Ica had continued, “Larimar confirmed what I suspected. There has been no Joining formed between Sira and the Human.”
Pella’s cry of triumph died as Rael glared at her before turning back to Ica. “That’s not possible, First Chosen,” she denied. “They underwent the ritual of Choice—the Testing and Joining. The Council witnessed it. Barac was there—”
“A Testing in which any unChosen of our kind, and certainly the Human, should have died,” Ru broke in. She looked savage, her power boiling at the edges of Rael’s shields. Less able to keep out the emotion, Pella covered her face with her hands.
“Not a Joining. Something—different,” Ica said with satisfaction. “Sira spoke these words before she left with her Human: ‘The Power-of-Choice hasn’t been matched in contest—I’m rid of it!’ ” Ica paused for effect. “Then she said what has haunted me ever since I was told: ‘Haven’t you scanned him yet, in your arrogance?’ ”
“Morgan? Sira was able to give the Power-of-Choice to him? Without Joining?” Rael said, at first with utter disbelief, then with a rising hope she saw reflected in the eyes of the others. Ru was nodding—this was not news to her, Rael realized, her heart sinking into her stomach.
“It was confirmed. My source on the Council felt the power floating around the Human in the M’hir—not part of him, of course, but safely contained nonetheless. Think of it, my kin,” Ica urged. “To be able to end the destruction of our kind during Choice. To free our Choosers of this urge to battle in the M’hir, to drag the unChosen to their deaths. What if this can be repeated?”
“I must find Sira,” Rael said numbly. “You should have told me this before I went to Pocular. Why did you wait until now?”
“We suspected. We weren’t sure. And if we could accomplish this feat without disturbing the firstborn of Sarc, even better and safer. You of all of us know she wanted to be left alone,” Ru replied, then the corners of her mouth drew downward as if in distaste. “The time hasn’t been wasted. There were tests to be done, experimentation. Even the First Chosen doesn’t know all of it.”
“Nor wishes to,” Ica said with a refined shudder.
They all jumped as a soft-footed servant entered the room, depositing a tray bearing a single sheet of plas on the table. Ica waved the servant away impatiently, ignoring the message.
“What kind of tests?” Rael asked, when they were alone again.
Ru and Ica exchanged looks, no more, not so close to the Council’s stronghold. “We recruited suitable male telepaths,” Ru began. “There were several Choosers willing to—”
“No!” Pella shouted, struggling to her feet from the depths of the armchair. Not a dramatic move, but her expression of loathing was powerful enough. “Tell me you’re not talking about Humans,” her head swung from one to another of them. “You couldn’t have tried with Humans.”
Ica was unperturbed. “Of course, Humans. We didn’t want to harm our own. That’s the whole point.”
Sira had seen this coming, Rael thought, her mind crystallizing in opposition to everything she was hearing. Pella’s hatred of Humans was wrong. Their group’s use of Humans was worse. No wonder Sira had taken her beloved Morgan and hidden him in the jungle of that fringe world.
“Sit down, Pella, or leave. I have no patience for fools. This is life and death, do you understand me? And not just yours,” this last in unmistakable threat.
Pella stood perfectly still, looking down at her grandmother. “I understand, First Chosen,” she said faintly, easing back down into her seat. From the look on her face, there would be no further outbursts.
“Good. Now, Rael, you can see our difficulty. There must be something more Sira did—something we haven’t been able to duplicate. So we need to talk to her.”
Rael was careful to keep her voice calm and her expression willing, no matter what she was thinking. “I’ve been trying to find her, First Chosen, but without success.”
“No matter. Sira will come to us,” Ru said confidently.
“Why?” Rael stopped, then answered her own question: “Larimar. He’s found Morgan—and he’s to bring the Human here, isn’t he? To use as bait for Sira.”
“Her attachment to the Human is well-known,” Ru confirmed unnecessarily.
“You can’t believe Larimar will succeed.”
Ica reached for the message on the tray. “I do. This should be from him, in fact. A barbaric but, sadly, more secure method of communication.” She lifted the sheet and read quickly. Emotions raced across her face: disbelief, rage, and finally, reluctant respect.
“It’s from Acranam. Prin sud Teerac was granted mercy. They thought I should know.”
“Larimar’s Chosen,” Ru said for Pella’s benefit.
They were silent. If Prin was granted mercy, it could only be for one reason. Her mind had been pulled into the M’hir; her body left an empty husk.
Because Larimar was dead.
“The Human,” Pella said in a high-pitched voice. “He’s killed one of us. I told you, Rael—”
Rael stopped any further speech from her sister with a flick of power, uncaring what the others thought. “I don’t believe it—” she began.
“Isn’t he capable?” Ru spoke quietly, all trace of emotion gone from the M’hir.
Unwillingly, Rael pictured the scene on Pocular, relived the violence of Morgan’s reaction to Sira’s wounds. She’d accused him of complicity in the attack, knowing at her core she was wrong, that it was her jealousy, her prejudice trying to sever the Human’s hold on Sira, to turn her sister back to her, Rael, for comfort. Though unJoined, Morgan’s feeling for Sira was beyond anything Rael could imagine. So she knew the answer. “Capable? Yes,” she said reluctantly. “But only in self-defense.” Adding to herself: or if Morgan realized Larimar was a threat to Sira. As all here had become.
“What of Sira?” Pella said abruptly. “How will we find her now?”
One by one, they all looked at Rael.
Chapter 35
PLEXIS. The Makmora was nosed in to the underbelly of the most famous shopping concourse in the Fringe. And I wasn’t going to be able to explore it this trip either. One of these days, I swore to myself, I’ll travel where and how I choose.
Not today. Today, I kept my shielding impeccably in place and let my Drapsk do the searching, no matter how it tore at my heart to think Morgan might be within reach of my thoughts. The risk of alerting a Clan Watcher in the M’hir here was too great.
All of this being true and sensible did nothing to improve my temper. “If you have the address,” I asked the comtech on duty irritably, “what’s taking so long?”
The Makii looked miserable. “There is a difficulty, Mystic One. The truffles delivered to Drapskii for your celebration did not come from the location you recommended. I’ve checked the records. The order was rerouted to a more local source in order to save time. We have come to the wrong place if you wish your delicacy in time for this evening’s banquet.”
“No, we haven’t,” I explained, counting under my breath before doing so. “It isn’t the truffles that matter. I don’t like truffles.”
The comtech inhaled all his tentacles and didn’t move.
I sighed. “I’ve told you. The order is a way to attract the attention of the right person without having to use my name. The restaurant where you must place the order is the Claws & Jaws, the owner, Huido Maarmatoo’kk.”
“You don’t want the truffles, Mystic One?” came a mumble around the tentacles, followed by a bewildered line of drool.
“But I do want you to order some. Just place an order for truffles—to the Claws & Jaws this time—and have them contact the ship to confirm delivery time. Make sure the owner delivers them in person.”
I stood and walked away. The Drapsk would manage better without further confusion from me. I’d learned to give them time to rationalize in Drapsk terms why I wanted certain things done, a step that seemed important to them and fortunately wasn’t usually time-co
nsuming. The Skeptic, who apparently didn’t need to second-guess me, reported various Makii efforts to me with obvious delight. His favorite so far was the crew’s understanding of why I wanted to sleep within walls and a closed door: because a Mystic One such as myself dreamed within the Scented Way and shouldn’t be interrupted by the scent of others.
I didn’t share Copelup’s amusement. Dream within the M’hir? Move one’s subconscious into that other place without any control? An easy way to never wake up.
“You are troubled, Mystic One.” Copelup trotted up beside me.
I nodded, inviting the Drapsk to join me in the lift with a gesture. “How much do you sense of the Scented Way, Copelup?” I asked him as we rode to the next level. I’d almost mastered the orientation of the Makmora. If only I’d dare ask them to color code the halls, I’d have been fine.
“Our instruments are capable of very exacting measurements—”
“Not with technology. On your own.”
This produced an unusual silence in my companion. I let him think about it, unsure if I was approaching some species’ taboo or merely providing him with an interesting puzzle to worry over. I’d grown to have a great respect for the intellect packed into the round little body walking beside mine.
“Why do you ask, Mystic One?” the Skeptic asked finally. “Is this important for you to know?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered, pausing to get my bearings. “But I would like to believe what I did on Drapskii makes a personal difference to these Drapsk, to you. It all became very abstract back there.”
“Ah.” He pointed to the left corridor with one plume, the other busily sampling whatever information was blowing through the air just above the top of my head. “It is like explaining gripstsa to a Drapsk who hasn’t participated yet. What you have done, the reconnection, will enable entire Tribes to commit gripstsa with one another, to the betterment of all Drapsk. But,” he gave a charming little shrug, “it is still abstract to us, too, at least until it happens. Suffice it to say we feel better knowing it is again possible. Does this help, Mystic One?”
“Maybe. Yes, I suppose so.” I took the next right, for no reason but to show some decisiveness. “There is another matter, Copelup. It’s quite likely we’ll meet those who’ll try to interfere with me. Other Mystic Ones. I may need your help.”
He hooted.
I glared down at him. “I’m serious. You have devices which can keep my kind from the M’hir. And I know perfectly well you can detect any Clan activity there. Would you be willing to use them if I asked?”
Copelup restrained himself with a small hiccuping sound. “My apologies, Mystic One. You ask a reasonable question, from your point of view. It only sounds silly to a Drapsk.”
“Why?”
“There may be other true Mystic Ones, something I personally doubt, but you are as much ours as we are yours. Whatever you need, we need as well. You are of Drapskii now; of the Makii. There is no question.”
Well, I said to myself, so much for worrying about whom they would support in a conflict with the Clan. He’d been right to accuse me of thinking like Clan. We were the ones who would automatically switch allegiance to the one of greatest power. The Drapsk idea of loyalty had much more in common with Morgan’s, an unexpected gift.
We were still walking, passing the occasional Makii crew on their way somewhere or busy with some panel or other. I was thoroughly lost, of course, and suspected Copelup knew it, but I wasn’t going to be the first to mention it.
Copelup, naturally, thought it time for questions of his own. “Why do you wish to know if we can sense the Scented Way without our instruments, Mystic One? Does this matter?”
“Right now, Copelup,” I told him, “I’m just collecting information. I touch the Scented Way at will, unless your devices are shutting me out. I detect it as a potential, a link, between those in gripstsa or lar-gripstsa. I want to understand how you sense it—how your perception may differ from mine.” I shook my head, admitting: “I’m still amazed.”
“The Clan did not think they would ever meet another species with this ability. That was,” Copelup paused and searched for the word he wanted, “That was nearsighted of your kind.”
I shook my head. “Not really, Copelup. Just—greedy.”
“They didn’t have any truffles, Mystic One. But there is a famous seafood dish available as a substitute.”
Counting was no longer working. I spoke between teeth that really wanted to grind together. “What else did they say?”
The bridge, I’d just been shown, opened into a second bulb of space as large or perhaps larger than itself. This was currently filling with Drapsk bearing trays and bowls of all manners of food and drink. There was enough lined up on smooth round tables to feed an army of epicures and the deliveries didn’t seem to be stopping.
“The person in charge—” antennae drooped, “—seemed inefficient. There wasn’t any other message, Mystic One.”
“Did you ask to speak to the owner, to Huido?”
“As you suggested, Mystic One,” the Drapsk said sadly. “The owner was not available.”
So much for subterfuge, I thought with disgust and a certain relief. “I’ll be right back,” I promised, and pushed . . .
Seeing the food-laden tables of another, more familiar setting form around me. I moved immediately to one side, disappearing within the crowd of beings of every shape and type. I knew my way around the Claws & Jaws, better than around the Makmora at any rate. With this many customers, Huido should be splitting his time between the lobby and the kitchen. I’d bet on the kitchen.
“Where’s Huido?” I asked, pushing through the doorway. Several kitchen assistants pointed at the same time to an Ordnex, perhaps the head cook, none of them bothering to look up from their tasks to see who was asking.
The Ordnex’s nasal opening flared, giving me too clear a view into its rosy-veined sinuses. Politeness came in numerous shapes, I reminded myself, attempting without much success to flare my own. “Huidopackedandleft,” the being droned helpfully. “InchargeamIhelpyou?”
“Where did he go?” I asked, disappointed—it would have been nice to have things work out neatly—but not surprised. If Morgan needed him, Huido would go. It wasn’t comforting, I realized, to think Morgan had.
“WiththeClansman.”
I took a second to be sure I’d heard that correctly, feeling as though I’d been hit in the stomach. “What Clansman?” I demanded, stepping closer and lowering my voice, although it wasn’t necessary. The pots on the huge stove beside me were bubbling and seething like a miniature orchestra. At least the contents of the largest had stopped whining. The heat brought beads of sweat to my face, the heat and formless apprehension. “Was Captain Morgan with them?”
“NoTheCaptainleftbeforeExcusemeFem.” The cook flipped up a lid and added spices to a simmering mass, his other hand busy on the heat controls: a feat of coordination commonplace in a being with significantly more joints in each arm and hand than humanoid-norm.
“Without Huido?” I muttered. Louder, “I need to talk to you. Can someone take over here for a moment?”
You’d have thought I’d asked him to give me the heart of his fifthborn offspring. The nasal opening closed to an insulted slit below its broad compound eyemass. “Cannotleavemymaster piecesnow.Ruined!”
“Fine,” I said, grabbing a metal stool from under the counter, and placed myself where the being could work on his master-pieces, but not leave without climbing over me. “Then I’ll talk to you here.” He still looked offended. “Look, I have a right to know what’s been happening. I’m Sira Morgan. Jason Morgan is—” I hesitated, not sure what word to use, then settled for the simple truth. “The other half of me.”
INTERLUDE
Morgan used two fingers to make a tiny opening in the window slats, peering cautiously at the building across the lane. Malacan had been helpful, if at first reluctant to cooperate. But, the Human thought, there were definit
e advantages to knowing your opponent’s habits. Morgan had not been surprised by either Malacan’s attempt to cash in on the offer for his, Morgan’s, preferably living hide, nor Malacan’s quick decision to accept a better offer.
Mind you, using a flick of power to freeze Malacan’s trigger finger hadn’t hurt negotiations a bit.
Unfortunately, Malacan insisted he didn’t know who was offering such a handsome number of credits for Morgan. The bounty was simply something being spread around. There was a contact number and an amount. That was all.
It wasn’t important, beyond being an explanation of sorts for the attack in the Rissh Marsh. Morgan had sufficient enemies of his own, a few sharing this atmosphere with him at the moment, to account for any number of attempts on his life or credit chip. Though the amount Malacan mentioned had given him pause. He really didn’t think he had enemies that desperate or that wealthy. Implying the Clan.
He stepped back from the window, lips stretched in a humorless grin. Fine. If they were resorting to posting a bounty for him among the scum of any port, they must be worried. It was a peculiarly satisfying notion.
As was his proximity to his target. Morgan took his bag to the soggy mat passing for a bed in this Retian version of a hotel room, dumping out its contents. He’d laid the waterproof sheet over the surface first, keeping at bay the vermin doubtless swimming inside. No offworlder comforts here, the landlord had warned, and no refunds.
Morgan didn’t intend to stay long anyway. It had taken the better part of a sleepless night and day to follow the leads Malacan had given him, three turning out to be worthless before the last had brought Morgan here. Baltir hadn’t turned up as a personal name because it wasn’t. It was written in Retian business script beside the doorway Morgan had been watching these past hours.
“A research facility devoted to humanoid biology,” he repeated to himself. “Now won’t Bowman be interested in that.” Convincing Malacan to make a properly full report to his contact in the Enforcers had taken a bit more of Morgan’s nonexistent credit. He’d worry about the forged ratings and other book-keeping details later.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 28
