Unbound (17 page)

 

 

“Asri - ki,
you look
well.” Despite the deep scars across his cheeks and throat, Amin had a broad smile for her, greeting her the way he always had from toddling child to grown woman. It pained her to see him like this, a shell of his former stocky self. Now, only his floater kept his head at her height, and the smell of antiseptic constantly surrounded him.

He had been a large, vital man—a genial giant to a little girl—going about his duties with a spring in his stride, and as a deputy administrator of Lyrel 9, those duties had been many. Until a cargo ship crashed into the station. The credit crunchers of the Paxis conglomerate had retired him on permanent disability. They’d granted him lodgings on the rebuilt Lyrel 9, but the pittance of a stipend they paid didn’t stretch to buying and maintaining his floater.

“And you.” Asrial squeezed his hand, returning his smile automatically. His use of her pet name brought to mind happier memories, and anyway, railing at the whims of fortune and corporate bods wouldn’t help him.

“Your cousins miss you. You should visit more often.” She hadn’t been able to stay long, after her last return from the Rim with the disappointing take from the Vogan relics. “You know there’s a mug of xoclat waiting for you at home,” Amin added, sweetening his bribe. Xoclat was a luxury she would never buy for herself, but Amin’s wife indulged once in a while, though she kept an otherwise tight grip on the family’s credits. He knew Asrial would have difficulty passing up the offer.

“I miss them, too. But it can’t be helped.”

Amin’s children treated her more like an elder sister than a distant cousin. They’d been close in childhood, but every time she returned to Lyrel 9, there were changes. When she was younger, they were mostly physical changes—her cousins growing taller or developing breasts or a deeper voice. She’d accepted those as natural, but the more recent changes were traumatic: Jamyl’s and Nasri’s deaths, Amin’s paralysis. Now, even minor changes seemed to foster more distance between her and her remaining family.

But it really couldn’t be helped. She’d have to sell the
Castel
if she wanted to tie herself to the Lyrel constellation. No job in the area could support her as well as cover Amin’s medical expenses. While his daughters, Ghala and Minu, had completed their apprenticeships, they were so junior in their trades that the pay wasn’t much.

“Unfortunately, yes. Well, let us transfer your load to the vault so you can relax.” Amin spun his floater around nimbly and nodded to the work gang he’d brought, trusted friends one and all and a mixed bag of races. He might no longer be an admin bod, but he still had his connections among the old dockhands.

Asrial waved them to the hold, equally eager to move the Majian relics to a more secure location. Inuoie, an old dockhand and one of Amin’s oldest friends, straightened to his full height and swayed his arms through a stylized gesture of Honored Greeting that ended in a pose of Joyful Esteem, the Ruxilian’s extra joints and elongated body adding a sinuous grace to the courtesy. Inuoie might have risen from dockhand to admin bod, but decades away from his home world hadn’t erased his taste for the dance of manners, as he called it—a good thing, since the bony plates of Ruxilian faces denied them the mobility and expression of Lomidari.

She smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. A sovreine might attempt to match his greeting, but she was a Rim rat. No amount of training would let her answer with equal grace, and anything less would make a mockery of the courtesy.

Anyway, Inuoie didn’t expect it of her, as he proved by dropping his pose and joining the rest of the work gang waiting for the hold’s rising hatch to lock open. He’d taken the time to teach a young girl how to read something of Ruxilian manners, but the gestures were intended for more joints than she had, and she’d never mastered the performance of them.

“Who is that?” Amin’s eyes shifted to a point over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to the
Castel
’s hatch where Romir stood, watching the approaching work gang with rather obvious wariness. Thinking to divert Amin’s attention, she’d gone ahead to greet him, leaving Romir to exit the
Castel
later. She should have known the older man would still take notice.

Despite Romir having his hair tied back and wearing spacer garb, he had an air about him that marked him as other. Not a port tough. Not quite grounder. But not an admin bod, either.

“That’s Romir Gadaña, he’s ...” How to explain his presence? She couldn’t say he was a djinn she hoped to free, and calling him her lover would make her sound like a galaxy-class idiot; either way Amin would think she’d taken leave of her senses. “He’s crewing for me on this trip.”

Her answer resulted in a sudden narrowing of eyes and a loss of easy humor.

“Crewing? You had not mentioned wanting crew. I could have recommended someone.” Though he was her mother’s cousin, he’d been like an uncle to her, doting on her whenever they’d stopped on Lyrel 9. He felt some responsibility for her with Nasri dead, even though Asrial had already reached adulthood when her parents were killed.

Asrial fought down a flush at his stare, feeling the weight of his disappointment. “It was a recent decision. Romir was available.”

That answer earned Romir a longer look. “Are you sure he can be trusted?” The slack flesh around Amin’s jaw emphasized his unease, quivering as he clenched his teeth. His enthusiastic greeting had blinded her to it until now, but he’d lost more weight since she’d last seen him. Yet his concern was all for her.

“Romir’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“You cannot blame me for worrying, Asri-
ki
. Ever since your parents’ deaths, you have flown alone. But now you appear with this
long-haired
crew hand.” The grimace that accompanied his
long-haired
comment made his objection clear: only grounders wore their hair long. “Why him?”

Asrial waved a hand, dismissing all import. “It was just a matter of timing, convenience. Nothing much, really. I needed a hand, and he was there.”

How could she explain Romir’s situation to her mother’s cousin? Amin himself had told her and his children stories of djinn and evil sorcerers and the heroes who triumphed over them. Without a demonstration of Romir’s powers, he’d think her mad to believe Romir was a djinn.

“He’s a big help with maintenance on the
Castel
.”

“Eh?”

“He has a feel for the electronics,” she added. That much was true. She wouldn’t have dared any of the Rings if she hadn’t been able to isolate the problem with the control runs. She had Romir to thank for that. “I’m lucky he’s with me.”

“The
Castel
is an old ship. I suppose there are not that many techs in the Inner Worlds that would be familiar with her class.” Despite the conciliatory words, a frown still creased Amin’s brow, one that cleared when he added, “But with this, you will be able to upgrade her. Finally.”

Asrial only smiled, unwilling to commit herself. Guilt squirmed in her belly at misleading him even that much. Amin had been like a second father to her. The omission felt almost as bad as a lie.

She beckoned Romir to join them. He immediately straightened from his slouch against the hatch, his gaze sharpening with concern then flicking around the bay. She bit her cheek to suppress a smile. It looked like her paranoia had rubbed off on him.

Romir stalked through the chaos of dockhands unloading the
Castel
, seeming to pay them little more than a glance. But he reached her side with quick efficiency, while nimbly avoiding several would-be collisions. His performance was a joy to watch, the ripple of muscle and long, sure strides easy on the eyes. He walked with a confidence that sent a thrill up her spine.

Pride and delight mixed with bemusement in an unsettling brew of emotions. She’d never reacted like this to a man before and didn’t know what to make of it.

Amin’s face darkened at seeing the true length of Romir’s bound hair, which marked him as grounder to most spacers. But after a sharp glance at her, he refrained from comment. She sensed the influence of one of her cousins behind his discretion. Perhaps a paternal lecture gone awry? Whatever the cause, she was grateful, unwilling to explain Romir’s situation with so many ears around.

After the
Castel
was unloaded and the Majian relics secure in a station vacuum vault, Asrial went with Amin to his quarters, Romir a quiet shadow by her shoulder. The fog of antiseptic that accompanied Amin was more noticeable.

Her mother’s cousin maneuvered his floater well, taking corners easily, but beneath the smile he kept on his face, he looked tired. She’d have to ask his wife, Hana, the results of his latest medical checkup.

“Asri-
ki
, you need not worry so about me.”

“Of course.” Asrial nodded, stretching an agreeable smile across her face. “But you know me. I’ll worry all the same.”

“Do not waste my breath, in other words?”

“Save it for more important things, like how Ghala, Minu, and Khayri are doing.”

With a low laugh of surrender, Amin gave in, allowing her to divert the conversation to her cousins. The three were all younger than she. At nineteen, Khayri was the youngest and as the only boy somewhat spoiled by women’s attentions; his antics made for good stories, and Amin related the latest with vigor.

Asrial sat back on the old couch in the living room, relaxing in the embrace of family. She’d missed this on the long ventures into the Rim. And if she wasn’t mistaken, Romir enjoyed it as well; though he hadn’t unbent so far as to slouch, his face had lost a measure of tension as Amin told his stories.

Soon enough it neared the end of shift for her cousins and Hana. After they got home, there would be no more talk of business. “How’re the preparations for the auction coming along?”

Amin nodded to his worktable where a printout lay beside the comp. He had a voice-activated setup and server bots programmed to deal with those routine tasks he could no longer perform. “The list of interested buyers. Most of them have already arrived. The inspection is scheduled for tomorrow and the auction on the day after.”

Picking up the sheet, she scanned the list, blinking at the length and some of the names. She ruffled her hair in thought, excitement bubbling through her veins and tempting her to laughter. The earnest money each name represented would be hefty additions to the coffers, but Amin had also attracted museum buyers.

“Who’s Volsung?” She thought she knew the major collectors in the relics market. That was a new name.

Amin twitched his hand in place of a shrug. “Some Cyrian out of Diarid. He heard about the auction from somewhere and insisted on taking part. He even put up the earnest for a place in the auction without haggling. I ran a background check, but nothing suspicious came up, no conglomerate affiliation. His ship plies a trade route in Wainek.”

An Inner Worlds trader, then. Lack of conglomerate backing would explain why he serviced one of the less affluent sectors. But why would he be bidding on Majian relics? Wainek trade wasn’t that lucrative—as she well knew. Would a trader like this Volsung spend his own hard-earned funds on rarities that didn’t have much of a market in the Wainek sector?

Asrial’s fingers itched, instinct and curiosity humming alert to possible opportunity waiting to be exploited. If Volsung fronted a newbie, someone just beginning to amass a collection, perhaps he’d be willing to pay a premium to avoid an auction?

 

 

The long hall
Amin had reserved for the inspection of the Majian relics echoed with the hurried footsteps of trusted dockhands overseen and commanded by Amin’s old friend, Inuoie.

From the sidelines, Asrial watched with rapt attention the Ruxilian’s writhing as he shifted from Respectful Disagreement with a subtle twist of Irritation to Tentative Approval to . . . a pose she couldn’t read, all within a matter of heartbeats. “It’s like he’s dancing.”

Beside her, Amin chuckled. “You were always fascinated by Ruxilians, even as a child.”

The memory made her smile. The pageant of races never failed to entertain her. It was never the same; there was always something different: a change in the players, in their goals, in their priorities, in their spheres of influence. But for the most part, it had nothing to do with her. She was safe in her role as observer, so long as she avoided Dareh territory.

Amin glanced at Romir standing among the Majian artifacts waiting to be placed on display, then angled his floater to face her. “I still have my doubts about the wisdom of your having a grounder as crew.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Anyway, there’s something else I wanted to talk about.” Her heart clenched, a sliver of pain sharp and sudden that made her lungs seize.

“I am all ears.”

“I want you to explore the possibility of . . . selling the Dilaryn jewels.” Now that she’d said it, she felt strange, as if she’d stepped out of an airlock into zero grav and the vacuum of deep space.

Dumbstruck silence spoke louder than any words Amin could have said. Though her mother’s cousin had been a spacer since before she was born, he was still Lomidari. He understood—probably better than she did—the implications of the sale. Disposing of the Dilaryn jewels dispersed the history of House Dilaryn; it was another step in dissolving the house.

“But—ah—you, you are the
sraya
. As sovreine, even if not the enthroned
reis ...
” The faltering words stumbled into renewed silence.

“Feelers only,” she hurried to assure Amin, her cheeks going cold then hot in turns. “It might not be necessary, but I’d like to know my options.”

Slumping in the floater, he stared at her with troubled eyes. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is.” She forced the words past gritted teeth, feeling like a traitor to all the Dilaryns who had gone before her. She laced her clammy hands behind her to hide their trembling. Best she get used to the idea. She would have to sell the jewels, sooner or later.