Blood Will Tell

by Christine Pope

  The sun was low on the horizon when she returned to the dining room. Miala lifted the mechanized lighter she’d found in the kitchen to first one, then the other of the two candles she had set out on the table, and watched as the flickering light combined with the ruddy glow of the sunset to turn the chamber into a swirl of red and copper that reflected off the polished stone of the table and the faded frescoes on the walls. The color found an echo in her hair and the clothes she wore, and for a second she felt as if she were suspended in light, floating on the edge of another world. Then she blinked, and the impression was gone, though the room was still awash in copper-tinted hues.

  She lifted the handheld. “Any time you’re ready,” she said.

  Thorn’s voice came through immediately. “Got it.”

  Miala set the handheld down on a sideboard and returned to the kitchen, where she transferred the food to its serving pieces and began moving it to the table. She’d already unstoppered the wine and set the red bottle in front of Eryk Thorn’s place setting and the pale yellow one in front of hers. The plates she had set out were old, old metal, probably left over from the monastery days as well. The monks had been ascetic to the extreme, but even they had had to eat—well, at least before one of Iradia’s crime lords decided their compound was the perfect place for his base of operations and came in and exterminated the lot. The oversized wine goblets were newer and bore all the signs of Mast’s trademark ostentation—glass bowls set into dark metal bases that looked like writhing serpents—but she hadn’t been able to find anything more appropriate and so had set them down on the table with a sigh.

  “Expecting company?” Thorn asked, pausing at the entry to the dining chamber and eyeing the elaborate spread.

  “Just you,” she replied, hoping the ruddy light that spilled in through the arched windows hid the flush in her cheeks.

  He made no reply, instead taking in her elaborate costume with a slightly arched eyebrow. Then he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before moving to the chair at the head of the table and sitting down in it.

  Miala gritted her teeth and told herself, Count to ten...

  If that was how he was going to be, fine. She pulled out her own chair with a rough scrape of wood across stone and settled a napkin in her lap. “I thought it would be nice to celebrate my last night on Iradia,” she said evenly. “I’m sure planet-hopping is old news to you, but I’ve never been anywhere but here.”

  After a quick survey of the table, Thorn nodded. “This looks about as good as anything I’ve had off-world.”

  “Well—thank you.” Once again he had caught her off-guard with a compliment. To cover her confusion, Miala lifted the ruddy-hued bottle and asked, “Wine?”

  “Normally, no, but—” He lifted his shoulders. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  She poured him a glass, filling it only halfway. Those goblets were enormous, scaled apparently to Mast’s prodigious appetites; it would be far too easy to overindulge if one didn’t pay attention. After she did the same with her own goblet, she set the wine bottle back down, then noticed with some surprise that Thorn had lifted his glass and apparently was waiting for her to do the same.

  “To Arlen Mast,” he said, a sly glint in his eyes, “without whom this feast would not be possible.”

  “To Mast,” she echoed, unable to repress a smile.

  Really, Thorn had the oddest sense of humor. She lifted the glass to her lips and drank, feeling the warmth of the heavy wine work its way down her throat. The sensation made her feel very adult and somewhat wicked. She’s only tasted wine once before, at an engagement reception for a school friend of hers, and it had been nothing like this. At the time she had thought wine rather sour and nasty, and certainly not worth the fuss. But this deep red vintage tasted of fruit and earth and an alien sun that made things grow instead of burning them into dust, and Miala thought she could definitely get used to it.

  After that they were silent for a few moments as she loaded Thorn’s and her own plates with all the various foods she had spent the afternoon preparing, and they began to eat. It seemed years since she’d had a proper meal besides hastily scrounged bites. The drudges had never gotten that much to eat, and she had been careless about meals once she was on her own. Now the tender meat and carefully seasoned side dishes tasted like a little piece of heaven.

  Thorn appreciated the meal as well, she could tell. She’d spent too many years feeding her father not to know when a man was enjoying his food. He ate efficiently and quickly, but not so rapidly that she couldn’t see him pause every once in a while to savor a bite.

  “Computers and cooking,” he said at length, after taking a small sip of wine. “Any other hidden skills I should know about?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Miala said, pleased that he seemed to be enjoying himself. “Although I should warn you that I play a mean hand of poker.”

  “I don’t gamble,” he said flatly. “Waste of time.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Miala replied, “My father preferred to think of it as a game of skill. He found it an interesting way to teach me probability.”

  “Mmm.” Thorn applied himself to another piece of filet.

  “My father didn’t gamble,” she said, suddenly irritated by what she saw as a silent condemnation. “We liked to play cards together.”

  He looked up from his food and gave her a slow, measuring stare. “Did I say anything?”

  She had to admit that he hadn’t, really. What was it about him that always made her feel on the defensive? There was no way, after all, that Eryk Thorn could have known her father’s fascination with poker was one of the chief reasons they never had enough money to get off-planet. In silence she poured herself another half-glass of wine, trying to ignore Thorn’s pointed stare as she did so.

  “So what about your father?” she asked finally.

  “My father didn’t play poker, either.”

  “Funny. I mean, what did he do?”

  Was it her imagination, or did his jaw muscles tighten involuntarily, just for a second? It was hard to tell in the flickering light, but she noticed he lifted his own glass and took another drink before replying. “I have no idea. Besides spend money on whores, that is.”

  Oh. She knew she’d hit a sore subject, but Miala couldn’t think of a good way to backpedal without sounding even more tone-deaf. “So you didn’t know your father?”

  “No. I was born in a brothel on Mykiel V. Anything else you want to know?”

  She shook her head, wishing she had just kept her mouth shut after all, and watched as he refilled his plate. The man definitely could eat when the opportunity presented itself, but she supposed that was just another survival tactic. Might as well eat when the eating’s good, she thought. She wondered who Eryk Thorn’s father had been, and from there tried to imagine what the mercenary must have looked like as a little boy and failed miserably. He was one of those people who seemed to have sprung full-grown into the universe.

  The silence between them had grown tense with that one brittle sentence of his. Miala, at a loss but sensing she should say something, commented, “My mother took off when I was six months old, so I only knew one of my parents, too.”

  She hadn’t expected sympathy, and she got none. Thorn speared another piece of filet, then chewed it carefully before saying, “That’s not always a bad thing.”

  How in the world was she supposed to reply to that? Casually she lifted her wine goblet and made an off-hand gesture before taking a sip. “You never went looking for him?”

  He lifted his shoulders, but the dark eyes watching her were careful, measuring, almost as if he had told her these things just to see how she reacted. “I didn’t see the point. Anyway, it turns out he died before I was even born.”

  Miala considered his words. She’d always thought if she did get the chance to get off Iradia, then she would do what she could to find out what had happened to her mother. Whether she’d have the courage to confro
nt the woman who had abandoned her so many years ago, she didn’t know, but somehow the notion of at least knowing whether her mother was alive or dead appealed to her.

  For the first time she contemplated the notion of just letting it go, of getting on with her life. What difference would it make, after all? Even seeing her mother wouldn’t return all those years Miala had spent without her.

  “I guess I can see why you’d feel that way,” she said, after a long pause.

  He lifted his glass toward her, as if in salute. “Now you’re getting it.”

  Was he mocking her, ever so slightly? Sometimes it was impossible to tell. However, she chose to believe he wasn’t, mostly because she had grown weary of feeling that she was a source of private amusement to him.

  “Anyhow,” she went on, wondering whether it was between the ninth and tenth or fourteenth and fifteenth sips of wine that she had begun to feel a little dizzy, “what’s the plan after we leave Iradia?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. You’re the one who wanted off-planet.”

  I knew that, Miala thought. “Right, then.” Frowning slightly, she gazed at Thorn, realized she was staring at his mouth, and shifted her glance so it appeared she was looking past his shoulder to the age-smudged fresco on the wall behind him. “So how much is my take, anyway?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Probably five, six million.”

  Blinking, Miala studied his face carefully to see if he was joking, then decided that he probably wasn’t. With a hand that shook just a little, she tore off a piece of bread and put it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Five million units. With that she could go anywhere in the galaxy, do pretty much anything she wanted. But she knew what she should do, what her father would have wanted her to do.

  “I need to go to a university. A good one,” she said finally.

  He appeared nonplussed. “What for?”

  Surprised, she looked at him for a moment, studying his features in the uncertain candlelight as she considered her reply. Going to a university—or maybe one of the GDF’s training academies—was the only ambition of anyone Miala had known who had the slightest bit of gumption. It was the only way to get off Iradia and earn some respectability at the same time. And her father had certainly drummed into her the necessity for a formal education. Her thoughts had run in that path for so long she had never considered any alternative, never believed there could be anything else for her. But obviously Thorn thought differently.

  “I’m guessing you never went to college,” she said.

  At that he really did give what sounded like a genuine laugh. “You’re guessing right.” He lifted his glass and drank, black eyes watching her closely over the rim of the gaudy cup. “Can’t say I missed it.”

  Miala lifted her shoulders. “It’s just what I always thought I’d do. Go to a good university, then work as an analyst somewhere.”

  “Sounds safe.”

  Those words made her want to cringe. Safe, was that how he thought of her? “Or not,” she said boldly. “I guess with five million units I can do whatever I want, right?”

  He was silent for a moment, then replied, “I think your first plan’s a good one.”

  Oh, he was impossible. At that moment, Miala thought if someone showed up on the spot and offered her a full scholarship at the university on Eridani, she’d turn it down just to spite Thorn. “I don’t even know whether I can get into a decent school, anyway,” she remarked. “My education here was pretty irregular, and most universities are sort of picky about that kind of thing. Who knows how long it will take to get someone to even look at my transcripts?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, if you flash enough units around,” he said.

  She wanted to retort that that wouldn’t make any difference, but Miala knew better than to start another argument. This dinner wasn’t going at all how she had planned. What had happened to the feeling of romance, of possibilities, that she had sensed when she first lit the candles and thought of the man who would soon be joining her in the copper-washed dining chamber?

  He’s being Eryk Thorn again, she thought, and rolled her eyes. Really, she would be better off rid of him. He could just drop her off on some nice planet, say Monteverde or even Eridani itself, and she could get her degree and bank her half of Mast’s treasure—thank you very much for your assistance, Master Thorn, have a nice life. If only it were that easy.

  “What are you going to do with your half?” Miala challenged, feeling reckless.

  “Bank it,” he said, imperturbable.

  Again it was impossible to know whether he was joking or not. In desperation she said, “Thorn, if you don’t shut up right now and kiss me, I think I’m going to throw this wine goblet at your head.”

  He smiled then, a slow, easy smile. “If that’s what’s bothering you—” And he pushed his chair back and stood, going over to her and raising her up out of her own chair.

  Much better, Miala thought. When he’s kissing me, I don’t think about how much I’d like to kill him.

  And as he continued to kiss her, she realized she didn’t have to think about anything else at all. The universe seemed to compact itself down to the feel of his mouth on hers, the warmth of his body, the taste of the wine on his tongue.

  And everything else, she decided, could wait.

  IX

  They walked in silence for a time along a sweeping terrace that hugged the circular main tower of Mast’s compound. Probably it had been constructed by the monks as a platform for stargazing, though Miala doubted that any of the denizens of Mast’s household had wasted much time watching the stars. Hot as the desert was during daylight hours, it was equally chill at night, although the warm sandstone of the building still radiated the heat it had stored up during the day.

  Ixtal, the largest of Iradia’s three moons, hung low in the eastern sky, a huge golden orb that cast a glittering track across the desert sands. Miala paused at the curved stone balustrade that edged the terrace, gazing down at the desolate landscape beneath her. She’d had the fancy that perhaps one last look at the world which had been her only home would arouse some feelings of nostalgia, but now she felt nothing but relief that after tomorrow she would never have to see these sand-scoured wastes again.

  Thorn was quiet, watching her from the shadows. He had held her for some time in the candlelit dining hall, in a prolonged embrace from which she had emerged gasping once again and not quite sure what to do with herself. Luckily, the prosaic interruption of cleaning up after dinner had leveled her head somewhat, although at the time she had wondered why she was even bothering with the dishes or the mess in the kitchen. Certainly it was not out of respect for whichever crime lord or bandit might take over the compound next. Something in her had simply rebelled at leaving the place out of order. She’d spent too many years straightening up after her father, and keeping things tidy was ingrained in her by now.

  At least Thorn made no protest when she pulled herself from his embrace, and he had even carried dishes into the kitchen in stoic silence. Once she was finished with the remnants of dinner, he had accompanied her here without protest, although even she wasn’t sure at the time why she had come.

  “What do you think’s going on out there?” she asked finally, waving one hand in a general westerly direction, as if to indicate Iradia as a whole.

  He turned his head in that direction. The warm golden light of the moon seemed to smooth out the scars and lingering redness that were constant reminders of the injuries he had sustained during the battle at the Malverdine Cliffs. “Fighting. Confusion. People dying.”

  “So how does that make it different from any other day?” she retorted.

  Thorn allowed himself a small smile. “You sound like me.”

  “It’s all this time I’ve been spending in your charming company.”

  Her words did not seem to anger him. Instead, he shook his head and stepped toward the balustrade to stand next to her. A chill tendril of desert wind
caught in the dark close-cropped strands at his hairline, ruffling them slightly. “They’ve gotten farther this time than they have in the past, but they’ve got to know it can’t last. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sooner than they like, the Gaian Central Council is going to send a whole lot of ships and troops over here to make sure everything gets back to normal. Gaia pulls too much money out of this planet to just let it go.”

  “So is it safe to leave? Will they try to stop us?”

  “Right now I’m guessing that whatever Gaian forces are still alive probably have more important things to worry about than us.”

  Miala shivered slightly, and Thorn dropped a casual arm around her, pulling her closer to him. Stupid of her to have come up here anyway without grabbing a cloak or shawl first, although she had to admit there were worse ways of staying warm than to have Eryk Thorn holding you close. The cold didn’t seem to bother him at all, although his long-sleeved jumpsuit of course was warmer than the thin sleeveless tunic she wore.

  “Eridani, or even Monteverde or Nova Angeles,” he went on. “Someplace civilized. That’s the sort of planet you need.”

  You need. Not we need. The words grated on her, though Miala tried to tell herself that the mercenary was simply giving her predicament precedence. He’d agreed to help her, and so his concern now was solely for her. She had no doubt that, if left to his own devices, he could fly right through a battle between Gaian and Iradian forces and come out the other side completely unscathed.

  “I don’t know anything about any of those planets,” she said flatly, staring out into the empty moonlit desert. It must have been the wind that brought the stinging tears to her eyes.