WARP world (29 page)

He covertly checked the micro-chack concealed beneath his overcoat and turned his eyes to the tactical aspects of the area. Though he was not schooled in
military theory
as a raider, a Theorist had to be versed enough to be able to select attainable targets.

The first thing that struck him was the Shasir’s misguided confidence in their ability to control the vertical dimension. The walls were formidable, but only designed to hold off raging peasant mobs or reasonably well-organized foot soldiers. A vertical attack played to the strengths of raider organization, which operated heavily through the use of vertical take-off/landing craft and could bypass the defenses to be in amidst the Outers before they even knew what was happening. A single squadron of fighters could make short work of Shasir airpower, and aerial drones could handle local fire support.

The Welf attendants would make good caj, those who survived. The Shasir would probably fetch a pretty price as well–many Houses collected such pampered creatures to delight in the pompous mighty brought low. His only concern was vita, but sponsors expected reports on all aspects of a raid.

Those were details to consider once all the mission data had been collected. Right now, he allowed himself to be led to the gates of the temple. He analyzed the structure before him.

In a pinch, the wall could be brought down with sufficiently powerful demolition charges. A direct approach would be costly but those were details for more military minded men than himself.

As he considered his tactical options, he maintained a light chatter with Ama.

Storm but he felt alive at this moment. He glanced at her, his one companion on a hostile world; the corners of his mouth pulled upward.

The lacquered wood floor in the office of T’ueve’s Port Captain was worn thin from the daily passage of boots over its surface. Today the office was unnaturally silent, the heavy door closed for the first time since Port Captain Priot could remember. Head Constable Dagga’s imposing frame, along with two local constables, filled much of the space. As the Port Captain passed the main manifest to Dagga, he studied the man’s face.

He had never seen Dagga in person before today, but his story had been whispered in every Port House from the Rift Tribu to the tip of Malvid. The scars on his head weren’t nearly as gruesome as Priot had heard told. However, he had witnessed the execution of one of the six Kenda who had given Dagga those scars—a man relentlessly hunted by the constable for over two years—and that man’s suffering needed no exaggeration.

“Registered yesterday?” Dagga asked, not raising his eyes from the list of names in his hands.

“Yes, Head Constable, I registered her myself. I only received the Notice of Correction this morning or I would have summoned the constables earlier.” He was telling the truth; he didn’t need any grief from the authorities, he already got plenty of that as it was.

“And now?” Dagga raised his eyes to meet those of the wizened Port Captain, his meaning clear. He knew very well that the man kept ears and eyes on the docks at all time.

“She hired a cartul and driver; she and her passenger are on their way to the Sky Temple.”

Dagga pulled his blade from its sheath and turned to the constable on his left, “I want a squad ready to leave for the Sky Temple, heavily armed. Set a guard detail on that boat. Now!”

The Port Captain blanched.

Dagga shoved the manifest back into the man’s hand and pointed the tip of the blade between his eyes. “I hear one word of this on the docks, you’ll be strung up and torn along with the traitors. Same for any water rat that helps ’em.”

Port Captain Priot didn’t reply and knew he wasn’t expected to. When Dagga was gone, his eyes dropped down to the manifest. He read and re-read the entry.

Vessel: Naida

Captain: Amadahy Kalder

Crew: None

Passengers: One

He said a silent prayer to Nen, though he knew, with Dagga hunting her, Captain Kalder’s life was already ended.

The cartul slowed to a stop as it pulled up to the front gate of the temple entrance. Ama straightened her dress and the veil covering her face.

Seg offered her a polite smile. In return, she gave a smile and nod of her own.

Four armed guards were stationed out front. The porters carried the trunk, containing their offering, to the guards for inspection. Because it would be an insult to look through the offering before their eyes, Seg and Ama remained in the cartul. When the contents were cleared, the driver dismounted and opened the cartul door. Ama waited for Seg to offer his hand, then descended to the earth.

Even without formal shoes on, she didn’t figure she could ever get used to living on a surface that didn’t move beneath her.

Rigid and unmoving, the Temple Keeper could have passed for one of the stone statues that adorned the temple entrance. Seg approached him, gave the formal bow she had shown him, raised his palms skyward in respect and made their request for an audience with Stevan. Ama waited next to the cartul, holding her breath.

If the Temple Keeper raised his right arm, they were in. If his left arm went up, they would be trekking back to the
Naida
empty handed.

This would be her only opportunity to get her brother away to safety.

Please let Seg be convincing.

Ama had told him this would be the first real test of their disguises. Seg steeled himself for it and reasoned that a certain amount of nervousness would be expected in one used to being deferred to but who now had to defer to the highest authority.

The Temple Keeper was draped in layer upon layer of blue robes, which made him look like a miniature ocean. Atop his head, a heavy, bell-shaped hat reached toward the sky. His movements were slow and methodical, which to believers must have appeared regal but, in reality, were obviously necessitated by the cumbersome wardrobe.

This was Seg’s first dealing with the Shasir apart from the one the squad had captured. Useless creatures. If he were following an ortho path, he would never have excluded the Kenda from his target profile; they were clearly the most worthy Outers of the bunch. But caj were secondary to vita, and the Welf would make adequate labor stock.

He was careful to not to show any contempt on his face and strove to appear humble. There was a long, long moment, before the Temple Keeper gave his answer. Seg was tempted to simply shoot him. At last, the man raised his right arm.

Seg relaxed ever so slightly and made the proper sign of deference before he turned and gestured to Ama to come to his side.

One test passed. He didn’t even pause to relish it as he applied his mind to the next trial.

The trunk was hefted by the porters and carried off in a separate direction. As they walked along the neatly trimmed paths, Ama’s fingers dug into his offered arm. He glanced down and saw her eyes surveying the geography in a methodical sweep.
Scouting, as any good navigator would
, he mused.

The temple was a sprawling structure. Three levels high, with spires that stretched further skyward, Stevan’s sanctuary, according to Ama, would be on the second level. Their Shasir escort led them up a set of smooth, stone stairs and along a covered walkway, facing the cliff. Over the edge of the cliff, above the waterfall, was a long, curved platform, which he recognized, from the Shasir data he had read, as a stage used for various ceremonies. He couldn’t help comparing it to the Killing Cliff of Alisir and wondered if any unfortunate souls had met their end by being herded over the steep drop. The wind was picking up; he could smell the water of the falls.

They were taken to a small library and offered seats to relax in while Stevan—or Shasir’dua Kalder, as he would have to be addressed—received word of their arrival and prepared for the blessing.

As Seg helped her into her chair, Ama flashed him a brief look, a shared message he understood clearly:
I despise these old men and their ceremony.

Then they waited. As she had warned him, nothing happened quickly in the world of the Shasir.

Seg had plenty to occupy him. The books around him, for starters. He understood that many societies regarded paper as a disposable trifle, but it boggled his mind to be surrounded by such a casual display of splendor. During his training, he hadn’t been allowed to use paper for anything until his final year. Those final projects and reports, written on the crudest of rough processed huchack fiber, became a part of the graduate record of a Theorist, forming the beginnings of their documented careers.

His own small collection of paper books was perhaps his only treasured possession. But his pitiful collection was nothing compared to the wealth on the three walls around him, a mere grain of sand in a windstorm. Someday, though, his collection would be large, larger even than this one.

More importantly, however, there were the vita readings to consider.

He arranged his hands so he could stare at the digifilm in his palm, to ensure the readings were being gathered properly. He had a deep desire to physically follow the readings, as he had at the Welf temple, but his movements here were controlled and observed. He would have to content himself with this until he and Ama made their break.

So far, though, he didn’t like what he was seeing. The readings were surprisingly low for being in such a ‘holy place’.

Vita levels increased both with the significance of the object or person, and the number of worshippers/admirers. It was not unheard of for cynical religious manipulators to produce disappointing crops of vita, but he had hoped here that the residuals from outside devotees would raise the levels into sufficiency.

Then again, a negative result could be just as useful as a positive. It was also important to remember that the results were only disappointing for this overly rich world; on other worlds, such readings would indicate a
prime target
.

He had to admit that part of his eagerness stemmed from a desire to grind the Shasir down, but if they weren’t the ideal target, he couldn’t allow such emotional considerations into the equation. Besides, they would suffer enough in the raid, even if their prime temple didn’t make the cut as a target.

Ama’s elbow, nudging his, broke Seg away from his thoughts. When he turned his eyes to her, she gestured to a light fixture on the wall. “How does that magic work?” she whispered.

The glowing bulb was covered by a globe of intricately designed glass laid out in a mosaic; all shades of blue, reflecting the Shasir’s reverence for their sky. “Electricity,” Seg muttered, under his breath.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

He paused to consider an easy explanation. She might understand the theory if he explained it in detail, she wasn’t stupid, but now was neither the time nor place to give such a lengthy lesson.

“You know the lightning bolts in thunderstorms?”

“Yes.”

“Well, electricity is just a scientific means by which you can control and contain the lightning.”

“There’s lightning inside of that?” she nodded to the light again.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How does it—”

Ama’s whispered question was interrupted by the reappearance of their escort. “The Shasir’dua is ready for you.”

After the requisite bows and gestures were exchanged, they walked down a long hall. A series of ornately carved wooden doors dotted the length of both sides, interrupted by the occasional nondescript door that almost blended in with the wall. Ama was struck by the silence. She knew, from Stevan’s descriptions, that hundreds of Shasir lived here, with an army of Welf to serve them, but the temple was so quiet it felt deserted. The escort stopped in front of a door, opened it and gestured for Ama and Seg to enter.

Stevan’s sanctuary was larger than she had imagined. It was basically one square, open room, with a series of wide pillars on either side and a heavy curtain across the end, covering his sleeping and bathing area. Furniture was sparse, though tables held bits of Shasir ‘magic’ and there were shelves full of books. Her brother Stevan stood in the center of it all, dressed in ceremonial robes and a tall hat that seemed to swallow his head. She was seized with an urge to run and tackle him, swipe the silly hat off his head and make him chase her to get it back, as she might have done when they were children.