“It is not my place to dispute Choice,” the Clansman said, his Comspeak gaining more of an accent; perhaps his self-control came at a price. “Especially that of the powerful Sira di Sarc.”
“The powerful Sira Morgan,” Morgan corrected, deliberately baiting his opponent. “That is the name she uses now. A Human custom.”
The green eyes narrowed to slits. “I have been polite, Human. Do not push me. You will regret it.” Morgan felt a pressure on his shields, the merest hint of force.
“So I’m to believe you have no opinion about Sira’s Choice with a Human.”
“My opinion,” this between gritted teeth, animosity in the open now, “is irrelevant. Joining cannot be undone, even if I were to—” The Clansman’s big hands clenched and unclenched, as though he’d have liked to put them around Morgan’s throat. Huido snapped a claw in warning.
Then Larimar raised one hand, moved it as though tracing the outline of the Human’s head and shoulders in the air. Huido rumbled threateningly. Before the Carasian could act, Larimar clenched his fingers and dropped the fist, done.
Morgan tilted his head. He’d felt nothing. “And that was—” There was pure triumph on Larimar’s face. “An experiment, Captain Morgan. Confirmation, if you like. I believe I needn’t waste any more of my time here.” He put down his empty glass. “My thanks for the excellent brandy. If you see Sira di Sarc, give her my respects.” A grim smile: “You will see me again, Human.”
Air sighed into the space where Larimar had stood.
“Couldn’t you have stopped him?” Huido asked, plates sliding over plates with an annoyed hiss. Recently he’d developed a general dislike of those who didn’t use doors.
“Yes,” Morgan said. Sira had taught him that, how to hold someone from the M’hir; it was a skill demanding more in technique and control than power. She’d been pleased when he’d mastered it, yet unsurprised.
“Why didn’t you?”
“He’d stayed too long already,” Morgan turned and looked at the gleaming darkness of his friend, eyestalks clustered in worry. “I should have realized what he was up to—”
“What?”
“Larimar di Sawnda’at was sent to follow me, to see me. Not Sira. Why? Because I survived the testing of their most powerful Chooser. They’re becoming desperate, Huido, desperate to find out how we did it. That business at the end, the hand gesture? He was testing me somehow. I believe Larimar knows there was no Joining.”
“Why does this matter? I thought you told me this was for your protection. And Sira’s.”
Morgan picked up the Clansman’s empty glass, then threw it at the nearest wall before he’d recognized the desire for violence. He held his empty hand before his eyes. Sira had taught him many useful things, he realized, shaken by the deadly potential he sensed in himself, stirring as though it awaited only an excuse to take control.
“It matters, Brother,” he said wearily. “If he spreads that information, Sira could lose the rights the Chosen enjoy within the Clan. The Council has kept the secret—to avoid confessing their guilt. Even though she calls herself an exile, it’s that status which protects her from outright interference.” Morgan found himself pacing and forced himself to sit instead. “If the Council has to admit we aren’t linked through the M’hir, it’s back to the way things were before. No one on her side but us.”
“What more does Sira need?” Huido boasted, with a cymbal-like snap of his handling claws in emphasis. “We shall defend her!”
Morgan looked up at his friend, feeling a welcome resurgence of his own rage. “Easier done if we prevent the problem.” He stood. “Leave Larimar to me.”
He’d deal with Rael later.
Chapter 26
I DON’T remember how long my Drapsk audience and I regarded one another. Long enough for me to decide to stand up, the crouch turning out to be both uncomfortable and somewhat demeaning when you were the focus of attention for thousands of beings. Long enough for me to then, eventually, turn completely around, so I could be sure every single Drapsk was also standing, antennae pointed straight in my direction.
Mercifully, an isolated spot of movement appeared, high up on the wall bearing the rows of Makii. I kept my gaze on it, quite sure it was my Skeptic and escort bestirring themselves to come down at last.
This process consumed sufficient time that I tired of the whole concept and would have tried to leave myself, but for one thing. I was, as their Mystic One and Contestant, at least partially responsible for whatever became of the Makii’s fortunes now. I thought it at least polite to stay and try to explain what I’d done.
If I could.
“O Mystic One! O Mystic One!”
Well, I reassured myself, Copelup sounded happy. I watched the Skeptic practically tumble his way down through the last rows of mesmerized Makii, several willing hands making sure this passage was more figurative than painful. Captain Makairi, still faithfully wearing his ribbon, followed close behind, with a third Drapsk trailing whom I blindly assumed to be Maka.
“O Mystic—One,” Copelup landed with an oomph of breath at my feet. I stretched out my hands to catch him, but he steadied immediately on his own. He took advantage of my gesture to capture the fingers of my right hand in his, squeezing them with most un-Drapsk vigor. “You did it!”
Fully aware of the rapt attention of the witnesses forming a veritable forest around us, I leaned forward and whispered: “I sent the Heerii’s Contestant home. Isn’t that—cheating?”
The Drapsk had excellent hearing, or else Copelup passed along what I whispered in some other fashion. Captain Makairi answered for him, at normal volume. “It would be cheating if you’d harmed or killed the other Contestant, O Mystic One. The Skeptics frown on those methods of eliminating the competition.”
“So if I’m not in trouble, what happens now?” I asked, avoiding the effort of working my way through that particular nest of Drapsk ethics. Pushing the Rugheran into the M’hir had been, to put it mildly, a strain on every resource I had. My wounds, almost healed but still sore, were also reminding me how desirable a good night of sleep would be.
Copelup and the three Makii each inhaled all their tentacles, sucking pensively, antennae twitching in synchrony. I frowned at them, after a quick glance upward to be sure the remaining chorus of Drapsk were still quiescent. Thank goodness it wasn’t a Human crowd.
“What’s next, my good Drapsk?” I asked again, growing more suspicious. “You may not know this, but my abilities are not limitless. Neither’s my patience, of which I’ve given you a considerable amount since coming insystem. What do I have to do in your Contest?”
“You’ff whon.”
As this was from Maka, spoken around his tentacles with the requisite and sizable amount of drooling, I wasn’t convinced. “If I’ve won,” I said, directing my attention at Skeptic Copelup, “and I have no idea how that’s reasonably possible—but believe me I won’t argue the decision—does this mean I can leave now? Are the Makii,” what was the word? “in ascen dance over the others?”
“MAKII!!!”
I was almost knocked off my feet by the unexpected roar of agreement from the hitherto silent crowd, especially when that roar was accompanied by one of the Drapsk’s trademark winds. My escort rocked happily to and fro in the breeze, plumes aflutter, tentacles now wide in a ring of contentment. I pointedly went over to the dais, tugged my heavy skirt out of my way, and sat down on an untidy pile of silk.
Even I could tell when a celebration was forthcoming; I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long.
It was pleasure closer to agony. I stretched my toes, rolled my ankles one at a time, flexed my knees gently, twisted my hips until my spine thanked me, then slid my hands up and down the smooth sheets. Alone at last.
Not a bad day’s work, I congratulated myself, feeling quite ridiculously satisfied considering I’d accomplished nothing for myself. I’d saved the Rugheran, a being whose thoughts had left a warm, happy presence in mi
ne—if completely incomprehensible beyond its need for its kind.
And I’d given the Makii, my tormentors and friends, everything they’d hoped for from their Mystic One. As far as I knew, their Blessed Event was still underway. Thank goodness, Captain Makairi still recognized a bona fide state of collapse when he saw it, ordering me sent back to this room before I had to be carried.
A long soak in the fresher, a quick bite to eat, and here I was, back in the odd softness of my Drapsk bed. Not a bad day at all.
The celebration had explained a very great deal about the Drapsk and what this day had meant to them. It was so incredibly vivid in my mind, I could relive it by closing my eyes.
The Heerii had been first. They came down from their seats to pass me, dipping antennae in mute acknowledgment. Then, like the Niakii, they formed two lines, half going back to their seats, half joining the queue leaving the amphitheater.
This took remarkably little time, the Drapsk not prone to pushing or other disorderly behavior. Eventually, the amphitheater was again filled with quiet, motionless Drapsk, only with vacant seats marking where some from the losing Tribes had left.
I hadn’t dared speculate during that expectant silence, wanting to believe the best of the Drapsk, or at least to believe whatever they were up to would be something I could comprehend as fair and reasonable, within my humanoid bias.
The lights below brightened, and I heard the first deliberately musical sound I’d encountered among the Drapsk—Copelup’s tapes of Auordian croons not being what I considered particularly local. To call the three-note whistle “music” was, I decided, an allowable exaggeration, since the Drapsk began to sway to its arrhythmic beat in perfect unison. They were dancing; so the sound was music. I just hoped it wouldn’t go on too long.
It hadn’t. The music stopped, but the swaying continued as if the Drapsk had used the sound to set themselves into some desired pattern of movement. Then the first rank of Makii moved forward, still swaying, and approached the first ranks of remaining Niakii and Heerii Drapsk.
When Grant Murtree had told me about last year’s Festival, and how one Tribe diminished in numbers and wealth while another increased, I’d made certain assumptions. I’d been wrong.
The clue, gripstsa, had been given to me, but had been too alien to understand.
This, then was the lar-gripstsa, the exchange of place taken to a new level. For each Makii Drapsk chose one Drapsk from another Tribe, holding hands, and bending forward until they could gently take each other’s tentacles in gripstsa.
I felt it. I couldn’t avoid the echoes within the M’hir as more and more paired off, each creating a true, if temporary link, the whole a latticework that included the inner part of me as surely as each other.
For a brief moment, I endured it in order to savor the resonance of energies, to cling vicariously to a sense of completeness that I instinctively knew would be so much more in a full Joining. Then the temptation was too great and I pushed myself free, clamping shut every protection I had.
It had been wonderful.
And, as a final surprise, there was more happening in front of my eyes than the Drapsk exchange of information and self-knowledge. For as I watched, the plumes of Niakii or Heerii within each gripstsa-entranced pair slowly lost their characteristic color, fading to drift almost clear in the slight breeze, only to bloom again with the rich purple-pink of the Makii.
Who were happily and, seemingly very politely, now in complete ascendancy within the amphitheater of Drapsk.
But they hadn’t used the fireworks, I thought, suddenly less comfortable with both my bed, the night’s memories, and my situation. Why?
They’d gone to a lot of trouble—potentially running afoul of the Trade Pact Enforcers—to obtain them.
There had to be something else about to happen.
Copelup had told me my true competition would be Drapskii itself. He had never explained what he meant.
I tested the M’hir. As I’d expected, the Drapsk had restored their barrier. I was sure it had only come down in the amphitheater so I could demonstrate my “magic.” Although I hadn’t bothered confronting the Skeptic, I suspected Copelup of deliberately placing me last in the list, knowing somehow the plight of the Rugheran would make me do something his kind would consider ample demonstration.
And, having proved what I could do, now they wanted something else.
For some reason, I shivered.
INTERLUDE
“No, I wasn’t followed. Don’t you think I’d know?” Barac kept his voice down, fully aware he couldn’t budge the massive Carasian by any means other than persuasion. No question of any use of the Talent. The mind somewhere in that pulsating tin pot of a head was too bizarre for comfort.
Just as Huido’s stubborn protectiveness of the Human was too ingrained to be other than a perfect roadblock now, holding Barac at bay. “Why do you want to see Morgan?” Huido repeated, clicking his lower handling claw as if contemplating the feel of a Clansman in its grip.
“Can I come in while we discuss this?” Barac glanced over his shoulder. This was about the busiest time of day for the restaurant district—perfect, he’d thought, for an inconspicuous chance to slip into the Claws & Jaws and catch up to Morgan. Perfect, except that Huido had rumbled out like a delivery servo and confronted him in the midst of the line of beings waiting to enter. To say they were drawing attention was an understatement.
Enough was enough. Barac could see the entranceway past Huido’s hump of a back. He focused on the spot right behind the door and pushed. . . .
. . . Crash. He’d materialized with impeccable timing, scaring the waiter and sending a probably irreplaceable delicacy toward the ceiling. Damn.
Huido burst through the door an instant later, everyone from well-gowned customers to tray-laden staff scattering out of his way. One person elected to dive head-first into a large ornamental shrub. A Carasian in a hurry, and an unhappy Carasian at that, was guaranteed to disperse most crowds.
Barac stood his ground, though he looked around in hopes of finding Morgan and kept his mind firmly within the M’hir in case more significant dodging proved necessary.
Huido slammed to a halt so close to Barac that the Clansman could see his face reflected in several dozen pupils. Then the eyes parted, and a pair of exquisitely-sharp jaws protruded to press ever-so-lightly against his cheeks. Barac stopped breathing, but stayed where he was.
As suddenly, the huge being drew back, swinging one of his smaller arms around Barac’s shoulders in bruising comradeship. “I approve of your grist. You want to see him this much? Come with me.”
The noise level in the restaurant foyer began to return to its normal muted mix of voices, from a variety of vocal cords and implants, as Barac let Huido push him toward the private dining area in the back. Grist? Barac had no idea what the being was referring to—and decided as long as he had a good one, he wouldn’t ask. Their progress was halted at the entrance by a waiter hurrying up to whisper in the Carasian’s elbow.
Huido’s claws made a sharp click, as though the Carasian were startled. More than half his eyes began searching their surroundings, while the rest kept a steady stare at Barac.
“What is it?” Barac asked, somehow sure this had to do with him—or with Morgan.
“Come,” Huido ordered, lurching into motion while electing to keep several eyes on the Clansman.
The waiter led them down the hall from the eating area. He was Human, older than the others Barac had seen, perhaps Huido’s personal servant. The Clansman reached for his thoughts, lightly, cautiously.
Nothing but a deep, formless anxiety. The Human had seen something upsetting—no, Barac corrected himself, refining the impressions he’d gained, the Human had seen something horrifying.
Their destination was the kitchen. Beyond the sound of a bubbling pot, the room was utterly quiet, at least until Huido arrived; staff huddled in one corner. The door to the freezer was ajar, puffs of frost drifting acros
s the shining floor.
“We found it when Resy called for more iced prawlies,” the servant burst out as if the sight was too much. “We didn’t know what to do, Hom Huido.”
Barac stayed at the Carasian’s side as he rumbled up to the freezer, so the two of them saw what had so disturbed the staff at the same time.
He wasn’t too surprised by the dead body tossed in the back corner of the freezer—there had been overtones of death from all the readable minds in the room as they’d come in—or shocked by the plentiful and messy evidence of how the being had died—he’d seen the work of force blades before—but Barac was surprised to recognize the being lying like one of the sacks of frozen fish.
“What is Larimar di Sawnda’at doing in your freezer?” he asked the Carasian with real curiosity.
“And where is Morgan?”
Chapter 27
WHATEVER faced me next among the inscrutable Drapsk, at least I wouldn’t have to endure it while clambering about in their ceremonial dress, I was relieved to discover in the morning. The spacer coveralls they’d found for me on the Makmora had been cleaned and laid out for me to wear, and a small box had been left as well.
I dressed and ate first, having learned to be suspicious of unexpected gifts. I wore the Ram’ad witchstone around my throat now, there being no further benefit to pretending I belonged to that unpleasant sisterhood. I’d snatched it from the Scats when our bargaining was interrupted. My hair hadn’t liked the restriction of the leather thong around my head in any case, pulling itself free at every opportunity.
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