by Timothy Zahn
From her seat across the bed Daulo's mother glanced up at him. "Please stay back," Ivria Sammon said softly. "The dust on your clothing—"
"I understand," Daulo nodded. His eyes searched the visible wounds again, then settled for the first time on her face. About his age, he judged, with the soft-looking skin of someone who had spent little time out in the sun and wind. His eyes drifted down her left arm, past the wounds, to her hand.
No ring of marriage.
He frowned, looking at her face again. No mistake—she was at least as old as he was. And still unmarried—?
"She must have come from a far way," Ivria said quietly, almost as if to herself. "See her face, the way her features are formed."
Daulo glanced at his mother, then back at the mysterious woman again. Yes; now that he was looking for it he could see it, too. There was a strangeness in the face, a trace of the exotic that he'd never seen before. "Perhaps she's from one of the cities to the north," he suggested. "Or even from somewhere in the Eastern Arm."
"Perhaps," the doctor grunted. "She certainly hasn't built up much resistance to monote bites."
"Is that what the problem is?" Daulo asked.
The doctor nodded. "On the arms and hands—here, and here," he added, pointing them out. "It looks like she had to fend them off with her bare hands."
"After her ammunition ran out?" Daulo suggested. She surely hadn't fended off that krisjaw with her bare hands, after all.
"Perhaps," the doctor said. "Though if she had a gun it was gone by the time she was found. As was the holster."
Daulo gnawed at his inner cheek, glancing around the room. A pile of clothing had been tossed into the corner; keeping well back from the bed, he stepped over to it. The injured woman's clothes, of course—the bloodstains alone would have attested to that, even without the odd feel of the cloth that branded it as from someplace far away. And the doctor was right: there was no holster with the ensemble. Nor any markings on the belt where one might once have hung.
"Maybe she had some companions," he suggested, dropping the clothing back on the floor. That would certainly make more sense than a single woman wandering alone out in the forest. "Was any effort made to see if there were others in the area where she was found?"
It was Ivria who answered. "Not at the time, but I believe Perto has now gone back to continue the search."
Stepping to the room's intercom, Daulo keyed the private family circuit. "This is Daulo Sammon," he identified himself to the servant who answered. "Has Perto returned from the forest?"
"One moment, Master Sammon," the voice answered. " . . . He is not answering."
Daulo nodded. Out of the house, away from all the Sammon family holdings in Milika, Perto would be out of touch with the buried fiber-optic communications network which was the only safe way to send messages in Milika. "Leave a message for him to contact me as soon as possible," he instructed the other.
"Yes, Master Sammon."
Daulo keyed the intercom off and turned back for one last look at the woman. Where could she be from? he wondered. And why is she here? There were no answers as yet . . . but that lack would eventually be corrected. For the moment the important fact was that the Sammon family had matters under control. Whether this mysterious woman represented a totally neutral happenstance, or a chance opportunity granted them by God, or part of some strange plot by one of their rivals, the Sammons were now in position to use her presence to their own advantage.
Which reminded him, he still had to clean up before his meeting with his father. Opening the door quietly, he slipped out of the room.
* * *
"Come in," the familiar grating voice came from the opposite side of the carved door; and, steeling himself, Daulo opened the door and went in.
He could still remember a time, not all that long ago, when he'd been absolutely terrified of his father. Terrified not so much by Kruin Sammon's strength and stature, nor even by the man's cold voice and piercing black eyes; but by the fact that Kruin Sammon was, to all intents and purposes, the Sammon family. His was the power that ran this immense house and the mine and nearly a third of the village; his the influence that stretched beyond Milika to touch the nearby villages and logging camps and even the city of Azras, whose people normally treated villagers like themselves with barely concealed contempt. Kruin Sammon was power . . . and even after the fear of that power had abated somewhat, Daulo had never forgotten the emotions it had aroused in him.
It was only much later that he had realized it was probably a lesson his father had deliberately set for him to learn.
"Ah; Daulo," the older man nodded from his cushion-like throne in solemn greeting to his eldest son. "I trust your trip down the mine went well?"
"Yes, my father," Daulo said, making the sign of respect as he stepped to the cushion before Kruin's low work table and seated himself before it. "The necessity for extra shoring is keeping progress slow in the new tunnel, but not as slow as we feared it would."
"And the job is being done properly?"
"It appeared to be, yes, at least to the best of my knowledge."
"The job is being done properly?" Kruin repeated.
Daulo fought to keep his emotions from his face and voice. That had been a thoughtless qualification—if there was one thing his father hated, it was equivocation. "Yes, my father. The shoring was being done properly."
"Good," Kruin nodded, picking up a stylus from the table and making note on a pad. "And the workers?"
"Content. In my presence, at any rate."
"The mine chief?"
Daulo thought back to the other's face as he'd left the elevator. "Impressed by his own importance," he said. "Eager that others know of it, as well."
That brought a faint smile to Kruin's lips. "He is all of that," he agreed. "But he's also capable and conscientious, and the combination is one that can be put up with." Tossing the stylus back on the table, he leaned back against the cushions and gazed at his son. "And now: what is your impression of our visitor?"
"Our—? Oh. The woman." Daulo frowned. "There are things about her I don't understand. For one thing, she's well within marriageable age and yet is unmarried—"
"Or is widowed," Kruin put in.
"Oh. True, she could be a widow. She's also not from anywhere around here—her clothing is made of a cloth I'm unfamiliar with, and the doctor said she had a low tolerance to monote bites."
"And what of her rather dramatic entrance to Milika?—found alone on the road after some unspecified accident or such?"
Daulo shrugged. "I've heard of people getting stranded on roads before, my father. And even of surviving krisjaw attacks."
The elder Sammon smiled. "Very good—you anticipated my next question. But have you ever heard of someone who was close enough to a krisjaw to be clawed and still survived the experience?"
"There are cases," Daulo said, a small part of his mind wondering why he was being so stubborn. He certainly had no reason to take the mysterious woman's part in this debate. "If she had one or more armed companions during the attack one could have shot the creature off of her, even at that late moment."
Kruin nodded, lips tightening together. "Yes, there's that possibility. Unfortunately, it leads immediately to another question: these alleged defenders of hers seem to have vanished, djinn-like, into thin air. Why?"
Daulo thought about it for a long minute, painfully aware that his father must have already thought all this through and was merely testing him to see if he came up with similar answers. "There are only three possibilities," he said at last. "They are dead, incapacitated, or in hiding."
"I agree," Kruin said. "If they are dead or incapacitated, Perto will find them—I've sent him to search the road now for just that purpose. If they are hiding . . . again, why?"
"Afraid, or part of a plot," Daulo said promptly. "If afraid, they will reveal themselves once their companion is proved to have come to no harm. If part of a plot—" he hesitated "—then t
he woman is here either to infiltrate and spy on our house or else to distract our attention from her companions' task."
Kruin took a deep breath, his eyes focused somewhere beyond Daulo's face. "Yes. Unfortunately, that is my reasoning, as well. Have you any thoughts as to who would plot against us?"
The snort escaped Daulo's lips before he could stop it. "Need we look farther than the Yithtra family?"
"It could be that obvious," Kruin shrugged. "And yet, I generally credit Yithtra with more subtlety than that. And more intelligence, too—with a new shipment of lumber due in, he'll have more than enough legitimate work to keep him occupied. Why launch a plot to discredit us at the same time?"
"Perhaps that's how he expects us to think," Daulo suggested.
"Perhaps. Still, it would be good to remember that there are others on Qasama who might find profit in stirring up mischief in Western Arm villages."
Daulo nodded thoughtfully. Yes; and foremost among them were the enemies of Mayor Capparis of Azras. Capparis's unlikely friendship with the Sammon family—and the easy access that relationship gave the mayor to the mine's output—had been a thorn in the side of Capparis's enemies for a long time. Perhaps one of them was finally going to try and break the Sammon family's power, to replace them with someone more malleable.
Especially with that strange self-contained Mangus operation east of Azras gobbling up so much of the mine's output lately. Azras and the other cities in the Western Arm were enough of a headache to Milika and its fellow villages; Mangus and its slimy purchasing agents were as bad in their way as all the cities combined. If someone in Azras thought Mangus's mineral needs would go still higher—and thought that someone other than the Sammon family should profit by those needs . . . "What shall we do, then, my father?" he asked. "Send this woman out of our house, perhaps allow her to recuperate in the mayor's house?"
Kruin was silent a moment before answering. "No," he said at last. "If our enemies believe we consider her harmless, it gives us a slight advantage in this game. No, we will keep her here, at least for now. If Perto fails to find any companions for her—well, by then we may be able to question her directly about how she survived her journey."
And if that story was patently false . . .? "I understand. Shall I assign a guard to her recovery room?"
"No, we don't want to be that obvious. As long as she's ill and confined to the women's section the normal contingent of guards there will be adequate. You will alert them to be prepared for possible trouble from her, of course."
"Yes, my father. And once she's recovered?"
Kruin smiled. "Why, then, as a proper and dutiful host, it will be your responsibility to act as escort to her."
And to learn just what she's up to. "Yes, my father," Daulo nodded. The elder Sammon's posture indicated the audience was at an end; getting to his feet, Daulo made the sign of respect and bowed. "I will attend to the guards, and then await Perto's return."
"Goodbye, my eldest son," Kruin said with an acknowledging nod. "Make me proud of you."
"I will." As long as breath is in me, Daulo added silently.
Pulling open the heavy door, he slipped quietly out of the chamber.
Chapter 15
The first thing Jin noticed as she drifted back to consciousness was that something furry was tickling the underside of her chin. The second thing she noticed was that she didn't seem to hurt anywhere.
She opened her eyes to slits, squinting against the light streaming in from somewhere to her right and trying to orient herself. If her memory was correct—and there might be some doubt about that—it had been past noon when she finally made it through the forest and found the road. Could it still be afternoon on that same day? No, she felt far too rested for that. Besides which . . . Gently, she tried turning her neck. Still a little stiff, but not nearly as bad as it had been. At least a day had passed, then, probably more.
And she'd been unconscious through the whole thing. Naturally unconscious? Or had she been deliberately drugged?
Drugged and interrogated?
From her right came the squeak of wood on wood. Keeping her movements small, Jin turned her head. Seated in a heavy looking chair beside the window was a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, seated crosslegged with an open book across her lap. "Hello," Jin croaked.
The girl looked up, startled. "Hello," she said, closing her book and laying it on the floor beside her chair. "I didn't realize you were awake. How are you feeling?"
Jin forced some moisture into her mouth. "Pretty good," she said, the words coming out better this time. "Hungry, though. How long was I asleep?"
"Oh, a long time—almost five days—though you were awake and feverish for part of—"
"Five days?" Jin felt her mouth fall open in astonishment . . . and then the rest of the girl's comment caught up with her. "I was feverish, you said?" she asked carefully. "I hope I didn't say or do anything too outlandish."
"Oh, no, though my aunt said you're very strong."
Jin grimaced. "Yes, I've been told that." She just hoped her Cobra-enhanced strength hadn't hurt anyone . . . or given her away. "Did anyone—I'm sorry; what is your name?"
The girl looked stricken. "Oh—forgive me." She ducked her head, raising her right hand to touch bunched fingers to her forehead. "I am Gissella; second daughter of Namid Sammon, younger brother of Kruin Sammon."
Jin tried the hand gesture, watching Gissella's face closely as she did so. If she botched the maneuver the younger girl didn't seem to notice. "I am Jasmine," Jin introduced herself. "Third daughter of Justin Alventin."
"Honored," Gissella nodded, getting to her feet and walking around the foot of the bed. "Excuse me, but I was to let my Aunt Ivria know if you awakened in your right mind."
She stepped to the door and what looked like an intercom set into the wall next to it, and as she got her connection and delivered her news Jin took a quick inventory of her injuries.
It was astonishing. The deep gashes on arm and cheek were already covered with pink skin, and the deep bruises left across her chest by the shuttle safety harness were completely gone. Her left knee and elbow were still tender, but even they were in better shape than she would have expected from the way they'd felt right after the crash. Either the injuries had been more transient than she'd thought at the time, or else—
No. No or else about it. Qasaman medicine was as advanced as that of the Cobra Worlds, pure and simple. Possibly more so.
Gissella finished her conversation and stepped to a wardrobe cabinet on the opposite side of the door. "They'll be here shortly," she said, withdrawing a pale blue outfit and holding it out for Jin's approval. "Aunt Ivria suggested you might like to get dressed before they arrive."
"Yes, I would," Jin nodded, pulling back the furry blanket and swinging her legs out of bed.
The material, she quickly discovered, was markedly different from that of the best-guess Qasaman clothing the team had landed with, but the design was similar. Still, Jin took no chances, feigning trouble with her left arm in order to let Gissella do as much of the actual fastening and arranging as possible. Fortunately, there were no major surprises. Which means I ought to be able to dress myself adequately from now on, Jin thought as she straightened the hem of the short robe/tunic. At least until they switch styles on me. Trying to relax, she listened for the others to arrive.
She didn't have to wait very long. Within a few minutes her enhanced hearing picked up the sound of three sets of footsteps approaching. Taking a deep breath, she faced the door . . . and a moment later the panel swung open to reveal two women and a man.
The first woman was the one in charge of the party—that much was abundantly clear from both her rich clothing and her almost regal bearing. She was a woman, Jin recognized instinctively, who commanded the respect of those around her and would demand nothing less from a stranger in her household. The second woman was in sharp contrast: young and plainly dressed, with the air of one whose role was to go
unnoticed about her duties. A servant, Jin thought to herself. Or a slave. And the man—
His eyes were captivating. Literally; it took Jin a long second to free her gaze from those dark traps and give the rest of him a quick once-over. He was young—her age, perhaps a year or two younger—but with the same regal air as the older woman. And some of the same features, as well. Related? she wondered. Very possibly.
The older woman stopped a meter away from Jin and ducked her head a few degrees in an abbreviated bow. "In the name of the Sammon family," she said in a cool, controlled voice, "I bid you greeting and welcome."
Something expectant in her face . . . on impulse, Jin repeated the fingertips-to-forehead gesture Gissella had already shown her. It seemed to work. "Thank you," she told the older woman. "I am honored by your hospitality." The verbal response wasn't the prescribed one—that much was quickly apparent from the others' faces. But they seemed surprised, rather than outraged, and Jin crossed her mental fingers that the story she'd concocted would cover these slips well enough. "I am Jasmine, daughter of Justin Alventin."
"I am Ivria Sammon," the older woman identified herself. "Wife of Kruin Sammon and mother of his heirs." She gestured to the youth, now standing beside her. "Daulo, first son and heir of Kruin Sammon."
"I am honored by your hospitality," Jin repeated, again touching fingers to forehead.
Daulo nodded in return. "Your customs and manners mark you as a stranger to this part of Qasama," Ivria continued, eyes holding unblinkingly on her. "Where is your home, Jasmine Alventin?"
"I have spent time in many different places," Jin said, working hard at controlling her face and voice. This was the stickiest part; no matter what she said now, the lie could be eventually run to ground if they were persistent enough. Given that, her best chance lay with one of the half-dozen cities dotting the western curve of the Crescent, where the higher population density should make any investigation at least a little harder. "My current home is in the city of Sollas."
