Heart Thief (10 page)

“Place your hand on the palmplate,” the deep, reverberant Ship's voice said.

He put his hand against the slot.

“Align your eyes in relation to the retina scan,” Ship said.

Ruis shifted and let a light sweep across his eyes.

“Captain Elder examined and data stored. Initiate Password Sequence of three words.”

“Machine,” Ruis said, thinking of the Earth Soil Analyzer that had started the whole thing. Machine was a word that defined the inner creativity that kept him sane, his quest to restore Earth technology.

Excitement made his voice higher than he liked, so he cleared his throat. “EarthSun,” he said. That word symbolized his past—the anger that burned, the restless life he had to lead, his thievery to survive and elude Bucus.

Now he needed a third, something special and precious. Before he knew it, he'd said, “Ailim.”

“Ailim,” the Ship repeated, pronouncing it differently. “You mean the sixteenth letter of the Ogham alphabet?”

He meant the GrandLady who haunted him. The one he yearned to meet again. The only reason the origin of her name mattered was that it marked her as a GrandLady, a woman who should have been far beyond his reach. But Ruis began to believe that as Captain of
Nuada's Sword,
he might dare anything. “Yes.”

Ruis and Samba stood before the doors to the Captain's Quarters. He traced the ancient Earth symbols: “Captain of
Nuada's Sword.
” From what he understood, the Captain had a suite with visual and audio access to the entire ship, a tradition the GreatLords had continued in their Residences.

“The chosen passwords of Captain Ruis Elder are: machine, EarthSun, and Ailim,” the Ship intoned. “Accepted.”

Samba yowled.
And Me!
She jumped to Ruis's shoulder and planted a paw on the palmplate, blinked as her eyes were scanned, and mewed the familiar
Let's go play!

The plate closed. With a swish the door opened in the middle, sliding to each side.

Home. How fun, a new place. We will play well here.
Samba set her claws into his shirt, pricking him, as he strode inside.

She jumped down and strolled through an entryway into a large room. The walls were blue-gray, austere and empty of ornament. The furniture was square and functional, built into the walls. The seat coverings and the cloth over what Ruis thought was the bed shimmered blue and silver. Wooden trim seemed the sole natural touch in the quarters.

Samba sniffed and Ruis noticed the faint metallic odor permeating the suite. She rubbed against the furniture to mark her scent.

“All automated systems are in need of priority lists. Does the Captain wish to review current shipboard specifications?” the ship asked.

A thrill ran through him at the title. He grinned. “Yes.” Huge three-dimensional holo diagrams appeared. “The Ship's outer hull. A crack in the northwest quadrant upon landing. The Ship's energy reserves: energy acceptable for planet-side, our stellar-solar radiation collectors in our skincells are at sixty percent efficiency, additional catalysts to repair them are needed. Ship's weapons are depleted since rerouting to general maintenance. Ship's communication system: acceptable. General maintenance includes testing of all lights at intervals . . .”

Ruis swallowed and struggled to keep up with the information. He darted glances around, looking for papyrus and writestick to take notes, but saw nothing recognizable.

Finally the ship ended its report. “The personal DaggerShip is ready for spaceflight, as is a glider for land transport.”

Ruis's jaw dropped. He had personal transportation other than his feet. He controlled the ship, its energy, its weapons. The idea sent tremors up his spine.

Better than anything, he had knowledge. With the things this ship could teach him, he could become as mighty as any GreatLord. Even more.

Power. Immense power, and all his. Energy. For anything he wanted to do.

He was the Captain of
Nuada's Sword.

 
Ailim struggled to keep her eyes open as dawn lightened the
windows of her den. She sipped caff and concentrated on the numbers of the ledgersheet on her desk. The numbers in all the tiny rows blurred except the huge, red negative total.

At least she had a new, substantial income to place in the “credit” column. Her judicial record had been reviewed and she'd been appointed the SupremeJudge of Druida. There were few telempathic judges, and she was the most powerfully Flaired.

She'd hoped for the post. But she had doubted the appointment. Before her mother's death, she would have been sure of her vocation and her world. But when she'd returned from her circuit rounds and discovered the Family's financial mess, she'd been shaken. The problems demanded desperate measures and her utmost of effort. She couldn't ignore the smallest detail or take the tiniest possibility of income for granted. She'd worried about whether she'd be named SupremeJudge.

Ailim gazed at the golden pine walls and their paintings. She lost herself in the still-lifes of D'SilverFir symbols, wandering through the fir grove to a meadow of cowslips. She imagined the warm texture of a glowing stone huddled with eggs in a nest—the magical Quirin. Just sitting in the ancestral chair caused her grief to surge.

When her Family problems crashed down and she'd realized she hadn't the time or the luxury to grieve, she'd gone to a MindHealer who'd distanced the emotional storms. Little by little the grief worked itself out of a huge tangled knot into the small, even threads of memory and life.

Ailim bent again to the figures, trying to make sense of them. She was expected at JudgmentGrove by Eighth Septhour chime as the new SupremeJudge. She'd already reviewed her cases. Those were understandable and interesting and resolvable. These numbers weren't. She couldn't do anything more to make them better. She gulped and put them in a drawer.

Unfolding a papyrus, she frowned at the sketchy information, every official record about Ruis Elder before his trial. There was no mention of him as a child or a young man; no birth data or the report of a Flaired oracle that attended every noble birth. Nothing showed the man he had become—the fascinating man that she'd been drawn to in the hallway of the Guildhall.

The new puppy-flap in the den door banged as Primrose hurled through to zoom under Ailim's desk and land panting on her feet. Then the door slammed open and Uncle Pinwyd stalked in. He scanned the room with an angry scowl then dumped an armful of shoes—a single shoe of ten pairs, on her desk.

“My ex-footwear wardrobe,” he said through clenched teeth. “The puppy chewed everything. I demand redress!”

Red anger blasted from Pinwyd. Ailim rubbed her forehead. “I will obtain matching shoes for you.” How and with what funds, she didn't know.

“NOW!” he shouted.

“I will take care of it promptly,” she said.

“That miserable cur!” He kicked the desk, then swore.

Bad man chases me!
Primrose shot from under Ailim's desk, zipping through Pinwyd's ankles.

He windmilled, then fell, yelling in fury.

Ailim clapped hands over her ears and shut her eyes, erecting her strongest barriers. As a greatly Flaired person she could, and did, teleport her Uncle to his room. She didn't care that most of her energy was drained. It was worth it to get him out of her presence. She massaged her aching temples.

The scent of dog pee permeated the air.
Uh-oh. Sorry. Accident,
whimpered Primrose from a corner.

Ailim wondered if the Chinju area rug was ruined. She bit her bottom lip and stared at the puppy. Big brown eyes peered at her from an adoring, furry face.
Accident. Yes. So sorry
.

Ailim's anger drained. She stood and walked over to the dog, then picked her up. “Don't do it again.” She pointed the pup to a thick pile of papyrus. “There are newsheets in every room. Run there if you think you're going to have an accident.”

Primrose hung her head, then peeked up from under heavy lashes.
Love You
.

Sighing, Ailim petted Primrose. Ailim couldn't do anything but return the little dog's love. And nothing could make her give up her Fam now. The puppy wriggled happily against her and licked Ailim's chin.

“ResidenceLibrary, is the Chinju rug in the den spelled against puppy ‘accidents'?” Ailim asked.

A soothing voice answered. “The Chinju rug of a lapwing and her eggs, woven for the den two hundred years ago, contains a simple cleaning spell. The words are ‘Dog Begone. ' ”

Ailim looked down at the damp rug. “Dog Begone!”

The carpet dried before her eyes. Then the rug rippled in a wave. When it finished the colors showed brighter and a fresh scent of herbs hung in the air. Ailim frowned. How long had it been since the rug had undergone a complete cleaning? Just what was Aunt Menzie, the ostensible D'SilverFir housekeeper, who only had to activate the various household spells, doing to occupy her time?

A rap came on her door. She turned with the puppy in the crook of her elbow. “Enter.”

Cona swept in, garbed as usual in an exquisite and expensive robe. This one was of midnight chiff with sapphire embroidery.

She sneered at Ailim and Primrose. “That Donax Reed's a pest,” Cona hissed, pacing. “I spoke with him last night. He's given me a pittance of an allowance. How am I to dress? Or to entertain? How am I to keep up appearances?”

Ailim set her teeth and twisted her fingers in Primrose's fur. “All Druida knows of our financial woes. The most we can do is hold our head high and work to solve our problems.”

“I don't want to live like this!”

“Then you may leave.” Hearing her own words shook her. Ailim couldn't believe they came from her mouth. Her duty to her Family, to guard it and lead it, came before everything else. But her temper had frayed with the incessant demands of the resident Family.

Cona paled. Her mouth fell open, but nothing emerged.

Ailim found her voice first. “We must take desperate measures or the Residence will be lost. I'm expecting everyone to help. If that is beyond you, go. You may set up your own household, as other D'SilverFirs have done, and live on your monthly GrandMistrys Noblegilt and a Flair career. One tenth of those funds will be taken for upkeep of the estate.” She continued in her judicial mode, laying out the options, refusing tumbling emotions. “Or you may disassociate yourself from the Family and your Flair income will be entirely yours. You haven't pledged your loyalty to me. You are free.” She waved a hand.

Cona stomped from the room, trailing images of a tortured Ailim in her wake, outlandish mean-spirited plots. Her thoughts leaked,
She will pay for insulting me
.

 
A noise jolted Ruis awake from his first night's sleep in the
Captain's Quarters. He blinked his eyes open to an odd light that never existed under the Celtan sun, Bel. The blue of the walls held an unusual tint. His heartbeat picked up pace.

With the inrush of his waking breath he tasted a metallic tang and his nostrils flared at the equally alien scent. Sterile. Absent of any life. The only natural odors were his own and Samba's. He didn't like it.

He strained to listen, only his breathing broke the quiet.

“Good morning, Captain Elder,” Ship said in deep male tones, spacing the words in a strange rhythm and accent.

Ruis jerked upright in the bed. “Ship?” His voice sounded hollow. It didn't matter that the furniture was trimmed in wood, or that fabric quilted his bunk and the chair he saw in the den, Ruis knew metal surrounded him. It shouldn't have set off a creeping apprehension, but it did.

“Yes, Captain. We are implementing your initial orders. Additional priorities can now be accepted for future restoration of Our systems.”

The statement nearly distracted Ruis from the realization that the fine hair on his body stood on end. He looked for his clothes he'd folded on a nearby chair. They were gone. “What happened to my clothes?” The morning harshness in his voice should've faded by now, but his throat was tight with anxiety. He reached for Ailim D'SilverFirs's softleaf that he'd tucked near him while he'd slept.

Her scent had triggered his body into full arousal, leading him to impossible imaginings of them together. The fantasies had kept him awake long into the night. In the wee hours it didn't matter that he hung under the threat of execution, an outcast, and that she was a Judge. All that had mattered was that she was a woman and he was a man and they fit together as if they were legendary HeartMates. He snorted. To find your HeartMate you needed great Flair. He'd never know one. But he couldn't imagine any woman who could please him more than D'SilverFir.

He shook his head at the stupidity of his nocturnal fancies.

The Ship recited the systems that needed correction.

“Ship. What happened to my clothes?” The thoughts of Ailim had diverted him, but now the tension he'd awakened with rushed through him stronger than ever.

“We requested crew member Samba place them in the cleanser. They will be ready tomorrow. The cleaning system is being overhauled.”

Ruis looked for Samba. He didn't think she was in his quarters, but she'd slept near him all night. The idea sent warmth through his increasingly chilled body. “I want clothes, now.” He recalled the antique texts he'd studied and the most important phrase. “That is a direct and immediate order.”

A panel slid open across the room from him, showing an outfit of tunic and trous that looked more feminine than his own breeches and shirt. Neither the trous nor the tunic contained much material. The tunic ended at his waist and had no collar. The trous had no belt. Even the color, a dark off-blue, irritated him. He couldn't go outside dressed that way.