Dancer (Wine of the Gods Book 15)

by Pam Uphoff

  Her mother continued in exasperated tones. "I thought the Princess School would drill you in proper manners! I suppose hanging around all those guards and people, you lost your, well . . . "

  "Modesty? Mom, I never had any." Rael knew she was failing to keep the giggle out of her voice. Caught more glares. "I really can't see that admitting to one's numbers is any worse than trying a new husband every three or four years until you find one that works. In fact, that's flat out stupid, and a bit obscene." The three younger women glared, Mom pressed her lips together and said nothing. Ha! You agree with me!

  "Anyway, well over half the genes are just cosmetic tweaks. A little taller, a little smaller nose, hair colors, eye colors, lighter or darker skin tones. And even the genes outside the insertions can help or hinder magic usage. It just isn't simple." She grinned. "You all look so offended. Surely you must have heard this all before?"

  "It sounds good, but I still don't have a baby." Pudge looked down at the bundle in her arms. "And you skipped the mismatches."

  Rael nodded. "Right, some of the artificial genes on the insertions need two copies or something nasty happens early on and you miscarry. Some of them can't have two copies or something goes wrong. And some don't play well together." She glanced over at her sister. "Did you have that sort of problem?"

  "Nope. I just never even started a pregnancy." Raod looked a little glum.

  "I guess it would be a lot easier to raise kids with a husband. What was Ogto like? Would he have been a good father?"

  "Oh . . . a proud one, certainly."

  "No playing ball in the backyard?"

  "Oh One no! Ogto had a morbid fear of bees, he was horribly allergic."

  "Well, no doubt he'd have been a good dad inside."

  Raod shrugged. "Not with me."

  Rael looked at Joud. "How about you? Set your sights on the next one, yet?"

  "Eh. I just finished up with number three." She slumped a little. "The Game sounded so exciting, so . . . like a movie. In real life it's just soul destroying. Now I wish I'd have married for love, and adopted or something, if I couldn't have kids."

  Puuj sighed. "Yeah. At eighteen I might have actually managed to land a Withione who wasn't quite into the game yet. But . . . well, too late now."

  Kyol sniffed. "No it's not." She glanced from daughter to daughter. Rael and Raod both squirmed. "I always hoped Raod would settle down and be happy. And Rael, maybe you ought to give it some thought as well."

  She did. A home, a big strong man to come home to . . . Rael could feel her face flush. I did not just think of Endi. All mine, forever. Because he's the enemy. Because he is not of the One. He is not Endi Dewulfe, he is Captain Xen Wolfson. Because . . . he's not the marrying type. One damn him! Lovers by the dozen, whispering their husbands' secrets into his open ears. I was the enemy, and he only took me to bed with him once, to distract me when I was getting too nosey. Even if he did come when I most needed him. His world, his nation, is . . . being attacked by mine. We're enemies and I don't . . . I can't allow myself to care.

  She looked at the little boy. Arno. Silky brown hair. Gurgling and happy. Ryol, red hair long enough now to show a bit of a wave. Her eyes were getting darker now, showing flecks of green.

  Must be pheromones. As soon as I get back to Paris I'll get over having impossible urges.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday, 19 Safar

  The lab boys had a series of pictures that captured Ogto having the argument with Raod. Tagged with the names of everyone in the vicinity.

  Ox shuffled through them. A group of seven men and three women. Then Ogto leaning in toward Raod, her arms crossed and back stiff. Nose in the air. She looked angry. Another with her making a dismissive gesture. In the background, her sister walking up, focused on the group. Next picture, and Rael was grinning and gesturing, half the men leaning toward her, eyes glazed. The other half of the men had silly grins on their faces, and were also leaning in toward her, eyes glazed. Next picture, mass indignation, and Raod in the act of hauling her sister away.

  He made a note of all the people in the vicinity who might have overheard the argument . . . no, he'd had enough eye witness accounts of the argument. What he needed was a list of people in a position to drop actinicide into Ogto's drink. And even so, they—probably—hadn't gone hunting for bees after midnight.

  ***

  "Of course, when it comes to murder, it almost always comes down to money." Ox studied the widow. The caution, and sometimes near panic, in her eyes showed nowhere else. Very controlled. Protecting herself, her lover, or both of them?

  Raod shrugged. "Then he was killed for very little. As the treasurer, he didn't actually pull down much money. I married him for his glow, because I wanted children." She blushed. "I got a bit snotty at the reunion—about his small salary. I wish—in retrospect—that I'd been polite. I feel a bit petty, now. The house was inherited . . . Have you checked the actual ownership? It may well be in some sort of family trust and go to . . . well, I don't know of any cousins, but surely there are some, somewhere."

  Ox sighed. "No. No family trust. The house is in his name, free and clear."

  "I knew there wasn't a loan, that's why I thought, maybe a family trust. I always knew that was how he carried off the lifestyle. No mortgage."

  Ox nodded. "I thought he was a hotshot auditor?"

  "Oh yes . . . but there weren't many jobs that he could do alone. He never formed a company. No capital for it, so he took small but important jobs. When they happened. Mostly he worked on contract for larger firms. All in all, his income was irregular. The War Party salary was about half of his total income. And paid regularly, it helped smooth out the variations of the other income." She smiled ruefully. "He made no bones about it. He married me because I could buy my own clothes, so he could one up Itsu and Eglo on the cheap. And . . . got pretty sour when I failed to get pregnant."

  Ox leaned back and eyed her. She hasn't got a clue that he was concealing money from her. "He must have been scrupulously honest, though. How much War Party money went through his hands?"

  "Oh yes. Millions of dollars. And he insisted on an outside auditor once a year. The accounts were kept completely separate from his personal accounts."

  "Right. I'll have the audits checked, but it sounds like, begging your pardon, you are the only person with a financial motive." He admired the flash of her eyes, and sighed.

  They say the pretty ones are always taken.

  Or worse, Game Players.

  But she really did want children. I wonder who she seduced to get them . . . and how ambitious he is.

  ***

  Rael spent Saturday on the Princess school site, attempting to find more information. Both the School and the One's liaison were reticent, but they did finally admit that there were four Princesses assigned in the Montevideo district. One of the Imperial Councilman for the Uruguay Division lived here, as did the Governor of Uruguay. And then the mayor, and the chief of police.

  Rael scowled at the words on her screen. Whoever I am talking to does not realize that the mayor's princess is being sent home . . . in fact she ought to be arriving about now. I wonder if the chief's princess is as weak as Beir? Surely the Governor's and the Councilman's princesses are top notch.

  "All right. I surrender. I'll give them a week to digest everything, then I'm going to get nasty." She drummed fingers on the desk, then composed a letter to one of her old instructors.

  If you can find out who they are sending to replace the very aptly nicknamed "Bunny," warn her that she's going into a hostile situation. Why was the Mayor's previous princess reassigned? If she died, what was the cause?

  And the girl? You might suggest that they steer her into passive surveillance somewhere. She doesn't project "Princess" at all, which can be really useful, as I well know.

  She stretched . . . "One damn, I'm getting pretty good at stretching. So . . . I've got the flexibility back. And lot of the strength. But those bus ste
ps were killers. If I mention that to Mr. Zip, he will probably know just how to torture me into working the right muscles. Maybe his killer stair machine can be set for even higher steps." She curled her right hand. Had to look to see if three of the fingers had managed something that might generously be considered a loose fist. "Pity about the nerve damage. I'll just have to get used to the lack of feedback."

  Sunday she slipped out early and walked to the church.

  She sat quietly and observed as other people filed in. Spotted the talkers, the centers of attention. Young men so used to the routine they didn't even look put out as they sat beside their earnest mothers and stern fathers. Or napping fathers. Or talking business fathers. A mixed bag.

  Here, in the enclave, the congregation was almost all Oners. Mostly the soft glow of servaones. A few brighter spots, children who'd gotten a higher number of the genes of the Prophets.

  She managed to stay awake through the boring sermon, sang the old hymns, dropped a cash card in the offering plate when it passed, sang the final hymn, and then got down to serious eavesdropping.

  Two women who'd been at the reunion, and seen nothing of interest. Girls talking about clothes and boys. Boys talking about cars and girls.

  She gave up and walked home.

  ***

  "They ought to be starting to crawl, not barely sitting up." Raod was on the floor, looking a bit harried. Distracted.

  Maybe I can get her to loosen up a bit about her lover . . . unless it is Endi. Rael blinked as Arno went from lying on his tummy to scooting backwards, chubby little legs sticking out in a split, and winding up in a sitting up position. "Hey, that little guy's pretty flexible. And he's figured out an interesting way to sit up."

  "Yeah. I guess I need to read the baby books again. I love them so much, and they're so wonderful, it hardly matters that they aren't great athletes before they're a year old."

  Rael hesitated. "What are they, nine months old? Ten? When are babies supposed to start crawling?" She turned her head carefully to look at Jess as she trotted downstairs with an armful of toys.

  "Between six and ten months." The nanny scattered toys and settled down in a chair. "I'm storing up sitting time, because once they start crawling I won't be doing nearly as much as I will be wanting to."

  Rael slithered down to the floor and grabbed a couple of the toys. Set them in front of Arno. "Do you want the ball or the rattle?" The baby's eyes moved from ball to rattle with the words. "Ha! Recognize those words, do you? How about the bunny?" The baby scanned the selection in sight, then turned to look behind. Turned enough to tip over and roll down to his back. He squirmed over to his stomach and propped himself up enough to spot the bunny. He kind of wiggled and squirmed and managed to get to the bunny. "There, see? He didn't just recognize the words, he held onto the idea of the bunny long enough to find it and get to it. See, Sis? My nephew's a little genius. And he's almost crawling." And the older he gets the more he looks like Endi.

  "Rael, have you been reading baby books?" Raod eyed her.

  Rael snickered. "Heck no. I just listen to you guys talking all baby, all the time. When's that word recognition suppose to hit?"

  "About four months. By now they ought to be saying some of the words." Raod stretched out beside Ryol. "How's mama's little girl?"

  "Ma ma." Ryol held out both hands and got scooped up into a hug.

  Raod had tears running down her face. Rael sat up in alarm. She opened her mouth to ask when the baby ought to have started saying that . . . and stopped herself. She pried herself off the floor, and retreated upstairs to search through moderately secure reports . . . yeah, here was one. Endi Dewulfe's children, his twenty-two known children, the oldest over a year old now, were all hitting their babyhood milestones noticeably late, with a few alarmingly late. Five of them were in a program that tracked them in detail. Brain scans testing the activities of various areas of the babies' brains showed no abnormalities apart from being several weeks to several months behind schedule. The writers of the report speculated on the usual growth and development of a group of people with lifespans that averaged over a hundred, with some reported to be living more than double the High Oners' expected two centuries.

  She walked downstairs, thinking hard. Jess was heading upstairs with a sleeping boy, Raod was rocking Ryol.

  'Sis, it's none of my business, who the babies' father is. Really. But . . . well, those eyes . . . "

  Raod stiffened. The baby squirmed as she was hugged more tightly.

  Rael sighed. "Look, I know how irresistible that infuriating man was. Endi comes from a world with magic very like the Oner magic. Their lifespans are much less consistent than our, with their average about a hundred and twenty, but some people regularly living four or five hundred years. I couldn't find anything on their average baby development, but all of Endi Dewulfe's children are growing more slowly than is average for Oners."

  "Rael." Raod's voice was high and tight, the baby clutched to her shoulder.

  "Fine. You don't want to admit anything, tell anyone your lover's name. Fine. I just wanted to point out two things. One, it's pretty obvious, with those practically black eyes. Two, there's nothing wrong with your kids. This is apparently normal, for their kind of . . . magicians."

  "Oh." Raod closer her eyes and nuzzled the baby's fine hair. "I . . . thought you were going to say something else."

  "Like, how dare you fall prey to my boyfriend? Hardly. He was a very well trained covert operative, and any members of the War Party he could undermine by getting their wives pregnant . . . he did. I suppose you were with friends, whose husbands were important party members?"

  Raod's lips tightened. "It is none of anyone's business."

  Rael nodded. "It's not my business. And I hope you didn't fall in love with him, because he screwed any woman with War Party connection, cold bloodedly and with no compunctions. But you really ought to talk to the Investigator. It is his business, and knowing that you don't have a lover planning to marry you when he'd arranged for you to inherit a big chunk of money will help him find out who did kill Ogto."

  Raod shook her head. "No. He'll just think I did it all by myself."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Monday, 21 Safar 1398

  No sign of the boy on the beach, Monday afternoon. Poor kid's probably having nightmares about killing his father.

  Rael stepped off the boardwalk, down to the sand, as movement registered.

  Boys, plural, and none of them the right one. Older, too, now that she got a good look at them. She stepped back onto the boardwalk. Probably a good idea to have the best footing available . . . she sidled sideways, along the boardwalk, away from the steps, rails on both sides now . . . put some limits on the number that can attack at once.

  Because their body language and grouping was aggressive, confident, and did not look at all like any sort of bluff. She dropped her bag, and wished she'd brought the umbrella, all sorts of fun things one can do with a nice stout umbrella . . .

  "You ask too many questions, Chica." The man in the lead had a long knife sheathed at his waist. He started to draw it, slowly. At the loud whisper of steel against leather the rest of the gang froze, silent and watchful.

  Rael turned her left side to him and high kicked. Side of foot to chin. His head snapped back. He hit the boardwalk, limp.

  Then she was too busy for anything so fancy. Kick to the knee, punch, throw, pivot and hit again.

  Mental shield, someone was pulling in power. She spotted the man standing, hands out, sure sign of lousy training, and dropped her shield to hit him with a stun spell.

  Rode out a punch, kicked back and got a crotch . . . The gang was pulling away, ready to bolt. Only two bodies, and they grabbed them, dragging them back. Several limping, one man cradling a broken arm.

  One fellow drew a gun. Rael threw up a physical shield, grounded it as the kinetic energy of the bullets transferred to the shield . . . movement to the right. A couple of fellows coming up al
ong the boardwalk.

  She kept up the shield, and turned to face them.

  Nothing under her foot. She grabbed for the rail, numb fingers barely twitched, she tried to throw out an arm, but her head hit the hard pavement . . . Stars and explosions.

  A voice. "Let's take her to Jorge. He can have a little fun and ask her questions."

  "Yeah, man, he can do the dirty work himself."

  Oh good. I can let myself black out.

  Not that she did, but she didn't exactly recall how she got into the trunk of the car, out of the trunk of the car, the sickly smell of alcohol and tobacco smoke, marijuana smoke, piss and puke . . . Slum bar, somewhere. Damn it all.

  "Well, well, whata treat. Strip her."

  She tried to make her body obey, keep fighting. A numbness, all too familiar . . . Did I twist my back? Pinch something, fracture another vertebra . . . or the same ones . . .

  "Chingada! What a mess!"

  Various other exclamations, dull sensations that might have been men poking at her scars. Nothing very personal. Her arms were pulled behind her back, her ankles also tied. Some itchy twine.

  "You think I'm going screw that?"

  One! Some days a girl can't even get raped.

  "Do her a favor, killing her."

  Note to self, come back and geld him with a dull spoon.

  She blinked. Forced her eyes to stay open. Tried to focus her thoughts, pull out of that tempting blackout. A dimly lit office of sorts. Four men. The oldest one was standing back a bit, scowling.

  "We thought you'd ask her some questions." One of the men shifted uneasily. "Off her yourself."

  If you were queasy about killing me, what were you doing out there ambushing me, boyo?

  "She don't know shit."

  He had a pretty good mental shield. She felt it, caught the rhythm, the frequency and soaked through.