Maeve (23 page)

Aleytys suppressed a queasy fluttering in her stomach and kept an impassive face as she nodded. “You don't waste time.”

“We want what is ours.”

“You must know I can't give it to you. It has grown into me.”

“We will take you with it.”

“Sorry. I don't see it that way.” She leaned back in the chair, sipping at the cha, smiling her meaningless, professional smile.

“Then we have to force you to come. We would prefer not.”

“No doubt.” She tapped her fingernails on the glass. “How do you plan to accomplish that? Point a weapon at me and order me to your ship?”

“That would be ineffective.”

“You're damn right. How far would you get?” She flicked a hand at the room. “There's a few here might object.” She glanced at the door. The gray man had acquired a companion, a tall, skinny type with dark hair and shiny dusky skin. He was dressed in a wrinkled matte black tunic and baggy tights and looked like a broom handle wrapped in a shroud. As she watched, Grey walked past her without a glance and went out. The skinny spy went out after him. She frowned.

“You'll make your life much easier if you come with us.”

“What? Oh.” She shook her head. “No.”

“Our ship waits. Make up your mind to this, Amber. We will have you, one way or another.”

“No. I've got things I need to do. And I don't plan to sit out the rest of my life in some dusty hole.”

“The diadem is ours.”

“Well, dammit, I didn't steal it. Why the hell should I suffer for your ineptitude!”

“You got in the way, so you take the consequences of your act. The diadem belongs to the RMoahl.”

“It belongs to the wearer. Do you have any idea what it really is?”

Sensayii clicked his nipper claws impatiently. “What does it matter? We will never let slip away what is ours.”

“You bare your ignorance. The diadem is not a thing …” She examined him over the rim of her glass. “No, I'm wrong. You know much more about it than you want to say.”

Sensayii's feelers twisted and untwisted frantically, and the hairs of his orange pompons rippled like grass in a high wind. The other two were visibly agitated, jittering about on the padded benches Dryknolte had supplied to fit their nonhuman anatomy.

In the face of their continued silence, Aleytys went on. “As you know, the diadem is not a simple piece of jewelry. You imprisoned three souls in your damn treasure vault. How do you answer to them for four hundred years of utter boredom?”

“Three!”

Aleytys shrugged and drank from the glass. She glanced toward the door. The little man sat in the shadow, unnoticed and inconspicuous. She wrinkled her nose and brought her attention back to the RMoahl. “They are vehemently opposed to returning to that dullness. We fought you before and won.”

“You had help.”

“I'll always have help. I can summon help from the very stones beneath your feet. Remember Lamarchos?” Her smile faded. “I can't always control the summoning, RMoahl. Push me too far and men will die, no matter what I want.”

“Then come.”

“No.” She stood up. “Have a good evening, despoites. Dryknolte hopes you have enjoyed your stay in this place.”

She walked away, head high, shoulders squared, though her knees shook so she was afraid of stumbling. She slid onto the stool and flattened her hands on the bar. Dryknolte came over. “I need a glass of wine,” she said quickly.

He poured the wine for her. “They bother you?”

“No.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I don't like spiders.”

“You shouldn't have to look at ugly things.” His voice was softened and he reached but to stroke the smooth skin on the back of her hand.

She shrugged and moved her arm. “I'll survive.” She gulped down the last of the wine and beckoned to the Actor. “Who now?”

“The two over there. One's a ship's captain. The other, ship's doctor.”

She chuckled. “I should make you split those tips, Actor.” She swung off the stool. “Let's go.”

The rest of the evening went without incident. The RMoahl sat without moving, watching her continually. The little gray man sat ignored, on the bench by the exit. Dryknolte's yellow eyes followed her about. By midnight, Aleytys felt giddy with the pressures thrusting in on her from all these factions. She was tempted to jump on a table and introduce them to each other before falling down in a shrieking fit.

When the clock hands met at the top of the face, she moved gratefully around the end of the bar and through the door, hiding a yawn behind a hand. She nodded at Erd, the Flash, and went to the dressing room, a narrow closet with a curtain sagging across the doorway. With a weary sigh, she ran a thumbnail over the closures and stepped out of the filmy costume. As she thrust a hanger under the shoulder straps she felt eyes on her. She wheeled. Dryknolte stood outside the curtain watching her over the top. Swishing the costume in front of her, she glared at him. “Get the hell out of here.”

He stood looking at her for another full minute, then turned and left.

“My god.” She fumbled the hanger onto the hook and hastily pulled her worn gray tunic over her head. “The world is full of crazies.” She sat and pulled on her pants, then her boots. “All coming at me, dammit. How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?”

Ignoring Dryknolte, she hurried across the crowded room and stepped into the cool night. The sky was clouding over, threatening to rain, the air thick and humid. Star Street was still filled with revelers, though their shouts tended to boom hollowly in the tension that preceded the impending storm. She turned to her left and began cutting the exitway to Tintin's place.

A tall, slim shadow stepped out of the darkness and moved beside her. A hand fell on her arm. She felt an aura of evil and looked up into a gentle, pale face with large dreamy eyes. “Who are you?”

“Lovax.”

“I've heard the name.”

“Don't believe all you hear. We should talk.”

“I don't think so.”

The RMoahl came out of Dryknolte's, following her, three looming black shadows like huge devils. She could feel a frisson of terror shudder through Lovax.

He glanced back. “What are those?”

“RMoahl Hounds. They think they own me. I got more company. Look.”

The small Company spy had crossed the street and stood watching her as she talked to Lovax.

Lovax nodded. “I know about him. They want you uphill. I could protect you.”

“Hah! I'm not that big a fool, Lovax. You couldn't protect a pile of dung from Chu Manhanu.”

His fingers nipped at her arm until she grunted with pain. “Dungpile, let's go.” His voice was soft and without expression. He took his hand away and she felt the prick of a knife against her side. “Or I slit your talented throat right now and take my chances.”

Aleytys shuddered. Swardheld's black eyes opened but he made no move to take her body. “Go with him,” he rumbled. “Get away from the audience. Then we'll, take care of him.” She let herself tremble more and let Lovax guide her into the narrow alley running behind Dryknolte's tavern.

He pulled her along at a pace near a run, dodging in and out of the stinking, dark ways between the blocky buildings huddling next to the outer wall, finally darting into a doorway and up carpeted stairs until they were standing in a noisome, pitch-black hallway on the third floor of the anonymous structure. He slapped a key against the door and sidled quickly through the widening opening, pulling her with him.

Careless, now that he was in the safety of his lair, he dropped her arm and pointed at a low couch.

Aleytys shook her head. “No. I'm sorry about this, Lovax. Thing is, you're even worse than Bran said. I know that. Psifreak, Lovax. Empath. I know you now.” She shook her head and spoke quietly, not bothering to whisper. “Swardheld, he makes me want to vomit. What do we do?”

Lovax frowned. “What kind of …” Knife in hand, he leaped at her.

Swardheld took over smoothly. He swayed to one side, the knife missing him by the width of a hair and, before Lovax could recover, smashed his elbow into the pale man's throat, crushing the larynx. Lovax crumpled in a boneless sprawl, shuddered once or twice, then went totally limp, mouth open as in a soundless scream, eyes wide, terrified, staring horribly at the ceiling.

Swardheld stood over him. “In a way it's not fair, Lee. Your looks always mislead them.” He searched the pockets until he found the key, Aleytys was glad she had no control over her body now, since she felt horribly sick. Swardheld shook his head. “I hope you never get used to this, freyka.” He moved away, keyed the door open and stepped into the stygian blackness in the hall. As he shut the door, he murmured, “But you have to admit we're cleaning up Star Street.” He felt his way downstairs and out into the street. “I'll stay in possession till we get back to Tintin's. These alleys are treacherous.”

He moved swiftly along, throwing the key into a pile of garbage after turning several corners. Aleytys felt uneasy. The winding alleys confused her. “You know how to go?” she whispered anxiously.

“Verdammt, freyka, think I'm blind? I watched the way as he brought us here.”

She was relieved when he finally emerged on the side street leading to the starport. Swardheld leaned against the wall and relinquished control of the body. For the first time, Aleytys had some difficulty reestablishing herself. The body slumped to its knees, nearly fell on its face in a clutter of paper and scraps of food before she managed to fit back in place. Rubbing hands nervously over her forearms, she half ran across the street to the double doors of Tintin's place. She stopped a minute to arrange her face and catch her breath, then went inside.

Tintin looked up as she came in. “A man was asking about you a little while ago. You want to earn your living on your back, go find another place to stay. I don't hold with that.”

Aleytys sniffed. “No need to ruffle your feathers. I don't peddle it.” She turned her back on the sour face and started up the stairs. Behind her, the doors pushed open and the three RMoahl started to enter. With a gasp of outrage, Tintin jumped up and darted across the lobby, protesting volubly as he went. Aleytys giggled, grateful for the first time for the old man's prejudices.

Her room was on the third floor and Tintin didn't believe in spending money on lifts. She sighed with relief as she stepped up the last step and began walking down the hall. A hot bath for her aching body, then bed and sleep. A good, comfortable double bed with plenty of room to toss about if she felt like it. And all the world and all her problems shut outside the sturdy door for a little while.

The narrow hall was poorly lit. Tintin didn't believe in spending money on extra lighting, either. She wasn't paying much attention to where she put her feet so she stumbled and nearly fell over a soggily resistant something lying in the middle of the worn carpet.

A body. Oh god, what else! What else on this damn endless day. Gasping, she dropped to her knees and touched the man. She felt a faint flicker of life. She leaned closer. Blood was still moving sluggishly from great gaping wounds in his chest and stomach. No time to waste, though. She flexed her fingers, summoning her will, forcing her aching mind to concentrate on the roaring of her symbolic power river and, as the healing power gathered in her center and roared along her arms, she pressed her hands on the wounds, letting the black water flow into them, praying she wasn't too late.

The dim spark brightened, and all at once, blazed. The man, whoever he was, had a tremendous will to live. He should have been dead already, should have died from the shock of the terrible wounds, but …

The flow diminished to a trickle as the water tickled the blood cells into furious growth to replace the nearly total blood loss. And with a last flick of effort, washed through her body to cleanse out the poisons of fatigue.

The man opened his eyes. “Wha …”

“You're all right, now.”

He sat up, looked at his torn clothing, at her bloody hands, traced the disappearing marks of his wounds. “A woman of many talents,” he began.

“Hush.” She heard footsteps on the stairs and a querulous muttering. “Quick. On your feet.” She frowned as she realized belatedly who he was. “What are you … never mind … no time … I don't want Tintin finding us here. He's mad enough with me now.” She jumped to her feet, staggered as her knees locked, then ran on her toes to her room, pressed the key against the lock and pushed the door open. “In here.”

Grey slid past her into the room. Aleytys eased the door shut, dropped the key on her dressing table, stripped off her tunic and boots, ignoring the man's startled exclamation, kicked off her pants and slid her arms into a flimsy wrapper snatched from a hook beside the door. Darting to a chest of drawers, she fished out a clean towel and a sliver of soap, then trotted back to the door. Her hand on the latch, she turned. “Look, I'm going for my bath. Old Tintin's on his way up to complain about something. I'll meet him in the hall. You just keep your mouth shut and don't open the door to anyone but me.”

“Aren't you taking a dangerous chance? What do you know about me?”

“You said you were curious. Well, I have my share of curiosity, a big share. Besides, I'm empath. You can't lie to me.”

“Surprise, surprise. Here.” He threw the key to her. “Better have this. Then I don't need to guess who's at the door.”

“Yeah. Right. Thanks.” She dropped the key in her pocket and went out.

Tintin came puffing up the hallway, meeting her just in front of the huge, shapeless bloodstain. “You tell your bug friends to keep outta my place, woman. I don't want 'em here. Don't like 'em and never have.”

“Talk to Dryknolte. I didn't invite them.”