WARP world (38 page)

“Just like he’ll kill your men if—”

“Wait,” Seg cut in, loud enough to break through the storm between the two cousins, now inches apart and red-faced. “Don’t send any of your men,” he said to Brin. Then he turned to Ama, “Your emotion is muddying your judgment. The objective is to free your father and this will not be achieved by your sacrifice. Dagga will be prepared for anything either of you do. But when my People come …” his eyes moved to the far wall as he considered possibilities. “When they come, then you will have surprise. And opportunity.”

“My father could be dead by then,” Ama protested.

“He could be dead already,” Brin said, his tone grave.

“Don’t say that,” Ama said, her stance shifting as if preparing for a brawl.

“We will operate on the assumption he’s alive,” Seg said to Brin, but for Ama’s benefit. “Get my fifty and get them ready. You’ll provide me with details of the prison; I will arrange an air strike and weapons the Damiar guards cannot defend against. When I return to this world, we will retrieve the man,” he fixed his eyes on Ama, “and kill this Dagga.”

“If your people are capable of all you say, your plan has merit,” Brin said, scratching his beard.

“Swear to it,” Ama said to Seg. “Give me your oath you’ll do what you promise.”

Seg raised his open palm, “I could manufacture some god or force that my people swear by, but we don’t have such things. You have my word.”

Ama studied his face, then her eyes moved down to his bandaged shoulder. That seemed to satisfy her. “Your word. Very well.”

Despite his injuries, Brin straightened to his full height, his head nearly brushing the ceiling, “About the matter of your fifty men.” His one good eye was fixed squarely on Seg as he drew his blade from its sheath.

“Yes,” Seg said, “I’ll understand if you haven’t had time to assemble them yet.” He watched the blade, ready to move in case Brin had been faking the extent of his injuries and had decided to collect a bounty.

Brin shifted the knife awkwardly to his bandaged hand. He could barely grip the hilt but, even so, he held his uninjured hand aloft and drew the tip of the blade across his palm, opening a long, thin cut. He motioned for Seg to hold up his right hand.

Seg recognized the significance of a blood exchange ritual and hoped his vaccinations and preparatory treatments were up to whatever strange pathogens the Outer might have as Brin drew the blade across his own hand. The blade was sharp and parted the skin with only the slightest of stings, which intensified as Seg unconsciously flexed his palm.

Brin returned the knife to its sheath, then leaned over the table and held his hand above the cup of water there. He allowed a single drop of blood to fall, then held the cup out to Seg. After collecting a drop of Seg’s blood, he swished the contents of the cup, took a hefty drink and passed it off.

Seg’s stomach churned. The ritual served as a reminder that even though he felt an instinctive kinship to this Outer, the other was still a primitive barbarian, one of the entrail-eating cannibals he had been warned about.

He lifted the cup to his lips and took a drink. The water was almost flavorless, but he could swear that there was a faint salty tang to it. He smacked the cup back down on the table and repeated the words to Brin that he had learned in the Kenda tongue. “Blood for water.”

“Blood for water,” Brin repeated, after a pause, then added, “brother.” He wiped his bloodied hand on his trousers, “Now, Segkel Eraranat, of the nameless people, you are Kenda. Yes, I will give you your fifty men. Fifty
brothers
.”

“I—” Seg began, with a throat suddenly dry. He stared at the cup, the only source of fluid available, then swallowed and cleared his throat, surprised to find his voice hoarse with emotion. “Thank you, brother. I will care for them as my own.”

“I know you will,” Brin said. “And Ama, you have a mission of your own.” He turned to face his cousin, “Get him to his people. Everything depends on that.”

“I will,” Ama answered.

“Once he’s safely away, keep moving east through the Humish Valley, until you come to the Milabek River.” Both Brin and Ama touched their index and middle fingers to their lips at the mention of the river’s name. “There’s a small cottage just beyond the ferry crossing. You’ll see the signal flag; it’s a safe house. When your father is freed, we’ll bring him there.” He tilted his head down to fix her with a stern look. “No sudden heroics or crazy schemes. If you don’t make it to the cottage, we’ll assume the worst and plan the rescue without the aide of our brother Seg.”

“I’ll make it,” Ama said, then turned to Seg. “We’ll save him.”

“We will,” Seg affirmed, full of conviction.

She stepped forward, as if she would embrace him, then stopped herself. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her cousin, who folded her into his wide chest and held her tightly.

“Come on then, we should hurry.” Brin kissed the top of Ama’s head, scooped up both packs in his one hand, and gestured toward the open wall. “I have a cartul rigged to smuggle you out of the city while it’s still dark. I’ll take you as far as I can, then you’ll have to walk.” He lifted his face to Seg, “When we are out of the city, we will talk more of your plans.”

Ama was the last to enter the tunnel. When she pulled the wall closed, they were encased in blackness. Blind, she groped her way forward. Seg felt her hand brush his leg. His hand found hers and guided her forward through the darkness, a thin line of blood slick against their joined palms.

T
he ride out of T’ueve had been long, bumpy, and punctuated by stifled cries of pain from the two fugitives hidden in the cartul’s secret compartment. Once free, Seg and Ama had paused only long enough to work out the details of their plans for the raid with Brin before resuming their journey on foot. Avoiding the authorities meant avoiding the main roads, sleeping in the woods or wherever they could find enough cover, and never letting down their guard. Injured, hunted and exposed to the elements, every day was a test and yet, to Seg’s surprise, the unending hardship was compensated by the camaraderie that developed between he and Ama. Along the way, she began teaching him the language, stories, history and customs of the Kenda and, in return, he explained the fundamentals of such wonders as electricity and radio waves. Both were as eager to teach as to learn, and in those moments they could almost forget their aching wounds and empty stomachs.

Then, seven days into their new life on the run, luck finally chose to smile on them. In the Largent Valley, a Kenda family offered to hide them for the night.

After a week sleeping on the damp ground, huddled together under the cover of brush, surviving on whatever morsels of food they could steal or forage, Seg thought the Kenda boathouse might as well have been a House estate for all its luxury. Tonight, warm, dry boat skins would be their bed; smoked fish, cream and kembleberries their dinner. The family hiding them—a husband and wife, their child and the boy’s grandfather—had even provided a lantern. Light, shelter, food–in a very short time he had developed a new appreciation for these most primitive necessities.

Ama, sitting cross-legged beside him, held up one of the few remaining pieces of fish between her fingers. When he reached for it, she pulled it away and cocked her head questioningly. Seg frowned and dug into his memory.

“
Larula
,” Seg said, the Kenda word for fish.

“Not bad.” Ama smiled and held the morsel to his lips. “The r sound is softer, though, almost like an l.”

He ate, though not with the ferocity they had both attacked the food at first.

“This method of language acquisition is difficult,” he said, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes, but if the Shasir or the Damiar had those—” Ama paused, waving her hand in a circle as she searched for the word.

“Chatterers,” Seg supplied. “And, yes, it is fortuitous that your enemies do not possess such technology. Given the history, your people’s determination to ensure the survival of your native tongue was clever and likely risk—” he stopped, winced and drew in a sharp breath.

“Your shoulder?” Ama asked, and pushed the plate aside before Seg could answer.

He raised his one free hand, as if to stop her, but in their travels he had learned that when Ama set her mind on something all arguments were useless.

She lifted the right side of his shirt, looked underneath, and let out a murmur of disapproval. “I’ll get the slivee,” she said, then hopped off the stack of skins to fetch her pack, and the healing leaves she made a point of collecting as they traveled.

“It appears worse than it is,” he said, a blatant lie. Forced to carry his pack on one side, it had come down to a competition of which shoulder was most miserable. The left pained constantly from the broken collarbone, the right was chafed raw from the strap and the weight of his pack.

“Here, let’s get this off,” Ama said, as she undid the first three buttons of his shirt and pulled the collar down. When his shoulder was bare, she mashed the leaves between her hands, working them to a pulp. “At least we’ll be dry tonight, maybe it will heal a bit.”

As she laid her hand, with the leaf pulp, over the burning wound on his shoulder, Seg could not help closing his eyes and letting out a relieved breath. Ama’s hand was cool, soothing, and the mild tingling promised a reprieve from the ache.

“We were lucky to find this place,” she said, her voice low as she worked the pulp into the wound. “The family told me the Shasir have ordered all of the Kenda out of the valley, most have gone already. They’re doing something to the Largent River.”

“A dam?” Seg asked, recalling the unusual stacks of rocks and timber they had passed when they had crossed the bridge over the river.

“Perhaps. Not for us to know.”

“Even if that’s the case, mass relocation seems impractical. I doubt the flooding would be significant enough to necessitate such measures.”

“They don’t care about that. The spooks don’t like eyes on their…magic.” She said the last word with emphasis, knowing his distaste for it. “Whatever it is, the Kenda who’ve lived here for generations, fishing and harvesting praffa grass, are moving out; Welf workers are moving in. There’s been some trouble downriver, Kenda who resisted. Constables burned some shops and houses. Boats and nets too, of course.”

“Of course. That would explain the deserted homes and empty roads we passed.”

These had made Ama wary and she had suggested pushing straight through the valley, even if it meant walking all night. Trusting her judgment, he had agreed, but then the rain had started. By the time they had spotted the cottage with the blue and yellow signal flag, the thought of a dry sleep and a real meal made their fears seem suddenly trivial.

“Unfortunate for your people, but at least we may sleep somewhat easier this evening,” he said.

“Small mercies.” Ama gently lifted her hand from his shoulder. “Better?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes to see her face inches from his, her lips stained red from the berries. “Thank you.”

The words seemed laughably minuscule. Without her, he could not have hoped to make it this far alive. Against all instincts, he had to admit that Ama was as resourceful, clever, courageous and as deserving of the title ‘Person’ as anyone on the World. The implications of this thought disturbed him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, head tilted.

“No,” he answered, shaking off the thoughts and the question with a wave of his hand. “Aside from fatigue.”

“I’m dead on my feet, too,” she agreed, pulled away and reached for the lantern. “I asked the family to—”

A loud bang on the boathouse door stopped her.

“Authorities!” the voice of the grandfather warned them as the door flung open and revealed his black outline. “The authorities are on their way, you have to leave.”

Ama and Seg leapt to their feet and scrambled to grab their packs and the clothes they had hung to dry.

“Hurry, hurry,” the grandfather urged. “Riders were spotted on the bridge and th—”

The air cracked open, another loud bang cut short his warning. The man rocked forward, stumbled and dropped to the floor in a cloud of smoke.

Ama gasped as blood spread from the fallen man’s torso. Seg cursed their failure to survey exit points and keep their weapons close at hand. If there was another way out, he could not see it. There were two small windows, both far too high to reach; a wall of uniformed constables blocked the only escape. His pistols and stunner were in his pack. He lunged for it but a familiar voice halted him.

“One twitch and I open this one up,” Dagga said, and pushed a small boy into the boathouse, his blade pressed to the delicate throat. The boy’s bright blue eyes darted down to his grandfather. Above him, Dagga loomed like a giant, the lantern light reflecting off his bald head and its web of scars.

Seg and Ama halted, their bodies locked in place. Two constables rushed inside. Seg felt the hard, cold metal of a gun muzzle against his temple; a gun was raised to Ama’s head, as well.

“Tie him up and bring in the rest,” Dagga ordered as he shoved the boy to one side. “Don’t want any of ’em sneaking around.”