Reap the Wild Wind (26 page)

Chapter 21

A
RYL DIDN’T NEED TO UNDERSTAND the words to recognize an argument with her at its heart. The strangers may have worked together, and quickly, to snag her harness with long hooks and pull her alongside. They’d cut her free of the gourds and helped her up stairs of metal from the water, opening and closing a gate in a formidable railing that ran around the entire floating platform. From its tips of outward-bent spikes, they were well aware of what lived in the Lake of Fire.
From the gestures and angry tones of the three now in front of her, they didn’t agree on much else.
Two she’d seen before. The Om’ray-who-wasn’t talked the least, his eyes hidden behind pale green ovals that wrapped around the upper part of his face. The huge creature, neither Oud nor Tikitik, talked the most, its voice like the thunder rumbling in the distance. Tall and wide from front to back, it had round eyes enough for a dozen Tikitik, all busy moving between two halves of black gleaming shell. Its body was covered in more shell, but fasteners had been drilled into it to hold what were either ugly ornaments or an assortment of unknown tools. Or both. It snapped the larger of two sets of claws for emphasis as it bellowed.
The third was new to her. Pale-skinned and fragile-seeming, it leaned toward whomever spoke, as if physically displaying agreement with one side or the other, or hard of hearing. Leaning was easy; its body was so thin Aryl wondered how organs could fit inside. Its hairless head was long and thin as well, with a pair of large eyes on each side of a prominent, hooked nose. The mouth was prim and disturbingly Om’ray-like. It wore, like the Om’ray-who-wasn’t, pants and a loosely-hanging shirt of that fine, brown fabric. No boots— but its long four-clawed feet would never have fit inside them. When it spoke, it sounded petulant, like a child too long without a nap, and waved its two sticklike arms in agitation.
Shivering, Aryl tried to make herself less conspicuous, staying hunched and quiet where they’d left her. She hadn’t understood if they’d wanted her to stand or sit— she’d sat anyway, too shaken to trust her feet so soon. Her hands explored the unusual surface that made the floor. Water from her dripping tunic and hair had soaked into it immediately, yet she felt no holes or porousness to the stuff. A cautious inspection from under lowered eyelids showed the same material in use for what she could see of the strangers’ . . . what was this? Too small for a village, too permanent for a day camp. Something between, she decided, sneaking a look at the metal tower. Maybe they thought themselves safe here, while they explored. Her eyes fastened greedily on the flying machine at the tower’s base— likely the same one she’d seen before.
“Who are?”
Real words? Aryl gaped, her eyes flashing to the shell-stranger. Real words had come out of it, from somewhere between its eyes. “I’m Aryl Sarc of the Yena Om’ray,” she said eagerly. “The Tikitik sent me. Who are you? What are you? Why—”
A claw raised slightly and she closed her mouth. “Seekers, we.” This with a sweep of the same claw to indicate the others.
Real words, but— Aryl frowned— not used properly. “Can— you— understand— me?” She spoke slowly and with emphasis, as if to her almost deaf great-aunt.
A noise came from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t that sounded exactly like a laugh. It— he— removed the ovals from his face. It was, Aryl saw, a perfectly normal Om’ray face, though older and starting to wrinkle around the eyes and mouth. Brown eyes, a normal smile. A nice face—
With
nothing
underneath. She flinched back involuntarily as her inner sense repudiated what she saw. “You aren’t real!” she declared, wrapping her arms around her body. “Go away!”
The smile disappeared. He glanced at his companions. The shell-stranger snapped its claw lightly this time, making a bell-like ring. “Real are,” it said. “Afraid, don’t.”
“Don’t be afraid,” she corrected, guessing what it meant. She wasn’t— not that she’d admit, anyway.
Another snap. “ ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Better is?”
Aryl tilted her head and considered it. Several eyes clustered to consider her in turn. For all its armor and natural weaponry, it didn’t seem threatening. “Better,” she agreed. “Why do you talk like that?” A breeze riffled over the lake; it stole what warmth she had left. Her teeth chattered as she spoke.
“Cold is.” More real words, this time from the mouth of the stick-stranger. They were oddly slurred, as if its teeth weren’t quite right. “Back go. Back go!”
It couldn’t mean into the water, Aryl hoped fervently.
“No.” This from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. He gestured to Aryl, a beckoning. “Come.” His tone and expression were kind.
Like the flowers that lured biters close, she decided. The kind that snapped shut to devour their helpless prey. She rose to her feet and edged closer to the shell-stranger. She couldn’t take her eyes from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. “What
are
you?”
The stick-stranger rattled off a stream of angry-sounding syllables. The shell-stranger interrupted with more of the same, much louder and low enough to vibrate through the floor. Aryl quickly stepped away from them both, glancing with dismay at the nearness of the railing and the water beyond. She looked back at the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. “Om’ray,” she stated desperately. She put her hand on her chest as if to reassure herself. “Om’ray.” She thrust a finger at him. “Not.”
His lips twisted up at one corner. Not quite a smile. “Om’ray, not.” He repeated her gesture, putting his own hand to his chest. “
Human
, me.
Human.
”
Meaningless sounds. She shuddered as much from frustration as chill. Why didn’t they talk in words that made sense?
He frowned and beckoned again, the gesture indicating she go to the building. The stick-stranger began shouting something incomprehensible, clearly unhappy with this decision. Aryl winced.
“Responsibility, mine,” the Om’ray-who-wasn’t said firmly. This silenced the other. An inner lid closed over each of its eyes, giving it the look of something dead. As if this expressed some final opinion, the stick-stranger walked away, swaying from side to side like a tree that had forgotten to fall.
Under any other circumstances, she’d have laughed.
“Responsibility, yours,” agreed the shell-stranger, but Aryl thought it sounded amused. “Better, how?” it said with a sly swing of several eyes her way.
“Better?” Belatedly, she realized it was asking her to help it speak. Which was ridiculous, since everyone knew how to talk from the moment they were old enough for their parents to give them words. Still. These obviously weren’t Om’ray. Maybe— Aryl took a wild guess— maybe for some reason they had to learn words, the way she had to learn the Tikitik’s writing. Why was another question. “It’s your responsibility.” This with the barest nod to the one calling himself Human as she said “your.”
“It’s
your
responsibility,
Marcus
!” The shell-creature appeared to delight in adding emphasis to its words. And words of its own.
Aryl rubbed her bare arms, starting to warm from the sun despite the breeze. Two could play the learning game, she decided. “ ‘Mar-cus?’ ” she echoed, making it a question.
The Om’ray-who-wasn’t bowed his head to her and touched his finger to a line of small symbols on his shirt, reminding her of the Tikitik when he said, as if reading, “Marcus Bowman. Triad First.” Then he pointed to himself. “Marcus.” Then at her, his eyebrows rising as if in question. “Arylsarc?”
“Aryl,” she corrected, unsure if she should fear her name in his mouth or not. But it was, she decided, civil behavior. As her mother would say, that was a start. “My name is Aryl.”
“Welcome, Aryl,” boomed the shell-stranger. It tapped its bulbous head with a claw, producing a dull thud. “My name is Janet Jim-bo Bob. Triad Third.”
“Your name not,” said Marcus quickly. He was, she noticed with astonishment, blushing. “Mistake was.”
The shell-stranger patted Marcus on the back with its great claw, making the other stagger. “It’s your responsibility.” Then it gave its booming laugh.
The two acted like friends, Aryl thought, despite their physical differences. Marcus made a face, just as Costa would have done when teased.
Marcus wasn’t real, she reminded herself, aghast at how quickly she’d begun to ignore her inner sense.
“My name is Janex Jymbobobii, Aryl.” This with another tap of claw to shell. “Janex.”
They both seemed to be waiting for something. All she could think of was to copy Marcus’ bow and repeat their short names. “Marcus. Janex.” How peculiar, to move her lips around totally new words. She tried another. “Human. Both?” she asked, pointing to each.
“Human, yes,” agreed Marcus, seeming pleased, then nodded at Janex. “Human, not.
Carasian
. Om’ray, you?”
Aryl sagged with relief. Despite the awkward phrasing, the meaning was clear. She couldn’t sense this Marcus as an Om’ray because he wasn’t one. He was this “Human”— some other creature altogether. There were many mimics in the canopy; some so perfect only a knife could tell them apart. Perhaps, she told herself gleefully, his blood was blue instead of red.
All she had to do was keep reminding herself he wasn’t what he appeared to be.
“Aryl. Come, please. Cold, not.”
The unexpected courtesy surprised her almost as much as Marcus’ worried frown. She took a step forward, a gesture he understood, for it brought a quick smile and wave toward the building.
Aryl walked between the two of them, the Carasian doing an excellent job of blocking what wind rose from the lake. It moved quietly on what looked more like balls than feet. When Janex noticed her interest, it paused and leaned to afford her a better view. “Rocks, good,” it informed her.
She eyed its bulk, amazed it had managed to walk along the nekis branch.
Did they recognize her? Could they?
Aryl wondered about this only until they reached the door, which was like no door she’d ever seen. There was no spindle on which it could turn open, nor handle to grasp. She looked at Marcus questioningly and he indicated a light green square of metal on the wall. He laid his palm against it.
The door moved itself out of the way.
Startled, Aryl stepped back. As quickly she moved forward again, her hands exploring the exposed doorframe. The door hadn’t disappeared. It had gone inside the hollow wall.
She flushed, angry with herself. Of course the strangers had unfamiliar technology. That was why she was here— to confirm whether they’d sent the device to disrupt the Harvest. The Tikitik were waiting for the answer.
Her hosts didn’t appear in a hurry to deliver her back to them.
Hopefully Thought Traveler would wait, she told herself, stepping through the strangers’ door.

* * *

“You’re not touching me.” Aryl kept her back to the wall as she glared at the stick-stranger.
“Safe are!”
She eyed the object in its twiggy hands— an object it had tried to press against her bare skin without permission— and shook her head. Hair tumbled into her eyes. She was a mess. And cold. And hungry.
And this thing persistently got in her way. If she wasn’t afraid it would snap in two, she’d push past it and out of this odd little room where they’d left her. “Stay away from me,” she ordered.
A stream of incensed babble issued from its lips. It tossed the object on the smooth white table that was the room’s only furnishing where it lay, blinking like a glow about to fail.
She smiled in triumph. “I’m glad we understand one another.”
“Aryl?” The Human, Marcus, stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. After a look, he said some of their words to the stick-stranger, who answered with more of the same in a surly tone, giving an unmistakable glare at her in the midst of it.
“Om’ray don’t touch one another without permission,” she said, knowing it wasn’t being fair. She waved at the object. “What is that anyway?”
The Human eased to one side to let the stick-stranger leave, which it did with relieved speed. He came into the room and picked up the object.
“No, you don’t,” Aryl said, ready to defend herself. But all he did was hold it out to her. When she reluctantly took it from him, he pushed up one sleeve and offered his arm.
The object seemed harmless. There was no sharp edge to any of its flat sides, merely a play of rather lovely lights over one surface, the other— she turned it over— being featureless and polished. “Try,” Marcus said, standing quite still.
Aryl brushed hair from her eyes, then used both hands to hold the object. She approached the Human as the stick-stranger had tried to approach her, stopping short of touching him.
“Try,” he urged. “Safe, is.”
What was he? This close, she wasn’t sure anymore. Aryl stared into eyes that lied with their familiarity, her nostrils flaring at a faint, not unpleasant new scent. She could feel the warmth of his body across the small distance between them. Not that she was wearing much.
She watched with interest as he swallowed once, then again, color blooming on his cheeks. “
Bioscanner
,” Marcus said in an odd voice. “Try.”
Of course. The object. She looked down at the smooth underside of his forearm. It was soft and rounded, like the palm of his hand. The Human, she realized with an inner shock, had probably never climbed a rope or stalk. Did he rely on machines for everything? She put her arm next to his. Muscle and veins wove like cords from wrist to elbow; over that, her tanned skin was patterned in white scars. Cuts, the deeper attentions of biters, nothing much of note.
She wasn’t the only one comparing. “Strong are,” Marcus observed, his other hand reaching as if to touch her.
Aryl jerked her arm away. “I’m Yena Om’ray,” she said proudly. “We don’t fall.”
“Fall?” He frowned. “Means what?”
To distract him, she took the object— the “bioscanner”— and put it on his arm.
Two things happened.
The first was that the lights changed position and became a flock of moving symbols. She was almost fascinated enough to miss the second.
Almost.
The second was that she inadvertently touched the side of her smallest finger to his skin. And through that tiny touch, slowly, then more quickly, she could
see.
His mind was
real
.
Though the Human was not Om’ray to her inner sense, with contact she could
hear
incomprehensible words she somehow recognized as his thoughts. Nothing was shielded. Should she wish, Aryl realized, she could explore every level of his mind. Were she Adept, she might even understand what she found. Still, she tried, using her
sense
to chase tantalizing images. Memories. Vast dark spaces. Depths. Confusing mosaics of light and shapes. Places. Other beings.
Emotions.
Goodwill. Curiosity. Admiration
. A growing discomfort— not pain yet, but its precursor. Her presence in his mind wasn’t sensed, but it was felt.
Aryl pulled her inner self back. At the same time, she lifted her hand from his arm and gave the Human a real smile. “Bioscanner,” she repeated carefully, pretending to examine the symbols before passing it to him. “What does it do?”
“Do?” Marcus repeated. He appeared to search for words, then nodded as if to himself. “Sick. Sick not. Food best. Food not. Bioscanner, all.”
A device to detect what food her body should have? If she was ill? Aryl looked at the small thing incredulously. How could it do that? She thrust out her arm, eager now to see it work.
Marcus applied it. All she felt was the coolness of metal, quickly warmed by her flesh. His fingertips brushed her skin, but she restrained her curiosity. He meant no harm toward her— she owed him the same.
The device blinked and produced symbols that looked, to Aryl’s disappointed judgment, to be exactly the same. But the Human made a pleased sound and tucked the device into a fold in his shirt. “Aryl good.”
She laughed. It sounded like something a young child would say, though this was no such simple being. “Thank you.” She made the gesture of gratitude. He seemed to know it was important, and copied the movements of her hands. “Good,” she said, then got straight to what mattered.
“What do you eat?”