Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (29 page)

It hadn’t. The music stopped, but the swaying continued as if the Drapsk had used the sound to set themselves into some desired pattern of movement. Then the first rank of Makii moved forward, still swaying, and approached the first ranks of remaining Niakii and Heerii Drapsk.

When Grant Murtree had told me about last year’s Festival, and how one Tribe diminished in numbers and wealth while another increased, I’d made certain assumptions. I’d been wrong.

The clue, gripstsa, had been given to me, but had been too alien to understand.

This, then was the lar-gripstsa, the exchange of place taken to a new level. For each Makii Drapsk chose one Drapsk from another Tribe, holding hands, and bending forward until they could gently take each other’s tentacles in gripstsa.

I felt it. I couldn’t avoid the echoes within the M’hir as more and more paired off, each creating a true, if temporary link, the whole a latticework that included the inner part of me as surely as each other.

For a brief moment, I endured it in order to savor the resonance of energies, to cling vicariously to a sense of completeness that I instinctively knew would be so much more in a full Joining. Then the temptation was too great and I pushed myself free, clamping shut every protection I had.

It had been wonderful.

And, as a final surprise, there was more happening in front of my eyes than the Drapsk exchange of information and self-knowledge. For as I watched, the plumes of Niakii or Heerii within each gripstsa-entranced pair slowly lost their characteristic color, fading to drift almost clear in the slight breeze, only to bloom again with the rich purple-pink of the Makii.

Who were happily and, seemingly very politely, now in complete ascendancy within the amphitheater of Drapsk.

But they hadn’t used the fireworks, I thought, suddenly less comfortable with both my bed, the night’s memories, and my situation. Why?

They’d gone to a lot of trouble—potentially running afoul of the Trade Pact Enforcers—to obtain them.

There had to be something else about to happen.

Copelup had told me my true competition would be Drapskii itself. He had never explained what he meant.

I tested the M’hir. As I’d expected, the Drapsk had restored their barrier. I was sure it had only come down in the amphitheater so I could demonstrate my “magic.” Although I hadn’t bothered confronting the Skeptic, I suspected Copelup of deliberately placing me last in the list, knowing somehow the plight of the Rugheran would make me do something his kind would consider ample demonstration.

And, having proved what I could do, now they wanted something else.

For some reason, I shivered.

“No, I wasn’t followed. Don’t you think I’d know?” Barac kept his voice down, fully aware he couldn’t budge the massive Carasian by any means other than persuasion. No question of any use of the Talent. The mind somewhere in that pulsating tin pot of a head was too bizarre for comfort.

Just as Huido’s stubborn protectiveness of the Human was too ingrained to be other than a perfect roadblock now, holding Barac at bay. “Why do you want to see Morgan?” Huido repeated, clicking his lower handling claw as if contemplating the feel of a Clansman in its grip.

“Can I come in while we discuss this?” Barac glanced over his shoulder. This was about the busiest time of day for the restaurant district—perfect, he’d thought, for an inconspicuous chance to slip into the Claws & Jaws and catch up to Morgan. Perfect, except that Huido had rumbled out like a delivery servo and confronted him in the midst of the line of beings waiting to enter. To say they were drawing attention was an understatement.

Enough was enough. Barac could see the entranceway past Huido’s hump of a back. He focused on the spot right behind the door and pushed. . . .

. . . Crash. He’d materialized with impeccable timing, scaring the waiter and sending a probably irreplaceable delicacy toward the ceiling. Damn.

Huido burst through the door an instant later, everyone from well-gowned customers to tray-laden staff scattering out of his way. One person elected to dive head-first into a large ornamental shrub. A Carasian in a hurry, and an unhappy Carasian at that, was guaranteed to disperse most crowds.

Barac stood his ground, though he looked around in hopes of finding Morgan and kept his mind firmly within the M’hir in case more significant dodging proved necessary.

Huido slammed to a halt so close to Barac that the Clansman could see his face reflected in several dozen pupils. Then the eyes parted, and a pair of exquisitely-sharp jaws protruded to press ever-so-lightly against his cheeks. Barac stopped breathing, but stayed where he was.

As suddenly, the huge being drew back, swinging one of his smaller arms around Barac’s shoulders in bruising comradeship. “I approve of your grist. You want to see him this much? Come with me.”

The noise level in the restaurant foyer began to return to its normal muted mix of voices, from a variety of vocal cords and implants, as Barac let Huido push him toward the private dining area in the back. Grist? Barac had no idea what the being was referring to—and decided as long as he had a good one, he wouldn’t ask. Their progress was halted at the entrance by a waiter hurrying up to whisper in the Carasian’s elbow.

Huido’s claws made a sharp click, as though the Carasian were startled. More than half his eyes began searching their surroundings, while the rest kept a steady stare at Barac.

“What is it?” Barac asked, somehow sure this had to do with him—or with Morgan.

“Come,” Huido ordered, lurching into motion while electing to keep several eyes on the Clansman.

The waiter led them down the hall from the eating area. He was Human, older than the others Barac had seen, perhaps Huido’s personal servant. The Clansman reached for his thoughts, lightly, cautiously.

Nothing but a deep, formless anxiety. The Human had seen something upsetting—no, Barac corrected himself, refining the impressions he’d gained, the Human had seen something horrifying.

Their destination was the kitchen. Beyond the sound of a bubbling pot, the room was utterly quiet, at least until Huido arrived; staff huddled in one corner. The door to the freezer was ajar, puffs of frost drifting across the shining floor.

“We found it when Resy called for more iced prawlies,” the servant burst out as if the sight was too much. “We didn’t know what to do, Hom Huido.”

Barac stayed at the Carasian’s side as he rumbled up to the freezer, so the two of them saw what had so disturbed the staff at the same time.

He wasn’t too surprised by the dead body tossed in the back corner of the freezer—there had been overtones of death from all the readable minds in the room as they’d come in—or shocked by the plentiful and messy evidence of how the being had died—he’d seen the work of force blades before—but Barac was surprised to recognize the being lying like one of the sacks of frozen fish.

“What is Larimar di Sawnda’at doing in your freezer?” he asked the Carasian with real curiosity.

“And where is Morgan?”

Chapter 27

WHATEVER faced me next among the inscrutable Drapsk, at least I wouldn’t have to endure it while clambering about in their ceremonial dress, I was relieved to discover in the morning. The spacer coveralls they’d found for me on the Makmora had been cleaned and laid out for me to wear, and a small box had been left as well.

I dressed and ate first, having learned to be suspicious of unexpected gifts. I wore the Ram’ad witchstone around my throat now, there being no further benefit to pretending I belonged to that unpleasant sisterhood. I’d snatched it from the Scats when our bargaining was interrupted. My hair hadn’t liked the restriction of the leather thong around my head in any case, pulling itself free at every opportunity.

I wrapped a piece of the thick stuff around my fingers as I took a second look at the box. It looked expensively simple, with a rich gleam to the wood’s finish suggesting either loving age, superb craftsmanship, or both.

“Well, the Great Bendini took his loot,” I said out loud, reaching for it.

I’d expected jewelry or some exquisite ornament. I hadn’t expected a tiny vial to be nestled inside, by its elaborate seals and mechanism exceedingly high-tech protection for what appeared to be a dull tawny-colored powder.

The thing was smaller than the tip of my little finger, blinking to itself with almost imperceptible indicators. It was—I hefted it on my palm—oddly heavy. I wasn’t tempted to open it. In fact, I quickly replaced it in its box and shut the lid.

I had no idea what the Drapsk had given me. I was only sure that anything so well-packaged was either illegal, hazardous, or both.

 

“Illegal? Hazardous? I’m shocked you would think such things, O Mystic One,” Copelup protested when he arrived. “Shocked.”

I picked up the box and waved it under his antennae. “Then what is it?”

His plumes flattened down his back and not only did Copelup inhale his tentacles, he covered his tentacle-stuffed mouth with both hands.

I looked down at him, tapping the top of the box with one finger. After watching gripstsa, I no longer considered this behavior to be comparable to a Human seeking pseudo-maternal comfort from a thumb. Instead, it appeared more likely to be the Drapsk equivalent of reviewing its immediate past, of replaying what it knew in order to make better sense of some new, confusing event. Such as me.

Copelup gradually unfurled himself, the plumes, I noticed, being the last body part restored to a relaxed yet alert position. “Forgive me,” I said quite sincerely. “I meant to cause you no distress, Skeptic.”

A wave of chubby fingers. “No. No. We value your curiosity as well as all else about you, Mystic One. It is just that I am unworthy to speak of this treasure to you. Please believe me when I assure you there is no greater gift we Drapsk could have placed in your keeping. Later, you will meet with those who can tell you more.”

“Later?” I repeated with a sinking feeling, putting the box back on the table with care. “Copelup. I can’t stay on Drapskii indefinitely. I must leave, and soon. I’ve told you—”

“This time tomorrow you may go wherever you wish, Mystic One.”

There had to be a catch, a Drapsk “but . . .” buried in that smug voice.

“I can leave tomorrow,” I said, stressing the last word. “Tomorrow as in one planet-day or as in one Pact Standard day?”

Copelup gave a delicate hoot. “As they differ by only three tenths of a Standard second, Mystic One, I will leave that decision to you. And now it is time for us to go.”

Go? A flood of almost unendurable impatience seized me, as though knowing I would be allowed to leave, it had to be immediately or I couldn’t bear it. I took firm hold of that weakness, controlled it. There was more to deal with—I knew it.

“What happens between now and tomorrow, Skeptic?” I asked, pleased my voice came out with the right touch of nonchalance as I planted my feet firmly in place on the carpeting.

The Drapsk had started to urge me toward the door, his hands making little excited shooing motions, as though wherever we were going or whomever we were to meet wouldn’t wait a moment longer—as impatient to have things done as I was. “The Contest, Mystic One. It’s time for the Contest!”

I put my hands on my hips, wishing for a moment the outfit had come complete with its tool belt and preferably a small hand weapon. “We’ve been through the Contest,” I reminded him. “I won. Didn’t I?”

He’d hurried ahead to the door, yellow plumes trailing back toward me as though they might sense more than my words. “Won? Yes, Mystic One. You are the Competitor. You won the chance to enter the Contest.”

“The Contest,” I said slowly, then remembered what Copelup had told me. It still sounded crazy. “Against the planet.”

The Skeptic drew his hand away from the door panel and turned to orient in my direction—facing me not being quite the term I’d use. He came back two steps and stopped. “This is not for show or entertainment, Mystic One,” the Drapsk said with unusual bluntness, as though it was finally time for some honesty between us. “Our magic is gone; our world lost. Festival, the finding of competitors—whether of worth or not—and our search for magic is all to this purpose: to find the one who can recover what was squandered in our past; to restore our place in the universe.

“You are the first hope we have had in a very long time, Sira Morgan.”

“What if your hope is misplaced, Copelup?” I answered as plainly, my mouth starting to go dry. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“That’s all right, Mystic One,” the Drapsk said with remarkable calmness. “Neither do we.”

The air was heavy on his lips and methane-tainted to his nostrils. It could rain again at any moment, Morgan decided, peering up into the dull gray cloud that passed for a sky. As if it needed to; his feet sank in mud at every step, a momento of the morning’s drenching.