allies and enemies 02 - rogues (20 page)

“For the brothels, of course,” Selto replied.

“Of course,” she murmured. “I’ve already got a job, thanks.”

He stopped. His stare fixed on Rachel. “You’ll be safe, I assure you. Mallorid will be with you at all times.”

Selto beckoned. The tallest of his escort stepped forward, features obscured by a dust-covered cloth and grime-speckled goggles. Silent, the guard dipped a chin in a type of greeting.

Rachel peered up at the guard. “Well, I feel safe.”

42

Erelah stood before the long rectangular window of the so-called suite. The quarters were spacious compared to the confines of the yacht. It had been home to a family at some point. Reminders were everywhere: a toy sand dragon with a plush body, scribbles of stick figures at knee height on one of the walls. It was sorrowful to think that anything like a family had once lived in such a desolate place.

Rachel had not commented beyond calling it “polite house arrest.” The worry came off her in waves, but nothing threatening had occurred. Had they simply traded one prison for another?

Unlike the yacht, the water here was not a guarded resource. The discovery of a real water shower seemed to temper Rachel’s dread and she “called dibs” on the facilities first. Whatever that meant. By the time Erelah had completed her own guilty indulgence of an extra-long shower, Rachel was snoring in the bunkroom and Korbyn was still missing.

Erelah could not get sleep to obey her. Her thoughts brushed up against one another, like strangers crammed into a small room. There was too much chaos to sort out the pattern.

Tyron’s voice now had over-ridden her at least once and nearly caused calamitous results another. There was the newer presence of Ix’s guard, the one she’d extracted the code from, thumping about like a blind ghost. Such a horrifying hunger in him. Such loneliness there. It was still easy to feel the pull of his grim addictions.

Adding to this all was a new worry: Ulrid and his men were hiding something. It could be a cautious response to unannounced newcomers in general or, more specifically, a greeting directed at Korbyn. Her basic impression of this place had been in keeping with Korbyn’s initial description: the Reaches ate people. Very easy to see that diagnosis.

She could have pressed harder on Ulrid with the Sight, but the pain it evoked had frightened her. The pervasive feeling of fatigue had finally worn off and she no longer had to brace herself against the walls or furniture to stand. The Sight was claiming its price. It was just as Master Liri had warned, after he freed her of Tristic’s claim on her mind.

The Sight you possess can possess you.

Was this what he meant?

There is less and less of me to come back to each time.

Trying to ignore the bone-melting tiredness, she piled her damp hair into a loose knot at the base of her neck and stared out over the uninspiring landscape beyond the grime-covered clear-plas. The view stretched into poorly defined shapes of gray under the driving rain and mists. It would have been nice to see stars, or even a moon. The station’s location was near the pole, making the possibility of seeing a sunrise unlikely. From here, she could make out a section of the landing field. There were two ships huddled against the mud. One of them held the unmistakable lines of a Cassandra model.

Its familiar form brought a deep pang.
Jon. Perhaps I shall see you soon.

Chewing mechanically, she pulled a piece of the “bread” that had arrived with the two trays of food. It was ersatz in texture, meant to be nutritious and not pleasing.

She muttered a prayer of thanks to Miri beneath her breath. It had been too long since she had made any offering to the Three. She felt a guilty twinge, but a bitter voice told her they’d shown her little in the way of things for which to be grateful in the past few days.

I thank you for the food, the warmth of these walls and your protection. I thank you for—

“Mum used to pray like that.”

The sentry, Mallorid, had spoken. Until now, their guard had stood silently beside the doorway, head covered and eyes hidden behind a set of goggles. Rachel had even spent a few minutes trying to engage him, but to no avail.

“You talk?” Erelah swallowed.

The voice that had come from the hulking figure was decidedly feminine. Her assumption had been that the guard was another male, considering that all the other soldiers in Ceric’s group were men.

Mallorid’s head canted. “’Course.”

“No. I meant,” Erelah bit her lip, realizing how rude that had sounded. “You’re
allowed
to talk with us?”

“No one said I couldn’t.” A wide muscular shoulder rose in a half-shrug.

Erelah greeted this with an uncertain grin. “Rachel…my friend was trying to speak with you earlier. You said nothing.”

“Didn’t care for how she was mouthin’ at me.”

Erelah nodded. That, she could understand. Rachel had bordered on abusive in her attempts to provoke a response.

She gestured at the heavy hood and goggles. “Do you need to wear that? Indoors, I mean? It would be nice to see your face.”

There was a hesitation. The woman pulled the goggles and snood down to drape around her neck, revealing lank blond hair, cut in jagged layers. Her broad features and complexion pocked with hard fever scars would not earn her the title of beauty.

She directed a nearly childlike curiosity at Erelah. “You got eyes like mine. They say that’s cause I’m a fourth gen.”

“Apologies?” The polite expression bubbled out of her in Eugenes, unbidden.

Mallorid pointed to her temple. “Green. ’Cept yours are a prettier shade, I think.” She looked away almost abashedly as she added, “Everything about you is prettier.”

Erelah felt her smile falter. “What’s a fourth gen?”

“What I am. Breeder. Fourth gen, since the Collapse.”

There was something very simple to Mallorid. It was not innocence, but a lack of guile.

“I’m Tilley.” Erelah stepped closer. The woman shifted nervously in response.

“My real name’s Brilta. Like the shield maiden in that song, you know, The Battle of Hadelia. But who would take you seriously with a name like that? Least…that’s what the fellas say.” She studied at her boots. “Fellas give me a hard time ‘bout lots of things.”

Erelah suspected that was more often the case than not. What the woman probably meant to pan off as light-hearted ribbing, more than likely ran deeper, more hurtful.

“I think Brilta is a lovely name. It’s not just a song. She was a real person,” Erelah offered. “There’s a shrine to her on a place called Tasemar. I’ve been there.”

And stupidly used the place to hide from a soldier tasked with guarding me, all with very damning results.

Brilta’s hazel-eyed stare widened. “You really are from beyond the Fray? I never been outside of Ironvale space before. Ulrid says ain’t worth half t’hassle.”

At the mention of Selto, a sly grin appeared on the woman’s broad mouth. Erelah did not need to be a mind reader to realize that the woman was infatuated with the man that called himself magistrate.

Erelah nodded. There was opportunity here to learn what she needed. Tricking someone as simple as Brilta for information raised a swell of guilt in her, but she reasoned that is was better than using the Sight on her.

“I’ve never been so far from home,” she told Brilta. “What can you tell me about this place…and about Selto? He seems very…interesting.”

43

“Those fallen.”

Asher watched Ulrid plop the tumbler onto the desk. The spirits sloshed over its rim and beaded along the side. The tangy aroma of the mash, like peppers soaked in hull cleaner, wafted to him. Not his favorite. It held nothing compared to scorch rum, but a quick glance around the Spartan quarters of Ulrid’s chamber suggested that mash was about all he was going to get.

In fact, it was miraculous he’d not been shot. Yet.

“Those fallen.” Asher gripped the tumbler.

Ulrid clamped down on his wrist, trapping it. “And who shall that be, boy? Who will fall next? You thinkin’ to decide that still?”

Asher snatched his hand back. The chair rocked beneath him. The unmistakable shape of a rifle’s muzzle pressed into the back of his neck.

Ulrid shot a glance to the rifle’s owner, Ceric. “Outside. I’ll call you.”

The rifle’s weight vanished.

There was the sound of the hatchway closing.

Asher sat under the waiting silence of Ulrid’s furious stare.

This
was the reception he’d expected on the landing field. Not whatever farce
that
had been. Things were off and continued to be off. No one was offering a detailed explanation as to the particulars yet.

Asher took the distraction of Ceric’s departure to grab the tumbler. Just a sip of the stuff was enough to make his eyes water. A familiar burning warmed his throat.

“Not thinkin’ to decide who falls.” He coughed. “Things just have a way of happening, is all.”

Ulrid snorted. “And
there
he is. Asher Corsair, innocent victim of the Fates. Or is it Korbyn, now? Hard to keep track these days.”

He smirked. “Well…innocent
is
stretching it.”

“We agree on something, then.”

Ulrid settled onto the corner of a desk piled high with data-tabs and the other trappings of a magistrate. Dust ghosted all of it. As an administrator, Ulrid was fastidious, bordering on perfectionist. This was not the man he’d left behind. Things had definitely changed. Unease settled into Asher’s gut.

“Two years. After all that’s happened. And you have the brick to show up here.”

“Things just went…bad.”

“
Went
bad? Or you made it
go
bad? There’s a big difference in the two. Considering your knack for the making of such.” Ulrid finished the rest of his drink in one swallow. He poured another shot. “The end of it, you ain’t the only one to get burned. But you never think on that. You’re still the same selfish boy to show up in my door demanding notice from the Guild. Not enough for you to be rank and file. You don’t have the brainbox to realize just what you really are: half-breed bastard with the right family name.”

Anger stirred in Asher.
Let him have it.
Ulrid deserved his say and probably more.

“So what I do? I get you a solid job. Get in with Ix. Get the lay of his works. Report back. Something that gets you noticed by the Guild.” Ulrid leaned forward. “But that’s not how it goes, is it?”

“Look, Ulrid. What happened—”

“
Is it
?”

Asher clenched his teeth. “No.”

“Lord half-breed decides to get original. Gets found out. And sets for parts unknown with a ship from Ix’s fleet, and his crew.”

Asher counted to three, took a sip of the drink, buying time as he shifted through possible answers. “He was running slaves. I couldn’t abide by that. It’s Guild law—”

“You grew a conscience
after
you rolled his woman?” Ulrid barked with mock astonishment.

He coughed, surprised. Sour mash burned his nose and eyes.

“What? You’d think your own handler not find out?” Ulrid snapped, reading his reaction. He set the drink down and leaned closer. His voice was low and dangerous. “I know you’ve not been around to hear the whole count of it, so I’ll fill you in. Ironvale finds out about your mis-dealings as the worst operative ever. They burn you. Rightly so. Guess who gets burned as well? The handler that vouched him. Me. And I get to spend eternity in this tin crap-hole, eating dust and keeping hard-labor skews from shivving each other over worn-out whores.”

Asher resisted the urge to twist in the chair. He forced himself to take another swig of the burning fluid.

I can salvage this. Stick with the plan.

“I brought something to make it
right
, Ulrid.”

The older man’s shoulders quaked with quiet laughter, nothing resembling mirth. Asher glimpsed a different Ulrid from the one he’d left behind. A dangerous one.

“What? Those women a peace offerin’?” Ulrid finished off the second glass of mash. “It’s a start. I’ll take the dark-skinned one. Got quite the mouth on her, seems trainable though. But that scrawny pale thing.”

“Tilley.” Asher’s grip tightened around the tumbler. “That one’s off limits.”

“Keep her.” Ulrid sniffed, head tilting in the direction of the hab level. “Don’t care for how she peers at me. Like she’s reading my mind.”

“Ain’t the lay of it.
They’re not to trade. What I’ve got is worth way more than any vulta you have in the brothels.”

“Oh?” Ulrid raised his eyebrows in surprise. He made a beckoning gesture. “Let’s hear your pitch, boy.”

How to word this without giving it all?
Ulrid would be doubly hard to convince without details. He’d been burned hard.

“Got the means to get you restored to full Commander again. Promotion to Paladin, maybe.”

“How’s that?” Ulrid leaned back, arms folding. Convincing him would be tricky.

“What if I told you there’s a way to change things so Ironvale Guild is the most powerful in the Reaches?
Anywhere,
for that matter. You can be the man that made it so, Ulrid.”

44

Coffee.

Pancakes.

Strawberries.

Waffles.

Rachel pondered the mental list of foods she had decided to no longer take for granted if she ever got back to a decent Earth colony. Coffee had been the hardest. Nothing so far in the Reaches held a candle to it. And some of the things these people drank and ate were downright disgusting.

But coffee. That would be heaven.

She held out no real hope that there was a coffee equivalent in Tintown. Selto did not strike her as the benevolent-host type. Dinner had been some sort of pre-packaged C rations. She doubted they’d offer an omelet station for breakfast.

Rachel stretched her neck and arms. The mattress on the bunk had not been the best, but at least she’d not woken up with her throat slit. She rose and pulled the upper portion of her flightsuit back over her arms. Mid-yawn, she checked the upper bunk.