Summoning Light (17 page)

He preferred to study it in private, but now time was short. They would arrive at Thenothk in less than an hour, and he had not yet accomplished what he must.

He ran his fingertips over the irregularly spaced bumps, as if reading braille. Grains of dirt imbedded in the weave scratched his raw skin. The dirt, of course, had come from the mines where he had taken her, where she–

He turned his thoughts away. He must not lose control here, in front of Blaylock.

Handling the scarf, as studying her files, unsettled him. Her spells reflected the way she thought. They were pieces of her. Pieces she had given him as she'd struggled for her last breaths. He did not want to go back to that time, to that place. He did not want to remember.

When he studied her spells on his ship, alone, and the memories became too much for him, he had found two solutions. If he stopped himself soon enough, he could simply move on to another task. The task that most helped to order and focus his thoughts was organizing his own spells, grouping them into progressions as he had begun to do so long ago. Already he had defined two other progressions, spells that built on one another, becoming more and more complex, their equations containing more and more terms. And following those progressions backward, he had discovered a one-term equation lying at the base of each, just as he had discovered the one-term spell of destruction. He did not know what these new one-term spells would do, and he knew that he must never conjure them, but arranging his spells in these neat columns helped to calm him. It allowed him, he supposed, to briefly fool himself into thinking there was an order to things, as neat and reassuring as the arrangement of objects on his shelves at home had been.

If he didn't stop himself from working on her spells soon enough, he found that he could not focus on his progressions or on anything else, until he had brought the fire down upon himself several times. He'd last done it four days ago. In a fury of grief, he had called down the fire five times. His skin was still red, raw. Even the organelles could not heal such injuries instantly.

After scouring himself, the cold would leave him for a time, and he would regain control. Then, as he worked with her spells, the memories, the feelings, the cold, would return.

As he sat there with Blaylock, he could feel the energy building inside him. It would be time, soon, to bring the fire down again.

"The Centauri in the red jacket," Blaylock said. "Why is he here?"

Apparently Blaylock had decided to test him. It was a welcome distraction. He and Blaylock had spent the last few hours separately circulating through the ship, planting probes, picking up what they could, accessing databases to gain further information on the passengers. Galen had seen the Centauri earlier and overheard a fair amount from him.

"He's been told about jobs that pay ten times what he was getting on Centauri Prime."

"And that Narn. What does he eat for breakfast?"

Galen had not seen the Narn before. But he wore a pleated white collar, a symbol of the Narns' former slavery adopted by members of an extreme political group that advocated the complete extermination of the Centauri. "As a member of the Kha'dai, he eats a morning meal of acotu as a reminder of the deprivations they suffered as slaves."

"How long has that couple been married?" Blaylock indicated them with a subtle turn of his hand.

Galen had accessed data on the man earlier, when they had passed in the corridor. His name was Trent Barkley. Galen wondered what relevance his marriage could have to their task. "Twelve years," he said.

Blaylock's hand tapped against the table. "You look but you do not see. Look. And see."

Galen studied the couple. Trent Barkley was the head of a large datasystem corporation. He wore an expensive suit, his wife a tight-fitting black dress. She fiddled with the hair above her ear, and Galen noticed a delicate diamond bracelet on her wrist. When she lowered her hand, she adjusted the bracelet.

They sat close in a corner booth, her foot, shoe discarded, rubbing against his ankle. Two Bloody Marys sat on the table before them. As he spoke to her, his lips paused in a half smile. They were obviously in love. Was that what Blaylock wanted him to see? He didn't care to see it.

Perhaps the information he had accessed on the date of marriage had been incorrect or incomplete. He could check her records and see if they showed the same.

"Don't search the databases. I asked you to look."

Galen would not watch them further. "I did. I have given you my answer."

Blaylock studied him. "I have often tried to convince the Circle that we should cloister ourselves from the outside world, its petty distractions, and pleasures, so that we can concentrate on the inner life and fulfill our destiny. But if one is raised in a shelter, one must take great care in leaving that shelter."

"Elric has not sheltered me. He has taught me all I need to know."

"Have you known any couple," Blaylock said, "that has been together for twelve years?"

His parents had been together for twelve years. But Galen would not say their names. "Among the Soom I know, some have been mated for that time."

Blaylock's eyes narrowed. "I know little of the Soom, but do those couples behave like this?"

"The Soom enjoy arguing. When they're not, they lick each other on the cheek as a sign of affection."

"Human couples argue as well."

Galen looked down at the scarf in his lap.

"This couple has not been married for twelve years. They are not married at all. Look at the woman. Look! How old is she?"

Her face had only the slightest hint of wrinkles. The skin on the back of her hands was tight. Galen realized his error. It was foolish. "Perhaps twenty-five," he said.

"Twenty-five and married for twelve years. Do you see the bracelet?"

"Diamond."

"Yes. And from the attention she gives it, it is new. You see her hand, the way it touches her ear, her hair?"

"Yes."

"Human females flirt by showing the inside of their wrists. It is an unconscious instinct. She is with a man she wants to control, not one whom she already controls. Her foot is also working to that end. Now look at his eyes. Where are they pointed?"

"He is looking at her mouth."

"A sign of sexual attraction. And you see him smooth his collar? A preening gesture. Not something a man does with a partner of twelve years."

Galen took a deep breath, feeling he had done a disservice to Elric in performing so poorly.

"If you are to be effective out in the universe, you cannot close yourself off from it. You must know what is going on around you. You must know how people work. You must study them. Tell me of the Drazi."

Galen turned toward the table against the opposite wall.

"Simply look, and tell me what you see."

"She dresses like a Human." The Drazi wore a brown jacket and skirt with a subtle plaid, something a businesswoman on Earth might wear. It had obviously been tailored for her anatomy, though still it bulged from her thick grey scales. Her shoes were of the Drazi style, since Human shoes would not fit her wide feet, and would probably look strange if adapted to do so.

"Why does she dress like a Human?"

"Perhaps she spends more time with Humans than with Drazi."

"And?"

"She wants to impress someone. To be taken seriously. To fool herself into thinking she is better than others of her kind." Her briefcase was open on the table, and within it Galen caught the sparkle of a pile of data crystals. On the table, she had several neat stacks of materials laid out before her. Two of the stacks appeared to be credit chits; two others were comp-pads. Perhaps she was a thief.

The waiter came and refilled her cup – she was drinking coffee. His hand touched one of the stacks, knocking the comp-pads just slightly out of alignment. When he left, she brought her grey, scaled hands to either side of the stack and straightened it. "She is neat," Galen said.

"Such compulsive ordering is a sign of insecurity. She fears she will lose what she has. One straightens the comp-pads, or puts away the menus, because one finds one's life out of control."

Galen's head jerked toward Blaylock, and he found Blaylock's attention not on the Drazi, but on him. This was not a test of his abilities at all. Blaylock was dissecting him just like these outsiders. He folded his hands tightly in his lap and looked back to the Drazi.

A Human came to the table, and she stood, shook his hand. As they spoke, she glanced several times at the table, as if checking its contents.

"Does she want him to join her?"

"No," Galen said. "She doesn't want him near her things."

"Is she honest with him?"

"Do you intend me to use my–"

"No. Look."

Galen had studied the ways in which heart rate, respiration, and other physiological signs might reveal lies. But without his sensors, he could detect little. He knew that eye movement and gestures were tied to lying, but they varied greatly with the individual and required a much better knowledge of the person. Galen didn't know what he was supposed to see. "She looks into his eyes. Her hand is in her pocket."

"The hand in the pocket, in almost every species with hands and pockets, is a tell. When the palm is shown, one is usually speaking the truth. When the palm is hidden, the truth is hidden as well. She is hiding something. And she is anxious about it."

She shook hands again with the man, and he left. She sat back at the table, straightening her piles.

Galen turned to Blaylock. "Do we really care about any of these people? Or are you simply evaluating me?"

"They may all be useful, to varying degrees. Her presence, in particular, concerns me."

"Why?"

The waiter came with their food, and Galen found he had a message from Blaylock. In it were the records of the Drazi's travel. Her name was Rabelna Dorna. Most recently she had been on Babylon 5. Galen saw no particular relevance in that. She had left only nine days ago, though, on a transport that could never have gotten her this far, this fast. Rabelna had disembarked from the transport a few systems away from Babylon 5. Then records showed her on a planet near the rim, boarding this ship, only two days later. To take her from one transport to the other, she must have found another ride, a much faster one.

In his mind's eye, Galen scanned back through the record to see where she had been before Babylon 5. Rabelna seemed to spend much of her time on the station, though in mid-January she'd made a trip to Curesse, the system beside Alwyn's home of Regula. Two of the planets in the Curesse system had been engaged in a vicious war for the past six months. As Galen wondered whether her visit might be connected to that, he realized that Alwyn and Carvin had left Regula for Selic in mid-January. And when they'd begun their journey, they had been attacked by an unmarked ship of great power. Could Rabelna have been involved in that?

Blaylock had before him a small plate with three boiled potatoes. His head was bowed, and Galen realized he must be directing the tech to deactivate the taste center in his brain, as he was known to do. With such bland food, Galen wondered what difference it would make.

Galen had ordered a wrap, and it had come on a large platter with all sorts of stylish vegetation, so that, compared to Blaylock, he seemed to have a feast. He remembered what Gowen had said.

"I seem to have a lot," he said. "I'm glad to share."

"No, thank you," Blaylock said.

"Do you think she was involved in the attack on Alwyn?"

"Yes." Blaylock was dissecting one of the potatoes with his fork.

"She works with the–" Galen thought it wiser if he did not say their name here. "With them."

"Yes."

"Why has she come to Tau Omega?"

Blaylock chewed with efficient, automatic movements. "Why has she come to Tau Omega from Babylon 5?" He had switched to the language of the Soom.

Galen shook his head, startled that Blaylock would know it. He must have learned the language so they could converse privately. Blaylock had warned that they must not send messages to each other once they arrived at Thenothk. If they spoke in the language of the Soom, though, the chances that the language would be understood were virtually nonexistent. "She seems to be a thief," Galen said, continuing in that language.

"What has she stolen?" Blaylock's pronunciation was harsh, but accurate.

Galen looked toward the stacks of credit chits, comp-pads. Surely the Shadows weren't interested in stolen merchandise. He turned to Blaylock. "Information."

Blaylock's eyes narrowed. "What information?"

Information that would concern Blaylock. "Information about our order."

Blaylock gave a single nod. "I believe so, yes."

"How do you know that?" As Galen asked the question, the answer came to him. "Elric and the others. They're on Babylon 5."

Blaylock set down his fork, apparently finished. He had eaten only one of the potatoes. "Eat your food."

If Rabelna brought word that the mages were gathering on Babylon 5, that would mean the deception was proving successful. Yet it would also mean the Shadows would take action against those gathered there. Galen picked up his wrap. "Can't we send a warning to Elric?"

"No. It is quite possible, in any case, that Elric himself has sent her, as his unwitting agent."

Galen nodded as he chewed.

"You asked if I evaluate you. Of course I do. If we are to work together effectively, I must know you. Elric felt you should not come with me." Blaylock paused. "Your hands are red."

Galen put down his wrap self-consciously. "It is dry on the ships, and cold. Not what I'm used to."

"One should beware what one becomes accustomed to. The body can withstand much, but one should act out of discipline, not a lack of it."

Galen felt his face flush with shame. His hands clenched the scarf in his lap.

"That scarf was made by Isabelle, was it not?"

Galen nodded. There was no escape from her name, or her memory.

"You seek to understand the pattern embedded there."