by Ann Maxwell
There was little Daemen could say to that.
“Haven’t you discovered it yet?” asked Tric.
“What?” asked Daemen, finding his voice.
“You’re Bad Luck,” said Tric, his tone gentle and terribly sad. “Bad. Luck.”
“No.”
“Listen to me,” Tric said, his eyes pleading for understanding, for forgiveness, for a future free of Luck. “Your mother felt the way you do and for a long time I believed her. We thought that the problem might be a thinning of the heritage in her. It had been so long since a strong Luck had lived. None of her children showed signs of it. So we—”
Tric stopped, looked down and then aside, anywhere but at Daemen’s bright young face, “We made you. Together. We were the only direct descendants of the First Luck. We thought if we—if we—” Tric stopped and this time did not start again.
Daemen stared, trying to see himself in Tric’s wrinkled features. “I don’t believe you.”
Tric’s smile was sad and swift. “You don’t have to. You are what you are—The Luck. Very strong Luck. We were right. The heritage had thinned. But not in you.” He looked at his hands, then at his nephew and son. He sighed and forced himself to continue. “We were right. But we were very wrong, too. Your mother was going to kill herself and all her children. All but you. Then you would inherit the Luck and do for her people what she could not. She could not bring them Good Luck.”
Daemen’s lips moved in soundless denials. Whatever he had expected Tric to say, it had not been this.
“I couldn’t let her kill herself,” Tric said simply. “Yet I couldn’t let her stay and kill us. Oh, she wouldn’t mean to,” he said, answering Daemen’s unspoken objections, “any more than you meant to when you threw your necklace into the core. But unless our Luck changes we’ll die just the same.” He made an odd, helpless gesture. “So we put her and her family on our last ship and sent her to face her Luck alone among the stars.” His voice thinned. “You were captured by slavers, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Daemen’s voice was a whisper. “You arranged for that, didn’t you?”
“I?” Tric laughed softly. “That would have been redundant! Your mother’s Luck was more than enough. But your Luck was stronger. You survived.”
“Because I’m Good Luck.”
“No,” sadly, “because Bad Luck knows no end.”
Daemen’s face hardened, making him look older. His rain-colored eyes narrowed. “Get out of my way, Uncle or Father or whoever you are. I’m going to the core with my find, like every Luck back to the beginning of time.”
The Seurs moved like grass stirred by wind. Tric stepped back until he was a part of them once more. “No.”
“What have you got to lose?” said Daemen. “You told me you’re dead already.”
“Unless our Luck changes,” corrected Tric. “It can only change if you die. Go away, Daemen. Please. Or do you hate us enough to make us kill you and be haunted by your Luck until even our souls starve?”
“I don’t hate you at all!” exploded Daemen. “I want to help you!”
“Then go away.”
“No.” Daemen’s voice was ragged. He gestured around him wildly, taking in the dead garden and trash blowing in the cold wind. “What are you afraid of? What could be worse than eating shit and waiting for your core to go eccentric and kill you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Tric. “But if you stay, I’m sure we’ll find out.”
Kirtn watched The Luck struggle for arguments to change Tric’s mind. The Bre’n knew it was futile. Tric and the other Seurs had nothing left to lose but hope. They would protect that hope any way they could.
Unobtrusively, Kirtn drew the illusionist aside. Rheba, standing slightly to the front with Daemen, did not notice. When Kirtn was sure that no one was watching, he leaned over f’lTiri and whispered in Universal, “Can you make both of us invisible long enough to get through those Seurs?”
F’lTiri measured the distance separating them from the Seurs. “I can try.”
“If you can’t hold it long enough, can you make us look like Seurs?”
“Of course!” said F’lTiri, obviously stung by what he took as a slur upon his abilities.
“Long enough to get to the core? Then I’ll empty Fssa into the soup and we’ll see what kind of Luck is with us.”
“What if nothing happens?”
“Then Daemen won’t have any reason to stay, will he?” said Kirtn, a snarl thickening his voice. “And my fire dancer won’t be forced to kill just to stay alive.”
“I’ll make us invisible as long as I can,” said f’lTiri, “and then I’ll make us look like Seurs.”
“Good.” Kirtn hesitated. “If you can cover me with illusion from here, you won’t have to come along.”
“And be around when Rheba finds out I helped you sneak away?” F’lTiri shook his head ruefully. “I’ve seen what happens when she gets angry. I don’t want to end up like the Loo-chim, burned so completely not even a smell is left behind.”
Kirtn winced. “If things go well, she won’t even know we’ve gone until we get back.”
He did not add that little had gone well since The Luck had come home to roost.
XXII
Rheba looked from the stubborn, desperate Seurs to the young Daemen, equally stubborn. He and Tric glared at each other across stone pavements cracked by age. Like the stones, the Daemenites were locked in patterns so old their beginnings were a myth.
In the back of the ranks, near the badly fitted double door leading into Centrins’ core, a Seur stumbled and fell on his neighbor, tripping him and sending him reeling against two other Seurs. They fell against the door, which popped open. A small scramble followed while the Seurs regained their composure.
The disturbance was brief, but it was enough to break Daemen’s staring contest with his uncle/father. The Luck turned to Rheba. “I’ll need your help to get in.”
She measured the determined Seurs and the double door that was still slightly ajar. “Is that the only door?”
“No. There are three more. Only two of them close, though. The last two.”
“Locks?”
Daemen made an ambivalent gesture. “They’re only used on ritual days when non-Seurs aren’t allowed into Centrins.”
“But there are locks.”
“Yes.”
She gave a Bre’n shrug. “Then they’ll be locked against The Luck.”
She studied the problem before she said anything more. Zaarain buildings were hard to burn, as she had found out at Square One. First she would have to find a way past the Seurs, who would surely object to The Luck’s presence. Then she would have to take out the locking mechanism on the last two doors. If the locks were energy-based rather than mechanical, she would have to flirt with the core that fed energy into the locks. She did not want to do that.
On the other hand, if Fssa and his cargo of zoolipt did not get into the building, the Seurs would die and so would the slinking, skeletal population beyond Centrins. Somehow she would have to find a way past the Seurs and their locks, a way that would not attract attention. She did not want to be put into the position of fighting and killing Seurs.
Then she remembered f’lTiri’s skill. On Onan, he had projected an illusion that had saved their lives. Perhaps he could do the same for the Seurs on Daemen. She turned to ask the illusionist, but no one was there. She frowned and turned to her mentor.
Kirtn was gone.
She looked around. M/dur and M/dere, three clepts, and no Kirtn. Behind her was a series of interconnected courtyards, empty of all but shadows. Had Kirtn gone to check for other openings into Centrins or to see that no one ambushed them on their way back?
“M/dere, did you see Kirtn leave?”
The J/taal woman recognized her name, but nothing else. She gestured apologetically.
Rheba swore. Without Fssa, she was reduced to sign language with the J/taals, who understood no language but their
own.
“Well?” asked Daemen, who was waiting for her answer.
“As soon as f’lTiri and Kirtn get back,” said Rheba, her cinnamon eyes searching every face and shadow as she spoke, “I’ll have f’lTiri create a diversion so that I can sneak into the . . .”
Her voice thinned into silence as she realized that was exactly what Kirtn had done, leaving her behind. Her hair whipped and seethed with its own deadly life, an incandescent warning of fire-dancer rage.
Daemen cried out and spun aside as Rheba burst into flame. He did not know what had caused her to burn. He was not sure he wanted to know.
J/taals and clepts ranged in fighting formation around their J/taaleri, knowing only that she burned. It was all they needed to know.
The Seurs gasped and drew together, sensing death in the alien fire. They watched her burn, watched her take their thin sunlight and condense it into energy that blinded them. They retreated through the door but could not pull it completely shut behind them. They ran through the hall’s blessed darkness to the next door, where other Seurs waited.
The smell of scorched stone called Rheba out of her rage. The ground she stood on smoked sullenly. Nothing was left of her clothes but a fine powder lifting on the wind. For an instant she was glad that her mentor was not there; Kirtn would have taken away her energy and scolded her for having a tantrum.
She damped her rage, controlling it as she had learned to control other kinds of energy. She did not release what she had gathered, however. She would need that to follow her Bre’n.
“Daemen.” She turned toward him, her eyes burnt orange with streaks of gold pulsing, counting the instants until fire came again. “Kirtn and f’lTiri are inside. I’m going after them. Tell the Seurs to stay out of my way.”
The Luck stared at her, fascinated and more than a little afraid. “How did they get inside?” he asked. But even as he objected, he moved toward the doors. He knew better than to argue when stone smoked beneath her feet.
“F’lTiri made an illusion. Invisibility,” she said impatiently. “Now they’re probably Seurs.”
“Then why follow? We’ll just call attention to them.”
She looked at him with eyes gone gold in an instant. “Because f’lTiri can’t hold invisibility for more than a few seconds,” she snapped. “Projecting an illusion onto Kirtn and holding another illusion on himself will use up f’lTiri’s strength too fast. They’re going to need help to get out of there alive.”
She ran toward the door.
M/dur moved so quickly that his outline blurred. Before Rheba could take another step, the J/taal wrenched open the door and disappeared inside. Two clepts followed in a soundless rush. M/dere stood in the opening, barring Rheba’s entrance with a courage that astounded The Luck.
Curtly, Rheba gestured the J/taal woman aside. She did not move. Akhenet lines surged so brightly that M/dere’s grim face was revealed to the last short black hair. Her stance told Rheba as plainly as words that it was a J/taal’s duty to protect her J/taaleri, and protect her she would.
M/dur reappeared, ending the impasse. He and M/dere exchanged a long look, mark of the species-specific telepathy that was part of what made the J/taals such formidable mercenaries. M/dere stepped aside.
Rheba went through at a run. Even so, she had taken no more than two steps when M/dur brushed by. She realized then that the J/taals did not want to prevent her from finding Kirtn. They simply wanted her to be as safe as possible while she looked. That meant that M/dur went first and she did not follow until he told M/dere that it was safe.
Very soon, two clepts cut in front of Rheba, forcing her to slow down. Just ahead, the hall divided into three branches. Rooms opened off the branches, Seur living quarters. No one was in sight except M/dur. He stood where the hall divided, obviously waiting to find out which branch she wanted to follow.
“Which one leads to the core?” Rheba asked, turning to Daemen.
“Left,” he said, pointing as he spoke.
M/dur spun and raced down the left hall. Rheba waited impatiently, listening for any sign that their presence, or Kirtn’s, had been discovered.
There was no sound but her own breathing. From all outer indications, Centrins was deserted.
She did not believe it. Silence meant only that a reception was being prepared somewhere farther inside the building. She prayed to the Inmost Fire that it would not be Kirtn who was ambushed. Her Bre’n was strong and fierce but the Seurs were many and desperate. Without his fire dancer, he could be overwhelmed.
The thought of Kirtn struggling against a tide of Seurs sent fire coursing raggedly along her akhenet lines. Silently she fought to master her fear. Unchecked, fear would destroy her control. And without control she would lose energy and be helpless among her enemies.
By the time M/dur returned, Rheba’s akhenet lines were burning evenly. Daemen looked away from her, preferring the J/taal’s savage face to what he had seen in the fire dancer’s serenity.
At M/dur’s gesture, Rheba leaped toward the left-hand hall. She had gone no more than a few steps when the hall branched again. The narrow left branch was deserted as far as she could see. The right branch was wider—and barricaded.
She looked at Daemen. “The right one?”
“Yes,” he said unhappily.
She approached the barricade, escorted by J/taals and clepts.
A long whip uncoiled with a deadly snap. Only J/taal reflexes saved Rheba. M/dur’s hand flashed out, intercepting the whip before it could strike the J/taaleri. M/dur jerked. A Seur tumbled out of hiding, pulled by his own whip. M/dur twitched the whip. Its long body curled into a loop around the falling Seur. The J/taal yanked. The Seur’s neck broke.
It happened so quickly that Rheba had no time to intercede. Then she saw the lethal glass shard that was the tip of the weapon. Without M/dur’s speed, she would be bleeding to death from a slashed throat. She touched her forehead to M/dere in the Universal gesture of gratitude. Then she signaled everyone back from the barrier.
“Tell them to let us through,” she said, measuring the barrier as she spoke to Daemen.
“It won’t do any good.”
“Do it.”
The Luck yelled to his kinsmen beyond the barricade. If anyone heard, no one answered. He turned back to Rheba with a questioning look.
“Tell them to get out of the way,” she said. “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I will.”
Daemen remembered Loo, and a stone amphitheater where the slave masters had died. He yelled a warning. There was no answer.
Rheba closed her eyes. She had enough energy stored to set the barricade aflame, but then what? The only energy in Centrins came from the core. She could tap it, yes, but without her Bre’n she might not be able to control the result.
She studied the barricade. It was a loose pile of furniture collected from living quarters and dumped in the hall. The speed with which the barricade had been built suggested that this was not the first time Centrins had been invaded. Apparently the city population had rioted in the past.
“Can’t we just pull it apart?” suggested Daemen.
“What if more Seurs are hiding inside?”
“After what happened to the last one, I doubt if any stayed around,” The Luck said dryly.
He walked up to the barricade and began tugging at a protruding chair. The J/taals did not interfere. Rheba was their concern, not The Luck. He pulled out the chair and began to work loose a table. No Seurs moved to interfere.
Rheba walked up and began helping Daemen. When they realized what she wanted, the J/taals set to work dismantling the barricade. Although the J/taals were smaller than either Rheba or Daemen, they were far stronger. Beneath their small hands, the barricade came apart with astonishing speed. Soon they had made a path to the ill-fitting doors hidden behind the pile of furniture.
As Daemen had said, the second pair of doors was not locked. M/dur kicked them open. A clept leaped through, followed by M/dur and a
nother clept. No shouts or sounds of battle came from the other side. Even so, M/dere waited until M/dur returned before she allowed Rheba through.
The delay irritated Rheba, increasing her fear for Kirtn. She had J/taals and clepts—and The Luck, whatever he was worth—while Kirtn had only illusion and a bloated Fssireeme.
“Hurry,” muttered Rheba, her lines smoldering.
M/dur appeared, then vanished back behind the doors. Rheba did not wait for an invitation. She moved so quickly that M/dere had to jump to keep up.
Beyond the doors were signs of a hasty retreat. A partially built barricade had been abandoned. Doors on either side stood open, revealing rooms that had been ransacked of favorite possessions in the moments before Seurs were forced to flee. Pieces of clothing were scattered around, beds overturned, whole rooms askew.
There were no Seurs.
Rheba moved at a run that left Daemen behind. The J/taals ran with her, one ahead and one behind. Clepts led the race, their silver eyes gleaming in the twilight rooms as they searched for Seurs who might have stayed behind.
Fear built in Rheba with every second. It was too quiet in the hall, too quiet in the whole building. Where had the Seurs gone? What defense were they preparing? And most of all—was Kirtn still safe beneath a veil of Yhelle illusion?
The only answer to her silent questions was the sound of her own bare feet racing over ancient floors and the distant shuffle of The Luck trailing far behind. Ahead, the hall curved away.
Abruptly the clepts’ claws scrabbled on smooth Zaarain surfaces as the animals swung to protect Rheba. M/dur spun in midstride, retreating down the hall with a speed that matched the clepts’. Behind him plastic knives rained onto the floor. A Seur ambush had been set where the hall curved. Once again, Rheba was grateful for the J/taal’s’ presence.
Daemen ran up to her, calling a warning. “Beyond the curve-doors,” he panted.
“And an ambush,” she said, looking down the hall. She could see neither Seurs nor doors, but knew both were there, just beyond sight. “What are the doors like?” she demanded, turning her attention to him.
“Zaarain,” he said bluntly.