by S.
. . . he’s already dead, isn’t he? Isn’t he. . .?!
—Viyr by ripping the wire out or not. Nor did she care, so long as he ceased flopping against her lap, his mouth split open and his eyes so blue it hurt merely to look at them.
The wire popped loose and fell onto the floor, wriggling like a shining worm. Leigh shrank from it, lashed out with a boot, and missed. Viyr spilled to the floor, but she hardly noticed. Another kick sent the wire sailing through the air, a trailer of neon rippling in its wake. It smacked against a box and fell to the stone floor, dimming rapidly—only a silver wire, and not alive at all.
“Good,” Sairel wheezed, still doubled over. “That’s over with. Everything’s stable now.”
“There was nothing good about that,” Leigh said between gulps of air. “Nothing!”
“You caught the tail end of that stream. I apologize. Data transfers like that are tricky, and some people are very sensitive to the frequency.” Sairel’s eyes met hers briefly before he dropped his gaze and put a hand on Viyr’s trembling shoulder. “Verand?”
Viyr rolled toward them, staring and mute.
A bone-deep weariness engulfed Leigh’s thoughts and fears until she only felt numb. Rubbing her aching chest, she slumped against a crate, shoulders sagging. Viyr blinked at her, his expression twisting from agony to confused wonderment. She nodded in dumb acknowledgment, not certain what to do or say.
“Verand?” Sairel said again. “Do you remember now?”
“I remember, Sairel. You were—”
“Your friend, and your assistant, and the one who betrayed you. Yes, I know. It was complicated, and the Harpers gave us very little choice in the matter. But it’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“The Resistance. . . did the Harpers find out?”
Sairel shook his head and wiped blood from his lips. “No, I don’t think so. But I don’t know if the Resistance survived the purge, either. I intend to find out. Verand, you must realize you don’t have much time.”
“I know what you want,” Verand said, his voice weaker now. He turned his head, and Leigh found herself staring directly at a creature who looked like Viyr, but was not.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Leigh Enderi, Captain of the Dogton Enforcers. Neiro is waiting for Sairel and I to bring you to him.” She made her voice hard as iron despite the watery weakness seeping through her. “Sairel and I will carry you to him, if you can’t walk.”
“He may not make it that long,” Sairel said. “I had hoped to restore the files using. . . I tried, Verand.”
“Makes no matter now.” The ghost of a smile played on Verand’s lips. “I died twenty-three years ago, do you remember? Of course you do. Take what you need, Sairel, and destroy the rest. Keep the Resistance safe, if it exists at all.”
“You trust me, then?”
“I’ve little choice, do I?” Verand swallowed, the white skin on his throat twitching. Thick, blue liquid began to leak from his eyes, brighter than Synth, and reeking of ozone.
“I’ve already done the transfer, though it nearly killed me trying to break through the Archive.” Sairel tapped his temple. “I have everything.”
Leigh’s throat had gone dry, and her voice sounded hoarse. “What do we do? You said—”
Sairel held up a hand. “Not now. Let him have a moment’s peace. Neiro waited too long. He would not let me near you, no matter how I pleaded. I did try, Verand.”
The Cynops closed his eyes, and more blue liquid—tears or blood, Leigh didn’t know which—trickled down his alabaster face. It leaked from his nose and mouth, pooling in the hollow of his slim throat. When he spoke, his voice came out in a choking rasp. “Burn me after it’s over, but let me go. Don’t try to restore Viyr’s files.”
They waited. Leigh wanted to ask what had happened, if something had gone wrong, but could not bring herself to speak. Outside, she could hear someone shouting—it sounded like Hubert—followed by a stillness so deep she could hear her own pulse. Underneath that steady sound came the uneven gasps of a man close to death.
After what seemed an eternity, Verand opened his eyes, and the irises shone silver rather than neon-blue. Then, that silvery light faded, too, leaving them a pale, empty gray. Sairel placed a hand on Verand’s bare chest, feeling for a heartbeat or any sign of life—or what had mimicked life in that body for so many years.
“Gem’uhlai,” he said, rolling his tongue so the strange word sounded like a growl. “Forever, Verand Eleid.”
Leigh took a deep breath, and the ache in her ribs sharpened. “It’s over?”
Sairel didn’t look at her. “This isn’t what I had hoped for. Not at all.”
Silence marked more long moments. Every time Leigh tried to ask what any of those few words Verand had uttered might mean, she could not. Sairel might be lying about everything, but the somber look on his face, the way his hands were still clasped over Verand’s chest, didn’t seem monstrous; it seemed terribly human. It made her think of Orin’s funeral, or what little she could remember of it from the daze of exhaustion and shock she’d been in.
The Shurin’s expression cleared all at once. “We have to burn him. No doubt Nyia had plans to pick him up come spring and take his Shelfing back to Avaeliis. It may have always been their strategy, but it’s hard to know for certain. This isn’t the place to discuss such matters, in any case. Can you get those other two Enforcers to help us carry him?”
“Yes.” Wincing, Leigh got to her feet, her chest and ribs already swelling from bruises. “But whatever it was you took from his Shelfing. . . whatever information he had. . . will be discussed as soon as this is over.”
Sairel inclined his head. “If you wish, though most of it may mean little or nothing at this point. It will all depend on if any shreds of the Resistance survived the Harpers’ witch-hunt.”
Leigh narrowed her eyes, trying to read the Cursor’s enigmatic, sly look. “What resistance?”
“The one Verand had hoped would save us all from Toros, of course—the Enetic Resistance.”
A Man with Three Eyes
Hair drifted on the wind in big, ragged handfuls. Clump after clump, Senqua watched the raven-black strands leave Gairy’s palm. Her head felt lighter, and she wasn’t sure she liked the sensation at all. Anaz’dalo had always told her Shyiine should not cut their hair because it caught bad dreams and kept Nah’gatt at bay. Though Senqua didn’t really believe that, she knew her father would have been sad to see a half-Druen chopping off her braid with a dull knife.
Gairy grabbed another handful and hacked at it with the knife. “This blade is bad. You should have sharpened it more.”
“I sharpened it last night.”
“Old knives lose their edge fast.” He paused with each cut, a thoughtful frown pulling at his mouth. His face had lost all its puffiness in the last few weeks, and become gaunt. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his duster hung loose from his wide shoulders.
“How much more is left?” Senqua asked, tired of sitting against cold rocks that jabbed her backside.
“Almost done with it.”
She sighed. The land around them, gray and uglier than anything she’d ever seen, sloped toward the open grass steppes. Long, dry stalks rattled in the wind, reminding her of a threk’s hiss. She shivered. “It’s getting cold.”
“Gets a lot colder up here than down south.” Gairy plucked a strand of black hair from his calloused finger tips. “We’re almost to the foothills now, and it snows there in winter sometimes. Not much, but it happens.”
“I miss the south. Even in the winter, it’s warm there. During the day, anyway.”
“I don’t miss it. Too hot. But we need to find Northtown before it snows.”
“Before we starve. We haven’t seen much game this week, and it’s hard to find water, too.”
“Not good huntin’ up here this time of year. Everything’s either gone south or up into the mountains.” Gairy wiped his hand on his dus
ter and stood. “That’s about as done as it’s gonna get. I can’t get too close to the scalp, or this dull blade will gouge you.”
Senqua pushed to her feet, brushing long tendrils of hair from her yalei. Much of it still lay in a pile on the ground, but the wind would scatter it soon enough. “I guess any knife would be dull after all that.”
“Here, take it.” Gairy shoved the weapon at her, hilt first. “Well, I suppose it’ll work to get you into Northtown. You look like. . . ” His words trailed off.
“Like what?”
“Like your old man. Except younger. Not as rangy, I guess.”
“Oh.” Her heart shriveled at the thought. Every time she looked into a mirror, now, she’d see her dead father staring back—or what he might have looked like as a young man, years ago, in that place he always called the Xi’jahata. Senqua knew she’d never survive a trek across the Sand Belt to find it, but her mother and father should be there, growing old together, and not the victims of Sulari greed and Estarian ruthlessness.
“What’s that?”
Senqua rubbed her arms beneath her yalei to warm them. “What’s what?”
“Something on your forehead. Just a second, looks like blood.” Gairy reached to wipe it off with a thumb, then paused, hand hovering just above her forehead. “Shit.”
Before Senqua could ask why he’d swore, his strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, shoving so hard she crumpled to the ground. Gairy fell next to her just as a shot split the air. The sound echoed like thunder, bouncing off the rocks and the craggy slope. Senqua’s heart skipped and then beat double-time in her chest.
“Stay down,” Gairy hissed. “Someone had a bead on you.”
“Wha—”
“Sshh! Get behind that rock. Crawl. Fast. Go.”
He shoved her again, and she crawled, not knowing what else to do. The rocks hurt her knees and stomach, but that pain seemed a distant thing as she scrambled for a big chunk of granite a dozen feet away.
“Hold!” A raspy voice called. “One more inch, and I’ll take your head off.”
Senqua scanned the incline, trying to guess where the shot had come from, but saw only tall clumps of grass, stunted little trees, and rocks dotting the hill. Above, the mountains loomed, grim and silent, bathing her in their frost. A shadow crossed the ground, sliding over the rock and enveloping them in a quick gloom. Then, she caught a glimpse of shining black feathers and keen eyes turned in their direction. With a deep croaking-caw, the giant bird soared out of view.
The drell!
“I told you,” a second voice announced. “She said they were coming this way.”
“Bandits,” Gairy muttered behind her. “Probably from Northtown. But we ain’t got nothin’ to steal, unless you count two canteens of water and that snake we got yesterday.”
“It might be enough of an excuse to rob us,” Senqua replied, her voice quiet. Gairy grunted acknowledgment, but said no more.
Lowering her head onto the rocky soil, Senqua waited. The cold breath of the Senbehi howled over them as it whipped down the slope. Somewhere behind and to the right, she heard the crunch of boots against pebbles and grass. A thump followed, broken by a high, shrill caaa-aw, so loud her ears rang.
“Tell her to shut up,” the first voice said, much closer now. “She’s distractin’ me.”
The other voice laughed. “I can’t tell her to do anything. She does what she pleases, and when she pleases.”
That accent is Drahgur, isn’t it? I think it is.
“We ain’t got nothin’ to steal,” Gairy said. “We’re on our way to Northtown, and I guess that’s where you two came from.”
The thud of walking boots stopped abruptly. “I’ll be the one to ask questions here. Why are you goin’ to Northtown, and who are you? I don’t remember anyone giving you permission to come through this pass.”
“Last I heard tell, you didn’t need permission to go to. You just went,” Gairy said.
Senqua craned her neck. “We’re outlaws. We heard it’s open to people who have a bounty on their heads.”
More footsteps crossed the slope, lighter and quick. “Sometimes,” the second bandit said. “But it’s not open to anyone who wants to be there. It’s not a squatter camp.”
“No,” the first voice agreed. “It ain’t. And you two ain’t got permission until I decide to grant it. Don’t think I’m gonna to grant it unless you answer the questions, and don’t argue about it. You, Druen, get up slow.”
“I’m Estarian.”
Senqua groaned.
“And I’m a threk,” said the gravelly voice. “Get up slow, and keep your hands where I can see them.” A pause. “Crowfinger, get that old rifle over there. It’s against the rock, by their canteens.”
Movement. The clatter of empty canteens being tossed aside, then a chuckle. “This is a Pumer.”
The first bandit snorted. “Piece of junk. I said get up, Druen.”
Gairy stood, hands high in the air. Senqua took the opportunity to scoot around on her belly and see the man who had ambushed them— Hatchet-faced, but clearly Estarian, he stood several feet away with a revolver held firmly in his right hand. A Veraleid scope was attached to the revolver—a weapon almost as big as Vore’s Queen. A red eye of light beamed from within.
Her hand snaked toward the gun holstered at her belt.
The red beam grazed her yalei and traveled up her neck.
She froze.
“Don’t think about it,” the Estarian said. “I’ll be taking that piece off you soon enough.” He looked them over with eyes the exact color of the flinty mountains. When he shifted to the other foot, Senqua saw his left sleeve had been pinned up at the elbow. He spat over his shoulder and then curled his lip in a sneer. “Now you, Shyiine. Up. Same as the Druen, here.”
Senqua got to her feet, holding her arms the same way Gairy had. The wind caught her butchered hair and sent a few loose strands floating away. Near the spot they’d dumped their meager supplies that morning, the second bandit stood, examining the Pumer rifle with keen interest. His wool yalei sported dozens of gleaming, blue-black feathers, and his long hair shone the same color as it whipped against the wind. He studied her, maroon-colored eyes twinkling as a grin spread across his coppery face. “A pretty girl! A much better find than this old gun.”
He’s half-Shyiine.
“She’s a man,” Gairy said.
Senqua’s stomach dropped. “Gairy!”
“A pretty man, then.” Crowfinger laughed, and winked.
“Gairy Reidur and Senqua, then,” the Estarian bandit concluded. “We heard about you two. There’s a bounty out on you both—a big one.” He fingered the trigger.
“Not the Shyiine and Druen we were hoping to find, though,” Crowfinger added with a smirk.
Senqua licked her lips. “We want to go to Northtown. We could work. Be of use there. We’ve got nothing to steal but two guns, some snake meat, and a little water. We could be more use to you alive.”
“I agree.” Crowfinger tied a canteen to his belt and motioned with his hand. The drell swooped down from its rocky perch and alighted on a stunted tree. The branches bent under its weight as it beat its wings. Deciding the tree wasn’t a great landing spot after all, the bird lifted into the air and glided to the ground to land in front of Crowfinger, who reached to stroke the shining feathers.
He said, “The drell says she knows you, She’s-A-Man.”
Gairy bared his teeth. “Leave Senqua alone!”
The Estarian bandit swung the revolver until it pointed directly at Gairy’s chest. “One more word, and I’m pullin’ this trigger. This gun will take down a bear, so I guess it’ll do for a Druen.” Without turning his eyes from them, he spoke to his companion. “Crowfinger, what do you think?”
Senqua opened her mouth, then clamped it shut; if she protested, the Estarian really might shoot them.
Crowfinger shrugged. “Take them to Mother Gray.”
“I say we shoot
them. We could still collect the bounty. Could use that water.”
“Third Eye, you are always too hasty.” Crowfinger waved away the suggestion like an annoying gnat. The drell craned her head and pecked inquisitively at his chin. He shoved the thick beak aside. “Mother might agree with you, but if you do it without her having a say. . . well, you can face her temper alone. You know how she is when she’s cross.”
Third Eye grimaced visibly. “Yeah, I suppose that’s a point.” He jerked his chin at Senqua, and her heart skipped a beat.
“That revolver,” he said. “Take it out slow and slide it toward me. I’m watching you. I got three eyes, and one of them is set right on your head.”
She lowered her arms slowly. “We don’t mean any trouble for Northtown. We can work, both of us.”
“Give the gun over, like I said. You ain’t got a say in what happens from here on out.”
As she pulled the revolver free, Gairy’s splayed fingers curled into fists. For a heartbeat, Senqua thought he was going to go for the one-armed man, gun or not.
Crowfinger raised the Pumer.
“Don’t, Gairy.” She dropped the old revolver.
The irony of those words struck hard; a few months ago, it had been him telling her to stand down as Karraetu, Evrik Niles, and the Scrappers took the Old Tree Well. Senqua hated herself at that moment almost as much as she hated the two bandits. She sent the gun sliding across the ground with a hard kick.
“You don’t touch her.” Gairy unclenched his fists as he spoke. “Not a finger.”
“She your woman?” Third Eye asked, reaching for the gun without lowering his own.
Crowfinger grinned. “She’s a man. Didn’t you hear the Druen?”
“I’m not anyone’s woman,” Senqua snapped. “And if either of you do lay a finger on me, I’ll kill you. Gun or not.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Third Eye’s flinty gaze raked over her, the sneer on his face deepening. Senqua wondered if he was working out a way to shoot them and not cause trouble with the aforementioned “Mother Gray”. She wasn’t sure if that might be good or bad; some women were apt to show more mercy than men, but the Sulari queens—or many of them—had been as cruel as their domineering husbands.