Quickly Jekri thumbed the controls. A blue blade sprang to life. She wished she were taller; she could only just reach the grate if she extended her arm fully. Red chips of rust flaked down onto her upturned face. She wiped them out of her eyes and continued. One more side ….
She stepped back quickly, not knowing if the grate would fall immediately nor how heavy it was. But it didn’t move. It would require some help. Hoping that she wouldn’t be crushed by the weight—now, that would be an irony—Jekri again moved underneath the grate and tried to dislodge it.
It shifted, ever so slightly. Then, all at once and too quickly for Jekri to catch it, it gave way and fell with a loud clang onto the stone. She tried to slow its descent, but all she managed was to divert it from falling directly on her head. It caught her shoulder and almost wrenched her right arm from its socket.
She swore softly and froze, listening with all the tension of a forest creature. The guard she had killed would seem to be the only one assigned her. She moved quickly. Luck had been with her thus far. She would not tempt it more than she had to.
Carefully switching off the laser scalpel, she inserted it and the guard’s disruptor into her clothing. She wished she had a proper belt, but she’d have to make do with what she had.
She sprang upward. There was absolutely nothing to hold on to and she fell back onto the floor. Pain shot through her ankle. She had twisted it slightly. She attempted to stand. It was not broken, at least. Grimly, Jekri tried again. Again, she failed.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and centered herself. She focused on what she would need to do to succeed. Jekri went through each step in her mind’s eye: the leap that would be high enough to propel her sufficiently deep into the shaft; quickly extending her feet to wedge herself in; each move of hand and foot as she climbed upward to freedom.
When she opened her eyes, her heart rate had slowed and she was calm. She gaze up, determined where she wanted to be, and jumped.
This time, she went several centimeters higher. At once she kicked out, her arms flying outward to secure a hold. This time, she stayed, though she felt her enemy, gravity, pulling her down. It was dark, but she did not need to see. Her questing hands and feet told her what she needed to know. Centimeter by centimeter, her body straining, she began to move upward.
The rough walls scratched her already lacerated skin, tore at her clothes. Once, she almost got stuck and panic closed in. She forced her roiling thoughts to be calm and continued. Sometimes Jekri found handholds, cracks in the wall that assisted her.
At one point she extended her hand and found nothing. She flailed for a second until she realized that this was another shaft, a horizontal one rather than a vertical one. It would be much easier to negotiate. If it petered out, she could always back up and return to her vertical climb.
Carefully, she clambered up, patting around for a hold and then hoisting her torso onto the horizontal surface. For a moment, she lay there, gasping, grateful for the reprieve. Carefully, she got to her hands and knees. The corridor was wide enough so that she could move this way, though her head scraped the upper part of the shaft.
This was much faster. She scuttled along purposefully for some time until her hand landed on something hard. She snatched it back. In the utter darkness, she had no clue as to what might be in this place. Gently, she reached out and her fingers closed on something long, thin, and hard. It was like a stick of wood, but what would wood be doing here? Frowning, she kept exploring with her fingers. More sticks, of different sizes. Now she felt something soft. Material. When her hand reached something round and hard, with two holes in it, she realized what it was. It was a skeleton.
Another prisoner had tried to escape via these shafts, long, long ago. She was surprised his bones did not crumble at her touch. What had killed him? Had he gotten stuck in the narrow crawlspace? Had he starved to death, or been injured or ill?
Jekri shook her head angrily. Such musing would not serve her. All she needed to be concerned about was that she not die like this unfortunate wretch had. Determinedly she moved the old bones and clothes to the side, clearing enough room to continue, and pressed on.
From time to time, she heard voices. At such moments she would sit as still as possible, trying to breathe softly, and strain to listen. She could not make out words, but by other sounds she could sometimes tell where she was. Once, she even heard the strong voice of her Empress. Lhiau’s baritone in answer made Jekri so angry that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Revenge. It would be sweet.
Other shafts opened from time to time and, guided by whim, she would take them. At one point she wondered if she would ever find her way out of the maze. She thought it quite likely that she would die here, utterly lost. But at least she would die free.
Her stomach growled, eager for the poor food it had been given. She ignored it, ignored the increasing trembling in her limbs, the pain of her ravaged left wrist.
Finally, she realized that the darkness was beginning to lighten. Up ahead was a patch of white—light shining down a shaft. Hope spurted through her and she crawled forward as quickly as she could. When she reached that patch of light, she stared at it, and a slow smile spread across her face. She would get out. She was the Little Dagger.
She edged forward, blinking against the brightness, and looked up. It was too far for her to distinguish where this led. She would have to climb it. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself a moment of utter weariness, then rallied and began to climb upward.
The light on her face was enough. It almost pulled her along. She must not be too eager, though, and risk exposing herself too soon.
A grate came into view, but as unlike the one through which Jekri had first shinnied as could be imagined. This was made of a contemporary alloy. The ventilation holes were frequent and tiny. She listened, straining to maintain her awkward position of back against one wall, feet against the other. No sound. Whatever this room was, there was at present no one in it.
Carefully, Jekri reached inside her garments and removed the laser scalpel. It would take longer, but would be much quieter than simply firing the disruptor. And right now, stealth was key. She had not come this far to fail.
She cut through the grate quickly. This one was lightweight and easily maneuverable. Quietly, she pushed it upward and slid it aside.
At that moment, hands seized her wrists and hauled her upward. She kicked violently, trying to break free.
“Here you are at last,” came a familiar voice. Jekri turned and stared into the eyes of Verrak, her betrayer.
INTERLUDE
What a sad, war-torn place this planet was, the Entity thought as it approached. Brother against brother. Law versus power. An old, old story.
As more information came to the Entity, it became disturbed. Once again, it knew this place. Ilari. It was becoming used to this strange sensation of familiarity, of knowledge of places it did not know it knew. But this was different, more intimate knowledge.
It had lived here.
It had been an Ilarian.
Yes—no—yes and no, right and wrong. Emotions buffeted the Entity: anger, fear, selfishness, selflessness. Battles, fought on the inside, reflected on the outside of this poor planet’s scarred surface.
It floated down toward a turreted fortress. This was where the autarch ruled.
It had been an autarch, and tried to be one again, and—
The Entity did not like these sensations, and concentrated on what it had come here to do: seek out and neutralize the wrong things, the things that could soon destroy every universe save the ones that the Shepherds had created for themselves.
It was two youths who had been in conflict; youths they were still, not men, not old or weary or wise enough to realize that they should love and honor one another, regardless of who wore the ancient talisman. And following them, those who followed one or the other. It ought to have ended soon after it had begun, and they had thought that
ended when they had left—
They? Who were they? Again, the perplexing questions that distracted the Entity from its task.
The Ilarians were a rugged people. They were not too far away from savagery, though they strove to honor the ways of peace and art. That savagery, lurking beneath the surface at all times, had erupted when a man long dead had risen to try to reclaim what he had lost two centuries earlier. The autarch had been murdered, and his sons squabbled over the right to rule like dogs over a bone.
A name floated to the surface of the Entity’s conscious thoughts: Tieran.
It had been Tieran.
It felt angry with itself, and floated into the fortress like an unseen mist. It did not matter if it had been Tieran, or had not. Both it knew to be true and factual, though seemingly contradictory. But it was here to do what it could to soothe the damage that Tieran’s bid for power had wrought, though only time and wisdom would do that.
The dark matter was strongest here. The Entity extracted it from walls and hangings, from plants and statuary and flagstones and flesh. It removed it from the reigning autarch, Demmas, as he ate alone late at night. And it left a sweet breath of spring behind. Demmas paused and looked around, sensing he was not alone.
His several nostrils flared. “Who is there?” he called, tense and frightened. This was his life, now; the fear of the assassin, or worse, the friend who betrayed. Gently, the Entity comforted him, and he relaxed and returned to his meal. Demmas thought of the fighting going on, how his troops were punishing those found to be loyal to his brother, and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t time to forgive. He called his First Castellan to him and began to talk in quiet tones.
In another part of the fortress, Ameron languished. The food was poor and riddled with the dark matter that was turning his imprisonment into a living nightmare. Gently, the Entity came to him, taking into itself the hatred and fear and sickness caused by something that ought not to be causing harm at all.
It lingered, waiting for something, it knew not what. But when the door to the younger brother’s cell swung open, and the First Castellan appeared, then the Entity knew why it had stayed.
“Your brother wishes you to join him at dinner,” said the Castellan, and Ameron’s heart swelled with joy and gratitude.
CHAPTER
7
ENSIGN PARIS’S PERSONAL LOG, STARDATE … HELL, I don’t know.
The whole village has been busy the last couple of days. Apparently we’re heading into the season of “trading,” though I don’t know how they can mark seasons in this climate. How did they do it on the Earth’s equator again? The rainy season and the dry season? Probably that’s how they do it here too. I’ll have to ask.
So we have stopped doing things like repairing huts—
And here Tom Paris paused and looked vexedly up at his own ceiling, through which a steady trickle emerged to plop into several pots he’d hastily scrounged. Rainy season. Definitely.
He resumed his log entry: —and instead are spending our time making crafts, drying food, and coming up with other things to barter when the traders come by. Frankly, fond as I am of the people here in Sumar-ka, I am looking forward to meeting some new people. This might be a good time for me to disengage myself and start trying to contact the Alilann.
Except that he still didn’t know what had happened to Matroci. Unease stirred in him. It was one hell of a bad coincidence that Chakotay had vanished on the night Matroci died, but coincidence Tom knew it to be. Chakotay would never murder anyone. Kill in a fair fight, or for a worthy cause, yes. But Matroci’s murder had been calculated, cruel, stealthy—as un-Chakotay-like a thing as Tom could imagine. But who else? Someone knew more than they were telling.
With a sigh, Paris put down his makeshift “log.” Over in the corner, his task awaited him. He stared at it. It seemed to stare back. He rose and went over to it.
It sat on the hard-packed dirt floor, reproaching him silently.
Tom hadn’t ever been good at anything creative, other than coming up with fibs to get himself out of trouble. He couldn’t play an instrument like Harry did. He couldn’t sing, like the Doc. He couldn’t paint, like the captain. His decision to keep a log merely highlighted that writing wasn’t his hidden talent, either.
He sometimes made up pretty funny limericks, but that didn’t count.
Before him were six earthenware pots of various sizes and shapes, all made by the talented hands of Resul the potter. His job was to paint them. He’d done two so far and they looked dreadful. He had first tried a pattern on one. Bad idea. The lines were squiggly and even a simple checkerboard made his eyes hurt when he looked at it. The second one, free-form art, was even more atrocious. It was a muddy swirl of colors that looked like someone had been sick all over the pot.
He sat down cross-legged in front of the pots, picked up the smallest one, and held it in front of him.
“What am I doing?” he asked it. “You’re a lovely little pot. And I’m going to ruin you. I’m sorry. You must just have had some bad pot karma.”
What the hell, he thought. This time he’d just dip his fingers in the pot and cover it with polka dots. He opened the sealed jars, poured small amounts of color into shallow, flat-bottomed bowls, and dipped his five right fingers into the liquid. First the black. He pressed his fingers to the brown-red surface of the clay jar. Kinda fun. Now a little yellow—
“Crafters give you a good after-sun, Tom Paris.”
Tom started, knocking over the entire pot of blue paint. He swore and almost made the mistake of scooping the blue mud back into the jar.
“I am sorry,” said Trima. “I did not mean to startle you. We were supposed to meet at this sun-place, remember?”
He groaned. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I got engrossed in finishing these.”
She looked gravely at them for a long moment, then said, “Perhaps Resul would prefer it if you were not quite so engrossed.”
He had to laugh at that. “Perhaps she would, at that. I’m just ruining them.”
“Do not worry about it,” Trima said. “There are other things you can help with. A runner has come and said the traders will be here by nightfall. We need to build a fire and prepare the feast. Perhaps you would be more use assisting there than being engrossed in painting pots.”
He looked at her closely. Her voice was dead serious—but was that a hint of a twinkle in her eye? Did Trima actually have a sense of humor? He was probably imagining it. But he would have bet his pots would make anyone laugh. Well, except maybe for Resul.
“Happy to help,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let me wash the evidence of my crime from my hands and I’ll be there in a moment.”
The minute the words left his mouth, he desperately wished them back. Trima did not react, but he sensed something—a chill in the air, where before there had been camaraderie and even humor. He forced a smile and went to rinse off his hands. She left without saying anything.
The water in the basin turned a blue-black color. There wasn’t enough to completely rinse his hands, so he wiped them dry as best he could with a makeshift towel and headed outside.
Did Trima know what had really happened to Matroci? Certainly, directed-energy technology wasn’t something that the Culilann encountered on a day-to-day basis, but they weren’t ignorant of its existence, either. The Ice Princess had always struck Tom as being a little more savvy than some of the other inhabitants of Sumar-ka. She might know enough to realize that Matroci’s death wasn’t just caused by smoke inhalation.
By the time he reached the central, cleared area where he and Chakotay had been guests at a feast in their honor, many of the villagers were assembled. The fire was already going. Laughing, several women prepared a roast something-or-other—Tom still couldn’t keep the names of the wildlife straight—by rubbing it with oils and herbs.
He called a welcome and was rewarded with smiles. Paris plunged in to help eagerly, and soon his skin was covered with soot and per
spiration from working so near the fire.
“So,” he said to Winnif, who was peeling fruits with which to stuff the Something-Or-Other prior to roasting, “it seems like everyone is anxious to meet with the traders.”
“Of course we are!” laughed Winnif, a hint of “silly boy” in her voice. “It is the only time we get to meet Strangers, except when they arrive unexpectedly like you did. We will have new fabric with different colors, and pottery of different shapes, and new foods to enjoy. Sometimes, they even bring the young of certain animals, that we may breed them and either use their fur or their flesh.”
“Will they undergo the Ordeal as well?”
“Only rarely. They usually come from the nearest village, and they will bring a token from the Culil which shows that they have been determined to be acceptable to the Crafters.”
“Lucky them,” said Tom, and smiled. Winnif didn’t seem uncomfortable by his alluding to the Ordeal. It was just a part of their culture. They were not embarrassed. Only Soliss had expressed remorse and resentment over the tradition. Soliss, who was the only Culilann who had a counterpart in Alilann society. Could he have pressed a weapon to Matroci’s chest and coldly left him to die? It did not gibe at all with what a healer stood for. But people had been known to do things that went against what was expected of them before now.
“What about the runner who came earlier?”
“He stood at the edge of the jungle and shouted his news. He didn’t come into contact with anyone. He’ll join the rest of his group when they arrive. By the way,” she added, looking up at him, “I saw Resul on my way here. She wants to know if you are done painting her pots.”
* * *
Far too slowly for the people of Sumar-ka, it would seem, the suns finally sank below the horizon. Blue skies turned to purple, then faded to gray after a few moments of a spectacular sunset in which scarlet, gold, orange, magenta, and lavender spread their glorious hues across the skies.
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