Captain Makairi hooted, possibly, I thought glumly, still under the influence of whatever intoxicant he’d been using at the Makii House. “They are all jealous. You bear the taste of your Tribe, Sira Morgan of the Makii, as you will throughout your life. They wish they had thought to do ipstsa with you first. But now all Drapsk will acknowledge your place within our Tribe.”
Great, I said to myself, wondering how I’d possibly missed deducing the consequences of ingesting molecules from such an olfactory-oriented species as this one. Still, I was fond of the Makii. If they wanted to claim me, I wasn’t about to argue—even if I could at this point.
The remaining Drapsk in the room appeared to be immobilized by the Makii’s daring. Only Copelup muttered away to himself, back deliberately in my direction. Ignoring the others, I walked over to him and reached out to touch his arm.
“Skeptic Copelup,” I said softly. “You of all beings understand that I didn’t do this in order to slight any Drapsk. The Makii were celebrating and this—just happened. If I had known—”
Copelup gave a small, forlorn-sounding hoot. “Yes, Mystic One. You do tend to precipitate events.” His antennae struggled up into a relaxed, more cheerful position, one I was glad to see the other Drapsk in the room emulate almost at once. “As you have here, you know.”
Ah. “I’ve been very concerned about what happened,” I admitted, sitting beside Copelup on the stool that courteously nudged the back of my legs. “The Makii have not told me anything beyond the fact they—and what looks like the entire city except for those,” I waved my hand around “in this room—are celebrating some victory.” I gripped my knees tightly. “I don’t recall a victory, frankly.”
Levertup had joined us, the remaining Drapsk returning to their work. Captain Makairi had found a seat near the door and was humming to himself contentedly. “To the Tribes as a whole, and to many individuals, you achieved more than we’d dared hope, Mystic One,” the second Skeptic said soberly. “And at a terrible risk to yourself.”
“What have I achieved?” I remembered the linkages I’d formed between Drapskii and the M’hir, and those I’d shattered in my escape. “What do you think I’ve done?”
Levertup raised his arms, spreading his fingers wide, then pulling them back down as if collecting something unseen. Accurate enough, I thought. “Our devices show the reconnection of our world to the Scented Way,” he confirmed unnecessarily. “It is not complete, but it is sufficient to allow the Tribes to once more attain the—” the word he said in Drapsk was too difficult for me to catch entirely. Gripstsa was part of it.
“She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, Levertup,” Copelup interrupted. “You’re being too theoretical again. I keep telling you to stick to the implications, not the details.”
“I’d like either,” I reminded them.
Copelup pursed his round mouth, then went on: “As you’ve observed, within a Tribe is gripstsa, roughly: the changing of place. After the Competition, there was lar-gripstsa, in which members of various Tribes are given the opportunity to join a Tribe in ascendancy if they choose. But at the core of our society, what was lost from us with our magic, is something much more. It is the Joining of Tribes. Now, for the first time in generations, all Tribes can intermingle while remaining true to their own.” He and Levertup sighed deeply in unison. “It is the most wonderful, beautiful thing of being Drapsk, and you have restored it to us.” A short pause. “If temporarily.”
“The threads I broke,” I said with regret, guessing this much. “But I sensed there needed to be only a few more and the rest would connect on their own. I can—” as I spoke, I could hardly believe what I was saying, but I knew it was right “—I can try to finish it.”
“No!” This from more than the Skeptics. The others moved closer, as if to protect me. I’d agitated them all, especially Captain Makairi, who pushed his way to my side and took my wrists in his chubby hands.
Their reaction seemed a bit extreme. “I’d be more careful,” I said soothingly. “I overextended myself, that’s all. I know what to do—”
“No!” from Copelup, who fairly bristled with alarm. “You cannot return to the Scented Way near Drapskii. It will be waiting for you this time.”
I blinked, looking around at the featureless faces. “It?” I repeated numbly, not understanding. “You know? How could you—it was only a hallucination—”
A third, emphatic “No!” from Copelup. “Come here,” he added in a kinder voice, leading me over to a table filled to overflowing with various instruments. He selected one, a tube with a flattened disk midway up its length. The disk was polished and reflective, like an inactive vid screen. “Hold it thus,” a Heerii ordered me, placing my hands so that I held the tube with the disk centered at my eye level.
The tube began to vibrate lightly. That wasn’t why I came close to dropping it. Through the cold, then warming metal, I could sense the M’hir. Not the way I usually did, as an extension of my inner self, but more distantly, as though I observed it through some other’s perception.
The disk remained blank, but images formed behind my eyes, lines of fire and ice, globules of pure energy that pulled themselves along those lines, dark flashes moving almost too quickly to hold in the mind, tearing through the globules yet leaving them unaffected. There were other things, so stomach twistingly strange I found myself without the words to describe them, but recognizing one thing beyond any doubt.
They lived.
INTERLUDE
“You could have brought a steak or two.”
Morgan rubbed the last dampness from his hair in the dry hot air from the fresher and shouted back: “I didn’t plan to stick around that long, thanks.” He stepped out, catching the robe thrown at him with one hand and avoiding the reflex to dodge out of the way. This was, he reminded himself sternly, as safe a place as any on Ret 7.
This safety was primarily due to the thin, wizened Human leaning in the doorway, artificial eyes, Retian-made, blinking as though having trouble with the vapor-laden atmosphere of the bathhouse. Malacan Ser was a powerful being in this place, in part because of his business skills and in part because he was one of those rare individuals who actually liked it here.
Including having a taste for brexk-steak, or liver, or whatever morsel was available. The Retians didn’t allow many to be slaughtered, prizing, it was rumored but not confirmed, the products of living brexks for their tables.
“I only hit one, anyway,” Morgan said, shrugging the robe over his shoulders and wincing slightly as the movement pulled muscles already sore enough for one day. The mudcrawler had just clipped the head of the incensed bull brexk—a freakish, split-second collision during which Morgan had fervently wished—not for the first time—that he’d reached the point in Sira’s teachings where he could move himself through the M’hir.
But all was well, if not for the brexk, which had dropped beak-first into the muddy water as though shot, occasioning a reflex milling by the grieving herd which had in turn provided Morgan with a most effective barrier against pursuit. He’d settled the now-dented mudcrawler into a lawful pace and there had been no further interruptions until reaching Jershi. He’d even found a groundcar to take him to Malacan’s right away, the Retian driver delighted to convey a passenger who’d been up close and personal with Ret 7’s mud.
“Well, if you couldn’t bring a steak,” Malacan said in his precise, dry voice, “you did solve one problem for me.”
Morgan felt himself brought on guard by something in his host’s voice. He covered the reaction by tying the belt around the robe and tossing his mud-soaked coveralls into the fresher. His other belongings, including some interesting items from Plexis, were safely dry in their bags.
“And what small problem might that be, Malacan?” Morgan carried the rest of his things with him as he followed Malacan into the other room, stepping on a layer of rugs easily ten thick at this end. Being Retian in design, the underlying floor was deliberately un
even. Being Retian-owned, the building couldn’t be modified in any way. The leveling of the floor with rugs was one of several ingenious compromises Malacan had devised to keep both himself and his landlord happy. To each his own. Morgan, looking around at the plas-coated and windowless mud walls, found himself missing the clean, crisp lines of the Fox.
“Have a seat,” his host urged, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. There was a squeaking sound as he did so that Morgan knew not to remark on—the adjustment points on Malacan’s artificial leg were inclined to complain of the dampness. It was a common occurrence with most offworld mechanics.
At the thought, Morgan tugged a long, sealed container from a bag as he joined Malacan on the carpet. “I did remember your order for more synth tubing,” he said. “Though if you keep using up the stuff, Bowman will think you’re running a still in the basement again.” One of the difficulties of being an agent for the Enforcers was a certain restriction in one’s allowed commerce. Malacan frequently complained, to no avail, that he should be allowed to conduct his business—all his business—without interference as long as it didn’t break Trade Pact laws. Bowman had, characteristically, insisted that if she caught him breaking any law, local or otherwise, she’d arrange for an extremely rapid and unpleasant transfer.
“The Chief knows about my mold problem,” the older Human said primly. His eyes, normal enough until their flat surfaces reflected at just the right angle, focused on Morgan.
“So. What other problem did my coming solve for you?” Morgan ignored the dark inner voice reminding him why he shouldn’t trust anyone to the point of sitting unarmed and relaxed.
“Why, finding you, my dear Jason,” Malacan answered. “Bowman’s been firing up comlinks throughout the quadrant. There was even a hint you’d been, well, kidnapped or disposed of. Most regrettable. I’m quite relieved to see you here and whole.”
“Really,” Morgan said, with a deliberate shade of boredom to his voice. “Well, you know how rumors spread.”
“Yes, I know.” Malacan Ser, the sole individual on Ret 7 Morgan even remotely trusted, reached into an oversized pocket to pull out a highly illegal and very menacing-looking nerve dis rupter. As Morgan stared into the weapon’s ugly muzzle, his host added pleasantly: “Then again, why don’t we make this one come true?”
Chapter 33
I DROPPED the tube and covered my eyes. “A trick!” I heard someone shout in utter repudiation, then recognized the voice as mine.
A breath in my ear. “We would not trick you, Mystic One. What you saw was real.”
“No!” I said, pressing my lips shut over what could have been a sob, my sense of the M’hir closed so tightly I might have been Human again. This was impossible. These creatures were trying to destroy everything I knew to be true. They had brought me here to ruin me.
Warm feathers tickled my throat and ears. “Would you like to sit, Mystic One?” a soft, troubled voice asked.
Others called out various suggestions: “Get her something to drink!” “Call the meds.” “Does she need gripstsa?” “Copelup, this is all your doing!”
At the angry condemnation in this last voice, I opened my eyes, spilling tears to run cold over my heated cheeks. “It’s not his fault,” I said faintly, groping for and finding the stool someone had produced behind me.
A small, oddly-shaped hand curved itself to fit comfortingly in mine. “We thought you knew the Scented Way had life of its own, Mystic One. Please forgive us.”
A sigh dragged itself from the very bottom of my lungs. “There is nothing to forgive, dear Drapsk. Unless it is three generations of appalling ignorance. My people have existed as part of your Scented Way without ever suspecting this truth you’ve shown me. We thought it was ours; perhaps even something our power produced.” I felt my lips twitch at the quickly silenced hoot this elicited from someone safely distant in my audience, but couldn’t smile. Not with the shattering of all I’d believed echoing through my thoughts at every level.
There was worse. I stared in my mind’s eye at the memory of being held, being sucked empty in the M’hir, and understood at last it had been real. “What—what attacked me when I tried to reconnect Drapskii?”
Levertup rocked back and forth beside me. “We haven’t seen such a thing before, Mystic One. Not one so large or so strong. It is possible the power you used summoned it.”
“Yes,” Copelup agreed. “There is an attraction between the Scented Way and this existence.” One chubby hand waved around the room. “At least some of the entities there are able to—gain nourishment from such intrusions.”
I pulled out the box containing the tiny vial of brown powder. “This isn’t dirt, is it,” I said.
“We trapped something, or a piece of something, during one of our many attempts to try and reconnect Drapskii on our own. When it entered this existence, it became as you see it, dust. But it was our first proof of the physical nature of the Scented Way. A nature others,” Levertup dipped an antennae negligently at Copelup, “were slow to accept.”
“Evidence,” Copelup muttered to himself. “There needs to be evidence.”
I considered the tiny vial. With my thumb, I triggered the release, the powder cascading over the lip of the opening to puddle in my palm. I didn’t look at the Drapsk, but I could hear enough tentacle sucking to know they were observing me anxiously.
I tilted my hand, watching the M’hir dust slide around. It stayed with itself, not sticking to the dampness of my skin or filling the lines of my palm. It reminded me of the raindrop with its tiny imprisoned fish. I concentrated and pushed . . .
The powder was gone. I didn’t linger in the M’hir more than the flash needed to send it, having developed a certain repugnance for some of my neighbors. But I imagined I saw a streak of something pale and glistening, sliding away into a fold of darkness as a fish into a pond.
The act, probably meaningless to the dust and as likely very upsetting to the Drapsk, was important to me. It restored an inner balance I’d lost with the Drapsk’s revelation about the nature of the M’hir. It might be filled with life—of what sort I still couldn’t imagine—but I could affect it. I remained in control of my own destiny within it.
As long as I was careful.
The Drapsk were not, as I’d feared, upset. They were puzzled. “You realize there is no other sample, Mystic One,” Levertup said in a tentative voice. “Should you wish to repeat this, ah, experimental procedure, we could not supply you with more. We have been unable to duplicate the occurrence.”
“I don’t need to repeat it,” I said, brushing imaginary dust from my hands before standing. “What I need now is to go.”
Antennae drooped, but not to shoulders. My announcement wasn’t a surprise, then.
I smiled at them, feeling much younger than my years or responsibilities.
“Perhaps you’d like to come?” I asked.
There was more to it than that, of course. As the Drapsk debated and discussed, I excused myself from most of it, content to go with Captain Makairi back to the Makmora—a ship which not only felt like home after my time on Drapskii, but which I discovered was mine, in a sense.
“Explain this to me again, Captain,” I asked one more time, just to be sure I understood.
“You are now marked as Makii,” the Drapsk repeated happily, as if he enjoyed every bit of the explanation. The rest of the bridge crew seemed equally entranced, blatantly ignoring their stations to come up in turn to pat me lightly and sometimes stroke their plume tips over my skin. “The Makmora is the flagship of the Makii trading fleet. We take her to new markets, to explore new opportunities, to—”
“To find magic?” I suggested.
Maka, standing behind the Captain, gave a brief hoot. Captain Makairi ignored him. “Just so. You are our Mystic One as well as Makii. It is our duty and delight to take the Makmora on whatever path you choose for us.”
I made myself think the matter through objectively, as Morgan would have me do.
I’d hoped my invitation would have been accepted by Copelup and a couple of Makii. They could have brought their instruments and helped me convince Barac, and then possibly others. A small start in correcting the way the Clan viewed the M’hir, but a vital one. Deep in my thoughts, suspicions were taking root and growing: suspicions about the real reason so many Clan had dissolved in the M’hir. It could be mistakes: flaws in judgment or technique. It could be our nature. Or it could be something else. And, worse, why did the remaining member of a Chosen pair go mad at the instant of the partner’s death? These were questions that had to be answered.
That was only part of my reasoning. The rest concerned Drapskii itself. If the world was to be fully reconnected, something I knew the Drapsk devoutly wished, it might be safest if done by more than one Clan at a time. I couldn’t at the moment conceive of an argument or threat which could persuade any Clan I knew. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try.
But this, this immense ship at my command? This was far more than I’d ever expected from the Drapsk. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was Makii and Tribe was everything. A refreshing change from the Clan way of thinking.
At a rough estimate, the Makmora was crewed by over 400 Drapsk, all biochemically certain of my identity and right to be here. The reputation of the Drapsk as taking care of their own was well-known and well-deserved. I already knew this ship and crew were capable of controlling a pirate and keeping me, the so-called most powerful member of the Clan, thoroughly harmless.
“The Skeptic and his equipment are on board, Captain,” one of the crew called out, plumes stirred by a downdraft from the com system.
“We’re ready to call the tug and prepare to lift, Mystic One,” Captain Makairi said proudly. “Do you have a course for us?”
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 26