Moving to an empty wall-shelf, he opened the case. Two uncut Earthsuns stuck into a fabric pocket now gleamed golden, picking up Bel’s final rays.
He’d spent the day outside in his old world, in a culture that reviled him. He’d seen and touched his Lady. It had been a good day, better than many he’d had.
The cloak had hidden him from observation, and he’d taken care not to break any spells or stay close to anyone.
He closed the satchel. After one final look around, red tinted his vision and he shook his head, struggling to clear it of wild ideas of vengeance. His body trembled with the urge to lash out at Bucus.
When he sucked in air, the scent of Bucus came again. And anger won. Whirling, he slammed a fist into the wall. Old brick crumbled around his knuckles, pain shot up his arm. He stilled until the sweat beaded on his forehead dried, then withdrew his hand. The cloak caught on shards. He froze. He couldn’t afford to damage the light-bending cape. He lifted the odd cloth bit by bit until it was free and flung the cloak back over his shoulders. He shook his hurt hand and swore. The injury wasn’t as bad as it could have been, the wall was too rotted for that, but it hurt. Once again he’d given in to anger, and once again the only one he had harmed was himself.
“Ruis,” a voice hissed from the doorway. “Ruis Elder.”
Ruis spun, swinging the satchel. A slight form darted into the room and past him to hover by the window.
“Ruis Elder.” A young man of about nineteen grinned at him, showing canine teeth filed to points and gilded with the iridescent Celtan metal of glisten. He jittered with twitchy energy, shifting often, darting glances around. He wore black trous and shirt, cuffed at ankles and wrists, of good material but oversized for his body.
He held up both hands, palm out. “Truce, quarter-septhour?”
Ruis needed to find out how much the youth knew. The boy’s eyes were dark with an edge of something disturbing—madness or viciousness or desperation.
“You want to talk to me?” Ruis kept his voice low and menacing.
Light flashed off teeth again. “Watched you, before you caught.” He spoke the rough short-speech of Downwind. Twitching his shoulders, he cocked his head toward the open door. Glisten-capped teeth spoke of a triad—three boys linked by the Flair of them all into one mind, functioning as one person. And the unstable triads ran with gangs.
Ruis had never tangled with a triad and wondered how his Nullness would affect them. Would there be some sort of reverberating shock? Or would he break the triad bond?
Nerves and discomfort bordering on paranoia showed in the youth’s rattled state. With T’Ash’s new Downwind youth centers, the gangs were slowly dissolving. Testing for Flair was common now, and the young men were being directed into careers. Only the worst gangs remained.
“Heard you banished, but didn’t think you coward to leave.” The youth smiled with more amusement now, and Ruis liked it even less. “Didn’t think fliggering nobles scare you. Hee, hee, hee,” he wheezed. “Watched this old hidey. Heard you. Came.”
“Who—” Ruis started.
Loud male voices interrupted. “Did you see where the kid went? Let’s check the Null’s old place again.”
There came the sound of spitting. “Those rooms stink!”
A rumble of laughter answered. “Yeah, noble piss don’t smell no better than any other.”
The other man snorted. “Imagine wanting to do that to your nephew’s place. I can’t stand the stench.”
“Huh! We’re gettin’ paid to watch the building. I saw the kid come in.”
“The kid is just a kid. There’s no sign of him now, prob’ly got his own burrow somewhere else in this lousy building.”
The boy swore under his breath and swung out the window into the courtyard. Ruis gathered his cloak around him and settled into a crouch, one odd shape among many. Cold air poured in from the open window.
Loud steps paused outside the threshold. “See? Nothin’ there. Can’t figure out why T’Elder’d think the Null bastard would return. Nothin’ for him here.”
“Pew! Almost puts me off my feed.”
“Yeah, it’s time for dinner, awright.” Lips smacked.
“Come on!”
“I want some clucker with noodles.”
“You always want noodles, but I’ll let ya have some if we play Dice later.”
The other snorted. “Your gamblin’s gonna get you in trouble someday, Sloegin.”
The footsteps faded from the hall.
Ruis waited until silence shrouded the building before standing, then slipped from his old apartment into the alleys. If Bucus’s bully-boys found him before the guards, Ruis would disappear quietly and permanently. He’d fight and die before he fell helpless into his uncle’s hands again.
Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. Danger from the guards. Danger from his uncle. And now danger from the youth. But Ruis was willing to bet that the teen would be known to the guardsmen, too. A chill slithered down Ruis’s spine, cooling his ire. He’d never quite figured out why Bucus had wanted him dead.
The sun had set and the afterglow was fading. Ruis rubbed his jaw. He saw no signs of the two other young men who were linked to the teenager who’d spoken to him. The youngster’s flight bespoke a criminal wariness. Ruis vividly recalled how it felt to be young and nervous and hunted. His first year on the streets of Downwind at fourteen was imprinted on his brain in horrible vignettes that could still sweat him awake.
The satchel with the T’Birch necklace and gems bumped against his leg. The necklace was the last of his thefts. The emeralds had been useless in focusing his reconstructed lazer. Now all he wanted to do was restore them to the Birches.
His mouth tightened as he thought of D’Birch and her lies at his trial. The Birches had voted for his death. His gut burned.
Think of something else. Something pleasant. D’SilverFir came to mind and his temper dissipated as he recalled the silky mass of her hair under his fingers, her skin pale and beautiful and soft, how her body had relaxed and yielded under his hands. Without trying he could remember her scent, her lovely features, and the thrill of knowing his touch was welcome. Not flinched from, not endured, but welcomed. There was a true Lady, a woman of honor and integrity, one who cared about others. He’d learned that much when he’d listened to her decisions in JudgmentGrove.
Holm Holly had watched her for a septhour in the Grove, noticing her as a woman. Holly could be looking for a wife. Ailim D’SilverFir would be high on any noble’s list as a good alliance. Ruis sucked in cooling air.
But she’d been aware of Ruis. He knew she’d sensed him when he’d dispelled her Flair, and he knew she’d liked his company.
Ruis draped the cowl over his head and made sure he was covered before stepping out of the alley.
Six
Samba bumped into him. She hissed and batted a paw at his boots, leaving new scratches on them. Ruis grimaced.
I don’t like this cloak. Hard to see you. Have to smell for you, and smells around here are not good.
Ruis noted the odors of rotten garbage, urine, and vomit. He’d lived amongst those smells most of his life. The recollection of the metal odor of the Ship hit him with a longing for cleanliness, privacy, and safety.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Let’s go PLAY, Samba corrected, turning to prance down the cracked sidewalk. In the Ship. Much to explore. I went back and Ship said it found the problems with sound. She sniffed. We will listen to noises, then Ship will make awful feeling go away.
“An experiment,” Ruis said, cheered at the idea of a little scientific work. He rubbed his hands.
Look under My collar.
He bent down and stroked her. She purred. He saw nothing under her collar, but his fingertips tingled as he touched the same scale-like substance of his cloak. He tugged. Two pieces of cloth flashed, then vanished as they hit the ground.
Samba delicately lifted something up with her teeth. Ruis took it and pull
ed it through his hand since he was having trouble seeing it. “Gloves.”
“Yessssss.” She picked up the other one and gave it to him. He donned them. They sagged around his fingers and the length was almost too short. The previous owner—the last Captain?—must have had wider, more workmanlike hands.
Ruis and Samba passed through a series of parks on the way to the Ship.
I went to your old place, like you said. Samba sniffed again. Ruis had heard that her Sire, Zanth, was prone to sinus problems; he wondered if Samba was, too. It was a hole. I have never lived in such a place. Looked bad. Smelled bad. Felt—
Ruis winced. “I’m a Null, Samba, without Flair. I lived where people would let me pay good gilt for holes.”
Samba stopped and looked up at him. Flair interesting, she meowed matter-of-factly, but sometimes puts My hair on end. She lifted her nose and flicked her tail back and forth. No more living in holes. Now We have Ship.
“Yes.” They’d walked through a shabby Downwind park, through one middle-class grove with play areas, and were traversing a long, thin green in “noble country” that would lead to Landing Park. Between bare branches, Ruis saw the bright lights from the multistoried castles—noble Residences.
Silence broken by the sounds of nightwings and insects, the rustling of dry leaves and the soft sound of a brook, enveloped them. No one was out in the darkening night. Everyone else was with Family or friends or even strangers in taverns. He was alone again. As always. And now lonelier than ever before, since he’d known D’SilverFir’s smile. He wished the D’SilverFir Residence was on his way to the Ship.
Samba snuffled beside him and his spirits lifted. He wasn’t alone. He had Samba, his Fam. He had the Ship, his home.
Ailim sat behind her desk in the ResidenceDen, staring impassively at her aunt Menzie. Ailim needed to discover the name of her enemy and what plots might endanger the SilverFirs. She felt just as much a judge as if she were hearing a case. A nasty tang coated her mouth. She shouldn’t have to judge Family—and find them wanting.
Aunt Menzie sat ramrod straight across from her with bright spots of color on her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed and she sneered.
“I saw you at JudgmentGrove,” Ailim said.
Menzie’s face went blank as if disconcerted. Now Ailim had the advantage. Menzie hadn’t been smart enough to realize Ailim had spotted her.
“You are wrong,” Menzie said.
“No, I’m not. I must insist that you tell me who you met.”
“Don’t take that tone of voice with me! I met no one. I wasn’t near the grove. How dare you call me a liar.”
Ailim opened her shields, but no emotions or thoughts came from Menzie. Wisping out tendrils of Flair, Ailim still couldn’t sense anything from Menzie, who until now broadcast with a ferocity that gave Ailim headaches.
Since probing was futile, Ailim concentrated on the odd, low hum with Flair-distorting waves that came from Menzie. The strange effects emanated from the center of Menzie’s thin chest where something looked lumpy under her bodice. An amulet—something darkly powerful, not like the useless cheaptin crowns that never blocked Ailim’s Flair.
Ailim concentrated on the fetish. Demons whispered in her ear that she would fail, fail, fail and the Family would shatter and the Residence would be lost—her deepest fears. Terror grabbed at her, spiking high, making her breath stick in her throat, slicking a fine film over the nape of her neck.
She snatched back her awareness and built additional barricades until she received nothing on the psychic plane from the malefic charm. But she trembled. Menzie’s eyes held malice and her lips went from sneer to smirk.
Ailim was tired of confrontations, all the balancing she needed to do to keep the Family together, but she couldn’t let that show. She straightened her spine. For simple pleasure, she nudged her feet beneath Primrose snoring under the desk.
“The new amulet you wear is a bane,” Ailim said.
Menzie looked shocked, her hand fluttered to her chest.
“A Family heirloom,” Menzie said with stiff lips.
“I don’t think so. It reeks of newness.” And was tuned to specifically block Ailim’s Flair and project negative energy.
“You can’t know—” Menzie snapped her mouth shut.
Ailim was too tired to do anything but show a polite mask. “Which heirloom?”
Menzie’s lower lip protruded.
“I don’t like playing these games. ResidenceLibrary, list the Family heirlooms in Menzie’s possession,” Ailim ordered.
The strong female voice of an ancestor answered Ailim. “The emerald beads carved like pinecones; the ancient gold pin in the shape of an evergreen with jeweled ornaments—”
“Enough!” Menzie ordered.
The ResidenceLibrary stopped. Menzie lifted her chin, color still blotched her cheeks. “The amulet is an heirloom of my late husband’s Family.”
“Ah. You don’t lie well, you shouldn’t try.”
“I’m not lying.” She shifted in her seat.
“No?” Ailim frowned, trying to determine how dangerous the fetish and Menzie could be. “Please give the amulet to me.”
“No.”
Ailim gathered her Flair, feeling her braids lift. Psi action against a Family member wasn’t easy.
“No!” Menzie clutched at the piece again. “The fetish is a gift to me and I value it. You can’t take it from me. Try and I will cry abuse to the NobleCouncil. You don’t want our quarrels to become public, do you?”
Ailim had already decided that she didn’t right now, but couldn’t let Menzie know that, couldn’t back down. “If our quarrels become public, you have more to lose than I. We will all lose.”
Menzie tossed her head, looking for an instant like her daughter Cona. “I don’t believe that. You exaggerate everything—the debt, the danger, even your silly feelings about my new charm—just to make yourself more important. I knew you were too young and immature to be GrandLady. The Council won’t take the estate from us. It’s not done.”
Ailim gritted her teeth.
Menzie stood and walked to the door, sneering again. “You can’t take the amulet from me.”
“Perhaps not. But I can confine you to your room if you insist on wearing it. And I can dock fifty pieces of gilt a day from your housekeeping salary until you give the charm to me. ResidenceLibrary, note the reduction and forward the information to Donax to take into account for the budget.”
“Done,” said ResidenceLibrary.
“You can’t!” screeched Menzie.
“I can. No matter how young and immature you think I am, I am in charge of the Family and our finances. Complain to the Council if you want. Residence housing and wages given to Family members for their services are at my discretion. Further, I can prove that you have been derelict in your duties. The carpet in this room, for instance, hadn’t been cleaned in some time.”
Menzie stared down at the carpet with a puzzled expression.
“As I told Cona, should you care to move from D’SilverFir Residence and set up your own household—” Ailim started.
“You can’t make me. You wouldn’t dare.” Menzie trembled with fury. “This is my home.”
“Which we will lose if we don’t work together.”
Menzie whipped the door open. “I don’t believe you.”
“Leave the amulet on my desk when you’ve decided it’s too expensive a bauble to keep,” Ailim said, her voice cool though a hot wave of frustration swept through her.
The door slammed behind Menzie, making Ailim’s incipient headache bloom into full pain.
Ailim locked the door with a Word and let her head rest on the chair back. Primrose whimpered in her sleep and Ailim stopped a sigh of exhaustion and futility from breaking free.
She didn’t know how she would cope with the Family. The Council had granted the loan because the SilverFirs were a FirstFamily, but should the Family splinter, there was no reason to let them keep the Residence a
nd the estate. She could fend for herself, but she’d have to live with her failure.
How could she deal with the problem of the amulet? Confining her aunt to her room was a stopgap measure. Ailim sensed that destroying the horrible thing would take energy and skill, skill that she didn’t have, nor did she have gilt to pay a master to disarm or destruct the fetish. That left an alliance, and with D’SilverFir as the beggar again.
Her head pounded. Her muscles had tightened into knots once more. No one would come here to soothe and massage her, not even the outcast Ruis Elder.
Ruis Elder—a Null who could handle the amulet without harm. Ailim had already promised to look into his case—something simple justice demanded—but perhaps he could help her. If she could get the amulet away from Menzie. If she could locate Ruis.
She rolled her tense neck and shoulders. His long fingers and stroking hands weren’t here to ease her turmoil, nor was his tender touch that assured her that she was valued and cherished. The loneliness hurt worse than her head or her body.
She picked up Primrose and buried her face in soft puppy fur.
The next morning Ruis and the Ship designed a psychology program to help him rid himself of the fury at being born a natural outcast. The procedure included interactive role-playing with various Celtan models—a brutish supervisor, the Petty guardsman, a haughty GraceLord. Ruis was pleased that he managed his anger as often as he failed the exercises. But he preferred the other portion of the program—hard work and anger diversion into the mental challenge of restoring Earth objects.
That afternoon, he studied the Ship’s blueprints in his workroom. On a side table was his latest project, a nano-assembler the Ship was teaching him to repair.
“We’ve repaired and reprogrammed all our stellar-solar collecting skincells for better efficiency,” Ship said.
Ruis smiled. He was getting used to the Ship speaking in the plural. When asked, Ship stated it was an amalgam of departments integrated to communicate with him.
“We request further orders.”
“List priorities,” he said.
Heart Thief Page 10