The child ran off without a word. Prax turned to find Hari watching him curiously.
“Our guide told us your people don’t speak Standard, but I’ve never heard anything like your language.”
“It’s Elliniká. We’ve always spoken it.”
“Language refugees,” Hari said cryptically. “Shouldn’t you get someone to look at that?” He pointed to the wound on Prax’s side.
Prax shrugged and felt the pain the movement brought him. His side hurt more with every moment that passed. “My brother’s injury is much worse.”
The bracelet on Hari’s wrist crackled. “Hari?” the woman’s voice said.
He lifted his hand. “Yeah?”
“I’m coming over.”
Hari frowned. He glanced around at the Elliniká wagons, twisted his lips into a grimace, and then said, “Okay, but Chio comes with you. What about Gutmahn and the guide?”
A throaty chuckle sounded. “Gutmahn is too traumatized to move more than three meters from the hovercraft, and the guide refuses to leave his vehicle unguarded.”
Hari made a face. “Gutmahn’s not very daring for an agent of the House of Trahn.”
She laughed out loud at that. “I don’t pay him to be daring with my money. See you in a second.”
Prax watched as two figures approached from the hovercraft. He was soon able to distinguish the woman from the man, even though she wore trousers, too. Her companion wore the same gray tunic and black boots as Hari. Prax realized they must be in uniform.
They approached at a rapid pace, as if they were in a hurry. Still, Prax had plenty of time to scrutinize his deliverer.
She was petite but walked with a firm, confident step. She wore her glossy black hair much shorter than a woman of the Elliniká would, cropped to her collar. Her dark green blouse, trimmed in elaborate brocade, matched her trousers perfectly. Her shoes struck Prax as wildly impractical, little more than slippers, and she carried a large box by its handle.
“I brought our lunch,” she said as she approached. “I didn’t think they were starving, but on the other hand, we don’t have a medical kit, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to bring food.”
Hari nodded to her. “This is Praxiteles Mercouri, Rishi. He speaks Standard.”
The woman smiled and set down the box. She held out her hand. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances, I don’t think it’s true.”
“Praxiteles Mercouri,” Hari went on with an increased formality in his tone, “may I present to you, the most noble Mistress Rishi Alexandra Trahn, head of the House of Trahn.”
Prax bowed as he shook her hand. He noted as she smiled at him that her eyes were an unusual shade, not so much brown as golden, with darker flecks at the edges of her irises. She seemed very young to hold such a responsible position, probably no older than he was himself. Still, he gave her the same title he would have given the head of a clan. “I am honored, lady.”
She smiled so hard a small dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Don’t let Hari snow you. He gets carried away sometimes.”
Prax had heard of snow, but he had never seen it and didn’t understand the reference. “It was you who bought down the blue lightning, lady?”
“It wasn’t really lightning, but yes, I ordered it from my ship.” She waved a hand skyward. “Up there.”
Prax knew there were ships in orbit around Celadon all the time, but he still couldn’t imagine how they managed to stay up there without falling to the ground. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her dimple reappeared. “I’m glad we were here. Your tribe looked in a bad way.”
Prax felt compelled to correct her. “My clan is the Mercouri,” he said, as gently as he could.
She lifted one slender, arched eyebrow, but she didn’t look offended. “Okay.” She glanced over Prax’s shoulder. “Who is that?”
Prax turned to find Leander Spiridopolus running toward him. The smith was running so fast, he could barely catch his breath.
“Praxiteles!” he blurted out as soon as he came close. He stopped so hastily he had to grab Prax by the shoulder to steady himself.
Prax clenched his jaw, as Leander’s jostling made his wound throb even more. “What is it, Leander?”
The smith bent over, gasping for breath. He gulped out the words. “Vavara was wounded—badly burned. Angela is too weak to help, but she says Vavara might die. Can the strangers’ doctor get here any faster?”
“What’s wrong?” Hari asked.
“His wife was badly burned,” Prax said. “Our healer fears for her life.”
“It could be shock,” Hari said. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some training. Can you tell him to take me to his wife, and I’ll have a look at her?”
Prax outlined the suggestion to Leander, who nodded assenAngelat, and started to pull Hari by one sleeve. “Shall I come with you?” Prax asked.
Hari held up a hand, palm out. “No, thanks. You look like you could fall over any second now. I’ll manage by myself. You stay here in case Mistress Trahn needs any help with the language.” He shouted over his shoulder as he got farther away. “Chio, you’re on.”
Prax looked at the man who waited so unobtrusively behind Mistress Trahn. He was almost as tall as Prax, but more slender, with darker hair, and a cheerful but faintly cynical expression. It occurred to Prax that his job must be to guard her.
“Good heavens!”
Prax jumped at the vehemence in Mistress Trahn’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Hari is right,” she said. “You’re hurt. You should lie down.”
Prax glanced down at his side. More blood had seeped from the burn onto the ruins of his shirt. The wound was beginning to throb in a strange way, as if it were tingling rather than painful. His left arm was almost numb. “I’m all right.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She crooked one finger at the guard. “Take him over to that wagon, Chio. Maybe they’ll have a place where he can sit down.”
“I’m on duty, Mistress.” The guard spoke with deference, but with an underlying tone of determination.
Mistress Trahn rolled her eyes. “Who’s going to attack me out here?”
Chio didn’t move.
“Oh, all right!” She took Prax’s good arm. “Come along, Prax—Praxidullus.”
“Prax-it-ah-lees.” Prax stressed the second syllable. Somehow, it seemed very important that she say his name correctly.
“Praxiteles,” she repeated. “I think you’re going into shock, too.”
Prax allowed himself to be tugged over to his own wagon, the guard trailing behind them both.
“Hello!” Mistress Trahn shouted. “Is anyone in there?”
“My mother doesn’t speak your language,” Prax muttered.
“Your mother?” She looked surprised. “You seem pretty old to live at home, but maybe it’s just as well. How do you say blanket?”
“Blanket.”
She glared at him. “I mean in Elenoki.”
“Elliniká,” he corrected her again.
“Whatever.”
Circe stuck her head and shoulders out of the front of the wagon. “What’s going on? Praxiteles, you look sick.” She stared at the two strangers. “Who are these people?”
“She’s the lady who saved us,” Prax said. For some reason, he felt as if he were swaying. “And she wants a blanket.”
His mother seemed to disappear as she popped back into the wagon. She was back almost instantly with a neatly folded blanket of gray woven bodi wool.
Mistress Trahn took it and draped it around Prax’s shoulders. “There, at least now you can keep warm. I think you should sit down.”
It sounded like a good idea to Prax. He sank to the ground and sat cross-legged.
“Praxiteles,” his mother said. “You’re ver
y pale.”
Prax frowned. A faint humming filled his ears. It grew louder and louder and then a silver shape burst into the sky, shrieking like an injured bodi. It seemed to slow to a halt almost in seconds, and then it set down on the rise near the hovercraft.
“What’s that?” Prax’s mother asked in Elliniká.
“There’s the shuttle,” Mistress Trahn said in city language, unconsciously answering the question. “The doctor will be here in a moment.”
“It’s their ship,” Prax said in Elliniká. And then he passed out.
WHEN Prax came to, he was lying on the ground while a stranger, a young man with a round, pleasant face and a concerned expression, bent over him. Prax smelled something sour and sharp. “What happened?” he said in city language, sitting up slowly.
The young man pulled out of his way. “Nothing to worry about.” His accent was even more pronounced than Hari Ijeomah’s or Mistress Trahn’s. He wore different clothes than the guard named Chio—a plain blue shirt instead of a tunic—but somehow, it still looked like a uniform. He smiled reassurance. “You’ve got a nasty burn on your side, but I’ve given you a treatment for it, and something for the pain. You should be fine now.”
Prax realized his side didn’t hurt him at all. His shirt was gone, and a neat bandage covered his wound. He stretched his left arm experimentally.
“Take it easy,” the stranger said. “Don’t go too fast, but if you’re feeling up to taking a little ride, Dr. Warchovsky could use your help. There’s no one else around to translate but a kid who doesn’t seem to know as many words as you do.”
“Ride?” Prax said, looking around for an alogos. “Why do I need to ride?”
The stranger took his arm and helped Prax to his feet. He lifted one hand in summons, and instantly, a peculiar vehicle shot forward from a nearby crowd of strangers. Smaller than the hovercraft, it floated above the ground in the same way, only without the skirt-like base the larger vehicle had. A woman in a gray tunic rode on it, steering it with a long bar she held in both hands. She had golden hair, worn to her shoulders.
“Hop on,” she said as the vehicle drifted to the ground. “This is called a speeder, but I promise to go slow.”
Gingerly, Prax climbed on behind her. In spite of the fact that he was half naked next to a woman he had never met, he felt compelled to hold tightly to her waist.
She laughed as the vehicle lifted half a meter into the air. “Here we go.”
They moved forward, the woman steering the vehicle swiftly and surely through the tangle of damaged wagons. Prax could see the devastation the brief attack had wrought. Many wagons would be short-teamed for a while, and some of the alogos would have to be put down. People were injured, too. Some burned, some bruised and shaken when their wagons overturned, and a few with broken bones.
They found the doctor in the middle of a small crowd of people laid out on pallets. All of them seemed hurt. Prax saw Nikos among them, but he looked comfortable enough, awake but lying quietly on his stomach. Their father waited beside Nikos’ pallet; Konstantin Zemikis looked uninjured, which reassured Prax considerably.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman, was examining an elderly man Prax recognized as Eugenie’s father. His eyes were closed, and it looked to Prax as if he barely breathed at all.
Hari Ijeomah stood beside the doctor. “Here’s our translator,” he said as Prax’s vehicle approached.
The speeder stopped and set itself down on the ground. Prax climbed off gratefully. “Thank you,” he said to the golden-haired woman driver.
“No problem,” she said.
The doctor had been looking Prax over. She frowned. “He’s wounded, too.”
“I’m fine,” Prax said, self-conscious without his shirt.
“Nakamura,” Hari said to the speeder driver, “where is Mistress Trahn?”
“Back on the shuttle, sir.” The golden-haired woman sat up a little straighter on her now-stationary vehicle. “She seemed to run out of fuel all at once. She wanted to lie down for a bit.”
Hari nodded. “Good. Thanks. Would you see if that last batch of med supplies is still aboard the shuttle?”
“Sure thing, sir.” She lifted a hand in salute and kicked the foot control. The machine lifted at once and sped off much faster than it had gone when Prax rode on it.
“This is Dr. Warchovsky,” Hari said to Prax. “She needs help talking to your clan.”
“He’s hurt,” Dr. Warchovsky repeated, studying Prax’s bandage. “He should be lying down.”
“I feel fine,” Prax said. “The other man in the blue shirt gave me something that made my side not hurt at all.”
Her frown abated only slightly. “Very well. I suppose we have little choice. Am I correct that that woman is this man’s daughter?” She nodded to where Eugenie stood, a few meters away, waiting with her husband beside her and an anxious look on her face.
“Yes,” Prax said. “That is Eugenie the Mercouri, the head of our clan.”
Dr. Warchovsky looked unimpressed at this news. “Very well. Would you please tell her that her father’s lungs and heart are both very damaged. There is little I can do for him except to ease his pain. I doubt very much he’ll live more than a short time.”
Prax took a deep breath. It would be rude to summon Eugenie, particularly to hear such a terrible message. He walked over to where the clan leader stood. “Lady, the doctor has bad news.”
Eugenie took it well. Prax had no time to do more than murmur a polite condolence before the doctor called him again to speak to her other patients. Prax translated for the rest of the afternoon, relating symptoms and questions from the patients and directions from the doctor. When he had time, he spoke to Nikos and his father. His father fetched him a shirt, and then told him that his grandmother and his sister Penelope’s family had survived with only minor injuries, but that Artemis’ husband had been killed. Circe was watching Artemis’ children, so that Artemis’ mother could comfort her. Prax heard the news with dismay. Artemis was almost like another sister to him; their mothers had nursed each other’s children when necessary.
Prax’s father went back to their wagon to see if Circe needed any help. Prax was stumbling from one pallet to the next when Hari pulled him aside. “Take a moment, Mercouri.”
Prax looked around in confusion for Eugenie. It took him a second to realize Hari was addressing him by his clan name. “My name is Praxiteles.”
Hari grinned wearily and pulled him over to a packing crate. “Then take a moment, Praxiteles. If you don’t, you’re going to fall on your face.”
Prax drew in a deep breath. “I’ll be all right.”
Hari pushed down on his shoulder hard enough that Prax sat on the packing crate. “Fine. But sit down. Besides, I want to ask you a few questions.”
Prax blinked. “What questions?”
Hari nodded at an Elliniká who walked past with a rifle on his shoulder. “Where do you folks get your weapons?”
“We make them,” Prax said. “That’s why they’re not as powerful as the ones the bandits steal from the cities.”
“Couldn’t you folks buy the same weapons?’
Prax shook his head. “We couldn’t afford it, even if the city people would sell them to us, which they won’t. Besides, it’s only recently that the outlaws have been able to steal energy weapons. Before that, our own rifles worked well enough to make them keep their distance.”
“Hmmph.” Hari’s expression looked inscrutable. “Our guide told us a little about Gemal and the outlaws. Seems to me it would be worthwhile to get those things out of their hands.”
Prax shrugged. “Who would make them give them up? The cities are too well fortified for the bandits to attack them, and we’re not important to the people in the cities.”
Hari seemed reluctant to give up the argument. He asked Prax a good many
questions about the outlaws and their activities on the plains.
By the time Hari was satisfied, Prax felt quite rested. He followed the doctor around as she made her last rounds, reiterating her instructions to everyone she and her assistants had treated.
Finally, the shadows grew long across the grassland. The red ball of the sun dipped behind the horizon. The Elliniká lit lanterns as the strangers packed up their belongings and loaded them into their ship.
Prax translated as Eugenie reiterated the Mercouri’s thanks to Hari Ijeomah.
“I keep telling you it was all Rishi’s doing,” Hari said. “She gave the orders, and it was her ship that fired those focused energy beams.”
“Eugenie asks that you thank her for us.” Prax repeated his clan leader’s words. “We will hold a feast of thanksgiving tomorrow evening for her. We ask that you all come, especially the lady.”
Hari made a polite but noncommittal answer and strode up the boarding ramp. Prax watched as the shuttle lifted, considerably more quietly than it had landed. He followed its progress through the night sky.
“Thank you, Praxiteles,” Eugenie said.
Prax started. He hadn’t realized she was still beside him. “I only did my duty.”
“I know.” She looked grim, and he remembered that she had lost her father only hours before. “It’s well for us that you recognized your duty better than you recognized right from wrong.”
She walked off, and Prax looked down at the ground in shame. It was seldom that anyone reminded him of his crime these days, after so many years had passed, but whenever they did, he still felt the same wave of guilt wash over him.
His father came up out of the darkness and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let it worry you, Praxiteles. That’s years in the past.”
Prax blinked back tears and told himself he was just tired. “But she hasn’t forgotten.”
“It’s hard for people to forget when your presence here is a reminder,” Konstantin said. “Come and help me carry your brother home before your mother comes looking for us.”
Prax followed him through the crisp night air. The breeze blowing off the plains brought the sweet scent of the night grasses and the faint chirping of the ground burrowers. Prax sighed with fatigue. Not a bad ending for a day that he had thought at one point his clan might not survive.
Worlds Apart (ThreeCon) Page 2