tion id="uc2ac1c1f-fdd0-57d3-9c3e-c25f1f7c689f">
Voyager
JULIAN MAY
Sky Trillium
For Pat Brockmeyer Contents PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
The old madman had fallen unconscious at last, prone on the dining room table amidst the remains of the meal. The prisoner let his glittering glass blade descend until its point touched the dark, wrinkled skin of the Arch image’s neck. One thrust. A single movement of his arm and it would be ended.
Do it!
But the prisoner held back, cursing himself for a sentimental coward, his mind a storm of conflicting emotion. The cup of poisoned wine lay upset near Denby’s flaccid brown hand. Dregs puddled on the shining gondawood surface, slowly whitening the varnish beneath. The magnificent table, more than twelve thousand years old, was probably ruined; but its insane owner would survive. At the last, standing over the helpless form of the Archimage of the Firmament with the razor-sharp fruit knife in his hand, the prisoner found it impossible to kill his captor. Why do I hesitate? he asked himself. Is it because of the old man’s crotchety good humour, or his awesome office, that he neglects so scandalously? Do I hold back because Denby Varcour spared my life, even though he sentenced me to share his grotesque exile? Or is magic at work here, protecting this ancient meddler even though he lies vulnerable as a sleeping child before me? Never mind all that. Do it. Kill him! The poison has only rendered him senseless. Kill him now before it is too late! But the prisoner could not. Not even the power of his Star sufficed to drive the blade home. Denby lay there snoring gently, a smile on his furrowed lips, quite safe, while his would-be murderer fumed and fretted. The reason for the failure was unfathomable but the impossibility remained. Shaking his head in self-disgust, the prisoner replaced the glass knife on the platter of juicy ladu that was to have been their dessert. With a last uneasy glance at the unconscious madman, he hurried out of the room. It took only a moment to snatch up the sack of warm clothing and stolen magical implements he had secreted in a cupboard in the salon anteroom. Then he was off, running down the dim, silent corridors toward the chamber of the dead woman, located nearly two leagues away in another quadrant of the Dark Man’s Moon. The prisoner knew he had no time to waste. The sindona messengers and bearers were withdrawn into the Garden Moon as usual, but there was no telling when one or another of the terrible living statues might decide to cross over and seek out their lunatic master on some cryptic errand. Should a sindona find Denby drugged, it would know in an instant what had happened and call out the sentinels. And if those beautiful demons caught up with the prisoner, he would die. The sentinels would discover the new empowerment of his Star, and not even Denby’s senile whimsy would suffice to spare his life. The fleeing man paused for an instant. Clasping the heavy platinum medallion engraved with a many-pointed image that hung around his neck, he called upon its magic to survey his prison. The Star reported that the aged enchanter was still unconscious and no sindona were abroad. The only things that moved in the Dark Man’s Moon were the tenders, those odd mechanical contrivances that crept about on jointed legs like great metallic lingits, doing domestic chores. One of these machines confronted the prisoner now, coming suddenly into view around the corridor’s sharp curve. It carried a basket of flameless lamp-globes and moved patiently along, ‘sniffing’ with one of its armlike appendages, seeking burned-out ceiling lights that might require replacement. ‘Out of my way, thing!’ The prisoner barged past the bulky device, nearly upsetting it and causing its collection of glowing globes to spill onto the floor. His foot landed on one of the lights and he lost his balance and fell to his knees. ‘I beg pardon, master,’ the lamp-tender said humbly. ‘Are you injured? Shall I summon one of the consolers to treat you?’ ‘No! Don’t! I forbid it!’ Sweat broke out on the prisoner’s brow. He struggled upright and managed to speak in more normal tones. ‘I am not hurt. I command you to go about your normal duties. Do not summon assistance. Do you understand?’ Four inhuman eyes studied him. Denby’s weird creations were the most solicitous of servants, quite capable of forcing him to accept the medical attention of a sindona consoler against his will if he actually needed it. Dark Powers! he prayed silently. Don’t let it call a sindona. Don’t let all my careful planning come to naught and my life be forfeit because of a witless machine! ‘It is true that you are unhurt,’ the light-tender said at last. ‘I will resume my work. I regret any inconvenience I have caused.’ It blinked its eyes in salute and began to pick up its scattered load. The prisoner walked off in a semblance of nonchalance; but when the lamp-tender was out of sight he began to run again, feeling fear swell within him. What if the cursed machine summoned the sindona anyway? What if the sentinels were already in pursuit? He was racing flat out now, his formal dining-robes flapping and his boot-shod feet thudding on the resilient corridor floor. 
