Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (59 page)

His eyes softened until I could have drowned in them. “Befriending a Scat. Adopting the Drapsk. And coming here to knock some sense into your own kind with the help of some Humans. You’ve come a long way from life in this fortress, Sira di Sarc.”

I looked around. The room was comfortable, full of things I used to value, the favorite furniture shabby enough to welcome. The bars were still on the windows, placed there as reminders of the less visible barriers used to keep others safe from the dangerous lure of my power. “It wasn’t life, Jason,” I said, dismissing my past as he had dismissed his.

I reached for his hand. “Let’s go.”

The Watcher winced.

It was becoming painful to look in the M’hir toward Camos—painful and, at the same time, impossible to avoid. With each arrival, the M’hir flared with traces of more power until all pathways converged into one massive artery, pulsing to Camos, carrying the Clan to their Council.

There hadn’t been a gathering like this since the day the M’hiray left the Clan Homeworld, power banded into one to forge the great path to carry them all outward, leaving the rest of their species behind—the day the first Watchers had stirred to awareness among the new breed of Choosers and their Chosen. Then, they had been shepherds to guide that journey. Today, they were guardians of the M’hir itself.

This inflowing was greater and less. The M’hiray had grown in individual power, if not in numbers. But they no longer blended their power into one purpose, not even for the good of their own kind.

This was opinion, and the Watcher removed the thought before it trickled to the others. Her duty was to monitor, to see if any faltered in the journey between worlds; if this occurred, she would notify their House of the loss. She expected none. The pathway was now so prominent in the M’hir, so well-formed, a child could follow it.

In fact, the Watcher doubted any Clan had sufficient power to resist it.

Chapter 59

TOTALLY without meaning to be, Sector Chief Lydis Bowman of the Trade Pact was the host for the first complete gathering of Clan in living memory.

As one would expect, she took it in stride, only saying to me, when the scale of things became apparent: “Thank goodness the Council was as paranoid as I was about privacy. Otherwise, wherever would I have put them all?”

The paranoia she meant was an insistence by the Council to meet where there were no eavesdroppers or hidden troops—there having been some uncomfortable experiences with such things in the past. So Bowman had cleverly arranged for the use of the Morris & Flag Tug Co. assembly plant, presently vacant as the company prepared for renovations.

It was, besides the largest freestanding building on the surface of Camos, well-lit, drafty, and as welcoming as you might imagine a vacant warehouse large enough to permit the construction of the mammoth docking tugs so essential to spaceports would be.

I’d read about the devices, in the ceiling, several stories above us, to prevent the formation of clouds. They didn’t always work; there were puddles on the floor. Since Camos had very civilized weather control, I found this lack indoors remarkably appealing.

It was a distraction I needed, given what I was facing.

A carpet had been found and placed in the exact center of the vast expanse. Somewhat like a target on a range, I thought and felt Morgan’s amused agreement. At the moment, the carpet housed Bowman, Constables ’Whix and Terk, two quietly dressed Pact officials she introduced only as “interested,” Morgan, and me. Enough, I thought, for now. We’d been the first to arrive—some minutes before the appointed time—and now stood waiting.

A Clanswoman materialized on the cracked pavement to one side of Bowman. Terk twitched, but held himself steady—perhaps realizing her confused expression didn’t quite match the profile of an assassin. Shortly afterward, he had three more to watch, then fifteen, then two hundred.

Now, as Bowman said, it was just as well she’d provided the space, because the Morris & Flag Tug Co. building soon housed what I guessed to be every living member of my kind.

With the exception of the Council.

All were silent, inside and out, the only sounds the breathing and occasional movements of close to a thousand individuals. All stood motionless, children to adults, their eyes focused on where we stood—not in challenge, but in curiosity. There were Choosers here. I felt their uneasy power, but it was oddly dimmed, as though muted by some need beyond Choice, or, more likely, overwhelmed within the presence of so many others. It was enough to warn the unChosen. I saw them, Barac as well, clustered at the far side of the gathering. The M’hir itself seemed subdued, perceptible only as the faintest of traces.

I didn’t know what—or who—had summoned the Clan here, but I was glad of it.

“Here they come,” I said for those blind to the M’hir, feeling the surge of power as the Council announced itself.

Eight robed and hooded figures winked into place, standing before us on the carpeting, plus two more: Ica di Teerac, First Chosen of her House, and Ru di Mendolar.

The hoods were tossed back on shoulders, revealing faces I knew very well indeed, the most powerful Talents from their families: the First Chosen of Lorimar and Su’dlaat; the rest Clansmen, Sawnda’at, Mendolar, Friesnen, and Teerac; the last two my enemies in truth: Faitlen di Parth and my father, Jarad di Sarc.

They all stared around the factory floor, as if transfixed by the reality of what their inner sense must have told them was happening. Crisac di Friesnen gave a faint gasp.

“Greetings, Councillors,” Bowman said cheerfully. She had a way of projecting her voice, quite startling given her rather small, sturdy frame.

She caught their attention, all but one. Jarad, as foremost in power, spoke as his right—but to me.

“What is this?” he demanded. “What have you done?”

“Greetings, Father,” I said, making the appropriate power gesture in recognition of my equal. “This gathering? Wasn’t it ordered by the Council?” The gibe let me touch his thoughts on the deepest of levels. This time, Jarad, I need not keep your secrets. Morgan and I are safe from you now.

“Greetings, First Chosen of di Sarc,” he answered, smoothing his voice into something almost pleasant, his craggy features carefully noncommittal. “And our welcome to your Chosen.” This with a gracious gesture to Morgan.

It was a tactic. Acknowledging Morgan as my Chosen, here among all of our Human-phobic kind, was asking for a riot. I hadn’t thought him willing to risk that loss of control, not with the Enforcers present. My eyes narrowed. Take care, Jarad, I warned.

But, surprisingly, the crowd remained quiescent, as if what drew them here had nothing to do with Morgan or my private war with the Council.

Jarad bowed to Bowman. “And greetings to you as well, Sector Chief Bowman. And your warriors. Who might these be?” A wave at Bowman’s other guests.

“Board Member Cartnell,” said one, a Human male, tall and thin for his kind, slightly stooped as though accustomed to talking to smaller beings. He indicated his companion, the light scaling on her cheeks indicating she was possibly Papiekian, though that race had so many subspecies it was difficult to tell with any certainty. “Board Member Sta’gli.”

Board Members. These individuals spoke for their entire species on Trade Pact issues. I made the gesture of respect and saw most of the Councillors and other Clan follow suit without hesitation. We’d always, I thought to myself with some cyni cism, been quick to identify true power when we saw it. Jarad delayed perhaps a second. Faitlen’s hands remained still.

“What is your interest here?” he said rudely, going so far as to step forward. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Morgan casually flex a wrist—a move that loosened his throwing knife in its hidden sheath. “We are not members of your Pact! We are the M’hiray!”

“Two-o Board members may invite a-iy new species into-o the Pact,” Member Sta’gli said in a soft, singsong voice. “We are here to-o convey that invitation to-o the M’hiray-oo.” Though begun almost in a whisper, the voice was immediately amplified by some hidden means, carrying well over our heads to reach everyone present. There would be no hiding that offer from the Clan, I thought. From Bowman’s satisfied look, her side had brought some interesting tech.

Faitlen having broken Council protocol, Degal di Sawnda’at didn’t hesitate to follow suit. “We have no homeworld, Board Members,” he said bluntly. “This—” he gestured around himself, “—is the sum of our population. Why would you offer us membership? Where would be your gain—or ours?”

“Your gain would be what we all find within the Pact,” Member Cartnell said equally bluntly. “Protection from interference by others; trade; and the right to call on the resources of other members when you need assistance.”

“Our gain, Councillor, is to-o increase the diversity of the Pact.” Member Sta’gli’s tone took on a definite ring of menace. “And as members, you would agree to-o cease your interference with other species and to-o protect the rights of your own. This is a-iy more desirable solution than other options which present themselves.”

“What interference?” Degal demanded. “We have no interest in other species.” Several other Councillors nodded agreement, Faitlen emphatically.

The crowd remained still. I found myself picking out familiar faces. They might have been statues—or, I thought with an uneasy memory, Retians waiting for a summons.

“That is not quite true.” I hadn’t expected this stern admission to come from Jarad.

What are you up to? I sent.

Patience, that powerful, familiar voice said in my thoughts. I clamped down my shields.

“We of the M’hiray have harbored a criminal among us,” Jarad said loudly, as if taking on the role of evangelist to the already converted. “A fiend who has dared tamper with the core of what we are—to bypass the Power-of-Choice and the rights of Choosers—to sell our flesh to species who lack our gifts!”

Jarad had the stage, I had to admit, looking around at a thoroughly spellbound audience. Perhaps not wholly so. Ica di Teerac was frowning at her son-by-Choice. They’d always disagreed, she’d told me once, even when he was fostered away from her for the first years. And Morgan had that loose, balanced look which meant he was ready to dive in any direction should it be necessary.

And Faitlen di Parth looked positively ashen. “What are you talking about, Jarad?” he began.

“You should know, Faitlen di Parth,” Jarad said calmly. He gestured to Bowman. “This Human does have the evidence to prove what you’ve done with the aid of the Retians, does she not?” His voice rose again, power cutting under every word until what he said rang through the mind as well as through the ears. “Do you deny it? Do you deny stealing reproductive tissue from Sira di Sarc, my daughter, in order to attempt to grow—to grow!—some type of copy of her? Do you deny tricking Clanswomen from your own House into taking part in your schemes, so you might be the one to benefit?” Aha, I thought to myself, Faitlen’s fatal mistake plain before me. No one tricked Jarad and survived it. From the look on Faitlen’s face, he knew it as well as I did.

“And dare you,” Jarad had continued, “dare you deny taking Choosers from the safety of your own House only to have them die for one of your experiments?”

“Are you challenging me?” Faitlen asked in a shrill, desperate voice. “Are you? When it was—”

“I challenge!” Jarad roared, his voice like a dim echo of the deadly force he projected into the M’hir.

It was over in an instant. Faitlen crumpled to the carpet, a shocked look on his face as his mind exploded from within, abandoning the needs of his body. When Terk and ’Whix moved as though to help, Degal stopped them with a brusque: “He has already died.” What remained of Faitlen disappeared, discarded into the M’hir, most likely by Degal himself.

There was a disturbance in the hitherto motionless audience of Clan, individuals moving away to expose Faitlen’s Chosen as she writhed on the damp floor, her soaked clothes making patterns as she rolled in helpless agony. Then she, too, was gone, granted mercy by someone from her House, her body following her mind into the void.

I looked at Jarad di Sarc, knowing what he had done and why. There was only one way he could have made those so-accurate and damning accusations. He had known. He had been the one to send Faitlen after what Jarad considered his: my power and progeny. He met my eyes; in his I saw only implacable purpose.

Well, I thought to myself, I have my own.

Bowman coughed lightly. “There is also the matter of kidnapped Human telepaths, Councillors. Do any of you have—revelations to make about that?”

Ica stood straighter. If anything, Ru di Mendolar appeared as though she’d like to sink into the carpet. She’d looked at me once, then stared at Morgan almost hungrily. Now she kept her eyes down and her power dampened. “I do, Enforcer, Board Members,” Ica said. “It was my intention to counter the destructive path our Council was taking; to find other ways to our survival. We thought, in the Choice of Sira di Sarc for this Human, we had found such a way.

“I wish you to understand—you especially, Captain Morgan—that though we did take these individuals from their homes against their will, they were offered the chance to participate, or to leave with their memory of us removed. Two chose to leave.” I saw Bowman’s satisfied nod; she preferred things tidy, I’d noticed. I also imagined she would very soon be looking for those two and didn’t envy them. Then, a quick guarded thought from Morgan echoed my own: Had these been the source of Ren Symon’s knowledge?

“The rest,” Ica concluded, “wished to stay.”

“What were you offering?” Morgan asked. I wished he’d kept silent—any attention from the Council now could force our hand—but I understood.

“Why, power, of course? What else would they want? What else did you want?”