To Trade the Stars (29 page)

I couldn't stop playing as the Power-of-Choice struck at my consciousness: demanding, craving, wanting. It had been aroused once and wouldn't be ignored . . . or satisfied. So I played louder, with more and more passion, as if the music could lift the pain from me and carry it off the cliff.

It bought the Singer instead.

The portion of my mind touching the M'hir heard him first, underscore and thunder roll of percussion, adding depth and resonance beneath the flute. Each beat pushed my heart harder and faster, sent blood pounding in answer. I kept playing even as my body burned, wanting more.

Because part of me finally understood. This wasn't an attack or invasion. It was a seduction, begun when I'd fought to hold my mother in the M'hir, continued throughout my life to this moment. Seduction by an unChosen, of a kind, who cared nothing for Sira di Sarc or the Clan, but who lusted for what I had to give: the Power-of-Choice, perhaps Choice itself. Seduction by a master, whose fingers of Power stroked and tormented my inner self with rising crescendos of unheard music, until I could hardly remember who or what I was, knew only a desperate need to be filled, a need that seemed suddenly attainable.

Yet I held at that brink, somehow finding the strength to see the truth through the heaving darkness, to know this wouldn't be my completion, but the Singer's, that our Joining would consume and destroy all I was. I couldn't deny the temptation to submit, to leave my life behind in one orgasmic moment, if this was all there could ever be. But I refused to believe that. I demanded more. I demanded hope. The Singer's spell over me faltered, weakened for a single beat. I could pull free . . .

... to find myself lying half over the balcony wall, staring down into the confusion of rock, shadow, and twisted shrub that dropped straight to the valley floor. A disgruntled cliff dancer squeaked its annoyance before scurrying impossibly down the vertical stonework to disappear beneath the overhang.

My keffle-flute almost fell from my sweat-soaked hand. I almost let it, afraid of what the music had brought to me.

Afraid I wouldn't be able to resist next time.

The next time Barac relied on Drapsk transport, if ever, he'd pick a better destination—just in case they marooned him again. He presumed Huido would have transport already arranged to get them both off Ettler's Planet. The name was rumored to have started as “Settler's Paradise.” If so, thought Barac, it was more perverse Human wit, since no world could seem less attractive from orbit. Ettler's was almost completely arid and owed its wealth to a happy concentration of minerals rare in neighboring systems.

Well, at least the Makii had taken him away from Drapskii. The Clansman sighed, pulling his cloak tighter around his neck. The bite of the morning's wind advised raising the hood as well, but it seemed too long since he'd felt fresh air moving of its own accord. Besides, there was no harm in showing Humans his face—Barac knew his looks were considered attractive by most of that species and exceptionally handsome by some. Why waste Power to obtain cooperation, when a smile would do?

Not that a smile would have helped obtain more from the Makii. Barac wasn't sure the
Makmora
would be able to lift before her crew was convulsed in
gripstsa.
He'd never seen Drapsk so upset. They hadn't been able to explain their aversion to his contacting the Heerii with any clarity, babbling about ascendance, danger, and some nonsense about a risk to Drapskii.

Barak had found himself wishing for Copelup. The Skeptic only made sense when he wanted to, but it was more often than this. He'd been tempted to contact Rael, to pass along the question to the Drapsk, then changed his mind. She'd been abundantly clear in her opinion of his leaving Drapskii in the first place. This?

She'd gloat at his being marooned. He knew she would.

There was no doubt, however, that the Makii believed the Heerii posed a danger. What that could be, beyond more alien confusion, Barac couldn't imagine, but he wasn't about to ignore anything that made four hundred Drapsk roll up into balls. A good thing the docking tug alarm jarred most awake.

They'd been generous, if hysterical. Barac had willingly used their credits to park the
Makmora's
aircar at the edge of the shipcity, feeling more comfortable traveling on foot in a new city. City? The Clansman surveyed his surroundings with an experienced eye. Rosietown wasn't quite that, but he was pleasantly surprised to find any sophistication out on the Fringe, especially on such an uncomfortable-seeming world.

The shipcity itself was standard: an ever-changing conglomeration of ships and the shipways between them. It sprawled over most of a huge salt flat, which donated an acrid dust to be raised by anything that moved, from feet to docking tugs, stinging eyes or whatever exposed tissue might be sensitive. A fickle wind took any dust inclined to settle and stood it in columns between the ships, while the intensity of the rising sun promised a glare from every reflective surface by noon.

Rosietown was separated from the shipcity by the usual All Sapient's District of spacers' bars, hostels, and trading markets. An eroded mountain leaned along the far edge of the town, presumably sheltering it from some of the worst winds. The streets boasted actual greenery, albeit protected from the elements by force fields, and various substantial buildings Barac decided wouldn't look out of place on an Inner System world. It took wealth, agreeably permanent wealth, to produce structures that were also art forms. The Clan might want to investigate the possibilities of the place after all.

Perhaps being without the Drapsk was just as well, Barac concluded, feeling his training as a Clan Scout renewed as he chose a path that wove between Rosietown and the All Sapient's District, heading toward Embassy Row. The town and its less-planned neighbor blurred into an upscale market area that produced such unintentional quaintness as a Whirtle-run Human used-clothing outlet beside a Human restaurant claiming to serve authentic Whirtle haute cuisine. Advertising ‘bots hovered in wait above their respective businesses, ready to bob helpfully in front of any passersby who looked their way, displaying the day's specials and other enticements.

This early, nothing appeared to be looking except himself and a host of servos, sweeping dull yellow sand and streaks of glittering salt from the pavement. The wind was no more than a gentle stirring now, but Barac had no doubt it was the reason the local architecture featured attractive curves and an abundant use of stone.

Barac kept his senses, all of them, alert as he walked. He didn't expect trouble, but he'd prefer a bit of healthy paranoia to an unpleasant surprise. Huido had given him an address, along with the cryptic information that he'd either be met or there would be a message telling Barac where to go next. That was all, nothing about why he wanted Barac, in person, as quickly as possible, out in the Fringe. Not that it mattered. Any reason to leave Drapskii, the Clansman shuddered, was a good one. He did his best not to remember the feel of it in his mind.

Besides, if there had been anything seriously wrong, Huido would have contacted Morgan. No, Barac decided, more than likely the Carasian had come up with another scheme to corner the market in whatever unique consumable this place might produce, a scheme needing someone with more charm than crust to make the deal. Barac had done the same for Huido twice before: once negotiating over translight com, the second time hosting a meeting on Drapskii. The old shellfish paid well and, Barac shrugged as he walked, there were worse ways to make a living. He'd known there wouldn't be much of a long-term future on Drapskii even then.

At least with Huido, there should be breakfast. The Makii had hurried him out on an empty stomach, probably, he estimated, a good two standard hours before anything resembling a restaurant would open.
Aliens
. He spent more time with them than his own kind. Sira's fault, Barac thought, but fondly. After this business was over, he really should make the effort to get in touch with his illustrious cousin and her Chosen. Sira, he knew, would be far more sympathetic to what he'd been enduring than her sister Rael.

 

Ruti woke from a nightmare and instinctively reached for her mother. There were no words in return, just that comforting sense of presence. Reassured, she ordered on the port light.

Nothing happened. Ruti shook her head with disgust and fumbled at the side of the cot for the portable lantern Huido had given her. No outside power supply, he'd explained. As if that was a surprise in this hovel.

She didn't know why she'd stayed with the Carasian during their flight from Plexis to this place—wherever it was. Habit, probably. Obey those older and supposedly wiser. She shook her head. Not that there'd been much opportunity. The Turrneds had kept staring at her every minute on Plexis. And she must have dozed through most of the trip by starship—so much for the so-called restorative tea Huido had insisted she drink.

Ruti yawned, stretching until her sholders creaked. Breakfast and then she'd insist on some answers—including where they were and what was going to happen next.

Huido had brought them to the All Sapient's District of whatever town this was. Ruti hadn't seen much of it yet. Their lumbering, smelly escort had effectively blocked any view of her first shipcity and, within town, a chill, sand-laden wind kept her head inside the huge, shapeless robe Huido had insisted she wear. She'd been warm enough, at least. The Carasian might have gone to great lengths to keep them inconspicuous, but Ruti doubted it had worked. Each time sand had slithered over his tent-sized robe, Huido had expressed his misery with such loud mutters and clanks, it was hard to imagine any being capable of hearing sleeping through the din.

He'd known where to go, at least. The right doorway had been at the end of a blind alley, inhabited by scaled vermin that hissed alarmingly before scurrying up walls, hopefully to avoid them and not launch an attack. Huido had opened the door with an antique key before hustling Ruti inside. He'd almost run her down in his hurry to get out of the wind and shed his sandy robe with disgust.

The place had no power, but was clean enough, with furniture that suited both Clan and Carasian anatomy. There was a tiny kitchen Ruti had inspected with a tired eye before Huido showed her to this cupboard of a room where she would sleep.

Tiny or not, the kitchen had looked functional and this morning she was starving. Ruti padded on bare feet down the short hall, only to stop in her tracks.
Voices
.

A stranger's—male, possibly humanoid, deep—answered by Huido's; the Carasian's tone matter-of-fact enough to ease her mind, if not make Ruti any more inclined to announce herself. She tightened her shields, crept as close as she dared, and listened.

The stranger: “—glad to find you, safe and sound.”

A proud claw snap. “Why would I not be? Did you think that minuscule nephew of mine would prove a challenge?”

“Never, my giant friend. The virtue of your wives remains quite intact.” The voice sobered. “Huido. This young Clanswoman you've brought with you—Ruti. What's her connection to Ren Symon?”

“Symon?” a slithering sound, as though Huido had come to attention. “Where did that—? You don't mean that scrap of molted shell was behind all this? Why—?” Then, the Carasian answered his own question, his voice a dangerously low growl. “To bring you to Plexis. Much becomes clear. But how do you know about Ruti? And how would she know Symon?”

“Ansel—” the name bitten off, as though the speaker almost said more but changed his mind. He continued: “Ansel told me your Ruti claimed Symon was her friend. And warned me Symon was after her—would follow her here. You've seen no sign of him?”

Ruti leaned closer, eyes wide with astonishment. Symon? Ansel knew her friend's name was Jake Caruthers.

“If I'd seen anything of Ren Symon—or smelled the stench of his
grist
,” Huido replied with complete conviction, “he'd have been on the menu. But what aren't you telling me, my friend? Your grist isn't right—”

A grim laugh. “I'm not surprised. But bear with me—I need to know more before I tell you my—news. This Ruti—who is she? I can feel her. Clan. Young. Why did you bring her here?”

“Who is Ruti? From Acranam, arrogant, makes an acceptable omelette. Ansel found her on my doorstep—he's forever complicating my life with his strays. I let her stay because her
grist
was like yours had been: full of rage and betrayal. I don't know any more than that about her. But why did I bring her here?” A pause during which Ruti barely breathed. “She maneuvered her way into being my chef with Clan tricks. You know I'd never leave a potential enemy near my pool.” Ruti's shocked dismay vanished as Huido went on: “But at the risk of having you and Ansel believe I've gone soft before my next molt, I don't believe there's any harm in the little one. She's done what she had to, to survive a hard situation. I brought her with me for her own safety. We can't have Plexis security finding her—you know Wallace has ties to those who'd pay well for a vulnerable being of Ruti's potential.”

“Including Symon,” the voice said thoughtfully. “Who wanted her enough to be seen on Plexis—where Bowman has a reward for his head.”

“So we hunt?” a satisfied clattering, as though Huido rummaged through the weapons hanging from his chest to select a favorite.

“I do. There's no easy way to tell you this, Huido.” The voice lowered, slowed, as if the speaker hated what he had to say next, but pushed on regardless. “Ansel's dead. Murdered. Symon ripped apart his mind after you left. I tried to repair what I could, but it wasn't enough.” A pause. All Ruti heard was her heart pounding. Then, “Symon did it to find Ruti. Ansel died trying to protect you both, my brother. Grieve and know I will honor the debt between us.” It was said as if a vow.