I wrapped my hand around the warm bare skin of some being’s ankle, hoping for the best, and sent out a quick tight tendril of thought. Flashes of the argument appeared behind my closed eyelids. I sought deeper. The cargo hold. The contents of the crates . . .
“O Mystic One. Say you are intact! Get off her, you immense louts!”
I accepted Makoori’s frantic help to dislodge me from beneath the cursing pirates, quite willing to regain both my lung capacity and fresher air to inhale. The contact hadn’t done my abdomen any good. A flash of red-hot pain bent me over with a gasp.
The contact had been good enough to reveal what the dreaded pirates were doing here. They were delivering Tidikian fireworks—prohibited goods, since the Trade Pact took a dim view of cargo used as weapons by some species and as entertainment by others—but hardly a major crime. And in return, the Drapsk were offloading a variety of valuable spices and other luxury goods.
The pirate had been scornful of the Drapsk’s passionate desire for the fireworks, but not of the profit involved.
“O Mystic One! I have summoned the med, but the com system is unreliable with so many filthy biologicals in the corridor. Can you walk? Mystic One?”
And why fireworks? All the Drapsk had told the Nokraud was that they were essential for an upcoming victory celebration.
As the Drapsk panicked even further, I tried not to laugh. It would have hurt.
INTERLUDE
Within the utter black of the M’hir, dread stirred and found a soundless voice: It’s too risky.
The stronger mind of the two linked here deflected the fears of the weaker. The only risk lies in failing to act. There are avenues to be tried—because they are dangerous or repugnant is of no consequence to our need. This is but one more. Are they ready?
They are Chosen!
Clear amusement. If they were not, they would hardly be of use.
No doubt of acquiescence—the weaker knew his place—but a sliver of apprehension remained. They will be missed. What then?
You will ensure there is good and reasonable cause for their absence. A flood of determination: They will thank us, someday. You will see.
And Sira?
Jarad di Sarc’s confidence filled the M’hir until Faitlen could hardly breathe around it. She will be grateful. Or no longer of concern.
Chapter 15
I DIDN’T plan to go to Drapskii. I certainly didn’t want to go to Drapskii. But when the Drapsk announced with glee the Makmora’s arrival in their Home system, it was a little too late to worry about my plans or desires.
And it was, I decided, as reasonable a destination as any. Much as I resisted the notion, the damage done to my body had been significant. If it hadn’t been for the Drapsk med—I turned the unproductive thought away. The pain was gone, I could feel my strength returning by the hour, and two hair-thin lines were all that remained of the incisions on my abdomen. I was ready to take advantage of any opportunity to find another ship and set forth on my true quest. There was, I realized, just one flaw.
Any opportunity would depend on the intentions of the Drapsk.
Drapskii was an unusual planet in many respects, not only in the behavior of its inhabitants. At least the Drapsk had been overjoyed to supply me with geographical information—if little else.
There was no moon, and what free water existed spent most of its time in a series of deep cracks etched in parallel to its equator as if the world had been stretched from its poles by a playful god. With the exception of streaks of tawny desert nestled in the lee-side of mountain ranges, the land itself was completely carpeted with patches of agricultural land and sprawling Drapsk cities. I wasn’t sure if this indicated a lack of interest in wilderness or a lack of wilderness to be interested in.
It was an old, civilized place—as set in its ways as its weather, having a climate strangely lacking in variation, though the Drapsk didn’t bother with control technology as did many species. The only winds of consequence were mild, steady, and predictable, arising from the spinning of Drapskii herself; in turn, her almost circular and solitary orbit around the small white dwarf star of the Drapskii System provided little in the way of seasons. There were no great exposed bodies of water to store heat energy or release it to the atmosphere—a characteristic I thought responsible for the frequent caution on the tapes to bring in livestock twice daily: once during the nightly freeze-up and once during the searing heat of midday. The additional caution to roll up and perform eopari at those times was something I assumed would not apply to humanoid guests.
There were plenty of mountain ranges to break the flow of air into predictable local patterns. Not surprisingly in a species dependent on chemical communication, the Drapsk had identified hundreds of types of air movements and breezes due to microclimate effects, ranging from the slide of air down night-cooled mountain ranges to the scheduled bursts about the landing and launch fields of their shipcities. I skipped that part of the vistapes.
What I hunted for in vain was information on the Drapsk themselves. All I remembered from Morgan’s tapes on the species was an impression of a civilization so private yet polite, so well-mannered and orderly, no one bothered to question anything they did—this and their obsession with magic. To me, alone in my cabin on the Drapsk ship, this lack of information seemed more alarming than anything I knew of the Scats.
Well, I said to myself when Makoori arrived to inform me we were about to land, I was certainly in a position to add to the Fox’s database. Morgan would be pleased; he collected information the way others hoarded credits.
I didn’t allow myself to think any more than that. The place in my thoughts where Morgan belonged was like some festering wound, a wound safer to avoid than examine too closely, especially here and now, when I had no way to heal it.
One of the first additions I was able to make concerned the seemingly identical appearance of the Drapsk. It was misleading. While I still couldn’t distinguish any of my Drapsk, the Makii Tribe, from one another without their tags or some other clue, the three Drapsk who met us as we exited the Makmora the next morning were distinctly different: from each other as well as from the Makii themselves.
The Drapsk shipcity was, predictably, more civilized than Pocular’s—a better match for those found on the rich, established worlds of the Humans’ Inner Systems, such as my former home of Camos. An automated lift offered us easy passage from the ground-level port of the ship to an overhead series of moving walkways. I peered around me, unsure how the docking tugs would be able to move ships in and out through such a maze of seemingly permanent structures. Obviously they could, or we wouldn’t be enjoying the luxury. I was reasonably sure the Drapsk considered my constant gazing around me as curiosity or as a compliment to their shipcity. I didn’t bother informing them I was attempting to memorize potential escape routes.
The individuals who had been waiting outside the Makmora’s port didn’t speak to me or to the two Drapsk with me: Captain Maka and my shipside companion, Makoori. Neither appeared to notice anything odd about this silence, so I presumed there was adequate communication going on—just not shared with the olfactorarily-deprived guest of honor.
I studied the new Drapsk. Of the three, one was considerably taller—almost my height—so the plumes of his antennae, yellowish-red as opposed to the familiar purple-pink of my hosts, occasionally tickled my ear. I had no idea if this was intentional or an accidental contact distressing the Drapsk as much as it startled me; all I could do was try not to swat the likely sensitive organ away in an ill-advised reflex.
The remaining Drapsk were similar in size and shape to the Makii, differing only in the plumes of their antennae. It might have been cosmetic, to mark some difference between Tribes, or a true physiological difference caused by age or sex. If the Drapsk had different sexes, I added to myself. Certainly one referred to all Drapsk as he—a convention they preferred. No matter why, one of the new Drapsk bore plumes of eye-piercing orange, while the other’s were an equally intense shade of turquoise. The overall effect, as I looked down at my escort, was one of walking within a garden of animated feather dusters.
By the time the walkway carried us through the shipcity, I’d grown used to the feeling of gliding along without moving my feet, quite entranced by the sensation. The surface of the walkway was not truly solid, dimpling slightly underfoot. I’d never seen or heard of anything like this before—not that the Clan was overly fond of technology in the first place. My kind acquired from Humans any gadgetry they chose for comfort or convenience, scorning any understanding or overt interest, relying on Talent whenever possible. I had little sympathy for that attitude, having learned Morgan’s love of his ship.
Unfortunately, my knowledge of technology was woefully limited, in spite of my newly gained interest in it. There wasn’t much I could do in a year to counter the effect of a lifetime spent as Clan. Still, I was convinced this walkway was something even the Humans would find unusual. I noticed how connecting paths flowed into this one or branched away, a system more like a watershed of force than any mechanical device. I found myself comparing it to the blurring of reality that was the floor of the Clan Council chamber when suspended partially within the M’hir, and again regarded my tiny hosts with suspicion. Not a good time to experiment, I reminded myself, stopping the opening of my inner thoughts just in time as I recalled how the Drapsk crew seemed to react to my presence in the M’hir.
My outwardly-silent Drapsk escort and I flowed along until reaching the boundary of the shipcity. I’d expected a transfer from the walkways to some other type of transport—aircars perhaps, ubiquitous travel on other worlds. Not here. Perhaps they created too many errant breezes for my hosts. I watched the never-still antennae, more than a little frustrated at being unable to eavesdrop.
The type of walkway did change shortly after ours poured its way over the edge of the city itself, moving between windowless, curved structures I assumed were buildings. We intersected a larger area, more like a sand-colored pond than pavement, on which rested numerous bowl-like objects. One slid forward obediently to hold position in front of our small group. It was larger than the groundcars of my experience, smooth and soft as I was beginning to expect of Drapsk construction. There was no driver or visible controls. We simply climbed in and sat on the warm, yielding surface of its floor, the bowlcar moving off slowly at first, then with gathering speed in what must have been a predetermined direction.
To where? I couldn’t see out of the bowlcar. There were no identifiable features to the structures I could see overhead, unless one counted a steady increase in their size. After a few moments of staring at the equally featureless faces of the four Drapsk, I struggled to kneel so I could see over the sides and watch where we were going. The ensuing unanimous tentacle-sucking brought me back down to a more dignified and boring position.
Well, stoic silence wasn’t working. Time, I decided, for a more direct approach. “Surely now you can tell me where we’re going, Captain Maka,” I suggested, trying for a tone midway between irritation and expectation.
“Of course, O Mystic One,” Maka said immediately, delicately spitting out his tentacles in what I took for relief. “Of course.”
I waited three long breaths, before prompting gently: “So where are we going?”
“The Judgment Hall,” said the tallest of the strange Drapsk, his Comspeak heavily accented but clear enough. There was none of the Makii’s subservience to a “mystic one” in his voice or bearing. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw half of Makoori’s tentacles slide back inside his mouth. Oh, dear.
“And why—” I paused involuntarily as the bowlcar accelerated upward at a growing angle, finding myself entangled in an armful of passive Drapsk. They were warm, smooth, and a little fuzzy to the touch—much like their furnishings. As the bowlcar settled back into something more horizontal, the Drapsk and I disengaged carefully. “As I was about to ask,” I continued, trying hard not to laugh, “why am I going to your Judgment Hall?”
The tall Drapsk answered with a definite note of satisfaction: “To be tried on the charge of impersonating a being of true magic, of course.”
Of course, I repeated to myself, laughter forgotten. “Captain Maka?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the one I personally considered to be the guilty party.
He’d been sucking the odd tentacles, too, but mumbled around them clearly enough: “A formality before the Competition and Celebrations, O Mystic One. You will meet your Skeptic and be judged favorably, I assure you.”
Not a word of agreement or disagreement from the others. I found I could clench my fingers into the spongy surface of the bowlcar’s flooring with satisfying tightness. “And what happens if I’m judged unfavorably?”
“There’s no doubt—”
“What happens, Maka?” I interrupted sternly.
The turquoise-plumed Drapsk said something in a soft, lilting language I didn’t know and assumed was their own, before inhaling his own circle of fleshy red tentacles in what seemed final emphasis.
Maka’s antennae drooped, as did Makoori’s, but he answered me. “We—the Makii—lose the Makmora, O Mystic One, to another, more worthy Tribe.” The antennae struggled valiantly upright again, and his small four-fingered hand touched my knee. “But we have no doubt of you, Sira Morgan. No doubt at all. You are the one we have waited for—”
“Silence,” scolded the tall Drapsk. “The Skeptic will determine her worthiness for the Competition. It is not for us to say.” His voice became less harsh-sounding, his globe of a face turning in my direction. “Do not be apprehensive, Fem Morgan. You will be our honored guest throughout the Festival, regardless of the Skeptic’s findings. It is a privilege granted to few aliens.”