by Ann Maxwell
F’lTiri looked even more uncomfortable. He sighed. “Ilfn told me you’d be difficult.”
“Ilfn?” Kirtn’s voice was sharp. “Is she all right? And Lheket?”
The illusionist knew what Ilfn and Lheket meant to Kirtn. As the only other akhenet team that was known to have survived Deva, the female Bre’n and male storm dancer represented the only future the races of Senyas and Bre’n had. “They’re both fine,” said f’lTiri quickly.
“Then how—”
“Kirtn.” Rheba’s hand subtly restrained the Bre’n. “Let him talk. When he’s finished you can chew on him or whoever else has it coming. If they’ve done anything to the Devalon, I’ll cook them and feed them to you myself.”
F’lTiri shuddered and looked away from Rheba’s eyes. “The ship is as you left it, with one minor change. Ilfn is giving the orders.”
“Ilfn?” Rheba’s voice was doubtful. “The only way she would disobey Kirtn was if Lheket’s life was at stake.”
“Exactly. The J/taals figured that out rather quickly. They told her that if she didn’t open the ship and let them come after you, they’d kill Lheket.”
“They don’t speak Universal and she doesn’t speak J/taal,” said Kirtn, his voice cold. “How would they communicate?”
“Ever heard of sign language? A knife, for instance? Held at a boy’s throat while two J/taals stand by the downside access?”
The Bre’n winced. He could see the J/taals doing just that. What’s more, they would have carried out their threat. They had no compunctions about heaven or hell where Rheba’s safety was concerned. “Go on,” he said, letting his anger slide away.
The Yhelle drew a slow breath of relief. “Ilfn said if I survived the first few questions, you’d be reasonable.” He looked sideways. “Your race is as short-tempered as it is strong. Ilfn was . . . angry at the J/taals.”
“Tell him something he doesn’t know,” suggested Rheba dryly.
“I decided to come along with the J/taals. Without your magic snake”—he gestured to Fssa—“communication is uphill and into the wind. Enough of the Seurs knew Universal for me to be useful.”
“I hope they were grateful,” said Kirtn.
“The J/taals?”
“No. The Seurs. The J/taals would have gone through them like a lightgun through pap, looking for Rheba.”
The illusionist’s smile was thin. “We lost a few Seurs on our way to Tric. They should have known better than to take on two J/taals and their clepts. Tric was smart. He loaded us onto a mover and shot us out of Centrins before the fighting started.”
“Fighting?”
“Riot,” amended f’lTiri. “Seems that something has gone wrong with their food machine. First it turned out unprocessed sewage, then it stopped entirely. Everyone blamed the Seurs. When the mover pulled out, Centrins looked like payday in Chaos.”
“How did you get through the tunnel?”
“There wasn’t much of the rockfall left.” He made a gesture of admiration toward Kirtn. “Even the J/taals were impressed. I left them at the tunnel,” he added. “I couldn’t cover them with my illusion. Then I listened around one of those native piles until I figured out what had happened. After that, it was just a matter of getting a look at Super Scavenger Scuvee.” He smiled with an illusionist’s pride. “Clever of me to figure a way around the language problem, wasn’t it?”
The swollen face of Scuvee returned. F’lTiri grunted and waved his arms. The Scavenger face blurred into illusionist laughter.
“Very clever,” agreed Kirtn, bending down and picking up Fssa. He knotted the snake loosely around his neck and pulled up the hood that was attached to the Scavenger robes the Treats had been given. Fssa poked out his head, sensors wheeling with colors. “Put on Scuvee’s face again,” said Kirtn. “The sooner we get to the tunnel, the safer I’ll feel. Fssa, can you take care of the voice?”
“Right,” said the snake, flawlessly reproducing Scuvee’s rasping tone.
“Can you make the illusion of a rope around our wrists?” asked Kirtn. “We were tied when we came here. We should be tied when we leave.”
Startlingly realistic ropes appeared around their wrists. “Like that?”
“Too good. The ropes here are dirty and frayed.”
The illusion flickered, then reformed more convincingly.
“Good. ‘Scuvee’ will take the lead,” said Kirtn. “If anyone asks, even unwilling Treats get a turn in a shaval pile. To make sure we don’t get away, she’s taking us to a small one where she can keep her eye on us. Got that?”
F’lTiri clapped his hands, agreement and appreciation in a single gesture. As he turned toward the door, his face changed. As far as the guards could see, it was Scuvee who walked out leading the three Treats.
“Shaval,” grunted Scuvee to the surprised guards.
The guards hesitated, then stepped aside. “How about us?”
Scuvee pointed toward the nearest shaval drift. Clouds of the gold dust flew up as happy Scavengers groped and thrashed toward consummation. She grunted again.
The guards did not wait for a second invitation. They raced toward the drift, shedding clothes as they went. With loud whoops they vanished into the pile.
F’lTiri sniffed the fragrant motes of shaval that drifted toward them. He sighed. “If I were a trader, I’d sell that stuff and die rich.”
Laughter and shrieks of pleasure punctuated the darkness as F’lTiri led the three Treats toward the tunnel. Once they heard a hoarse shout, angry surprise followed by curses. Kirtn speeded up until he was stepping on f’lTiri’s heels. The illusionist, who had also heard the shout, redoubled his speed.
Several times they had to detour around shaval drifts that were filled to overflowing with benignly demented Scavengers. Until the shaval wore off, nothing much smaller than the end of the world would be noticed by many of the inhabitants of Square One.
Long before the escaping Treats reached the tunnel, the cliff face loomed over them, cutting off half the sky. Beyond the cliff mountains rose, stone piled on stone in dark abandon.
“Hurry,” whistled Fssa around the gurgling sound he made while sloshing about Kirtn’s neck. “Someone’s following. I think it’s Scuvee. She must have come back for Kirtn and discovered we were gone.”
They moved as quickly as they could, but it was not fast enough. Behind them came clear sounds of pursuit, shouts and curses and hoarse cries of encouragement.
The clepts found them before they reached the tunnel in the cliff face. The war dogs materialized out of the night, touched Rheba with their blunt muzzles and vanished. Almost immediately they returned with M/dere and M/dur. Both J/taals touched Rheba as though to reassure themselves that it was their J/taaleri in the flesh. Then they hustled everyone into the tunnel and posted a clept to guard the entrance.
From the trail came shouts, the real Scuvee’s among them. A second clept leaped out to help the first. The war dogs stood slightly apart, silver eyes gleaming in the night, waiting for a command to kill. Beyond them gathered the Scavengers, at least sixty of them milling in the moonlight.
“Give me light!” said Daemen urgently, shoving past Kirtn into the tunnel. “I’ve got to get to the mover discs!”
Rheba gave Daemen a bright light and got out of his way. She scrambled after them through the narrow opening in the rockfall that the J/taals had made. The sounds of shouting acted as a goad. Scuvee had dragged enough people out of shaval drifts to make a mob.
“Have you found anything yet?” Rheba called to Daemen.
“Bad Luck!” swore Daemen. “These discs are cracked. We’ll have to go farther into the tunnel and find others.”
“Will it take long?” asked Rheba, glancing nervously over her shoulder. The mob sounded as if it was nearly at the tunnel.
“Depends on how fast you can run.”
“Fssa. Tell the clepts not to hurt anyone if they can help it, but to hold off the Scavengers until you whistle. Then tell the do
gs to run like the hounds of death.”
Fssa uttered a series of grunts, clicks and gravel-like sounds that composed the language of the J/taals. The third clept vanished into the narrow tunnel through the rockfall.
Kirtn’s hand closed around Rheba’s arm, nearly lifting her off her feet. A clept’s snarl echoed chillingly back down the tunnel. Rheba ran next to Kirtn, cursing the loose Scavenger robes that threatened to trip her with each stride. After a moment she realized that the J/taals had not followed her. They had gone back to the rockfall to protect their J/taaleri’s retreat.
Daemen ran with surprising speed, his robe bunched in his left hand, legs flying. The illusionist was right behind, his breath coming hoarsely. Rheba and Kirtn followed, Fssa gurgling and thumping with each step.
The tunnel seemed endless. Finally Daemen skidded to a halt and began casting around frantically along both sides of the tunnel. Rheba doubled the light and leaned against Kirtn, panting with the violence of their run.
Daemen muttered up and down the tunnel and then pounced like a hungry clept. “Discs!”
Rheba and Kirtn crowded around him. Discs stretched across the tunnel. Daemen stepped from one to the next until he had activated nine of them, one for each person and three for the clepts.
“Stand next to me,” he said, gesturing impatiently. “And call in the J/taals.”
Fssa sent a punishing burst of sound back down the tunnel. If there was an answer, only the snake heard it.
“Now what?” said Kirtn, standing next to The Luck.
“A mover condenses,” he said. Then muttered, “I hope.”
“Aren’t you sure?” said Rheba.
“It’s a Zaarain machine,” said The Luck. “It usually works, but it’s old.”
Silently, they stood and waited for the mover to form. Nothing happened. They looked at Daemen. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be praying.
The J/taals and clepts appeared with the astonishing speed that was part of their deadly mercenary skills. Without being told, they formed a protective ring around Rheba. Daemen opened his eyes, approved the J/taals’ positions, and resumed exhorting his gods.
From the tunnel came the sounds of the Scavenger mob. Daemen sweated and muttered but did not open his eyes. The sounds became louder. Rheba gathered what energy she could, but in the black tunnel she was as close to helpless as a fire dancer could be.
The mob burst into howls of triumph as they saw the group illuminated by dancer light. F’lTiri projected a monstrous image at the same instant that Rheba shimmered into flame. The Scavengers faltered, then rushed forward in a mass to reclaim their Treats.
A mover condensed silently, inexorably around The Luck and his friends, dividing them from the Scavengers. The last thing the Treats heard before the mover enclosed them was Scuvee’s anguished wail.
XXI
Centrins was subdued, a city exhausted after an orgy of violence. There were no Seurs out, no robes or whips to be seen. Just small groups of people slinking from alley to alley, looking as battered as the buildings and as hungry as the shadows.
Rheba shivered and moved closer to her Bre’n. Their only comfort was the slender grace of the Devalon rising above the windblown streets. She was grateful for the mover’s invisible barrier around them. The people of Centrins had the mean look of skinning knives.
Kirtn put his arm around her, sensing her unease. He, too, wished to be inside the Devalon’s familiar protection. The Scavengers had been angry but not desperate. Centrins was another matter entirely. People huddled sullenly around the outlying feeding stations, ignoring the cold wind that chased tattered bits of cloth along cracked pavements.
The Luck looked unhappily at the view provided by the mover. If the Seurs had been gaunt, these people were skeletal. Centrins’ Luck had run out the day they shipped his mother off planet. “Why?” he said hoarsely. “Why didn’t they just let her stay?”
Kirtn looked at Daemen and said simply, “They wanted to change their Luck. They did.”
“She wasn’t other.”
The Bre’n sighed and said nothing. Daemen’s mother was dead, a variety of Luck that came to all living things. “They must have been desperate,” he said finally.
Daemen made a strangled sound that even a Fssireeme could not translate.
Centrins rose out of the gray city that later men had built in the shadow of Zaarain magnificence. Multicolored and as multi-layered as a dream, the building’s outer walls glistened with enigmas that had been old before akhenets were more than an evolutionary promise.
“I can see why they called it God’s House,” murmured Rheba. “Anything that beautiful can scarcely be human.” She glanced at her Bre’n, whose beauty was as much an enigma to her as a Zaarain construct. “You should live there, mentor.”
Kirtn smiled oddly, almost sadly. “Would you live with me, little dancer?”
She looked up and saw herself reflected in golden Bre’n eyes. For an instant she felt as beautiful as he, then he blinked and the instant passed. Tears came to her eyes, eyes that had wept only once since Deva died. “I’m not a god.”
“Neither am I.” His voice was gentle, but very final.
She looked at him, remembering his eyes glowing gold out of he tunnel’s darkness as he lifted boulders nearly as large as himself, Bre’n power and beauty that no Senyas could equal. She looked at him and felt like an awkward child stumbling in the wake of perfection, awed and almost resentful.
It’s you who call fire, not me. It’s you who burn with inhuman beauty, not me. You are like flames, color and grace and heat. Look at the Face you wear. See yourself as you are. Or are you still so young that you want to worship instead of love?
Kirtn’s voice in her mind was like a blow. She pushed away from him, ending the touch that had made mind dancing possible. Even then the intensity of his communication almost overwhelmed her, echoes of his emotions and her own seething through her so quickly that she could not separate them into understanding.
Her hand went up to her earring, an object that was both jewelry and teaching device. She touched the Bre’n carving that turned with her every movement, a Face hidden within the restless cloud of her hair. She did not need to see the Face to remember it, Bre’n profiles aloof and serene, sensual and laughing, changing and yet changeless as a sea. Once she thought she had seen herself in the carving but the image was like a wave breaking, gone before she could fix its reality.
Centrins closed around the mover, startling her.
“Where does the mover stop?” asked Kirtn, looking at the courtyards and residences that were part of the Zaarain building’s colorful interior.
“In the Seur residence.”
“I should have guessed,” said Kirtn sourly.
Daemen turned to face the Bre’n. It did not take a mind dancer to guess his thoughts. “Don’t worry. I’m The Luck. I’m coming back with my find. They’ll be glad to see me.”
Kirtn stared. “If you believe that, you shouldn’t be let out of the nursery without a guard.”
The Luck’s skin darkened with embarrassment or anger. “It's our way,” he said tightly. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
Kirtn looked over Daemen’s shoulder where the Seur quarter rose out of a ruined garden. Ragged rows of Seurs were gathered around the discs where movers condensed or dissolved. Neither the expressions on their faces nor the weapons in their hand looked welcoming.
“My understanding isn’t the problem,” said Kirtn, pointing toward the Seurs. “Save your arguments for them.”
Daemen turned, assessed the waiting Seurs, and made a sound of disbelief. “Don’t they understand? I’m here to save them. I’m their Luck!”
Kirtn’s big hand closed over Daemen’s shoulder, forcing the young man’s attention. “It’s you who don’t understand,” said the Bre’n gently. “You touched their food and it turned to shit. Remember?”
Daemen’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He shook his head
as though to rid himself of doubts. “When I explain they’ll understand.”
Kirtn looked at Rheba, silently asking her to argue with The Luck.
She saw Daemen’s confusion, his youth, his vulnerability. “We’ll help you, Daemen. If it weren’t for Rainbow you wouldn't be in this mess.”
“The best way to help him would be to get his smooth ass off this planet,” snapped Kirtn.
Daemen looked shocked. “I can’t leave. They’ll die. They need me. I am—”
“—their Luck,” finished the Bre’n dryly. “I know. You’ve told us often enough.” He measured the waiting Seurs. “You might be able to kill them, but convince them you’re Good Luck? Even a Fssireeme wouldn’t have enough mouths to do that.”
“Then I’ll have to get around them,” he said stubbornly.
“That’s a good idea,” said Rheba. “Is there another entrance?'
Daemen hesitated. “Centrins isn’t like Square One. Just the core area is the same. But once we get there, it won’t take long to dump in the zoolipt,” he added hopefully.
“What,” said Kirtn distinctly, “is between us and the core?”
“Three doors. No, four. The first two don’t fit very well and the last two are never locked.”
Kirtn’s whistle made Rheba’s teeth ache. “'That’s all? Just four doors and all the Seurs Centrins can muster?” He smiled sourly. “You don’t need us. You need a J/taal army!”
“He doesn’t have a J/taal army,” pointed out Rheba.
Even the J/taals cringed at Kirtn’s answering whistle.
Before Rheba could shape a retort, the mover dissolved. This time Kirtn was not caught unprepared. He steadied f’lTiri with one hand and Rheba with the other. Daemen, naturally, landed on his feet.
The Seurs moved only enough to let Tric come to the front. Behind him the ranks closed with seamless finality. It was obvious that nothing—particularly Bad Luck—was going to get through the Seurs alive.
Tric walked forward a few steps, then stood looking sorrowfully at his sister’s son. “I’d hoped never to see you again.”
