There was nothing simple or idle in the snap of Huido’s massive handling claw. As Sorl almost fainted from fright, and even Barac looked startled, Morgan frowned at the Carasian. “You don’t want me to ask the question? Why?”
“Because he knows. He knows. He knows,” Sorl supplied, cowering under the Carasian’s claws. “Bet he does. Bet he does. I do.”
“Huido?” Morgan asked numbly.
“Psaat,” the Carasian said rudely, heaving his bulk up to loom in front of Morgan, who stood to meet him. “The Enforcers are within a day of posting a reward for your hide, if they haven’t already. Ask this one about the dead Clansman polluting my freezer. Ask him about the death of Malacan Ser. Ask him why he was hiding under the Fox. This other business can wait.”
Morgan hardly listened, staring at his friend, feeling as though something solid in his life was turning to sand. “You know who has been watching Sira and me—maybe even who is responsible for all this—and you haven’t told me?”
Huido’s eyes suddenly deserted their focus, dodging away to look in every direction but into Morgan’s face.
“Morgan,” Barac said slowly. “Huido has only your interests in mind. Believe me. I know. Perhaps you should trust him in this—”
“Trust? Who can I trust? You?” With one smooth movement, Morgan tore the nearest stool from its latching to the deck, throwing it over Huido’s head to smash into the door of the cubbyhole beyond. “Answer me! Who knew about Sira and me? Who told him?” Sorl had scurried under the table, but there was no doubt of Morgan’s meaning.
Huido sank down until he crouched before Morgan, resting his great claws on the floor as if the gesture could counter the Human’s towering rage. “There are some things best left under the rocks that hide them. Things that bite,” the Carasian warned him, his voice not in the least conciliatory. Instead, he might have been some ancient oracle, about to pronounce a deserved doom.
Morgan clenched his fists, fighting to keep his voice level. “No more secrets, Huido. Tell me.”
“You are close to a line, Brother, a line I fear you may cross. This could be the push, understand me? Do you still want to know?”
Morgan nodded, mute. Then, with a shudder of dread that started somewhere deep inside and roared through him like wildfire, he said one word to admit his past into his present: “Symon.”
“Symon. Symon. Symon. Symon says. Symon says. Symon told us everything,” came a frantic singsong from under the table. “Morgan has the power now. I feel it. Symon wants it.” Then, words that made Morgan’s blood run cold and brought Barac lunging to his feet: “Symon found her. Found her. Symon saw her. Symon. Tasted her power. Symon wants it. Wants it for us. Symon says.”
It never ended, Morgan thought, reaching an unsteady hand to support himself against Huido’s cool bulk. No matter what you did or how far you ran, the unresolved nightmares of the past would strike again as they chose.
But never at Sira, he vowed, fighting for control, feeling the room sway as his rage and what he owned of hers fed on one another until Barac cried out and Sorl began to sob. Symon would never threaten Sira; never take her from him as he had taken everything else.
Not while Morgan lived. He drew a deep steadying breath. Another. He waved an apology to Barac, who stood glowering.
“Huido,” he began, his voice failing, then offered one hand to the dark gap where the Carasian’s eyes nestled to converge on him, with the exception of the two twisted to one side to keep an immovable fix on the whimpering Lacknee Sorl—Huido didn’t allow anything to distract him from an enemy. The remaining eyes parted and Huido’s daggerlike mouthparts emerged, needle tips pressing into the skin of Morgan’s hand with exquisite gentleness. Apology and forgiveness went both ways.
Morgan found his voice, though it sounded strained to his own ears. “I always knew your heart was bigger than your head,” he said, rapping one knuckle against the Carasian’s carapace. “I don’t need you to protect me from the past, Brother. Not anymore.” The Human stared straight ahead, not seeing the galley of the Fox, instead gauging the depths of his emotions, coolly assessing his self-control and its cost. “I see the line, Huido,” Morgan said at last, understanding completely what the Carasian feared, and knowing he had good reason for it. “I won’t deny it’s difficult holding back from it, or that I’ve—changed—but trust me to keep my head, okay?
“Now. Tell me all you know about Symon—” Morgan drew in a steadying breath “and when he met Sira.”
Chapter 51
IT took me some time to realize Captain Rek’s aircar was not taking us to the relative security of either the Nokraud or the Makmora. Since this had been our arrangement, an arrangement which would cost my Tribe an astronomical sum I could probably never repay in three lifetimes, I was less than happy with the discovery. But there was no doubt. That vast stretch of open water I could see through my viewport, broken by mats of floating reeds—Retian agriculture—and the occasional low-lying island, lay to the north of Jershi. We were flying in exactly the opposite direction.
“Wher—” the word lost itself in my dry mouth. I looked around in the back seat and spotted a flask of some liquid or other. It contained, I decided, rolling the liquid around my thick tongue gratefully, the remains of a fruit juice, now on its way to an afterlife as a fermented beverage. Spoiled or not, I relished every drop I retrieved.
I tried again, more successfully: “Where are we going, Captain Rek?”
The driver’s seat was an arm’s length in front of me. Rek swiveled her long head around to regard me out of those chilling yellow eyes. “Do not be alarmed, Fem Morgan. This-ss maneuver keeps-ss us-ss from the vids-ss of the ss-city and the Enforc-ssers-ss. I will turn us-ss s-ssoon. My adherents-ss on the Nokraud us-sse this-ss time to cons-ssolidate my new pos-ssition.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, especially with some of the Drapsk and Rael possibly still on board. “This new position, Captain. Has it anything to do with our agreement?”
She laughed, her jaws clattering in so rapid a movement that tiny froths of spittle appeared and trailed down the sides of her throat. Her tongue darted out to accurately recapture each speck. “You have a delic-ccious-ss s-ssensse of humor, Fem Morgan.”
What I had, I thought with more than a little self-pity, gritting my teeth to endure another wave of sick pain, was a probably serious medical problem, and the only being near enough to help was accustomed to ripping apart those weaker than herself. Or otherwise disadvantaged. “You’re taking over the Nokraud from Grackik,” I speculated. “Her arrangement with Faitlen di Parth and the Baltir didn’t include you.”
“To be more precss-is-sse, Fem Morgan, Grackik s-ssupported thos-sse with whom s-sshe had s-ssuccessess-s in the pas-sst.” A jaw snapped in punctuation. “I look to the pres-ssent. There I s-sse you in asss-cendancsse over your enemies-ss and Grackik’s-ss bones-ss in your jaws-ss.”
I sorted all this out, surprised to find I’d been paid a compliment. So while Rek had gladly taken my promise of payment, she’d actually thrown in with the faction she believed would ascend to topple the other—mine over Faitlen’s. While I approved of her faith, I had yet to see much proof of it. But who was I to argue with this obviously cheerful Scat?
Maybe, I said to myself, she knew something I didn’t about the situation.
Rek didn’t bother telling me the details of her plan to “consolidate” the Nokraud, which was just as well. Holding up my end of any conversation was becoming more difficult by the hour. I hunted surreptitiously for more to drink or something to eat, but the flask had been the only litter left behind.
At least I could snatch bits and pieces of sleep, having wedged myself along both back seats—taking the precaution of pulling over a seat harness in case Rek had to do any more serious piloting than running a straight course over nothing. I assumed the aircar had sufficient fuel for all this—not a question to ask, since it implied a possible lack of foresight the Scat would doubtless find offensive. I could only hope.
Unfortunately, as I’d found, hope wasn’t enough.
When the first bolt of energy shot past the aircar, illuminating the interior with a brilliant white glare, I remembered a saying Morgan had taught me: the only thing a Scat chases faster than profit is revenge.
As the second took out most of the side of the aircar, covering me with ash and debris the howling wind tore away, I spared a moment to regret my choice of ally.
As it turned out, I was too quick to dismiss Rek’s value. Her piloting skills, whether natural or inspired by necessity, brought the crippled aircar down on an island—if the glimpse I had of a flat strip of grass-covered mud qualified it as such—without so much as a thud. The heart-stopping slide and sudden stop wrapped inside most of a very tough and spiny shrub was hardly worth mentioning. I was frankly amazed to have lived this long.
Another streak of brilliance, this one overhead and followed by a dull explosion. I was hardly an expert, but it appeared to me as though there were now two aircars fighting above us. I wished them both luck, having no idea which one shot us down—or which one might be potential rescue.
“Out!” came a hiss, the Scat bending over me and tearing me free of the harness, green blood oozing sluggishly from several small indentations in her concave chest, as well as a few on her throat and snout. The wounds didn’t appear to slow her down, her movements lightning-swift and urgent.
I didn’t hesitate to obey. It was unlikely whomever had downed us planned to leave us walking around. Well, I tried to obey, but doubled over the moment I stood in the wreckage. The world kept spinning as though we were still in an aircar plunging to the ground.
“Asssssht.”
Rek lifted me with one easy movement, despite keeping a blaster rifle firmly in one clawed hand, cradling me against her wounded chest quite gently, although this meant I was being soaked with her blood. I had no intention of complaining, instead looking for some uninjured part of her upper body I could cling to with my hands and so support some of my own weight.
“Hold s--sstill.”
So much for that. I made myself as still as possible, if that was the only help she wanted, looking up at the outsweep of her long fanged jaw a hand’s breath from my throat. Beneath the odor of singed cloth and plas, I could detect a dry, dusty scent—not unpleasant, merely different.
Rek moved cautiously through the wreckage, once grabbing some other piece of equipment—most likely another weapon, but I couldn’t quite see it without squirming—after slinging the rifle to her more intact shoulder. The heavy weapon banged against my knees with every step. Before leaving the wreck completely, she switched me and her bag to the grip of one incredibly strong arm, using her now-free hand to manipulate some controls on what remained of the control panel. “Gss-sst.” This a more satisfied sound.
Then it was back up against her chest, a clamber and jump over the side of the aircar and we were on the island. Rek didn’t slow down, in fact breaking into a loping run through the scorch-tipped reed grass, her body leaning forward so that I had to cover my face with my arms to keep the sharp-edged vegetation from cutting into my skin.
Whomp! Clumps of mud and pieces of equipment rained down all around us. Since Rek didn’t miss a stride, I assumed the explosion from behind us had been planned and wasn’t a renewal of the assault.
It must have been a relatively large island. The ground was level and smooth, if occasionally spongy underfoot so that one or the other of Rek’s long clawed feet would sink deeper unexpectedly, drawing a hiss of anger from her and one of pain from me. When she noticed I was trying to protect myself from the grass, she tossed me around so I faced her chest. I was fascinated to see her wounds closing as I watched. They had been relatively shallow cuts, probably from the shrapnel formed by the shattering of the front end of the aircar, but regardless, it was amazing to see Rek healing even as she continued to run with the burden of my body and the weapons. Such an ability must have proved a definite asset to a species so prone to physical conflict throughout its evolution.
Despite the ground she covered, it could only have been minutes since the crash and explosion before Rek came to an unannounced stop, startling me out of a state of semiconscious ness. “This-ss will have to do,” she said, putting me on the ground.
“ This” was a hollow in the mud formed by the toppling of a group of the wizened, moss-hung trees. I looked around, seeing this wasn’t the start of a forest, but must be a part of the island raised sufficiently above the water table to allow clumps of these drier land plants to take root and survive—not that any of them appeared particularly healthy. There was a general odor of advancing rot corrupting the fresh scent of the water lapping at the shore a few steps away, as well as signs erosion would soon weaken the hold of the next clumps, already bending to touch the water with their branches. Some of their leaves lifted up and down with each tiny incoming wave, drowning slowly.
I peered up through the tangle of dying roots over my head. The sky was darkening—not night, but the usual afternoon downpour gathering itself. No sign of our attacker or the other aircar. Yet.
Rek didn’t waste time looking around. She reached into what I could now see was the aircar’s emergency pack, pulling out a packet she shook into a large piece of fabric. This she laid right over the puddle of stagnant water at the very bottom of the hollow, before nudging me with a foot. “Down there.”
Rather than stand up, which I doubted I could manage anyway, I rolled myself down the little bit of slope onto the blanket. It was waterproof, I noticed with relief, though my landing had splashed some of the foul liquid over its edges. Rek followed me down, examining my position with a tilt of her heavy head, then she took the sides of the blanket and began wrapping me up like a body for burial—an image I thought unpleasantly apt.