Melin automatically broke free from Zhoki, panic transforming into threat and attack now as she drew her dirk awkwardly with her left hand and switched it to her functioning right hand.
There were ten of them, armed with rusty blades—one had an iron poker—and Zhoki stepped forward, shouting something and pointing at Melin.
The entire courtyard erupted.
Screams, thrashing bodies, movement.
Melin stepped further away from Zhoki and found a solid wall against one of the stone shops.
No guns.
Just bladed weapons and the guards’ crossbows.
The crossbows that were pointed toward the men instead of her. The guards had positioned themselves in front of Zhoki—and her—and were shouting a single word at the men.
The men who had stopped turned and were now fending themselves off from rocks thrown by the angry women in the crowd.
The crowd that was not attacking either her or the mayor.
The women had headed off the group of men, throwing rocks and baskets and fruit and bread and shouting the same word Zhoki and his guards had cried. The men cringed against the stones and tried to break away from the women, pressing back against Melin and Zhoki.
She gripped her dirk tighter, preparing to run the first man through.
Someone touched her upper arm, and she turned, nearly taking off Zhoki’s hand.
“We must move out of the way,” the mayor said unperturbed. “Through this shop and out the back.”
One of the guards had already broken from the front and stood at the shop’s door, beckoning frantically. Zhoki ran toward him.
Melin followed, tripping as the skirt hemmed at her knees and ankles, preventing her from running. The other guard followed, shuffling backward, her crossbow pointed down but ready to fire.
The store clerk gaped at them as they entered, shouting at the obstruction, but still pointing toward the rear of the shop.
The rear door opened into an alleyway. One guard ran out first, scanned the dark street, and motioned for them to follow. Melin ran after, coughing at the horrid smell. They slowed at the alley’s end before entering a main street. Melin paused to slash a slit up her skirt. The sudden freedom of movement almost made her forget the pinch of her slippers.
The rear guard gave her a nudge, and Melin picked up the pace to follow Zhoki and the point guard.
“What was that all about?” Melin asked as they jogged along backstreets and alleys, one guard ahead and one behind. She regretted turning off her mic, debated turning it on and decided against it. She’d have to sheathe the dirk, and she wanted something to defend herself with in case the group of attackers returned or Zhoki and his guards turned on her.
“Common enough.” He spoke easily despite their pace. “The men made you for an offworlder and wanted trouble. This is precisely why bringing you here was a bad idea.”
“Why was the crowd defending us?”
“They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves,” he replied. “No one want to anger the IASS. The last time an offworlder died, the IASS firebombed the lower east quarter. Three hundred twenty-seven people died. More were injured, many permanently disabled.”
There was no appropriate response to that.
After several blocks they slowed to a walk, Melin limping slightly from a blister forming on her little toe, determined the pain would not slow her down.
Melin was completely lost. There was nothing in the area at all beyond an empty street with broken two-story buildings clustered together with a person breadth of space between them. Most of the lower stories had boarded up windows with funny graffiti scrawled everywhere. What windows that weren’t boarded or shuttered had been broken, and her feet crunched along old glass and smooshed on squishy things she did not want to identify. The smells from the streets indicated the city had no indoor plumbing or functioning sewage system.
The oddity at the marketplace hit her at last.
“There were no electronic shops at the market,” she said, falling into Standard. “There was no electricity at all. Or any other tech.”
One of the guards snorted.
“We do not use such things,” Zhoki said. “The IASS doesn’t allow us access to your technology. Not that we’d accept it. It’s faulty and doesn’t work. Our ways are better. Were better.”
Before Melin could question further, they rounded another turn, and they were in front of the mayor’s compound.
Chapter Twelve
Melin lost track of the twists and turns, but she thought they were in one of the deserted sections of the city. She shook her head, trying to forget she’d once had a perfect compass integrated in her brain, focusing instead on the strange concept of a mayor walking throughout a city with only two lightly armed guards.
She hadn’t seen any others at the marketplace who would have been shadowing him, no flit of shadow at the edges of her vision—and she didn’t think she was that out of practice, even without an implant augmenting her sensory perceptions. Certainly no one had swooped from the edges of the marketplace to save them from that mob.
She didn’t recognize any of the landmarks before they arrived at the mayor’s house and mentally kicked herself for not paying more attention on the ride over.
The gates opened before they had crossed the street and closed once they were inside, isolating them from the outside city. The flowers and freshly swept pavers were a stark contrast to the grime and poverty of the streets. She wondered if Zhoki actually left his comfortable compound or if he preferred to stay safely inside, pretending to rule and peace and prosperity.
“Your escort will not be here for another hour, csira,” Zhoki said, drawing her attention. His tone was overly polite as if they had merely returned from a refreshing stroll through a well-maintained park. “Would you like tea?”
“Please.” The concept of tea from an enemy after their marketplace misadventure seemed like a small form of torture by etiquette, never mind that her throat was parched from the hot dry air and the running.
She felt like shit. She looked like shit. What hair not plastered to her head was tangled and falling out of her bun. Sweat dripped down her spine, the backs of her knees, and at her temples in annoying trickles. And her feet hurt from the damned too-small slippers.
She wanted a shower and a glass of water, not tea and false pleasantries.
She wanted Dar’Tan and his squad of super-responsive soldiers to hurry their asses up and pick her up. Two distinct pieces of metal and plastic pressed against her chest, poking at her boobs with obnoxious intensity. She rubbed her chest, separating the shards of the mic further apart. She had no idea when it had been crushed.
One of the guards stepped forward, gesturing for her give him the dirk. She handed it over, feeling naked and defenseless.
No communication, and now no weapon.
They entered the main house. A servant took her borrowed robe at the door and vanished unobtrusively. Melin looked around the foyer with interest, trying to take her mind off how alone she was.
The house was deceptively small—at least, that was her impression from the spaces they walked through—and very old yet well maintained. Leafy green ferns and trees were planted in pots along the main hallway, and the floors were covered in worn but clean rugs of twisting and elegant patterns. A battered mosaic was tiled into one of the walls, a continuation of the geometric twists and turns of the rugs.
They ducked through a curtain and entered what Melin assumed was a living room or parlor, judging by the floor cushions, low couches and a long, knee-high table composed of a rich red wood.
A thin, tall woman wearing green skirts, a pale-green tunic, and many scarves stood up from a nest of cushions with a tinkle of metallic jewelry, leaving a book forgotten on the low table. Her pinched face eased as she greeted Zhoki with obvious relief, although her gaze flicked to Melin.
Zhoki murmured softly in the common dialect, and the woman stepped away to vanish through
a side doorway. There was a noise like a handclap, followed by the clanking and clanging of metallic objects.
“Please, sit.” Zhoki waved toward the table.
Melin eased gingerly onto a cushion. Everything about the tiny room had been well cared for and mended over years of use. The couches had many darns and patches, and the cushion she sat on had some lumps as if it had been stuffed and restuffed several times in its life. There were no paintings on the walls, but there was one thin tapestry someone had flipped around to show the backing. Melin had a sneaking suspicion it betrayed Zhoki’s other allegiance.
The woman reentered, a man following her carrying a wooden tray.
“Csira, my wife, Hathan,” Zhoki said in Standard. The woman raised an eyebrow, and he pattered something to her silent inquiry in Saturan. Melin caught north, hrathi, and quiet.
She turned to Melin, eyes accusing above a welcoming smile. “Rumors are true, then,” Hathan said in halting Standard. She did not offer to shake Melin’s hand. “Where are you from, csira?”
“Hwesta,” Melin said in Standard. “A small planet on the outer rim. Far from here.”
“Hm.” Hathan sat on a cushion at the end of the table away from her husband, forcing Melin to divide her gaze between the two of them.
The servant placed the tray in the middle of the table and retreated to a corner of the room, hands clasped before him.
“Why did you come here? Did you not find happiness in your other home? This is not a good place, and we do not want more trouble.” Hathan poured tea from a copper-colored pot into three metal cups as she spoke. She wore rings on every finger, and the many bangles about her wrists tinkled and clanked with every movement and indicated her prosperity—greater than everyone else Melin had seen in the city.
When she finished pouring, she pushed a cup toward Melin, nearly upsetting the liquid onto the wooden table. To Melin’s dismay their tray held no accompanying food. She had forgotten breakfast that morning. Had it only been that morning?
“I—I was looking for answers,” Melin admitted. She felt like she had whiplash. The truth came out freely, but it wasn’t like she had anything to hide.
“Answers to what?” Zhoki asked. He and his wife shared a long glance.
“It’s a long story.”
“So, you are not here to be a spy for your masters?” Hathan asked sharply.
“Hathan,” Zhoki warned. She countered in Saturan, clearly refusing to be silenced.
Before Zhoki returned fire, Melin snapped, “No. I am not a spy. I’m not suited for it. Obviously.”
Hathan stilled, then turned to face her. There was something undecipherable flickering in her eyes, and Melin realized she had spoken in the Old Tongue for the first time since their introduction. The words had come freely, the switch unprompted and unnoticed until that moment.
Without turning to face her husband, Hathan asked a question, which was followed by a long, slow answer Hathan absorbed with head bowed and lips pursed.
“I suggest you return to your old home, wherever that is,” Hathan said in Standard, her voice tight. “Your being here will cause nothing but pain and suffering to the people of Veskie, who want nothing more than to live in peace.”
“The marketplace was anything but peaceful.” Melin regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.
“We want all offworlders gone,” Hathan replied, leaning forward. “You most of—"
Zhoki tapped a finger on the table in warning.
Hathan hissed, anger in her eyes as she berated him, gesturing at Melin as she spoke in clipped Saturan. Zhoki listened for a moment before tapping sharply on the table again, pointing at his chest and then at his ear. Hathan stopped, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists on the table. Her lips pursed in a thin line.
“It is best that you leave,” Zhoki told Melin. She half-rose, and he shook his head. “Not now. Your escort hasn’t returned. Leave on the shuttle. Go offworld.”
“Why?” Melin asked.
“You do not want to know,” Hatha snapped. With another snarl of incomprehensible words, she stood, glared down at her husband, and left, skirts flipping about her calves.
Melin stared after her.
She wasn’t sure what game Zhoki played, acting with both sides—although who the other side was remained a mystery. A generic Saturan resistance? Something else? Surely something that unnerved his wife and everyone else who had hinted at the dangerous them. A them who would be interested in Melin for reasons unknown. Regardless, it was clear that while Zhoki may treat with both sides, Hathan was decidedly against any assistance from or to the IASS.
A slow anger, beginning with the horrific clothing and building throughout the day, felt like it was going to explode inside her. If Zhoki didn’t tell his people, Hathan certainly would.
The entire outing had been a complete and utter failure. She had known it would be, but being in the courtyard, being instantly recognized as an offworlder and being attacked and running away, had only proved it beyond a doubt. Offworlders were not welcome on Satura.
Hells, she didn’t need this pointless outing to tell her that.
So, what was the point of this venture?
“Your people will be here in twenty minutes,” Zhoki said, lapsing into the Old Tongue. He pointed at her chest. “Shame about your glichi.”
Melin fought the urge to touch her chest. Interesting he had known it was broken. She didn’t remember being pushed up against anyone or anything hitting her chest, which was even more interesting.
Another thought occurred to her. “Where did you learn to speak Standard?” she asked. “What schools are there here?”
Zhoki snorted and took a long, slow sip of his tea. “Like we wouldn’t learn the language of our oppressors over the generations.”
Melin peered into her own cup. Of course. Of course Zhoki and his household would be proficient, if not fluent. The guards had had no problems understanding her slips into Standard even if they had only spoken in Saturan. It shouldn’t have been surprising since the IASS had incorporated the world for two hundred years and had had a presence before that. The IASS and the Saturans might avoid one another, but it was obvious they would learn the language of their conqueror and pretend to not understand.
“It’s not poisoned,” Zhoki said, misinterpreting her expression.
Melin winced and put the cup to her lips, wishing for the thousandth time in forever that she had her implant. She pretended to take a drink and set the cup down.
“Why does my being here change anything?” Melin asked. If they had a couple minutes of continued forced interactions, she might has well try to get some answers. “Is it because I am part Saturan?”
Zhoki shrugged, his body language neutral. “Partly.”
“Who is it you are afraid of?” she asked.
“I fear no one.” His lips curled. “And you will not get more answers from me, csira-hrathi. I am loyal to my people.”
She grinned. “I know that. And yet you protected me in the marketplace.”
His fists, which had been clenched about his cup, opened, palm wide. “I wish no more attention on myself or the city.”
“Attention from the IASS or your people?”
Zhoki stared at her in silence, any remnant of his benevolent humor gone.
Before he replied, a servant entered and whispered something into his ear. Zhoki hummed.
“Your escorts are here.” He uncrossed his legs in an elegant motion to stand. Melin copied him not as smoothly.
She followed him out the room—the servant vanishing through another doorway—and into the courtyard.
She caught sight of her party as she followed behind Zhoki, and her stomach dropped. Major Dar’Tan, Sorem, and company stood outside the hovercar, postures stiff. Each carried a stunner at the ready and faced off against two guards who stood in front of the doorway in obstinate silence.
Everyone relaxed as she appeared behind Zhoki, and she made her
way toward her people, trying not to limp. It was a rather small blister, for all the pain it caused.
“We thank you, Zhoki,” Sorem said, exchanging a bow with the mayor. “Was it successful?”
Zhoki shook his head, his manners transforming into the meek man from earlier. The metamorphosis was fascinating. “She was immediately identified.”
The IASS crew nodded, looking frustrated. “Again, thanks,” Sorem said, although her tone conveyed nothing of the sort. She held out a small cloth bag that clinked as it exchanged hands.
Melin frowned. So Zhoki got paid for shuttling her about and getting her involved in a marketplace brawl? Interesting, although it shouldn’t have been surprising.
“Ready?” Major Dar’Tan asked.
Melin opened her palm in a spacer’s yes.
Zhoki turned toward her and stepped forward, keeping his meek posture as he gave her a slight bow, then looked her in the eyes. His gaze was hard, a counterpoint to his submissive stance. “For all our sakes, leave,” he murmured, in Saturan.
“Not without explanation,” she replied.
“I hope you will not have the misfortune.” He stepped back, and said, louder, in Standard, “The lady is well, no harm came to her.” Melin was a tad surprised at the promotion from woman to lady.
Zhoki stepped away, and the conversation shifted briefly to talk of taxes, operations, diplomacy, and other things that bored her to tears and drove her mind to the throbbing in her feet and the damn mic still biting into her chest.
They left soon after. Melin was shuffled into the car: Sorem contriving to sit directly across from her, Dar’Tan frowning and sitting to Sorem’s left. Elihu sat beside Melin.
As soon as the doors closed and they cleared the courtyard, the three turned to her with eager anticipation.
“So,” Sorem said. “What did you learn?”
“That I don’t speak the right dialect and that I can’t pass as a Saturan, so nothing you didn’t already know,” Melin replied, not bothering to drown the sarcasm into something polite. She leaned forward, finding a channel for her anger at last. She reached inside her blouse and dumped the pieces of the mic into Sorem’s lap. “I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish, but without Zhoki and his guards, I wouldn’t have survived. There was a full-on mob as soon as I arrived. The attitude toward offworlders is nothing short of hostile.” She made eye contact with each of them before continuing. “The people in the city are starving. Zhoki’s house was the most profitable I saw. Someone besides the IASS is padding his purse, but it’s not like he was going to go right out say who. His social cues said he was more afraid of them than he was us. Something needs to be done. We can’t just let these people live like this. No sewer. No tech. No net?”
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