The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  “Save your thanks,” she snapped, her face a blur in the shadows. “And stay against the wall. I may not hold you back the next time.”

  With a grimace Blaise struggled on, and after a while his entire attention focused down to nothing but his battle with the steps. The occasional throb in his chest became constant, and the mask stifled him as each breath grew more difficult.

  When they finally reached the top, emerging through a hole in the floor into a wide hall of sorts with a tall vaulted ceiling held up by smoke-blackened beams, Blaise did not at first realize that the ordeal was over, and he would have stumbled blindly on had Saunders not held him beside her.

  Soldiers were everywhere, some strolling through on their way elsewhere in the citadel, others gathered in small groups in the corners of the hall. At regular spaces along the wall, vast braziers filled with glowing yellow coals gave off a blaze of heat and light. Some of the Bban’jen stood near these, with their dark cloaks thrown back over their shoulders, talking among themselves somberly or with excitement. Other figures—female, perhaps—bundled in shapeless tattered garments with hooded cloaks shadowing their faces, moved about in silent industry, two shoving a crude bench against a wall, while the rest circulated among the groups of soldiers, baskets under their arms. The reek of fiery spices and cooking hung in the smoky air, overlaid by Bban musk and other unidentifiable odors. Along one wall a rack of barb-tipped spears—at least three meters in length—stood in a precise display surmounted by an enormous gold medallion of intricate design, in the center of which was a baleful stone of dark-blue crystal. Blaise stared thoughtfully at those spears, doubting if he could even heft one.

  Barking an order, the guards moved Blaise and Saunders on through the hall, while around them conversations stilled and masked faces turned to follow their progress. They moved through a tall doorway whose two armored halves were standing wide, secured by stout metal hooks connected to rings bolted to the floor. The passageway narrowed past that point, but not to the extent of the old tunnels, and now that the going was easier Blaise noticed that the walls were constructed of small stone blocks not always well fitted together or smoothed.

  Then at last the soldiers halted by a narrow door. One Bban stepped forward to unlock and slam it open. Blaise and Saunders were shoved through. They had barely stumbled over the threshold before the door was slammed shut and locked. Blaise swayed on his feet, barely able to believe he’d made it, then with an oath yanked off the stifling mask. Saunders glanced at him as she began prowling about the narrow room, examining the few objects lying on a triangular-shaped table. Blaise, however, had eyes only for the nearest of two niches cut into the wall, spread with one rough-woven blanket apiece. Dropping the hated mask on the floor, he stumbled to the left bunk and sprawled across it, uncaring about discomfort or cold or hunger as blessed nothingness washed over him.

  When he awakened hours later he felt much better, despite the lightheadedness of hunger and excruciating soreness in his back and legs. Groaning, he sat up and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, cocking an eye at Saunders who was standing beside the table, noisily chewing on something.

  “Where’s mine?” he said, coughing to clear the gravel from his throat.

  She eyed him a moment, as unfriendly as ever, and with a swallow picked up a metal cup and held it out to him.

  He took it reluctantly, knowing without having to look at the dark grease-spotted contents that it was the same ghastly cold broth as yesterday.

  “I can’t get my strength back on this,” he said in disgust, setting down the cup untasted. “Come on, Saunders, share your portion.”

  She frowned as though she meant to refuse, then tossed him the second cube from the tray. He caught it, cupping his hands gingerly about it as a corner crumbled away into brown dust. After a cautious sniff, he bit into the side, expecting it to crumble to dry powder on his tongue. Instead he found it growing more chewy and substantial as it reacted with his saliva. He worried the tasteless stuff with his teeth until it suddenly fell apart in his mouth like coarse meal. He swallowed quickly, choking a bit, and resolutely broke off another chunk.

  When it was all gone, his jaws ached from the tough chewing, and his throat was shriveled with thirst. He eyed the broth again, swirling the unappealing contents so that the film of grease on top sank momentarily, and out of fairness offered part of it to Saunders. She was still working on her cube and refused curtly. With a shrug he steeled himself and gulped down the broth, nearly gagging on the rancid taste.

  She watched him without expression, her broad jaws making solid work of the remainder of her meal. Then with a final swallow she pushed her lengthening hair back from her face and said, “Do you still prefer this to detention?”

  His brow furrowed as he lay back on his bunk, propping himself on one elbow. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  She laughed harshly and waved her freckled hand at the room. “The only way out is through that door. So what is your plan of escape? Picking the lock?”

  He stared at her, pale gray eyes narrowed. He was annoyed, but he ignored it, refusing to let emotions get in his way. “Wait,” he said calmly. “The moment will come.”

  She snorted, shoving the table aside with a scrape of the legs across the stone floor. “You have your share of flin, Omari, sitting there assuming I will follow your lead. As my prisoner—”

  “No,” said Blaise, a spark igniting in his eyes. He made sure that this time she saw his anger. “I am not your prisoner, Saunders. Get rid of that idea, because I am your only hope of freedom.”

  “Are you?” Her square chin jutted as she stood facing him, her big hands planted on her straight hips. “I am not helpless. And why should I trust you? You’re a murderer and a thief and a—”

  “Blackmarketeer and rebel,” he finished for her, studying the tip of one finger.

  “Damn you!” She gestured viciously. “I hold you responsible for the deaths of Forerunner’s crew. Four lives, Omari! And I intend to see you pay—”

  He sprang off his bunk, seizing her arm and pinning it so roughly behind her that she broke off with a cry.

  “Now,” he said through his teeth, threading his fingers through her short red hair to yank back her head. She struggled, the powerful muscles in her broad shoulders bunching beneath the tattered fabric of her coveralls, and swung her free hand back in a blow to his ribs.

  He dodged most of it, but it hurt enough to make his slight hold on his temper slip. Snarling, he hurt her just enough to make her cease struggling.

  “Have I your attention, Saunders?” he asked, tightening his grip in her hair.

  She kicked backward at him, only to scream as he twisted her arm to a point just short of breaking.

  “Have I your attention?” he repeated through his teeth as she sank to her knees with a gasp and a stifled moan. “Well?”

  “Yes!” she shouted, her eyes flashing with murder behind the tears.

  “Then listen,” he said, releasing her head but not her arm. Warily he kept himself balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready for whatever her fury might force her to try next. “I brought us here, yes. And I’ll take the blame for what happened to the captain. But look at your own actions, Saunders, if you want to blame the crash on someone.”

  “No!”

  “You threw the Forerunner at the black star!”

  She jerked in his hold. “I won’t take the blame, Omari! Not for you, not for anyone. I’m getting out of here and—”

  Again he put pressure on her arm, making her gasp. “The Institute trained you to handle a starship and to defend yourself. It did not teach you how to break jail. Nor did it show you how to blend in with another culture to survive. I can do both, and much more. I can get us out of this citadel, but only if I have your cooperation.”

  She made a harsh sound of contempt. “And if I withhold it? If I decide to act on my own? It would be better—”

  “Then I’ll have t
o kill you,” he said, his voice hard. Inside he winced as he spoke, for taking lives gave him no pleasure, and he did not want to kill her, troublesome as she was. But he would do whatever was necessary to survive, just as he always had. And as long as she planned revenge for her dead crewmates, she was a definite danger to him.

  He waited for a moment, and when she said nothing, he said, “It will be the only means of keeping you out of my way, unless you decide to be smart, Saunders, and follow my orders with no more trouble and no more argument. Understood? The arm of the Institute does not reach here. You will never take me back to that travesty you call justice.” He snorted. “Institute justice. It is nothing, Saunders! So what is your answer?”

  She did not reply. He could feel her rigid, unyielding muscles, and knew, with a stir of mingled contempt and regret, that she was a fool. With a sigh he raised his hand behind her head, but without warning the bolts slammed back and the door crashed open. He turned around quickly and nearly lost his grip on her as she heaved to break free.

  “No, you don’t!” he said grimly, bracing himself harder against her powerful struggles.

  With a shout two Bban guards ran inside. Rough hands seized Blaise, dragging him away from Saunders, who lashed out with her fist, sending a lance of agony through his chest. He gasped, doubling over, and by the time he had recovered his breath he was hard held in a Bban’s grip, as was Saunders.

  The guard snapped something unintelligible at him and jerked him along, forcing him toward the door.

  Blaise glanced over his shoulder at her scowling face. “Don’t worry, Saunders,” he said lightly, masking his alarm. “It looks like you won’t have to team up with me after all. Institute pride is salvaged.” He grinned at her. “And I always do get away, even from the Institute.”

  With an answering oath she tried to hurl herself at him, only to be knocked sprawling to the floor by the second guard. He snarled something at her, drawing his knife.

  She rose to her feet, pressing her hand to the bleeding corner of her mouth, and lifted her head high. “To quote you,” she said coldly, the anger undimmed in her eyes as Blaise was shoved through the doorway, “just wait. You will pay for their lives, Omari, and whether these Bban’jen take care of you now or I have to do it with my own hands, you will pay.”

  In emphasis the door boomed shut and was bolted with a hard twist of a square metal key. Then, flanked by both guards, Blaise was dragged away down another dark, dusty tunnel.

  Not eager to face whatever lay ahead of him, he tried stiffening his knees to slow their rapid pace, and received a sharp cuff on the side of the head that almost stunned him. After that he cooperated, keeping himself alert for the first chance to break free.

  But only a few hundred yards away from his cell the guards halted before another armored door, grimly black and encrusted with age. The guard on his left rapped sharply on it with his knife hilt, and when it swung open from within, Blaise was thrust inside roughly enough to send him stumbling to his knees. For a moment, as he gasped from the jolt of that fall and sought to right himself, he wondered if he had not simply been transferred to a separate confinement. But when he caught his breath and lifted his head, it was to find the tall creature in the blue cloak standing before him once again.

  A sharp command sent all the guards outside. The door slammed and Blaise was left alone on his knees before the masked stranger. His eyes narrowed, and he considered seizing the smoking torch from its bracket near him and using it for a weapon. But there was no escape from the dark, cavelike room save through the door and the guards waiting beyond. Regretfully Blaise abandoned the urge for action and struggled to his feet, wincing.

  The creature in blue pulled out the translator as he had before and said in a deep, stilted voice, “It pleases me to speak with you, not to harm you. Attempt nothing foolish, n’ka.”

  Blaise braced his feet slightly apart, settling his wiry body into an easy, deceptive stance. “I’m listening,” he said, his gray eyes cold with wariness.

  “You are distrustful. Please…” The creature’s hands swept out, gloved in gauntlets with wide embroidered tops. “Take no alarm.”

  Blaise raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t intend to harm us, why are we kept prisoner, Picyt?”

  The creature withdrew one hand into the generous fold of his sleeve and inclined his head slightly so that the torchlight glinted off his mask with its decorative tracings of silver. “You recall my name. Splendid. You are kept here within the citadel as a precaution for your safety. Now, n’ka.” Picyt stepped forward eagerly. “I have a proposal to lay before you…a request.”

  “Yes?” said Blaise, his attention caught. The situation began to look more advantageous.

  “Your spaceship will never function again,” said Picyt slowly, choosing his words with care. “And although once we had the ability to go from one world to another, this ability is no longer ours. You can never leave Ruantl. You have no choice but to make your life here.”

  Thinking of the crimes sprinkled through his past and of the vindictive search for him now being conducted through every corner of Institute-controlled territory, Blaise kept his satisfaction at this refuge he’d found from his voice as he coolly replied, “I understand. What is it you want from me?”

  “First, stand quietly for a moment and allow me to look upon you. If you are indeed the one sought…”

  A light finger, something alien and cold, brushed Blaise’s mind. Well aware of the techniques of telepathy in its many forms, and hostile to all of them, Blaise stiffened and promptly raised the mental barriers he had learned to erect with much difficulty over the years of thwarting reformations and other rehabilitation procedures.

  Picyt withdrew at once with a slight gesture. “Forgive me,” he said after a pause. “I had not suspected you were of caste. But you are also of—” He broke off at Blaise’s frown and came a step nearer. “I realize you do not trust me, n’ka, yet there is not time to gain trust in the proper way. Ruantl—this planet—was colonized long ago by the Tlar race. The Bban’n are native. They possess no political power, no rights, and are dependent upon us for food and other…things.” Picyt lifted his hand, turning the palm over. “The Tlar are few. Less than a hundred families of pure lineage exist. Our ruler is a young tyrant, incapable of seeing past his own pleasure. I wish to free this planet from its stagnation and technological decay. The Bban’n are intelligent and full of potential, but they must have the chance to grow.”

  Blaise rubbed his stubbled jaw, swiftly considering options. A planet under civil war offered many opportunities, provided he attached himself to the winning side. “Does this revolt involve the whole planet or—”

  “No, only this continent has been settled by the Tlar,” said Picyt quickly. “Elsewhere the native populations are primitive. No contact has been made with them for years. Now tell me, n’ka,” he continued eagerly. “Will you help us? Will you share your skills with my technicians and train them in the knowledge that has been forgotten?”

  “Perhaps,” said Blaise. Confidence rose in him; there was always a way out when one looked for it. “And what would I gain from this association?”

  Picyt gestured broadly. “Your mind tells me you are an outlaw, a hunted man. I can grant you a new identity.”

  Blaise laughed at such naiveté. “Sorry, but I can always—”

  “No, you misunderstand!” broke in Picyt. “What I offer is more than a change of name! Guarded within the caverns of M’thra are the forms of Ruantl’s four greatest rulers, preserved perfectly in the cold heart of Anthi. Were you to take on the body of Leiil Asan and raise the Bban tribes against Hihuan, he would have no—”

  “Wait a minute!” said Blaise sharply, a chill spreading through him as he realized he was facing not just a conspirator but a fanatic. “What do you mean, take on his body?”

  “Precisely that,” said Picyt in a calm, reassuring way that did not reassure Blaise at all. The translator dangled and spun
on its cord. “We have used the regeneration process many times in order to keep valued slaves or—”

  “And how long would I be in this body?” Blaise asked with rising revulsion.

  Picyt spread out his hand. “The exchange is permanent.”

  “No deal.” Blaise backed up a step. “No.”

  “You decide too quickly,” said Picyt, his voice softening to a more persuasive tone. “Consider. You would have all the honor of the Tlar leiil without the responsibility of that office. You would have ample food and—”

  “No.” Blaise shook his head, imagining himself as a stinking Bban with corroded skin and a jaw like a…He shuddered and turned away from Picyt. “Forget it! I won’t—”

  Deep, melodious laughter interrupted him, as soft and gentle as the fingertips that brushed his mind.

  Blaise jerked around, his fists clenched. No one played around with his mind and…His eyes widened with alarm as he saw Picyt raise both hands to the fastenings of his mask. Blaise’s breath came a little shorter. He did not want to look behind that mask and see the living horror of another Bban face!

  “So this is what you fear, n’ka?” asked Picyt, and pulled mask and hood away in a swift movement.

  Blaise flinched, then blinked in surprise. Whatever Picyt might be, he was not Bban. Chagrined, Blaise stared at the golden-skinned face that regarded him with a smile. He took in the details of slanted dark-brown eyes with no whites, sharply ridged cheekbones padded over by the fleshy jowls of middle age, and a sensitive humanoid mouth. Picyt’s dark hair, catching red glints from the torchlight, grew to a low point on his forehead and lay back in sleek, well-groomed waves to the base of his neck. It was an elegant face, a face of civilization and advanced culture, and in this cavelike room lit poorly by fire it looked distinctly out of place. Curbing his first swell of relief, however, Blaise glanced down at his clenched fist, then up at Picyt once again. This time he saw the lines of fatigue and worry carved around eyes and mouth, saw a slight droop in one of the cheek muscles, saw when the gleam of torchlight struck those dark eyes a suggestion of a dull bluish haze over them. He frowned.