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.”
INTERLUDE
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.
A typical summer day on the northern half of Ret 7. Morgan had made sure the Fox was sealed tight. The atmosphere was significantly corrosive to metals even in the drier winter months.
His multi-terrain vehicle, complete with hired driver, waited ahead, bobbing slightly as though to prove there was real water beneath the layer of flattened reed grass passing for a shoreline. More of the open craft dotted the flat landscape as far as the dim light permitted one to see, cutting swathes of mud and water in every direction. Easy to see why they were better known as mudcrawlers.
Or can-of-toads, if one were so inclined, Morgan thought uncharitably. He’d traded with Retians for years, finding them profitable clients, if predictably cheap when they could get away with it—a trait which also encouraged a willingness to deal with small independents such as himself. They were at the same time more prejudiced against non-Retians than any offworlder could possibly be in return. Fortunately, this was a bias they rarely bothered to exhibit, feeling it sufficient to bar those not born here from any ownership of land or other property. To each their own. Very few had shown an interest in living on this mudball as it was.
Huido, for one, hated the place, Morgan reflected, grabbing the moisture-slicked handle to pull himself and his bags on board. Which was logical in a being whose idea of paradise involved rock, salt spray, females, and cold beer.
“Destination, Hom Captain?” The driver’s Comspeak was flawless, a valuable commodity around a shipcity. Morgan glanced back over his shoulder. Shipcity? On Ret 7, it was a strip of pavement to keep the ships out of the mud and little more.
“Jershi. Malacan’s Fine Exports,” the Human said, moving toward the back of the long, almost rectangular mudcrawler. It wasn’t so much the potent odor of native Retian—traders learned early to ignore, or endure, differing biological realities as much as possible—as it was experience. Morgan propped himself as close to the bulky rear-mounted engine as he could manage, pulling out a large square of water-repellent plas and wrapping it around himself and his bags.
The driver watched with interest, one eye blinking, then the other, lips a wavy line of blue. The color was startling against the mud gray of wrinkled skin. There was a very long and not very polite joke about the difficulties experienced by Retians attempting to find one another in their natural habitat.
Morgan tucked himself within his wrapping as the driver, satisfied his passenger was settled, released the holds anchoring them to whatever might be solid beneath the surface. The mudcrawler pulled away from the shore and headed into the marsh itself. The sound of the engine was almost deafening, but he was out of most of the spray. The Retians didn’t believe in shields, having nictitating membranes over their protruding eyes and relishing the feel of their damp environment on their skin. It wreaked havoc with off-world
tech, but that only increased the frequency of trade.
Morgan wasn’t interested in trade this trip, though he’d been careful to post a small list of reasonable cargo. No sense alerting Port Authority that the Fox was here on personal business. Information entering the official channels was as hot a commodity here as any other goods.
No, Morgan thought grimly, no sense making himself obvious, especially when his business involved one Retian in particular.
Chapter 28
I’D sought out the Drapsk for my own ends: a means to flee the complication of Rael’s arrival; later, a place to heal. I hadn’t thought at all about what my coming meant to the Drapsk. Had I done so, I realized with a sickening, familiar guilt, I doubt I’d have cared. I’d used the little aliens as willingly and carelessly as I had Morgan.
Sira Morgan was fully in charge of my emotions and responses now, events of the past days having finally overwhelmed what remained of Sira di Sarc’s Clannish self-absorption. Or maybe, to be kinder to that other half of myself, my inner selves had at last found common ground. The Drapsk had a problem achingly similar to my own.
And here I sat, as I had for what seemed hours, listening to a chorus of Drapsk debate what I could do about it.
“There is no alternative but to use the 59C-3 interspanner we developed as part of the measuring process before going too far,” the two turquoise Drapsk said together. They were Doakii, a Tribe relatively rare in this city I’d been informed, but dominant in the southern hemisphere due to a streak of inspired luck providing the winning Contestant there several Festivals in a row. The two of them seemed most comfortable speaking in unison and sat with the tips of their plumes in contact. I wondered, but didn’t dare ask, if this was affection or a way of passing private messages.
There were also three Skeptics present in the group surrounding me, all inclined to stand and pace when the discussion—as now—sank into technicalities, presenting me with the unanticipated problem of repeatedly losing track of which individual was Copelup.
We were in the same building where I’d slept, in a large, almost round room shaped and furnished as a miniature replica of the amphitheater from the night before. I had the seat of honor, or at a minimum was the focus, having been urged into the center of the space beneath the two ringlike rows of Drapsk.
It didn’t seem to be a government meeting. Orange Drapsk, who I assumed must own the restaurant and catering business in the city, scurried about politely offering various delicacies and beverages. I’d declined all so far, too nervous and too much the center of attention to want to fight my way through a flaky pastry or deal with sticky foam.
It didn’t have the happy expectation of last night either. These Drapsk sat quietly on their stools unless expressing an opinion or offering an idea. There were thirty in total, a group comprised, another detail from Copelup’s typically patchy briefing, of members from each of the currently viable Tribes on Drapskii. I didn’t know what constituted a nonviable Tribe and again, didn’t dare ask.
They’d stated in the beginning, when I first walked hesitantly into the room with Copelup and Captain Makairi, that all conversation would be in Comspeak. The Scented Way was not to be deliberately invoked, a courtesy I appreciated, though one I couldn’t confirm for myself anyway.
These, then, were the Drapsk who could tell me about the dust, though they hadn’t chosen to as yet. I could feel the box in the side pocket of my coveralls where I’d slipped it for safekeeping, Copelup having a mild fit at the idea I might leave it behind in the room.
“This talk of spanners, sensors, and other gadgetry is pointless if she can’t do it!”
I snapped to attention, my mind having drifted free from the occasionally raucous debates that ensued over the oddest-sounding things. I certainly agreed with the owner of that indignant voice, one of five Niakii sitting companionably with the Makii’s four representatives. Some of the latter, I thought idly, could well have been white-plumed Niakii themselves before betting on the Great Bendini. It was an interesting system, to say the least.
“What does the Mystic One say?”
I could hear someone’s impatient tapping in the expectant silence following this helpful suggestion from the Makii.
“I,” I coughed and started again, wondering how I could stand in front of the powerful Clan Council and feel less nervous. “I should probably just give it a try. Whatever it is.”
Even the tapping stopped.
I rose to my feet, firming up my voice. “I’ve come here because I’m willing to attempt your Contest.” I paused and turned to look them all in the, well, in the mouth. “It sounds as though you don’t know what to expect either. How can I promise what may be impossible? But I’ll try. If—” I paused again. “If you promise me that no matter what happens, I can leave Drapskii tomorrow.”
Despite their earlier assurances, enough plumes began waving after this ultimatum to generate a small battle of breezes flowing past my face. Tentacles disappeared then reappeared in rapid succession, making each Drapsk face seem like a miniature vid screen with flickering images.
I sat back down. This could take a while.
INTERLUDE
“You’re not serious,” Barac demanded, feeling queasy not only because he couldn’t help trying to meet the gaze of several dozen whirling eyes.
Huido clicked disagreement. “It solves the disposal question.”
“No,” the Clansman said, shaking his head for emphasis. Ideal to have pushed the body into the M’hir—it was what the Clan preferred to do with their dead anyway. Unfortunately, being only sud, he couldn’t push a scrap of plas through without borrowing strength.
But the Carasian’s solution, if sincere and not just the being’s way of baiting him, was equally impossible. “You can’t add him to the menu,” Barac repeated firmly.
Four arms lifted and dropped in an impressive and noisy shrug. “He can’t stay in the freezer,” Huido argued reasonably. “There’s no room. And the mess upsets my staff.”
They hadn’t made any progress in other, far more important issues either, such as how and why Larimar di Sawnda’at had ended his life as part of the Claws & Jaws’ provisions. As for who had made that decision for him, well, they’d avoided any discussion of that detail. Both of them knew very well who wore concealed force blades as a matter of course. And both were aware of Jason Morgan’s present disposition toward the Clan, even if Barac, for one, hadn’t expected anything quite so brutal as this, so soon. This was a conclusion the Clansman knew better than to express to the devoted and easily angered Carasian.
“Maybe we can slip him out in the waste stream,” Barac offered.
Neither of them had mentioned contacting Station security or the Enforcers. Barac had his reasons, primary among them being a deep-seated reluctance to involve non-Clan in what was definitely a Clan matter. This was more than his training as a Scout: it was self-preservation. The Council would take a very dim and likely hostile view of his exposing the Clan’s internal business.
Of course, there was the peculiar difficulty of how the Clan, particularly the Council, would treat the death of a Clansman already declared dead. For Larimar di Sawnda’at was one of those reportedly lost years ago in the explosion of the liner Destarian, along with Yihtor di Caraat. The last time Barac had seen Larimar alive, he had been on the jungle world of Acranam, hiding with others of his kind and beliefs in Yihtor’s enclave to escape the Council’s tight-fisted rule. That Yihtor planned to start his own Clan empire from this humble beginning was, from what Barac knew of Larimar’s ambition, probably a bonus.
So what was one of Acranam’s rebels doing on Plexis, in Huido’s freezer? He’d been following Morgan. Why? Barac didn’t believe for an instant that Larimar had come to ask Morgan to convince Sira di Sarc to enter the struggle to rule the Clan Council. What would he, or whomever he represented, hope to gain? Every Clan knew Sira cared nothing for her own kind and less than nothing for the Council. She had, Barac knew
, every right to feel so.
More likely Larimar had hoped to find Sira for some end of his own. If he had, Barac thought with a certain grim satisfaction, it would explain the Clansman’s current state.
“This is Plexis, Clansman. The waste stream is monitored,” Huido continued his argument. “That method has been tried too often. I still say my way is best.”
The Carasian, Barac knew, had only one simple motivation for finding a secure way to dispose of the inconvenient corpse, one that had nothing to do with politics or the nerves of his staff.
Huido would do anything necessary to protect his blood brother, Morgan, from any threat at all. Including hard questions from Station Authority.
Even if Morgan did—as Barac believed—dump a body in Huido’s kitchen, undocking the Silver Fox late last night—that much was on record—and leaving without a word of warning or explanation. It was, Barac thought, a measure of their relationship that Huido accepted this without any of his characteristic temper.
The Clansman sighed. Whether Morgan was guilty or not, they had a more immediate problem.
“If we do it your way,” he said reluctantly, fighting the rising gorge from his own stomach and vowing never again to eat at the Claws & Jaws, “I want your promise Larimar won’t end up on the humanoid side of the menu.”
Chapter 29
HELD up to the daylight coming in through the window—a rare feature in Drapsk architecture—the powder was a leatherlike brown, with brighter, almost golden specks within it. Dirt, I’d have thought, if I hadn’t been told otherwise. But the reality was so daunting, I found myself asking for the third time:
“This came from the M’hir?”
“Yes,” Levertup said proudly. “From the Scented Way; what you call the M’hir. It has, as you can see, physical substance.” He was senior among the Skeptics, distinguishable only in that his was the voice trying to convince me of this, among other unbelievable ideas. The others sat quietly, plumes nodding occasionally as if in agreement.
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