Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (33 page)

“If you are going to ask me next, is their suspicion the truth?” Barac said calmly, “I can’t tell you.”

Terk’s big hands flattened on the table. “Can’t or won’t?” “Can’t,” Barac said, stressing the word. “I’ve told you. I’m exile. Even if I weren’t, you of all Humans know the Council doesn’t reveal its planning to others—especially sud.” He met Bowman’s eyes, wishing he knew how to convince her he was telling the truth, for once. Among Clan, it was so much easier to communicate. “For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine why the Council would become involved with your telepaths at all. They have less strength than the least of us. They are not a threat, nor an asset.” Beyond, Barac added honestly to himself, being the easiest of minds to control if need be.

“Well, it may take more than your opinion to convince those on Plexis. You’d better be more careful, Hom sud Sarc.”

“I intend to be,” Barac said fervently. “Is this all you wanted me for?”

Bowman hesitated a moment. When Terk would have spoken, she held up a finger to keep him silent.

“Well?” Barac prompted. “You said an exchange of information. I regret I have so little to share, but then you don’t seem to have a lot to offer in return. I repeat: I was too late to catch Morgan before he left Plexis, and I know nothing about your problem of vanishing telepaths. My thanks again for your rescue, Constable. So. Are we done, Chief Bowman?”

“Not quite.” Bowman’s eyes sparkled. Barac knew that look: half pleasure and half predator’s fix. “Tell me. What do you know about a species called the Drapsk, Hom sud Sarc?”

Chapter 32

LOOKING back, I’d probably let the happiness of the quasi-intoxicated Drapsk blind me to certain—potential consequences—I might have paid close attention to otherwise. But by the time I’d been in the Makii House for several hours, receiving delegations of the small beings who only wished to touch their Mystic One in adoration, it was difficult to keep in mind these were the same creatures who’d kept me prisoner until I’d agreed to help them.

It was much the same social climate that has led otherwise sane beings to have the names of transient loved ones carved in their skin.

It had led me to this moment. Rings of silent, expectant Makii Drapsk surrounded me, plumes waving in encouragement. Little hands patted me constantly, urging me onward. I stared down at the plate in front of me and wondered if I were insane.

“Hurry, Mystic One,” someone said. “They don’t stay fresh for long.”

Well, nothing ventured, I thought queasily. I picked up the first of two bright red tentacles, kindly shed on my behalf by Captain Makairi—a temporary sacrifice: nubby replacements had already sprouted since he handed me the plate. After being shed, each tentacle had shrunk to about the size and shape of my thumb, but remained, I found, disconcertingly warm. I closed my eyes and popped it into my mouth, the room instantly roaring with chants of “Makii! Makii!”

No worse than unripe nicnic, I decided, though the taste could be improved. The texture was rubbery enough to challenge my teeth, but I was only to chew several times, then spit it out anyway. Trying to ignore where the object I gnawed so dutifully had originated, I opened my eyes and nodded reassuringly at my companions.

“Next!”

I removed the morsel as daintily as possible, putting it on the plate without looking too closely. I did notice the red color was gone. Knowing what to expect, the second tentacle was easier.

When I was done, the plate was mercifully removed, and I gazed at my cheering hosts with a triumphant sense of really breaking through the interspecies barrier. “Is that the end of the ceremony?” I asked innocently.

Maka produced a pair of what appeared to be Drapsk scissors from his tool belt, while Captain Makairi coaxed a stool from the floor on the other side of the table from me, a new and empty plate brought and placed before him. I tucked my hands in my lap, rolling my fingers into protective fists. “You aren’t proposing to cut off part of me, are you?” I asked with what I thought commendable composure. “I can tell you now, it doesn’t work that way.” It was all very well for the Drapsk to want me to take part in this somewhat modified version of their celebration, a way of symbolically welcoming me into their Tribe, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice anything irreplaceable.

“A piece of hair will be quite sufficient.”

“Oh,” I said wisely, as if I knew this all along. From the subdued hoots in the background, the Drapsk were perfectly aware what I’d worried about. I found myself grinning. It took two of us to hold a lock of the indignant stuff in place—the hair of a Chosen Clanswoman tended to have a significant amount of motility, particularly, I found, when scissors were in the offing.

Captain Makairi’s plumes dropped perceptibly as he contemplated the small mass of fine red-gold tendrils on his plate. I was sympathetic, having likely looked similarly thrilled by his offering on mine. This didn’t stop me chanting with the rest: “Makii! Makii!” until the poor being had to shove the hair into his mouth and chew. From the speed with which he did so, and spat the little wad back out, I assumed he found my taste as foul as I’d feared his would be. There was, I thought smugly, some justice in the universe.

Copelup’s antennae came to attention, then folded to point straight at me. “What have you done?” he shouted, mouth tentacles splayed out in an equally rigid ring.

I’d been hoping for an explanation of exactly that, having found the Makii more interesting in celebrating than making sense, but it seemed something else had upset the Skeptic the moment I’d been ushered into the indoor amphitheater. The other Drapsk, all Skeptics, Niakii, or Heerii, turned from their various machines and devices to orient in our direction. One by one, their antennae snapped into the same posture as Copelup’s.

I had a sudden bad feeling about all this and turned to look at Captain Makairi. His tentacles, including the two still shorter ones, were tightly clamped in his mouth. Oh dear, I thought. “What have I done?” I asked reasonably.

The Skeptic pushed Makairi to one side, an atypical use of physical force among the Drapsk, with the exception of the hockey game. Then he patted me gently, while his plumes touched my face and shoulders. “Well, it’s done, isn’t it?” he announced in a decidedly grumpy tone, moving away from me and returning to the console he’d left in order to greet me. The other Drapsk remained at attention.

“What’s done?” I demanded, my voice regrettably loud, suspecting anything and everything at this point.

“You’re Makii,” one of the Heerii explained in a matter-of-fact way. “You did perform the ipstsa. We can all tell.”

I felt myself blush. “Well,” I confessed, feeling as though I’d committed some as yet unknown crime or lewd act, “there was a celebration and a ceremony of sorts—no one told me the name.” I looked down at my hands, expecting to see a hint of tentacle red or Makii purple-pink. “How can you tell?” I asked suspiciously.

Captain Makairi hooted, possibly, I thought glumly, still under the influence of whatever intoxicant he’d been using at the Makii House. “They are all jealous. You bear the taste of your Tribe, Sira Morgan of the Makii, as you will throughout your life. They wish they had thought to do ipstsa with you first. But now all Drapsk will acknowledge your place within our Tribe.”

Great, I said to myself, wondering how I’d possibly missed deducing the consequences of ingesting molecules from such an olfactory-oriented species as this one. Still, I was fond of the Makii. If they wanted to claim me, I wasn’t about to argue—even if I could at this point.

The remaining Drapsk in the room appeared to be immobilized by the Makii’s daring. Only Copelup muttered away to himself, back deliberately in my direction. Ignoring the others, I walked over to him and reached out to touch his arm.

“Skeptic Copelup,” I said softly. “You of all beings understand that I didn’t do this in order to slight any Drapsk. The Makii were celebrating and this—just happened. If I had known—”

Copelup gave a small, forlorn-sounding hoot. “Yes, Mystic One. You do tend to precipitate events.” His antennae struggled up into a relaxed, more cheerful position, one I was glad to see the other Drapsk in the room emulate almost at once. “As you have here, you know.”

Ah. “I’ve been very concerned about what happened,” I admitted, sitting beside Copelup on the stool that courteously nudged the back of my legs. “The Makii have not told me anything beyond the fact they—and what looks like the entire city except for those,” I waved my hand around “in this room—are celebrating some victory.” I gripped my knees tightly. “I don’t recall a victory, frankly.”

Levertup had joined us, the remaining Drapsk returning to their work. Captain Makairi had found a seat near the door and was humming to himself contentedly. “To the Tribes as a whole, and to many individuals, you achieved more than we’d dared hope, Mystic One,” the second Skeptic said soberly. “And at a terrible risk to yourself.”

“What have I achieved?” I remembered the linkages I’d formed between Drapskii and the M’hir, and those I’d shattered in my escape. “What do you think I’ve done?”

Levertup raised his arms, spreading his fingers wide, then pulling them back down as if collecting something unseen. Accurate enough, I thought. “Our devices show the reconnection of our world to the Scented Way,” he confirmed unnecessarily. “It is not complete, but it is sufficient to allow the Tribes to once more attain the—” the word he said in Drapsk was too difficult for me to catch entirely. Gripstsa was part of it.

“She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, Levertup,” Copelup interrupted. “You’re being too theoretical again. I keep telling you to stick to the implications, not the details.”

“I’d like either,” I reminded them.

Copelup pursed his round mouth, then went on: “As you’ve observed, within a Tribe is gripstsa, roughly: the changing of place. After the Competition, there was lar-gripstsa, in which members of various Tribes are given the opportunity to join a Tribe in ascendancy if they choose. But at the core of our society, what was lost from us with our magic, is something much more. It is the Joining of Tribes. Now, for the first time in generations, all Tribes can intermingle while remaining true to their own.” He and Levertup sighed deeply in unison. “It is the most wonderful, beautiful thing of being Drapsk, and you have restored it to us.” A short pause. “If temporarily.”

“The threads I broke,” I said with regret, guessing this much. “But I sensed there needed to be only a few more and the rest would connect on their own. I can—” as I spoke, I could hardly believe what I was saying, but I knew it was right “—I can try to finish it.”

“No!” This from more than the Skeptics. The others moved closer, as if to protect me. I’d agitated them all, especially Captain Makairi, who pushed his way to my side and took my wrists in his chubby hands.

Their reaction seemed a bit extreme. “I’d be more careful,” I said soothingly. “I overextended myself, that’s all. I know what to do—”

“No!” from Copelup, who fairly bristled with alarm. “You cannot return to the Scented Way near Drapskii. It will be waiting for you this time.”

I blinked, looking around at the featureless faces. “It?” I repeated numbly, not understanding. “You know? How could you—it was only a hallucination—”

A third, emphatic “No!” from Copelup. “Come here,” he added in a kinder voice, leading me over to a table filled to overflowing with various instruments. He selected one, a tube with a flattened disk midway up its length. The disk was polished and reflective, like an inactive vid screen. “Hold it thus,” a Heerii ordered me, placing my hands so that I held the tube with the disk centered at my eye level.

The tube began to vibrate lightly. That wasn’t why I came close to dropping it. Through the cold, then warming metal, I could sense the M’hir. Not the way I usually did, as an extension of my inner self, but more distantly, as though I observed it through some other’s perception.

The disk remained blank, but images formed behind my eyes, lines of fire and ice, globules of pure energy that pulled themselves along those lines, dark flashes moving almost too quickly to hold in the mind, tearing through the globules yet leaving them unaffected. There were other things, so stomach twistingly strange I found myself without the words to describe them, but recognizing one thing beyond any doubt.

They lived.

“You could have brought a steak or two.”

Morgan rubbed the last dampness from his hair in the dry hot air from the fresher and shouted back: “I didn’t plan to stick around that long, thanks.” He stepped out, catching the robe thrown at him with one hand and avoiding the reflex to dodge out of the way. This was, he reminded himself sternly, as safe a place as any on Ret 7.

This safety was primarily due to the thin, wizened Human leaning in the doorway, artificial eyes, Retian-made, blinking as though having trouble with the vapor-laden atmosphere of the bathhouse. Malacan Ser was a powerful being in this place, in part because of his business skills and in part because he was one of those rare individuals who actually liked it here.