A’tor didn’t like the Strema any more than anybody else did. Which wasn’t to say he was unaware that the same council he sat on took pride and profit from the fact that the Strema chose to trade in Legrasi. In the end, a Hatwa life might be a small price to pay to assuage the Strema party, who were screaming for blood—those who were conscious. Whoever this Arsolis was, his was not a band to be trifled with. The guard had known nothing more than that they were traders from the barrier islands at the head of the bay. As he approached the holding area, the first thing he noticed was that they were all standing, conscious and calm; a different picture altogether from the Strema party.
“Which is their leader?”
The Teark whom he blamed for his involvement pointed to a pair made up of an old man and a tall warrior. “The elder, Arsolis. Krathik of their village. They are islanders.”
Islanders . . . Of course, they are islanders. Why should he think that he deserved to be gifted with reasonable people to speak to? He stopped at the perimeter of the holding area and motioned to the Teark. “Wait here; I will speak to him alone. I wish to see how many versions of this story there are.”
He paused for a moment, waiting for the krathik to look up at him. Once he did, A’tor walked between the stakes into the holding area. He did it out of respect; these were, after all, fellow Hatwa. He could have had the Teark escort the trader to him, but he’d long since learned that small gestures in the beginning of a relationship often facilitated open discussion. Islanders had a reputation for being stiff-necked and perhaps thickheaded, beyond what was commonly said of the Hatwa. It was a small thing and he was willing to do his part. This Arsolis had an angry visage to begin with, looking as if he, too, wished to be anywhere else on this market day.
The krathik barked something at the tall warrior he was speaking to, and the man stepped away and walked back to where others awaited their fate. The warrior’s gait tugged at his mind. Hatwa walked with the subtlety of an oxen pulling a plow. Walls and doors stopped them out of tradition, not for the physical barrier they represented. This warrior seemed to flow from one step to the next, almost like a house gar that knew no rodent would dare risk darting into his presence.
For a moment he was puzzled why he should care, then he realized this tall Hatwa islander carried himself like a High Blood. He shook his head and confronted the krathik Arsolis as the weathered creature coughed up something from his lungs and thankfully turned his head to spit.
“Gemendi.” The word was accompanied with the slightest of bows of the head.
So much for small gestures, he thought. He noted the small tattooed band on the man’s wrist. This was a warrior who had served the Hatwa host.
“Prelate of the Hatwa Gemendi,” he corrected, “and council member.”
The man bowed his head a little further this time.
“Arsolis, krathik of Varsana, here to trade.”
He’d heard of Varsana, just. There were dozens of islands just beyond sight of the harbor; Varsana was one large enough to have a name and a permanent settlement.
“You had completed your business, I understand.”
“Yes.” Arsolis nodded towards the interior of the city. “Took my crew for a drink atop the south tower. We’d just sat down when the Strema arrived . . . drunk.”
“This much I have confirmed.”
“You’ve heard what happened, then?”
“I wish to hear it from you.”
“The Strema insulted me, and the Hatwa, which I let pass. As I said, the man was past drunk.”
“You were eating at the time? You had your knife in hand?”
“I did, Prelate. No weapon was drawn.”
“But you did nail the man’s hand to the table?”
“That I did, after he insulted my daughter’s honor.”
His eyes passed over the gathered crew, standing at a distance behind their krathik. There was only one woman present, and she looked as angry as the man standing before him. That was the only thing they shared. The woman was on the tall side, high cheekbones and skin that was sun touched far more than Arsolis’s. She also carried a blade.
“Your daughter?”
“Her husband, my son, was killed; she took up his blade in mourning.”
“I see.” So, the woman had been lucky enough to marry into this jolly tribe of fishermen and tree cutters.
“Was she involved in the fight that followed?”
“She was,” Arsolis answered with more than a little pride. “They all were. They’d all heard the insults I let pass. And the Strema all came for us across the room. We didn’t start it, but we finished it.”
“The Hatwa should be proud to have such warriors.”
“I came to trade, Prelate.”
Against his better judgment, he wanted to wash his hands of this incident and let them go. Between the barkeep’s story, the Teark’s testimony, and Arsolis’s utter lack of imagination or subtlety, he was almost certain he was hearing the truth. He’d have to explain his judgment to the council, true. If they didn’t like it, one of them should have been bothered to attend the issue. Still, there were appearances to maintain, and the Teark would no doubt be questioned as to how thorough he had been. At the end of the day, the Strema were favored.
“I wish to speak to the woman.”
“Prelate, it was I that struck the blow.”
“Yes, you nailed his hand to the table, though the woman was seen fighting as well.”
“She fought another.”
Yes, and he was just barely conscious when I spoke to him. He remained calm and did not press his request. He just waited.
The old man relented and turned to his crew. “Hyrika.”
Hyrika? It was not a common name among the Hatwa.
The woman approached with her head down until she stood next to Arsolis. The young woman certainly looked like a warrior, and it wasn’t just the blade she carried at her waist. There were small scars on her forearm, a larger one across the back of her hand, and a small vertical scar on her chin. They were old scars, and A’tor knew the Hatwa host had not been requested by the Kaerin for the past three years. If this woman had indeed taken up the blade upon the death of her husband, it had not been recently, yet the old man had mentioned she was in mourning. His intuition told him that something wasn’t right here, or at the very least this Arsolis was hiding something else.
He tried to clear his head as he regarded the woman closely. It was clear she did not favor the common Hatwa appearance, but that was not a crime; more a blessing as far as he was concerned. His own wife was often complimented on her beauty, and her father had been Jehavian. Cause and effect, a foundational Gemendi principle that he was reminded of every time he looked at his wife.
Whatever Arsolis was hiding from him, it did not, as far as he could see, weigh on the matter at hand. He would question the woman and release these traders to their business, and he could return to his own.
“You were wed to this man’s son?”
“I was.” The woman kept her head down but spoke in a civil tone.
“The Strema insulted your honor?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know the man? Have any contact with him previous?”
“No.”
A’tor looked up between the faces of the village elder and the young woman. The Teark who had escorted him was speaking with his head bowed to his fellow warrior, disinterested in the proceedings. The guards had arrived after the brawl, there was no official Hatwa involvement in the killing, and thus any impact of his ruling wouldn’t bear on the clan.
His attention was caught again by the tall warrior with whom Arsolis had been speaking when he arrived. The woman’s brother, he guessed as they looked to share some blood had managed to move to where he was standing close behind the young woman. A’tor had ever been an observer, and a thinker; it was in large part why he’d been chosen as a Gemendi.
The strangest feeling came over him as he regarded th
e warrior. Fear, if he had to put a name on it. This man, standing as a prisoner, with himself and two guards in attendance, was a threat. He had the eyes of a Kaerin, and the posture of a High Blood warrior. He was the prelate of the Hatwa Gemendi; who was he to be worried over some islander warrior?
“Who is this warrior?” He pointed past them.
His uncertainty that something was wrong here was confirmed by the look on Arsolis’s face.
“That is Jakas,” the old man relented after a moment. “He is to wed my other daughter. A warrior, he is learning our trade.”
He lifted his hand and beckoned the man forward.
The man shuffled forward and came to a stop, with none of the fluid grace he’d noticed earlier.
“Where are you from, Jakas?”
Jake, in panic mode, desperately wanted to say “Louisiana” and stick the barrel of his Glock into the man’s gut.
“Tersala,” he answered. He knew it was what Arsolis had called the largest of the islands in the bay.
“You know this woman?”
“Hyrika,” he answered with a hesitant nod. He only had one option that he knew he could sell. “She will be my sister, when I wed Tama. When do we get to eat?”
Jake did his best to stay relaxed when the Gemendi’s head pulled back in shock as he spoke.
“Prelate,” Arsolis jumped in. “Forgive him, he’s . . .” Arsolis rapped his head with his knuckles. “It was a wound; he’s been slow ever since.”
“Yet you will wed your daughter to this man?”
“I’m hoping for strong sons, Prelate. As I said, it was a wound. I understand from his people that he was not always this way.”
“What way?” Jake added with his best look of confusion.
The Gemendi looked at all three of them a moment and then just shook his head in frustration.
“Your family is your business, Arsolis of Varsana.” The Gemendi glanced once more at Jake before looking back at Arsolis. “On your honor and that of the Hatwa; do you swear you have told me true as concerns the killing of the Strema?”
“You would have me swear?” Arsolis barked back. “I have spoken. Do my words not weigh?”
“They do, but we are talking of a Strema trader. There will be questions that I will need to answer if I am to release you.”
Arsolis gripped the fold of his tunic and pulled it down, exposing the tattoo of the Hatwa raven on his chest.
“I swear it.”
Jake let out a breath of relief as the Gemendi seemed to be satisfied. The man gave a short nod of respect. “I thank you.”
The Gemendi turned his gaze to Hyrika. “Your oath as well.”
Hyrika’s gaze came up slowly. “Prelate?”
“I don’t wish to gaze upon you, woman. I would see your mark and hear your oath.”
Shit . . . Jake knew full well the Jema women bore the same eagle of the Jema as did their men.
Hyrika reached up, unbuttoned her own tunic, and pulled it down far enough to expose the black ink of a bird’s head. Even from where Jake stood to the side, he noticed right away that it was a different head, facing the opposite direction from the Hatwa crow. The Gemendi noticed, too.
“Show me, woman.”
Hyrika went from scared village girl in mourning to Jema warrior in an instant. She jerked her tunic open, exposing the Jema Eagle beneath her collarbone with what Jake recognized as genuine “F-U” glee.
The Gemendi’s reaction was one of confusion for the short moment it took Jake to reach behind his back, draw the Glock, and stick it into the man’s gut. He stepped in close, using his own body to shield the gun from the guards he knew were behind him.
The Gemendi tore his gaze away from Hyrika and looked down at what had to be a very strange yet recognizable weapon pressing into his stomach.
“It’s you . . .” the man whispered, almost to himself, with excitement dancing behind his eyes.
Which was not even close to the response Jake had been expecting.
The Gemendi looked back at Hyrika and gave his head a shake as if to clear it.
“Cover yourself,” the man hissed at Hyrika.
The man’s face, inches from his own, turned back to face him.
“You are not Jema.”
It hadn’t been a question.
“I’ve been adopted.” Jake smiled and glanced behind at the guards who had escorted their judge. The one who had “arrested” them was looking back at him, concern dancing at the edges of his face.
“You are of the free people?”
Jake jabbed the gun in with a little more emphasis as the warrior outside the line of stakes was moving. “Stop your guards, or I’ll put a hole in you.”
“It is not safe for you here.”
“No shit, wait . . . what?”
The Gemendi turned away from him, and waved at his guard.
“All is well; I’m almost finished here. These Hatwa were not at fault. They will be about their business.”
Jake exchanged a quick look with Arsolis, who looked as confused as he felt.
The Hatwa Gemendi turned back to him; Jake noticed he did so slowly, in a manner that hid the gun from the guard’s view. “We must get you away from here.”
What the man had said earlier registered. Free people? How could this yokel know about them?
“What do you know of us?”
“I have heard of your people. I am not your enemy, though we cannot speak here.”
Jake glanced at Hyrika, who he was pleased to see had her own look of shock on her face. He had thought she only had two emotions; practiced indifference and rage.
“We are sailing as soon as my hold is full.” Arsolis made the decision for all of them.
Jake slipped the gun back into his own waistband. “Come with us?”
“I cannot. I would be missed.” The Gemendi shook his head and then looked at Arsolis. “Delay your sail; you would be welcome in my home for the night.”
Arsolis looked at the Gemendi prelate as if he had grown an extra head. “Me and my crew will be sailing this evening.”
“Then you.” The Gemendi turned back to him, excited. He faced Hyrika. “And you, Jema,” he whispered. “You would both be welcome… and safe, on my honor.”
Jake didn’t answer. He was picturing Audy’s reaction when he heard about this; the thought made him smile. The Gemendi could have already turned them in—it wouldn’t have taken anything more than a cry of alarm, and they would have been in a running fight back to the ship. Even armed as Hyrika, Lupe, and he were, it wouldn’t have been enough to get them clear of the city. Not even close.
“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me how you know of us.”
“The Strema, a small number returned from your world. The Kaerin know of you. I admit, I did not know whether to believe the story until I saw . . .” The Gemendi glanced at Hyrika and bowed his head slightly. “The Jema eagle.”
Shit . . . Audy was not going to be happy.
The Gemendi glanced around at the foot traffic going about its business, a few feet from where they stood within the semicircle of stakes. “How I know of you is not something I will speak of here.”
Jake needed something to hit. Kyle should be here, not him. His friend had the patience for dealing with crap like this. Diplomacy had never been his rice-bowl; he just wanted a target. Still, they needed to know what the Kaerin knew, and more than that, they needed people on Chandra who wouldn’t try to kill them on sight. He wanted to know why this Hatwa Gemendi seemed to fit that particular bill.
“I’ll go with you.”
*
Chapter 14
Nebraska/Wyoming, Earth
It was time to be honest with himself; his trip to Offut Air Force Base had been a dry hole. ISS agent Marc Starret had spent a week here, directing an overhead ISR campaign for signs of wreckage from the stolen Osprey. Every pilot he talked to, after reviewing the telemetry, reinforced what he’d already been told. The stolen
Osprey had gone down; “it fell out of the sky like the brick it is,” one pilot had assured him.
A week’s worth of searching had produced exactly zero smoking craters that had been the result of a crash. Not that he’d received the degree of assistance or the resources he’d asked for, not even close. The military was prepping for a big push in West Texas, and was also spending a lot of time watching the Denver-Salt Lake-Boise corridor. Those people had been making a lot of noise recently that they weren’t buying what was coming out of Washington. The problem; Washington wasn’t selling—they were enforcing. The citizens of West Texas were days away from learning how much they relied on food and power shipped in from outside the municipalities they controlled. The water they needed to survive came from underground aquifers, pumped to the surface with power the military was planning to cut off.
The whole area from San Antonio to El Paso held too much oil and gas not to be under control of the government. That was the justification he’d read in memos, and heard from the mouths of planners crawling over this same base. He was just one of an army of ISS personnel that had invaded the base, and his very sensitive mission, the real one of locating Sir Geoffrey Carlisle, was unknown to all but a very few people in Washington. As a result, he’d been labeled “that” ISS asshole who couldn’t get over the fact that somebody had stolen an airplane.
He was as conflicted now as he’d ever been. In thoughts he would never share, he took some perverse pride in the fact that Americans weren’t so easily cowed as the administration had thought they would be. As easily cowed as he had been. He put it down to having a job to do, and even if they wouldn’t talk to him, a family to support. It justified the pride he took in doing his job well, in acknowledging the trust the ISS placed in him. None of that lessened the shame that looked back at him in the mirror every morning. He was about to let it go. If something didn’t turn up today, he’d accept the dead end in the investigation and file his report.
Walking into the ground-floor of Offut AFB’s operations center, he figured he’d be on a transport home by this time tomorrow. He caught Colonel Baxter’s notice, but the senior commander just gave him a perfunctory nod in greeting and went back to whatever it was he was doing.
New Shores: The Eden Chronicles - Book Three Page 20
