The road I chose climbed steadily, its surface becoming firmer and drier as it rose above the wetlands girdling Jershi and the “so-called” shipcity. The vegetation, sparse as it was, changed at the same time, from endless vistas of reed grass, bent by yesterday’s winds, to scattered desperate shrubs. There were no settlements here. I suspected the Retians were partly amphibious. Certainly, they preferred to locate their cities and businesses in the center of marshes—the wetter the better. It was a speculation impossible to verify: Questions about life cycle details of other species were impolite at best, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know more about Retians anyway.
These cooler, relatively drier uplands were more to my taste. They also happened to be the only location where the Retians could employ their imported technology with any reliability. I was heading for the oldest and largest of these installations, one which housed a mammoth data storage unit maintained by the religious caste. Data storage was essential to Retian religion, Morgan had explained, because every ritual required knowing each individual’s degree of relatedness to every other living (or dead) Retian. This knowledge determined the right to own land, among other privileges. It was a system rumored to have baffled the computer techs assigned to prepare the installation. Since the priesthood controlled the sale of land, the system neatly precluded immigration, in the unlikely instance that a non-Retian would desire to settle here. Certainly I had no ambitions in that direction.
I turned a corner and the massive building lay below me, its gray-and-brown stone blending at the edges into the native rock walls of the valley. Its relatively dry location was probably unintended by its original builders. There were abundant signs that this hollow had once been as waterlogged as Jershi itself, planet centuries ago. I pulled the groundcar up to a large, unornamented door.
The air was hushed, oppressively humid; the afternoon rains were close. I stopped where Morgan had parked yesterday, the engine of the groundcar sighing as if relieved.
Yesterday, the instant we had arrived, curious junior priests had thronged around us, bustling and eager to see if we carried the parts needed for their holy machine. I’d found them repulsive, with their loose skin and pawing hands, and kept close to the transport while Morgan was inside, discussing trade with their superiors.
I couldn’t see any natives now, and my heart beat faster.
I reached into the carryroll on the passenger seat. By feel, I checked the location of the package sealer, a somewhat unconventional weapon, but the only portable device on the Fox not locked under Morgan’s seal. Tucked around the sealer were plas-coated computer components, hardly state-of-the-art but advanced enough to impress, I hoped.
The only visible door into the building, a mammoth affair of stone and metal, opened very slowly and silently. Without looking directly at that gap, I lifted up a handful of the glittering components, letting them trickle from one hand to another. My mouth was dry despite the humidity. Guesswork. Hunches. An empty mind shocked into delusion. I could be propelling myself into a situation I couldn’t handle, for no reason at all.
But just as I could smell an unfamiliar herb in the breeze, as I could taste the dampness of the storm-laden air, I knew Morgan was near. Perhaps his peculiar “gift” was calling to me. More likely, the compulsion urging me to be near him was at last being useful.
“What are you doing here, Trader?” None of the elaboratecourtesy I remembered from my first visit, but at least the priest used Comspeak. I chose my words carefully.
“I wish to trade, Honored Sir. I know of your need for certain supplies—”
The door gaped wider, now revealing a trio of senior priests, robed in red. The leftmost one spoke. “Your captain had traded elsewhere. How can you, an underthing, speak of trade to us?”
I dropped the components into my bag and dared to climb out. “Part of my apprenticeship, Honored Sir, is to use my judgment and share of cargo to make my own deals. If I wish to advance, I have to prove myself. Is it not so with your junior priests?”
“Let us see what you offer.” This from the center priest.
“Not out here,” I said firmly. “The moisture.”
A whispered consultation, then their heads bobbed in unison. Hoping that meant yes, I held the bag tightly and followed them inside.
It was the kind of place where one imagined generations of alterations and additions, done with or without knowledge of earlier plans—all conspiring together into this present-day maze of a structure. I had no doubt that there were different shapes hidden beneath its floors and behind its crisply cornered walls. I followed my guides past dark doorways and empty cubbyholes, through odd tangential junctions. So much for searching for Morgan on my own.
Our destination was a large room with five unequal walls, each lined with plas-protected instruments mounted on sturdy shelves. Several of the instruments were dark and silent. There were no windows; light glowed from imported fixtures of very old design. The floor was beautiful, deliberately uneven, etched in a complex design that wove in and around our feet like ripples on water. It was the nearest thing to an art form I’d seen on Ret 7. I hoped my boots were clean.
“Now we will examine your offerings.”
“Trade items, Honored Sir,” I corrected cautiously. “With more available.” I took out a handful of components and placed them on a five-legged table. Two of the priests hurried forward to pick them up in their limp hands, talking animatedly to each other in their native tongue.
“How much?” said the third priest, not even glancing at the table or his colleagues. I wished I could read some understandable emotion on his wrinkled, wide-mouthed face. His eyes blinked, one at a time.
“These are a gift, Honored Sir.” Instantly the table was cleared of its contents. The priests must have tucked them up their sleeves. I took a tighter grip on the bag. “I have many more.”
“How much?”
“My captain,” I said very quietly, drawing out the package sealer. It looked deadly, with several sharp protrusions and a formidable muzzle. “And safe passage back to our ship.”
The Retians conferred again. Then the spokesman asked: “Are you threatening us?”
In answer, I dropped the bag on the table. “No. The Fox honors its contracts. Here are the components you need. You don’t need my captain. It’s a fair trade.”
“You are alone.” True. The priests were learning fast.
Out the corner of my eye I could see movement in the hallway. I took a quick step back and aimed my improvised weapon at the nearest operational machine. The Retians signaled frantically with their webbed hands to someone behind me, the blue of their lips turning pink with agitation. “I don’t want trouble,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and controlled despite a growing fear that they would refuse to bargain—or worse, as a Human might, decide I was bluffing.
Silence, then a brief command from the spokesman sent his companions pushing through the throng of gray-robed junior priests hovering in the doorway. No further movement or sound; they were like statues. What was happening? Were they bringing Morgan—or killing him? I refused to doubt that he was here.
It was only a few minutes, but it seemed an eternity, before I heard a dry rustle of cloth followed by the parting of the crowd in the doorway. I almost sagged with relief at the sight of a figure, head covered in a white hood, towering shoulders above his Retian escort.
“We accept your trade,” the priest said, eyes fixed on the bag on the table. “Take him.” Morgan’s escorts shoved him toward me. Blind, he stumbled on the uneven flooring before regaining his balance.
“What’s going on, Ruptis?” Morgan demanded in a commendably calm voice. “This is no way to conduct—” he stopped in mid-sentence, his hooded head turning until it faced my direction.
How could he—? I spoke quickly before Morgan could say the wrong thing and ruin a plan that was working remarkably well, all things considered. “Our agreement, Honored Sir, includes safe passage for my cap
tain and myself back to our ship.”
I needn’t have worried. Ruptis and his fellow priests were clustered about the table, chuckling and pawing the bag’s contents as if it were treasure. To them, I supposed it was. The junior priests had vanished.
Sealer in one hand, I moved quickly to where Morgan stood abandoned. His hands were stuck together in front of him with some plasterlike material laced through his fingers. There was nothing I could do about that now. I reached up and pulled off the hood. He blinked in the dim light, then looked down at me with astonishment. I put a finger in front of my lips and he nodded.
The Retians were already busily at work, one stripping plas from the new components while two opened their damaged instruments and rummaged within. Their lips were almost purple with delight. I decided not to ask for a guide.
“I can’t get this off here, Captain,” I whispered to Morgan, indicating his bound hands.
Morgan looked at the Retians, then at the components on the table, then at me. He began to frown. “Are those—”
“I’ll explain later,” I interrupted. “I suggest leaving.”
Morgan glanced at my weapon and his lips quirked. “Before we have to use that,” he agreed solemnly, well aware that sealer was about as dangerous as a floor scrubber. “Lead on, chit.”
Once in the hall, I paused to remember the route before choosing to go left. Morgan followed in trusting silence. This was too simple, something said inside me.
Morgan’s low-pitched voice startled me. “The Retians have a different set of ethics for each caste,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Ruptis can climb within his priesthood by repairing the holy machines; his methods won’t be questioned by the other castes, including the civil government. And our paying customer, Lord Lispetc.”
Ignoring the last, which was unfair considering the options I had, I remained uneasy. “The priests know they’ve committed a crime punishable by non-Retian law. You could have this world’s license lifted.”
“Maybe,” Morgan answered in a noncommittal voice. “Though I doubt the Trade Pact has been strained by my inconvenient detention here. Ruptis knows our politics as well as his own. Besides,” he continued, in a lighter tone, “we’ve completed a fair trade, chit.”
I didn’t bother to answer, since Morgan was speaking for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. We reached the section of the building where the hallway was irregularly broadened by the presence of numerous cubbyholes.
When I had first passed this way, the cubbyholes had been empty. Now, crammed into each like so much package stuffing, were gray-robed junior priests. I stopped, my skin crawling.
“It’s all right, Sira,” Morgan said quietly, coming to stand behind me. “This is how they wait until needed.” Then, I noticed what I hadn’t before. Their bulbous eyes were closed by inner, semi-opaque lids. Squeezed together as many as ten to each closet-sized space, the poor creatures couldn’t move a muscle until the outermost wriggled and popped free. I began walking again, a trifle more briskly. I found the Retians even less appealing stuffed.
I was ahead, Morgan once more following, when I heard a scuffle behind and his shout: “Run, Sira!” I whirled, fumbling with the package sealer. The last cubby had been vacant, a fact which should have alerted me, but didn’t. Now it was a doorway through which two scarlet-robed priests had pounced on Morgan. He heaved them off even as I turned, the material of his coverall ripping from his back in the hands of one of them. Forgetting my weapon was only for show, I ran back, brandishing it and yelling at the top of my lungs. The combination drove them scuttling back through the hidden door.
Like pickled corpses, the hordes of junior priests didn’t stir from their positions. Morgan jerked his head toward the now-visible main door. “Hurry,” he said, shouldering me ahead, moving rapidly in spite of his awkwardly tied hands. “Let’s not give them time to get organized.”
As I pushed open the massive outer door, the roar of heavy rain filled my ears. You could set a timer by Retian weather, I thought with disgust, stepping outside and instantly becoming soaked to the skin. Morgan lent the strength of his shoulder to mine to close the door again—as a delaying tactic, it was more moral support than otherwise, but I didn’t waste breath arguing. My feet slipped in fresh mud.
“Why aren’t they following us?” I demanded, perplexed, as I fastened the groundcar’s roof and listened to the muffled pounding of rain on its surface. I’d left it open and the seats were soaking wet. I began powering up the machine, wishing Morgan could drive.
“They don’t need to,” was Morgan’s strange reply. “I hope there’s some speed in this pile of junk,” he continued, breathing in odd little bursts as though the exertion of climbing into the passenger seat had been too much to bear. I whirled to stare at him.
The dim light in the Retian building had disguised the waxiness of his skin; sweat, not raindrops, beaded his forehead. “I’ll live,” he snapped, aware of my scrutiny, “provided you get us back to the Fox.”
Obediently, I sent the groundcar forward through the deepening puddles, keeping one eye on the fuel gauge and the other on the barely distinct borders of the road. My heart was hammering louder than the rain on the roof over our heads. “What’s wrong?” I demanded. “What did they do to you?”
Morgan leaned against the side of the transport, bound arms pressed tightly against his flat middle as if to soothe an ache. He looked weary and too pale. “I don’t think I mentioned the Retians are poisonous, did I? The older males have a little claw, like a spur, at the base of each thumb.”
I accelerated as much as I dared, given the distance we had left to travel. “You mustn’t die, Morgan,” I told him flatly. Risking a sidelong glance, I saw that his eyes were closing. “Jason!”
Morgan roused enough to look at me, eyes fighting to focus. “Although living doesn’t feel like such a bargain at the moment, chit, I don’t think I’ll die just yet.” As a reassurance, it was less than convincing. Morgan went on: “I stocked the Fox with antivenom after my last run here.
Should have taken some myself yesterday, when things began to get shaky—couldn’t give you any—couldn’t involve you anyway—” his voice began fading in and out; I strained to catch what he was saying.
Then, with sudden costly clarity: “Sira. Take the Fox to Plexis. She’s ready; tape’s set for auto. If I’m—if you’re on your own, find Huido Maarmatoo’kk—he’ll help you. Don’t go near Malacan. Don’t—” With a shudder that told of overtaxed muscles giving up a struggle, Morgan slumped, held upright in his seat only by its harness.
I gripped the steering column tightly, forcing myself to concentrate on the difficult task of keeping the ancient groundcar on the slick roadway with some degree of speed. For all his talk of antivenom, Morgan was in serious danger or he wouldn’t have told me to lift the Fox. Maybe, I tried to joke to myself, he’s forgotten I’m no spacer.
My eyes flicked constantly from the road to his unconscious form. I forced down the small, panic-stricken voice inside me that kept repeating over and over: Morgan was all I had.
It might have been true. But it wasn’t helpful.
I shook my head, peered out through the dense sheets of rain. Morgan die? I wouldn’t let him.
INTERLUDE
Barac sagged after he materialized, his body protesting as the drain on its energy reached near-critical levels. Without greeting Rael, who watched him from the comfort of a lounge he couldn’t see, the Clansman staggered clumsily to the servo and dialed for a stimulant. It was dangerous to enter M’hir when weak or tired. Fortunately, over the past hours Rael’s image projection had etched a passageway to this room, attracting his power through the M’hir the way a greater magnet attracts a lesser.
“Enough, Barac,” Rael said, rising gracefully, hovering above the floor. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Barac scowled in her direction, his dark eyes shadowed and unfocused. “What do you want me to do? Sit here? Wait while any memories of S
ira fade to nothing under the garbage of their lives? We’ve gone over this before—”
She shrugged, sending a ripple through the dark mass of her hair, then reached a reluctant decision. “Sit. I can’t deal with you in this state.” Barac inclined his head with a shade of his former elegance and dropped himself into the nearest chair. Rael relocated her image to stand behind him, her eyes shut as she concentrated. She drew her hands through the air just over his head. The gesture was repeated, lengthened to include Barac’s shoulders and arms.
Eyes closed, Barac accepted her gift of strength, feeling his weariness disappear, his body straighten from its exhausted slouch. Rael had mended him once already, repairing his bruises and broken ribs. This giving was more, and Barac was grateful. As Rael worked, he willingly lowered his shields, granting her access to his memory of the preceding hours, wishing for more there than failure.
Finished, Rael moved her image away, noting the alert brightness in Barac’s expression with professional satisfaction. “So. You’ve failed to find so much as a hint of her in any unsealed mind; Sira has not touched the M’hir—I know the taste of her power like my own. Admit that she’s left this world,” Rael squinted around their surroundings, giving a delicate shudder at the lime-green decor of Barac’s rented room. “I don’t blame her.”
“We can’t be sure,” Barac said.
Rael arched her brow. “I can. There’s no point staying on Auord, unless you’re hoping to get yourself killed by the local population before the Council finds out about all this. We can’t help Sira by staying here.”
Barac longed for an argument to prove her wrong, to keep their search within some attainable boundary. He had none. “There has to be a connection between Kurr’s murder and the attack on Sira and myself,” he growled. “There has to be,” he repeated. Barac went back to the servo, canceled the stimulant, and dialed a meal instead. “Something we can’t see,” he concluded thoughtfully.
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