Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (24 page)

“Or theft?” added the second Scat, her snout turning to face me, eyes taking an identical predatory fix.

Theft? I thought guiltily of the bottles and containers in my bag. “I hardly expected a trifling brush with the authorities to bother you two,” I said with all the confidence I could manage. “Or did I judge you on reputation and not on fact?”

“You mis-ssunders-sstand, Fem Morgan,” Rek said calmly, still with that unnerving focus on my face. “We merely s-sseek to be clear with one another.”

“Then be clear. Whatever is between the Drapsk and me is private. Will you take me offworld or not?”

“Most assuredly not, Contestant Morgan,” the Drapsk said primly, entering with the servant. “You must stay until after the Festival.”

This wasn’t any Drapsk I’d seen before. It was rounder, slightly wrinkled around the mouth as though from too much tentacle sucking during its growth. The plumes of its antennae were a mottled green and gray. I leaned back, still eyeing the Drapsk, and crossed my legs. “Was I mistaken in who Captains the Nokraud?” I asked the room in general.

The Scats hissed to one another, their sibilant language splattering the furnishings as well as the Drapsk and myself. The Drapsk, I was gratified to note, sucked in all six tentacles and was rocking back and forth. I could wait.

The pirates didn’t want me. That was plain. But by shaming them in front of their guest, the Drapsk—with my help—had neatly boxed them in a corner. To accept the Drapsk’s authority over their property, as I was sure they thought of me or whatever profit I could bring them, was an admission they were subservient to the clawless little alien. Not an admirable image for a species that advertised itself as the scourge of the galaxy. However, to take me in defiance of the Drapsk would put them at odds with a species who, while known as polite and civilized, also tended to react to insults in groups, the smallest unit of which was the considerably formidable Tribe.

It would have been quite amusing watching the two Scats squirm, if the outcome hadn’t mattered so much to me.

“Saving the Clan? You didn’t really believe I’d be interested, did you?”

Rael took a sip of her wine before answering: “Of course not.”

Pella sud Sarc, youngest of the daughters of the Joining between Jarad di Sarc and Mirim sud Teerac, raised one lovely eyebrow. “I detect disapproval, Sister.”

Rael measured the voice against the deeper presence of the other Clanswoman in the M’hir touching both their minds. There was a resonance under the words, a flow of some unidentified yet uneasy emotion. She politely didn’t probe deeper, though it would have been an acceptable use of her greater power—Pella barely a Third Level Adept in spite of her di heritage. Ability, Rael thought to herself, did matter. “How can I disapprove?” she said aloud instead. “As you said, I didn’t think you’d join us. It wasn’t my idea to come.”

By custom, the outermost layer of their thoughts lay open to one another. It allowed the gentle testing to reaffirm relative strength. It supposedly reduced falsehood. Supposedly—Rael thought wearily and didn’t bother to conceal it—because the first thing one learned was how to lie mind to mind.

Pella had been easy to find. She kept to her summer house in the mountains at this time of year, disliking the noise and excitement of the Humans in their cities as the winter relaxed its grip and spring roared through the hemisphere in a vast unstoppable wave of change. The Clanswoman would return for the theater season, quick to tire of her isolation. But for now, it was her preference.

There was nothing of Sira in her, Rael observed. It wasn’t only the power she lacked. There was a petulance to the full lips, perhaps a narrowness to the dark eyes. The hair matched her own, dark, heavy, and glossy. Only Sira had the red-gold of their father’s youth, its thick fall another mark of her body’s unusually-timed Commencement: their sister having matured in response to the Human’s power instead of following the Joining between two Clan. Now Sira was some half-thing, Clan in power but not Clan in form, not truly. Ica had been right to warn her.

“Why are you thinking of her?” Pella asked out loud, her mind closing rudely. “What has this group of yours to do with Sira?”

Few Clan outside the Council knew exactly what had happened. Rael had told Pella most, but not all. Now she looked at her sister appraisingly, then asked: “Do you remember learning to play?” As she spoke, she stood as if restless, moving over to the elaborate music stand before the windows.

Pella followed her as she expected, pointedly pushing shut the lid of her keffle-flute as though afraid Rael meant to touch her beloved instrument. “Of course I remember. Sira taught me. Make your point, Rael.”

“She doesn’t play anymore. She’s forgotten how.”

“Oh,” Pella whispered, her face averted to look out the window. She ran her fingers protectively over the case. “I didn’t know.”

“It was the stasis. When her own memories were blocked on top of it—well, it’s more surprising she recovered as much of herself as she did. Though by her actions since, one could doubt . . .” Rael let her voice trail away.

Pella turned to stare at Rael. “What are you saying? What’s happened to Sira? Where is she?”

No, she hadn’t told her all. “I thought you would have heard by now, Pella,” Rael said, eyes wide. “Sira went into exile—to be with that Human.”

The case and its precious contents dropped to the floor. Rael didn’t enjoy the shock on her younger sister’s face, but she was relieved to see this much reaction. She had been the one close to Sira, heart-kin with the glorious older sister living out her years isolated from any unChosen in the Cloisters. After fostering, Pella had come to join them until her own moment of Choice, a time of music, peace, and a rare sense of family. In the following years, they’d grown apart, as was proper for the Clan, but something special had existed between them.

It was all gone now. In her deepest thoughts, Rael believed the new Sira had lost her memory of their bond along with her music, replacing everything that had mattered to her before with the Human, Jason Morgan.

“Let me tell you about Ica’s plans one more time, Pella,” she coaxed.

Chapter 22

It had been worth a try, I decided the next morning, stretching within the warm comfort of my Drapsk-made bed, proportioned to humanoid norm but oddly softer at the edges than the middle.

And I’d possibly gained something out of it. The Scats had accepted the truly awe-inspiring bribe, euphemistically called a reward, urged on them by the Drapsk. But their frills had pulsed with anger. I thought I might just be able to convince them to side with me, next time.

If there was a next time. I was back in the same room. The fresher stall had been repaired, the toiletries replaced, and the doorplate made thoroughly tamper-proof. The huge platter of useful fruit had been pointedly replaced by a bowl containing one mild-smelling musk melon, its seeds already removed.

“Well, they’re serious about this competition,” I said to the ceiling, not particularly concerned about eavesdropping.

I wondered what the Drapsk would do when I refused to compete.

 

“That’s not possible, O Mystic One,” Skeptic Copelup assured me in a warm, soothing voice, the merest hint of anxious rocking to and fro in his stance. “Just not possible at all.”

“And I assure you it is,” I replied calmly, pulling the sheet closer to my chin. My staying in bed had perturbed the Drapsk who brought my breakfast. That worthy had sucked a couple of tentacles as it considered the situation.

When I announced I wouldn’t get up until they let me leave, the poor being had scurried for help.

Help had arrived within minutes, in the form of the Skeptic accompanied by two Makii Drapsk, one I was relieved to recognize by the ribbon faithfully tied to his tool belt as Captain Maka. A Human reaction to the familiar, I scolded myself, knowing full well none of the Drapsk was likely to be in favor of my leaving—especially not the one who’d brought me here in the first place.

“You cannot ignore the needs of the Tribe,” Copelup went on, as though this was the ultimate argument. “Unless you are unhealthy, you must rise, O Mystic One. Eat your breakfast and come with us to meet the other Contestants.”

Curiosity tempted me, but not sufficiently to abandon what was beginning to look like a worthwhile strategy. I snuggled farther down, nothing loath to get more comfortable in the process. “Maybe I am unhealthy,” I offered in a weak voice, careful not to commit myself until I knew how the Drapsk might react. “Or maybe you’ve exhausted me. All this stress and running about,” I continued. For all I knew, claiming illness could get me locked away in some med area for weeks while they searched in vain for a malady to cure. Then I had a brilliant idea. Maybe. “Take me to the Makmora. I’d like to see Med Makairi. He’s been caring for my injury.”

“I am Makairi, O Mystic One,” said the Drapsk wearing Captain Maka’s ribbon.

“Oh,” I blinked. “Glad you are here,” I added, while wondering what on Drapskii the med was doing wearing Maka’s tag. But any delay could provide opportunity. “You should examine me. I may have strained something—”

“This is the Captain of the Makmora, O Mystic One,” the remaining Makii Drapsk broke in, obviously trying not to inhale its tentacles. Its plumes were erect and tense. “Why should you wish him to examine you?”

The Med was now the Captain? I sat up, forgoing my feigned weakness in surprise. “Where—or what does Maka do now?”

“I am Maka,” said the ribbonless Drapsk, rocking back and forth in unison with Captain Makairi. I was upsetting the creatures without knowing exactly how. I thought they knew I couldn’t identify individuals.

Or wasn’t that the point? They hadn’t put on ribbons to identify themselves, I understood suddenly. They had put on ribbons to identify their shipside roles for me. I’d needed to know who was the Med, not who was Makairi.

Which didn’t explain why Makairi now wore the Captain’s ribbon.

Copelup was the only Drapsk not distressed. In fact, he waved his chubby little hands around in amusement. “Calm yourselves, Makii,” he said with what had to be a chuckle. “You are not offended by the gripstsa occurring without you, are you, Contestant Morgan? It was overdue on the Makmora—the crew was becoming quite fatigued waiting for your return.”

“How can I be offended or not when I don’t know what gripstsa is?” I replied reasonably, working to copy the guttural roll of the new word as I wondered if they’d ever clearly explain anything to me.

This occasioned a sudden silence. Judging by the directions of the antennae, and the slow rippling of their plumes, I was being excluded from some conversation again. “Copelup,” I warned.

A yellow antenna tip bent my way. “Yes, Mystic One. Our apologies. Just a moment.”

I pulled the sheet right over my head and growled to myself. They ignored me. When it grew too stuffy underneath, I poked my head out again. There’d been no movement by any of the three I could detect. Were they arguing, resting, or being briefed in some new way to deal with this ever-difficult Mystic One? Maybe, I hoped, they’d decide I was just too much trouble to keep around.

“Copelup?” I hissed, reminding them I was still in the room.

The three moved immediately to stand in a line, so close I could have touched the nearest, Maka, had I wished. Their body postures were identical, tentacles forming rosettes of determined red. Some decision or other had been made, I thought uneasily.

“We will show you gripstsa,” Captain Makairi stated firmly.

“But not perform it, of course,” Maka, whose new rank they hadn’t bothered to tell me, added as if this was vitally important.

“Proceed,” order Skeptic Copelup impatiently. “The Mystic One has no time for your blathering.”

I disagreed, but to myself. If it gave me any inkling what to expect from the Drapsk, Maka could blather for another hour.

Still, what was happening was intriguing. The former Captain and his replacement took up positions facing one another, moving together until they could touch. Their tentacles disappeared into each others’ mouths in a gesture at once intimate and surprisingly dignified, while their plumes fell over their backs as if avoiding any chance of contact. Their eyes closed.

“If this was true gripstsa,” Copelup said in a hushed, respectful voice, “each would exchange—” he searched for a word, then raised his hands in exasperation. “—the nearest concept in this language is ‘experience with the outside world,’ but that’s completely inadequate, you understand.”

For no reason I could later remember, unless it was a Human-like hunch, I opened the thinnest of cracks between my own consciousness and the M’hir. I was astonished to detect the merest breath of a potential connecting the two Makii—less than a pathway but far more presence in that space than I’d detected before. Almost instantly, all three Drapsk broke their tableau, turning to face me with plumes pointing in my direction. I waited until I felt the potential fade from the M’hir before withdrawing my own sense from it, confirmation if I needed any that these beings did what I’d thought no other species but mine could do: push some of their consciousness out of normal space, into that otherness.

While they’d obviously responded to my presence in the M’hir, all Copelup said was: “True gripstsa is essential before members of the Tribe can exchange duties, O Mystic One. Do you comprehend now? This ritual permits each individual to learn what it must about the role of the other.”

“So following gripstsa, everyone on the Makmora, all the Drapsk crew I met there, have different jobs now. And they can all perform them as well as their predecessors.”

“Naturally.”

Fascinating. No wonder it was advisable to address every Drapsk one met offworld as ‘Captain.’ Eventually, it would be true. “How often do you do this—this switching about?” I’d been about to say “reprogramming” but recognized that as my own prejudice—I’d become familiar with the Human model of promotion: rising by accomplishment through the ranks of a ship’s crew. Different ways, I reminded myself. That of the Drapsk must work; their ships were models of efficiency.