Raider

by Justine Davis

  “Nor would I do it. She is a fighter, and it would kill her spirit to be told she cannot.” His mouth quirked. “And she would not stop even if I ordered it.”

  “I think she would do anything for you. Except that.”

  Brander didn’t draw back from the sideways look that got him. “You’re the smartest man I know,” he said simply. “You cannot be unaware of her feelings for you. Even if she’s not quite clear on which of you she loves.”

  “I lay no claim to any knowledge at all of the female brain. Besides, it matters not. There is no time for such. Not in the midst of this war.”

  If he knew nothing else, Brander knew when to cut his losses. “I think the Coalition doesn’t quite consider this a war.”

  “Yet.”

  It came with a grin, and Brander knew he was still jubilant over the success of the raid. Five brand-new air rovers was a triumph. A good moment to make his proposal.

  “I’ve been thinking. If it’s true that the new post commander is a fan of chaser, perhaps I should set up a regular game.”

  He watched as the Raider considered his words. The man knew he was the best chaser player in the city and beyond. It wasn’t that he never lost, but more that he could always judge when the other players had an unbeatable hand. In the long run, which was what he played for, he always came out ahead. And he rarely made anyone angry at him, for he took care not to have blatant runs of good luck that might lead to charges of cheating.

  “That,” the Raider said after a moment, “sounds like a double problem. You cannot afford to lose too much, but with the Coalition, you cannot afford to win too much, either.”

  “It would be a fine line,” he agreed. He pulled a single Romerian withal out of his pocket, held the golden coin up to gleam in the firelight. “But if I play it right, the real payoff would not be in withals.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed, pulling the mask of scars tighter. “You mean information.”

  Brander nodded. “Who knows what I might pick up? Just as we learned about the changing of the guard.”

  “At the risk of putting your face before them enough that the chance of you being recognized in a fight goes up considerably.”

  Brander’s gaze flicked to the scarred half of the Raider’s face. He knew it was his protection, that the mass of scars not only made him look more bloodcurdling, but also served as distraction. No one noticed much else about him before they instinctively looked away from the ruin of his face.

  But he said nothing of it. Instead, he merely shrugged. “Me, a wastrel gambler, running with the Raider? It would never occur to them.”

  “Not just running. His second in command, closest friend, and good right hand.”

  The words warmed him, but he kept his own light. “They’re too busy looking for you to worry about me. Besides, I—”

  He broke off as a tapping came on the door. In the pauses between the knocks was the same combination of lengths that identified them on the way up the mountain. Kye.

  Brander saw a look of resignation coupled with acceptance in the Raider’s eyes. Brander rose, glancing again at the table that held the other two long guns, then at his commander.

  “Good luck,” he said with a flashing grin. His answer was a pained grimace Brander had never seen prior to a Coalition battle. He waited until his friend and leader picked up the battered metal helmet and put it on, masking most of his face except the scars. Heard him cough slightly, as if roughening his voice was a physical thing. Then he went to the door and pulled it open. Gave the woman waiting there a wink as he shifted the long gun on its sling over his shoulder. Her sharp gaze followed the movement, and he saw it linger for a moment on the coveted weapon.

  “Good luck,” Brander repeated.

  “Wish it to him. I don’t need it.”

  “Already did. More, because he will need it, my fiery cousin.”

  She gave him a disgusted look. He laughed, and edged past her back into the great room.

  He would give much to be the proverbial zipbug on the wall for this one.

  “SO IT IS TRUE,” Kye said as soon as the door closed behind her cousin and the weapon he’d had in his hands. “There were long guns in the rovers.”

  The Raider finished settling the helmet in place on his head, adjusting it to hide the half of his face that he apparently thought even worse, or perhaps just more in need of protection than the visible half. Then he turned.

  “A few, yes,” he said.

  His voice was its usual raspy, rough thing. She still found it not unpleasing. But then, she admired him so greatly she had to admit that could color her perception.

  She focused on his eyes, that classic Ziem blue in contrast to her own turquoise shade. Some said her color was more prized for being rarer, but she thought with the black rim around an iris the color of a sun-season sky, his were much more striking. She was long past being distracted by the scars that twisted across his face. He looked weary, she thought. And yet energized at the same time, as if the vigor of the successful raid on the transportation annex still carried him.

  She shoved her worry about him into the barred cage where she made it live, alongside the other feelings she had for him that would, given the slightest encouragement, blossom into something even more foolish. She could not allow that encouragement. There was too much at stake to let her personal feelings interfere.

  And in that moment it struck her that this was very like the decision Drake had had to make. His family responsibility outweighed all else, and so he had had to close the door on anything else, including his feelings for her.

  For a moment, she wobbled, her stomach knotting, her heart aching with the pain of wanting something so very much, and knowing she could never, never have it.

  “Kye.”

  The Raider said it quietly, with a new softness in his voice, and the warmth it sent spiraling through her nearly was her undoing. Her gaze shot to his face, his eyes, and for an instant, she saw an echoing warmth, before it vanished from the cool blue of his eyes.

  She struggled to regain her composure. “Where are the rest of the long guns?” she asked.

  “They are cached, along with the rest of the arms. For now.”

  “Yet Brander has one.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And you as well, I presume.”

  “Yes,” he said mildly.

  She’d expected this battle, and was ready. She had few qualms about facing down this legend among men, but she had meant to stay calm, present her case coolly, irrefutable item by irrefutable item. But that softening of his voice, that flash of heat in his eyes, had thrown her completely. She ruined her plan quickly, words pouring from her like the Racelock at the narrowest part of the gorge.

  “That makes no sense. I’m the best shot of all of us. I had the long gun when we only had the one. And I used it well, until it was fried by that rail gun burst.”

  “Brander is a fair shot himself,” he said mildly.

  “As are you. That’s not the point. The point is that I’m better than both of you.”

  “I see you’ve lost none of your confidence.”

  “And why would I? I didn’t miss with that old piece of—” She stopped, knowing she was heading the wrong direction. She tried again for calm, but this mattered so much it was difficult. “It is only logical that a long gun be in the hands of the one who can make the best use of it.”

  “Indeed.”

  Her brows lowered. “So?”

  When he spoke it was gently, and she could have sworn she saw a flicker of . . . something in those vivid blue eyes. Laughter? Teasing? From the Raider? On top of that bit of heat she had seen in his eyes?

  “Had you looked before you launched, you would have seen there are yet two on the table there. Mine . . . and yours.”

  Her
head snapped around. She stared at the two weapons. Felt color stealing her neck and into her cheeks. It took some nerve, but she turned back to face the man she admired above all others.

  “I am sorry. I was prepared for a battle when there was none.”

  “I would have you save that fervor for the enemy. But do not mistake me, Kye. Would I rather that you stayed safe at home, or at least here in camp? Of course.”

  “I could not!”

  “Being a carrier of the long gun means dangerous, solitary missions. Often on your own, apart from any backing or aid.”

  “Haven’t I done that for months? I cannot sit safely back while others fight.”

  “I know that to do so would suffocate you.”

  “Would that others would be so clear-sighted,” she muttered, but she gave him a smile that held everything of her regard, and her thankfulness that he did not coddle her.

  For the first time, he looked sad. “You are an artist, Kye. I would give anything for you to be able to become what you were born to become. It pains me to see your artist’s eye turned to such work.”

  “There is no place for art in this world the Coalition has created.”

  “I know.”

  She thought she had never heard more pain and sorrow than in those two words.

  But it was the Raider, the warrior, who spoke then. “It is a wise commander who knows the skills of his troops and uses them. No matter what I would prefer, I would be a fool not to use your sharp eye and steady hand.”

  He could not have said anything that pleased her more. Except, perhaps, that he wanted her safe because he loved her. But he was the Raider, and those words would never come.

  And she would be the fool if she thought otherwise.

  Chapter 14

  DRAKE STARED DOWN at the ripped tunic in his hands. He fought for calm, but there was no mistaking that the stains near the top were blood. Not a huge splotch, so it didn’t bring on panic, but still . . .

  He tilted his head, looking up toward the loft. Silence. Which was suspicious in itself.

  “Nyx! Lux! Both of you. Down here. Now.”

  He heard a whispered oath no child should be speaking. He’d address that later.

  Two sets of footsteps—very slow footsteps—echoed down the stairs. He stood with his arms folded as the two scamps came to a halt before him. They stood, as always, side by side, touching, as if neither of them felt complete without contact with the other. They were staring down at the floor, avoiding looking at him. And yet he felt relieved to see there were no wounds obviously needing a healer’s attention, despite the blood on the garment he held.

  It was like looking at two versions of the same picture, alike yet different. Nyx, thin, almost gangly with his most recent growth spurt, which put him nearly to Drake’s shoulder. And also made the bloody tunic his. Lux, still smaller but no less of a threat because of it; her power was in the head beneath that hair so like her mother’s, red with spirited fire.

  It struck him in that moment that soon Lux would change, that the transition from girl to woman would begin. Perhaps it already had, and he’d been too distracted—or oblivious—to realize it.

  His stomach knotted. He’d done a horrible job with Eirlys, not understanding at all what was happening until it was too late. Had it not been for Kye, who had walked this motherless path before Eirlys, and her generosity in providing a refuge for the young woman struggling to adapt to the changes that were overtaking her, he knew his little sister would not be even half the woman she was well on her way to becoming.

  He didn’t want to think where he himself would have been without Kye. It was bad enough to realize where he was now, and that he would be without her forever, having long ago lost her love and respect. And the only way to regain it was to do something he could not do. It did not matter what he wanted. Nor did it matter how much it hurt to want what he could not have.

  “What’s wrong?” Lux demanded.

  He only then realized she had at last lifted her head to look at him. Fear glowed in her eyes, more than just fear of whatever misdeed he’d caught them in this time. She was, he realized, afraid he had bad news. And that they knew enough to fear that at their young age made his stomach knot even more.

  He took in a breath to steady himself. Held up the stained tunic. “Explanation, please.”

  The two exchanged glances. If the situation had been more serious, he might have separated them for their stories, for they always backed each other up when together. Whoever spoke first, that was the version that stood, for neither of them would ever contradict the other. At least, not in his presence.

  “It’s a tunic,” Lux said, her overly sweet tone telling him she knew perfectly well that wasn’t the right answer, and also making him wonder if all females were born with the knack for that tone that any male would be wise to recognize as warning.

  He issued a warning of his own. “Do not. Explain the blood.”

  “Blood?” they chorused innocently.

  “Do you wish to shed more?” he countered, his voice as ominous as he could make it.

  “We didn’t shed that,” Nyx said. Lux groaned as he indirectly answered the question.

  “Who did? And why were you close enough that they bled on you?”

  Again the exchange of glances. If they ever progressed to the point of actually communicating without speaking, which he wouldn’t put past them, he would never keep up with them.

  Finally, Lux shrugged, as if giving in. Nyx, as usual followed her lead. “It is Vank Kerrold’s blood,” he offered.

  Drake blinked. “Jepson’s nephew?”

  Lux rolled her eyes skyward as he stated the obvious. The boy, a couple of years older than the twins, was a mirror image of his insufferable uncle. Except he was worse in the way only a teenaged bully could be.

  “And how,” he said carefully, “did Vank Kerrold’s blood get on your clothing?”

  Nyx sighed. “I punched him.”

  It was all Drake could do to quash the grin that threatened. Dear Eos, was he supposed to punish the boy for doing to Vank Kerrold what he himself had done to his uncle at almost the same age? Especially when more than likely he deserved it, and more?

  “Why?” he asked.

  Nyx went silent. He lowered his gaze to the floor and kept it there.

  “Nyx?” he prodded.

  When the boy stayed silent, Lux finally spoke up.

  “He called you a coward—”

  “So I called his uncle a traitor,” Nyx finished.

  “He swung—” They were in the familiar rhythm now.

  “She tripped him—”

  “And he punched him.”

  Succinct, he thought, even as his stomach knotted all over again. Would that some adults could report a situation with the same brevity and conciseness.

  “You don’t need to defend me,” he said to the boy, his voice harsh.

  Nyx’s chin came up. “You won’t.”

  “And besides, his uncle is a traitor,” Lux said vehemently.

  “Yes,” Drake agreed, fighting for calm. “But should you take that out on him? Unless you want others to blame you for . . . my being your brother?”

  Eos, he hated this. Nyx only shrugged, and lowered his gaze again. But Lux continued to stare at him.

  “Sometimes,” she said finally, “I just don’t understand you.”

  “Sometimes, little one, neither do I.” He sighed. “Just try not to draw any more blood, please?”

  Realizing they were getting off easily, they turned as one and dashed toward the back door.

  “Wait.”

  They skidded to a stop but didn’t turn back.

  “If I hear that word out of either of you again, the next blood you see will be from
working your fingers to the bone scrubbing the taproom floor.”

  The glances they exchanged then were of pure horror, and he thought that might just keep them in line for at least an afternoon.

  Unless something too tempting to resist cropped up.

  Chapter 15

  PALEDAN HID HIS distaste at the obvious preening of Barcon Ordam, who bustled into his office as if he were taking time out of his very busy schedule to meet with the new commander. He knew the type well; they had their uses, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed dealing with them.

  He cut off the florid welcome the man was spewing. “Tell me of Davorin.”

  Ordam grimaced. “He is to this day the biggest thorn in my side. The people, the ordinary people who refuse to forget, bemoan that there is no one to rise to take his place. They think him the greatest orator in Ziem history, and yet I have given many brilliant speeches myself. He is more than ten years dead and still they cling like lost children to his memory.”

  Paledan waited as Ordam droned on, thinking that if there was anything to bemoan on Ziem besides the miserable mist, it would be that this was the man they were forced to work with. A certain amount of cooperation from the locals made things easier in these places where portions of the infrastructure needed to be kept intact. In the case of Ziem, the mines must keep functioning, and thanks to their bedamned mist that wreaked havoc with Coalition equipment, that required the miners be left alive. Planium was tricky stuff, dangerous in its raw form, and no one knew its quirks better than those who had mined it for generations. The material was an essential resource, and for now it required Ziemites to mine it. Their own people were learning the mining, and their scientists were working on adapting equipment, but it would take time.

  Ordam knew who the miners were, and who among them might be problems. He also knew about much of the population of Zelos, and, according to the logs, many potential troublemakers had been weeded out in the first passes, based on his guidance.

  If the governor were anyone besides Sorkost, who required such sycophants to function, they would have rid themselves of him once they no longer needed him. Obviously he was of no help with the one remaining problem, the Raider, and keeping a traitor around, even if he was one who had aided you, had never seemed wise to him.