by Sharon Lee
"I find you, O Warrior," he said in his flat, colorless way. "Anjemalti the Seeker awakes." He closed his eyes, opened them, and went away.
"Praise the Ship!" breathed Corbinye. Abruptly, she remembered the woman beside her, and turned to offer aid in standing.
This Theo disdained, snapping to her feet in all her fevered clumsiness. "Go see your cousin," she said, without much grace. "I've got work to do."
Something even there gave Corbinye pause, but the searching glance she sent at the other's face uncovered nothing more than unease, and that same bare-controlled passion.
"I thank you," she said softly and made the bow, graceful, as a guest should, and went out of the room and across the studio, to the place where Anjemalti lay.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
There was a scent of apricots; and there was pain, burning the length of the right arm, down to the fingers' tips.
Otherwise, there was sound—the pounding that had wakened him; various small creaks and nearby rustlings that doubtless came from the nurse employed to watch over him. In a moment—or two—he would open his eyes and show himself cogent.
Damn' fool thing to do, he told himself, muzzily. Edreth will likely break the other arm for you—and none ever more deserving.
The rustling became proximate, jarring him loose of memory. The sweet scent intensified just as he recalled that Edreth had never scolded him for that particular piece of mischief at all.
Gem opened his eyes and stared in new befuddlement at the lovely face so near his own.
Brilliant ebon eyes clouded and the face removed somewhat, as if she sat back upon her heels.
"Anjemalti?" The voice thrilled, igniting fires Edreth had been very careful to bank. "It is Corbinye, cousin. The Witness had said that you were awake."
"Corbinye . . ." His voice cracked and he passed a dry tongue painfully over fevered lips.
"There, you do wake! A moment . . ." She stretched a long scarlet-clad arm and brought back to him a sweetly steaming tea bowl. "Drink . . . there. Your wits are with you, are they? For I don't scruple to tell you, cousin, we are in the damnedest coil!"
"Are we?" He struggled and she put the bowl aside, reaching to help him sit. Between them, they got his feet on the floor, and he took a moment to close his eyes and review several potent curses while the fire flared in his arm and his senses spun.
Opening his eyes, he discovered Witness cross-legged in a corner and bent his head in respectful greeting. "How fares the Trident?"
"Very well, Anjemalti. Events shake and the Witnessing hovers on the edge of astonishment."
Corbinye laughed. "His notion of a revel," she said, and Witness turned his eyes to her.
"That which is, is all there may be, O Warrior. To alter event is holy work."
She moved her shoulders and glanced back at her cousin. "It's madder even than most Grounders, cousin, but it appears to be disposed toward us kindly."
"So I should hope." Near memory had returned and he stared about him, taking in the couch, the chest, the red screen and stone floor. "What place is this? I had thought the spaceport, Dart . . ."
"We were making for the spaceport when the lawgivers overrode the taxicab's imperative. Nothing to do but leave the curst thing and run, with you bleeding and limp as a corpse! Witness carried you and I bore the Trident—but we should have still fallen, cousin, except that we were rescued by one who is—was—a . . . friend of the person—she who had first worn this body."
Gem frowned and looked at her sharply. "Who?"
"Who?" Corbinye blinked. "Why, she calls herself Theo, cousin. And there is a room in this house hung with nothing but paintings of—of Morela, her name had been, who was dancer and storyteller at Jiatlin's theater and possessed of a lover named Qaffir, whom the Theo suspects of murdering her."
He shook his head. "The Blue House had her a suicide."
"That will doubtless ease the Theo's heart," Corbinye returned tartly and saw his brows quirk together before he lifted a shoulder in dismissal.
"Whether it does or not is no concern of ours. Our tasks are to gain, first, the spaceport, and then Dart. After Linzer has us out of here—"
"Why depend upon a trading ship and an alien pilot when there is Hyacinth set to welcome you—aye, and a pilot of the Crew to lift her!" She hesitated as a near-blasphemous thought struck, and looked at him cautiously. "Do you pilot, cousin?"
Humor glinted far back in the blue eyes. "I thought you supposed me the Captain?" He shifted, perhaps to ease the arm, and the humor faded away. "I can pilot, don't fear it. And as for why I at least intend to make for Dart—I hold half-share in the ship and Linzer Skot is my partner, my—co-captain . . . My friend."
He stirred again and sighed. "You might do as you choose, of course. We are quit of any debts between us. Take Hyacinth and return to your Ship. Tell them that the Tomorrow Log lied and that the hero-Captain does not exist."
"Yes, certainly," she said, feeling the bite of sarcasm on her tongue. "I shall misinform my elders, give the lie to the First Captain, and also doom the Ship." She sighed, abruptly very tired, and glanced down at the slender hands folded upon her knee. Dread struck her all at once and she looked back up at him.
"Truth told, cousin, I am in need of you." She held up the elegant stranger's hand, noting that it quivered, just a little. "Hyacinth is palm-sealed, but this is not the palm that sealed her."
He stared at the hand, flicked his gaze to her face.
"So, there remains debt," he said, flatly. "Very well. I require a description of the locking mechanism, as well as the ship-interface program. I will unseal your ship for you, but then, by all the gods alive and dead, Corbinye, we are quit!"
The words surprised, cut deep, so that the tears welled and spilled over—she, who was Worldwalker! She raised a hand, spread-fingered before her face, and any of the Crew would have read in that a request to avert their eyes.
Anjemalti instead moved forward, as if to touch her, and froze of a sudden, breath hissing between his teeth. "Corbinye . . ."
"It is nothing," she said rapidly, struggling to impose her will over the foolish, shameful tears. "The body is yet weak, Anjemalti—pay no heed." She gulped and lowered her head, since still he did not look away. "As for this other—we are kin. There is no debt-counting between us. If you choose to aid me, I welcome it, for it is true that I see no way to enter my ship save by such aid. If you . . . If you do not care to do so . . ."
A hand had closed most gently around her wrist, and she glanced up in startlement, to meet his serious eyes.
"Forgive me, Corbinye," he said, softly. "I spoke with neither grace nor understanding. Honor me and say you will forget it."
Gladness flooded, as shockingly sudden as the tears, and she smiled at him. "It is already forgot! It was ill of me not to have considered your wound. . .."
"Or my long sojourn among rag-mannered Grounders," he said, with a twist of bitterness in his voice as he sat carefully back. "Let us have done making excuses for me and consider—" A shadow passed over his face. "Where is the Fearstone?"
She frowned. "The—?"
"Fearstone." He held out his hand, first finger and thumb marking size. "About thus, brown, with green crystals."
"Oh." She reached again, rummaging among the objects littering the chest-top, and eventually put a small metal urn in his hands. "Theo said the pot had once held a djinn and so was up to the mischief of a mere rock." She sighed. "What is a djinn, cousin?"
"A spirit composed of equal parts malice and magic," he said, though absently. "As a race, they seem to spend a fair time locked away in bottles." One-handed, he fretted at the stopper and Corbinye bit her lip on protest.
"Let be, Anjemalti," Witness said surprisingly, causing them both to start. "The stone is within the jar. Both the Warrior and I saw it placed there." He glanced up, eyes gleaming. "Unless you sense cusp, and we are called to work once more?"
Almost, it seemed Anjemalti smiled. Certa
inly, he had done with worrying the stopper and inclined his head with utmost gravity.
"Not just yet, I think," he said, as calmly as if the mad alien made perfect sense; "though perhaps soon."
"Soon?" Corbinye stared at him. "How is the arm, Anjemalti? For if it is well enough and you feel your senses rooted, we should make all haste to Hyacinth and a proper medical unit. The lawgivers are doubtless gone by now. . .."
"The cops left some time ago," Theo announced from the entrance, her eyes hot and the energy shimmering around her. "But you can't leave yet." She smiled and Gem felt his blood chill, for she was certainly far from sane.
"I'm afraid you may mistake matters," he told her gently. "My friends and I have urgent business. I understand that you have aided us remarkably, and I am prepared to compensate you for your trouble. . .."
"My trouble," she repeated and smiled again, shaking her head. "There's no trouble," she said. "Or there won't be, soon. Qaffir is coming to see me. And when he does, Morela will kill him."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
"No, that I will not!" Corbinye cried, and came all at once to her feet. "Do your own murders, mistress—you have no hold on me!"
Theo looked at her quite calmly. "You were running from the cops," she said. "I can call them, if you'd rather."
The slim shoulders seemed to lose some of their starch under the brave crimson shirt, and Gem cleared his throat, drawing the mad woman's attention.
"You perhaps are not aware that the Blue House records show your friend took her own life."
Theo shrugged with magnificent unconcern. "Qaffir drove her to it, then. She would never have done such a thing if he hadn't been brutal to her."
"Possibly true," Gem acknowledged, just as Edreth might have done, playing his words like chessmen. "However, we have no knowledge of either your friend or her lover. To demand that one of us kill a person of whom we were until just a moment ago unaware . . ."
"She wears Morela's body!" Theo cried, pointing at Corbinye. "She has a—a moral obligation!"
"Nonsense," said Gem crisply. "You know as well as I that obligation follows the living person—the one who has undergone translation. The body's debts are written off." He looked at her sternly. "You know this, mistress, if you've lived only six months on Henron."
"I've lived here my whole life," she said flatly. "My uncle sits on the Board of Directors. Morela gave that woman life. There is debt." She looked straight into Gem's eyes, the fire somewhat abated, but sanity nowhere evident. "Do I call the cops, master? Or do I call my uncle? You might bring a profit to the House, and the other man's not so ill."
Gem swallowed. "Call either and you forfeit your friend twice."
Theo shook her head. "No, I'd protect Morela. Of course I would. I love her."
"Then there's no more to be said," Corbinye announced suddenly. "Certainly I shall dispense with this difficulty, Mistress Theo. What is the life of a Grounder to me?"
The thin face lit. "Ah, you do understand! He must be punished, you see it now, don't you?"
"Completely," said Corbinye, and Gem looked at her in foreboding. "He must be made to pay for his iniquities, and you must find your peace."
"Yes," said Theo, and Witness shifted in his corner, taking both eyes and heart from the presence of the Smiter, to stare long and hard at Death's Own Warrior.
* * *
Qaffir was to come at Second Dusk.
By First, Anjemalti had rested and then awoken to a fresh shirt and a sup of watered wine, at which he chafed, saying he was no invalid. Corbinye had not argued the point, merely placing the cup firmly in his strong hand and asking, "Are you able to use the sorl-knife, cousin?"
He glared at her. "I thought it was you who specialized in murder."
"Anjemalti, do not bait me!" she snapped and opened her mouth to go on before apparently heeding some wiser instinct. "I require information," she said mildly. "Of your kindness. Are you able to use the sorl-knife in protection of yourself?"
He eyed her warily and had somewhat of the wine. "Yes."
"Good." She turned to Witness. "You are able to fight, should it come to such?"
"Warrior, I am. And how shall the Smiter go?"
She frowned. "Demons take the thing! I—"
"Strong evidence exists," Gem interrupted, "that this is in fact the case. I can carry the Smiter, if Witness can guard my back."
"Done!" cried Witness and sat back in consternation, appalled by the boldness of his secret heart.
The Seeker pretended to see nothing amiss, so chiefly was his grace. "Well enough," he allowed and turned to Death's Warrior. "For what battle do we gird ourselves, cousin? Is Qaffir expected with an army?"
"As you said," she answered coldly, "murder is my enterprise. I have no wish to smirch your honor. However, if it should come about that you are threatened, then it comforts me to know you well-guarded." She turned her face away. "The Captain's safety is paramount, Anjemalti. You are aware of this."
There was silence, stretching. Witness settled back to taste in full the nuance, for a Chief may be best known by the manner in which he treats his warriors.
"I bring you trouble in double-measure, cousin." Face and voice were of the mildest, though the eyes showed fire. "I remind you again that I am no captain, but a thief—sold off and despised for the fault of carrying Grounder genes. It astonishes me that my uncle did not strike my name from the Roll."
"Indemion Kristefyon is dead," she said, as though to a child. "He died by his own hand, redeeming honor after confessing treachery. He was gracious, Anjemalti: a great-hearted Captain who served the ship well. Wrongful action has been nullified by righteous. Surely, alive and strong, you can match his greatness."
Gem sighed. "Corbinye, were you born knowing the duties of Worldwalker? Did you come all at once into your skill, with neither teacher nor sparring partner?"
She blinked. "Of course not. One was chosen as most likely among the agemates. One was schooled and drilled and shaped for duty, according to The Protocols."
"Ah. While I lost my mentor at age eight, was sold off and Shipless at age nine, and apprentice to a master thief by age ten." He leaned close, holding her eyes with his. "Tell me what my training fits me for—cousin."
She drew a deep breath, crimson shirt stretching over rising breasts. "Your name is written in the Tomorrow Log, Anjemalti. I have seen it with my own eyes."
"What if the Tomorrow Log is mistaken?"
She stared, astonishment writ plain across the lovely face. "How could the Tomorrow Log lie?"
The Crew, thought Gem, suddenly, almost despairingly: so deadly—and so childlike. "Corbinye," he said softly, "I don't even know how the Tomorrow Log can be. How could the First Captain have known the name of a halfling born three hundred years after the time of her death?"
"Ah." She looked comforted at that and reached to take his hand, which tingled at her touch. "These are great Mysteries, cousin. We are taught to merely believe, but it goes hard against the grain, I know, when in all other things we are taught to question and reason and deal only in fact. We—all of your agemates—have raised these questions. All, except you, cousin, have had their questions put to rest, after they have seen the Tomorrow Log, touched it, and read a page with their own eyes."
"So you counsel me to have faith in my—fate."
His bitterness was lost on her. She squeezed his hand and dropped it. "Exactly so, Anjemalti. When we are back with the Ship, then your doubts may be satisfied, and you will be easy."
Gem sighed, closed his eyes—and gave it up for the moment. There were, after all, matters pressing them more closely.
"How will you deal with Qaffir, Corbinye? You should not endanger yourself in—"
She stood, cutting him off. "As we have already decided," she said coolly; "that matter belongs to me. I go now to prepare myself." She glided past him, slipped through the curtain and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
"Well, Theo? What
is this urgent matter?"
The man's voice was insolent; the man himself a beauty. Corbinye stared at the marvel of him, felt her face heat and was glad of the sheltering curtain through which she peered.
Grounders, in Corbinye's training—and, truth, within her experience—were slow, graceless and despicable. This Qaffir was none of that. He moved with the fluidness of one bred to low-grav. His skin was dark, as if tanned after the manner of those who kept the engine-rooms or worked within the Garden. His eyes were not large, but they were black, flashing with intelligence, darting quick glances here and there about the room, making inventory of all.
"Well, Theo?" he said again, and this time the arrogance carried an edge of dismissing amusement. He shook his long, unbound hair back and folded his arms across his chest, eyebrow cocked in disdain. "Well?"
Theo glared into his beauty, face rigid with loathing.
"I can't find Morela," she said sullenly. "I thought you might know where she is—take a message to her."
"I take a message to Morela?" The second brow rose as well and the dark face took on a cast of malignant surprise. "Really, what a diverting notion! But, do you know—I'm unable to oblige you."
Theo made no reply, saving that her glare may have become more loathful. Qaffir appeared to notice nothing out of the way, however. Behind the curtain, Corbinye began to tremble.
Qaffir leaned a little forward, his voice almost caressing, "Don't you want to know why I can't oblige you, little freak?"
"One of your distempers, I expect," Theo returned with surprising aplomb. "You never could bear it that I loved her—or that she loved me in return."
He laughed at that, flinging his head back, so that the cloud of his hair swirled about his shoulders. Corbinye wiped damp palms down the side of her trousers and began a simple breathing exercise. In the room beyond, Qaffir laughed once more and Corbinye gasped, concentration shattered.
