A/N: This seems to be the longest chapter yet! Thanks to everyone who's still reading (and especially those who are reviewing! now do it some more, pretty please!) at this point.

maddimus3, Tawnykit, and random pineappleness -- thanks, glad you liked!

Dolphindreamer -- I really am trying on the originality ... plotting is something I really struggle with, though. As is finishing stories, sigh. Those were some of my favourite lines as well ;)

Disclaimer: See previous 8 chapters.


8: Terror

Numair stared at his long-time mentor, his cold fury ebbing away to give place to the deathly chill of fear. He had imagined that Ozorne would have some purpose for Daine, some project to which she would be persuaded, or coerced, to lend her talents before he would consider releasing her, and had pictured himself confronting his former friend and persuading him—forcing him—to give her up. Now he saw that the truth might be considerably worse: if Ozorne saw no value in Daine for herself, if she was only bait in a trap for others—for me, damn and blast it—then what were her chances of emerging unscathed?

He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to collect himself. It was a mistake: the nightmare was waiting behind his eyelids, striking with more force than it ever had in sleep. My God, is that what he's doing?

He staggered; hands caught his elbows, and his eyes flew open.

"I did this," he said aloud, in a voice he did not recognize. "I brought her here, when I ought to have made her stay at home."

"That is quite the most preposterous thing I've ever heard you say," Alanna retorted. Her tone, matter-of-fact and scathing, brought him back to earth. "What would you have done—drugged her, perhaps, and tied her up in your kitchen to stop her following you to the airport? This is Daine we're discussing, Numair, not some shrinking violet who expects her husband to protect her—"

"I expect her husband to protect her." Numair glared at his much shorter friend, who gave him glare for glare with her peculiar violet eyes.

"Fine," she said. "You will. But you won't do it like a—an idiotic schoolboy playing at James Bond. And you will let me help you."

"If I could, I'd bundle you onto the first flight out of this godforsaken country."

"Which of us has the combat experience, hmm? Were you planning to tackle him with an epée or a longbow?"

"Children, if I may make a suggestion?" Lindhall's dry, quiet voice drew their attention once again, and they stopped glaring at each other to stare at him. "You're sure we can safely talk here?" he asked.

"I'm sure," Alanna told him. "I've done a daily sweep of my room and this one since we arrived. And just in case I've missed any, there's this." She turned over the alarm-clock and pointed out a small square object adhering to the casing. "It makes them pick up the BBC World Service. My husband is—he trained for the Secret Service," she explained, seeing his raised eyebrows. "I've picked up a few useful skills from him."

"Well, then. While you two argue and try to apportion blame, we are wasting time that could be put to much better uses. Dr Cooper—Alanna—it's important that you understand the nature of the enemy, if I may put it in such terms."

"I think that's fairly safe," Numair interjected, bitterly sarcastic; he turned away, muttering, when Lindhall gave him a quelling look that sent him twenty years back in time.

"Numair does not overstate the danger," Lindhall continued, bluntly. "Ozorne Tasikhe was a brilliant student, and he remains a highly intelligent man. We are in his domain, and his power here is all but absolute. We can't be certain what his motives were in offering to host this conference, or in making such claims the other night—although I think we can be certain that the motives were not altruistic, and the claims false. It's an open secret in this region that the terror campaigns he blames on 'rebel factions' are organized by those close to him, perhaps even by himself. This is a dangerous man, Alanna. Whatever has become of Daine, I'm certain she is in grave danger."

They took a moment to digest this—Numair pacing like yesterday's caged lion, Alanna standing "at ease" like a soldier being briefed for a combat mission. Despite his words, the older man's quiet voice, his formal speech, were oddly soothing.

"However—Arram, listen to me, please—Ozorne is not a practical man, and he is not entirely sane. He is also prone to gross underestimation of others' intelligence, talent, and skills. Nor does he take women as seriously as he should. If we can guard ourselves from the same faults, we will have an advantage. In addition—" despite Alanna's assurances, he lowered his voice warily— "we know something that Ozorne does not—something of great importance."

There was a knock at the door, and Alanna and Numair jumped. Lindhall, however, merely glanced up and nodded, looking pleased. "Go ahead," he said to Alanna. "It's all right—he's a friend."

"Who's a friend?" Numair demanded, suspicious. But Alanna was already opening the door.

"I am," said Kaddar.


"What did you bring me here for?" Daine demanded, trying to stare down her captor. She was badly frightened, and keeping her anger on the boil seemed the surest way to stop him seeing her fear. How could she have felt sympathy for this man? "Is this how you thank me for my care of your birds?"

"Manners, my dear Veralidaine!" said King Ozorne. She heard his mocking tone as a grotesque echo of Numair's. "This is hardly a polite way to greet your host."

"My host?" she fairly spat the word at him. A guard prodded her ribcage with the muzzle of his rifle, a reminder to tread cautiously; she ignored it. "If luring me out under false pretences and having me kidnapped and locked up underground is your idea of hospitality, your majesty, seems to me you could take a few lessons from the Scottish Prison Service. So if you don't mind, just dispense with the pleasantries and tell me what use you intend to make of me."

The king, now clad in silk Nehru jacket and white lab coat, looked very slightly taken aback; it must have been a long time, Daine thought, since anyone had spoken to him so sharply—or so honestly, come to that.

"That will become clear to you at the proper time," he said. The more time she spent in his vicinity, the more his voice made her skin crawl. "For the moment we would like to show you something that may be of interest to you." He turned away and motioned to her to follow. She intended to refuse, to stay where she was and defy him (even in so small a thing, this struck her as vital); but, just as they had earlier, her legs obeyed orders other than her own, this time carrying her forward in his wake. Dread chilled her; anger burned it back.

It's him doing that, she realized. How the hell … And then it came to her, and her stomach lurched.
"You went where?" Daine has never seen her flatmate look so astonished.

"Out to dinner," she repeats patiently. "With Numair."

"Dressed like that? You look … well … sexy."

"Well, it was a date, Miri."

"But I thought—I thought he was—don't you work for him?"

Daine looks at her toes, a secretive smile on her lips. "Things have changed a little."

"And when were you planning to tell me?" Miri demands, folding her arms.

"I am telling you, aren't I?"

"You know what I mean, Daine Sarrasri. What happened? When? Is it serious?"

Now Daine scuffs her toe against the carpet, embarrassed but unable to articulate why. "I fell in some water, up in Aberdeen. Numair pulled me out, and then he kissed me—well, I kissed him, too—and now he's teaching me to swim" (here Miri pretends to swoon) "and then …" she whispers it, almost hating to share that perfect moment: "he said he loves me."

"Ye gods and little fishes!" Miri exclaims, hand over her heart in mock dismay. "Don Juan Salmalín, in love. What's next—an invitation to tea and bikkies with the Queen? Parades of elephants in the streets of Edinburgh?"

"Don't tease, Miri. I think—I think it is serious."

Instantly contrite, Miri rushes to hug her friend. "I'm sorry, love. You must admit, though, it's rather … surprising."

"That's the funny thing," says Daine. "Now that it's happening, it feels as though I've been expecting it all along."


"Lindhall, are you mad?" Numair was so spectacularly angry that Alanna half expected him to begin giving off sparks. "You expect us to trust this—this youngster—"

"Not so very young, Arram," the older man said mildly. "From my perspective you are not so old yourself. Kaddar, you are … twenty-six, is it?"

The prince nodded warily, his eyes on Numair.

A year older than Daine. "I take your point," said the latter grimly, his anger none the less imposing now that he had brought it under his control. "I think you can guess what some of my other objections are. Can he answer them so convincingly?"

"I think I can," Kaddar replied. "Lindhall, you haven't told them?"

"I was just getting to that point," the older man said. "By all means, continue."

Still wary, Kaddar looked from Numair to Alanna and back again; he seemed to be deciding something (Perhaps, Alanna thought wryly, which of us is least likely to hit him). Finally he fixed his gaze on Numair and began, "I asked Daine yesterday to believe that I do not share my uncle's prejudices. In the circumstances, I dared not say more. I am, as you know, my uncle's heir; it is rather a precarious position." His thin lips twisted briefly, and then he went on—flatly, as though he were not at this very moment committing high treason. "My uncle is in the process of destroying this kingdom to enrich himself, and he has now reached the point of needing more wealth than his own territory can supply. Through an alias, he founded and controls the terrorist network that harries our neighbours. He is now developing biological weapons, apparently based on research he began as a graduate student—what research, we have not yet been able to discover. His goal in hosting this conference was to gain up-to-the-moment knowledge of current counter-terrorist measures."

Alanna swore loudly; Numair's grip on the nearest bedpost tightened until the carved wood snapped. He regarded the splintered pieces in his hand with a puzzled expression, and Kaddar winced.

"And that business with the birds? The invitation to the royal zoo?"

"The birds," the prince said carefully, "were genuinely ill. Accidental lead poisoning. None of my uncle's tame veterinarians was willing to risk using the word 'poisoning,' and so they might simply have gone on dying had it not been for Daine. My uncle was, I believe, genuinely grateful to her for this service. However, it must also have suggested to him that she could be useful to him in other ways."

"He trusts you with such knowledge?" Alanna demanded.

Kaddar laughed. "Certainly not. He does not trust me—what is your expression?—so far as he could throw me. However, he also underestimates my intelligence, and my circle of acquaintance. He has his spies, and my allies and I have ours."

"Varice." Numair said under his breath.

"Yes, and no," Kaddar replied. "She has no knowledge of what I've just told you, but her loyalty to my uncle is absolute, and who knows what he may have told her about you and your wife …"

"Damn it, I told Daine she wasn't dangerous."

"I told her the same, I'm afraid." Kaddar said. "I should imagine that we both had a different sort of danger in mind."

In the silence, Lindhall cleared his throat.

"Your allies, you said?" Alanna prompted.

"Allies, yes," Kaddar went on, nodding. "Many in this country, of course, object to my uncle's … management, if you will. Businessmen, doctors, scholars, officials—even military men. Here they—we—must remain underground, but elsewhere, particularly in Cairo, where the movement is strongest, we are freer to make practical plans. Sabotage, mostly," he said, with a fleeting grin, "as well as ferrying out of the kingdom dissidents who have been exposed—whose lives are in danger. Our ultimate goal is to force my uncle from the throne."

He turned abruptly to Numair, who was looking at him thoughtfully. "I should very much like to ask you, Professor Salmalín," he said, "just what you did, or said, to my uncle to make him hate you so."

Numair sighed. "As Lindhall knows," he said, "I was your uncle's close friend for several years. His—research interests—led me to end the friendship in rather a melodramatic way. I said … things which a penniless scholarship student should not say to a crown prince. He was not able to forgive me." Telling Daine this tale had been cathartic, a cleansing relief; telling Kaddar was merely humiliating.

The prince raised an eyebrow, but let the matter drop. "I have often had cause to doubt my uncle's grip on reality," he said. "His obsession with you is one of those causes. Be that as it may," he continued, "the point is that I have knowledge, connections, and resources that we can use to help Daine. And, with luck, to bring down a tyrant."

Such language! Alanna thought. He's been reading too many Victorian novels.

"If you think your forces are capable of that, why haven't you done it already?" she asked bluntly.

"Stage a military coup, you mean?" Kaddar inquired. "A putsch? One faction overpowering another, for no other reason than a lust for power? Dr Cooper, what we need is to expose my uncle's … well, his treachery, I should call it. You are a politician, are you not?"

Alanna shrugged uncomfortably. "Not a very good one," she said. "I'm no good at keeping my mouth shut when I ought—can't seem to stop being a soldier."

"But you know," Kaddar reasoned, "that a bad government is its own worst foe, that it sows the seeds of its own downfall. That is happening here and now. The question is whether those seeds will sprout and blossom before the field has been rendered utterly barren, or whether they will simply be ploughed under in the planting of a new crop of corruption. That is why timing is of the essence."

Alanna nodded slowly. Glancing at Lindhall, she saw that he was also nodding, clearly approving of his student's assessment. Numair was again muttering something under his breath; when the others looked at him inquiringly, his face made a ghastly parody of a smile and he said, very quietly, "She told me you were a botanist."

Then he straightened, and glared. "You've an army, you say." Kaddar nodded. "Then why are we standing about?"


Daine followed Ozorne through endlessly twisting corridors along a route obviously chosen to disorient and confuse. The small part of her mind that was neither keening in panic nor busily reviewing and rejecting plans for escape was irritated by this extra layer of precaution, as though her captor was not satisfied with merely controlling her body and felt some need to fuddle and distort her mind as well.

But of course he does. Think who you're dealing with.

They had left the last of the guards behind some time ago; this had surprised Daine, but only for a moment, since it was already clear that her captor needed no help to keep her under control.

Somewhere far below the main level of the palace (as far as Daine could tell), in a brightly lit and gleaming corridor, they halted outside an austerely blank door. It had no visible handle or lock; mounted on the dazzlingly white wall to its left was a device that looked to her like a keycard reader with no slot, or a keypad with no keys. Ozorne put one thumb, then the other, against the blank black square; there was a soft click, and the door swung inward on silent hinges.

"Come, Veralidaine," he said. He laid a hand against her shoulder blade; it felt like a caress, and Daine felt her gorge rise. No one called her Veralidaine – no one ever had – and the fact that King Ozorne did so struck her, for some reason, as deeply and unpleasantly significant. It annoyed her that she couldn't work out why this should be so.

They passed through the doorway into another corridor, this one – impossibly – more gleamingly white than the last. On either side frosted-glass doors lined the walls, each with its own thumbprint lock. There seemed to be no one else anywhere nearby.

They halted again at the third door on the left, which bore the legend "L13." Ozorne repeated the thumbprint procedure, and again the door swung silently inward.

The light in here was so bright that Daine instinctively shut her eyes and turned her face away. "Now, now," said Ozorne, and her head was forced back around, her eyelids forced open, so that she had no choice but to look at the scene before her.

The room—the lab, rather, for such it clearly was—was much larger than she had expected, and as unrelentingly silent and sterile as everything else she had seen down here. That small part of her mind wondered, How does he keep it so clean and tidy? Robots? Or maybe there are people down here, but they're hiding. Maybe—she choked down a hysterical giggle—they're invisible.

Numair's description vividly in her mind, Daine half expected to see a collection of terrified lab animals ranged on one of the gleaming stainless-steel tables; but there were no animals, no cages, in sight. He's moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose, she thought. But if there aren't any animals in the case, what does he need me for?

On the far wall was suspended an enormous flat television screen.

Ozorne gestured with one hand, and Daine's knees buckled, forcing her into a seat on a bench she hadn't noticed was behind her. She glared up at him; he looked distantly amused. "A clever trick, is it not, Veralidaine? A chemical cocktail of my own invention: a distillation the essence of fear." He looked at her expectantly; she went on glaring. "Of course, controlling one person is of very little use; satisfying, entertaining, but not practical. Child's play, really."

"If the child's a monster." The words emerged through tightly clenched teeth. Her body's instincts warred with his hold on her, every nerve and muscle screaming in protest.

"Temper, temper!" But she was getting to him, after all: a tic twitched the corner of his left eye, and his tone of tolerant amusement had begun to sound slightly forced. "You are about to witness the making of history, my dear. A unique opportunity. We are about to create, you might say, a new definition of terrorism." Smiling wolfishly, he drifted over to a glass-fronted cabinet, from which he extracted what looked like a very expensive remote-control device. He pointed it at the gigantic screen and pressed a button.


Numair has never really thought of himself as a pet owner, but with Daine come her two cats, Griffin and Spots, who evidently consider themselves his cats as well. A third cat, a skinny black molly whom Daine, for no reason that is ever explained, christens Cloud, adopts them a month or so later; Cloud is followed by a rescued Irish wolfhound, appropriately named Mammoth, and a shaggy mixed-breed terrier sort of beast who goes by the name of Mangle.

After all these years alone in a large-ish house it is odd, at first, to have so many housemates. Before long, however, the dogs and cats, like Daine herself, seem inevitable. Griffin's odd habit of stalking and "killing" table scraps before eating them, for example, or Cloud's propensity to perch on the edge of the bath and pull aside the shower-curtain with one forepaw, then flee, yowling, as water droplets speckle her fur, Numair soon regards as endearing rather than irritating.

One spring afternoon he arrives home to find that Daine has installed six orphaned hedgehoglets in a blanket-lined box near the Aga. She sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor, painstakingly feeding a hoglet with a tiny syringe.

"I'm sorry," she says, when he quirks an eyebrow at the box. "I know I should have asked you first. It's your house, after all. Only I found them looking for their ma, and she'd been squashed by a lorry or something and I was worried they'd wander into the road after her or—"

"You don't have to ask," he says, and means it. "It's your house, too."


In Aberdeen, in an old stone house called Pirate's Swoop, two strawberry-blonde teenagers on holiday from school watched the BBC World Service with their tall, hazel-eyed father. The anchor cut to live coverage of an unfolding terrorist attack in a small, despotic Middle Eastern nation. The three watchers took in image after image of posters, placards and statues of an imperious-looking man in military dress as the camera proceeded down the main thoroughfare of that nation's capital city, toward a large, grandiose building boiling with frantic activity.

"Bloody hell," said the girl. "I think that's Mum's hotel."


Update A/N: I realized after posting this that, duh, Aly and Alan are two years too young for Uni in a modern setting. That's all.