Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (5 page)

The gift, and its giving, held a message I could not misunderstand. Morgan wanted an end to the illusions—for me to return to an existence where I could be who and what I was. With a sudden deep calmness soothing my mind, I knew he was right. I might be his teacher in matters of power, yet Morgan was my teacher in matters of life. So be it.

“It does not matter who or what she is,” insisted the voice, faceless as any gathered here in the darkness of nonreality, distinctive in its flavor of overwhelming power and purpose. “What matters is what Sira becomes.”

“Fine words, Jarad di Sarc.” The M’hir carried the taste of scorn far better than any expression, a scorn leavened by a hint of wariness. “You try to convince us the House of di Sarc would abandon its prize? That you view the future of our kind above your personal ambition?”

A rippling of force, as though something huge passed under the surface of an otherwise placid lake before diving deeper. Shields tightened without alarm. Meetings of the Clan Council were often laced with threat. It was expected that power would be tried, tested, and used—else why have it?

Jarad’s mind voice was without emotion. “I view the future of my House as the future of our kind, Degal di Sawnda’at. Would any dispute this?” The M’hir was silent. “Are we agreed, then? The Council stands prepared to act?” A feeling of building pressure. “I warn you. If you continue to delay, we will face the ultimate perversion. Are you willing to taste Human in the M’hir?”

A different silence, as purpose and thought gathered into one. They were agreed.

It was time to end the exile of Sira di Sarc.

Chapter 3

“YOU want me to what?” From the look of him, Barac had slept better than I, but he was definitely not enjoying our breakfast conversation.

Neither was Meragg, my household attendant who, along with her favorite life-partner Kupla, were the only employees of the Spacer’s Haven I allowed into my personal quarters. Meragg had stopped all pretense of serving fruit from the dish in her hands, eyes wide and swimming with black-flecked tears. I ignored her. “You need a place to stay,” I reminded Barac. “Kupla and Meragg will help you learn the details. The Haven essentially runs itself, anyway.”

Barac so far forgot himself as to contact me mind-to-mind. I’ll be the laughing stock of the Clan. Barac the bartender. Barac the innkeeper. Barac—

“Barac the warlock,” I added out loud, shutting my mind to his protest. “It’s done, Cousin. The Haven is yours, to do with as you wish. I would suggest that you keep the personal staff that I have chosen—they’re good people. Those working in the Haven itself range from reliable to predictable. Use your own judgment with them.”

Barac shot a despairing look at Meragg, who had by this time buried her face in a towel and was wailing softly, the deep yellow of her skin flushing orange with distress. “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, Sira, when I came here.”

I’d taken the dish from the poor creature and was helping myself to some strips of green pya fruit. Its juice was deliciously sticky, and I licked my fingers, growing happier by the moment. The tiny gem was a still-unfamiliar and exotic weight on my brow. “Adapt, Barac,” I advised him cheerfully. “It will be an interesting challenge for you. And the place makes a tidy profit, after all.”

Barac sighed dramatically, but I could see he was beginning to consider the possibilities. Meragg was peeking at him from over her towel—I could tell her agile mind was already at work judging the type of employer Barac would be. “Will you be back?” he asked, giving a shrug in surrender.

“And where are you going?” This from the apartment doorway. As Morgan walked out on the balcony to join us, Meragg discreetly slipped past him to disappear into the galley—I could guess what cheery gossip she was readying for Kupla’s ears concerning the two now sharing my breakfast table. Poculans tended to multiple spouses.

Barac’s smile of greeting was warm, as if he sensed an ally. “Morgan.” He stood and held out a hand that Morgan was quick to take in a firm grasp. A Human custom—the Clan did not engage in idle physical contact. Barac would make a good host for the Haven.

Yes. I was making the right decision, and my newly gained peace of mind gave me the composure to greet Morgan calmly. His clear blue eyes flicked to the gem on my forehead, then came to rest steady and warm on my face. “Have you breakfasted, Jason?” I asked quickly, forestalling any conversation about that.

“I’ll join you,” Morgan accepted, dropping into a seat. He was carrying his sketch pad and slid it my way as he said cheerfully, “Nothing like civilized food. What’s new on Camos, Barac?”

I eyed Morgan warily, pouring myself another drink and passing him the container. As I flipped open the sketch pad, I found it impossible to concentrate on Morgan’s latest work, despite the lovely lines of the orchidlike flower he’d caught against the ragged surface of a cliff and the painstaking detail of a fern wet with dew. There was something odd in Morgan’s bearing, a sliver of steel beneath the friendly voice. I knew him too well. Morgan had had time to clean the jungle from his body and change to new clothes. I decided he had also had time to develop some suspicion concerning Barac.

Barac didn’t notice anything untoward with the question. He began to talk about neutral things: changes in Human politics that occurred after the Clan had agreed to remove its influence from the Camos Cluster, the cost of transport, the promotion received by an Enforcer Morgan and I knew well.

“So Bowman’s Sector Chief. Good for her,” Morgan replied to this last bit of news. “She’ll surprise a few who thought they were untouchable.”

The next logical topic was the Clan and my remaining family, a conversation I preferred to avoid. They both rose politely as I stood. Morgan sat back down, looking immovable.

“I’ll stay and talk to Barac. We’ve a lot to catch up on.” If there was a message in his eyes, I couldn’t read it. Nor would mental contact be wise—Barac would at least sense it happening if not decipher it, and quite rightly feel offended. I nodded my farewells and left.

Let Barac be the one to tell Morgan that the papers I was working on were the transfer of ownership of the Haven and the closing of all my business dealings on this planet.

As a meeting place, it was perfect. Far from hidden, which would have aroused suspicion just by that fact, the four gathered in bright daylight—to all appearances enjoying a casual lunch just like the hundreds of others around them. Gaily colored umbrellas dotted the huge square like flowers in a garden. The babble of voices and movements was deafening close at hand. Rael di Sarc was pleased.

“All this, and you even arranged a decent meal. I am truly impressed, Ru.”

The smaller Clanswoman, Ru di Mendolar, waved a self-disparaging hand, but her round cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Be more impressed when we have a better reason to share a table, Rael.”

“True enough,” Rael said. She spent a moment walking her long fingers—presently stenciled with the silhouettes of tiny flowers—over the moving lines of the menu in the table surface, tossing back the heavy black hair threatening to fall in front of her somber eyes. “But that time will come soon enough if we are successful.”

“And how likely is that?” The speaker, a heavyset Clansman whose faint accent marked him as hailing from one of the Ruaran worlds, frowned at Rael. Larimar di Sawnda’at had never been known for his patience. “My sources indicate the Council is ready to move against the firstborn daughter of di Sarc.”

“An old rumor turned into a new one,” she retorted quickly, green eyes flashing. “It would make your sources more credible, Larimar, if they could tell us what the Council is planning. Why they have waited until now? What is this new threat? How are we to protect Sira, or warn her—”

“Hush, girl.” The fourth member of the group was the only one present who dared use that quelling tone with the powerful Clanswoman. Rael flushed but settled back in her chair. “Better. Now Larimar’s sources are good, and they have given us a place to start, but do not ask for miracles from them. If too many questions are asked, or too specific information is drawn from certain minds, the reprisals will be instantaneous. They could even reach back to us. We must never underestimate the strength or determination of the Council—or the threat they pose.”

Rael nodded meekly. “Yes, Grandmother.”

Ica di Teerac eyed her kinswoman suspiciously. “Don’t use that tone with me, offspring of Sarc. Without my presence, you would not have had an acceptable excuse to gather this kin group in safety. And without my wisdom, you will fail.”

Ru stirred restlessly, her dark red hair squirming as if equally resentful of the constraint of jeweled pin and net. “And what does that wisdom suggest, First Chosen? That we wait on the Council—cowering under your protection (for as long as that is respected)—and so let them act as they choose?”

“And what about Sira—” Rael began.

“I know impatience will not help anyone,” Ica interrupted sternly, her blue eyes, washed pale with the years, focusing on each in turn. “But I agree the time has come to move as swiftly as possible. We must warn Sira, of course. Whatever the Council plans, it will not be an acceptable solution to the doom facing our kind. They are too blind, too set in maintaining all as it has been. It has become dangerous to so much as suggest change, as you all know.”

There was a pause as the food and drinks ordered earlier arrived. After the servo was safely distant, Rael leaned forward, eyes intent. “I know where Sira has gone. It’s time I went to her. I can convince her to come to you, Grandmother—”

Ica smiled thinly, a chain reaction compressing the fine wrinkles framing her lips. “Don’t make the mistake of believing your father that Sira has been exiled by the Council. It was her decision to dwell apart. She is powerful, resourceful, and full of anger. That anger is a force to be reckoned with—both by us and by her. You, especially, must remember this, Rael.”

“I don’t understand.”

The old Clanswoman’s eyes glittered. “Sira is no longer Clan, not wholly. Since imprinting upon the Human—” Ica deliberately avoided the more potent term, Choice, “—she has become unpredictable at best, clouded by emotion, tainted with unusual ideas. I agree you must go to her,” this with a gesture that silenced Rael’s protest before it was uttered. “But she is no longer the sister you admired. She is no longer the helpless ‘Human’ you aided on Acranam. She has become someone else—someone who has learned to wait, to prepare, and, I suspect, to hate. I would rather know what Sira di Sarc plans than what the Council of the Clan has arranged. It may matter more in the end.”

Larimar pushed his dish away and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve heard a great deal about Sira di Sarc—who hasn’t? But nothing that suggests that she would be capable of resisting the will of the Council.”

“She resisted the will of your former leader, Yihtor di Caraat, easily enough!” Rael snapped. Larimar’s jaw clenched.

“Acranam is not being called to account here,” Ru interjected quickly. “We are gathered in an effort to save our species. Old disputes have no relevance.”

Although Ru was an unfamiliar peacemaker, being one who usually ruffled, rather than smoothed, feathers, Rael made the gesture of appeasement. “Sira and I have always been heart-kin.”

Ica sighed softly, as if for once she wished to acknowledge her great age. “Just as long as you realize, Rael, that our cause must be held as greater than any emotional ties. It may be that Sira will judge us—and you—as much her enemy as the Council.”

The others were silent, eyes carefully averted. Rael gained no help from them. She met the implacable face of her grandmother with pleading in her eyes, their luminous green grown dark. “It will not come to that. Sira will understand and help us willingly. You’ll see.”

“I hope so, Rael. But willingly or not, Sira di Sarc must help the Clan. We can permit her no other choice.”

Chapter 4

“PLEASE reconsider, Mystic One,” the cargomaster’s plumed antennae were drooping below his shoulders, giving the Drapsk a comically tragic look. “These gifts were ill-chosen—give me time to make a new selection—”

I sighed, quite sorry I’d let the Drapsk in the door. But it had seemed only polite. “Your gifts are magnificent,” I said, and not for the first time. “Perfect. I can’t accept them because I’m not coming with you. It is my decision to make, Cargomaster, and I have made it.”

The Drapsk stood mutely, double-elbowed arms wrapped around a collection of packages continually threatening to topple. I hadn’t exaggerated in my compliments. The gifts were magnificent: gems, intricate sculptures, rare perfumes, and tapes of antique Human literature. I’d been taken by surprise, both by their quality and by the unexpected aptness of their selection. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t have been; the Drapsk were master traders, always careful to scout ahead and know their customers. “This is your final decision, then, Mystic One?” the creature, who could have passed for Maka or any other of his crewmates, asked despondently.

“It is, Cargomaster. And—as I’ve told you repeatedly—even if I wanted to attend this Festival on your homeworld, it would be impossible for me to leave immediately on your ship. I’ve made other plans which can’t be delayed further.” A satisfied flicker of thought that was not my own. I resisted the impulse to throw something at Morgan, who was stretched out on a nearby bench, eyes closed, basking in the afternoon sun. “Your gifts were perfectly selected. Your timing is not.”

“As you say, Mystic One.” A bow that ended in an abrupt scramble after a package. I caught it and set it on top.

“Do you wish me to ‘send’ you back?” I offered politely.

Both antennae jerked upright in alarm. “No. No, thank you, Mystic One. My transport waits below.”

“Then accept my thanks to you and your kin for this offer. Perhaps some other time.” But this politeness was wasted breath. I watched Kupla intercept the rapidly fleeing Drapsk at the doorway to my apartments, catching several packages as most finally slipped through the being’s hold.