Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (18 page)

“Thank you,” was all I could find to say. I somehow didn’t think no thanks was an option. But I glared at Maka and Makoori, hoping their experience trading with humanoids would be sufficient to let them read my expression. I hadn’t asked to be responsible for 445 tiny Drapsk and their ship. Even if I accepted the role, I had absolutely no idea what the Drapsk’s Skeptic would be judging.

All I could do was hope the Makii knew what I was doing here.

Or make my way offworld—quickly.

“I tell you, Sedly, the creteng was rotten! Have you no sense of smell?”

Morgan leaned in the shadows of the back entrance to the restaurant, beneath the discreet sign reading: Claws & Jaws, Complete Interspecies Cuisine, and listened to the one-sided argument in the kitchen with a rare sense of homecoming. He shifted, easing a lingering sore spot on his upper back, loath to move further and be noticed. The med unit had done what it could for his injuries and exhaustion during the trip to intercept Plexis. His face was almost normal, and breathing no longer sent jabs of agony through his middle. Morgan curled his hands into fists, experimentally, then winced. The knuckles would take a while longer. Premick’s tough hide had won the battle over Human skin.

A shame he couldn’t have afforded being unconscious—a day or so under tranks might have helped settle the maelstrom in his head. At least it would have postponed it, he thought wryly. But he hadn’t trusted the space he traveled, nor his own mind if released from knowing control. So his thoughts persisted in tumbling over each other in confusion, like the rising voices beyond the door.

One was definitely winning the war of volume. “It doesn’t matter if Humans can’t smell it either! That’s why they’re still emptying their stomach pouches, you idiot.” A sound like castanets landing in a pot. “What did you think would happen if you left the casserole on the counter all afternoon? It’s dead fish, not a jar of pickled nicnics!”

Morgan shook his head. He’d better go in before the Claws & Jaws needed a new cook—and its irate owner had to bribe his way out of another assault charge.

The spectacle in the steamy kitchen was about what the conversation had led him to expect. A dozen assistants were pretending to work at their tables, sneaking quick glances at the two in the center aisle beside the huge stove with its load of bubbling pots and skillets. From the looks on those with readable faces, the cook deserved every word.

Whether the unfortunate being deserved his present situation, suspended overhead by a massive claw surely restricting the natural movement of blood through his torso, was another matter.

“You know you always feel sick after you lose your temper,” Morgan said calmly, walking up to the owner of the claw: the respected, the successful, and the infamously short-tempered owner of the Claws & Jaws, Huido Maarmatoo’kk.

“Morgan!!” the giant Carasian bellowed deafeningly as he whirled about, ponderously agile despite outmassing the Human three-to-one and moving on pillarlike legs that ended in balloonlike pads rather than feet. At the same instant, Huido enthusiastically flung both sets of his asymmetrical, clawed arms out in greeting, completely forgetting about the cook formerly grasped in his lower left handling claw, said cook immediately flying through the air with an awe-inspiring shriek. Fortunately for the cook, a miserable-looking Ordnex, two of the kitchen assistants had moved into catching range with the speed of long practice, saving the being from a landing on either the floor or the surface of the stove. “Morgan!” Huido repeated. “My brother—”

“Watch the ribs—” that worthy cautioned, too late. Morgan grunted as he was swept from the floor in an embrace sure to add a new layer to his bruises. But it felt good to hammer his better fist against the cool black armor his friend called skin, to look down into dozens of warmly focused eyes and know he was safe here, without need for explanation or argument.

Mind you, the ceiling was a bit close for comfort, he decided.

Huido set him back on the floor, his smaller, more flexible, handling arms steadying Morgan with tender care. Black and glistening, the Carasian stood as tall as the Human, his shoulders and bulbous back bulking much wider. His huge head, like a pair of saucepans from the kitchen placed one atop the other, pulsed vertically in a slight rhythmic motion, the black shadow between them dancing with the gleam of those independently mobile eyes, each on its own short stalk. At the moment, most of these eyes were scampering about, as if searching for something missing in the room.

Morgan shook his head. “Sira’s not with me.”

Huido’s eyes settled on him and the being heaved a sigh that rattled his body plates. “You aren’t just here to deliver my truffles and celebrate my newest house specialty with hours of delightful gluttony, I take it.” He rolled one eye to check on his cook, currently being soothed by the assistants. “Assuming I should discover unexpected competency anywhere in this place—” the Carasian growled meaningfully.

“Your truffles?” Morgan repeated, wincing involuntarily.

“My truffles,” Huido echoed with an ominous click of his largest claw. “You did bring my truffles with you—”

“Had to sell them locally,” the Human said quickly. “Forget the truffles, Huido.”

“Forget the truffles? Do you know how many of my clients are waiting for a taste of fresh Poculan merle truffles, marinated with a hint of anasa sauce—hideously expensive, but absolutely essential to bring out those understated musky highlights in the flavor—and served standard room temperature with only the finest Denebian port?” Huido’s voice rose until it approached the roar it had been during his harangue of the Ordnex cook, who, Morgan noticed, was now nodding with satisfaction as someone else was bearing the brunt of the Carasian’s ire.

Morgan found himself speechless. Rather than say anything he’d regret later—and Huido would doubtless remind him of for years to come—he pushed past his friend and walked to the door leading to the living quarters adjacent to the restaurant, keying in the code with the ease of long practice. “I need to talk to you,” he said without looking back. “Now.”

 

“Where would she go?”

Morgan dipped his fingers in the churning salt water and hesitated. They were in Huido’s inner sanctum, a totally Carasian maze of pseudo-rock shelves and artificial pools. The air was moist with salt spray as the deepest pool experienced its high tide, waves splashing with credible realism against the surrounding edges. It was, Morgan knew, a privilege to be allowed here. Crescents of shiny black dotting the white surf marked where Huido’s twenty or more mates, barely sentient beauties totally besotted with their husband, floated their eyestalks so they could watch the Human.

He’d asked Huido once what the female Carasians thought of him, the only alien permitted here. Huido had been amused, replying merely that he’d make sure they were always well-fed before allowing Morgan to enter, a comment which did help explain why the Claws & Jaws’ safe was located in this room.

He brought himself back to Huido’s question, staring down at the cluster of eyestalks marking where the Carasian momentarily bobbed deeper in the water beside him. “I don’t know where she’d go,” he admitted when Huido rose.

“Would she return to her family?”

Morgan tasted Sira’s rage within his thoughts and had no doubt of the answer: “The Clan? No.” He stretched his legs on the floating mattress, careful to keep out of the water; even though all of the wives seemed to be in the other, larger pool, there was no point offering temptation. “I’d hoped she’d come here, to you, until I checked Plexis’ itinerary. You’re too far from the Poculan System now. Way out of range, even for Sira.”

“So where will you look?”

“I’m not.” The Human closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. “I can’t go after her. I have—other business.”

Huido nudged the mattress, making Morgan grab its edges in reflex. “What kind of business? I thought better of you, Brother. Your mate is hurt—”

“I can’t let them get away with this,” Morgan snapped. “You don’t understand.”

“But I do,” Huido stated, tapping Morgan’s leg for emphasis. “You blame yourself for not protecting her.”

Morgan’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Shouldn’t I? On what level didn’t I fail her?” He used his hands to propel the mattress to the nearest rock and climbed off. He stood there, breathing heavily, and went on: “I let her leave the protection of the Haven. Instead of bringing her back to it, I get drunk and jealous, picking a fight like some lovesick kid with a being I called my friend. I abandon her so she’s alone and helpless when they come. For all I know, they needed the distraction I made.”

Huido clambered up beside him, water pouring from a dozen joints as he settled himself on his feet with a noisy shake. “So find her. Look after her now.”

Morgan shrugged. “Sira wouldn’t have left Pocular without a good reason, Huido. She could have reached me on the Fox if she needed me. Sira can look after herself,” he paused. “You don’t know how powerful she is.”

“Ah.”

Morgan looked at Huido suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”

“To prove your worth, you will bring Sira the head and hide of her enemies,” Huido said as though suddenly comprehending the Human’s mysterious motivations in a way that satisfied his own nature. “I will join you in this honorable hunt.”

“No,” Morgan said, gripping the claw tip of Huido’s smaller arm. “I want you to find Sira, make sure she’s safe.”

“I thought you said she could look after herself.”

“I don’t want her to be alone,” Morgan said, but added with brutal honesty to himself: And I don’t need any witnesses to what I may have to do.

Chapter 16

THE Judgment Hall of the Drapsk was, well, a transport terminal.

We’d arrived, the bowlcar sighing to a stop amid a crowd of several hundred others—some occupied, some not. This observation was somewhat delayed on my part. I’d had to climb after my companions from the claustrophobic curl of the bowlcar, a process made possible by extrusions appearing in one side of the machine. Once I was at the top of the side, however, I could see quite well.

We were definitely in a transport terminal. I could see no evidence of any meeting place or even a doorway, just ranks of waiting bowlcars and much larger transports lined up and receiving passengers. Closed buildings surrounded the area. It was roofed, but with a transparent material revealing the darkening of the sky beyond the soft glow of the structures around us. The bowlcars fluoresced as well, I noticed, distracted, their surfaces slightly green.

“How far away is your Judgment Hall?” I asked, nudged into motion and into thinking by Maka’s gentle tug on my elbow.

“This is it,” said the tall Drapsk before Maka could answer. “Here you will join your Skeptic and proceed.”

I thought seriously of digging in my heels to hold my little troop in place, but given we were immediately being carried in some direction by the floor itself, and that journey was through a confusing mass of vehicles disgorging their passengers to join us, I decided to go along. For now. I firmed the locate of the bridge of the Makmora in my thoughts and promised myself a trip back there at the first sign of trouble. Then they were welcome to try and convince me to step out on Drapskii again.

I was already tempted. “Proceed to where?” I demanded, trying to keep it polite. “Really, my good Drapsk, this is asking a bit much of me.”

“You have been assigned to Skeptic Copelup,” the hitherto silent orange-plumed Drapsk announced in remarkably high-pitched and precise Comspeak. “Hurry, Fem Morgan, or you will miss the last transport. Time is of the essence. Maka, you would leave such matters of import to the very last possible second.”

“We had no idea she had accepted,” that worthy protested. Another Drapsk, I wasn’t sure which, joined the argument. Suddenly all of my little hosts were communicating verbally, all at once.

A shame it was in a place where it was impossible to catch more than every other word. I glared down at them, quite sure this abrupt switch to vocal communication had little to do with satisfying my questions and more to do with the difficulties of private conversation by olfaction in a crowd of what appeared to me to be every Drapsk ever born. I stuck to my escort in self-defense.

They were herding me toward the nearest transport, a long, sleek affair looking more like a beached whale than a vehicle. Since the strangely mobile flooring ended at an ankle-high ridge just before the transport, I braced myself for the step onto solid ground. Still, it took a second to readjust to having to move my feet to get anywhere.

I moved them. It was that or be trampled as the side of the transport opened and a chorus of Drapsk flooded down and out a broad ramp. This group consisted of two types of Drapsk, most identical, to my eyes, to the Makii, and the others all carbon copies of the tall, turquoise Drapsk now urging me up that same ramp. The overlapping layers of tossing yellow-red and purple-pink plumes were quite striking, especially when one added the ring of bright red tentacles around every mouth.

Once they were gone, I eyed the dark, apparently empty maw of the transport. Enough was enough. “I’m not going until you explain where you are taking me and why.”

Immediately, all five of my Drapsk grasped some part of my anatomy or clothing and began to tug me forward. It was all gently done, as though I was being encouraged to overcome some fear. Nevertheless, I pulled back, getting ready to put some muscle into it if they continued.

A solitary cone of light appeared at the top of the ramp. A single Drapsk stood within it, yellow-streaked plumes rigidly aloft, a portable fan in one hand. I felt the breeze from the fan on my cheeks at the same instant as my escort stopped their poking and prodding. I didn’t look at them, though from the sucking sounds I knew what they were all busy doing.