Conquerors' Pride (15 page)

They crossed the street, passed the two Mrachanis in the building entryway without looking at them, and headed toward the Sanduul. From this angle Cavanagh could see that her only protection against the cool air was a flimsy-looking serape wrapped tightly around her thorax. The threading board was braced against the makeshift easel of her folded legs, and as they got closer Cavanagh could see that her hands were shaking slightly with cold.
Kolchin noticed it, too. "Kind of out of her element here, isn't she?" he commented.
"It gets colder than this in parts of Ulu," Cavanagh said. "But they wear more clothing there than this one's got on."
They reached the Sanduul and stopped. "Hello," Cavanagh said.
The Sanduul looked up, her hands pausing in their work. "Good day, kind sirs," she said, the slightly distorted words accompanied by the odd hum characteristic of Duulian pharynxes. "Do you come to see my threading?"
"Yes, we do," Cavanagh told her. "May I hold it?"
"My honor," she said, lifting her hands away from the threading. For a moment one of the tendrils of silk from her under-claw spinnerets stretched out between fingertip and cloth before snapping off and dropping flat against the cloth.
Carefully, Cavanagh picked up the frame by its edges. It was a picture of the Information Agency, but with the distant mountains towering over the building as if they were directly behind it. The sun was half-visible, rising between two of the mountain peaks into a blue sky peppered with white cirrus clouds. "Turn it; just so," the Sanduul suggested, twitching her head a fraction to the side.
Cavanagh did so; and suddenly the scene was somehow different. Everything was still there, but the mood had been subtly changed. Instead of a cheery sunrise, it had somehow become a brooding sunset, the optimistic promise of a fresh new morning turning into the sadness-tinged end of a wasted day. He turned the picture back again and the sunrise returned, complete with its upbeat mood. "Extraordinary," he told the Sanduul as he handed it back. "Absolutely unique. I've never seen anything like it."
The Sanduul opened her mouth wide, displaying the razor-sharp teeth that had so unnerved the first humans who landed on Ulu. "You honor my talent," she said, closing the teeth back in again. "Fibbit u Bibrit u Tabli ak Prib-Ulu offers her thanks."
"Cavanagh of Hamilton of Townsend from Grampians-Avon assures her the gratitude is all his," Cavanagh said, hoping he was getting the ritual order of his lineage right. "I've seen Duulian threadings before, but never one with such an inventive approach. May I ask why you're working here instead of on Ulu?"
The spidery face turned away as she arranged the frame again against her legs. "The Mrachanis also admired my talent," she said. "They invited me to study on Mra-mig. For this I was given a gift of money and a promise of schooling with Mrach artists."
Cavanagh looked down at the thin serape rippling in the breezes. "What happened?"
"I do not know," she said, whistling, softly through her pharynx in the Duulian equivalent of a sigh. "When I arrived, I was told there had been a mistake. My gift of money had been withdrawn. But I had not enough for the traveling home. So I am still here."
"Couldn't you get help from someone?" Cavanagh asked. "The Duulian embassy, perhaps?"
"There is no advocate of the Sanduuli on Mra-mig," Fibbit said. "I have tried to send messages to Ulu, but the cost has been too high."
Cavanagh frowned. She must be living right on the edge not to be able to afford to send a simple letter. Even messages sent by skitter didn't costthat much. "How long have you been here?"
"Half a year." She rubbed a fingertip claw across her serape. "It has become cold."
"It has indeed," Cavanagh said. "How have you survived?"
She stroked her artwork gently. "I do threadings," she said. "Sometimes I am hired by a Mrachani, as now. Other times I make portraits of Mrachanis or others and offer them for sale."
"Others?"
"There are others in Mig-Ka City besides the Mrachanis. Some are humans." She displayed her razor teeth again in another smile. "I like threading humans. You have such depth of faces. But there are few living here."
"I'm surprised there are any at all," Cavanagh commented, trying to make sense of this increasingly nonsensical situation. As far as he could tell, Fibbit was a completely harmless representative of the equally innocuous Duulian race. So why did the Mrachanis have her under surveillance? Especially when they could get rid of her simply by buying her a ticket to Ulu?
"There are several," Fibbit assured him. "One human has been here twice since this threading began. His face is most depthful."
Cavanagh frowned, a quiet bell going off in the back of his mind. "You mean here to the Information Agency?"
"Yes," Fibbit said. "Four days ago, and six days ago."
Cavanagh looked at Kolchin, got a slight shrug in return. "It's where any non-Mrachani would come if he wanted to find out anything," the bodyguard pointed out.
"True," Cavanagh agreed. But if the human was someone important or dangerous, it might explain the surveillance on Fibbit. "Did you speak to this human, Fibbit?"
"No," she said. "He passed me, but did not speak. His face was most depthful."
"How well do you remember it?" Cavanagh asked. "Well enough to do a threading?"
"There is no need," Fibbit said. "I have already threaded him."
"Really," Cavanagh said, looking down at the threading again. This was, of course, none of his business, with no connection whatsoever to his reason for coming to Mra-mig. But he'd already gotten the ball rolling for the Conquerors information, and this situation of Fibbit's was becoming more and more intriguing. "I wonder if I might be allowed to take a look at it."
"It would be my honor," Fibbit said. "It is at my home, only a short distance from-"
"We've got company," Kolchin interrupted.
Cavanagh turned. Three Mrachanis were crossing the street from the direction of the Information Agency. Clearly headed their way. "Do you know any of those Mrachanis, Fibbit?"
"The one of the center selected me to create this threading," the Sanduul said. "Perhaps he is coming again to check on my progress. Or perhaps not. Mrach faces do not have the depth of human faces."
Cavanagh looked at them. Their faceswere hard to read, he realized suddenly, even compared to other nonhuman species. Odd that he'd never noticed that before. "It'll be all right," he soothed Fibbit. "Let's see what they want."
"Lord Cavanagh," the center Mrachani said as the group came up. "I confess surprise at finding you here. I was under the impression you had returned to your hotel to await our information package."
"My driver noticed Fibbit while he was waiting for us," Cavanagh explained, looking the Mrachani over. It definitely wasn't the clerk he and Kolchin had talked to inside the Agency; this one was taller, older, with far more poise and verbal polish. "I've always been interested in Duulian threadings."
There might have been a reaction to the mention of Fibbit's name. With all the breezes blowing at the Mrachanis' body hair, Cavanagh couldn't be certain. "Yes, she is a master artist," the Mrachani agreed. "The Mrachanis have purchased several of her threadings; perhaps you would be interested in contemplating them. I have a listing of their current locations in my office."
"Perhaps later," Cavanagh said. "Is that all you came to tell me?"
The Mrachani seemed surprised. "My intent was not to speak with you at all," he said, taking a sidling step around Kolchin toward Fibbit. "As I already stated, I was surprised to find you here. My purpose was merely to inspect the threading's progress."
Wordlessly, Fibbit handed him the frame. The Mrachani looked at it, then offered a view to each of his companions. "It is excellent," he told Fibbit. "Precisely as I desired. Come with me, and I will arrange for your payment."
"Now?" Fibbit asked, her head tilting with surprise. "But it is not yet finished."
"It is precisely as I desired," the Mrachani repeated, in a tone that somehow discouraged further argument. "Your payment awaits inside. Come."
"I come." Fibbit stood up, rising to an amazing height as she unfolded herself to vertical. "I am ready," she said, gripping her serape tighter around her thorax.
The Mrachani looked back at Cavanagh. "Your information will be ready soon, Lord Cavanagh," he said. "I trust you will find it useful."
"I trust so, too," Cavanagh said.
The nonhumans headed back across the street, Fibbit's spidery physique towering over the much shorter Mrachanis. "We haven't checked into the hotel yet," Kolchin reminded him. "If that package arrives before we do, it'll get bounced back here."
"I know," Cavanagh said, watching the group heading back to the Information Agency. It all seemed perfectly reasonable and straightforward... and yet, there was something about it that seemed a little bit skew. Something he couldn't put his finger on. "I think just Hill and I will go to the hotel for now," he told Kolchin. "I'd like you to stay here a little longer. Make sure Fibbit comes out all right."
Kolchin frowned. "Fibbit?"
"Yes," Cavanagh said. "They slipped her away from us just a little bit too neatly."
Kolchin seemed to consider that. "Maybe," he said at last. "I don't see what it has to do with us, though."
"Neither do I," Cavanagh admitted. "Call it a hunch.
"Yes, sir," Kolchin said. "You want me to have a talk with those Mrachanis down the alleyway while I'm waiting?"
A motion to his right caught Cavanagh's eye, and he turned as their car pulled to the curb in front of them. "They must have spotted me," Hill said through the open window. "They all suddenly took off a minute ago." He glanced behind them at the spot where Fibbit had been. "The Sanduul left?"
"They took her into the Information Agency," Cavanagh said. "Allegedly to buy her threading. Which way did our loiterers go?"
"Opposite direction," Hill said, nodding behind him. "Though they could have circled back around."
"We'd better get moving," Kolchin put in. "If they're watching us, this can't help but look suspicious. You can drop me off a block away. Hill, we've got a break-apart scooter in back, don't we?"
"We should have," Hill said. "What's going on?"
"I'll tell you on the way," Cavanagh said. "You just be careful, Kolchin." He looked out the window at the Information Agency as they drove off. "You're armed, aren't you?"
"I'm always armed, sir," Kolchin said quietly. "Don't worry. Whatever's going on, I can handle it."
11
They dropped Kolchin off and then headed back to the spaceport and their assigned hotel. The staff was expecting them, though the front clerk seemed mildly upset that only two of the three he'd been promised were here. Cavanagh checked them in, assured the clerk that the third of their party would officially check in when he arrived, and went up to their suite to await the Information Agency's package.
The wait turned out to be surprisingly short. Hill hadn't even finished his security sweep of the rooms when a trilling from the suite's computer announced that the package had arrived.
"That was fast," Hill commented as Cavanagh inserted a card and keyed the computer for acceptance. "Amazingly fast," Cavanagh agreed. "Especially considering that the clerk wasn't expecting to find anything at all."
The computer beeped again and shut down. Withdrawing the card, Cavanagh slid it into his plate. The translator was already loaded, and by the time he'd seated himself in one of the plush conversation-pit chairs surrounding the corner-mounted flame sculpture, the five pages of flowing Mrach script had condensed their way down to three pages of English. Settling back, mentally crossing his fingers, he started to read.
It was short, and it was very disappointing. According to the records, an unknown alien ship had passed through the Mra system two centuries earlier, shortly after the Mrachanis' first tentative steps into space. The aliens had made contact with a manned Mrach probe on its long way to one of the nearer planets of the system, stopping just long enough to learn the Mrach language from the crew before moving on. Among other things, the aliens had told the Mrachanis they were running from a powerful race currently in the process of destroying and conquering their own homeworld. But they'd said other things, as well, some of which had later proved to be untrue. They'd left no physical evidence behind when they'd departed, either, a fact that had later led to thinly veiled allegations that the whole "visitation" had been nothing more than an elaborate hoax dreamed up by bored crew members to stir up the expedition's organizers. The report ended with an appended note that the search for more information was still under way, and that anything further would similarly be forwarded to the hotel.
He shut the plate off and laid it aside. "Anything?" Hill asked from the door to one of the two bedrooms.
"Not really," Cavanagh told him. "We could have saved ourselves the trip out here. How's the suite look?"
"It's clean," Hill said, eyeing his employer. "You know, sir-and not to be presumptuous-it might help if I knew what exactly you were looking for. And why you were looking for it."
"No presumption inferred," Cavanagh assured him. "I'm looking for information about the Conquerors. What they're like, where they might have come from-that sort of thing. The 'why' of it, unfortunately, is restricted information at the moment."
"I understand," Hill nodded. "If I may make a suggestion, then, perhaps we should try the main government archives on Mra."
Cavanagh shook his head. "Actually, I doubt they would be any more complete than the records here. The Mrachanis take special pride in their efficiency at disseminating information among themselves. That's why we came here instead of going on to Mra in the first place: access to the same data without spending the extra five hours of travel time each direction."
"We're on that tight of a schedule?"
Cavanagh ran through the numbers. Melinda would be on Dorcas by now, as should the fueler he'd sent out to her there. He hadn't heard anything from Aric, but if they were still on Quinn's timetable, they shouldn't be more than a couple of days behind her. Figure twenty hours for theCavatina to reach Dorcas from here...
And then what? The whole purpose of this side trip had been to get some idea of where Aric should start searching for his brother. Now he had nothing.
In his pocket his phone vibrated. Pulling it out, he keyed it on. "Yes?"
The view on the display was a surprise: a distorted, shadowy image that looked nothing at all like a face or anything else. "Kolchin, sir," the bodyguard's voice murmured, barely louder than the background hum behind it. "That Sanduul-Fibbit. Did you want to talk to her, or just see that she got out of the Information Agency okay?"