Hidden Empire - Kevin J. Anderson [133]
Dio'sh came forward and offered the records. Surely the Mage-Imperator would see the proof and know the truth. "Here is a journal entry from one of the assassins. The blood is on his own hands. He says—"
The living braid rose up beside the Mage-Imperator, extending from the chrysalis chair like a tentacle. Seeing a flicker of movement, Dio'sh glanced to the side—but had no time to cry out before the serpentlike rope of living hair lashed out and wrapped around his neck.
The Mage-Imperator's eyes blazed as he leaned forward. "Of course I know the story." His lip curled with disgust.
The knotted braid constricted. The historian struggled frantically, dropping the records as he kicked and squirmed. The Mage-Imperator's hair squeezed harder, drawing the loop tighter, until it crushed the rememberer's larynx.
"I wanted it kept secret." Hissing angry breaths, the Mage-Imperator continued squeezing until his pasty face was ruddy, flushed with the effort. Then he snapped Dio'sh's neck and used the braid to toss the historian's body onto the floor like so much garbage.
61 DAVLIN LOTZE
The Ildirans were hiding something terrible—Davlin Lotze felt it deep in his bones. But as he sifted through the hastily abandoned wreckage of the Crenna colony, he could not pin down any details. Keeping his identity secret, pretending to be a mere colonist, made his job even more difficult.
When the aliens had evacuated their plague-infested settlement, they had left significant debris behind. Unfortunately, not much of it seemed to be interesting...at least not in the way Chairman Wenceslas had hoped.
Dressed in a serviceable jumpsuit like the ones worn by most of the new settlers, Davlin did his daily work, keeping to himself and taking surreptitious images of the site. The colonists, filled with more exuberance than foresight, had gotten out the heavy demolition equipment and set about knocking down the charred shells of buildings the Ildirans had burned in an attempt to halt the plague.
The settlers had no interest in archaeological niceties or studying clues to the alien culture. They just wanted to get their work done, rebuild the town, plant the crops, and establish the infrastructure before seasons changed and harsh weather arrived. Davlin had to make do, taking every chance and respite he could find. As he stood in the bright sunlight and watched the big yellow machines demolishing walls, he tried not to wince at all the opportunities being lost to brute force.
Given his choice, Davlin would have spent days combing the ashes in search of tiny clues. Even skeletons or half-cremated bodies could have provided useful information. It wasn't as if the Hansa had ready access to alien cadavers. The Ildirans had so many morphologies—kiths, they called them—that it might have been difficult to draw any conclusions beyond broad generalizations anyway.
The Chairman had specifically instructed Davlin to maintain his alias. He was under orders not to confess his assignment to his fellow farmers and carpenters, not even to a lover, should he decide to take one. In the past ten years, Davlin Lotze had been many people in many roles, and at any time the Chairman might pull him away from Crenna and send him on a different mission. He had to remain invisible, slipping from world to world.
Too close to the loud roar of the wrecking machine for comfort, Davlin held a digger tool and worked beside four men uprooting foundation pillars in a fallen gathering hall. The night before, he had crept inside the sooty ruins so that he could shine a focused light into every corner and crack. Perhaps some dying Ildiran had hidden a cache of records beneath the floor, personal treasures, jewelry, or keepsakes. What did the aliens value? What did they cling to when they died?
He had acquired nothing but a few black stains on his clothes for all his effort. Now, his aching muscles and scratchy eyes suggested