Rift in the Sky (59 page)

The staff wouldn't care if she stayed forever. The M'hiray had been told the importance of generosity. Aryl was quite sure they'd never been paid so much for a beverage and her wish for privacy had been taken seriously. No one was seated at the nearby tables. A family that tried had been forcibly removed.

Feather stripped, she pulled out the disk, careful not to press any of the depressions. Small. Ordinary. Old-fashioned, from what she'd seen in the stores that sold such things. There were signs of wear. Scratches on the dull gray metal. None deep. It was sturdily built. Made to last.

To carry a message from a dying father.

Why hadn't hers sent a message? Why nothing from those left behind?

Enris wanted to know what she dreamed that made her cry in her sleep. Wanted to help her find out, so she'd stop.

Aryl's finger traced the nicked edges of the disk. Oh, she knew well enough.

She dreamed the end of the world.

Every night.

She dreamed the M'hiray were the last of their kind, survivors of a catastrophe so complete, they couldn't bear to remember it.

Or that they'd caused.

Dreams like that, Aryl thought heavily, didn't stop. She'd try to wake up more often, before she disturbed Enris. The baby would help there.

“I came as soon as I could, Femmine.”

Aryl looked up, annoyed to have let herself be startled. Not that it was Maynard's fault. “I kept busy,” she told him.

His lips twitched as he noticed the ruined feathers. “May I sit?”

Courtesy. She nodded, grateful for the moment to recover her calm. Too much sombay. A server delicately caught her attention and she nodded again to bring him to the table. “A drink?”

“Water, please.”

“For you, Femmine? More sombay?”

Aryl shook her head, queasy at the thought.

“More, ah, feathers?”

“I've had enough for now,” she assured him.

Once the server had left an iced pitcher of water and a glass for the constable, Aryl pushed the disk to the middle of the small table. “I need to you deliver this.”

Maynard paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You don't waste time, Femmine.”

She'd wasted hours, Aryl thought, but kept that to herself. “It belongs to a Human, a young child. All I know is her name and that she lives in this city.”

He took a sip, regarded her over the top. He looked almost elegant in the fitted black jacket, symbols in red and gold at cuff and collar. No sign of a weapon, but she doubted he was unarmed. Dressed for the Sun Layer wealthy. Human protocols. “You look different,” he commented.

The baby was bigger. Then Aryl realized he meant the Human clothes. “I've been shopping.”

“Expensive place, the concourse.” With this oblique comment, he put down his glass and stared at her. “I didn't think KaeCee could afford it.”

KaeCee? Aryl's confusion must have answered some unasked question, for Maynard colored and leaned back. “My apologies. Let's start again. May I know your name, Femmine?”

“My name.”

“You know mine.” He had a pleasant smile.

There was no harm in it, Aryl realized. She was a property owner on his world—hers too, now. The First Chosen of Sarc shouldn't hesitate to deal with local authority.

In fact, that was probably her responsibility, too. Enris, she decided, would be laughing at her right now.

“My name is Aryl di Sarc.” She tapped the disk. “I need you to find the person this belongs to and make sure she receives it. Please.” Her hair slid over her shoulders as if to add its encouragement. She shoved it back.

His eyes dismissed the hair. “So that's not evidence to help me convict KaeCee or any other criminal. You used a burst to call me to run an errand.” Maynard stood, his face and manner cold. “Thank you for the water, Femmine Sarc.”

This would be, Aryl decided, the second thing to go wrong. “Wait. I can pay—”

“I'm sure you can. But I'm not for sale.”

He turned and left, walking with the stiffness of someone truly offended. The servers backed out of his way.

Three. Her plan, she thought bitterly as she hurried after him, was a disaster.

“Will you wait?”

Maynard glared over his shoulder, then stopped. “I can have you arrested for following me.”

“No, you can't,” Aryl guessed. They were standing at the edge of one of the storefront crowds.

“Wasting my time. I can certainly arrest you for that, if you don't go away. Good evening, Femmine.”

“I'm sorry,” Aryl said quickly, getting in his way. “Here.” She handed him the burst. “I thought this meant you'd help me. I didn't know who else to ask.”

He took it between two fingers and rubbed it pensively, then looked her in the eyes. “I'm listening.”

“This belonged to a—a friend of mine who died. Not long ago. Offworld. He left it with me. It contains a message for his daughter. But I'm—”

“Not from here,” he finished when she hesitated.

“Not from here,” Aryl agreed. “I don't know how to begin to find her. I can't trust—” she stopped before saying “anyone.” “There are reasons I can't attract attention to her. But she should have this. A daughter should hear what her father wanted to say.”

Maynard shook his head. It wasn't at her, since he said, “Let's walk.”

Once they were away from the crowd, he began asking quiet questions. “Don't say her name. Not here. She's Human? Local?”

“Yes. Human children stay with their mothers, don't they?”

That drew a considering look. “Usually. Do you have her name? Don't say it.”

“Yes.”

They walked in silence. As he seemed deep in thought, Aryl held back her own questions. Finally he spoke again, so quietly she had to step close to hear him. “If you don't want to attract attention, you can't leave with me.”

“Why?”

Almost a smile. “There are two kinds of people on Stonerim III, Aryl. Grandies and Commons. Grandies pay exorbitant taxes so the law will ignore them, as long as they keep their noses clean dirtside. Commons? Well, they pay as little as they can to have help when they need it.”

“I need your help,” Aryl pointed out, sure of that, if not taxes.

A real smile. “I get that. But to those looking at us, you're a Grandie. It's one thing for me to meet you on your terms, but you'd never get into my vehicle or go with me anywhere. I want you to go out the doors we'll pass soon, take the lower path until you come to a small garden, and wait there for me. Will you do that?”

Aryl nodded. Caution was never a bad strategy.

“If you see anyone who makes you nervous, come back here. We'll find another way.”

“I have a force blade,” she assured him. “If anyone makes me nervous.”

“Please don't tell me things like that.”

“Whatever you say, Constable.” Aryl hid her own smile.

They came to the doors. Without a backward look, she went through them into the warm evening air.

No one made her nervous. No one else was outside. Aryl supposed it was the rain.

Well-behaved rain. She lifted her face to the steady drizzle, enjoying how it collected on her cheekbones then ran down her neck. The plants lining the well-lit lower path enjoyed it, too, their leaves dancing in the drops. Aryl drew the air through her nostrils, promising herself she'd go to the base of the Tower every night, to smell this, wondering why she hadn't before.

No puddles threatened her delicate shoes. The path was made of a material that whisked away moisture. The buildings to either side, even the light poles, refused to get wet.

Too tidy. Too polite. She stuck out her tongue.

The small garden where she was to wait was easy to find. The path widened to go around an island of yellow-and-white flowers. Their striped faces were upturned to the rain, too. Aryl stepped closer, noticing that the water dripping from the petals and leaves fell into a clear pipe. She followed it to where it plunged into the ground.

How many Grandies had seen where the water went? Aryl gazed at the towers that grew like a forest high above, thinking of the maze of giant pipes far below. Of the Commons who'd been stealing fuel and died for it. If not for the artifacts, which would the M'hiray be?

She came to attention as a shadow stopped overhead, taking away the rain, then waited as the black aircar moved ahead, then slowly descended to almost touch the path. A door in its side opened, but no light welcomed her.

Aryl drew the force blade and switched it on. The line of energy turned the rain to steam.

The aircar jigged up and down, as if impatient.

The constable.

Embarrassed, she put away the weapon and climbed in, feeling her way to a bench. Once the door closed, the lights came on.

Maynard set the machine in motion, then came back to sit across from her. “We can't be overheard in here.”

Haxel and others who routinely left the Tower used scramblers and other tricks they'd learned from the Clan's Humans, careful to leave normal traces but not reveal too much. Anyone who could afford it did the same. She should have. Aryl winced at the lecture she'd doubtless receive—and deserve—on her return. She gestured gratitude, then thought “Human” and added “Thank you.”

“Wait till we see if I actually can help,” he advised. “The names?”

“Karina Bowman is the daughter. The mother's name is Kelly Bowman. The father's—he was—” For some reason, Aryl found herself unable to say it. She pulled out the image disk and handed it to Maynard, folding her hands on her lap. “It's in there.”

He touched the insignia on his jacket. “Look up ‘Karina and Kelly Bowman.' Norval city limits to start. All occurrences.” He lifted his fingers away. “That'll start the data flow. Now.” Like Yao, the constable had no problem operating the disk.

She watched him, not the images; saw how he gazed without expression at the image of the four, how, when Marcus' face appeared, muscles along his jaw clenched. Maynard played the message through once, then again. Again.

Aryl closed her eyes.

“He was
tortured
.”

She opened them, saw his anger and didn't understand. “Injured—”

“You call that ‘injured'? Ossirus save me from fools!” His anger was at her now. “I know torture when I see it. That was deliberate harm, Aryl di Sarc, by someone who wanted answers, information, something from this Bowman. Who? Where did this happen? When?”

Tears filled her eyes. Marcus had been tortured? “I don't know,” she fumbled. “Offworld. I—I found the disk in my things when we unpacked. I don't know how it got there, only that I—I must have promised him. To give it to Karina. Why else would I have it?”

His eyes were cold. “Why, indeed?”

Aryl stiffened. “Will you help me or not?”

Without answering, Maynard took the disk and went to his seat at the front of the aircar.

Aryl stayed where she was, looking down at her hands, and did her best to keep her thoughts—and her feelings about them—from Enris.

Torture.

Did that terrible word describe what Naryn had done to KaeCee? What M'hiray scouts did to any Human vulnerable to Power?

If so, they were no better than those who'd tormented Marcus Bowman. He hadn't deserved to be treated like that.

He'd only tried to help them. To help their . . . it faded . . .

No, she wouldn't lose the memory. She wouldn't!

... help their world. Marcus Bowman had been a friend, not only to her, but to the M'hiray. A Human friend, of his own will.