Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (7 page)

“Yes, Lady Witch,” he said courteously enough, considering the dilation of his pupils. The provisions were rapidly pushed into the entrance hall, their bearer obviously torn between a desire to escape my notice and a fear of offending. Irritated, I waved him to freedom, less than pleased to be beginning my adventure by accepting the homage—and unpleasant reputation—accorded to real Ram’ad Witches.

Still, the quarters were comfortable and I was given all the privacy I could desire. Morgan’s memory of the place had promised at least that. I sat cross-legged on a thick, rust-red mat to examine the contents of the basket, careful to taste only those fruits I knew from the city markets.

It should have been good to be alone, to have time to think. I scowled at the fruit I was disassembling with unnecessary force. Think? I had too many thoughts rattling around in my mind already, the focus of most persistently straying from the steady purpose I had held foremost for so long. I blamed the quiet, the peaceful sleepiness of this remote forest village.

Then I shook my head, knowing better. This was Morgan’s hut, his things. I had fallen asleep where he had slept for so many weeks, my cheek on a pillow his had warmed. I’d been so careful to avoid any physical association with the Human—to keep an insulating distance.

Coming here was a mistake.

I was so tired of battling myself. Such conflict was unproductive and damaging; better to make the best of my time in this new environment, learning from it, gaining every scrap of information I could—as I had in the Haven. As I had from Barac’s mind, I recalled with a shudder.

“Lady Witch.” I looked up in surprise at that soft summons from the door. An older hunter/warrior stood there, head respectfully bent. No fear here, I noted with relief. No fear, but I detected a strong sense of purpose.

At my “Yes?” the hunter stepped boldly into the hut, pulling the door cloth closed behind him. Unlike the race who preferred the city, familiar to me as patrons and staff of the Haven, this Poculan was tall and lean, his color closer to cream than the more vivid yellow-brown I’d seen previously. The pattern of soft, fleshy knobs covering each of his joints differed as well, although I couldn’t quite name why I thought so. I did know better than to ask.

Intrigued, I motioned him to join me on the mat. “You are the Lady Sira,” the hunter announced in quite reasonable Comspeak, dropping into a practiced crouch, second knees level with his head. Well enough. My own grasp of the local dialect owed a bit too much to the Haven’s clientele to be reliable or always polite.

“Names have power, Hunter,” I replied, warned to caution by the gleam in his eye.

A slow blink. “I am Premick, Lady Witch,” the hunter said with a quicker courtesy. First naming was an important moment among these widely-scattered people. I’d been right not to ignore his slight insolence. “These past two seasons I have been a furseeker.”

So. “You’ve been guiding Captain Morgan.” I examined this Premick with increased interest.

“We have been brothers in the hunt,” Premick corrected. “And thus I have in truth been your faithful gatherer as well.” This last came out a shade too quickly, as if to forestall any denial.

I restrained a smile, aware now of what this enterprising hunter was after. By the standards of his culture, Premick was well within his rights to assume that my appearance without Morgan meant that the Human’s place in my household was now available. There was valuable status to be claimed by one chosen to serve a Ram’ad Witch. I arched one brow before pointing out: “You are already burdened with three sisters, Hunter Premick.”

Premick removed a leather pouch from his belt with one thin-fingered hand. He spilled its contents nonchalantly on the mat between us. I picked up one of a dozen large, green-streaked teeth. “Most impressive,” I said honestly, quite willing to believe that considerable effort and skill had been required to remove the objects from their original owners.

Encouraged by this admiration, Premick drew his knife and held the carved handle out to me. “I can provide for you, Lady Witch,” he said earnestly.

“And for your own flesh as well?” the question from the doorway was sharp, and in almost accent-free Comspeak. I kept my face smiling, although there was an unusually strong feeling of menace about the two figures shadowing the net of the door cloth.

“Enter if you have business with me, lurkers at doors,” I suggested coolly. Premick had stood, knife still drawn. I wasn’t sure if it was for my defense or his own.

The two hesitated only briefly before pushing through the door cloth to stand just inside its shelter. One was Withren, the village’s headwoman, her collection of memory bones making a heavy, tinkling rattle as they swung around her legs. I dismissed her immediately as the source of the menace I felt—her concern was more for my reaction to being disturbed.

No, it was the other one. The rudimentary mental abilities I sensed in Premick and others of his kind were keener, more controlled in this old male, though scarcely a match for a child of the Clan. The sense of menace was his, based in a considerable anger directed solely at Premick.

“I am within custom, Laem’sha,” that worthy was now protesting, looking very distraught as he felt the other’s fury.

Laem’sha. I nodded respectfully, having heard of the village wise man from Morgan. “Welcome under my roof,” I said politely, but firmly. “What is your business with me, Laem’sha, Withren?”

With that naming of names, the wise man seemed to recollect himself, damping the emanations of his own emotions with acceptable skill. “Greetings, Lady Witch,” he said smoothly. “Forgive our intrusion, but we need to speak to this hunter—”

“Before I can accept him as my provider?” I finished for Laem’sha when he paused. “That seems more my affair than yours.” It could be an error on my part to give in too easily; theirs was a society painfully conscious of status. On the other hand, I had no wish to become embroiled in local politics. I frowned slightly. “What is your concern here?”

Surprisingly, it was Withren who answered, her voice calm and placating, her Comspeak heavily accented but, again, better than my smattering of Poculan. “Our village has given four hunters to the service of your sisterhood, good Lady. It is a high ambition, and one which brings honor to us all.” A delicate pause. “We wish only to remind Premick of his—obligations—elsewhere.” The scowl on Laem’sha’s face indicated he would have stated the village’s preference in more forceful terms.

I could hardly fail to understand their predicament. Poor, sister-ridden Premick (who now sat looking quite deflated and stripped of his bravado) was in truth a dreamer to think the village would allow him to traipse off in my wake. And, although custom was on their side, who were the Ram’ad Witches to take the cream of the hunters from their families, leaving the burden of support on those less able? I was no such parasite, even though I posed as one.

I thought furiously for a moment, then reached out to touch the hilt of Premick’s knife with my right hand—touched, but didn’t take the blade to hold in completion of the ritual I’d seen through Morgan’s eyes. “I am honored by your offer, noble Premick,” I said solemnly. “But I am not free to accept your service.”

The elders were obviously pleased, though they carefully avoided expressing that emotion in front of Premick. It was likely Premick wouldn’t have noticed. His pupils dilated in shock. I sighed. “Jason Morgan stands at my door, Hunter Premick, even when I send him from me in the hunt,” I searched for words to save his pride and to keep their support. “I am sworn to him as much as he is sworn to my service. It will always be so,” I added very quietly, knowing it was true.

“Morgan is worthy,” Premick said with commendable dignity. “I shall remain at your service, Lady Witch. And at my village’s.” This with a sideways glance at the two village leaders. I was amused to feel Laem’sha send a flow of comfort to soothe Premick’s troubled thoughts.

Withren smiled openly, I presumed grateful I’d salvaged the situation without costing anyone status. “The sun will come out by afternoon, Lady Witch. Will you honor our village by attending our feast-night?” I raised a brow at Laem’sha, not overly sure of the wise man’s opinion of Ram’ad Witches. But he smiled, and there seemed no trace of animosity left in his thoughts.

“Yes, Lady Witch,” he echoed quickly. “You have chosen a fine time to visit us. The last hunt was a good one, and many of the fruits are at their best. It will be a night to remember.”

Why not? I accepted their invitation at face value, suddenly weary of my hermitage between these walls. The three took their leave, to all appearances harmoniously.

I gathered up my dishes and left them at the door, pulling open the cloth as I did so. Withren was right: the rain was little more than a drizzle, and the clouds were breaking open in the distance. I drew in a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the rain-washed air.

A whisper of a step from the empty room behind made me whirl around.

Morgan took another soft step to come fully around the grass wall dividing the back storage area from the rest of the hut. He had changed back into his jungle-used garb. I hadn’t heard an aircar arriving or leaving—or his entry through the rear door. I might have blamed the rain and my guests, but I knew perfectly well how silently Morgan could move if he chose.

Mentally, I slid into a cautious guard, unsure how I felt about him arriving so soon.

“Thank you for the use of this place, Captain,” I said, my voice formal. Give me distance, I asked with my eyes.

He understood, taking hold of a long, hook-ended stick that had puzzled me. “Your comfort in it is my duty, Lady Witch,” Morgan said easily, mimicking the village courtesies in Comspeak. He reached up with the stick, pushing it against what I now saw were a series of wooden strips covering a good third of the ceiling. As he worked the stick, the strips swiveled to admit the brightening afternoon sun, creating mote-filled beams of light. The interior of the hut took on an unexpected airiness. “Primitive, but well-adapted,” Morgan said, leaning the control stick against one wall. “It pays to give close attention to all they do.”

As Morgan went about the hut, intuitively ignoring me, pausing to examine a stack of orange-red blankets (gifts from the village upon my arrival), I relaxed. Things were as before. Reassured, I felt some tautness in the small of my spine let go. But as my inner guard opened ever so slightly, I sensed Morgan’s own mind, thoughts rippling in clear, cool waves I had only to dip into to read.

So he had heard my conversation with Premick and the elders—and having heard my commitment to him, he’d become complacent. Without a word, I attacked.

This was no invasion, such as had devastated Barac. No, what I sent against Morgan’s arrogantly exposed mind was pain, wave after wave of pain in hammer blows no less dangerous because they were unseen.

I watched him stagger to his knees, hands going to his head, his defenses struggling into place, then was jolted by the reflected force of my own power as Morgan belatedly added his inner strength to his shields. From then on, he moved only once, to stand up, legs spread apart as a brace. Our eyes met and held.

I raised a hand to signal enough, breathing more deeply myself from effort. Morgan’s barriers were impeccably in place now. His face had gone white, sweat gleamed dully on his brow. There was an unfamiliar tightness to his mouth. All he said was: “I thought the testing over.”

“How can it be?” I said sharply, echoes of strain coursing through my mind. “How can I consider you safe when you forget so easily? How dare you enter the power sphere of any Clan without your shields in place? You are not ready. Your power is barely under control.”

“Barac said the same about you.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, but held myself stiff and erect. “I did not expect him to understand.” I thought you would, I added to myself.

Morgan deliberately relaxed his stance, though I noticed that his shields remained firmly in place. “And somehow I must?” he said, as though hearing what I’d left unspoken. Before I could answer that, he waved one hand in a gesture that had never been part of his Human upbringing. “That was uncalled for, Sira. I do understand.” A small, mischievous grin. “And when my head feels better, I’m sure I’ll appreciate this latest lesson.”

Good enough. I rubbed my own head at that reminder. “Withren told me of a village feast.” A peace offering. “I promise no more instruction for tonight.”

Morgan’s eyes were warm again. “And I promise to keep up my shields.”

His tone was light, but I couldn’t keep a sudden irrational fear from edging my own. “Be sure you do, Jason. The day will come when it won’t be me testing their strength.”

Hastho’tha, a being inclined to bemoan his fate as less than he deserved (an opinion shared by his three maternal and two paternal parents), was uncharacteristically silent as he walked among the tables of the Spacer’s Haven. His fellow employees gave him wide berth, aware of his mood. Fortunately, there were few conscious patrons at this hour to take offense at his surly mien.

Hastho’tha focused a glowering eye at the black thronelike chair centered among the gaming tables at the other end of the tavern. His table wiper, an elderly, wit-wandering Queeb named Krat, shivered nervously, careful to avoid the heavy hands at the ends of the larger being’s muscular arms. “Warlock!” Hastho’tha spat the word, but quietly. “Things were hard enough under Herself, without bearing this pretender. I tell you, Krat, there is no man-thing born that has the power of a Ram’ad Witch.”

“Yes, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat whimpered automatically, having listened to this particular complaint since waking. Its four flexible tentacles wrapped around cutlery as two more deftly smeared last night’s grime into an even layer on the table. Then all six froze precariously in midmotion. “A lady, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat said almost loudly.