INTERLUDE
The Watcher stirred.
There were others holding vigil here, connected by the most tenuous of links, valued for their endurance and commitment.
Theirs was the most sacred task of any Clan: to taste the messages reflecting through the M’hir, to warn of any intrusion, to guard against contamination.
To watch.
This Watcher had tasted many things in the M’hir over the long years. Most had been the threads of energy left by Clan as they pushed themselves, their thoughts, or objects from one place to another, some the fierce brilliance traced by the temporary links between mother and offspring, the longer-lasting ones between Joined pairs, each fading into the network of pathways which those of lesser strength used as they journeyed. A few had been the danger they all sought, flickering touches tasting of metal and technology, everything feared and loathsome to the Clan. And speedily dealt with, whenever found.
This taste was familiar, yet not; recognized, yet momentarily disbelieved. The flavor of the daughter of di Sarc waned as though fading, dissolving in the M’hir—impossible in one so powerful.
The Watcher prepared her message. It was her duty to inform of loss in the M’hir, not to prevent it. The death of Sira di Sarc must be announced to the one on Council most affected: the head of her House, Jarad di Sarc. Sira’s loss would mean changes to his plans; Clanlike, that he was Sira’s father mattered not at all. What concerned Jarad, as it would any Clan, was power, its existence and potential. The loss of Sira meant the loss of her doubtless gifted progeny, should any Clansman at all be found her match.
Such things were not the concern of Watchers.
Wait.
At the limits of possibility, coalescence into form, survival.
The message was shunted to memory, unsent. The Watcher turned her attention elsewhere, vigilant and unsleeping.
Chapter 9
. . . I ALLOWED myself to materialize. Rael was no fool—even if she traced my path, she’d know she could never last so long in the M’hir. I almost hadn’t, despite Morgan’s memories of this place. Shaking my thoughts free of the journey, I staggered and reached one hand to hold on to the smooth pink wall. Pink?
“Greetings, Mystic One.”
I peered down at the two identical Drapsk in front of me, their plumes fluttering, but otherwise not obviously surprised to see me. “I’ve decided to accept your invitation after all,” I announced, finding it strangely difficult to catch my breath. “If you still want a Mystic One to bring home.”
More fluttering, this time accompanied by a loud sucking noise as both Drapsk inhaled most of their mouth tentacles. “Wonderful, wonderful,” they said together, having exhaled the tentacles. “We’ll take you to our Captain.”
“. . . med-tech? . . .” I countered, unsure if I managed that aloud, knowing the cost of my journey through the M’hir as a warm wetness grew under the fingers still pressed to my belly and I began sinking to the floor.
You’ll never find Morgan, Rael, was my last conscious thought. Not while I live.
I hadn’t planned to stay on the Drapsk ship a moment longer than it took to regain the strength to leave, to follow Morgan, and elude Rael. While this was a schedule I didn’t share with my new hosts, it was also, according to the Drapsk med, one I was unlikely to keep.
“How long do I have to stay in there?” I eyed the med unit with a sinking feeling. Surreptitiously, I tried stretching my abdomen and felt only a sensation of tightness. Of course, the Drapsk had dosed me thoroughly with pain medication after replacing the blood-soaked medplas. The being had been reassuringly confident about dealing with humanoid physiology—something I took on faith. “Are you sure I need this?”
The Drapsk, whose appearance differed from the Captain’s only in the diagnostic scope dangling from a lower mouth tentacle, rocked back and forth with a pleased croon. “Quite sure, O Mystic One. As for how long, I must observe how well you respond. Perhaps only a few hours. Perhaps a day or two. Are you ready?”
I glanced around the room; if there were any answers or signs here, they were well-hidden. Except for the med unit and the scope the Drapsk held, I could be anywhere on the Drapsk ship, the Makmora. Her appearance might have been deliberately designed to fool the senses—humanoid senses, at least, I corrected to myself. Her pale pink interior lacked any marks or variation. Both corridors and rooms were softly lit, either for my benefit or because the Drapsk possessed vision despite their lack of obvious eyes.
There was little to see. Any equipment, including the ominous rectangle of the med unit and its cocoon, was lodged inside cupboards until needed, cupboards with doors that only showed when a Drapsk activated them. I thought of the med’s infirmary as a room for my own reference, but it, like others I’d passed on the way here, was more as though the walls of the corridors cooperatively bulged at random to allow floor space for clusters of Drapsk activity.
Forget privacy. More than a dozen Drapsk had quietly passed by during the med’s examination and treatment of me, on their way to tasks elsewhere. Each gave a dip of their feathery purple antennae my way, either polite acknowledgment or curiosity.
Mystic. I looked down at the Drapsk’s blank globe of a face, unable to keep a frown from my own. “You must know from your scans of me that—”
“You are not a Ram’ad Witch?” The being’s fleshy red tentacles blossomed out in a ring that could mean polite disagreement, personal affront, or an extreme of joy, its right hand ready to catch the scope as it came free in what looked like a reflex. I wished I’d paid more attention to Morgan’s vistapes on the species, then realized I was likely wrong on all counts when the Drapsk tipped his plumes to softly stroke the back of my hand—a gesture I did know meant profound gratitude. “Drapsk know the true nature of things, Mystic One. The Ram’ad Witches are a lie accepted by their kind. You, as all on this ship know for truth, are a rare and magical being, forced to coat your power with that lie in order to survive.”
A touch melodramatic, but closer to the reality of my life than I liked. I hesitated as the Drapsk indicated the cocoon with one small hand, not ready to relinquish consciousness just yet. “How do you sense this truth about me, Med?”
“Oh, the Scented Way holds the truth, Mystic One.”
Huido Maarmatoo’kk, Morgan’s huge Carasian friend and now mine, used a sense he called smell to detect a being’s grist, a characteristic with a confusingly vague resemblance to what I would sense as Talent. I was reasonably certain what he meant had nothing in common with mammalian olfaction, but Huido could tell quite remarkable things about those with mental abilities. Not bad for a creature whose thoughts registered as a painful maelstrom to even a cautious touch. Perhaps these odd little Drapsk possessed a similar sense. Great, I said to myself with disgust, glaring at the oh-so-helpful med. So much for secrets among this lot. Caution would be in order until I knew more.
But first came a rare amount of trust. I looked at the cocoon and sighed, then let the Drapsk help me recline on its surface. His antennae drooped toward me with a slight quiver, as though the Drapsk relied on his own senses as much as the scope in his hand. Lying back left me short of breath, a symptom I couldn’t very well dispute. The Drapsk med had been equally convincing. While he couldn’t say exactly what had been done to me, not knowing how Clan physiology differed from humanoid standard, he confirmed someone had performed surgery on my reproductive organs. I must allow my body to heal or pay the price.
As the price was remaining vulnerable and of no use to Morgan, I had no choice. When the lid came down and servo-handling arms bestirred themselves with a most alarming number of needlelike points interested in my anatomy, I ordered myself to stop trembling. It would only be a safe, undisturbed rest. My mental shields did not need my conscious direction to keep me hidden from prying Clan. Warm gel began pooling along my bare skin.
“Will I dream?” I asked the med, perhaps a confusing question. I didn’t know if Drapsk dreamed or, come
to think of it, if they slept.
“If it’s needed,” came a soft, equally confusing answer.
I wished I could count on a dream to show me what I needed: where Morgan was and how I could bring him back to me before it was too late.
INTERLUDE
“Let me help your memory, Ancoma.” It wasn’t difficult to lift the smaller Poculan up and fling him against the cold, rain-splattered brick. In fact, Morgan decided it was the first thing he’d done in hours that satisfied the black rage boiling inside his mind.
Maybe he should do it again.
Ancoma, a shipcity slinker better known for his ability to access locked doors than for his courage, wiped a shaking hand across his face and cringed. His yellow-brown eyes were wide and dilated. A green line of blood-tinged drool slid down his chin, adding its fresh mark to the line of such stains on his ragged jerkin. “I can’t remember what I didn’t do!”
“Odd your good friend Sleva’tha saw you plain as could be. Now, all I want is a name.” Almost idly, Morgan flexed his right hand. A tiny hilt dropped into the palm, as if by magic, its blade humming into life between his fingers. There was nothing idle in his grab to capture the Poculan’s pendulous ear, a handle he used to pull the cowering being to his knees, then up against Morgan’s own chest. “Who paid you to rent those aircars and leave them at the edge of the shipcity, Anco’?”
“Slev’s crazy! I wasn’t there, Morgan!”
The passing roar of a docking tug, a giant Drapsk freighter cradled in its immense arms, should drown out the screams quite nicely, Morgan decided. He waited serenely for the machine to come closer, staring into the terrified eyes of the Poculan, knife poised between the two orbs like a snake choosing a target.
Abruptly, sanity returned, pouring through Morgan’s mind and body like a wash of icy water, drowning out the rage. The knife dropped from his numb fingers; the Poculan, released, crumbled into a quivering heap at his feet.
What was he doing?
Morgan shuddered. He retrieved the knife, turning off its blade, then snagged Ancoma as the being tried to slip away, and pulled him, almost gently, to his feet. “Sorry about that,” he said brusquely. “Now, where were you last night? Just think about that, okay?” Morgan pressed a pair of four-sided coins into the being’s clammy hand, keeping them in place with a firm grip.
The Poculan was understandably mistrustful, but it didn’t matter. Morgan needed only a second to skim his surface thoughts. “Off you go,” he said, disgusted both by the slimy feel of the being’s mind and his own inexplicable loss of control. Ancoma didn’t need further urging to scamper away, muttering darkly about insane Humans and mindcrawlers.
But, as Morgan listened to the pulse-driving din of the tug, creeping along the shipway, he had at least part of his and Sira’s answer.
Ancoma didn’t remember renting the aircars for the raiders, because he couldn’t. Someone had erased his memory of last night.
The rage surged up again, welcome antidote to the exhaustion he kept barely at bay with drugs and determination. The only beings Morgan knew with that skill were the Clan.
And he knew where to find at least one.
Chapter 10
“MYSTIC One.”
If I’d dreamed, the visions hadn’t lingered. I squinted at the featureless face close to mine and wondered helplessly what else I’d lost in the time spent healing. Hours? Or had it been days? I sat up, too quickly, and gratefully clung to the Drapsk’s small, round arm for support while the Makmora made its mind up to stop spinning around. “How—long?”
“Five hours, Mystic One. Please don’t try to speak yet,” a note of concern. “Drink this, please.” A cup pressed into my hand brought up a memory, more dreamlike than any from my sleep, of another cup and another cocoon. I’d helped Morgan once, like this, as he recovered on the Fox.
Morgan!
I closed my eyes and sought that golden place, hunting frantically through the M’hir for the other half of myself, realizing two things at once: I’d only regained a limited portion of my strength, but even that was enough to tell me my search was futile.
There was no sign of him, no glow, no warmth. Morgan was gone.
He was properly cautious, I reassured myself. Of course, he would be. It was the Clan Council Morgan knew as the enemy. He’d camouflage his power as I’d taught him, avoid any exposure.
Even to me.
I sat, lost myself, too weak to chance travel through the M’hir, wondering where and how to start looking.
I couldn’t believe what I’d done, what I’d ordered Morgan to do. I was supposed to protect him. By what leap of logic had I turned that protection into a thrust right into the hands of his and my deadliest enemies?
It had to be done, argued thoughts that were pure Sira di Sarc, pure Clan. Morgan might succeed. At the least, the Human could distract the thieves until I recovered enough to take the trail myself.
If I could have bitten open my wrists at that moment and let my lifeblood pour out, I would have, if only I had a guarantee that part of me would die first.
The warmth against my fingers and a commonplace aroma roused me from my dark thoughts after a moment. I moved my tongue experimentally within my mouth, feeling as though I’d been chewing dust. I took a cautious sip from the cup in my hand, then a deeper swallow, glancing up in surprise. It was warm sombay, spiced exactly as I liked it. “Thank you,” I began, then let my voice trail away. The med wasn’t listening.
The Drapsk no longer hovered by my side, eager to help. Instead, when I wasn’t paying attention, the small being had somehow curled itself into a compact white ball, almost round enough to roll along the floor if I were to nudge him with my closer foot. The gaudy antennae were tucked somewhere completely out of sight, or perhaps retracted.
I drained the cup, considering my companion. Morgan was the expert on other species, especially nonhumanoid ones. I hadn’t seen this posture in his records for the Drapsk. Was it polite to disturb the being? Or was he in some distress?
I slid my feet over the side as I assessed my own condition. Still a bit dizzy, but that was fading with each breath. Sore, but compared to what I’d been through, I felt improved enough to assert some sort of control of events which, to all extents and purposes had, until now, been controlling me.
Speculatively, I gazed down at the ball of Drapsk. Perhaps I could start here, I decided, extending a very cautious tendril of power toward the seemingly unconscious being.
Nothing. I might have been alone.
There were species whose thoughts the Clan couldn’t touch at all. Not that many, I recalled uneasily. It was simplicity itself for an Adept of reasonable ability to read the unshielded minds of other telepathic beings, although none but the Clan had thoughts able to mingle within the energy-laced blackness of the M’hir. I thought of Morgan’s presence there wistfully. Only he, of his kind, made his own light within the M’hir.
It took more power and some practice to make sense of the thoughts and emotions within the minds of receptive nontelepaths. Morgan’s Talent differed from Clan in that physical contact enhanced his ability. I’d learned his technique, and had begun to teach him mine—using the M’hir to convey his questing thoughts into other minds—but we’d had no time to finish his training before the attack had struck and changed everything.
No, I whispered soundlessly to myself, insisting on honesty. I’d been intent on turning Morgan’s mind into a fortress, deliberately ignoring consequences as I honed his natural Talent into a defense, blending it at every level with the power I’d given him in the M’hir. I’d known, but conveniently ignored, that everything within the M’hir was two-edged. What worked to protect one mind could readily twist to destroy another. I’d convinced myself I was keeping Morgan safe from the kind of attack I expected, the revenge of the Clan Council for my refusal to risk Morgan to help them solve their problems. If—when—they came after me, I’d known he would need everything I could give him in order to s
urvive.
In so doing, I’d forged him into a weapon against the Clan.
It hadn’t only been the Council I wanted to save Morgan from—I wanted him safe from me. And look how well I’d accomplished that.
I had done one thing right. I had refused to Join with Morgan, no matter how strong the urgings of my heart. The Power-of-Choice, that M’hir-bound energy females of our kind used to test, and then Choose their life-partners, hadn’t destroyed Morgan’s mind as some of my kind had hoped. Instead, somehow, Morgan and I had controlled its dark force, tamed it. There had been no permanent link driven through the M’hir between us; my Power-of-Choice had flowed to him as a gift, enhancing his Talent a hundredfold. It didn’t matter that it left behind an aching emptiness, a need deep in my mind that I controlled as tightly as I’d ever fought the demands of Choice.
Because if I died—something I had enemies willing to almost guarantee in the near future—and we were truly Joined, I would not die alone. Morgan’s consciousness would be dragged into the M’hir, and he, too, would be lost. It was not a price I was prepared to pay for completion. He must survive, even if I did not.
The Sira di Sarc part of me, all cold practicality, had long ago lost that argument. Making it even harder to believe what I’d done to Morgan on Pocular, and more urgent I do something about it.
The Drapsk didn’t stir when I rested my hand on the warm, curiously firm curve that might have been his back. I opened my perception as Morgan had taught me. Again, nothing.
There was one last test. I straightened, closed my eyes, and extended my awareness into the M’hir, reaching outward until I was quite sure. There were no minds I could read within my currently limited range, a range I was confident encompassed most of the ship. It made an unsettling contradiction between what I knew to be reality and what my inner sense told me.
The Drapsk were here. They were also invisible.
I stepped carefully around the curled-up Drapsk. “I’m going to talk to the Captain,” I whispered. The ball of Drapsk didn’t move. “I’ll tell someone about your—state—as soon as I can. And,” this fervently, “thank you.”
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 9
