Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (17 page)

Asan frowned again, unsure if Kor meant the girl or the ship.

Kor touched the security panel, and the brig door opened. Zaula sprang to her feet, saw Kor, and her face went smooth and blank with horror. Kor grinned at her. She flung up both hands and screamed. She stumbled back to the far end of the cell and went on screaming.

“It’s all right,” said Asan, shoving Kor aside and going in. He took Zaula’s arm and gave her a little shake. “Zaula. Stop it. It’s all right.”

She didn’t stop. He clamped his hand over her mouth. Her breath was hot against his palm; the scream was instantly muffled.

“It’s all right.”

She stood rigid against the wall, her eyes enormous above his hand, her face dark with fear. He wasn’t sure she’d seen him, much less heard him.

“Zaula.”

He spoke in command tone that time, and her gaze flickered to his. She blinked, and he heard her breath catch in her throat. She reached up and gripped his hand, pulling it away from her mouth.

“Wh-what is it?” she whispered.

“His name is Kor,” said Asan calmly. “He is a Vyarian. He won’t hurt you.”

Kor chose this introduction as his invitation to enter the cell. Zaula screamed again, pressing herself back in the corner. Asan turned angrily.

“Demos, Kor! Can’t you see you’re scaring her out of her wits? Go away. You can stare at her through the observation cam.”

“Confine,” said Kor. His slanted eyes shone queerly in his wedge-shaped face. “Orders.”

“We’re in the brig—”

“Wrong ship.” Kor crooked a talon. “Both come.” Asan looked at him sharply. “Is Udge going to flush this one?”

Kor wheezed his version of a laugh. “Come now. When clean, you come back.”

Flushing a ship meant jettisoning its crew. There would be a few less GSI loyalists around. Asan had no sympathy for anyone stupid enough to sign up with the Institute. He grinned back at Kor, momentarily feeling the old ties.

“Right,” he said, and glanced at Zaula, who was frowning as though she hadn’t understood a word. He held out his hand to her. “We’re transferring to the other ship.
An
.”

She hesitated. “Our masks. We—”

“We don’t need them, Zaula,” he said gently, trying to give her time to adjust to these cultural shocks without making Kor impatient. “There’s no harmful radiation here.”

“Of course,” she said scornfully. “I was thinking of protocol.”

Asan laughed. “Free raiders don’t have any.”

Her expression remained serious, but to his relief she came docilely enough. When she passed Kor, however, he reached out and scratched her across the cheek, drawing blood.

She gasped and flinched away.

Furious, Asan stepped between her and Kor, aiming a quick blow that Kor dodged easily.

“Damn you, she isn’t your meat! You’ve no business marking her—”

Kor struck with his chin claw. Asan jumped back, throwing up his left arm to protect his throat. The claw cut deep, bringing a spurt of dark blood. Asan pulled in his rings and formed his force field in time to repel the finishing slash. Kor staggered back, plainly startled, and with a growl he snapped the flamethrower down from his shoulder to firing position. Grimly Asan faced him and extended his force field to encompass Zaula.

“Isn’t that weapon a little big for this small space?” he asked, hiding all fear from his voice. “The backlash will fry you along with us.”

But to his surprise, Kor was grinning. “You are marked, Tobei,” he growled. “New body no matter. You are both marked.”

Asan swore, relaxing from his battle stance. “Fool,” he said in exasperation. “Martok—”

“It will please the One to let me carve you,” said Kor. He wheezed and pointed at the door. “He is just.”

“I am not his meat, and I am not yours,” said Asan angrily, clutching his wrist. Blood ran between his fingers. He dropped the force field and closed the wound. The effort sapped him. Suddenly he felt very tired. He ached everywhere, not just in his arm. “I am going to make a bargain with Martok that he can’t refuse. I am going to make him richer than all his free raiding and cooperatives combined.”

“Money small when time to eat,” said Kor, unimpressed. He pointed at the door. “Go. Now.”

Asan glanced at Zaula. They had no choice. They went.

“It was wrong,” Zaula said quietly, “to take our jen-knives from us. Aural has betrayed us to the blood. We cannot even fight the demon. We are in shame.”

Asan sighed and opened his eyes. He’d been trying to sleep and couldn’t. He was too tired. He ached too much. The food they’d eaten had been rich and greasy; it lay heavily in his stomach.

Zaula walked over to his bunk and knelt beside him. She had knotted her hair back from her face. The formality suited her. He envisioned her in court robes and gowns of delicate pria cloth, rustling when she moved, scented mysteriously, half hidden in the shadows of the Court of Women. He hated the GSI uniform she wore. He wished she would find something else to put on.

Then he frowned at his own thoughts. Since when had he cared what a woman wore or did not wear? He should be thinking about what he was going to say to Martok.

“My leiil.”

Zaula knelt there with her head bowed, waiting to be acknowledged. Her husky voice was quiet and low, her tones neutral. Her previous hostility was gone.

He sat up, wincing. “My leiis?”

The flippancy did not take the serious expression from her face. Instead, the smoother amber of her cheeks stained a dark brown. She frowned, looking away from him.

“I’m sorry,” said Asan. “You aren’t used to joking—”

“Oh, but I am. My husband delighted in mockery. He was famous for his barbs.”

“A joke is for people to share, not laugh at one’s expense.”

She seemed caught by that. She glanced up straight into his eyes, a slight frown still creasing her brow. “Thy speech is truth. Thou are strange to me.”

“Why?”

“Because thou has shown me honor by thy courtesy. Because thou fought for me against a demon.”

Asan frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted on the bunk. “Kor is a barbarian. I would have done as much for anyone.”

One corner of her mouth curled up in a faint smile. She touched the scratch on her cheek as her eyes looked deep into his. “Would thou? I do not believe it.”

“You’re right.” He smiled back. “Not for just anyone. I think people should usually fight their own battles.”

“But not me?”

“Yes, you. Only…” He gestured, struggling to find the words. “Not as long as you think he is a demon. He isn’t. He’s smelly, vicious, stupid, and damned dangerous, but there isn’t anything mystical about him. All Vyarians are like him, except he’s a half-breed so that makes him bigger and stupider than most of them.”

Zaula sighed. “Thou started to say something else. What?”

“Nothing.”

Annoyed by her questions, he flicked a finger in a signal for her to go away. She ignored it.

“We are enemies. That is why I question thee. I must understand why—”

“Why what?” he said irritably. “Why I haven’t grabbed you by the hair and slit your throat? Why I haven’t left you to fend for yourself? Why I haven’t refused to treat you like a piece of chattel instead of a person of worth? It’s very simple, Zaula. I…well, I…Damn.”

He stood up, stepped around her, and began to pace across their quarters. They were locked into an ordinary cabin since Enster’s ship didn’t have a brig. It was both opulent and comfortable, but the pleasant treatment so far only made him nervous.

Just as Zaula was making him nervous now. Why couldn’t she just sit in a corner, look pretty, and be quiet?

“Is it because I have lost rank?” she asked after a moment. “Is it a kindness to me?”

“We
aren’t
enemies,” he snapped, turning on her. “We never have been.”

“Thou are the usurper. Thou killed Hihuan and robbed my child of—”

She broke off, an odd expression crossing her face.

“That’s right,” said Asan, hoping she finally was beginning to understand. “Hihuan, your husband. Didn’t you also try to kill him?”

She gasped, rising to her feet. “How—”

“You forget I knew Fflir,” he said, and watched her face lose color. “He told me all about the court intrigues going on. Hihuan was hated, and he treated you like
flin
.”

She stood so still it was as though she had even ceased breathing. “Yes,” she said softly, her gaze staring at nothing. “He broke my rings when he…I think he hoped I would die. Instead Cirthe was conceived. She carries his blood, his line. Is—is she like him? Is she as horrible as he? Thou called her a monster.”

“Yes,” Asan said. “I have not looked upon you with truth, Zaula, but I do not think there is anything of you in her.”

Zaula closed her eyes as though to hide the hurt that showed so plainly upon her face. “If I had not born her, the nobles would have demanded my death when Hihuan died. She was my only means of living. My only means of clinging to some small bit of importance. Not to hate thee, Asan, meant surrendering my very existence.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But whatever you have heard about me, I want you to know that I do not follow Tlar protocol and precedent blindly. Most of it is nonsense. Had my jen come into Altian as we planned, you would not have been harmed.”

“I think I believe that.” For the second time she gave him her shy smile. “At least I am free now.”

“Free?” He frowned in puzzlement. “Hardly. We are prisoners—”

“It is not of importance. We have heat, light, food. We are surrounded by wealth. These
n’kai
know nothing of what it means to be Tlar. They have looked upon my face. I wear the forbidden garments of—” She broke off, blushing. Then she laughed, flinging out her arms. “There is no one to know my lineage or the honor of my house, no one to spy and point fingers, no one to say what I must do next without asking my own will.”

She whirled herself around, then stopped. She looked self-conscious, and the mask returned. “Thou thinks me a fool. Thou looks upon me with pity. I am so tired of pity!”

“I don’t pity people,” said Asan curtly. “And I don’t pity myself. Neither should you.”

“Do I?”

“Do you?”

Her gaze fell. “Yes, thou are wise. Thou sees in the way of the priests—”

“Chielts!”

“Oh. I had forgotten how much thou hates them. Thou destroyed the Kkanthor-kai.”

“No,” he said with irritation. “I destroyed their house. The Bban’n hunted them down.”

She spread her fingers. “Such precise distinctions.”

“It would seem you learned the art of mockery from your husband.”

“I—I’m sorry. But it is hard not to be angry, not to resent the harm thou brought us. Because of thee, Anthi left us to be cold, to sit in the dark, to starve, to be afraid.” Her voice quivered. “I have been afraid for so long—”

“Hush.”

Suddenly she was in his arms, huddled against his chest. He breathed in the fragrance of her, reveled in the softness of her. His irritation faded away as he forced himself to look at his actions from her point of view. An unpleasant sensation spread through him. For the first time he felt cruel and ugly as though he had been unnecessarily harsh.

He had acted to save himself in shutting down the main-support computer. He couldn’t worry about all the others it would affect. Taking responsibility for others was an occupation for fools, or for people who were safe. He’d never been safe, never known security, never had the luxury of being able to relax and not watch his own back.

Giaa had made him care as much for her as he did for himself. And now it was happening again with Zaula. He
was
getting soft. His brain was soap; soon it would be dribbling out his ears.

He pushed Zaula abruptly away and turned his back on her. He stood beside the game table, picked up one of the cubes, and fidgeted with it. The silence seemed unbearable.

“You don’t understand,” he said. His voice came out loud and harsh. “We’re in big trouble. As soon as we dock, I—” He broke off, unwilling to tell her he would walk to the hand of death. He’d been cruel enough; she might as well keep her illusions a short while longer. Martok might like her, and then she would be all right. He sneered at himself for his worry. The people who deserved to survive did so.

“Thou are afraid,” she said in amazement. “The one who rules the demon…thou fears him.”

The cube crumbled in Asan’s fingers. He turned sharply.

“Yes,” she said before he could speak. “I may not be able to look upon thee with truth, but there are other ways of perception. Ever since the
n’kai
of this ship killed those of the Institute, thou has worried. Thou knows these humans. Thou has dealt with them before.”

“No.”

“And before, on Ruantl. Thou kept warning everyone of what the humans would do. Thou knew them as though thou had walked among them. Thou knew them as though thou were one thyself…”

She gasped.

Asan threw up his head and met her horrified gaze.

“It’s true,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’ve guessed correctly. The
n’ka
Omari was used as the catalyst for—”

“This is known,” she said impatiently. “Did thou retain all the
n’ka
knowledge? Is it not a defilement to thee to feel the
n’ka?
Why did Picyt not arrange—”

“To hell with this!” said Asan, clenching his fists. “Your high and mighty priest was too scared to do it himself. He was unwilling to die in the service of his Tlar leiil. So he stuck me with it instead. I didn’t care much; I was dying anyway.”

She stepped back, her eyes enormous. “It cannot be—”

“Oh, yes, it can.” He thumped his chest. “I’m Blaise Omari, the
n’ka
who crash-landed in your toxic desert and was shot for sport by your husband. I was supposed to die in the transference process; only I didn’t. So here I am in Asan’s body. It’s like a suit of clothes, a mask, a disguise to hide in.”

Her mouth was open; she seemed to have difficulty speaking. “And—and he?”

“Gone. Mostly. At night when I dream, the memories overlap. I remember people I never knew. I recall events I never experienced. Sometimes I don’t know who I am or where I am. Fflir helped me through the roughest parts at first. He was the only one who knew the truth…until now.”