“The credit limit for the Auordian Ambassador, Lord Warlock?” Hastho’tha’s oily voice intruded. A pause, then an impatient cough. “Lord?”
Barac’s attention snapped back to his head server. “Double what she’s asking,” he said, ignoring the bewilderment on the Poculan’s thick features. “After she gives you the access codes to her yacht for safekeeping.” Had Barac cared in the slightest about the opinions of his staff, the sudden respect in the look he was given would have been gratifying.
Bah. It was nothing but observation. A Human could do as well. There was no need to touch M’hir and sample the thoughts of the old Auordian hag to know she was a compulsive gambler. Sufficient luck beads for twenty of her kind, jeweled to be sure, were braided in her mane of red hair. And she’d bragged enough about the yacht to him during the tedious ritual Hastho’tha had insisted he join, that of dining with the high rollers in the more luxurious private room.
Barac turned so he could hook one long leg over the arm of Sira’s black throne. It was comfortable, despite its appearance of being carved from some stone. He appreciated the humor of the deception. The deception she’d used to smudge her own appearance in the minds of the Haven’s clientele was something else again. Barac acknowledged without bitterness that such a use of power was well beyond his own Talent. He glanced around the sea of heads and other cranial arrangements bobbing through the seemingly permanent eye-level smoke in the Haven’s main room. They hadn’t deserved her notice anyway, he concluded, closing his own eyes briefly. They certainly didn’t deserve his.
“Lord Warlock?”
“Go away.”
A shiver of pressure in the M’hir startled Barac’s eyes open and pulled him out of his slouch. Rael floated in front of him—image only, he knew in the next instant. He ignored the exclamations from those patrons sober enough to notice. Something was wrong. Rael was supposed to be with Sira and Morgan. He’d been glad enough to relay Morgan’s warning to his more powerful cousin, not in the mood to jump to the Human’s call—or to help Sira while his head still throbbed from her lawless violation of his most intimate thoughts.
Rael’s eyes were the sharpest part of her image. They drilled into him now, their expression haunted. Barac felt some of his anger fade, replaced by something closer to fear. She chose not to speak out loud. Is Sira—or the Human—with you?
Puzzled, Barac shook his head. Why?
Sira was attacked, the words cut into his mind, the M’hir crystal-edged with anger. She was—damaged. I thought she might go to you.
Barac’s first reaction was disbelief. Who could harm her?
The image shifted as Rael, wherever she really was, appeared to sit in midair, resulting in a flurry of activity in front of the dais as even more customers stopped gambling to watch the apparition, some dropping drinks in the process. Sira is not invulnerable, no matter what a sud thinks, her mind touch chastised him. At least she lives. They used weapons, the cover of darkness—it was premeditated, formidable.
If they used weapons, where was Morgan? Barac sent back, quite certain of the Human’s own formidable ability with such technology. The Haven’s defenses were convincing—the elevator alone was capable of turning unauthorized visitors to ash. He resisted a sudden feeling of guilt. It hardly mattered that he’d been the cause of Sira’s leaving this stronghold; Morgan was her defender. And, Barac reminded himself, there was no doubt of Morgan’s unfortunate and bizarre attachment to the firstborn daughter of the House of di Sarc.
You think so highly of her Human? Rael’s dark eyes clouded, but she kept her emotions out of the M’hir between them. Most of them, anyway. Barac tightened his own defenses at the taste of her disgust. His role in this is suspect, Barac. If he wasn’t in collusion with the attackers, he certainly wasn’t protecting Sira. Drunk and brawling with a primitive. At least he was able to pull himself together and find her. Sira—a sudden distancing of their contact, as though Rael thought more to herself than to him—Sira’s belief in this alien is as stubborn as ever.
But you don’t know where Sira is now?
I don’t know where either of them are—
Barac lifted his hand to interrupt his cousin.
I seem to have found Morgan, he sent, peering past both the illusion of Rael’s form and the fascinated crowd to the disturbance spilling in through the main door of the Spacer’s Haven.
Chapter 12
THEY’D won. So far.
I conceded the Drapsk their temporary victory as I shivered under the blankets they had thoughtfully piled on me: brand-new and very expensive issa-silk blankets stubbornly holding the chill from storage in the Makmora’s hold. Stubborn as the Drapsk themselves.
For such polite little beings, they were becoming an astound ingly large obstacle in my plans. Without the strength to ’port, I couldn’t leave on my own. Worse, since my second several-hour bout in the cocoon, the Makmora had traveled who knew how far from any place I could locate through the M’hir.
This led to an unpleasant scenario, one I considered from several viewpoints as I eased my still-sore body under the covers and tried to rest. To use the M’hir to leave the ship, I needed a locate, a remembered destination. While travel through the M’hir sidestepped normal space, much like a tailor’s needle could pass almost instantly through vast amounts of fabric, there was the problem of subjective time. I had the power to remain in the M’hir longer than most, if not all, of the Clan. That didn’t mean my time was limitless. I’d already come too close to dissolving in the M’hir. Legend held that what was left became a ghost, a tastable consciousness to haunt any who traveled in that space. I didn’t intend to be so flimsy a threat to my enemies.
Not knowing where I was meant not knowing the types of distances I’d need to travel through the M’hir. So I was trapped on the Makmora until I found out where we were and thus where I could go.
Or until we reached the Drapsk homeworld, where I might wind up discovering firsthand what their Ceremony was all about. Finally warm, and certainly drowsy, I admitted to some curiosity. The standoff on the bridge had only ended when I agreed my imminent danger of collapse was a more pressing issue than our destination. This capitulation didn’t affect the rolled-up members of the crew; they were gently nudged to one side as though their comatose state might last a while—something that was apparently my fault.
Their obsession with me was no whim or trader’s ploy. Even Maka had been close to what passed for hysteria in his species when I continued to resist their plans. Yet, as far as I could judge, they didn’t seem to be any threat to me. A perplexing and frustrating complication, yes, but nothing worse.
What did they want from me? I nudged the thought away. I had other priorities than the affairs of the Makii Drapsk.
“All I want is for you to be pleased, I assure you, O Mystic One. This is the traditional garb for Contestants of the Makii Drapsk,” this particular Drapsk, Makeest, sputtered anxiously, this largely due to the tendency of his tentacles to remain inside his mouth. I’d never seen a Drapsk try to speak around them before and, while interesting to observe, it did cause an inordinate amount of drooling. “Perhaps I failed to render the words properly? Is that what displeases you?”
“It’s not the words, Makeest,” I assured the anxious tailor. “I just don’t see the need for you to prepare this—garment. I’ve told your Captain: I cannot participate in your Ceremony—” I wasn’t sure whether to shout in frustration or burst out laughing. I did notice the combination of emotions was becoming very common around the Drapsk.
“What’s wrong here?” said two voices at once, a note shy of harmony. “Have you offended the Mystic One, Makeest?”
“No, no,” I assured the new arrivals: the Captain and his first officer Makoisa by the ribbonlike tags on their tool belts. I was becoming guilt ridden by the effort the Drapsk were willing to make to accommodate my every wish, whether I expressed one or not. The belts, complete with tags inscribed in glowing Comscript, had app
eared on every Drapsk within an hour of my mistaking one of the deck crew for the med.
“There must be something that has offended you,” Captain Maka insisted, antennae at the alert and his chubby four-fingered hands working the air as if in search of a foe. The three of them began rocking back and forth in perfect unison. I kept from smiling by an incredible act of will.
“This isn’t exactly what I’m used to wearing,” I temporized, feeling like a coward but quite sure I didn’t want to start another unproductive round of Drapsk upset. In emphasis, I shoved my hands into the nicely convenient pockets of my spacer-blue coveralls. The color was right, but it seemed my fate to find castoffs from giants. I hadn’t quizzed the Drapsk on where they’d found clothing for me in their spacious holds. Likely some poor Human was going to find his or her luggage had jumped ship in the wrong direction.
My kindness was for naught. All the tentacles were sucked into their adjoining mouths simultaneously. And stayed there.
Oh, dear, I thought, relenting. I picked up the dress, a filmy, almost translucent creation patterned along its considerable length in black over red, doing my best to avoid the mirrors cunningly set in the bodice as if to catch an admirer in the act. Not exactly what I would have imagined as a Drapsk item of apparel. Then again, I’d never actually seen any.
The one feature I did like was on the upper left shoulder. Makeest had lovingly reproduced my name in fine irragold thread. My true name, as the Drapsk would say. Sira Morgan.
“I suppose I could try it on,” I said. Antennae perked up. “That doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to anything.” I tried to ignore how three sets of purple plumes dipped toward the deck.
The general air of bustling activity throughout the Makmora was evidence that the unusual gown wasn’t the only preparation underway for my supposed appearance at the Drapsk ceremony, despite my continued objections. I closed the door to my cabin—one having been welded complete with frame and lock into the corridor wall after I’d shivered in a draft—and continued to wonder uneasily about my future with the seemingly harmless Drapsk.
They were not forthcoming about what I was to do or expect, repeatedly answering most questions with a maddening and unhelpful: “This knowledge could affect your performance, O Mystic One.”
My performance in what? I sat down on my bed, bringing up my knees and hugging them to my chest. My hair, strangely limp if well behaved since that night on Pocular, slid down over one eye as I thought.
That night. I hadn’t reacted at all well, I decided with a shudder. I should have kept Morgan with me. He would have questioned the villagers, including Withren. He might have used the devices from the Fox to look for clues about the type of weapon used against us. I could have had him with me as I healed.
I hugged my knees even tighter. Given what was happening between us, I could also have easily lost all sense on the spot, wounds or no wounds. My body warmed with treacherous heat just at the memory. There was no doubt in my mind that our physical union could trigger Joining through the M’hir. All it would take would be my loss of control, something Morgan’s touch apparently guaranteed.
Well, I didn’t have to worry about that at the moment, I thought with disgust, since I had no idea where he was or into what peril I’d sent him.
Of course, I didn’t know where I was, either. Or where I was going. The Drapsk homeworld, Drapskii as they referred to it when they didn’t call it simply Home, was the fourth planet from their sun and the most beautiful world in the known universe. That was the extent of my hosts’ volunteered information.
I gave the soft cylinder the Drapsk euphemistically called a pillow a sincere and forceful punch. One thing I did know. I wasn’t about to be swayed from my own purpose, no matter how desperate, charming, or difficult my hosts became.
INTERLUDE
“What now? You’re going to break my nose, too?” While Barac’s voice sounded skeptical, he looked poised to disappear at an instant’s notice.
Morgan winced, a movement sparking pain from several abused muscle groups. Premick likely felt the same. “That—was an accident.”
“Your fist. Hastho’tha’s admittedly ugly face. An accident?”
As the Human couldn’t remember much from the moments immediately following his arrival at the Haven, he shrugged. Let the Clansman make what he would of the gesture. “I wasn’t in a patient frame of mind,” Morgan admitted, feeling hardly less impatient now. But he was after information, not another fight. Though the readiness of the bar’s clientele to return shove for push had been remarkably easy to share.
His blue eyes glinted. “Has Rael told you what happened?”
“To Sira?” Barac asked. “No. No details anyway. You’d been fighting there, too?” the Clansman raised an elegant eyebrow. Morgan shrugged again. It would be several more days, unless he went comatose in the Fox’s med cocoon, before the marks of his battle with Premick faded. Add to that the fresh cut above his left eye, courtesy of the Haven’s bartender. “Rael just said there’d been an attack and Sira was injured. How is she?”
Sira’s name coursed through Morgan’s veins like some hype drug, rousing anger until he barely kept it from edging his voice. Odd how hard it was to picture her face or remember the color of her hair—only the feel of her rage came easily. “I don’t know. She’s recovering at the village. What did Rael say?”
“But—” the Clansman shut his lips over what he’d planned to say.
Morgan took a quick step forward, hands clenching. They were alone in Sira’s—now Barac’s—office; the Clansman had pushed them both there once it was plain the Haven would be the scene of an all-out war, at least until the combatants sobered up enough to realize they had no idea why they were fighting.
Morgan read what he needed to know in Barac’s eyes. “Sira’s left Pocular,” he stated.
Barac nodded. “Rael believes so. She felt Sira enter the M’hir from the village but couldn’t follow her.” The Clansman appeared to hesitate. “Rael said it was an incredibly long ‘port—one she didn’t dare attempt.”
Sira had sent him after her enemies. And now she was gone, breaking her promise to him before she could conceivably have healed enough to move safely on her own. He couldn’t search for her without lowering his defenses against the Clan, including the slender being waiting for him to speak.
It was too late to pretend he’d known she’d leave. Barac, more experienced with Humans than most of his kind, had seen enough of his reaction. “Where did she go? Did she leave any word?” Morgan asked numbly.
Barac’s eyes lowered, as if the Clansman saw something in the Human’s face he couldn’t bear to watch. “No.” Silent for a moment, Barac walked over to a side panel, opening it to reveal a small bottle flanked by two glasses. It was Sira’s favorite—a gift of Brillian Brandy from a mutual friend. “We could both use this,” the Clansman said apologetically, pouring a generous amount of the rare liquor into each glass. “Here. And do you mind sitting before you fall down?” He squinted at Morgan. “How long since you’ve slept?”
Morgan ignored the question and accepted the drink; following Barac’s example, he sank into one of the chairs Sira kept near her shelves. He stared up at them, wordlessly, only now noticing they were bare. She’d taken the time to pack her collection of bits and pieces, but he knew what should be there: shells and sand from her first walk on a beach, the first gambling chits she’d won at the Haven’s tables—on her way to winning the business from the previous unlamented owner of the place—a series of vistapes on hold stowage that rightly should have stayed on the Fox but he hadn’t the heart to insist, and other things. Nothing valuable, except as markers to a life expanded beyond all expectations, a life and individuality she’d earned.
A life he would give his own to protect. “It was the Clan,” Morgan said slowly, taking a sip of brandy, feeling its soothing burn trickling into the depths of his throat.
“The Council?” Barac shot back.
Morg
an shrugged, wincing as the movement jarred his bruised shoulder. “I don’t have a name—yet. Or proof. But I don’t doubt it. Unless you know of anyone else interested in harvesting the reproductive organs of your cousin?”
The blood drained out of Barac’s face, leaving red blotches on each high cheekbone. His voice was a whisper. “What—what did you say?”
The Human reached out and lightly traced two straight lines against the issa-silk of Barac’s evening jacket. “Unless you’ve something else there I don’t know about,” he said grimly. “They’d sealed the wounds with medplas—nice of them—then dumped her in the wilds where I don’t think anyone else could have found her in time. So I’d say we’re dealing with at least one individual who was squeamish about blood in the aircar, or compulsively tidy about their surgery.”
“Baltir.”
The last thing he’d expected was a name. Morgan felt the room spinning and focused hard on the Clansman’s pale features. “Who?” he demanded hoarsely. “Who did you say?”
“It’s a guess—but I’d bet on it. Sira didn’t—no matter, I’ll show him to you.” Barac raised his hand as if to place it on Morgan’s forehead, then hesitated. “If you wish.”
“If you dare,” the Human said softly, owing Barac the warning. He couldn’t be sure of his own control anymore, or what might trigger the bottomless rage he carried.
He also knew—and Barac’s sudden swallow as their eyes met and locked confirmed the Clansman’s understanding—that he was after more than what Sira had asked. Recover what was stolen?
After he’d dealt with the thief.
Morgan watched the green flashing light on the com panel, debating whether to accept the link. It should be Pocular’s Port Authority, giving him clearance to lift and the schedule for the docking tug to carry the Fox to the launch area, safely distant from the other ships on the ground and their valuable cargoes.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 11