Unbound (18 page)

Amin closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face before he bowed his head in submission. “As you wish,
Sraya
.”

She bit her cheek, catching her useless protest before it left her lips. No more was said as the setup was completed. Nothing more needed to be said. He’d addressed her as sovreine for the first time in her life, making his objection clear, and she had heard him.

The doors to the hall were opened, and the first of the buyers entered, a tall Ruxilian, his elongated body graceful in a dark blue rasteen tunic and a retinue of tiny Jenins swarming around him in a flurry of wings. The two races were native to Gehna and had some sort of codependent relationship. In space, Ruxilians were rarely seen alone, and Jenins were always in the company of a Ruxilian. Inuoie was the only Ruxilian she’d met who had no Jenin retinue.

The Ruxilian danced forward, his pose shifting from Polite Interest to Minor Doubt and Quiet Disagreement to Subtle Reprimand then another and another in continuous, fluid, silent conversation. The Jenins fluttered around him, leaving enough room for him to gesture and no farther.

Asrial left them to Amin, not wanting to undermine his role. This was just the preliminary stage where the buyers scrutinized the items on auction. Familiar faces circulated the room, wiped clean of all emotion. No one wanted to tip their hand on which relics interested them for fear of driving up the bidding, but the various reactions she caught confirmed her instincts: this was a major haul.

A robot clamp rotated the trifle box, displaying the underside for a buyer’s inspection. Try though they might to disguise it, the close scrutiny and thorough examination hinted at strong interest.

Relief gave her heart wings. It was too early yet to bank the profits from the sales, but she could hope. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to put the Dilaryn jewels up for sale. It would eliminate a point of contention with Amin.

A sway of electric blue at the edge of her vision gave her pause. The blue had been optic hair, but that was the only eye-catching thing about this Cyrian. He had the lanky physique of most of his race, and his attire was modest. Unlike many of the other buyers, he walked alone, unattended by a flock of hangers-on. Since she didn’t recognize him, he had to be Volsung.

Remembering her speculation about the Inner Worlds trader, she smiled. Here was a potential source for additional creds. They needed all of those they could get.

 

 

Romir kept to
the edges of the chamber, fascinated by the mix of races who had come to bid on the artifacts. That so many had come so far, crossing the abyss between worlds, simply to obtain such commonplace items like a trifle box, no matter how prettily decorated, was a constant source of astonishment.

To think he had lived to see such a sight. Yet he had seen a similar variety on the different stations en route to this one, and at no time had there been any hint of Mugheli presence. Slowly he was coming to believe that his people’s enemy was truly gone from this universe.

None of the bidders were of the horned race Asrial called Hagnash, and he wondered at the lack. There were no Tehld, either, for which he was grateful. That one encounter with a hive had been disconcerting. But there were representatives of other races: dancerlike Ruxilians, large-eyed Xers, Cyrians with their bright hair, Lomidari, and others he could not name.

As Romir watched, a Cyrian swaggered by, barely paying any notice to the artifacts—unless he saw someone looking his way. He seemed distracted. If this had been Parvin, he would have suspected the Cyrian of spying for the enemy. The subterfuge hinted at dishonest motives.

He shook off the dread that threatened to spoil his enjoyment of the scene. There was no war here. At worst, the Cyrian might be a thief. However, the security around the artifacts precluded theft during the viewing, so there was no reason for him to be concerned.

Despite the spectacle before him, his attention returned once again to the levitating chair.

Asrial’s kin had been a surprise in this new universe. Most of the people he had encountered appeared uncommonly healthy, however strange their form. This Amin with his wizened body in his levitating chair was the first he had seen who was not hale.

And yet Romir could not help but see the similarity in their situations. Both of them were trapped: he by the Mugheli weave and the other man in his body. Amin, however, would eventually escape, if only through death. Romir could not help but envy him. Even with his limitations, the other man had family and a purpose, friends, a future.

Again his mood threatened to turn dark. This self-pity would not do. In receiving Asrial’s care, he was already fortunate beyond measure.

“Gadaña.” The hail was accompanied by a pungent miasma of strange odors emanating from the levitating chair, a tangible cloud of wrongness that stained the very air.

To avoid giving offense, Romir schooled his face to blankness, his stomach queasy despite the impossibility of nausea as a djinn. He bowed to the other man and followed him to a side chamber hidden from the view of the visiting buyers.

“Have you seen Captain Dilaryn?” Asrial’s kin treated Romir with extreme suspicion. Romir could not fault him for that, not when the object of his care was Asrial; but for the ailing man to approach him now implied great concern. “It is most unlike her to stay away during an auction.”

“She went to speak with one of the buyers.” Romir frowned at the door through which Asrial had left, the uneasy sensation of earlier deepening into dread. Now that he thought of it, she had been gone for some time. “She did not say which one, but she has not returned.”

“She was not seen leaving. But with all the coming and going, it would be easy to miss one woman.” The fingers on the chair’s controls twitched, belying the attempt at confidence.

“Amin.” The Ruxilian who had supervised the unloading of the
Castel
ran to them, gesturing strangely—not the wave for attracting attention nor the hand flick of a summons. Restless motion. Agitation with none of the grace he had displayed when Romir had first seen him.

“Inuoie.” The ailing man turned a face of fearful hope to the newcomer, his concern plain for all to see. “Asrial?”

The bony plates of the Ruxilian’s head were inexpressive, but his long fingers moved jerkily, the arms stiff with tension. “No, but a Jenin was found dead nearby. Killed by stunner blast. I have seen such before.”

Romir realized this Inuoie meant one of the tiny winged beings that accompanied the Ruxilian buyer. One had been flitting around near Asrial earlier; he had noticed since the Jenins reminded him of the
mazzi
the Mughelis used for spying; such small, light creatures were easily overlooked, especially when they were motionless. Now one was dead, and Asrial was missing.

Her entire body
ached—and not in a good way. Even her thumbs and cheeks hurt. As if all her muscles had suffered a massive cramp. Simultaneously. Total system meltdown. Asrial couldn’t prevent a groan from escaping. She hated stunner hangovers. Lucky for her, she hadn’t bitten her tongue.

What had happened? A bar brawl? Bar jaunts were the only times she’d been stunned, but she hadn’t taken part in one of those in ages. These days, she preferred to avoid the fines.

But wait . . . she was on Lyrel 9, and she made a point not to get into trouble on that station.

Memories started to trickle back.
The auction! That’s right.
She’d been with Amin and . . .

Her head throbbed like it was going to shake itself to pieces, and her swollen fingers weren’t far behind. She thrust back the darkness clinging to her thoughts. Even if she could do nothing about her situation at the moment, it was still better to know what she faced.

Pressure on her stomach and blood rushing to her head told her she was slung over something bony. She wasn’t in the hands of station security, that was for certain. They used bots to handle stun cases.

“Put her there.” The nasal voice combined with the awkward stress on the consonants identified the speaker to her ear: Volsung. The sneaky, spindly Cyrian bastard.

The one carrying her dumped her on the deck, the impact adding insult to injury—stars went nova inside her head. A Hagnashr. It figured. They usually forgot the other races weren’t as tough as they were.

Feeling all too vulnerable lying on her back and unable to move, she glared at the Cyrian, silently cursing him and her temporary paralysis. She couldn’t even get her throat to work properly.

“You’re awake.” Volsung smiled insincerely, electric blue optic hair waving about like a tangle of live cables. “Nothing personal. This is just business.”

Another Hagnashr towered behind the bastard, as broad as the rest of his race. Three to one. Even if she could twitch a finger to fire a stunner, she was outnumbered.

They stood around her as though having a woman sprawled at their feet were nothing out of the ordinary. She had a bad feeling the Cyrian wouldn’t cavil at slave running.

The Hagnashr who’d carried her pinched her arm between thick, blunt fingers, a contemplative look on his broad face. “Skinny, soft. Need to mark her up if you want good money.” He flexed a thick arm thoroughly covered with livid, puckered scars.

“Hands off,
ga’go
,” Volsung ordered in that short-of-breath manner of all Cyrians. Asrial could only wish she could make his shortness of breath a reality: a really tight chokehold would do it or even just two fingers, if one were determined enough—which she was. “She’s not for the meat market. The client’s paying good credits to get her alive and unharmed.”

She went cold. They’d paid the auction earnest simply to get close to her? Who would go to such lengths to get their hands on her? She was a Rim rat. Just a Rim rat.

Several heartbeats passed before those thick fingers released her arm—an eternity to Asrial lying paralyzed on the cold floor. And even if she weren’t stunned, she couldn’t yet draw an easy breath: that delay suggested Volsung’s command over his crew was shaky.

The other Hagnashr looked familiar. Though he stood more than a head taller than Volsung, he was small for his race. One of his horns looked like it had broken off in a fight, but the tip of the stump had been sharpened to a wicked point. When he turned to snarl at his companion, the new angle jarred her memory: Eskarion 14. One of the gamblers near the
Castel
’s bay. His presence there hadn’t been a coincidence. They’d followed her from the Rim to Lyrel 9—which meant Volsung’s history as an Inner Worlds trader was all a sham to get her to drop her guard.

Her abduction had to be part of some greater scheme. If just any Rim rat would do, they could have taken someone on Eskarion 14. But they hadn’t. They wanted her—specifically.

“That is enough.” Volsung jerked his chin toward the door, a unspoken order to precede him. The Hagnash obeyed with much grumbling and dark looks, a mismatched pair of hulking threat—as if her lying paralyzed on the floor wasn’t enough.

The door hissed as they approached, then slid open. They were met by a tall Xer who came to the top of the shorter Hagnashr’s shoulders and an otherwise empty corridor. Squinting large red eyes at the tablet he held at arm’s length, the Xer started talking. “I got us moved to a slot in tomorrow’s second transit. That was the earliest Rakel could fit us in.”

Volsung made a strange sound halfway between a whistling chirp and a grunt. “It’ll have to do. Recall the crew and—”

The door’s closure cut off the rest of the conversation, but her situation was clear: she was on a ship, and they planned to depart within the next station cycle. An earlier departure because they had what they’d come for?

Asrial cursed and didn’t bother to do it silently. Running her mouth and doing it properly helped to distract her from her situation—which didn’t look good. Amin would wonder where she’d gone, but would it be in time? Station admin couldn’t search a ship without strong evidence. Convincing them to lock down a ship would be even more difficult. While they were busy going through all the proper channels, this ship would have left already.

Taking her with it.

Volsung would get away with her kidnapping.

Her muscles twitched uncontrollably as they recovered from the stunner beam. The misery of the constant shivers only heightened her damnable helplessness. Even if she somehow got her hands on a stunner, she wouldn’t be able to hold it—much less aim it.

She would fail Amin . . . and Romir.

No one knew to look for her. She’d gone off with Volsung to discuss business without word to anyone. A few clicks of her time, he’d said, mentioning a premium for acquisition of a particular Majian artifact, and was she interested in discussing a contract? She’d taken the bait like an idiot, not passing him on to Amin, since she wasn’t certain she would accept.

His few clicks were shaping into the rest of her—probably short—life.

Frustration had Asrial at the point of tears, the walls blurring before her eyes. She could barely move her head. They must have blasted her several times for the paralysis to linger so long. At this rate, Volsung would leave the station before she got back on her feet.