Until Pocular.
The Clansman took the brandy, sniffing it appreciatively. Huido’s body armor clattered and rumbled as he shifted unhappily—his idea of hospitality to any Clan but Sira had more in keeping with his wives’ notions of entertaining—but Morgan quelled further complaint with another meaningful look. There was more brandy, and here was an unexpected chance for information. “There are those,” Larimar began, “who do not approve of the direction in which the Council would take our kind.”
“Rebels?” Morgan asked in polite disbelief. “You aren’t serious.”
“Of course not. Say, rather, those who would prefer our current Council consider other paths, other ways.” Another slow swallow and a considering look from those pale green eyes. “Unfortunately, there are few safe ways to make such suggestions.”
“I can imagine,” Morgan said dryly. A governing system based solely on which individuals possessed the greatest abilities within the M’hir, rule by Power, wasn’t inclined to look downward in its population pool for ideas. “So what do your politics have to do with me, Clansman?”
“You are the Chosen of Sira di Sarc,” Larimar said, as if Morgan were feebleminded as well as Human. “Clan politics have everything to do with you.”
Morgan’s vision seemed to cloud over as he heard Sira’s name in the Clansman’s deep voice. He made himself gaze into the golden liquor in the glass between his fingers, seeing how it stayed level, striving for the same equilibrium within himself. The rage inside demanded violence, craved vengeance. He knew exactly how to remove Larimar’s tongue, where to cut through the muscle and skin of the throat. He knew exactly how satisfying it would feel to carve her name from the Clansman’s mouth.
Some of this must have stayed in Morgan’s eyes as he looked back up at the Clansman. Huido snapped his handling claw, producing a deep, bell-like sound. A stern warning. Perhaps a hint leaked through into the M’hir, though Morgan knew his shielding was superior to anything this Clansman possessed, since those green eyes widened suddenly, as though startled.
“We,” Morgan stressed the word, “do not have anything to do with Clan politics. If that’s all you came for—”
Larimar had recovered his composure, though Morgan thought there was a shade less confidence and a touch more caution in the look he received. “You don’t understand. Sira di Sarc could take a Council seat at whim. From what I’ve been told, she could rule it, without any questioning her right to do so. She could change the—”
“She could be left alone. That’s all we’ve asked.” This time Morgan knew his voice was threatening, but didn’t care. “You’re wasting your time, Clansman, if you’ve come thinking I’ll persuade Sira to follow any course that puts her back among the Clan. You, or Rael di Sarc.”
“Rael?” Larimar’s brows raised a bit too high. “I know Jarad’s second daughter by reputation only. Why do you mention her?”
Not a good liar, Morgan said to himself, knowing he’d scored. “I thought Rael might share your sudden interest in Sira’s future—and mine. My mistake.”
The Clansman frowned, hesitated, then said as though testing: “There may be others. I don’t say I know who they may be or their intent regarding you. You would be wise to be careful, Captain.”
“Oh, I’m always careful, Clansman,” Morgan said mildly, sipping his brandy and hoping Huido would continue to imitate a piece of furniture while the Clansman was being so forthcoming. He opened his awareness a crack to sample the emotions the Clansman was involuntarily broadcasting. Anger, definitely. Impatience. But also, Morgan recognized with a thrill of wariness, a strong thread of satisfaction. Why?
The Clansman seemed unaware of Morgan’s perception—or didn’t care. “Where is Sira? I would like to pay my respects.” When Morgan didn’t answer immediately, Larimar went on almost glibly: “Come now. Surely you are aware that her Talent is superior to mine. I am the one at risk, should she be displeased.”
The Human turned his glass, as if admiring the reflections. “You know, Clansman di Sawnda’at,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s been my experience that the Clan aren’t very comfortable talking about such things around me. Now, why is it that you are so accepting of Sira’s Choice being Human?” Morgan’s eyes snapped up to meet the Clansman’s. He was not surprised to see pure hostility. He was surprised, and not pleasantly, to see how quickly Larimar controlled the expression.
“It is not my place to dispute Choice,” the Clansman said, his Comspeak gaining more of an accent; perhaps his self-control came at a price. “Especially that of the powerful Sira di Sarc.”
“The powerful Sira Morgan,” Morgan corrected, deliberately baiting his opponent. “That is the name she uses now. A Human custom.”
The green eyes narrowed to slits. “I have been polite, Human. Do not push me. You will regret it.” Morgan felt a pressure on his shields, the merest hint of force.
“So I’m to believe you have no opinion about Sira’s Choice with a Human.”
“My opinion,” this between gritted teeth, animosity in the open now, “is irrelevant. Joining cannot be undone, even if I were to—” The Clansman’s big hands clenched and unclenched, as though he’d have liked to put them around Morgan’s throat. Huido snapped a claw in warning.
Then Larimar raised one hand, moved it as though tracing the outline of the Human’s head and shoulders in the air. Huido rumbled threateningly. Before the Carasian could act, Larimar clenched his fingers and dropped the fist, done.
Morgan tilted his head. He’d felt nothing. “And that was—” There was pure triumph on Larimar’s face. “An experiment, Captain Morgan. Confirmation, if you like. I believe I needn’t waste any more of my time here.” He put down his empty glass. “My thanks for the excellent brandy. If you see Sira di Sarc, give her my respects.” A grim smile: “You will see me again, Human.”
Air sighed into the space where Larimar had stood.
“Couldn’t you have stopped him?” Huido asked, plates sliding over plates with an annoyed hiss. Recently he’d developed a general dislike of those who didn’t use doors.
“Yes,” Morgan said. Sira had taught him that, how to hold someone from the M’hir; it was a skill demanding more in technique and control than power. She’d been pleased when he’d mastered it, yet unsurprised.
“Why didn’t you?”
“He’d stayed too long already,” Morgan turned and looked at the gleaming darkness of his friend, eyestalks clustered in worry. “I should have realized what he was up to—”
“What?”
“Larimar di Sawnda’at was sent to follow me, to see me. Not Sira. Why? Because I survived the testing of their most powerful Chooser. They’re becoming desperate, Huido, desperate to find out how we did it. That business at the end, the hand gesture? He was testing me somehow. I believe Larimar knows there was no Joining.”
“Why does this matter? I thought you told me this was for your protection. And Sira’s.”
Morgan picked up the Clansman’s empty glass, then threw it at the nearest wall before he’d recognized the desire for violence. He held his empty hand before his eyes. Sira had taught him many useful things, he realized, shaken by the deadly potential he sensed in himself, stirring as though it awaited only an excuse to take control.
“It matters, Brother,” he said wearily. “If he spreads that information, Sira could lose the rights the Chosen enjoy within the Clan. The Council has kept the secret—to avoid confessing their guilt. Even though she calls herself an exile, it’s that status which protects her from outright interference.” Morgan found himself pacing and forced himself to sit instead. “If the Council has to admit we aren’t linked through the M’hir, it’s back to the way things were before. No one on her side but us.”
“What more does Sira need?” Huido boasted, with a cymbal-like snap of his handling claws in emphasis. “We shall defend her!”
Morgan looked up at his friend, feeling a welcome resurgence of his own rage. “Easier done if we prevent the problem.” He stood. “Leave Larimar to me.”
He’d deal with Rael later.
Chapter 26
I DON’T remember how long my Drapsk audience and I regarded one another. Long enough for me to decide to stand up, the crouch turning out to be both uncomfortable and somewhat demeaning when you were the focus of attention for thousands of beings. Long enough for me to then, eventually, turn completely around, so I could be sure every single Drapsk was also standing, antennae pointed straight in my direction.
Mercifully, an isolated spot of movement appeared, high up on the wall bearing the rows of Makii. I kept my gaze on it, quite sure it was my Skeptic and escort bestirring themselves to come down at last.
This process consumed sufficient time that I tired of the whole concept and would have tried to leave myself, but for one thing. I was, as their Mystic One and Contestant, at least partially responsible for whatever became of the Makii’s fortunes now. I thought it at least polite to stay and try to explain what I’d done.
If I could.
“O Mystic One! O Mystic One!”
Well, I reassured myself, Copelup sounded happy. I watched the Skeptic practically tumble his way down through the last rows of mesmerized Makii, several willing hands making sure this passage was more figurative than painful. Captain Makairi, still faithfully wearing his ribbon, followed close behind, with a third Drapsk trailing whom I blindly assumed to be Maka.
“O Mystic—One,” Copelup landed with an oomph of breath at my feet. I stretched out my hands to catch him, but he steadied immediately on his own. He took advantage of my gesture to capture the fingers of my right hand in his, squeezing them with most un-Drapsk vigor. “You did it!”
Fully aware of the rapt attention of the witnesses forming a veritable forest around us, I leaned forward and whispered: “I sent the Heerii’s Contestant home. Isn’t that—cheating?”
The Drapsk had excellent hearing, or else Copelup passed along what I whispered in some other fashion. Captain Makairi answered for him, at normal volume. “It would be cheating if you’d harmed or killed the other Contestant, O Mystic One. The Skeptics frown on those methods of eliminating the competition.”
“So if I’m not in trouble, what happens now?” I asked, avoiding the effort of working my way through that particular nest of Drapsk ethics. Pushing the Rugheran into the M’hir had been, to put it mildly, a strain on every resource I had. My wounds, almost healed but still sore, were also reminding me how desirable a good night of sleep would be.
Copelup and the three Makii each inhaled all their tentacles, sucking pensively, antennae twitching in synchrony. I frowned at them, after a quick glance upward to be sure the remaining chorus of Drapsk were still quiescent. Thank goodness it wasn’t a Human crowd.
“What’s next, my good Drapsk?” I asked again, growing more suspicious. “You may not know this, but my abilities are not limitless. Neither’s my patience, of which I’ve given you a considerable amount since coming insystem. What do I have to do in your Contest?”
“You’ff whon.”
As this was from Maka, spoken around his tentacles with the requisite and sizable amount of drooling, I wasn’t convinced. “If I’ve won,” I said, directing my attention at Skeptic Copelup, “and I have no idea how that’s reasonably possible—but believe me I won’t argue the decision—does this mean I can leave now? Are the Makii,” what was the word? “in ascen dance over the others?”
“MAKII!!!”
I was almost knocked off my feet by the unexpected roar of agreement from the hitherto silent crowd, especially when that roar was accompanied by one of the Drapsk’s trademark winds. My escort rocked happily to and fro in the breeze, plumes aflutter, tentacles now wide in a ring of contentment. I pointedly went over to the dais, tugged my heavy skirt out of my way, and sat down on an untidy pile of silk.
Even I could tell when a celebration was forthcoming; I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long.
It was pleasure closer to agony. I stretched my toes, rolled my ankles one at a time, flexed my knees gently, twisted my hips until my spine thanked me, then slid my hands up and down the smooth sheets. Alone at last.
Not a bad day’s work, I congratulated myself, feeling quite ridiculously satisfied considering I’d accomplished nothing for myself. I’d saved the Rugheran, a being whose thoughts had left a warm, happy presence in mine—if completely incomprehensible beyond its need for its kind.
And I’d given the Makii, my tormentors and friends, everything they’d hoped for from their Mystic One. As far as I knew, their Blessed Event was still underway. Thank goodness, Captain Makairi still recognized a bona fide state of collapse when he saw it, ordering me sent back to this room before I had to be carried.
A long soak in the fresher, a quick bite to eat, and here I was, back in the odd softness of my Drapsk bed. Not a bad day at all.
The celebration had explained a very great deal about the Drapsk and what this day had meant to them. It was so incredibly vivid in my mind, I could relive it by closing my eyes.
The Heerii had been first. They came down from their seats to pass me, dipping antennae in mute acknowledgment. Then, like the Niakii, they formed two lines, half going back to their seats, half joining the queue leaving the amphitheater.
This took remarkably little time, the Drapsk not prone to pushing or other disorderly behavior. Eventually, the amphitheater was again filled with quiet, motionless Drapsk, only with vacant seats marking where some from the losing Tribes had left.
I hadn’t dared speculate during that expectant silence, wanting to believe the best of the Drapsk, or at least to believe whatever they were up to would be something I could comprehend as fair and reasonable, within my humanoid bias.
The lights below brightened, and I heard the first deliberately musical sound I’d encountered among the Drapsk—Copelup’s tapes of Auordian croons not being what I considered particularly local. To call the three-note whistle “music” was, I decided, an allowable exaggeration, since the Drapsk began to sway to its arrhythmic beat in perfect unison. They were dancing; so the sound was music. I just hoped it wouldn’t go on too long.