Alien Chronicles 2 - The Crimson Claw (21 page)

Little dots began to dance in Ampris’s vision. She heard what Ylea was saying, but her ears were roaring. With all her remaining will, she struggled not to pass out.

The crowd was still cheering, and now the vidcams came flying toward them. It was as though the cams had been caught unawares by the quickness of the combat and only now were coming this way. But maybe, Ampris thought hazily, maybe time was standing still while she was quickly—much too quickly—living out what was left of her life.

She gulped for air, feeling the strength fading from her legs.

Ylea released the dagger and lifted both hands to salute the crowd. Ampris gripped the haft with her hand, and for a strange, surreal instant she wondered how she came to be holding a dagger in her own side.

Then her thoughts stopped spinning dizzily, and she could think again, in short bursts of coherence.

Ylea reached for the dagger. “They coming now. Time to take what is mine.”

But her fingers curled around Ampris’s hand instead of the dagger hilt. Their eyes met and locked.

Ylea snarled. “You fool. You be finished.”

Ampris bared her teeth and lunged at Ylea’s face, snapping so fiercely Ylea leaned back. In that moment Ampris withdrew the dagger.

The sensation was horrible, indescribable. It felt as though she were pulling out her entire life force with it. Then the blade was finally clear, dripping blood. At the same time Ampris smelled it, hot and fresh, air hit her wound.

Pain ripped through her like fire, but it also cleared away the fog.

At such close quarters, Ylea could not use her parvalleh. She dropped it on the ground and reached for the dagger sheathed at Ampris’s side.

Ampris, however, struck fast and hard, gashing Ylea’s arm. Ylea screamed and yanked it back. Ampris lunged at her, plunging the dagger down through the harness buckled around Ylea’s hips. The blade sliced through the heavy leather, and chain and harness swung free, dangling from Ampris’s hip now.

Ylea roared and darted around her like something gone mad. She grabbed up a glaudoon from the dead hand of a Samparese and turned on Ampris.

In that small moment of opportunity, Ampris should have thrown the dagger into her throat, but a wave of dizziness made her hesitate, and the moment was lost.

From the corner of her eye, Ampris saw handlers racing toward them. She heard Halehl’s agitated voice coming from her collar, giving her instructions she could not hear.

Some individuals in the crowd were screaming. Others went on cheering. A siren blared warnings, and the vidcams hovered closer overhead.

Ampris braced herself, but Ylea hit her at full charge, toppling her over like straw and driving her to the ground. The pain flashed white in Ampris’s mind, obliterating everything, and yet Ampris knew she could not surrender to it. She rolled, by instinct alone, and by the time she got her vision and senses back, she found Ylea pinning her legs and swinging the glaudoon.

As long as they were inside the arena, there was no way Halehl could use his restraint mechanism in their collars. There was no way he could pull Ylea off. Ampris was on her own.

She raised her dagger and parried Ylea’s glaudoon, although the impact jolted the bones in her wrist and hand. With steel grinding against steel, they strained against each other, snarling ferociously. Ampris held on, refusing to give way to Ylea’s strength, feeling blood still leaking from her side, weakening her more with every passing second. She groped with her other hand, her fingers digging into the sand. Then she threw a handful of the stuff in Ylea’s eyes.

Screaming, Ylea reeled back, clawing at her eyes and slinging her head from side to side. Had she been sane, such a trick would not have rattled her. But Ylea was past all control or sanity now. Still screaming with her eyes clenched shut, she hacked blindly with the glaudoon.

Rolling free of that dangerous blade, Ampris struggled to get her feet under her. From behind her she heard shouts, but she wasn’t going to stop.

This was what she knew. This was what she had been trained to do.

She staggered up, took one step toward Ylea, nearly fell, and barely caught herself.

Ylea spun around on her knees, blinking open her streaming eyes. Finding Ampris, she uttered a feral cry that made the hair stand up on Ampris’s spine, then drove her blade at Ampris’s midsection.

Wind as air . . .
Teinth’s instructions came back to her from that day early in training. All season Ampris had had no occasion to use the move. But now, in the moment of Ylea’s lunge, Ampris knew it was the only maneuver that could save her.

Without further thought, she tucked her arms to her side, holding the dagger tight, and did not let herself think that it was too short for her purposes. She leaped, twisting her body up and over Ylea’s blade a split second before it could hit her. For a moment she hung suspended, in time and in space, seeing the lights reflected on Ylea’s glaudoon, seeing the blood-splattered fur beneath Ylea’s crazed eyes, seeing the pretty gold cartouche of Lord Galard’s name swinging from Ylea’s ear. Only Ylea wore the cartouche, marking her as team leader. Everyone else, Ampris included, wore a plain iron ring with Galard’s name stamped inside it.

That was the last detail Ampris noticed before time shifted into normal speed again. Before she was ready, before she realized she must thrust her arm forward, she crashed headfirst into Ylea’s throat, knocking the bigger Aaroun down.

Ylea heaved once beneath her weight, nearly throwing Ampris off, then lay still.

Ampris, stunned by the tackle, lay there as well, unable to find her wits, unable to catch her breath. The black spots were dancing around her again, clouding her vision. She told herself she had to get up, had to move if she wanted to live.

With a groan, she pulled herself upright just as the handlers reached her.

One of them carried a long pole with a noose on the end. Seeing it in a confused blur as they surrounded her, Ampris flung wide her hands in surrender and did not move.

Only then did she see her dagger, buried haft-deep, in Ylea’s throat. Ylea’s eyes stared at the ceiling of the arena, sightless and already dull with the film of death. They were crazed no more.

“Get back from her!” one of the handlers shouted. “Get back!”

They crowded closer with whips and the noose, and behind them hurried another figure, tall and Viis-thin. It was Halehl, actually running, with his subtrainers at his heels.

“Get back from the body,” a handler said to her, shaking his whip in readiness to lash her with it.

Ampris did not obey. She did not move at all. Tipping back her head, she sucked in air greedily, but it did not seem to be enough to keep the black spots away.

Then there was darkness around her.

Then there was nothing.

CHAPTER
•TEN

In the summer, when heat baked the skin and the air lay still and thick, Israi’s imperial river barge came sailing into the harbor of Malraaket. Capital of the southern continent, the city dated from ancient days, when it had been a spice and trading center, an exporter and importer of exotic goods. Today, it was a modern port city, with a crescent of receiving docks and warehouses curving into the wilderness away from the ancient, seaward side, where old buildings of stone arches and spires stood clad with age and history. According to Lord Huthaldraril, who had accompanied her on this journey, Malraaket today served as the principal port of call for all Viisymel. Malraaket was the true center of commerce for the homeworld, just as Vir served as the center of government.

Lord Huthaldraril droned on, but Israi tuned him out, refusing to listen to his lectures. The pedant was far from old in terms of his actual life cycle, but he had a soul dried to dust by his love of history.

Besides, her barge was coming into harbor under escort from dozens of smaller craft as well as five sleek military cruisers. All flags flying, the barge gleamed in the sunshine, with her splendid fittings of gold and brass polished to shining brightness. Skimmers and shuttles zoomed by overhead, darting here and there so their occupants could catch a closer glimpse of Israi.

Conscious of all the attention, Israi stood on the bridge deck, gripping the railing and waving merrily. Her scarves whipped in the wind, and her heart thudded fast from all the excitement.

She had never been so happy.

No longer did she remember her impatience on the slow, stately journey, dying of boredom with nothing to do but lounge on the deck with her retinue of attendants, courtiers, advisers, and Palace Guards—each and every one of whom was too old for her taste. Worst of all, her egg-brother Oviel had been included in the entourage. He called himself her companion, but she considered him a spy and would never forgive him for having betrayed her during Festival. She ignored him as much as possible, seeking every opportunity to slight him in public.

Besides Lord Huthaldraril, she was encumbered with Lord Brax, Minister of Finance, and Lord Manhaliz, Minister of Industry. They each came with their own retinues of attendants and servants. Daily they met her with agendas, reports, and boring lists of statistics to memorize. Israi yawned through these sessions, but at least they were less boring than watching the muddy banks of the river slide by. The scenery was usually uninspiring—mostly reedy marshland, sometimes forests that came down to the very banks, sometimes small villages perched beside its meandering course, sometimes factories pouring waste into the water and creating a stink of dead fish and evil-smelling foam.

Israi could have flown here in three hours aboard a shuttle. It was a much more efficient, more comfortable way to travel. However, her father maintained the imperial river barge as an important tradition. Never mind how slow it was, or how cramped and awkward belowdecks. Her stateroom, although considered spacious by everyone else aboard, was the smallest room she’d ever occupied in her life. She took no delight in tours of the antiquated craft, conducted by the captain himself in his stiff uniform and rows of medals. She felt as though she’d been confined to a relic—one out of date and embarrassing.

But this morning, as they sailed at last into the broad mouth of the river, where the waters of the Cuna Da’r flowed into the sea harbor, Israi finally understood what the barge was good for.

Clad in finery and broiling in the sun, she stood on the bridge deck and was brought into port with a slow stateliness that gave her ample time to drink in the adulation pouring at her from the darting skimmers, the sailing craft bobbing on the choppy harbor waters, and the cheering crowds massed on shore.

She smiled and waved, loving every moment of the pomp and pageantry. The officers of the barge lined up on the foredeck beneath her, standing at rigid attention, and saluted as cannon salvos roared over the harbor.

Slowly and smoothly the barge docked at last. A cluster of Malraaket officials and aristocrats stood waiting on the wharf to greet her. As the automated gangway projected itself from the barge to shore, Lord Huthaldraril puffed out his air sacs and made a low sound in his throat to catch her attention.

“Is the Imperial Daughter ready to go ashore?”

Israi gathered her scarves around her and turned to step into the shade of the open bridge. Complicated machinery surrounded her. The bridge crew stood at attention to one side, and saluted her as she turned to them. The captain himself bowed low.

Israi had already been coached. She knew exactly what to do.

“Captain,” she said formally, her melodic voice charming everyone present as it had been trained to do, “it has been the very great pleasure of the Imperial Daughter to sail on this vessel under your command. Thank you.”

The captain bowed again, his rill flushing with gratification.

Israi walked off the bridge deck and climbed carefully, with great dignity, down the narrow spiral of steps onto the main deck below. Here, her entire entourage waited for her.

Oviel stepped forward and bowed. He wore a coat of green and white stripes, the sleeves very wide in the latest style. His rill stood high above an engraved collar studded with a single small Gaza stone. His eyes met hers as he straightened, and he flicked out his tongue.

“Everything is arranged,” he announced. “I have been selected to escort the Imperial Daughter if it is her pleasure to grant me this honor.”

Incensed by his brazenness, Israi opened her mouth to protest, but Oviel pushed rudely past Lord Huthaldraril and stepped very close to her. He said softly so that only she could hear, “Take care. You know you must behave yourself on this trip. You are being watched, Israi. Do you want to make another mistake like you did during Festival?”

Her temper flared hot, but the warning in his words held her in check. She glared at him, hating his smug, mocking tone, but although her rill went rigid and dark blue behind her head, she flicked out her tongue in a pretense of meekness.

“Very well,” she said.

Oviel waited, as though he expected her to say more, but when she let the silence stretch awkwardly between them, he bowed and took his place at her side.

Israi whirled on him fast, hissing in displeasure. “Behind me!” she snapped, pointing.

Oviel pretended to be contrite. “My error. An oversight on my part, in all this excitement. Forgive me for having provoked the imperial temper.”

He stepped back a pace in the correct position while Israi watched him through narrowed eyes. Lord Huthaldraril took him by the arm and murmured to him. Turning her back on them both, Israi lowered her rill. She loathed him to the very tip of her tail, but she knew she must never allow her temper to make her underestimate him again. Oviel was sly and ambitious. He circled her constantly, like a naavsk watching the egg nest of a waterfowl, always searching for her weaknesses. He had said she was being watched. Yes, by him. He wanted her to start doubting herself. He wanted her to feel pressured and unsure.

Israi lifted her head even higher. Oviel was no match for her.

At the moment she had too much to do to concern herself long with her pesky, overly ambitious egg-sibling. Ahead of her, members of the Palace Guard formed a double line on either side of the imperial red carpet stretching down the gangway. On shore, another double row of soldiers in the sleek, crimson uniforms of the professional army spread out into a large circle surrounding a clear area with a dais. The city officials—arrayed in finery—waited there.