WARP world (44 page)

There was no space between the thunder and lightning any longer. Small rivers ran down the dirt roads, and the driving rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Ama ran with purpose. Seg was equally anxious to find shelter, but when the next flash of lightning showed the sprawling mansion ahead, he latched his hand onto one of the packs she carried, to slow her.

“Are you insane? That’s a Damiar estate!” he shouted over the howl of the wind and rain.

“It’s deserted. The family’s left Sansin,” she shouted back.

“How do you know there are no constables in there?”

“Do you see any lights? Besides, it’s the last place they’d expect us to hide.”

With that, she resumed her run. Soaked through and shivering, Seg followed.

As they got closer, Seg could see statues that had been knocked over and smashed, a half-burned luxury cartul, and, most notably, a blue and yellow signal flag nailed to the front door.

It was that defiled, ornate door that Ama stood in front of now, body shaking and teeth chattering uncontrollably. She dropped both packs, dug through hers, then pulled out two long, slender pieces of metal. These she fit into the keyhole of the door, cursing at her quaking hands as she attempted to circumvent the lock.

Seg did his best to wait patiently, while the rain slashed sideways against him, chilling him to the bone.

At last there was a
click
. Ama grabbed the handle but the wind took the door, flinging it open with a
bang
that was barely masked by thunder. They both hurried inside, any concern for potential occupants driven away by the summer storm. Ama closed the door and Seg leaned against it to help keep it shut while she re-engaged the lock.

“Th-th-is way,” Ama stuttered, as she turned from the sprawling entryway and walked down a wide passage.

The interior of the house was dark. And cold. His teeth chattered as he dripped his way across the smooth stone floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dim space, he followed her into what must have been the main sitting room–a cavernous, sterile place, with a fireplace a man could stand inside and several loungers and chairs not designed for comfort, the only item of warmth, a wide, plush rug. The inhabitants had not been gone long; the furniture covers had not even gathered dust.

Ama slid one of these covers off, shook it out, and eyed it appraisingly. “We’ll have to leave as soon as the storm passes.” All business now, she tossed the cover to Seg, and pulled off another one for herself. “I’ll light a fire if there’s wood, no one will notice it in this storm. And we can use these to keep warm while our clothes dry.”

She faced away from him as she pulled off and discarded her sodden shirt. His hand rose to the buttons of his shirt, but paused at the sight of her bare back.

“Ah,” he said, then forced his eyes away from her, “yes, yes.” He tried to follow her example, but with one arm the going was difficult; the clothing stuck to his skin tenaciously. The water pressed upon him, oozed tracks down his body and dripped from his hair. He shook his head, droplets of water flew everywhere.

Ama stepped forward, holding her wrap together as she worked at the buttons of his shirt.

“You should have seen Dagga when he found out you’d escaped,” she said, grinning and moving awkwardly to slide his sleeve off as Seg shivered.

He twisted as she pulled the soggy clothing from his body. “And you? Did your people free you as well?”

“They couldn’t. So I took one of the constables for a swim. Turns out he couldn’t hold his breath as long as me.” She gestured for him to use her shoulder for balance, as she tugged off his boots. “How did you make it this far alone?”

“Apparently I was dirty enough to pass for a Welf, and they are invisible on your world.”

He became suddenly aware of her presence as she pulled his trousers away. He lifted his leg awkwardly, nearly overbalancing. The cover had slid away from her as she knelt, and once more he stared at her flesh.

Awkward electricity filled the air, which Seg did his best to ignore.

Ama stood before she realized she was exposed, then quickly pulled the material up to cover herself.

As she helped him wrap the cover around his shoulders, cinching it with a loose knot,her hand brushed his bare skin.

“I should light a fire,” she said, but didn’t move.

“That would be good,” he agreed, staring down at her.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then backed away and pattered, barefooted, to the wood box. “Son of whore!” she cursed, as she tossed a few skinny sticks into the fireplace.

She looked around the room, her eyes lit on a picture hanging on the wall and she smiled. “Aha!” she pulled down the picture, tossed it into the fireplace, then struck a match from the box on the mantle. The stern face of a Damiar Lord ignited and Ama immediately set to finding more burnables.

“Help me,” she said to Seg. “Anything that will burn, toss it in.”

“Yes,” he agreed, looking around. He pulled down another picture, an image of a dour-looking matriarch and crossed the room to deposit it into the fireplace. He saw her about to heft a book into the flames and shook his head. “Wait!”

“What?” She paused, her gaze curious; she glanced from the book to Seg. “It’s just a book.”

He snatched it from her hand. “Just a book? Are you insane?” He turned away from her and pulled the book close as if to protect it from her barbaric impulses.

“You sound like Stevan,” she said. The comparison had rolled off her tongue naturally, but a moment after the words were out Ama’s face clouded.

She pushed her way past him, ripped another picture off the wall, a Damiar family, safe and happy, surrounded by luxury. She smashed the frame against the stone floor and hurled it into the fire, where the now crackling flames devoured it, as she muttered curses in Kenda.

Seg put the book on a table, and used the edge of his cover to wipe the wet handprints away from the front of it. Stupid to be so sentimental about such things, perhaps, but in its way the book was a treasure.

The fire, now fed with some pieces of furniture, burned with reassuring strength. He stepped past Ama and opened the heavy cover slightly, letting the warmth seep in against his chilled skin.

The fire was burning well but the fire inside of Ama was only beginning to catch, he could see. A fire that demanded fuel. She hurled everything she could lay her hands on into the flame, smashing what was smashable, until the cover was most of the way off her body and the flames threatened to burst from their cage.

She raised her hand to throw in a chair leg and Seg grasped her wrist. “Ama, enough. The fire is burning sufficiently.”

She struggled against him and he braced himself for the argument. To his surprise, she simply let the chair leg drop and the cover along with it.

Lightning flashed, silhouetting her. He pulled her wrist and they crashed together just ahead of the thunder.

Then they were falling, a slow twisting motion that took them to the floor, legs entertwined. She ground against him, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He pulled away, wiped his lip, then snaked his hand around her neck, tugged and fumbled at the strings on her nove, until they pulled free. He yanked the collar loose and tossed it aside, glaring a challenge down at her.

She looked up at him, dathe exposed, naked in a way that transcended lack of clothing. Her eyes were a deep amber, desire on their surface, answering his challenge with one of her own.

He traced his fingers over the tiny slits on her neck, stretching the moment out as she shivered. Her back arched, her head tilted back, revealing even more of her neck. He dropped down and pressed her to the floor, the pent-up frustrations and exertions of the entire expedition burning in him.

Each low, animal rumble that reverberated from him was echoed back from her; they attacked more than caressed. Seg clamped his mouth down on Ama’s neck, the edge of his teeth just grazing her dathe, as determined and ferocious as the drexla who had stalked her. She let out a savage howl, bucking at the sensation but at the same time opening herself to him.

Behind them, the fire cracked and spit, hissing as it found knots in the wood. He was lost in her in a way that he had never been before, pushing against her as she pushed against him, feeling her fight, yield, then come back and fight again.

She raised a hand as if to strike him; he caught her wrist and pinned it to the ground, above her head. A series of shudders rippled across her body and his responded, driving into her while the fingers of her free hand gripped his skin and urged him deeper.

And then he was gone, surrendering to the storm.

His mouth was open, lips pressed against her dathe; she quivered as they lay tangled, in each other and the covers.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said, voice husky.

Seg raised his mouth to her ear, “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Judicia Serval examined his fingernails. Not that they were in any need of grooming, but the task gave him something to focus on. Something other than the muted screams from behind the door. As eager as he was, as everyone was, to see the recent waves of rebellion and resistance cease, he was equally eager to see the back of Head Constable Dagga.

His fingers curled as another long shriek echoed through his office. There were rooms for this sort of questioning but Dagga didn’t care. He had dragged the Kenda rebel into the detention room, lashed him to a chair, slammed the door shut and locked it without a pause to ask permission or offer a polite word.

With a scrape, Serval pushed out his chair, pulled his glasses from his breast pocket, slipped them on and strolled to the far side of the office. An elaborately painted map covered one wall. It was to this he turned his attention.

His eyes followed the path of the Gwai River. Constables had been stationed at every possible point the Kalder woman could have exited. Word had been spread concerning the reward for her capture and the punishment for aiding her, or withholding information.

No one had come forward.

Ama Kalder was dead. Doubtless they would find her body washed up soon enough. But Dagga refused to listen to reason; he was convinced of some larger conspiracy. Unfortunately, the Shasir in T’ueve agreed with him and had bestowed temporary, and wide ranging, powers to the belligerent little despot.

He realized, absently, that the screaming had stopped. Perhaps, once the mess was cleaned up, he could get on with his many pressing, legitimate duties.

The door flung open, Dagga marched out of the detention room.

“She’s alive,” he proclaimed.

“Are you certain?” Serval asked, adjusting his glasses.

Ignoring the question, Dagga shoved Serval to one side and drove his knife into the map. “Get me every available man, armed and ready to ride. And send a message to the temple.”

“What shall I say?” Serval inquired.

“Say I know where to find them,” Dagga said, and removed the knife with a victorious yank. “Tell ’em this time I kill the traitors on sight.”

In that moment, Serval got his wish. He watched Dagga’s back, as he strode out of the office, and let out a relieved breath.

He turned to the map, to the point where Dagga’s blade had entered. A river of blood now ran through the Humish Valley.

On the rug, cover puddled around his feet, Seg sat with his back against one the few chairs that had not been fed to the fire. They kept wary ears open for intruders and their knives and packs close at hand. But as long as the rain fell, they were content to stay inside where it was dry.

He leaned his head back and stared at the skipping shadows on the wall as the fire popped and crackled. From there, his eyes moved around the room. Whoever had lived here, theirs was a life of privilege, near the top of the social strata on Ama’s world. Wealth, power, and all the trappings that went with that. Exactly what he had always dreamed of.

And yet, the only life in this room came from him and Ama. Particularly Ama. On her boat, in the squall, he had felt alive in a way he had never imagined possible. Even being on the run with her, despite the very real dangers and trials they had endured, was exhilarating. This wasn’t the dry and regimented cultural infiltration he had been schooled in, this was exploration in its purest form. And it was intoxicating.