles, and said, “Does your father come
here often?”
    “Every day,” Anaris said, his deep
voice betraying amusement. “The equivalent of the Dol’jharian morning.”
    Gelasaar had meant to let Anaris guide the talk, but he
couldn’t help another question. “Does he commune with his father’s spirit,
then?”
    Anaris’s amusement was even more pronounced. “I don’t know
what he really believes. Does it matter?”
    “Rituals always matter,” Gelasaar
said.
    His gentle voice was too instructional for Anaris’s taste.
Perhaps it was time for a reminder that captor and prisoner had reversed roles.
“You asked me what I’d heard of Brandon’s movements.”
    “You told me that he lives, and
that he was taken to Ares by the Mbwa
Kali .”
    “Yes. The cruiser caught up with
him outside of Rifthaven while on duty sweeping up the trash coming and going.”
    “Trash?” the Panarch repeated,
showing no sign of his emotions, though he was aware of his heartbeat
accelerating. “Have you not employed Rifters as your mercenaries?”
    “The trash comprises those too
inept to be accepted as our hirelings.”
    “Or too independent?” Gelasaar
countered.
    Anaris laughed. “Or too independent. The only observation I
can make about Brandon’s companions is that they were stupid enough to fall
prey to Mbwa Kali ’s tractor. Unless
your son took over the ship at jac-point and steered them into the cruiser’s
custody. I suppose it is always possible,” Anaris said. “More to the point is
their movement before they reached Rifthaven. For whatever reason, they ran a
raid on Arthelion.”
    Gelasaar couldn’t hide his jolt of surprise. Pleased, Anaris
added, “Yes, while you were there. Brandon was only at the Palace Minor long
enough to plunder some of the artifacts from the display outside the Hall of
Ivory, which he tried to sell at Rifthaven.” And when Gelasaar did not react to
the news that his errant son had raided his old home, Anaris said, “I was able
to retrace his steps later on. He passed right by your chamber on his way out
with his loot.”
    Gelasaar closed his eyes, remembering what he’d thought had
been a familiar voice. But as that had occurred during an irregular bombardment
of what he was convinced were manufactured sounds—Ilara’s dying moments among
them—he had not believed it.
    He did not believe it now.
    Anaris, watching closely, said, “It’s true. You had to have
heard some of the commotion. There were a couple of firefights.”
    “I heard a great deal of . . .
noise,” Gelasaar said. “At various intervals.”
    “Ah.” Anaris laughed. “Barrodagh’s
attentions. Morrighon reported that Barrodagh was running his own program of
torture. My father had no notion. Would have been appalled had he known.”
    “He does not seem to harbor a taste
for pettiness,” Gelasaar said, laying faint emphasis on the last word, the
horror of the Throne Room foremost in mind.
    “No, the Avatar is seldom petty,”
Anaris said, disappointed with the Panarch’s reaction. Well, he should have
expected no less. Brandon’s proximity
that day will give Gelasaar something to contemplate in his cell. Much comfort
will he derive from the might-have-been .
    Another thought occurred: was his own effort here an example
of pettiness? He tabbed the door, and gestured for Morrighon, waiting outside
to take the Panarch away as he said, “This I will give Brandon: his raid,
useless