Maeve (29 page)

Qilasc kept her large, reddish-brown eyes fixed on his face, ignoring his verbal jabs.

“And the Speaker for Men. Men!” He sneered at Tipylexne. “Still, you beasts are healthy and have a measure of power among your kind. When the spores take you, you'll be taking a large step up the evolutionary ladder. But, of course, you won't be able to appreciate that.”

Tipylexne was about to speak but Qilasc tugged on his hand. He settled back, watching the Director with a deep anger, hard and cold, behind the shallow red-brown of his eyes.

When Manhanu focused his reptilian gaze on her, Aleytys trembled with fear and excitement. She smoothed shaking hands down over her body. “Harskari,” she whispered, “you promised.”

Gwynnor saw Aleytys start shaking, then she swayed, almost falling. Before he could say anything, she straightened and seemed to grow taller, her face lengthening into a stern mask. As the Synwedda began a slow chant, he felt tentative touches of the energy come up through the earth into his body and flow through his arms into Sioned, a slow, calm trickle, nothing like the raw torrent of yesterday. Then the flow came through his hand from Tipylexne. The circuit was completed.

Manhanu watched with contempt and amusement. Gwynnor saw him beckon to Lushan as Aleytys began a murmuring chant of her own that moved in and around the syllables issuing from the Synwedda. Lushan came reluctantly from the shadows. When he was an arm's length away from him, Manhanu leveled the stunner and shot him down.

With the engineer crumpled in a heap a meter from his feet, Manhanu turned the stunner on Aleytys.

Grey lifted his hand and blew the stunner into red-hot scrap. Manhanu dropped it instantly and jumped back. “You should have killed me,” he said softly.

“I wanted to, but a promise was made.” Grey sighted along the top of the gun, aiming it at Manhanu's middle. Then be dropped it back in his lap.

Shaking his tingling fingers, Manhanu lifted his uninjured hand, a tiny sleeve gun suddenly peeping from his fist. It snapped, blatted, flared, and Grey crumpled, the energy gun spilling onto the ground as his body folded in on itself and rolled off the bench. Before the snarling Director could turn the sleeve gun on Aleytys, Tipylexne jerked his hands free and surged onto his feet. With a cat-quick lunge at Manhanu he snatched the silvery tube and flung it at the side wall where it crashed against the stone with a tinkle of shattering elements.

The Synwedda cried out as the circle broke, jerking her hands free with violent haste. “Break,” she said hoarsely. “Break!”

Gwynnor felt heat building with terrifying rapidity. Snatching his hand from Sioned, he imitated the Synwedda and held both hands up, letting the power which was running wild dissipate into the air above his head. He twisted around to look at Sioned, sighed with relief as he saw her hands up, also.

The Synwedda glared at Tipylexne. “Don't do that again, cludair! You could kill us all.”

Tipylexne shrugged. Without bothering to reply, he stepped over Han Lushan's unconscious body, and walked quietly to the archway where he stationed himself before the single exit to the garden, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his eyes on Manhanu.

The Synwedda sighed and stretched out her hands; the circle reformed. She glanced at the swaying, chanting figure in the center of the circle, then began the chant that would feed her own power into that gathered by the starwitch.

Manhanu sneered. “Useless melodrama.” He stepped back. For a moment, his eyes met Gwynnor's, then he laughed. “Poor little cerdd. You think all this nonsense makes any difference?” Still laughing, he turned and took a step toward Grey's crumpled figure. Gwynnor stifled a shout as he realized the Director's goal, the Hunter's gun. But he didn't dare break the circle again.

Tipylexne blurred past the starman, plucked the gun from the Hunter's half-open hand, and was back in the archway before the startled Director could stop his futile rush. Settling back with angry satisfaction, Gwynnor concentrated on shifting the building power through his aching limbs, sneaking occasional glimpses of Aleytys.

She ignored the disturbance around her. Standing with hands lifted, she was chanting serenely. Then the chant changed and her hands began moving, catching the sunlight, rolling it into a fine, pale strand that fell in glowing coils at her feet as she spun golden light into shimmering thread.

He held his breath each time he looked at her. Beautiful. Terrible. The little flow of power moving through him paled before that fierce glow surrounding her. The nameless, numinous power caught him, trapped him, he couldn't bear to look at her, he couldn't tear his eyes from her. He sensed dimly the vortex he was part of stripping away from them all, adding itself to the building glow that extended half a meter from her body.

After a while, after an endless, timeless while, she stopped her spinning; the pale, fine thread lay in heaps about her feet. Once again the chant altered. Slowed. Deepened. She pulled at the thread trailing from her fingers, tossing a length into the air in front of her where it clung to the glow space. Again and again, she jerked the coiled thread and threw it upward until vertical lines burned red-gold in a nearly opaque curtain. Then she changed the chant once more and whipped a horizontal line across the verticals. Back and forth the lines flew, weaving a fine meshed net one meter wide and two long.

The Director cursed suddenly and broke free from the daze the chant induced in him. In them all. He took half a dozen swift strides. Unnoticed. Forgotten. He snatched the gun from Tipylexne and darted away, though there was no need for hurry. The cludair was woven into the spell and aware of little that went on around him.

Manhanu twisted the aperture wide and dropped a finger on the sensor. The killing light snapped out. Mingled with the golden glow. Brightened it. Fed it. Mutated into the force that built the aura. Did no harm at all to the woman standing with only hands moving inside the shimmer.

Manhanu screamed. His eyes turned back in his head and he collapsed a little distance from the stirring figure of Lushan, his mouth gaping wide, his body twitching like a puppet whose strings were plucked by a playful child.

A mass of orange-shot, dull gray jelly oozed from the open mouth, gradually obscuring the high-cheeked narrow face. Near the top of the mass, a number of small black specks stirred restlessly. Gradually, the shapeless jelly around those dots hardened into a transparent horny bubble that began swelling and thinning.

The net was finished, with so fine a mesh that it looked like a solid sheet of gold. The chant rose to a vibrant, demanding note. She caught the edge of the net as it began to fall and flung it over the Director's body, the flying edges just missing Lushan as he recovered enough to jerk himself farther away from the hideous thing at his feet.

As the net floated down to cling around the crumpled body, Gwynnor heard a woody pop as the horny bubble split. The spores were flung out and slammed against the mesh. He saw the net, spun from sunlight, surge and jerk and bump. Then it closed tightly around the dead man, pressing the spores back against his flesh.

A thread of pale gray smoke crept through the mesh. Then Chu Manhanu burned. With a soundless, heatless, flameless fire, the body burned until nothing was left but a fine dust.

The terrible pressure dissipated. Gwynnor felt drained. His hands fell away from Qilasc and Sioned, who slumped beside him, drained as he was, close to exhaustion, too tired to speak now that their minds and bodies had dropped free from the spell. After a minute, Gwynnor lifted his head and looked up at Aleytys.

The starwitch let her hands fall. The wildly swirling red hair dropped to hang lank and lifeless around a tired face, with several strands clinging to her skin, glued there by a slick of sweat. The brightness around her melted like smoke into the stirring air. She spoke one final word … “Finished” … stumbled, almost fell.

Then she straightened. Running shaking hands through her hair, she stepped past Qilasc and kicked at the faint haze of dust on the withered grass. Then she walked heavily to the benches and sank down beside Grey.

The Hunter took her hands and held them between his. “You're right. You don't need a gun.”

“You saw?”

“I came round somewhere in the middle, when the parasite took a shot at you.”

“It did?” She let her head fall against his shoulder. “I ache all over. Even my hair hurts.”

He laughed, more to encourage her than because he felt like laughing, and stroked a finger over her cheek, holding her close while she recovered a littel of her strength.

Watching them from his seat on the grass, Gwynnor felt all jealousy burnt out of him. He pulled Sioned against him, feeling her breath warm on his cheek. “You all right?”

“I'm too tired to know yet. Do I still have feet?”

“Stretch out your legs. Let me help you.”

Groaning at the pain of moving legs gone to sleep, she straightened them with his help, then leaned back against his, shoulder, fitting neatly into the space between the curve of his arm and the curve of his side. “Ah Mannh, Gwynnor. Holy Maeve grant I never get mixed up in something like this again.”

“I know. Mind settling down with a landless minstrel and raising a pack of younglings?”

“Sounds … good. Good!” She took his hand and held it tightly. “I'm not made for high and noble deeds. Just small, comfortable, ordinary doings.” She turned her head against his shoulder to look across at Aleytys. “I've stopped being jealous of her. In a way, I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Think you can stand?”

“I'm comfortable here. Do we have to move?”

He dropped his head back and looked up, surprised to see the sun still in the morning half of the sky. “If we leave soon, we can be home before dark.”

“I suppose so.” She tucked her legs under and began struggling to her feet.

The Synwedda came through the arch, followed by an array of acolytes who carried in the paraphernalia for lunch. Table and chairs. Covered earthern pots that steamed copiously and sent out enticing odors.

Aleytys sniffed. She swung her legs around and stood. “I'm Starved.”

“You sound surprised.” Grey rose beside her, stretching his body like a lazy cat. His hands came down on her shoulders and he gently massaged the taut muscles. “Relax. It's over.”

The Synwedda beckoned them over.

The company, Han Lushan included, ate with intense concentration for several minutes. When the first edge of her hunger was blunted, Aleytys turned to Lushan. “Manhanu appointed you his successor?”

Lushan lifted the clear, crystal glass to his lips and sipped at the chilled water, his eyes moving over the varied faces of those sitting around the table. Mouth hidden behind the glass, he spoke softly. “You expected that?”

“I knew the parasite planned to spore here. And that the sporing would kill Manhanu's body. I suspected the original parasite would want another host available. Ready to take over. Naturally, he'd want that host confirmed into Manhanu's power.”

“And you thought of me.” He set the glass back on the table. “Thanks.”

Aleytys pushed a piece of meat around with the tip of her spoon. “For me, Lushan,” she said slowly, her eyes on the fragment of meat, “the best solution would be for the Company to pack up and leave Maeve. No,” she looked up, smiling, “I know that won't happen. The Company is too big, with too many resources. Without the pressure of outside opinions, who knows what happens on Company worlds? Who cares?” She shrugged. “I fished around for what I thought might be an optimum solution. I thought of you. When we talked in the forest, I found you open to dealing with beings unlike yourself with a certain respect. I also found you amoral and ambitious, clever and flawed.” She lifted her hands apologetically. “And, in a way, I owed you a favor.”

“You don't temper your descriptions.” He eyed her with dislike.

“But the house of Han can start back from exile, if you're clever enough. And if you remember you need the help of the people of Maeve.”

“I see.” His eyes glittered. “Something of a dubious favor. However,” he rubbed his hands together, “favor it is. Han thanks you. Whatever we have is yours.”

“Don't promise what you won't perform. Gratitude is a shadow,” She held up her hand so it made a shadow on the table. “Try to catch hold of it and it slides away.”

“How profound.” His mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

“Hunh. I'm serious, fool.”

“Heavily so.”

“Heavy or not, you should listen. You have a toehold here. Don't try to keep it by wringing Maeve dry.”

He leaned back in the chair. “It shouldn't be hard to improve on Manhanu's record.”

She sighed. “I don't know much about the maneuvering that goes on behind scenes. I suspect that your appointment will continue precarious no matter how strongly the parasite sealed you in position. So. Good luck in your balancing act.”

“Will the cludair keep the bargain they made with Chu?”

Qilasc flattened her small, powerful hands on the table. “If the starmen keep out of the forest. The cludair wish to live their lives undisturbed by intruders. The wood will be provided as agreed to maintain our privacy.”

Lushan chuckled. “Since that means we get a product without the expense of harvesting it, it is to our advantage to honor the agreement.” He rubbed a long forefinger beside his mouth. “As long as we can make a reasonable profit on the amount of wood you provide.”

Gwynnor leaned forward tensely. “The stolen maranhedd.”

Han glanced at the Synwedda. “What happens if I keep it?”

“Do you enjoy thunderstorms?”

“Not particularly.” Eyes narrowed, he glanced at the empty sky, then at her thin face. “It usually doesn't rain this time of year.”

“And in the past few days there were two major storms.”