Antennae fluttered in acknowledgment; the container didn’t budge. Barac stood and bowed his farewell, praying that the creatures didn’t take it on themselves to follow him out of this bar and into the next in line along the street. But he had only started to raise his hood, the water streaming from the clothing of latecomers a warning of conditions outside, when the lights flickered and dimmed. The myriad sounds of the place—voices high, low, and mechanical, music competing in volume, the click of playing pieces—stopped, except for the rolling of one die as it hit the confining wall of a table and bounced back into the center.
“Behold, my impatient friend,” said the Drapsk with too-loud satisfaction in that hush. “The Ram’ad Witch. The owner—nay, the Queen—of this place.”
Barac stood as spellbound as the rest as a form ever so slowly materialized out of the haze-filled air to become solid, living, seated on the black throne. But in the silence, his quick gasp turned nearby heads his way with unwelcome attention. Barac subsided, though his eyes remained fixed on the graceful figure dressed in flowing white.
A delicate hand gestured, and the lights returned, the noise becoming deafening once more as the various patrons accepted with the ease of familiarity the dramatic appearance of their mistress. Barac was unable to look safely away before wide-set, knowing, gray eyes pierced the yellow smoke and confusion to meet and hold his.
The Drapsk, mistaking the direction of the witch’s gaze perhaps, chittered excitedly among themselves. Barac ignored them, breaking free of the thrall that had held him, but answering the summons of those eyes nonetheless—moving slowly, inexorably toward the platform.
A path cleared for him as others became aware of what was occurring. There were comments whispered in his ear as he passed—suggestions that would have made him turn on the speaker had this place not given such words unspeakable conviction. So when at last Barac stood at the steps leading up to the occupant of the black throne, he refused to look into her face any longer, lowering his gaze to the heavy barbaric jewelry barely covering the whiteness of her breasts, to the gleam of gem-encrusted bands around each wrist and ankle.
Of all the possible fates he had imagined for his dear cousin, of all the places he would have sought for her—that gentle, tormented Sira might descend into the darkness of a fringe-system hellhole where all things were for sale, if they weren’t stolen first—that possibility had never even entered his mind.
Chapter 1
“PREPARE us something warm, Kupla. Some sombay with that spice of Meragg’s,” I ordered briskly, making my own sound and movement cover the statuelike immobility of my most unexpected guest. My personal servant scurried away without a backward glance. For myself, I couldn’t take my eyes from Barac’s lowered head, his thick black hair immaculate as always despite the weather outside this night.
Outwardly, nothing of my cousin had changed. If he thought a cheaply-cut coat and a slouch could hide the natural arrogance of the Clan, he was sadly mistaken. His elegant charm, I thought to myself, stands out more in contrast. I was surprised a thief hadn’t tried his pockets yet. Or maybe one had, and soon learned not to trust appearances. By Clan standards, Barac sud Sarc might be weak, but he had other defenses.
But why was he here? Why now? What did it mean? Questions I hesitated to ask in such a public place tumbled through my thoughts.
Any joy in seeing him was held hard in check by the suspicions racing through my mind—suspicions of Council interference in my plans, suspicions of the old struggles beginning anew.
The drinks arrived, carried with skill through the crowd and deposited on a small black pedestal within reach of my hand. “A seat for my guest, Kupla,” I was able to say. “Then you may leave us.” Barac’s eyes flashed up to mine at this—ablaze with some emotion—yet he moved stiffly to climb the dais and sit on the offered stool. The corner of my mind I permitted to have such concerns registered amusement at his obvious distress, admiring the way he accepted the steaming cup and deliberately turned his attention to the milling crowd. I sipped my own; I couldn’t taste it.
“Welcome, Cousin,” I said quietly. “At least, I’d like to think so. Why are you here?”
Barac refused to meet my eyes. “Why are you, Sira?” he asked in an oddly anguished whisper. “What are you doing here? Do you know what they call you? What they say about you?”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it nor did I try. The bulbous-eyed croupier at the nearest table lost his concentration to stare at me and so also lost half the credits stacked before him to a quick-fingered neighbor. “Excuse me, Cousin,” I apologized, just as glad for a chance to absorb the shock of Barac’s arrival. “Business.”
Ignoring Barac for the moment, I sought through the thickness of bodies for the one I wanted. There. A conveniently vulnerable mind. Quickly, I pinned the stealthily moving culprit in place, sending a quick mental summons to my nearest guardsman. Ripples of awareness spread from the spot where the wild-eyed Human stood immobilized by my will. Beings moved away on either side, leaving her exposed and encircled.
I stood with deliberate slowness. My guardsman pounded up, stun whip loose and ready in his hand. The regular patrons of the Haven looked expectant, while the croupier’s thick-featured face oozed satisfaction—one of the less pleasant aspects of hiring Foweans being their tendency to secrete a glistening green mucus when cheerful. I wasn’t the only one to swallow uncomfortably as the croupier hastily wiped his facial glands on a sleeve. From the glazed look of his garment, the House had been winning steadily tonight. No wonder his table was almost empty.
“Win from me if you can, Human,” I said into the attentive quiet. “But no one steals from me.” I released the control of her body back to her mind and watched her stagger only briefly. Coolly, the thief reached into one voluminous sleeve and removed more metal disks than I’d seen her steal.
“Only in the Haven have I met my match,” the woman said in a low pleasant voice, inclining her head to me just so, holding on to her pride. Doubtless a professional criminal; this world had many such. “One cannot steal from those protected by magic,” she continued ruefully.
I hid a smile. “But anyone can steal from a fool,” I countered. At this, the crowd rumbled approval, and the croupier’s triangular mouth gaped open anxiously. With a dramatic, and quite unnecessary, gesture, I performed my most popular feat of “magic.” The figure of the croupier vanished with a sigh of displaced air.
“Keep your winnings,” I continued, sitting, quite as if nothing untoward had happened. The Drapsk at the other end of the hall hummed in delighted unison. The would-be thief clutched her booty and melted into the crowd. Things returned to normal.
“Where did you send the Fowean?” Barac’s voice was his own again, level, expressing polite interest and little else. Much better, I thought, but to myself.
“Just out in the rain,” I pitched my voice for his ears alone. “Such tricks are good for business—and keep my dealers honest.”
“And they amuse you. Is that what you’ve found here, Sira? Amusement?”
Maybe I’d been wrong about Barac regaining his composure. His eyes held some of the same uncomprehending wildness as had the pinned thief’s.
“Barac sud Sarc,” I said softly, adding the configuration of heart-kin to the bare words. “If you’ve come to see me, you don’t seem very pleased about it.”
Barac shuddered—his hand made a short violent gesture at the seething mass of noisy, gambling beings around us, many almost oblivious to their surroundings and certainly oblivious to us. “How can I be pleased to see you like this, to see you waste yourself with such filth, to be part of the port scum of this trivial waystation of a world? How can you even let yourself be seen in this place?” A pause as his eyes bored into mine. “What have you become, Sira?”
I tried not to smile. “Well, I doubt I’ve become what you’ve so unflatteringly decided, Cousin. Nor what you see. You forget, not all have your perception.” Delicately, I reac
hed into the M’hir between us, not touching his shields but offering a different vision to his eyes—a face whose features were smudged and hard to discern, the hint of an exotic gem on the forehead; a body coated in a mist that confused. An illusion easy enough to offer drink- and drug-hazed minds. A confusion of descriptions to confound any who saw more. No two who left the Spacer’s Haven ever agreed on the appearance of her witch.
A flicker of astonishment crossed his face, leaving behind a raised eyebrow. “I won it, you see,” I continued. “The previous owner, Sas’qaat, really wasn’t as good at Stars and Comets as it thought. And you’re right. I stay here because it amuses me. Until now, I’ve missed the shadowy edges of life, its variety and color.”
“You’ve picked a hell of a way to start experiencing variety and color,” Barac countered. A loud scuffle, ended by heavy thuds as guardsmen moved in, served to underscore his comment. Then with more characteristic dry humor: “Did you have to become a witch in order to hang out in a bar?”
“It was easier than telling the truth.”
Barac’s lips twitched as though I’d unwittingly scored some point. “The truth, Cousin? Which one?”
I considered him as I took another sip from my cup, politely refraining from exerting my presence in the M’hir against his, then said, “Why, our truth, Cousin. That as Clan, you and I can lay claim to a rare heritage of power, power used by our kind to live very well as parasites among the unsuspecting species of the Trade Pact. Let me see. Is it two hundred or three hundred Human worlds we grace with our presence? Or more?”
He couldn’t help but glance around, checking if any being had overheard. I knew better. Once bets were placed, an earthquake wouldn’t rouse the Haven’s clientele to self-preservation, let alone curiosity. “I see. You sit here,” he accused, eyes back to me, “and presume to judge the rest of us.”
“I presume nothing,” I replied firmly, raising one hand to stop his outburst. “And nothing is exactly what I want from the Clan. I’ve started a new life, Barac, one that allows me to use my Talent without claim to a heritage I renounced a year ago.” Purposeful movement from the floor caught my eye, changing what I might have said next. “Actually, the Poculan version of a user of power, a Ram’ad Witch, has an interesting and useful status off this planet as well—as our friend Maka would testify.” I nodded a regal acknowledgment to the approaching Drapsk. I’d been wrong about the earthquake. The parade of over thirty Drapsk was enough to dislodge even the Haven’s gamblers, if only temporarily.
“Oh, Most Mystic One,” the Drapsk halted a cautious distance away, antennae aquiver. “You have given us a tale to carry back to the Tribe tonight.”
“Good business,” I said offhandedly.
The creature began shifting from one foot to another and the other Drapsk followed suit in unison. Beyond them, I saw smiles carefully hidden. “Business is what my ship-kin and I would like to discuss with you, Mystic One.”
“Captain Maka,” I began. Indulging the alien night after night was becoming tiresome. “How many times must I give you my answer? I am not interested in accompanying you to your home system. As you’ve seen tonight, I’m needed here or my bumbling staff will bankrupt me.”
If body posture were to reflect a stubborn set of mind, Maka the Drapsk should have been rigid by now. “We have searched two full cycles for a truly mystical personage such as yourself,” the being protested. “Do not doom us to failure before our Tribe. Just a short voyage—amply rewarded and enjoyable.”
The Drapsk sounded almost desperate—hardly a wise trading tactic. Why? “Not now,” I compromised. “I have matters that require my personal attention.” True enough, given who was sitting, rather puzzled, beside me. “Perhaps another time,” I offered.
Foot-shifting ceased, replaced by mad feathery waves as the antennae of all the Drapsk fluttered. I sensed no mind-to-mind contact, but I was convinced the beings were communicating with one another. If it was some form of chemical signaling, I frankly doubted its effectiveness in the maelstrom of odors from the various bodies and innumerable smoke sticks surrounding us.
Maka came right up to the edge of the dais, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Mystic One, you are kindness itself not to remove all hope. But time is short if the happiest of conjunctions is to occur this season for my ship-kin and me. Allow me to send my cargomaster to you with gifts—the merest indication of the treasures you would receive from the grateful Tribes of Drapskii.”
I shook my head impatiently. I needed to talk to Barac, not these creatures. I had to find out which part of my past was intruding into the present. “Send your gifts,” I agreed loftily. “I’ll provide you my final answer in return. Good evening, Captain.”
Then, regretfully, for I truly enjoyed watching this cross-section of the cosmos each night, I put down my cup and brushed my fingers over Barac’s sleeve. I pushed . . .
. . . and gained us the privacy of my rooftop garden.
The storm had ended. The first pair of Pocular’s smallish moons showed through openings in the clouds, casting doubled shadows and distorting silhouettes. It was the part of the lunar cycle when younger children were kept indoors after dark, old superstitions giving parents a practical defense against nightmares. I took a deep breath of fresh, clean night air and prepared to confront my own.
“Now, Barac,” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Glad it’s stopped raining,” he commented instead of answering, as he paced around the rooftop.
“Don’t go close to the edge,” I warned, following him to the near side with its view of the shipcity’s lights.
It was too dark to see his expression, but I detected a shade of patronage in his tone. “Really, Sira. I thought you had a good head for heights. And this is hardly the Cloisters, set on a mountaintop.”
“No?” I said softly, taking my own advice and halting a good two paces away from the rail. “You could be wrong about that, Cousin.”
Barac’s fingertips touched the finely wrought metal. Almost instantly he cursed and yanked back his hand. “You’ve set protections on this building.” He sounded surprised.
“Of course. Do you think for an instant I believed the Council would allow me to leave in peace? I’d rather sleep at night, thank you.” I felt Barac explore the unseen boundary with a tendril of power, knowing what he would find. The Haven was a fortress against our kind. No Clan could send thought or form into this place using the M’hir. And, I smiled to myself, if any tried a more physical approach, they would be in for a similar disappointment.
I switched on the lighting, adequate to let me see his face yet night-soft. Random beams played among the rain-soaked leaves and still-closed evening blossoms, sparkling like gems. I wasn’t the gardener, but I loved the exuberant life here—in its way as novel to me as the hordes of beings beneath our feet. “You can test my protections, Cousin,” I said dryly. “I assure you they are adequate against—” I hesitated, and he pounced cheerfully.
“The rest of us? Don’t worry, Sira. I’ve no intentions of testing them again. I, a humble sud, remain glad you and I are on such good terms.” His fine-boned face was open, freed of the guarded tension it had borne in the tavern, revealing lines of stress and—was I wrong?—what seemed to be the beginnings of hope. “But you asked me why I’m here. I’ve been chasing rumors of the Silver Fox,” Barac confessed willingly. “I was looking for you.”
I sat and waved him to another of the lounge chairs. There were sufficient puddles to make me glad Meragg had insisted on rain-resistant furnishings for this retreat of mine. I raised one brow at the Clansman, refusing to be charmed. “I was never hidden—not to eyes like yours. You waited a long time to visit, Barac. Why now?”
Barac’s smiling face settled into a mask, his voice dropping to the sharp edge of a whisper. “I did as you demanded, back then. You know that, Sira. I gave up my brother Kurr and the search for his true murderer—the name you knew but wouldn’t give me.” He paused, hi
s voice gathering strength, yet oddly without bitterness. “But it wasn’t enough for the Council, Sira—that I stopped my awkward questions. This past month I was to be offered Choice by the daughter of Xer sud Teerac,” an impatient wave silenced my question. “A minor House. They live on Asdershal 3. But it was a good match; assured of success. Then, just before we were to meet, I was refused.”
I winced. I’d known Barac remained unChosen from the moment I’d felt his presence in the Haven—those of the Clan who were incomplete carried their overwhelming need in the M’hir like a flag of warning. There would be pain as well as hurt pride in being refused. “It’s not the end of things, Barac,” I said awkwardly, remembering what had been said to me time and time again. Unhelpful, meaningless words, but all I could offer. “There will be other Choices—”
“Not for me!” Barac snapped, his power flaring so that I narrowed my perception as well as my eyes. “You don’t understand, Sira. It was my third refusal. The last. The Council has no intention of allowing me fulfillment—ever. I—” He bit back what he might have said, then continued heavily, quietly. “When I realized the game they played, I took the only honorable course left to me. I am now exile.” When I didn’t speak, Barac smiled—a thin, hurt expression with none of his usual confidence. “Got room for a warlock, Cousin Witch?”
“You are always welcome,” I said quickly, gesturing respect and commitment. “Curse them all for fools!” This last burst from my lips before I could close them.
Slowly Barac nodded. “Especially one, Sira. No,” he added immediately, reading my sudden stillness correctly. “I can wait until you are ready. I didn’t come to open old wounds, just to be with you for a while, to think things through.” A mischievous grin took years from his face. “Do you know, I’ve even missed your Human—the redoubtable Morgan. How is he? Where is he?” He glanced around the garden as if expecting the Human to appear at any moment.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 2