This Gulf of Time and Stars (34 page)

I looked to where he stood, relaxed to less knowing eyes, waiting at the door where we expected the next arrivals.
You think they had some reason. To kill all those—
I couldn't bear to say more.

He shook his head at me.
Sira. You should know by now. There's always a reason. It's finding it—comprehending it—that's the challenge. What do the Oud want? What could they possibly think to gain by killing so many Om'ray?

They may not know that's what they've done.
Aryl to us both, her mind voice like ice.
Marcus believed Oud didn't know to count individuals. To them, a Clan might be a single thing. Also,
with hesitation,
I heard an Oud once say Tikitik die to become Om'ray who die to be reborn in their shape. “Best is.” That,
more firmly,
I won't believe.

What matters is what they believe.
Morgan was firm.
Remember the Drapsk, Sira. We can't rely on what others say about the Oud. We have to talk to them.

Alien communication being our specialty, no one else's, not here. I hoped my Chosen also remembered that the Drapsk, dear as they'd become to us both, hadn't stopped being a particular nuisance.

Though they didn't, as a rule, kill others.

Morgan was right. I said firmly, “We want to talk to the Oud.”

Thought Traveler took a step closer to me. Or away from its fellow, I reminded myself. Alien ways. “To what gain, Far Traveler? Believe me, in our desperation we invited the Oud to Tikitna. To ‘talk.'” It came closer still, closer, until I felt the soft brush of its cilia against my lips.

Don't open your mouth.
From Aryl.

Sira!
From my Chosen
.

It's all right,
I reassured Morgan, mouth firmly shut.

“The Oud, predictably, died of that conversation.” The contact added a vibration to its low voice that rang through my clenched teeth. “Imagine our consternation when their Workers tunneled up from below and Tikitna was laid waste.”

Aryl supplied images of a thriving city made from living things, of walking on water, of hard-won understanding . . .

She finished with
loss.

“Since the destruction of our sacred meeting place,” Thought Traveler continued, “no two factions of my people have met without blood spilled. That, for ‘talk' with the Oud. Will you still risk this?”

I waited, lips closed, for it to retreat before answering.

Before I could, its head bobbed up. “I see you will.”

“I must,” I agreed.

“You must not!” The Tikitik Speaker leaped to its feet. “Makers protect us! You cannot interfere with Their Design! What will be—” A blow sent it scrambling.

Thought Traveler smacked it a second time to be sure. “Factions living near a Maker's Rest tend to be superstitious,” it apologized calmly. “Ignore its ravings.”

The Hoveny site. Marcus' find.
I saw Morgan start as he received Aryl's sending, too.
The Tikitik name any such place a “Maker's Rest.”
Dismissively.
I told you they liked the word.

Morgan's face settled into an expression I knew very well: the one that usually preceded an unexpected—and often profitable—shift in our plans.
We're
not
treasure hunting,
I warned him, quick and private. Not yet, anyway.

We aren't,
he agreed, only to add disconcertingly,
Who else might be?

The other Tikitik was cowed, but not silenced. A small eye appeared in the crook of an arm, glaring up at Thought Traveler. “Our 'Rest was desecrated by the diggers! Desecrated!”

“As have been all such ruins, fool.” Thought Traveler held out his hands in an almost Human gesture of exasperation. “Does no one listen? The Oud have—”

The door spun open, admitting Destin with five of her scouts right behind, weapons in their hands. Morgan lifted his, empty, and backed out of their way.

Odon stood. “What's the meaning of this interruption? Your Council is in session!”

The First Scout came to a stop, her mouth slightly agape. Snapping it closed, she gave me an accusing look.

As this was—most definitely—my doing, I gestured apology.

Certain Destin di Anel would like what I planned to do next even less.

S
OFT
GRAY FEATHERED
the undersides of airy fronds, their tips wider than Morgan's outstretched arms, the rib down their center strong enough to bear his weight. Whorls of the fronds girded the mammoth tree fern the Om'ray called a great rastis, but weren't used for climbing. Instead, healed scars formed a ladder up the straight stalk, a ladder leading—“How much farther?” he called up, again.

“You don't want to know.” Sira was above him, a pleasant view in Sona clothing if not for the unfamiliar ease with which she climbed.

He suspected Aryl asserted herself.

If she gave his Chosen confidence, fine; if she'd any to spare, he could use some. With rare unanimity, the Sona and Tikitik had agreed this was the only possible place to find an Oud in the Lay Swamp.

At the top of the canopy.

Which the Oud flew over, to Morgan's relief, in proper aircars. The Oud—other than being mass murderers, tragically confused or not—were gaining promise as allies. All they had to do was attract an Oud's attention to this one tree, and them.

Deni sud Kessa'at, the closest they had to a communications expert, was certain he could do just that. He and Holl di Licor
were on the ladder above Sira, each accompanied by a Sona charged with making sure they didn't fall. Food remaining their greatest concern, Holl had come to expand her search.

When they weren't offering the Clanswoman samples, Destin's nimble scouts used the fronds to move beyond those confined to the ladder.

Sentries, Morgan had guessed and asked against what. When Destin replied “Everything,” he regretted leaving his coat—and its persona-shield—in the Cloisters. True, it would have made his climb a misery, but could have warned of things larger than the ever-present biters.

The First Scout came last, behind him. She hadn't assigned him a helper; the Human might have been flattered, if he hadn't been sure there were no Sona left to spare.

When he glanced down, he could no longer see the swamp through the intervening foliage. His shoulders burned, his arms were weights; sensations he ignored, drowning in scent and sound and color. The canopy of the Sona was another world, one of grays and browns and brilliant green. The higher they climbed, the more colors appeared. Flowers, some plant, others mimics that took flight or folded into balls. Other growths hung from the bone-white limbs of different types of trees. Vines wrapped and hung and twisted—

Forget his coat. He needed his sketch pad—and time. Everywhere he looked, Morgan found something else he ached to study, something new to paint.

Forget the Hoveny's dusty relics. This was treasure.

Well, he could do without the biters. Fortunately, here they were hunted in turn. Small winged not-quite-birds snapped them from the air, sometimes pausing to hover near him, gemlike eyes intent.

Sira disappeared through the next platform. It was built to take advantage of the rastis' own strength, the ribs of fronds supports for the floor. A gap left room for climbers on the ladder; there was a hatch the Sona closed behind them, as if to prevent something following.

Rope bridges linked the platforms to others on neighboring
stalks, for this rastis was one of many, a grove harvested in season. The plants, he'd been told, were a source of many materials for the Sona, most importantly, dresel.

While young rastis functioned as a birth cradle for Tikitik, the details of which Aryl refused to share.

As for the Tikitik?

They belonged here. Thought Traveler, having invited itself along, promptly disappeared the instant Destin had indicated the rastis to be climbed, leaping up and away with fluid speed.

A ladder was fine with him. Morgan heaved himself up and onto the platform, cheered to find Sira and the other M'hiray sitting on the floor to share a gourd of water. He planted himself by his Chosen, accepting a drink with a smile, and waved at Deni.

The Clansman heaved for breath, sweat pouring from his face, but managed a wan smile in return. “They—stopped for—me,” he panted, gesturing apology.

“My thanks,” Morgan assured him. “I need the rest.” He rubbed a shoulder and made a face.
Sira, he won't make it to the top and down again. Not sure I will.

I'll 'port them back to the Cloisters,
she promised.
And us.
“We're almost there,” aloud. “Look. The crown.”

Above, the stalk widened into a giant bulb. Thin vines hung like hair from its outer rim, dense and coiled. Some were pale, oozing a white sap. Others were beaded with yellow galls Morgan didn't want to see any closer. Nor did he trust any of those vines to support a climber.

He wasn't the only one with doubts. Holl frowned, “How do we get past that?”

“You climb.” A familiar triangular head appeared, upside down, in the midst of the vines. Familiar, except that Thought Traveler's skin was pale green, the knobs scattered throughout now brown. It bent one eye in their direction, the rest busy with its surroundings.

Arriving on the platform, Destin motioned vigorously at the Tikitik.
Don't disturb the
“##$%$#@!”

Stingers. They nest in the galls.
Aryl's sending turned
amused. She's calling it stupid.

Thought Traveler barked its laugh and faded from sight. Destin glared at where it had been, then shrugged. “This way.”

She led them around the platform to where a ladder hung waiting. It was, Morgan saw with resignation, of slats and braided rope. Any vines close enough to touch were being tied back, with care, by the other scouts.

The ladder did lead past the width of the bulb.

To where?

Vines trembled; the hanging ladder swayed. All at once, the platform tilted!

Holl cried out. Morgan resisted the urge to grab Sira and hold on to whatever wasn't moving only because everything was.

Sira glanced up him, a dimple in her cheek. “Just a breeze.”

He'd have to talk to her great-grandmother, he would. And would, Morgan realized suddenly. Aryl would be born—when would she be born?

Climb first,
Aryl suggested.

Good idea, Morgan told himself, not at all ready to think about Aryl di Sarc as a baby in his arms.

The platform steadied again.

“I want to set this before we get to the top.” Deni pulled out his comlink, newer and more powerful than Morgan's. Those from Mirim's group had been the only M'hiray to bring such tech.

The Sona who'd been helping him made a disapproving sound.

“It will only take a second.”

“Watch—” Morgan began as the preoccupied Clansman stepped close to the edge, but Destin was quicker, grabbing him back by the arm.

As vines trembled and the ladder swayed—

The platform tilted again, this time farther and farther over.

DOWN!
Aryl and Sira ordered as one.

The Sona moved first, grabbing the less experienced and pulling them to the floor. They drove their short knives into the wood, holding to the hilts with their free hands.

Over . . . over . . . then back again even faster—

“Catch it!”

The comlink rolled and bounced by, dropping over the edge.

To reappear in a black three-fingered hand.

Thought Traveler landed on the platform, balancing with artless ease. Its frond-mimicking camouflage extended across torso and limbs; the neck and hands alone remained black. “You really should be more careful,” it chided.

The rastis settled, once more vertical. Deni scrambled to his feet, snatching the proffered 'link from the alien's hand. “You might have broken it!”

“I assure you—”

Change!

Morgan looked around to see black fingers reach through the opening in the platform.

But it wasn't a hand.

S
TITLER!
I passed Aryl's warning to the others as Morgan moved in front of me, drawing his weapon, and the Sona pulled their knives.

Thought Traveler? Gone.

As usual.

While climbing, I'd lowered any barrier between Aryl's mind and mine. I'd instinctively done so again, feeling a rush of memory and awareness. My hand curled: her desire for a knife. My breathing steadied.

Her courage.

What looked like fingers proved fiercely hooked claws. Even as Aryl/I wondered why an ambush hunter that lurked deep in its trap would be attacking in full day, those claws dug into wood, pulling its body through the opening.

A nightmare rushed forward, jaws open.

A male.
This must be mating season, when solitary males willingly risked exposure in their search for the traps of waiting females. That their dance of desire would see them eaten alive didn't matter.

While searching, however, they were fiercely territorial.
Big one,
Aryl/I admired.
I've seen bigger.

Who'd want to?

The thickened black body likely outmassed mine. Worse, it was
quick, spinning on a multitude of jointed legs, spikes rattling. It hissed with fury as the Sona struck at it, gave a sharp cry when Morgan shot off a limb.

A cry repeated by another. A second—yes, bigger—male squeezed through the hatch, jaws snapping.

They'll fight each other.

Part of me had her confidence.

The other, more sensible part clung to Holl and Deni while our protectors formed a ring around us, the stitlers circling—hissing as much at each other as at us—and wondered why I hadn't already 'ported us anywhere but here.

Because we can deal with this,
Morgan sent
.
His Power
surged
and one of the beasts disappeared. It reappeared in midair, falling out of sight with a surprised wail.

Knives buried themselves to the hilt in the body of the second.

“We did it!” Deni shouted, then stopped, staring down to where a black hooked claw protruded from his stomach.

Before anyone could move, the claw ripped up and back, slicing him open. Blood and entrails spilled on wood, on our hands—

What had been a third stitler died with a shudder.

Deni sud Kessa'at was gone.

I hadn't seen Tekla di Yode die. Morgan told me she'd spotted the last stitler before anyone else. Her blade had been trapped within the body of the second beast, so she'd used her bare hands to try and protect Deni.

The grieving Sona stripped her body of anything that could be used, then tossed her husk over the side of the platform.

Food for what scavenged. Aryl approved.

I was numb.

Holl clutched Deni's corpse when they came for it next, giving me a pleading look. “He wouldn't want that.”

“Would he want what hungers to find him here and wait for you?” Thought Traveler wasn't tactful.

He wasn't, I knew, wrong.

“We can't leave a husk,” Destin said grimly.

“I'll take care of him.” I waited for Morgan to gently separate Holl from her friend's body, watching when he knelt to go through Deni's pockets and gear, collecting what was now irreplaceable.

On Cersi.

All too easy to be sick of this deadly world, of trying to survive it.

All too easy to believe peace and order restored in the Trade Pact, that we—the Clan—could go back as if nothing had driven us—

Home, I finished bitterly, and
pushed
Deni sud Kessa'at into the M'hir, to join his Chosen.

To become another of our ghosts.

The crown of the rastis was topped with barren stems, their pods swept clear by the hot M'hir Wind long before our arrival. The rope ladder met one of sturdier construction, leading with two others up to a central deck.

To the sky Aryl remembered, brilliant blue, arching overhead like freedom.

I'd sent Holl back to the Cloisters along with Destin's people, glad to have them safe. The First Scout sat cross-legged, sharpening her knife. She'd represent Sona when we met the Oud.

No, I corrected to myself, Destin di Anel would represent Cersi's Om'ray, a claim I couldn't make.

The Tikitik, black again and gray, curled a leg around a rail. It stared out over the canopy. Another time I would have been curious. Did it see beauty?

Or a map drawn in blood.

“Signal's going out,” Morgan announced. He came to stand behind me, arms around my waist. “See, chit? There's room for us.”

Mountains rose, jagged and forbidding, to the west and north. To the south and east, the land of Om'ray and Tikitik and Oud. “Over the sea,” I said, attempting the same lighter spirit. “We just need a ship.” I drew a sharp remorseful breath only to feel him chuckle.

“That we do. I'm tempted to ask the Oud if they've a spare lying around.”

“The machines of the Oud fly through the air, not water,” the Tikitik replied without turning from whatever had its attention. “Neither can they fly through the Maker's vast emptiness, though they persist, the fools, in that ambition. The Makers put us here to fulfill Their Design, not our own. We are none of us free. We can never be.”

Risky, assigning emotion to a being so fundamentally different, yet in that moment I believed the Tikitik was gripped by a despair as deep and dark as my own. I translated, ending with
Morgan?

I felt his
agreement.
My Human stepped away from me and went toward Thought Traveler, stopping well short of the platform edge. “Superstition?” he challenged. “I thought you a rational being.”

Its long neck unfolded, bringing head and eyes to bear on Morgan. “There is a past to Cersi, Human, as there is a now. Within that past existed a was-once of my people and of the Oud. Perhaps—” as if making a great concession, “—of Om'ray. What we were is not as we are, but some of us—fewer, now—remember more truth than others. Because our Makers are outside your remembering does not make my truth ‘superstition.' The Makers are there.” All eyes aimed to the horizon. “Watching.”

The smaller of Cersi's moons had risen, pale against blue. The other, Aryl told me, would rise behind it. The Makers, the Tikitik called them, reusing that maddening word for what some considered the dwelling place of those who'd made the world—made it for the Tikitik, other races being “flaws.”

Morgan's brows drew together as I relayed that. I waited for him to question how anything could be watching from a presumably airless moon. Instead, he asked, “What do the Makers watch?”

Supremely confident of its balance, though a leg hung over empty air, Thought Traveler swept out its arms to include the canopy as well as the distant mountains and sea. “The dance of life across the world. Its glorious Balance.” Its head moved like a snake's on that neck, flowing to stare out again. “Or lack thereof,” it finished grimly.

“Here they come,” Destin exclaimed, rising to her feet.

I shielded my eyes, searching.

Morgan spotted them first. “The Oud.”