The room in front of us kept the Drífan grandeur. The floor was soft beige stone with marble swirls of paler white and flecks of gold. The walls were the color of ivory, the stone weathered, as if the palace was hundreds of years old. Two rows of columns, their bodies matching the walls, their tops elaborately decorated with bands of red agate and green malachite, supported a thirty-foot ceiling with a huge domed skylight in the center.
Straight ahead, my version of a stone throne, elaborately carved from purpleheart wood, beckoned with soft green cushions. Directly behind the throne a tapestry hung on the wall, a perfect replica of the view from the Drífan balcony, complete with the blue bird. I had Gertrude Hunt weave it from colorful synthetic silk. On both sides of the tapestry double doors offered access to a balcony. More doors, six specifically, branched off from both sides of the room, leading to individual bedrooms.
I had echoed the glowing purple of the throne and the green of malachite and the red of the agate through the room with accessories, decorative swords, alien vases, padded chairs, and side tables. Alien flowers and Earth shrubs bloomed in the corners from simple clay pots that could have been made at the start of time. It was a cohesive space, still ornate, still old, but serene and calming.
Zedas took a step forward, bowing slightly at the liege lord’s right. “Is it suitable?”
“It is.” The woman strode into the room.
“Your bedroom is the closest to the throne on the right,” I specified. “My name is Dina. If you require anything, call me and the inn will notify me.”
The Drífen walked into the room past me. The large woman grasped the double doors and shut them.
I was halfway down the stairs, when I heard a voice whisper in my ear, delivered by the inn’s magic.
“Thank you for the room, Dina.”
6
The morning of the first day of Treaty Stay started with breaking up another koo-ko debate. They had convened for an early morning ritual, which progressed into a spirited discussion, which then predictably degenerated into a brawl. This time nine of the combatants had needed the regeneration chamber. At the rate they were going, we’d have a fatality before the holiday was over. I had lost only one guest in the inn, and I’d made a promise to myself to never lose another.
The day had just started, and it looked like it was only going to get worse.
“When you told me we had a new guest, you neglected to mention he was a Medamoth.” Sean loomed over me as I drank my first cup of tea.
In the depths of the kitchen, Orro moved like a dark wraith. He hadn’t made a sound since storming off yesterday.
“I have him contained in his own wing. He’s on a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage or an assassination attempt?”
“A pilgrimage. He’s too high ranking to be an assassin. He’s scheduled to assume the post of a colonial governor and the Hope-Crushing Horde will be his new neighbors. He knows we brokered a peace on Nexus, and he designed this entire pilgrimage around our inn. He’s trying to figure out how to make peace with the Otrokars.”
Sean crossed his arms on his chest. “I had several Medamoths under my command on Nexus. They don’t make peace. They kill, they hunt, and they write bad poetry.”
I couldn’t resist. Auul, the planet Sean’s ancestors blew up rather than surrender to their enemies, was known as the planet of warrior poets. “So they are a poor imitation of a werewolf?”
“They are eight feet tall, homicidal, and rabid. They chase anything that moves and bite things without thinking.”
I squinted at him. “What kind of bad poetry do they write?”
Sean gave me a look and recited, “Hunt. Hunt. The scent of prey. The light of the moon. Blood on the fang. Taste the heartbeat. Rapture.”
I clapped. “That was lovely.”
“What will be lovely is when he finds out about the space chickens. There will be a massacre. And guess what? The Assembly won’t be happy about that.”
I sipped more tea. “The koo-ko are fine,” I lied.
“The Medamoths have an overwhelming prey drive. If it runs, they chase it.” Sean looked up. “Show me the Medamoth rooms.”
The inn produced a screen. On it Qoros stretched, holding a pose in a Medamoth version of yoga. His eyes were closed. He stood perfectly still, his right leg bent at the knee, foot resting against the inside of his left thigh, his arms spread wide.
“His name is Qoros, by the way.”
Sean squinted at the tattoo on Qoros’ neck. “Qoros my ass. That’s Ratharr the Vein Ripper. He led the offensive on Mrelnos, took the capital and crushed the planetary government while outnumbered three to one. He is one of the Medamoth Bloody Twelve, the best heroes of the species. If he’s a pilgrim, I’m…”
“An innkeeper?”
“Fine.”
“His brother is a mercenary who was stationed on Nexus.” I sipped my tea. “It’s funny how you think that I don’t know the identities of our guests or how to use facial recognition software.”
“Fair enough. I shouldn’t have assumed that you didn’t do your homework on this guy.”
“Thank you for your apology.”
“Have you seen them fight though? I mean, up close.”
“No.”
“Put a cockroach on that wall, please.”
I sorted through my storage, plucked a cockroach from the insect tank, and teleported it onto the wall. Qoros stood completely still, his eyes still closed. Even his ears didn’t twitch.
A second ticked by.
The cockroach moved half a millimeter.
Qoros sprang up seven feet in the air, snatched the roach off the wall, and crushed it with his claws.
Sean pointed to the screen.
“You did the same thing two nights ago because you saw a mosquito.”
“That mosquito would have qualified as air support.”
“Look, he’s here to see the Alamo. We are bound to respect his wishes during the Treaty Stay. He has a humanizer, and the sooner we calibrate it and take him to San Antonio, the faster he will leave.”
Amber rolled over Sean’s irises. The wolf in his eyes left the dark forest and showed me his big teeth. “Not we, I. I’m going to take him to San Antonio, and you will stay as far away from him as possible.”
I gave him a smile. “That’s so sweet of you.”
On the screen Qoros studied the crushed cockroach impaled on his claw and threw it into the garbage can.
I realized that Orro had stopped moving and now stared at the two of us.
“Yes?”
“What is this humanizer?” he asked.
“It’s an illusion device,” I told him. “Sometimes guests have business on Earth or have to travel between the inns. If their dimensions are not too different from the human dimension, you can use the device to disguise them. It’s expensive and rare, and it works on some species, but not others, and nobody knows why.”
Orro’s quills stood on end. He rushed at us, frantic, and clasped my hands into his. “I know what the problem is. Cooking is a collaborative art. One cannot become a chef in a vacuum. One must observe and learn from other masters; one must taste dishes not of his own making. I have neglected this cornerstone of my art, first during my exile and then after coming here. Look!”
He spun around and flicked his fingers. The TV screen on the wall came to life, showing a website with dates and times. The header on the website announced in big fiery letters “Garry Keys Fire and Lightning Show.”
“The master, he’ll be filming his show in San Antonio today. If only I could watch him work, I could break through the walls of the dungeon constraining me. I could adapt and overcome.”
Oh no. Where had he even heard that?
“Garry Keys,” Sean answered my unspoken question. “He started as an Army cook.”
“Orro,” I said gently. “The TV show is not like real life. It’s staged. I don’t think it would be like seeing him in the kitchen. I’m afraid
you will be disappointed.”
Orro struck a dramatic pose, pointing to the screen with a clawed finger. “I have watched every minute of every show. There is nothing he can do to disappoint me.”
I put my hands over my face.
“Please,” Orro moaned.
“Is that even possible?” Sean asked me.
“Maybe. Most humanizers are area-of-effect devices. It would take a lot of calibration because of the difference in species. This is a horrible idea.”
“Please, small human.”
“I can talk to Qoros,” Sean said.
“I can’t believe you. You’re proposing to take a Medamoth and a Quillonian on a field trip into a crowded human space. How are you going to keep them in line?”
Sean turned to Orro. “Do you think you can control yourself?”
Orro clamped his hand over the right side of his chest, which contained his layered heart. “I swear by the blood of my ancestors.”
Sean pivoted back to me. “See? He’s cool.”
“What happens to Orro if the Vein Ripper goes nuts and his humanizer fails?”
“I’ll be carrying the humanizer, and if Qoros steps out of line, I’ll neutralize him and Orro will help me carry him to the car.” Sean glanced at Orro. “Isn’t that right, battle buddy?”
Orro rose to his full height, all quills erect, claws spread for the kill. “I will assist, combat friend.”
“What makes you think Qoros will even agree to this?”
Sean flashed me a wolfish smile. “I can be very persuasive.”
I set my tea down so hard my cup clinked. “You’d fight him. You’d beat up a guest to assert your dominance so he would respect you while you are taking him to Alamo.”
“What?” Sean pretended to be shocked.
“Do whatever you want, Sean Evans, but I’m telling you now if you cause an incident and offend a guest during Treaty Stay, I’ll be mad at you forever.”
Sean seemed to consider it. “I can live with that. The real question is, what would the Assembly—”
I grabbed a kitchen towel and threw it at him. Sean caught it and laughed.
A voice floated to me, carried over by the inn. “Dina, could you bring me a cup of coffee with creamer, and could you do it without Zedas finding out?”
“Of course,” I whispered in reply. I got up. “The liege lord wants a coffee. Sean, please don’t mess this trip up. I know you’re sick of me mentioning the Assembly, but if two aliens pop out of nowhere in the middle of the Alamo, they will take this inn away from us.”
“I know.” Sean hugged me to him. “Trust me.”
I rose out of the floor of the Drífan’s private room carrying a tray with a French press filled with coffee, a mug, and a bottle of International Delight Sweet Cream. If the liege lord was disturbed by my sudden appearance, she didn’t show it.
She sat in a padded chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window presenting us with a view of the orchard and the trees beyond. She didn’t turn or acknowledge me, so I only saw the back of her head. Her green hair was twisted into a messy bun. I walked over to her, set the tray on the nearby coffee table, and pressed the lever of the French press.
Around us the room was quiet. I had gone for an early nineties feel to it. Wall-to-wall beige carpet, a bed with a flower bedspread, pastel lavender walls, oak furniture, matching desk and dresser: all of it was designed with maximum nostalgia in mind. If I’d calculated right, she would have been a teenager in the nineties.
Our most nostalgic memories formed when we were teenagers. You would think that early childhood memories would have the most impact, but no. For the majority of people, the teen years mattered most. The music, TV shows, books and friendships formed when we were teens held a special significance.
Teenage years brought puberty and a new need for freedom. For the first time in our lives, we made independent choices that clashed with the authority of our parents. We fought for the right to listen to our music, to wear our clothes, to dye our hair, to like other people, and to make decisions affecting our future. And for the first time we experienced real consequences based on our actions and learned that parents, even innkeeper parents, were not gods and some things couldn’t be fixed.
When I thought back to my childhood, the kid version of me was an amorphous, fuzzy memory. The teenage me was the first me, a preview of who I would become as an adult. She had definite opinions, thought her parents were stupid, and she knew everything about everything, but she was unmistakably me.
I poured the coffee into the mug and turned to leave.
“Will you sit with me?” she asked. A slight Southern accent tinted her voice, but I couldn’t place it.
“Of course.” I summoned a second chair, identical to the first, moved the coffee table between them, and sat.
The Drífan wore plain pants and a simple tunic of soft pale-green fabric. Her bare feet were tucked in under her. She poured a ridiculously large amount of creamer into her mug, smelled it and sipped a little. “Mmm.”
“Does Zedas not approve of coffee?” I asked.
“Zedas does not approve of a great many things. He claims coffee disrupts the inner energy.”
“Does it?”
“No. Zedas wants me to forget what it’s like to be human. He doesn’t know this room exists and I plan to keep it that way.”
I had guessed right. “Why is it important for you to forget?”
She looked out the window. If I had to pick just one word to describe her, it would be “mournful.” A profound, deep sadness wrapped around her like a shroud. She seemed worn out, like an ornate sword that had seen too many battles. The repeated strikes had worn off the fancy script on its blade, leaving it stripped bare and even more deadly.
“He thinks that if I forget, I won’t be tempted to return. He wants me to leave Adira Kline behind permanently.”
“Can you return?”
“That’s a complicated question.” Adira sipped a little more of her coffee. “The Mountain chose me. It didn’t ask. Twelve thousand souls depend on my leadership. Walking away would throw them into chaos. And even if I did, my life here was severed when I left. It’s been six years. Not so long, but it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know if I could fit back into the old me, into her life. Sometimes I try her on for size, and she’s like an old jacket that I outgrew. It smells familiar, and it holds the right memories, but it’s too constraining.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, and meant it.
“Thank you. I never wanted adventure. I suppose I’m a hobbit by nature. I was perfectly happy with a mundane life and ticking items off my list: going to school, getting a job, buying a car, getting a mortgage…”
She fell silent.
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes.” Pain sharpened her voice slightly. She caught herself. “It’s a moot point anyway. I promised Zedas that if he agreed to this meeting, I would never again open a doorway to Earth. This is my goodbye.”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Zedas serve you?”
“Yes.” Adira sighed. “Life in my world is treacherous. Prospective liege lords train for decades, learning how to survive imperial politics, discovering how to harness magic, studying strategy and tactics. There are nine ways to greet an official depending on their rank, and the wrong bow or the incorrect inflection can mean the difference between peaceful life and the extermination of your dryht.”
It didn’t sound like a fun place.
“When I started, I knew nothing. I barely had six months of instruction before the Emperor invited my adoptive father to his court. It wasn’t an invitation one could refuse and my conduct in his absence would determine if he lived or died. Zedas held my hand through all of it. If it wasn’t for his guidance, the Green Mountain would have been overrun. So yes, I could ignore Zedas, and if I issued an order, he would obey, even against his better judgment.”
“But you won’t?”
“I won’t. Unless I
have no choice.”
I had no room to talk, not after signing off on Orro’s San Antonio trip.
“Zedas isn’t wrong,” she said softly. “I can’t live in two worlds at once. That’s why I am here. To get rid of baggage I no longer need.”
She fell silent. In a way we were polar opposites. She had travelled to a new place and it forever changed her, so much that she couldn’t go back. I always tried to escape the world of my childhood, but after ping-ponging all over the galaxy, I had come back to do exactly what my parents did.
“I’ve been contemplating the meaning of mercy,” Adira said. “Are you merciful, Dina?”
I only managed one cup of tea this morning. It wasn’t enough for philosophical discussions. “Mercy implies power and sacrifice.”
Adira raised her eyebrows.
“Mercy is defined as kindness or forgiveness given to someone who is within your power to punish. To show mercy means to give up retribution, sometimes at the cost of justice. My hands are often tied. The safety of my guests is my priority. If I face someone who attempted to harm those in my charge, I must consider the possibility that if I let them go, they may try to hurt my guests again. I cannot allow that. I can’t afford to take that risk.”
“Did you show mercy to my uncle’s people when they tried to invade your inn?”
I frowned. “I suppose it can be seen as mercy. But most of it was prudence. Any sudden death or disappearance would be investigated. The inns must avoid attention.”
“Only if he reported them missing. He wouldn’t. My uncle has waited for this meeting since he was nineteen years old, before I was even born.”
That made no sense. “Do you think he will resort to violence when you meet him?”
Sweep with Me (Innkeeper Chronicles Book 5) Page 7
