Razor's Edge

by Lisanne Norman

  Rezac resisted the urge to pull away: he was telling the truth, his touch was friendly, and the Gods knew he needed a friend. “I was sleeping while you were at dinner. When I woke, I was linked to Jo’s mind,” he muttered. “I did nothing, honestly. I wouldn’t invade her privacy, but she thinks I did.”

  Davies let him go and turned his attention to the plate of sliced meat. “How d’you manage that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened before—and I can’t be sure it won’t happen again. My Talent’s never been uncontrollable like this.”

  Davies took a bite from his sandwich, looking thoughtfully at him. “Linked, you said. Like the Link you have with Zashou?”

  “No,” he said automatically, then stopped, thinking for a moment. “Similar, but nowhere near as strong. The involuntary part is the same. I found it more difficult than I expected to disengage my mind from hers,” he admitted.

  As Davies continued to eat his sandwich, Rezac felt some of his defensiveness begin to dissolve. Relaxing the tensed muscles around his neck, he reached out for some more bread and meat.

  “Are you attracted to her?” Davies asked abruptly.

  The suddenness of the question made him jump. “No, of course not! She’s not my kind. How could I find her attractive?” he said, unable to prevent his ears lying backward in acute embarrassment. “You told me that only Vartra’s changes attracted us to each other as a species,” he said.

  “That’s true,” Davies nodded, “but I’ve been thinking. We’ve all been exposed to those changes of Vartra’s. It wouldn’t affect me, though, not being telepathic.”

  “How?”

  “That virus, it affected out people as I said. The Sholan telepath who was our contact had just gotten over it, and Jo went down with a mild cold or something on our trip out here. I reckon she’s had it. Kris certainly has. When you came out of stasis, both of you were, to put it mildly, run down and weak. You probably picked it up from them then. It’s a bloody miracle you even survived that long,” he said candidly, reaching for the jug of weak ale that was their main drink. He pulled over a tankard and poured himself a drink. “If you ask me, you’re the same as the Sholan telepaths back home. You’re as turned on to our people as they are to you. The telepaths, that is,” he amended, taking a swig.

  Rezac watched him in frozen shock. It made sense; it made a chillingly obvious sense.

  “I can see you agree,” said Davies, putting his tankard down. “I’ve never heard of Leskas that are more than two, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen. As you said, you were the first to use Vartra’s virus. The changes in you haven’t been diluted by breeding, so who knows what could be? I’m no authority on all this, but I seriously think you should consider talking to Kris about it.”

  “No!” growled Rezac, breaking free of his daze. “He sees me as a rival for her now.”

  “Aren’t you?” said Davies quietly. “From just watching the way you follow her with your eyes, I’d say you were interested. Whatever else he is, Kris is a damned good telepath. He’s got to know how you feel. If your mind is reaching for hers and linking, and you want her, you’ve got to talk to Kris before this gets out of hand. We can’t afford to be divided among ourselves. What about Zashou? How is she taking this?”

  “She couldn’t give a damn,” Rezac muttered, pulling the jug over and pouring himself a drink. “She’s the only one I really want. Dammit, if I could stop this … attraction to Jo, don’t you think I would? I can feel the trouble it’s causing, too! I just can’t stop it!”

  “Then talk to Kris before it’s too late and he sees you as an enemy, not a friend in trouble.”

  His thoughts in turmoil, only one fact registered fully on his confused mind. “Why didn’t you tell me before about this telepath on the ship that brought you?” Rezac demanded. “Are you still in contact with her?”

  “No,” said Davies. “We decided not to tell you about her. It’s irrelevant now, in my opinion. We should have heard from her weeks ago, but Kris can’t sense her at all. He can’t even pick up the two Sholan telepaths who were brought here by the Valtegans.”

  Rezac began to growl. “Another piece hidden from me! It seems the lack of trust is already there.”

  “Look at it from our point of view,” said Davies reasonably. “Jo’s our leader, in charge of this mission. You have a problem with females in positions of authority, and we want to avoid any leadership wrangles. You do tend to try to take matters into your own hands.”

  Rezac winced inwardly, aware of the truth of the Human’s words. “Females are weaker, they let emotions cloud their judgment,” he said defensively.

  Davies raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t? For a telepath, you have to be the most impulsive one I’ve met, and I’ve met a few. I suppose it’s your age and background.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You know nothing about me or my background!” he said angrily, beginning to rise from his seat.

  “Sit down, and stop being such a damned fool,” said Davies equably, taking another mouthful of ale. “You’re not an adult yet, are you? Around twenty-five or so? All males from eighteen to thirty are now sent off-world with the Forces to train their natural aggression. The only ones exempt are Telepaths, Warriors, and the Brotherhood, and they undergo such a rigorous disciplinary program that they aren’t about to go berserk at the drop of a hat—like you’re about to do,” he added.

  This made Rezac pause. He’d been told none of this. His world had obviously changed drastically. Slowly he sat down again.

  “Females run a lot more of life on Shola than anyone cares to admit,” Davies continued. “I can see it, being on the outside. On balance, I’d say it was a matriarchy with a high degree of meritocracy and equal opportunity—once the males are old enough to come home. You’re going to have to get your head round that before you get back, otherwise you’re just not going to fit in. You’ve got a problem with Jo running things, and you reckon it’s up to you to step in and make the hard decisions because we won’t. Forget that, Rezac. We chose Jo because she can make them. She had to out in the field on Keiss. She made some real hard decisions there, ones she still lives with today, so don’t write her off as just a female. Fit in with us, Rezac, make an effort, then you’ll find it easier to go to Kris and get his help with Jo. He’s more likely to be able to reach her than any of us. Now, do you want to know what we found out last night at dinner?”

  “Yes,” said Rezac, between clenched teeth. No matter how badly he’d been insulted by this hairless individual beside him, he needed to know what had happened. Dammit, he could break him in half with one hand! What justification had he for talking to him like this? Because he’s right, came the little voice again. He was growing to hate his conscience!

  From the start, it had been obvious that Taradain was interested in Jo. He’d had her seated beside him, on his father’s right hand, whereas the men had been consigned to Killian’s left. All evening he’d leaned over her solicitously, seeing she had plenty to eat and drink, though she drank sparingly. Both food and wine had been a pleasant change from their normal fare of ale and fatty meat. Even the bread had appeared almost white by comparison with the gritty gray-green flat loaves they were usually given.

  “Belamor! I see you’ve managed to join us after all!” Killian said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. “Join us at the high table.”

  Davies had looked up to see who it was.

  Neither the light of the twenty torches lining the great hall, nor that of the hundreds of candles in their sconces, could dismiss the shadows that seemed to cling to the hooded figure in the lapis-colored robe that slowly approached them. All that could be heard of his progress across the wooden floor was the regular tapping of his staff as it touched the ground with every other step.

  Davies felt a shiver course through him as he recognized the person they’d seen from the window earlier that day.

  He stopped in front of Killian, his
face still concealed within the shadow of his hood. Davies was glad the broad table separated them.

  “These are my visitors,” said Killian, indicating the three of them with a wave of his hand. “Take that damned hood off, Belamor,” he added, returning to picking his way through the plates of meat in front of him. “I know it pleases you to wear it, but not at my table.”

  Davies watched as the hand that held the staff tightened, gnarled fingers whitening briefly. His eyes followed the other hand as it went up to pull back the hood. It was almost with relief that he saw the man was human after all. Gaunt almost to the point of emaciation, the faintly olive tint to his skin did nothing to dispel the image of a walking corpse that sprang into his mind.

  From beneath a black skullcap, wispy gray hair framed the hollow-cheeked face. It was enlivened only by the piercingly dark blue eyes that looked straight into his own. It was a brief glance, but Davies felt as if his mind had been invaded and stripped of anything that might be useful to the man in front of him. On Belamor’s forehead sat a thin circlet of silver, bearing in the center a single round green stone, twin in color to the larger one set atop his staff—

  “Green stones? Describe them to me,” said Rezac.

  “A deep emerald color, like that of plants in the early spring,” said Davies.

  “You said rounded. Not cut and polished? More like a pebble that’s been tumbled in a stream?”

  Davies frowned. “Yes, exactly like that, but how did you know?”

  Rezac shook his head mutely, gesturing for him to continue.

  “Sit and eat,” said Killian. “Belamor is my mage. While the priests pray for our souls, Belamor fights the demons that plague us—or so he claims. That’s right, isn’t it, Belamor? How’s the one you wrestled with this morning? Properly subdued yet?”

  “It will be several days before that one is subdued, Lord Killian,” said the mage. For one so frail in appearance, his voice was deep and full of power. “He is only the first. There will be more. I trust you are wearing the amulets I prepared for your family?” He turned, and leaning on his staff, walked down the table to the far end to take the place left empty for him.

  “Do I look like a fool, Belamor? Of course we wear them. We’ve been wearing them all winter!” replied Killian testily.

  “What does Belamor do?” Kris asked the young man seated next to him.

  “Diabolical things, Father Narwen says,” he replied in an undertone. “He uses dark powers to aid him in his spell casting and the reading of portents so he can predict the future for our Lord.”

  “He uses magic?”

  The youth looked sharply at him. “Did I not just say so? The most offensive odors and smells, to say nothing of explosions, come from his workroom at all times of day and night. There was one just this afternoon. Surely even you must have heard it!”

  Kris shook his head. “No. We heard nothing. Tell me, does he make …” he searched for an appropriate word. “Does he make devices? Weapons? Powder that explodes?”

  His companion looked fearfully down the table to where the mage was accepting a goblet of wine.

  “I have to pass his room every day,” he said quietly, turning back to Kris. “There are times when the very air makes my hair stand on end. What he does is unnatural, against the Gods’ order. He even has a pole atop his window that calls the lightning down when he commands it! Take my warning seriously: if you value your life, do not cross Belamor.”

  “Certainly a man to be wary of,” murmured Kris. “The guard today in the courtyard, I saw Belamor treating him. Is he also the apothecary?”

  “Our apothecary is a gentle man, a priest, not one such as Belamor!” Even the youth’s tone of voice was shocked.

  “Then why did he treat the guard?”

  “Demons,” he said shortly, turning away. “No one else would dare go near him.”

  “Demons? D’you believe he was possessed or something?”

  The youth ignored him, beginning to talk to the woman on his left instead, making it clear he refused to be drawn into further discussion.

  “Demonic possession?” asked Rezac. “Magic and spells? What kind of world is this?”

  “A very young one, culturally,” said Davies through a mouthful of his sandwich. “Magic is how psychic talents were seen, and still are by some, on Earth. Keiss, too, to a degree. That’s why the villagers where Carrie lived were afraid of her. Kris said that the young man truly believed what he said about the mage, but that doesn’t help us much. On Earth he would probably have been called an alchemist, someone who mixed magic with primitive science in an effort to understand the physical world.”

  “Are you saying the magic he uses is actually the same as the Talents we have?”

  “So Kris thinks,” agreed Davies. A noise from one of the bedrooms drew their attention. “We’d best leave this for now,” he said quietly. “Just try not to make things any worse than they are with Jo and Kris, okay?”

  Rezac grunted and continued eating.

  Kezule could smell her almost before he was fully awake. He fought down the revulsion her scent caused him and lay still, waiting till he could orient himself properly. She was touching him. He felt the coolness of a damp cloth against his throbbing wrists. Another scent, one he recognized from last time; a salve. It drew the heat out of the wounds almost as soon as it was applied.

  He hadn’t been unconscious long, no more than fifteen minutes. Long enough for them to move him back to his prison. Stirring, he turned his head away from her, flicking his tongue out to taste the air. The scents were familiar. As he moved, he’d heard a sharp intake of breath from the female and her touch had gone. Her fear-smell got stronger.

  A wave of nausea and dizziness swept through him, a reaction to the pain he’d suffered. His stomach began to convulse and he sat up abruptly, making his pounding head throb even more. Something cold and hard was thrust into his hands. Opening his eyes, he saw it was a bowl.

  For several minutes, his gut spasmed, each time stopping just short of throwing up its meager contents. Gradually the seizures stopped, and as he leaned against the wall gasping, he looked at the female properly for the first time.

  She was of medium height compared to the males he’d met so far, and her fur was comprised of every shade he’d seen on Sholans. A shapeless gray tunic was her only garment. Fearfully, in an outstretched hand, she held a cup of water.

  He took it from her and drank greedily, never taking his eyes off her. She’d instantly backed away from him till she bumped into the table. Her fear-scent became terror. Swinging his legs onto the floor, he attempted to stand but he was too weak.

  “Need medic,” he said clutching the bed for support. Damn, but he was too old for this! He could have taken it in his stride ten years ago—five even, but now …

  “One’s coming,” she stammered, her Sholan almost incomprehensible to him. She began to edge herself along the table till she had put it between them. Scuttling for the door, she crouched there, tail almost touching the floor, ears flat against her skull.

  Why was she, an unprotected female, here? He’d never seen one since he’d been brought here, so why now? Surely they realized they’d handed him a hostage? He put the thought aside as pain stabbed through him, and he was forced to lie down again.

  The door slid open. He saw the female try to rush past the male, only to be thrust back inside by the accompanying officer—one he knew too well.

  “Let me out! You can’t keep me in here!” she yowled. “You didn’t say anything about …”

  The officer backhanded her, sending her spinning against the now closed door. “You’ll do as you’re ordered,” he said coldly. Ignoring her, he followed the medic over to where Kezule lay watching the byplay with vague interest.

  Not a potential hostage, then. She appeared to have no value to them.

  The officer stood over him, listening while the medic reported on the condition of his various cuts and bruises, including hi
s injured ribs. The examination was brisk and efficient, but left him in worse pain.

  “Lucky you decided to be cooperative today, General,” said his interrogator as the medic began bandaging his wrists. “I’m prepared to allow you some analgesics this time.”

  “He’s not going to be mobile for a few hours after they’re administered,” warned the medic. “He needs plenty of fluids, and food, if he can eat. He’ll need nursing. Leave the female to see to him.”

  A whimper of terror from the entrance accompanied the remark. Then he felt a sharp sting on his neck and the pain began to recede. A warm lethargy started to spread through his body. Even his headache was no longer troubling him.

  “Try not to eat the help, Kezule,” the officer drawled as he turned to leave. “The only one to lose will be you. Replacing her would be too inconvenient.”

  Then he was alone with the whimpering female.

  “So this is your grand plan, Rhyaz,” said Raiban, as the Brother and the medic entered the control room. “One terrified female.”

  “She’s more, General,” said Rhyaz, joining her at the viewing area. “She’s been trained by one of the leading Consortia houses. We had hoped to place her inside his room several days ago, but she wasn’t quite ready.”

  “To do what? Whimper? How much training does that take, Rhyaz? Did she know she’d be dealing with a Valtegan?” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “She was fully apprised of the situation, General, and agreed to take part in this experiment,” said Rhyaz. “I wouldn’t feel sorry for her. She’s a convicted murderer, facing the death penalty. This is her chance for a pardon.”

  “You’d release a murderer back into society? Or do you expect her to die during the course of her mission? Who is she anyway?”

  “Keeza Lassah. Of course we hope she won’t die. We’ve invested a lot of time and effort in training her.”

  “What’s the rationale behind this?”

  “Simple. Kezule and his ilk used Sholans as slaves. Putting someone else in with him who is as much a prisoner as he is, someone seen to have far less value to us than he has, may make Kezule react to her as he would to the Sholan slaves he had. He’s had no one to talk to but me for the last five weeks. The isolation doesn’t seem to be affecting him the way it does us, but it must be getting to him. Perhaps the company will at last make his tongue grow loose.”