Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (34 page)

Including having a taste for brexk-steak, or liver, or whatever morsel was available. The Retians didn’t allow many to be slaughtered, prizing, it was rumored but not confirmed, the products of living brexks for their tables.

“I only hit one, anyway,” Morgan said, shrugging the robe over his shoulders and wincing slightly as the movement pulled muscles already sore enough for one day. The mudcrawler had just clipped the head of the incensed bull brexk—a freakish, split-second collision during which Morgan had fervently wished—not for the first time—that he’d reached the point in Sira’s teachings where he could move himself through the M’hir.

But all was well, if not for the brexk, which had dropped beak-first into the muddy water as though shot, occasioning a reflex milling by the grieving herd which had in turn provided Morgan with a most effective barrier against pursuit. He’d settled the now-dented mudcrawler into a lawful pace and there had been no further interruptions until reaching Jershi. He’d even found a groundcar to take him to Malacan’s right away, the Retian driver delighted to convey a passenger who’d been up close and personal with Ret 7’s mud.

“Well, if you couldn’t bring a steak,” Malacan said in his precise, dry voice, “you did solve one problem for me.”

Morgan felt himself brought on guard by something in his host’s voice. He covered the reaction by tying the belt around the robe and tossing his mud-soaked coveralls into the fresher. His other belongings, including some interesting items from Plexis, were safely dry in their bags.

“And what small problem might that be, Malacan?” Morgan carried the rest of his things with him as he followed Malacan into the other room, stepping on a layer of rugs easily ten thick at this end. Being Retian in design, the underlying floor was deliberately uneven. Being Retian-owned, the building couldn’t be modified in any way. The leveling of the floor with rugs was one of several ingenious compromises Malacan had devised to keep both himself and his landlord happy. To each his own. Morgan, looking around at the plas-coated and windowless mud walls, found himself missing the clean, crisp lines of the Fox.

“Have a seat,” his host urged, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. There was a squeaking sound as he did so that Morgan knew not to remark on—the adjustment points on Malacan’s artificial leg were inclined to complain of the dampness. It was a common occurrence with most offworld mechanics.

At the thought, Morgan tugged a long, sealed container from a bag as he joined Malacan on the carpet. “I did remember your order for more synth tubing,” he said. “Though if you keep using up the stuff, Bowman will think you’re running a still in the basement again.” One of the difficulties of being an agent for the Enforcers was a certain restriction in one’s allowed commerce. Malacan frequently complained, to no avail, that he should be allowed to conduct his business—all his business—without interference as long as it didn’t break Trade Pact laws. Bowman had, characteristically, insisted that if she caught him breaking any law, local or otherwise, she’d arrange for an extremely rapid and unpleasant transfer.

“The Chief knows about my mold problem,” the older Human said primly. His eyes, normal enough until their flat surfaces reflected at just the right angle, focused on Morgan.

“So. What other problem did my coming solve for you?” Morgan ignored the dark inner voice reminding him why he shouldn’t trust anyone to the point of sitting unarmed and relaxed.

“Why, finding you, my dear Jason,” Malacan answered. “Bowman’s been firing up comlinks throughout the quadrant. There was even a hint you’d been, well, kidnapped or disposed of. Most regrettable. I’m quite relieved to see you here and whole.”

“Really,” Morgan said, with a deliberate shade of boredom to his voice. “Well, you know how rumors spread.”

“Yes, I know.” Malacan Ser, the sole individual on Ret 7 Morgan even remotely trusted, reached into an oversized pocket to pull out a highly illegal and very menacing-looking nerve dis rupter. As Morgan stared into the weapon’s ugly muzzle, his host added pleasantly: “Then again, why don’t we make this one come true?”

Chapter 33

I DROPPED the tube and covered my eyes. “A trick!” I heard someone shout in utter repudiation, then recognized the voice as mine.

A breath in my ear. “We would not trick you, Mystic One. What you saw was real.”

“No!” I said, pressing my lips shut over what could have been a sob, my sense of the M’hir closed so tightly I might have been Human again. This was impossible. These creatures were trying to destroy everything I knew to be true. They had brought me here to ruin me.

Warm feathers tickled my throat and ears. “Would you like to sit, Mystic One?” a soft, troubled voice asked.

Others called out various suggestions: “Get her something to drink!” “Call the meds.” “Does she need gripstsa?” “Copelup, this is all your doing!”

At the angry condemnation in this last voice, I opened my eyes, spilling tears to run cold over my heated cheeks. “It’s not his fault,” I said faintly, groping for and finding the stool someone had produced behind me.

A small, oddly-shaped hand curved itself to fit comfortingly in mine. “We thought you knew the Scented Way had life of its own, Mystic One. Please forgive us.”

A sigh dragged itself from the very bottom of my lungs. “There is nothing to forgive, dear Drapsk. Unless it is three generations of appalling ignorance. My people have existed as part of your Scented Way without ever suspecting this truth you’ve shown me. We thought it was ours; perhaps even something our power produced.” I felt my lips twitch at the quickly silenced hoot this elicited from someone safely distant in my audience, but couldn’t smile. Not with the shattering of all I’d believed echoing through my thoughts at every level.

There was worse. I stared in my mind’s eye at the memory of being held, being sucked empty in the M’hir, and understood at last it had been real. “What—what attacked me when I tried to reconnect Drapskii?”

Levertup rocked back and forth beside me. “We haven’t seen such a thing before, Mystic One. Not one so large or so strong. It is possible the power you used summoned it.”

“Yes,” Copelup agreed. “There is an attraction between the Scented Way and this existence.” One chubby hand waved around the room. “At least some of the entities there are able to—gain nourishment from such intrusions.”

I pulled out the box containing the tiny vial of brown powder. “This isn’t dirt, is it,” I said.

“We trapped something, or a piece of something, during one of our many attempts to try and reconnect Drapskii on our own. When it entered this existence, it became as you see it, dust. But it was our first proof of the physical nature of the Scented Way. A nature others,” Levertup dipped an antennae negligently at Copelup, “were slow to accept.”

“Evidence,” Copelup muttered to himself. “There needs to be evidence.”

I considered the tiny vial. With my thumb, I triggered the release, the powder cascading over the lip of the opening to puddle in my palm. I didn’t look at the Drapsk, but I could hear enough tentacle sucking to know they were observing me anxiously.

I tilted my hand, watching the M’hir dust slide around. It stayed with itself, not sticking to the dampness of my skin or filling the lines of my palm. It reminded me of the raindrop with its tiny imprisoned fish. I concentrated and pushed . . .

The powder was gone. I didn’t linger in the M’hir more than the flash needed to send it, having developed a certain repugnance for some of my neighbors. But I imagined I saw a streak of something pale and glistening, sliding away into a fold of darkness as a fish into a pond.

The act, probably meaningless to the dust and as likely very upsetting to the Drapsk, was important to me. It restored an inner balance I’d lost with the Drapsk’s revelation about the nature of the M’hir. It might be filled with life—of what sort I still couldn’t imagine—but I could affect it. I remained in control of my own destiny within it.

As long as I was careful.

The Drapsk were not, as I’d feared, upset. They were puzzled. “You realize there is no other sample, Mystic One,” Levertup said in a tentative voice. “Should you wish to repeat this, ah, experimental procedure, we could not supply you with more. We have been unable to duplicate the occurrence.”

“I don’t need to repeat it,” I said, brushing imaginary dust from my hands before standing. “What I need now is to go.”

Antennae drooped, but not to shoulders. My announcement wasn’t a surprise, then.

I smiled at them, feeling much younger than my years or responsibilities.

“Perhaps you’d like to come?” I asked.

 

There was more to it than that, of course. As the Drapsk debated and discussed, I excused myself from most of it, content to go with Captain Makairi back to the Makmora—a ship which not only felt like home after my time on Drapskii, but which I discovered was mine, in a sense.

“Explain this to me again, Captain,” I asked one more time, just to be sure I understood.

“You are now marked as Makii,” the Drapsk repeated happily, as if he enjoyed every bit of the explanation. The rest of the bridge crew seemed equally entranced, blatantly ignoring their stations to come up in turn to pat me lightly and sometimes stroke their plume tips over my skin. “The Makmora is the flagship of the Makii trading fleet. We take her to new markets, to explore new opportunities, to—”

“To find magic?” I suggested.

Maka, standing behind the Captain, gave a brief hoot. Captain Makairi ignored him. “Just so. You are our Mystic One as well as Makii. It is our duty and delight to take the Makmora on whatever path you choose for us.”

I made myself think the matter through objectively, as Morgan would have me do. I’d hoped my invitation would have been accepted by Copelup and a couple of Makii. They could have brought their instruments and helped me convince Barac, and then possibly others. A small start in correcting the way the Clan viewed the M’hir, but a vital one. Deep in my thoughts, suspicions were taking root and growing: suspicions about the real reason so many Clan had dissolved in the M’hir. It could be mistakes: flaws in judgment or technique. It could be our nature. Or it could be something else. And, worse, why did the remaining member of a Chosen pair go mad at the instant of the partner’s death? These were questions that had to be answered.

That was only part of my reasoning. The rest concerned Drapskii itself. If the world was to be fully reconnected, something I knew the Drapsk devoutly wished, it might be safest if done by more than one Clan at a time. I couldn’t at the moment conceive of an argument or threat which could persuade any Clan I knew. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try.

But this, this immense ship at my command? This was far more than I’d ever expected from the Drapsk. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was Makii and Tribe was everything. A refreshing change from the Clan way of thinking.

At a rough estimate, the Makmora was crewed by over 400 Drapsk, all biochemically certain of my identity and right to be here. The reputation of the Drapsk as taking care of their own was well-known and well-deserved. I already knew this ship and crew were capable of controlling a pirate and keeping me, the so-called most powerful member of the Clan, thoroughly harmless.

“The Skeptic and his equipment are on board, Captain,” one of the crew called out, plumes stirred by a downdraft from the com system.

“We’re ready to call the tug and prepare to lift, Mystic One,” Captain Makairi said proudly. “Do you have a course for us?”

I chewed thoughtfully on a knuckle. That was the next problem, wasn’t it?

At least I did know what I wanted to find first.

A certain Human.

“It’s been confirmed, Chief,” Terk began on his return, then stopped, scowling pointedly at Barac. The Clansman smiled and waved from his graceful slouch in Bowman’s extra chair. Barac knew exactly why Terk was annoyed. The Human was convinced Barac was untrustworthy, an opinion Barac hardly begrudged him. On the other hand, Bowman was convinced he might be useful, an opinion Barac cultivated with care. Without the resources of the Clan behind him, without Morgan, he really had no other allies. Well, Barac corrected to himself, he had the Carasian, if only because he knew the main ingredient of the newest entrée.

“This concerns our guest,” Bowman said, nodding for the Constable to continue his report.

“ ’Whix lifted from Drapskii yesterday morning, Station time. The Nokraud’s already gone outsystem. ’Whix sent this vid.”

Another nod. Barac could hear Terk grinding his teeth as he obediently inserted the disk and activated the viewer.

Then he forgot all about the pleasures of tormenting the Enforcer, transfixed by the image showing Sira di Sarc, his cousin, moving—no, her posture was definitely that of someone sneaking—around the fins of a docked starship. “Sira?” he asked in disbelief, regardless of present company. “What’s she doing on Drapskii?” Then Barac recalled his bothersome and expensive companions the first night in the Spacer’s Haven: Captain Maka and his crew. “She went with them after all,” he breathed. “Clever.”

“Went with whom?” Bowman asked silkily. “The Scats?”

Barac looked at her, startled. “What are you talking about? Sira wouldn’t go near them. Not after Roraqk.”

“The Nokraud is a Scat vessel. Your cousin boarded her and stayed for some time before exiting again with several Drapsk,” Terk informed him. “There was no sign she was being forced to do so, or ’Whix would have intervened.”

“We hold your cousin in very high esteem, Hom sud Sarc,” Bowman said frankly, her eyes curious but sober. “I know what she risked for Morgan’s life. There are standing orders—my orders—to watch out for her when we can.”

Barac chose to be equally frank. Why not? “Once I’d have objected to your interference, Sector Chief Bowman,” he admitted. “I’d have taken any hint of her needing Human help as a personal offense. Now—I’m grateful. Sira has enemies who appear to care nothing for her power.” He sat up straighter in the chair. Finding Sira, knowing these beings watched over her, made a difference to all of his schemes.