“Where did you send the Fowean?” Barac’s voice was his own again, level, expressing polite interest and little else. Much better, I thought, but to myself.
“Just out in the rain,” I pitched my voice for his ears alone. “Such tricks are good for business—and keep my dealers honest.”
“And they amuse you. Is that what you’ve found here, Sira? Amusement?”
Maybe I’d been wrong about Barac regaining his composure. His eyes held some of the same uncomprehending wildness as had the pinned thief’s.
“Barac sud Sarc,” I said softly, adding the configuration of heart-kin to the bare words. “If you’ve come to see me, you don’t seem very pleased about it.”
Barac shuddered—his hand made a short violent gesture at the seething mass of noisy, gambling beings around us, many almost oblivious to their surroundings and certainly oblivious to us. “How can I be pleased to see you like this, to see you waste yourself with such filth, to be part of the port scum of this trivial waystation of a world? How can you even let yourself be seen in this place?” A pause as his eyes bored into mine. “What have you become, Sira?”
I tried not to smile. “Well, I doubt I’ve become what you’ve so unflatteringly decided, Cousin. Nor what you see. You forget, not all have your perception.” Delicately, I reached into the M’hir between us, not touching his shields but offering a different vision to his eyes—a face whose features were smudged and hard to discern, the hint of an exotic gem on the forehead; a body coated in a mist that confused. An illusion easy enough to offer drink- and drug-hazed minds. A confusion of descriptions to confound any who saw more. No two who left the Spacer’s Haven ever agreed on the appearance of her witch.
A flicker of astonishment crossed his face, leaving behind a raised eyebrow. “I won it, you see,” I continued. “The previous owner, Sas’qaat, really wasn’t as good at Stars and Comets as it thought. And you’re right. I stay here because it amuses me. Until now, I’ve missed the shadowy edges of life, its variety and color.”
“You’ve picked a hell of a way to start experiencing variety and color,” Barac countered. A loud scuffle, ended by heavy thuds as guardsmen moved in, served to underscore his comment. Then with more characteristic dry humor: “Did you have to become a witch in order to hang out in a bar?”
“It was easier than telling the truth.”
Barac’s lips twitched as though I’d unwittingly scored some point. “The truth, Cousin? Which one?”
I considered him as I took another sip from my cup, politely refraining from exerting my presence in the M’hir against his, then said, “Why, our truth, Cousin. That as Clan, you and I can lay claim to a rare heritage of power, power used by our kind to live very well as parasites among the unsuspecting species of the Trade Pact. Let me see. Is it two hundred or three hundred Human worlds we grace with our presence? Or more?”
He couldn’t help but glance around, checking if any being had overheard. I knew better. Once bets were placed, an earthquake wouldn’t rouse the Haven’s clientele to self-preservation, let alone curiosity. “I see. You sit here,” he accused, eyes back to me, “and presume to judge the rest of us.”
“I presume nothing,” I replied firmly, raising one hand to stop his outburst. “And nothing is exactly what I want from the Clan. I’ve started a new life, Barac, one that allows me to use my Talent without claim to a heritage I renounced a year ago.” Purposeful movement from the floor caught my eye, changing what I might have said next. “Actually, the Poculan version of a user of power, a Ram’ad Witch, has an interesting and useful status off this planet as well—as our friend Maka would testify.” I nodded a regal acknowledgment to the approaching Drapsk. I’d been wrong about the earthquake. The parade of over thirty Drapsk was enough to dislodge even the Haven’s gamblers, if only temporarily.
“Oh, Most Mystic One,” the Drapsk halted a cautious distance away, antennae aquiver. “You have given us a tale to carry back to the Tribe tonight.”
“Good business,” I said offhandedly.
The creature began shifting from one foot to another and the other Drapsk followed suit in unison. Beyond them, I saw smiles carefully hidden. “Business is what my ship-kin and I would like to discuss with you, Mystic One.”
“Captain Maka,” I began. Indulging the alien night after night was becoming tiresome. “How many times must I give you my answer? I am not interested in accompanying you to your home system. As you’ve seen tonight, I’m needed here or my bumbling staff will bankrupt me.”
If body posture were to reflect a stubborn set of mind, Maka the Drapsk should have been rigid by now. “We have searched two full cycles for a truly mystical personage such as yourself,” the being protested. “Do not doom us to failure before our Tribe. Just a short voyage—amply rewarded and enjoyable.”
The Drapsk sounded almost desperate—hardly a wise trading tactic. Why? “Not now,” I compromised. “I have matters that require my personal attention.” True enough, given who was sitting, rather puzzled, beside me. “Perhaps another time,” I offered.
Foot-shifting ceased, replaced by mad feathery waves as the antennae of all the Drapsk fluttered. I sensed no mind-to-mind contact, but I was convinced the beings were communicating with one another. If it was some form of chemical signaling, I frankly doubted its effectiveness in the maelstrom of odors from the various bodies and innumerable smoke sticks surrounding us.
Maka came right up to the edge of the dais, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Mystic One, you are kindness itself not to remove all hope. But time is short if the happiest of conjunctions is to occur this season for my ship-kin and me. Allow me to send my cargomaster to you with gifts—the merest indication of the treasures you would receive from the grateful Tribes of Drapskii.”
I shook my head impatiently. I needed to talk to Barac, not these creatures. I had to find out which part of my past was intruding into the present. “Send your gifts,” I agreed loftily. “I’ll provide you my final answer in return. Good evening, Captain.”
Then, regretfully, for I truly enjoyed watching this cross-section of the cosmos each night, I put down my cup and brushed my fingers over Barac’s sleeve. I pushed . . .
. . . and gained us the privacy of my rooftop garden.
The storm had ended. The first pair of Pocular’s smallish moons showed through openings in the clouds, casting doubled shadows and distorting silhouettes. It was the part of the lunar cycle when younger children were kept indoors after dark, old superstitions giving parents a practical defense against nightmares. I took a deep breath of fresh, clean night air and prepared to confront my own.
“Now, Barac,” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Glad it’s stopped raining,” he commented instead of answering, as he paced around the rooftop.
“Don’t go close to the edge,” I warned, following him to the near side with its view of the shipcity’s lights.
It was too dark to see his expression, but I detected a shade of patronage in his tone. “Really, Sira. I thought you had a good head for heights. And this is hardly the Cloisters, set on a mountaintop.”
“No?” I said softly, taking my own advice and halting a good two paces away from the rail. “You could be wrong about that, Cousin.”
Barac’s fingertips touched the finely wrought metal. Almost instantly he cursed and yanked back his hand. “You’ve set protections on this building.” He sounded surprised.
“Of course. Do you think for an instant I believed the Council would allow me to leave in peace? I’d rather sleep at night, thank you.” I felt Barac explore the unseen boundary with a tendril of power, knowing what he would find. The Haven was a fortress against our kind. No Clan could send thought or form into this place using the M’hir. And, I smiled to myself, if any tried a more physical approach, they would be in for a similar disappointment.
I switched on the lighting, adequate to let me see his face yet night-soft. Random beams played among the rain-soaked leaves and still-closed evening blossoms, sparkling like gems. I wasn’t the gardener, but I loved the exuberant life here—in its way as novel to me as the hordes of beings beneath our feet. “You can test my protections, Cousin,” I said dryly. “I assure you they are adequate against—” I hesitated, and he pounced cheerfully.
“The rest of us? Don’t worry, Sira. I’ve no intentions of testing them again. I, a humble sud, remain glad you and I are on such good terms.” His fine-boned face was open, freed of the guarded tension it had borne in the tavern, revealing lines of stress and—was I wrong?—what seemed to be the beginnings of hope. “But you asked me why I’m here. I’ve been chasing rumors of the Silver Fox,” Barac confessed willingly. “I was looking for you.”
I sat and waved him to another of the lounge chairs. There were sufficient puddles to make me glad Meragg had insisted on rain-resistant furnishings for this retreat of mine. I raised one brow at the Clansman, refusing to be charmed. “I was never hidden—not to eyes like yours. You waited a long time to visit, Barac. Why now?”
Barac’s smiling face settled into a mask, his voice dropping to the sharp edge of a whisper. “I did as you demanded, back then. You know that, Sira. I gave up my brother Kurr and the search for his true murderer—the name you knew but wouldn’t give me.” He paused, his voice gathering strength, yet oddly without bitterness. “But it wasn’t enough for the Council, Sira—that I stopped my awkward questions. This past month I was to be offered Choice by the daughter of Xer sud Teerac,” an impatient wave silenced my question. “A minor House. They live on Asdershal 3. But it was a good match; assured of success. Then, just before we were to meet, I was refused.”
I winced. I’d known Barac remained unChosen from the moment I’d felt his presence in the Haven—those of the Clan who were incomplete carried their overwhelming need in the M’hir like a flag of warning. There would be pain as well as hurt pride in being refused. “It’s not the end of things, Barac,” I said awkwardly, remembering what had been said to me time and time again. Unhelpful, meaningless words, but all I could offer. “There will be other Choices—”
“Not for me!” Barac snapped, his power flaring so that I narrowed my perception as well as my eyes. “You don’t understand, Sira. It was my third refusal. The last. The Council has no intention of allowing me fulfillment—ever. I—” He bit back what he might have said, then continued heavily, quietly. “When I realized the game they played, I took the only honorable course left to me. I am now exile.” When I didn’t speak, Barac smiled—a thin, hurt expression with none of his usual confidence. “Got room for a warlock, Cousin Witch?”
“You are always welcome,” I said quickly, gesturing respect and commitment. “Curse them all for fools!” This last burst from my lips before I could close them.
Slowly Barac nodded. “Especially one, Sira. No,” he added immediately, reading my sudden stillness correctly. “I can wait until you are ready. I didn’t come to open old wounds, just to be with you for a while, to think things through.” A mischievous grin took years from his face. “Do you know, I’ve even missed your Human—the redoubtable Morgan. How is he? Where is he?” He glanced around the garden as if expecting the Human to appear at any moment.
I knew where Jason Morgan was—I always knew. Just the sound of his name in my mind sent echoes along that subtle link that bound me to the deepest part of his cool, crisp thoughts. I stopped the reverberations before they troubled his peace. “Morgan sleeps,” I said, bringing a soft smile with me from that tenuous contact. “You will see him before long, Barac,” I promised, and said no more.
My kinsman would learn soon enough about the man who had changed so much about our lives and been forever changed himself.
INTERLUDE
“There.” The compactly built, brown-haired Human input the last reading, then stretched from his huddle over the locator with satisfaction in his clear blue eyes, one hand brushing shreds of moss from his faded spacer coveralls. “We’ll be able to find them next season without a problem. Should be as good a crop or better, don’t you think, Premick?”
Premick, as befitted a hunter of his rank and dignity, did not quite laugh, but there was a suspicious twitching at the corners of his narrow mouth. “I am no expert on lumps in the ground,” the Poculan answered in passable Comspeak as he rose to his full height, head and shoulders above the smaller Human. “Ask me about the nasar.” Typical of the jungle-dwelling race of his species, Premick was spider-thin, the warty surface of his skin a light yellow, a color shared by the outer rim of his eyes. He was humanoid only from a distance, having triple-jointed arms and legs, each joint with its fleshy protrusions—a curious adult trait Poculans were unwilling to clarify for aliens. His legs didn’t drop from his hips, as would a Human’s. Instead, they began about a third of the way up the straight torso, originating sideways before bending toward the ground. It was a feature Poculans commonly used as a convenient horizontal ledge to support the weight of not-inconsiderable waist packs.
Jason Morgan, trader and Captain of the Silver Fox, patted his own well-stuffed carrysack. “As I’ve told you before, my friend, each of these tasty lumps will bring in the price of ten of your pelts—and at much less risk to our own hides.”
This time Premick did laugh. “Maybe offworlders value them. I will settle for those ten pelts.” The delicate fur of this planet’s largest carnivore was both status and currency for his people, and the hunter was understandably bemused by the Human’s search for the rare merle truffle. To each his own, Morgan said to himself. Having the Fox sitting planetside with empty holds ate far too many credits each day for comfort—the truffles rounding out his sack should ease that problem nicely, if the information on their market value provided by a certain restauranteur of his acquaintance was as reliable as ever.
Premick waited impatiently as Morgan collected his equipment, including the sketch pad and stylus the Poculan was convinced the Human slept with, and finally announced he was ready to leave the glade. With a snort of relief, Premick gathered up his own carryroll with one easy sweep of a long, bare arm, the other already cradling a snub-nosed rifle. Primitive though his people might seem in appearance and lifestyle, they did not scorn technology that gave them an edge against Pocular’s many predators.