Chapter Chapter Thirty Nine

A time for every purpose.

Ancient Terran proverb Dream No More Weller’s eyes snapped open. He raised his head a few inches off the pillow, pushing his body up with his elbows. A thin sheen of sweat covered his body, his breath labored.

Where?

He blinked as the awareness of where he was returned, slowly, groggily, as if he had been on a bad drunk. The master bedroom, he thought, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Damn.

He lay back for a moment, staring at the ceiling. A landscaped mural hovered over him, very different from the rough plaster ceiling of his old house. Depictions of ancient spirits flew and loped over fields and through forest glades, working their mischief on the common folk.

They all seemed to be looking at him.

Slowly he rolled to the side of the bed, sat up, stretched and turned on the bedside oil-globe. How long had he been asleep? It had been late when he had started watching the vid but still daylight outside. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. No dream, he thought. For the last three days, no dreams of Selina.

Selina. Selina was dead. This time, truly dead.

He picked up the remote control from where lay on the bed. The vid player screen on the other side of the room stared at him with a single, dark eye. The vid, part of the evening’s camera eye footage, had ended and rewound automatically. The camera eyes still played their surveillance function in the Honin-Zay house. Weller hadn’t gotten around to having them disabled, if he ever decided to do that. Especially now, with all the notoriety, it might be a good idea to keep up the security. And, like tonight, there was the advantage of reviewing anything important that had happened earlier.

Instant replay, he thought, remembering a small fact from Old Terra’s past. He stared at the vid screen, thinking how ironic this vid was so vastly different from all the others he had ever watched. He pressed the ‘mute’ button on the remote and then ‘play’.

Luis Ortega and Marsha Rusinovich entered the front hall of the Honin-Zay house, Behoola welcoming them. The two hospice workers had come over for dinner at Weller’s invitation. Behoola looked genuinely pleased to see them and the attendant/nurses greeted her in turn.

Weller fast forwarded. He and Behoola, Luis and Marsha and Iolyn Honin-Zay seated in the dining room. It had been an awkward get-together. At least at first. Behoola had been in the unfamiliar role of an equal among peers while Honin-Zay was, in many ways, a guest, or prisoner, in her own home.

Not her home any more, Weller thought with a disbelieving shake of his head. It’s mine now.

But things had loosened up, especially after imbibing some Ecronian wine, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, although Honin-Zay was the most reserved of the lot. After dinner, Marsha had volunteered to take a tired Iolyn back to her rooms.

Selina dead. Kazrah, Terenio, and Ladora. By the third God, what a mess! If this had happened on Old Terra, we’d all have been locked up by now. The press would have had made it a stroking circus.

The camera eyes moved in on the threesome, almost as if being directed to do so. It played out like a movie. Weller unmuted the player and listened.

Reluctant at first, and visibly nervous, Ortega handed Behoola the album of lasepics that Arshelle had taken with her when she had escaped.

“She was injured by that fall,” Ortega had said, slowly, haltingly. “And it looks as if her body may have been rebelling at the metamorphosis it had undergone.” He hung his head, a look of anguish on his face. “She was sick, possibly dying.”

He told of the Puman and the man-cat’s role in finding Arshelle and in disposing of the body, placing it secretly in a grave at a paupers’ cemetery near the Yharria. “There was no time to contact you,” he said. “I... I made the decision. God forgive me. I’m sorry but... but...”

Weller remembered feeling surprised and angry at first and then, in some strange way, relieved. Ortega had been placed in an insanely awkward situation and acted as he thought best. It was obvious he was in great distress but did have the courage to face them with this news.

He admired Ortega for that. Weller didn’t know if he would have been able to do the same. I would have run, the thought. Like I always did.

Back on the screen, Behoola held the lasepic album to her chest, much as she had done that violent night. She stared vacantly at Ortega and then, slowly at first, and then like a river, tears began to stream down her face. She got out of her seat, moved forward and threw her arms around Ortega, hugging him fiercely.

“Thank you, Brother,” she said, between sobs. “Thank you. My sister is finally at peace. Her suffering is over.”

Weller turned the remote off, put out his cigarette, and walked outside to the balcony. He breathed the sweet night air, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. He hoped he was over the stims; the aftereffects weren’t as bad as he thought they’d be. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or bad.

Quite a woman, he thought, admiring Behoola’s decision to put this incident behind her. But now what? I’m the owner of a stroking high-born estate! Complete with servants and the previous owner who’s the suspect in at least one murder case!

None of the old Terran entertainment vids he had watched ever prepared him for anything like this. Let alone his life. He thought that had been complicated enough before.

A movement, a fluttering of light and shadow, caught his eye. There, below him, in a circle of flowering grasses, Behoola sat on a bench, still and quiet as one of the garden statuaries.

Weller slipped his feet into a pair of sandals and walked downstairs. The house was so big. It didn’t bother him so much in the daylight but at night, especially after what had happened, the high ceilings, wide floors, and hidden corners made him jumpy. He had instructed the servants to keep a small oil-globe on in each hallway. At least for the time being.

He walked out into the garden, a fresh night breeze kicking up. Behoola turned to look at him, showing no surprise, as if she expected him. He sat down on another bench facing hers. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he asked.

Behoola sighed. “I fear it will be a long time before I sleep well again.”

Weller nodded. He knew even before that fateful night, his feelings for Selina were not the same as they had been. His love for her had died long ago, if that was even what he had felt for her in the first place. But he did feel a sort of bond with her sister because of that relationship. That was one of the reasons he had excepted Iolyn Honin-Zay’s offer.

“You will though. I’m certain of it.”

“Could we have done anything differently?” Behoola asked, her face checkered by the artificial ground light. “Did Ladora and Terenio have to die? Did all of that... horror have to occur?”

Weller shrugged. “Hindsight’s the best sight, they say,” he said slowly, gently. “We can’t second-guess what we might have done. The point is, it is done and we have to move on. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me? Is the teacher having second thoughts?”

She smiled and looked away. “No. It’s just that everything is still so uncertain at this point.”

“Your mistress can stay here,” Weller continued. “No matter what the clans decide. It’s my house now and I can do what I want.”

Behoola nodded then as if coming out of a deep sleep. “Thank you. I know she will appreciate that although she insists she will go. Where and how, I don’t know but I’m sure I can convince her to stay a little longer even after the clans’ judgment is pronounced.”

Weller looked down, his hands gripping his knees. “Behoola. I just want to say how sorry I am about everything. About your mistress, about Selina. If I had been more insistent, I could have stopped her from ever undergoing the Turning ritual in the first place.”

Behoola waved her hand, shaking her head. “No, no. Please. The past is gone and I meant what I said. Arshelle is at peace and we can now get on with our lives. I know she would want that.”

“Still, whatever I can do to make up for that, I will.”

“Master Weller...”

“Simon, please.”

“Yes, yes. But it is I who should be repaying you. You and Luis were... were… glorious! You risked your lives to help!”

“You have repaid me, Behoola. Your counsel and advice these last few days has been priceless. No, listen to me.” Weller stopped and took a deep breath. “You know I don’t strictly consider you an employee here anymore. I need a Head Servant, that’s true, but you may be too busy studying to attend to all those duties.”

Behoola frowned. “Studying?”

“I know your mistress set you up with some kind of trust.”

Behoola shook her head. “I will not take it. Mistress will need that money herself!”

“Right. I agree with you.” Weller cleared his throat. “Ortega told me you once wanted to be a scholar. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Behoola blinked. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. I’ve got quite a bit of money now myself. The settlement with Iolyn Honin-Zay, at her insistence, turned out to be more generous even than what she originally paid me, which was more than we had agreed upon in the first place.” He shrugged. “The clans may contest it but until then, I can do what I want. At least that’s what the solicitor says. Why not go for it?”

“What? Surely you’re not serious?”

“I am. When all this mess is cleared up, why not?”

Behoola looked away again. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

Weller nodded again and looked up into the night sky. The Eyes of the Spirit waxed brightly but the double moons were once again the brightest objects in the sky. The Magus Star had gone, jetting off on its interstellar journey to who knew where. It would return in another seventy-two years to cause uncertainty and madness. Weller wondered who would fight its effects then.

A chill ran through him. Damn superstition. He got up. “Good night, Behoola,” he said.

The Senitte looked at him, her eyes shining in the muted light. “Pleasant Repose... Simon.”