The di Kessa’ats would retrieve her personal luggage, including Erad di Caraat, her Chosen, long past tiresome. He’d traveled in confinement; would live that way here. A burden, that her continued existence depended on his, but at least she didn’t have to look at him.
I’m HERE, witch.
Wys sent a flash of pain along their link, gratified when her sense of him faded.
To one side on the pad stood a solitary Retian, Talobar, who bowed clumsily when he noticed her attention; a presence, if not welcome, then necessary. Leaving the rest to their duties, the elderly Clanswoman walked down the ramp. She gathered the Retian with a nod.
He fell in step beside her. “You traveled without incident, Most Honorable?” The Retian continued to try new titles on her; this one, even to her, didn’t fit and she frowned. His breathing was a labored wheeze, suffering in what to her was a pleasing warm climate, with the right touch of humidity. To Retians, it was a desert, and every so often he’d raise a mask to obscure his toadlike face in fog, inhaling deeply.
Never a complaint, not while his goals were linked to hers. Goals, she thought with pleasure, closer than ever to fruition. “The—shall we say, key components—are on their way,” she told the creature.
“Not by—you know my concerns—”
Tedious creature. “They travel by starship, as agreed.” Wys discounted its dread of the M’hir and their Talent, as well its incomprehensible prattle about “stress” on the “key components” should they have been ’ported here. What she took seriously?
Maintaining the belief in the Trade Pact that there were no more Clan, a belief that suited her very well, indeed. Oh, the moment would come when they’d reveal themselves again—when the Destarians would rise to their rightful place.
“Good. Good.” Talobar took a gasp from his mask. “Highest One, I personally assure you all is in readiness. Might I ask when will they arrive?”
“Soon, Talobar,” Wys di Caraat told him. Bored, she formed a locate.
Concentrated . . .
. . . to stand on a broad tiled balcony, wreathed in flowers, hers now, overlooking the central square of Caraaton, her new city. She grasped the rail with gnarled hands and smiled. “Very soon.”
Her smile faded as words formed in her mind. First Chosen. As their link formed and strengthened through the M’hir, the greeting was tainted with a worrisome fear, as shouldn’t be. Merin di Lorimar was her niece and powerful; she’d be high in the Destarian leadership.
Once Wys deemed it time to relinquish any of it. Report.
Aliens intercepted the final loading. They made off with—the image of a list formed behind Wys’ eyes.
The elder Clanswoman absorbed it. Gone was a substantial amount of what she’d wanted here, for her people. Infuriating, but not a crisis. These aliens would pay, eventually, but mere belongings could wait, even her own: those “trophies” taken from the House of di Caraat when the Council declared it forfeit. Jarad di Sarc’s trunks, filled with pre-Stratification parches inscribed with the genealogy of their kind, were crucial if they were to rebuild properly, but their absence wouldn’t slow the first steps.
She would have them back. Once unloaded, Ikkraud would go to Auord; its new mission far more to its captain’s taste than transport—
Then Wys reached the final item on the list. Tell me you’ve arranged to retrieve it.
Our allies have gone offworld. They have—
I know what they have. Half of what she would have—they must have. They were too few and vulnerable. Talobar had taken germinal material—their future—from every Destarian, beginning with her and her unwilling Chosen; had combined the results not according to the dictates of Choice but by some formula of his own; had produced sparks of new life.
Life that flickered and failed in his machines. He’d switched to living incubators, but the Omacrons died shortly after implantation. The Retian claimed he’d a solution, one requiring a ripe female body of their kind. If they’d one to spare, which they hadn’t.
Not yet.
Wys added a sting of disappointment to her sending. You are Destarian. You do not need allies to do what you must.
Merin didn’t shield her doubt. Talobar said we shouldn’t risk moving it with Power.
Intelligent, Merin; her willingness to question a course of action was occasionally useful.
It was not now. Recover what is mine. NOW!
And if that sending hurt, well, her niece would take it for the promise it was.
Of worse, should she fail again.
Your will is mine, First Chosen, with a hint of pain. First, I’ve something more to report. The servant the Scats provided us isn’t Human, but Assembler. Allow me to drop it in the M’hir.
Oh, and the hate behind that request. Wys smiled. What’s done is done, she replied almost gently. Her people didn’t see what she did, didn’t appreciate how the Assemblers had been a force of nature, sweeping away obstacles. Watch it for treachery. Learn what you can, but recover what is mine. That is your duty.
A sense of acquiescence, then nothing at all.
Chapter 7
“YOU WILL COME to the Heerala,” Captain Heevertup announced briskly. “We will contact our clients about this item on your behalf.”
The moment of intimacy had ended as suddenly as it’d begun, Drapsk scattering, Terk and Manouya returning to their seats without a word. Having dealt with the dear little aliens before, Terk looked resigned. The Brill, on the other hand, hadn’t taken his gaze from Morgan.
Morgan, for his part, didn’t care. Let Manouya speculate. He hadn’t realized how isolated he’d made himself, inside and out, until the Heerii. Hadn’t imagined words could still touch his heart.
Being grateful didn’t mean he’d let down his guard. “I am honored by your invitation, Captain,” the Human said carefully. Drapsk interpreted what was “best” for their friends in their own disconcerting fashion. Going on the Heerala might net him the box of crystals as a gift—or find him whisked away to their world, locked in a luxurious prison of Drapsk good intentions. “I will double my offer if you could contact your clients directly. I need to acquire the items I mentioned as soon as possible, then conduct other urgent business.”
Terk made a strained noise.
Antennae dipped in sequence from the captain to the first officer, Drapsk talking to Drapsk, then the first officer turned, fluttering his antennae toward others. The silent communication spread along a path to the Drapsk nearest the door. Three leaped to their feet and dashed up the stairs and out.
“Our esteemed clients instruct us to put these items in your possession, Jason Morgan,” the captain announced smugly. “The Consortium agrees you know how best to handle them safely.”
What in the hells did that mean? Morgan wondered furiously. Who or what was this “Consortium?”
“To prevent further delay, I’ve ordered delivery to your home. We’ll discuss compensation—”
And how did they know where he lived?
Before Morgan could ask those and other urgent questions, the Brill roared. “Enough nonsense! Deal with me now, you little thieves, or I’ll report you to the authorities!”
Terk covered his mouth with a hand as though holding in a laugh; his eyes were anything but amused.
The Brill ignored him, busy trying to skewer the faceless Drapsk captain with a truly intimidating stare, only to fail as so many had before him. “Well?” he shouted instead, thudding both fists on the table.
It cracked.
Several crew rolled into balls.
Captain Heevertup twitched antennae, and blasters appeared in every small, steady hand, pointing at the same large target.
“You might want to reconsider your approach,” Morgan said mildly, knife hidden but ready.
Manouya bellowed out a scornful laugh. “They are do-no
things, these Drapsk. Show and bluster. I—” fist thudding into chest, “—am no Scat to run and hide when they rattle! Those who fail me pay. You need not, great captain of do-nothings. All I want is the Brexk. Your “clients” can name their price.”
Captain Heevertup gave a tiny hoot of derision. “We do not respond to threats.”
Smiling, Terk leaned back, hands behind his head. The position looked harmless, but Morgan knew what was hidden down the other’s collar . . . and the smile?
Anticipation.
Perfect. They were surrounded by angry Drapsk whose eyeless aim wasn’t in any sense reliable, hence the blasters, and Terk itched for a bar fight. Bowman’d better hope Two-Lily Finelle could handle him.
All over Brexk, the Retian version of large, ill-tempered bovines? The meat was exported, and expensive, but Huido claimed it wasn’t worth the price and only served it in the Claws & Jaws if a customer placed a special order.
Morgan doubted the clientele of The Raunchy Retian ordered Brexk steaks; didn’t mean its bartender wasn’t looking to score a prize here. There was a thriving “tax-free” market on Auord for luxury foodstuffs, no questions asked. Manouya could be part of it.
Still, something wasn’t right, Morgan decided, curious.
Manouya raised his arms, hands shoulder-high. “Forgive my passion,” he rumbled. He leaned his head from side-to-side, the cracking of his neck joints audible in the hush. “I am in a dire predicament. Please, gentle beings.” The Drapsk holstered their weapons at some cue from their officers. Terk scowled his disappointment. “Sit. Hear me out, as graciously as you’ve heard this Human.”
Even more curious. This might have been an entirely new Brill, slick and unflappable, with a more cultured use of language. Could Drapsk hear the change as he did? Detect that subtle twist to the word “Human?” There were those sapients in the Trade Pact who detested humanity, but even they found getting along more useful than conflict. Especially as the majority of those who crewed starships—and admittedly worked as bartenders—were Human.
Human, Morgan thought with a chill, or their mimics. Assemblers.
The Clan.
Had some Clan wronged this Brill? It was possible. They’d done their share of damage across the Trade Pact, damage left without repair or acknowledgment.
Or, simpler, Manouya just didn’t like his species. Fair enough. Morgan didn’t like him.
He smiled agreeably. “It is his turn.”
“No reason for you to linger.” Manouya didn’t look at Terk. “Either of you.”
“Then we’ll take our leave.” Curious he might be, but the crystals were what mattered—wherever the dear Drapsk had sent them. Morgan rose to his feet, bowing to the captain. “We’ll settle our business tomorrow, Captain Heevertup. Fair Skies.”
Terk appeared to plant himself at the table. Fine. He could stay and watch the aliens negotiate over raw meat.
“Stay, Jason Morgan. Please.” Antennae tips bent toward the Brill, Captain Heevertup sucked in a pensive tentacle, then spoke around it. “We welcome the presence of neutral observers.”
Ones they trusted, in other words, and why hadn’t he seen it coming? The Brill brought this on himself by behaving unpredictably; the ever-cautious Drapsk responded by having known quantities at hand. Morgan sat back down; out the corner of his eye, he saw Terk hide a grin. Poorly.
“As you wish.” The Brill remained on his feet. One ivory-tipped finger traced the crack in the table. Stalling?
Planning, Morgan decided. The loud bluster of moments before had been a show. This methodical, icy patience was the true Manouya, and the Drapsk were right to be wary.
The finger stopped. “I’ve said I’ve a predicament. I am the victim of a grievous act—a theft. What was stolen is both personally precious and priceless. The bulk, I freely add, of my considerable wealth.”
Not a bartender, Terk mouthed again.
“You accuse us?!” exclaimed the first officer, who promptly inhaled all five tentacles and rocked furiously. Around the mouthful, he mumbled and sputtered variations on “How dare you!?”
“Peace.” Manouya’s false smile split his face. “I do not.” Another neck-cracking shrug. “I concede Drapsk could have found my three well-hidden vaults, but you do not have the means to empty them of all validated Hoveny artifacts without a seal cracked or alarm triggered.”
Terk stopped breathing.
Only for an instant, but the Brill caught it. Morgan saw the shift of his attention.
Felt it come back full to him like a blow. “Those who do have such means,” Manouya continued, “appear Human.”
The Clan. He knew what they could do. Knew they still existed. How?
“Not these Humans,” Terk chuckled, spreading his hands. “If we were that rich, would we pick this dive for a drink?”
A slow blink dismissed the enforcer. The Brill’s gaze returned to the captain. “The cargo the Scat assembled was destined for these thieves. Things they value. The Brexk, above all. I’ve been following that cargo as my best hope of finding them and recovering my property. Until,” smoothly, “you changed its destination for your unnamed clients.”
It had the ring of truth, but why? Did he really think his “predicament” mattered to Drapsk who already had buyers?
No. Morgan’s blood went cold. The Brill gave them the truth because he didn’t care if they knew it. Because it amused him, as giving his true name had amused him earlier. What was Manouya? A harmless investor, albeit in the rarest antiquities known in the Trade Pact, shouldn’t have the skills to trace a cargo tagged with the latest enforcer tech—or know how to access those who did.
Tech happening to fail when Manouya was in place to take over in person. Disguised as a bartender to meet the beings he knew had taken what he wanted—
Manouya. Terk had reacted to the name.
Another snicked into place, and Morgan’s blood ran cold: the Facilitator.
If so, here, at their table, sat the smuggler mastermind who’d eluded discovery or capture, who operated on a level that had Deneb’s Blues and Grays envious and authorities chasing their tails, those who had them—
Who’d helped the Assemblers reach and destroy the Clan, along with his life—and Sira’s.
Morgan schooled his expression to bland interest. If Manouya was the Facilitator, he’d come to this meeting with resources. Odds were Terk’s recorder and tracer hadn’t worked since they entered The Raunchy Retian.
By chance, they’d caught Manouya in what must be a rare moment of vulnerability, needing the Drapsk’s cooperation, enough not to care if two Humans suspected his identity or knew his goal.
Two Humans, Morgan decided grimly, who’d be lucky to survive the night. They had to find out what the Drapsk had that the Clan wanted so badly—and why they hadn’t simply ’ported it away with them.
Captain Heevertup conferred silently with his officer, plumes twitching, for a long moment. The Brill waited.
Terk shifted in his seat.
Nothing, Morgan could have told them, guaranteed the Drapsk were even discussing the present situation. The featherheads were prone to leaps of logic unfathomable to non-Drapsk.
Not this time, it turned out. When Heevertup was ready to speak, he put his stubby fingers together and pointed them at the Brill. “You do not require any items we possess.”
“I’ve just told you why I do.” With menace.
“You’ve told us what you ultimately desire: your property. We can tell you where your Hoveny artifacts are now. The information will cost—” The amount named was astronomical.
Terk whistled.
Manouya’s eyes narrowed. “Half now. Half when I see my property again.”
“You won’t see it again,” the Drapsk explained in a reasonable tone. “Why would we agree?”
For all the reaction h
e showed, the Brill might have been a statue. His mouth moved. “Then you’ll see none of my credits.”
The Drapsk conferred again, Morgan tempted to test the effect of tossing beer over their antennae. Whatever they knew, or thought they knew, about the disappearing artifacts wasn’t to be shared, especially not with someone as unprincipled as this.
Could they be aware who he was? It wasn’t out of the question. Drapsk didn’t, as a rule, volunteer information outside their tribes; for all Morgan knew, the Heerii considered the Facilitator more useful specialist than criminal. An opinion that would change once they learned his involvement in the deaths of their treasured “mystic ones.”
“Transfer half.” A stubby hand gestured, and one of the crew brought forward an ordinary contract pad.
Manouya spat on it without hesitation, eyes locked on the captain. “Done.”
“Very well.” Captain Heevertup rocked back and forth. “Instruments on Drapskii detected a disturbance reaching throughout the Trade Pact. It was later determined this disturbance affected only materials known to be from the Hoveny Concentrix, a civilization that—”
Morgan felt the hum first in his teeth, then inside, reverberating through his rib cage. Low. Loud.
Reverent.
Brill prayer. They’d a bewildering—to non-Brill—pantheon of gods and were as prone to pray during stress as Drapsk to commit eopari. Admittedly, the prayer was less debilitating.
Giving them something, he thought fiercely. The Brill were members of the First, leaders in the search for the answer to what had happened to the Hoveny, their predecessors in space. There was a superstitious fringe who preached the Hoveny Concentrix had angered their gods and been destroyed by Divine Intervention. Close enough, Morgan knew, to the truth.
Was Manouya a believer?
The hum ceased as the Brill collected himself. “Your pardon. What do you mean, ‘affected’? Where is my property?”
To Guard Against the Dark Page 10
