“Now we will examine your offerings.”
“Trade items, Honored Sir,” I corrected cautiously. “With more available.” I took out a handful of components and placed them on a five-legged table. Two of the priests hurried forward to pick them up in their limp hands, talking animatedly to each other in their native tongue.
“How much?” said the third priest, not even glancing at the table or his colleagues. I wished I could read some understandable emotion on his wrinkled, wide-mouthed face. His eyes blinked, one at a time.
“These are a gift, Honored Sir.” Instantly the table was cleared of its contents. The priests must have tucked them up their sleeves. I took a tighter grip on the bag. “I have many more.”
“How much?”
“My captain,” I said very quietly, drawing out the package sealer. It looked deadly, with several sharp protrusions and a formidable muzzle. “And safe passage back to our ship.”
The Retians conferred again. Then the spokesman asked: “Are you threatening us?”
In answer, I dropped the bag on the table. “No. The
Fox
honors its contracts. Here are the components you need. You don’t need my captain. It’s a fair trade.”
“You are alone.” True. The priests were learning fast.
Out the corner of my eye I could see movement in the hallway. I took a quick step back and aimed my improvised weapon at the nearest operational machine. The Retians signaled frantically with their webbed hands to someone behind me, the blue of their lips turning pink with agitation. “I don’t want trouble,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and controlled despite a growing fear that they would refuse to bargain—or worse, as a Human might, decide I was bluffing.
Silence, then a brief command from the spokesman sent his companions pushing through the throng of gray-robed junior priests hovering in the doorway. No further movement or sound; they were like statues. What was happening? Were they bringing Morgan—or killing him? I refused to doubt that he was here.
It was only a few minutes, but it seemed an eternity, before I heard a dry rustle of cloth followed by the parting of the crowd in the doorway. I almost sagged with relief at the sight of a figure, head covered in a white hood, towering shoulders above his Retian escort.
“We accept your trade,” the priest said, eyes fixed on the bag on the table. “Take him.” Morgan’s escorts shoved him toward me. Blind, he stumbled on the uneven flooring before regaining his balance.
“What’s going on, Ruptis?” Morgan demanded in a commendably calm voice. “This is no way to conduct—” he stopped in mid-sentence, his hooded head turning until it faced my direction.
How could he—? I spoke quickly before Morgan could say the wrong thing and ruin a plan that was working remarkably well, all things considered. “Our agreement, Honored Sir, includes safe passage for my captain and myself back to our ship.”
I needn’t have worried. Ruptis and his fellow priests were clustered about the table, chuckling and pawing the bag’s contents as if it were treasure. To them, I supposed it was. The junior priests had vanished.
Sealer in one hand, I moved quickly to where Morgan stood abandoned. His hands were stuck together in front of him with some plasterlike material laced through his fingers. There was nothing I could do about that now. I reached up and pulled off the hood. He blinked in the dim light, then looked down at me with astonishment. I put a finger in front of my lips and he nodded.
The Retians were already busily at work, one stripping plas from the new components while two opened their damaged instruments and rummaged within. Their lips were almost purple with delight. I decided not to ask for a guide.
“I can’t get this off here, Captain,” I whispered to Morgan, indicating his bound hands.
Morgan looked at the Retians, then at the components on the table, then at me. He began to frown. “Are those—”
“I’ll explain later,” I interrupted. “I suggest leaving.”
Morgan glanced at my weapon and his lips quirked. “Before we have to use that,” he agreed solemnly, well aware that sealer was about as dangerous as a floor scrubber. “Lead on, chit.”
Once in the hall, I paused to remember the route before choosing to go left. Morgan followed in trusting silence. This was too simple, something said inside me.
Morgan’s low-pitched voice startled me. “The Retians have a different set of ethics for each caste,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Ruptis can climb within his priesthood by repairing the holy machines; his methods won’t be questioned by the other castes, including the civil government. And our paying customer, Lord Lispetc.”
Ignoring the last, which was unfair considering the options I had, I remained uneasy. “The priests know they’ve committed a crime punishable by non-Retian law. You could have this world’s license lifted.”
“Maybe,” Morgan answered in a noncommittal voice. “Though I doubt the Trade Pact has been strained by my inconvenient detention here. Ruptis knows our politics as well as his own. Besides,” he continued, in a lighter tone, “we’ve completed a fair trade, chit.”
I didn’t bother to answer, since Morgan was speaking for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. We reached the section of the building where the hallway was irregularly broadened by the presence of numerous cubbyholes.
When I had first passed this way, the cubbyholes had been empty. Now, crammed into each like so much package stuffing, were gray-robed junior priests. I stopped, my skin crawling.
“It’s all right, Sira,” Morgan said quietly, coming to stand behind me. “This is how they wait until needed.” Then, I noticed what I hadn’t before. Their bulbous eyes were closed by inner, semi-opaque lids. Squeezed together as many as ten to each closet-sized space, the poor creatures couldn’t move a muscle until the outermost wriggled and popped free. I began walking again, a trifle more briskly. I found the Retians even less appealing stuffed.
I was ahead, Morgan once more following, when I heard a scuffle behind and his shout: “Run, Sira!” I whirled, fumbling with the package sealer. The last cubby had been vacant, a fact which should have alerted me, but didn’t. Now it was a doorway through which two scarlet-robed priests had pounced on Morgan. He heaved them off even as I turned, the material of his coverall ripping from his back in the hands of one of them. Forgetting my weapon was only for show, I ran back, brandishing it and yelling at the top of my lungs. The combination drove them scuttling back through the hidden door.
Like pickled corpses, the hordes of junior priests didn’t stir from their positions. Morgan jerked his head toward the now-visible main door. “Hurry,” he said, shouldering me ahead, moving rapidly in spite of his awkwardly tied hands. “Let’s not give them time to get organized.”
As I pushed open the massive outer door, the roar of heavy rain filled my ears. You could set a timer by Retian weather, I thought with disgust, stepping outside and instantly becoming soaked to the skin. Morgan lent the strength of his shoulder to mine to close the door again—as a delaying tactic, it was more moral support than otherwise, but I didn’t waste breath arguing. My feet slipped in fresh mud.
“Why aren’t they following us?” I demanded, perplexed, as I fastened the groundcar’s roof and listened to the muffled pounding of rain on its surface. I’d left it open and the seats were soaking wet. I began powering up the machine, wishing Morgan could drive.
“They don’t need to,” was Morgan’s strange reply. “I hope there’s some speed in this pile of junk,” he continued, breathing in odd little bursts as though the exertion of climbing into the passenger seat had been too much to bear. I whirled to stare at him.
The dim light in the Retian building had disguised the waxiness of his skin; sweat, not raindrops, beaded his forehead. “I’ll live,” he snapped, aware of my scrutiny, “provided you get us back to the
Fox.
”
Obediently, I sent the groundcar forward through the deepening puddles, keeping one eye on the fuel gauge and the other on the barely distinct borders of the road. My heart was hammering louder than the rain on the roof over our heads. “What’s wrong?” I demanded. “What did they do to you?”
Morgan leaned against the side of the transport, bound arms pressed tightly against his flat middle as if to soothe an ache. He looked weary and too pale. “I don’t think I mentioned the Retians are poisonous, did I? The older males have a little claw, like a spur, at the base of each thumb.”
I accelerated as much as I dared, given the distance we had left to travel. “You mustn’t die, Morgan,” I told him flatly. Risking a sidelong glance, I saw that his eyes were closing. “Jason!”
Morgan roused enough to look at me, eyes fighting to focus. “Although living doesn’t feel like such a bargain at the moment, chit, I don’t think I’ll die just yet.” As a reassurance, it was less than convincing. Morgan went on: “I stocked the
Fox
with antivenom after my last run here.
Should have taken some myself yesterday, when things began to get shaky—couldn’t give you any—couldn’t involve you anyway—” his voice began fading in and out; I strained to catch what he was saying.
Then, with sudden costly clarity: “Sira. Take the
Fox
to Plexis. She’s ready; tape’s set for auto. If I’m—if you’re on your own, find Huido Maarmatoo’kk—he’ll help you. Don’t go near Malacan. Don’t—” With a shudder that told of overtaxed muscles giving up a struggle, Morgan slumped, held upright in his seat only by its harness.
I gripped the steering column tightly, forcing myself to concentrate on the difficult task of keeping the ancient groundcar on the slick roadway with some degree of speed. For all his talk of antivenom, Morgan was in serious danger or he wouldn’t have told me to lift the
Fox. Maybe,
I tried to joke to myself,
he’s forgotten I’m no spacer.
My eyes flicked constantly from the road to his unconscious form. I forced down the small, panic-stricken voice inside me that kept repeating over and over: Morgan was all I had.
It might have been true. But it wasn’t helpful.
I shook my head, peered out through the dense sheets of rain. Morgan die? I wouldn’t let him.
INTERLUDE
Barac sagged after he materialized, his body protesting as the drain on its energy reached near-critical levels. Without greeting Rael, who watched him from the comfort of a lounge he couldn’t see, the Clansman staggered clumsily to the servo and dialed for a stimulant. It was dangerous to enter M’hir when weak or tired. Fortunately, over the past hours Rael’s image projection had etched a passageway to this room, attracting his power through the M’hir the way a greater magnet attracts a lesser.
“Enough, Barac,” Rael said, rising gracefully, hovering above the floor. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Barac scowled in her direction, his dark eyes shadowed and unfocused. “What do you want me to do? Sit here? Wait while any memories of Sira fade to nothing under the garbage of their lives? We’ve gone over this before—”
She shrugged, sending a ripple through the dark mass of her hair, then reached a reluctant decision. “Sit. I can’t deal with you in this state.” Barac inclined his head with a shade of his former elegance and dropped himself into the nearest chair. Rael relocated her image to stand behind him, her eyes shut as she concentrated. She drew her hands through the air just over his head. The gesture was repeated, lengthened to include Barac’s shoulders and arms.
Eyes closed, Barac accepted her gift of strength, feeling his weariness disappear, his body straighten from its exhausted slouch. Rael had mended him once already, repairing his bruises and broken ribs. This giving was more, and Barac was grateful. As Rael worked, he willingly lowered his shields, granting her access to his memory of the preceding hours, wishing for more there than failure.
Finished, Rael moved her image away, noting the alert brightness in Barac’s expression with professional satisfaction. “So. You’ve failed to find so much as a hint of her in any unsealed mind; Sira has not touched the M’hir—I know the taste of her power like my own. Admit that she’s left this world,” Rael squinted around their surroundings, giving a delicate shudder at the lime-green decor of Barac’s rented room. “I don’t blame her.”
“We can’t be sure,” Barac said.
Rael arched her brow. “I can. There’s no point staying on Auord, unless you’re hoping to get yourself killed by the local population before the Council finds out about all this. We can’t help Sira by staying here.”
Barac longed for an argument to prove her wrong, to keep their search within some attainable boundary. He had none. “There has to be a connection between Kurr’s murder and the attack on Sira and myself,” he growled. “There has to be,” he repeated. Barac went back to the servo, canceled the stimulant, and dialed a meal instead. “Something we can’t see,” he concluded thoughtfully.
“What we can’t see is Sira or your pet Human, Morgan,” Rael said, her own tone caustic. “To find one or follow the other, you will need a starship. How do you propose to pay for such a thing? Or are you ready to confess your bungling to the Council?”
Barac frowned down at his plate. “Leave the ship to me.”
Rael’s head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowing. “You’d better not break any more rules, Barac sud Sarc, not near me. Influencing Humans without authorization will—”
“I’m the First Scout, Cousin,” Barac snapped. “It’s my business to know where and when to use the Talent. And which Humans can be bent.” He took a slow deep breath, trying to calm himself. Pride was a dangerous emotion to show before one’s superior in power, even one who was close kin. Temper was likely worse. Unconsciously, his fingers sought the relaxing warmth of the bracelet he wore on one wrist.
“Where did you get that?” Rael peered closer, willing to be distracted. “It’s pre-Stratification, isn’t it?”
Nodding, Barac held his arm toward her, the designs in the dull metal of the bracelet catching sparks from the room’s lights. “It was a gift from Kurr. He liked to collect such things.” The reminder thickened his voice. “He cared about our glorious history. He would talk for hours about the day the M’hiray were uplifted from the common clay of the Clan—the day our ancestors became Gods.”