Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (40 page)

Copelup, while overly free with his advice on most occasions, hadn’t been able to offer any suggestions about how to proceed on Ret 7. I’d turned to the Makii instead, formulating the beginnings of a plan. The Makmora had never traded with the Retians until now, this system apparently belonging in some sense or other to another Tribe. This didn’t preclude the Makii from dealing here, I was informed, as long as any profits, including valuable information, were ultimately shared. It was, Captain Makairi told me, inefficient but acceptable.

My part was easy to remember, if increasingly difficult to perform. I was to sit in this cabin, being completely unobtrusive, while the Drapsk did my looking for me.

I pulled up my knees again, considering the movement a useful bit of exercise, and worked on my patience.

 

The Makii’s patience turned out to be worse than mine. “Bargain hunters, Mystic One,” Captain Makairi snarled within a day of our landing. “That is what one contends with on these isolated worlds. Bargain hunters!”

Having worked on a trade ship myself, I did sympathize—sympathize, even as I felt a familiar frustration with my always literal Drapsk. “We aren’t really trading here, Captain,” I reminded him gently. “Has there been any success contacting the,” I stumbled over the name, “the Fox?”

The Captain had three Drapsk monitoring the intership chatter, as well as recording those messages in languages he’d need to run through a translator later. Other Drapsk were listening intently to Retian news and religious broadcasts. I was beginning to see how the Drapsk earned their reputation for knowing their clients exceptionally well. Former Captain Maka answered my question from his comtech post. “Port Authority routes all calls to the Silver Fox through an answering service listing requests for samples of local artifacts and a few specific pharmaceuticals. There was an insignificant offering of cargo, already purchased but not delivered. We were quite circumspect in contacting this service, Mystic One,” he added quickly, rightly gauging my mood.

“I didn’t think he’d be on her,” I said more to myself.

“We have heard from the Nokraud, Mystic One,” another Makii called out helpfully. “She has docked safely and awaits your communication.”

The pirates from Drapskii were here? I turned slowly to stare at Captain Makairi. “You didn’t contact the Scats,” I said with disbelief, mouth dry. “Did you?”

His plumes dropped almost flat. “Mystic One. How could you think we would do such a thing without your instructions? This communication originates with the Nokraud, not any Drapsk.”

“They scent profit,” Copelup offered from his seat beside mine. “It’s not an uncommon strategy for the Sakissishee to follow a freighter into port, hoping to pick up scraps of trade.”

“They followed us to Plexis and then here?”

“Certainly not to Plexis, Mystic One,” Copelup said with a hoot. “Plexis has recently banned the Sakissishee—quite against Trade Pact regulations forbidding discrimination by species. No, I think it more likely the Nokraud waited at a distance, until certain of our course here.”

“Do not let this possibility alarm you, Mystic One,” Captain Makairi said hurriedly. “We are keeping a close watch. But I do wonder what communication they expect from you. Did you make some arrangement with them during your time on the Nokraud?”

I felt my cheeks growing warm. “They may believe I want to purchase transport on their ship. I don’t.”

“Should we relay this message for you?” Makairi asked with some concern.

I shook my head. The Drapsk convince the Scats I no longer wanted to flee them? Not likely. “I think that had better come from me. Tell them I’ll be in touch. Anything else I should know before we leave?”

The bridge grew silent; too silent, I thought, considering how many Drapsk were crowding around me. There was a fair amount of plume waving going on, indicating a debate in progress. “What?” I demanded.

Predictably, Copelup answered. “The Makii have—concerns—about your safety away from the Makmora, Mystic One. As the Captain said, this is a world of bargain hunters. The Retians are famed for their ability to spot a valuable commodity—” he paused.

“Such as myself ?” I finished with a resigned shrug. “I appreciate your concern, Copelup, but there’s only so much I can do hiding in here. We’ll take all the precautions we can.” I smiled without amusement. “And this time on Ret 7, I do believe I can take care of myself.”

It was finding Morgan without using my power that daunted me.

 

“This will do nicely,” I said, forestalling the attempt by my new personal tailor, the former comtech Makoori, to pull yet another article of pilfered clothing from his collection. The tailor’s room, the usual Drapsk bulge off a main corridor, had become a most unusual miniature warehouse. Luggage ranging from plain crew duffels to ornate—and well-locked—grav-free pieces made artificial walls almost head high. All of it, alas, stolen property.

Of course, the Drapsk had paid for it, not being a species that engaged in thievery. But I’d wormed out of Makoori the fact that they’d bought the assortment of luggage from the Nokraud at the same time as the fireworks, suggesting a less-than-legal origin to this wealth of Human clothing and personal belongings. Since they’d done it for me, I didn’t ask further, nor did I want to know. If I’d had the time or inclination, I would have been quite horrified.

I had neither and so was quietly grateful when Makoori found me a set of humanoid rain gear which both fit well and looked reassuringly commonplace—some of the clothing we’d gone through had been definitely meant to help the wearer stand out in any crowd, or perhaps even in the dark. I put my hands in the pockets, pulling out a selection of hair clips from one. I caught myself staring down at them.

“My apologies, Mystic One,” Makoori said, virtually snatching the clips from my fingers. “I thought I’d cleaned all of these articles thoroughly.”

“It’s all right, Makoori,” I replied, hoping these were merely stolen clothes, their owners somewhere in a line, complaining about their missing things to a hapless clerk or impervious servo.

What I knew of Scats didn’t support that hope at all.

I’d contacted Grackik and Rek before leaving the bridge earlier in the afternoon. They had, as I’d guessed, offered me alternative transport. It was a halfhearted offer, though, without any effort to convince me to leave the Drapsk. I declined their services firmly—and I hoped, unmistakably—but was left with the impression they hadn’t followed me at all.

I shook my head and gathered up the carrysack of other items Makoori and I had prepared. What the Scats were really doing here was none of my concern. The Drapsk could handle them in space, and Port Authority—even on Ret 7—would keep a worried eye on them while grounded.

The Drapsk who would accompany me off the ship were waiting in the lounge. I was about to leave and join them when Makoori stopped me. “Wait, Mystic One.” His purple plumes were fully erect, sampling the air flowing over our heads.

“What is it?” I knew it was a message, or possibly even a two-way conversation. I had yet to be sure of the limits of Drapsk olfaction.

“You have a visitor.” Makoori inhaled his tentacles as he oriented his plumes toward me, shaking them as though he wanted to tell me in his own way before saying: “A visitor who has asked for you by the name Sira di Sarc.”

I put down my case with care, removing my rain gear and laying it neatly on top. For a person who was supposedly traveling inconspicuously, was there anyone who didn’t already know I was here?

 

At least my visitor was as concerned as I was with keeping my presence somewhat of a secret.

“It is genuine, Mystic One,” Copelup said glumly, handing the ident back to the Human. The Drapsk had subjected it, and my latest guest, to an impressive series of scans and checks. They weren’t happy with the results and neither was I. “We have verified that this being is Constable Miles Ekkurtan, presently assigned to Sector Chief Bowman’s staff.”

Constable Ekkurtan nodded politely. He’d sat comfortably on a Drapsk stool while all this went on around him, looking like anything but an Enforcer. His outfit was identical to any number of the mid-category spacers currently fin-down on Ret 7—or any other spaceport for that matter—not-quite shabby blue coveralls, clean and maintained to suggest a trader careful of his deals yet poor enough to take risks. He was a small Human, dark, with tight curling black hair and a warm, easy smile. I tasted the M’hir near him and felt nothing. Protected by an implant. The final proof, if I needed it, that this was one of Bowman’s most trusted officers.

The Makii were mortified. First the Nokraud had followed us and now, it seemed, so had the Enforcers. How was what I wanted to know, which was why I was going against all the Drapsk’s good advice and leaving the Makmora with the Constable. Sector Chief Bowman, my former acquaintance, had invited me to join her for supper in the nearby city of Jershi. We would travel surreptitiously, of course. The kind Constable had come to the Makmora’s air lock in a covered groundcar, a true luxury when traveling on this damp, soggy world.

But I didn’t abandon all caution. I let the Constable take the lift from the lounge, then turned to the Drapsk forming a morose semi-circle behind me. “I’m not expecting any trouble,” I told them, causing already drooping plumes to sink further. “But how good is your sense of smell out there?”

One by one, as I explained what I wanted, plumes rose to the ceiling in what I thought was pleased anticipation.

Pounding his fists on the door hadn’t helped.

Though it was an improvement over the pain in his head, Barac thought ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d thrown himself at the M’hir as well as the wood, straining to break through the sphere of power restricting him to this cell-like room more surely than the locked door and surrounding walls. It had been a futile attempt. Whoever—or whatever—wanted him here was powerful enough to insure he stayed.

The list of those capable wasn’t short, the Clansman knew, giving up at last and leaning on one wall. He’d lie on the floor before touching the one item of furniture—a soggy reed-and-mud mattress, half-curled in one corner as if startled into the position by his arrival. No, there were plenty of his kind with more power and almost as many with fewer scruples in its use. Not to mention the alarming devices the Humans seemed to be developing, of which he glumly suspected the mind-deadeners were only the start.

But why? Barac’s fingers rubbed the comforting warmth of the bracelet around his left wrist, a gift from his brother Kurr. Not robbery, he thought, since the pre-Stratification relic was probably the most valuable thing he possessed, despite the faintness of the designs in its plain, dull finish.

No matter how Barac puzzled at what was happening, he couldn’t pull it together. First Rael had shown up on Pocular, supposedly to visit her sister; his instincts and training said that was a lie. Then Larimar, however briefly, had dogged Morgan’s footsteps on Plexis. What little Huido had been willing to repeat of their conversation had been enough for Barac to conclude Larimar was lying as well. Two liars. Separate or together?

Now this, his own kidnapping. Why?

The dampness, though warm and musty, was already raising gooseflesh under his thin jacket. Barac sneezed miserably, glaring up at the one dim light fixture overhead. What ventilation there was came through a grille in the ceiling, a grille half-covered in fungus. With his luck, it would be the mobile variety, able to drop down to visit if and when they turned out the lights.

He hadn’t been scanned or questioned. There’d been no touch in his mind beyond the pull to bring him here, which was information in itself. Whoever was responsible didn’t want him for what he knew, however little that might be. No, there must be something else.

Barac shivered. Whatever it was, he didn’t think it would be to his benefit.

Chapter 40

“SAY what you like about Retian cooking, they know what to do with fowl,” Bowman pronounced with satisfaction and an absence of tact, given the Tolian’s presence at the table.

I grimaced apologetically at ’Whix. The glinting emerald curve of his left eye was angled my way—an apparently compulsive behavior that started the moment Constable Ekkurtan had delivered me to the restaurant and this discreet back table. That was all the subtlety Bowman had bothered with in our meeting: both she and her companion were in full uniform. ’Whix and I had shared a platter of some small, sauce-drenched crustaceans. Having a beak was a distinct advantage in its enjoyment, I thought, trying to unobtrusively remove yet another tiny leg from between my teeth.

Bowman’s plate was covered by a pile of much larger legs. She contemplated it with the look of someone trying to decide if it would be worth asking for seconds, before pushing her plate to the center of the table. “Now, Fem di Sarc,” she began in a more businesslike tone, having been unwilling to discuss anything but menu choices (few) and the weather (pouring rain) until now.

“Morgan,” I corrected softly. “My name is Morgan, Chief Bowman.”

“So,” she said, her curious gaze meeting mine. Whatever question lit them at the moment was discarded, her expression turning serious. “You are probably wondering how we located you.”

I pushed my own plate away, reaching for my glass of wine. It was an excellent vintage, definitely offworld, and left an expensively pleasant aftertaste on the palate. No sense wasting it. Or more time, I decided. “I’m interested in why you wanted to meet with me,” I said bluntly. “This—” I saluted her with my glass, “—is hardly what I’d expect if you were after me for some crime against the Trade Pact. So?”

“After you?” Bowman shook her head, gesturing at ’Whix. He produced a strip of plas and a vistape from a pouch on his belt, attached between two large, accessible, and very visible hand weapons. As I recalled, the Treaty gave the Enforcers considerable latitude in their behavior insystem or out. I preferred my armament less obvious, but there was no point reaching for the minds of these two.