Cobra Gamble (20 page)

He paused and tried to watch all twenty faces at once. "Next to Cobra McCollom is Jennifer McCollom," he continued. "As Cobras Beach and McCollom are only marginally familiar with the Qasaman language, she'll be translating all of their instructions and orders to you."

The facial twitches were small, and for the most part were hastily covered up. But they were there, once again exactly as Fadil had predicted.

Fully half of the Cobra trainees were not at all happy at the prospect of taking orders from a woman.

Fadil had warned about this. So had Jin. But there was nothing either of them could do about it. The unforgiving realities of life on Caelian left little time for leisure, and few on that world chose to squander that precious time on something as theoretical as foreign language studies. Particularly foreign languages no one ever expected to need.

Jennifer McCollom was a rare exception, a woman who loved the challenge of new languages and had mastered at least four of them over the years, including Qasaman and Troft cattertalk. She'd been a great help to Lorne's parents over the past two weeks as they tried to give Wendell and Beach at least a working knowledge of the language.

But while the two men could now probably navigate their way through the Milika marketplace, neither had the fluency and vocabulary necessary for a military training regimen.

Hence, the need for a translator. And with everyone else who spoke both Anglic and Qasaman already tied up with other duties, Jennifer was going to be it.

Still, as Jin had pointed out, the slightly awkward situation might have a silver lining. Watching how the recruits accepted being ordered around by a woman might give an indication as to how they would accept being ordered around in combat situations by the Qasaman military hierarchy, most of whom were city dwellers.

It might also give Lorne some idea of how determined they really were to become Cobras. "Anyone have a problem with that?" he invited.

"Our only problem is the invaders occupying our world," Yithtra said shortly. "We waste time, Cobra Broom. Train us, and let us fight."

Lorne looked at McCollom and Beach, caught their microscopic nods. "Very well," he said. "Cobra Beach?"

"We're going to begin by teaching you how to run," Beach announced. He waited for Jennifer to translate, then continued, "Not normal running, of course, but the techniques of letting your new servos take all the strain and do most of the work. Once you've mastered the method, you'll be able to run for fifty kilometers without even working up a sweat. The first thing to remember—"

"Hold it," McCollom cut him off, holding up his hand as he frowned somewhere past Lorne's shoulder. "Someone's coming."

Frowning, Lorne keyed up his own audios.

And stiffened. It wasn't just someone jogging through the forest toward them. It was an entire group of someones, ten or fifteen at least, all of them marking the same brisk, almost mechanical pace.

He hadn't heard any reports of Trofts traveling through the forest on foot. But there was a first time for everything. "Cobras, spread out," he murmured to McCollom and Beach. "The rest of you, stay put." He took a few quiet steps to his right, peripherally aware that McCollom and Beach were drifting the other direction toward possible cover. The jogging footsteps were getting closer, and Lorne estimated the unknowns would pass a little to the east. He took another step, wincing as a particularly brittle dead branch snapped beneath his foot.

And within the space of two seconds, the footsteps suddenly came to a halt.

Lorne held his breath, notching up his audios again. There were new sounds coming from that direction now, murmured voices speaking words his enhancements couldn't quite make out. The voices appeared human, but he remembered that the Caelian invaders' translators had also sounded reasonably human.

The voices stopped. A moment later, he heard the faint sound of stealthy footsteps coming toward him.

Despite the tension, he had to smile at that one. Sneaking up on a Cobra was generally a pretty futile endeavor. Lorne glanced back, caught Beach's eye and gestured him to move further out of range of a quick one-two shot. The newcomers were splitting up, Lorne could hear now, moving to try to flank him.

It was actually a decent tracking challenge, it occurred to him, and if the recruits had been farther along in their training he might have been tempted to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity. As it was, though, they really didn't have time for this. "Come on out," he called. "Don't worry—we won't hurt you."

The whole group of footsteps again stopped, and there was a moment of silence. Then, the first set Lorne had heard resumed, this time with no attempt at stealth. Lorne adjusted his position slightly, making sure he was facing the figure that emerged from the forest cover.

It was, indeed, a Qasaman. A male, about Lorne's age, wrapped in badly rumpled clothing. "I greet you," Lorne said, making the sign of respect. "What brings you and your companions out into the middle of nowhere?"

"I could ask the same question of you," the other said, flashing a suspicious look at the silent crowd of trainees.

"We're hunters from Milika," Lorne told him. "We came out to practice our strategy for attacking the invaders' hunting parties."

"I see," the man said. "Your name?"

"This is our home territory," Lorne pointed out. "I believe it's customary for the stranger to first introduce himself."

The other smiled thinly. "It is indeed," he said. "And were you a genuine Qasaman, you would have had no hesitation about stating the custom as such." He drew himself up. "But no matter. I am Kami Ghushtre, Ifrit of Qasama. And you, from your family likeness, I guess are the brother of Cobra Merrick Moreau."

"Correct," Lorne said, quickly covering his surprise. This man knew Merrick? "Cobra Lorne Moreau Broom. Are those with you more Djinn?"

"They are." Ghushtre gave a set of trilling whistles, and with a rustling of grass and branches a wide spread of silent men emerged into view on either side of him.

"We're pleased to see you," Lorne said, doing a quick count. Twenty in all, unless Ghushtre had decided to keep a few back in reserve. "Your help will be greatly appreciated."

"Yes," Ghushtre said, his voice studiously noncommittal. "We first have an errand in Milika. Can you direct us to the village?"

"I would be honored to escort you there personally," Lorne offered. "May I ask the nature of this errand?"

"No." Ghushtre took a second look at him, and something in his face subtly changed. "But I can tell you that it concerns Fadil Sammon, son of Daulo Sammon."

Lorne felt his stomach tighten. "I'm afraid Fadil Sammon is unwell."

"His condition is known to us," Ghushtre said. "Please take us to him."

"If you know his condition, you also know that he can be of only limited assistance to you," Lorne persisted. "Perhaps I can serve in his place."

"We will speak to Fadil Sammon, and no other," Ghushtre said, his voice darkening. "If you no longer feel able to take us to him, then give us a direction and we'll find the village ourselves."

"No, of course I can take you," Lorne said. And he'd thought villagers could be pushy and condescending. "Beach, McCollom—continue with the exercise. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He gestured. "If you'll follow me, Ifrit Ghushtre?"

* * *

"Rook to knight's seventh," Paul announced, moving one of his pieces on the chessboard set out in front of him. "Check."

"Interesting," Fadil murmured, gazing up at the implanted star-like gemstones in the ceiling above his medical bed. "I was certain you would move your bishop. I'll have to think a moment."

"Take your time," Paul said. "Would you like me to move the board to where you can see it?"

"No, thank you," Fadil said, a bit of sadness edging into his tone. "I have little else to occupy my mind these days. I appreciate the challenge of having to keep track of the board."

"As you wish." Paul looked across the room at Jin and smiled. "You're beating me soundly enough as it is."

Jin smiled back, trying to keep her face as unconcerned as possible as she lounged casually on the comfortable cushions in Fadil's meditation nook, watching her crippled husband and the paralyzed Qasaman as they tried to fill the long, increasingly tiresome hours.

And as she herself waited for her head, and the room around her, to stop spinning.

It was getting worse. All of it—the dizzy spells, the lapses of logic and reasoning, the disconcerting derailing of her train of thought. The tumor in her brain, which the Qasaman doctors had temporarily shrunk before she and Siraj Akim's team had headed out for Aventine, was starting to come back. And it was coming back with a vengeance.

How long did she have? She had no idea. At her last treatment the doctors had guessed that without surgery she still had three months to live. But that had been only three weeks ago, and it was clear that things were progressing far quicker than anyone had thought. Even if she made it the full three months, she suspected she would be incapacitated long before her actual death. If she was going to survive this, she needed to get to a properly equipped Qasaman hospital, with properly trained Qasaman surgeons, and soon.

The problem was that every such hospital was either occupied or besieged by the Troft invaders.

She clenched her teeth, fighting against a sudden wave of nausea as she continued smiling at her husband. They didn't need the hospital just for her, either. The skin and muscle that had been burned away from Paul's leg could also be fixed, but Dr. Krites had warned her that the window of opportunity on that was rapidly closing as well. If he didn't start the treatments within another week or two the nerves would never properly reconnect. Even if they were later successful in regrowing the leg, he would end up with no feeling in the new sections of the limb.

"Are you expecting company?" Paul asked. "I hear someone coming."

Shaking away her morose thoughts, Jin keyed her audio enhancements. He was right. There were footsteps in the corridor, lots of them, all coming this way.

"I have nothing scheduled," Fadil said. "Perhaps Lorne Moreau is bringing the new Cobra trainees to visit."

Jin frowned. There was something about the footsteps that brought up the image of determined, resolute men. "They don't sound like villagers," she said, climbing awkwardly out of the pile of cushions and taking up position between the door and Fadil. The footsteps reached the door—

The door swung open, and Jin found herself facing her son. "Lorne," she said, her eyes flicking across the hard-faced young men lined up behind him. The face just over his shoulder seemed to jump out at her—it was a face she'd seen somewhere before—

And then the semi-familiar man pushed past Lorne through the doorway and into the room. "I greet you, Fadil Sammon," he said formally. "I am Kami Ghushtre, Ifrit of Qasama."

Jin felt her lungs freeze.
That
was where she'd seen him before: in the Sollas subcity, when she and Merrick had first arrived and been hauled before Miron Akim under suspicion of collusion with the Trofts who had just landed on Qasama. Merrick had offered to show the Cobras' power as a way of proving their goodwill toward the Qasamans, and had instantly earned Ghushtre's ill will by not playing according to the young Djinni's expectations of how the demonstrations should go.

And given the icy temperature of Ghushtre's single glance at Jin as he came into Fadil's room, it was clear he hadn't forgotten the incident, either.

"I greet you, Ifrit Ghushtre," Fadil answered the other calmly. "How may I serve you?"

"We would speak with you." Ghushtre looked again at Jin. "Alone."

"May I ask what this is about?" Jin asked, making no effort to move out of his way.

"No, you may not," Ghushtre said. "The matter is a private one, between Qasamans only."

"Fadil Sammon's condition requires extra care," Paul pointed out. "One of us should remain in case he needs assistance."

"He will not need assistance during the brief period of our conversation," Ghushtre countered. "We are at war, Cobra Jin Moreau. We have no time to spare for foolish chatter. You and your family will leave this room. Now."

Jin focused on the other Djinn, still standing in orderly lines in the corridor behind Lorne. If she could signal her son, and if he could spin around and hit them with his sonic before they could react...

"Its all right, Jin Moreau," Fadil said quietly. "You may leave. I'll be all right."

Jin turned to look at him. His face was calm, but the tranquility had tension lurking beneath it. "Do you know what this is about?" she asked.

He looked away from her gaze. "For the most part, yes," he said, and she had the impression that he was choosing his words carefully. "Please go now. Ifrit Ghushtre and I must speak."

Jin took a deep breath. "We'll be outside if you need us," she said. "Paul? Do you need a hand?"

"I've got it," Paul said. Standing up on his one good leg, he got the crutches Dr. Krites had given him into position under his arms and made his awkward way across the room to the door. Jin joined him, and with Lorne bringing up the rear they stepped out into the corridor. At a terse command from Ghushtre the rest of the Djinn filed silently past them into the room, the last one closing the door behind him.

"Are you okay?" Jin asked, eyeing her husband. "You looked like a decrepit ninety-year-old in there."

"You mean with these?" Paul asked, twirling one of his crutches. "No, I'm fine. Just part of my on-going philosophy of looking as harmless as possible in front of potential enemies."

"The Djinn aren't potential enemies," Jin said firmly, wishing she completely believed that. Most of them, like Siraj Akim and Carsh Zoshak, had come around quickly enough. But there were a few like Ghushtre who were still question marks.

"If you say so," Paul said. "Lorne? Don't."

"Don't what?" Lorne asked.

"You know perfectly well," Paul said with mild reproof. "You were about to casually lean your ear against the door. But don't. They asked for privacy—both of them did—and we need to honor that request."