A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) Page 9

  “You’re late.”

  Training locked Barac’s muscles to immobility. He used his eyes and deeper sense to seek the source of the soft, low voice without success. “I think you have the wrong room—” he began to thin air, only to close his mouth as a figure slowly materialized before his eyes. The form of a woman grew distinct, then clear, her blue-black hair tumbling in heavy waves to frame a pale and dramatically beautiful face. Her eyes were light gray and stormy with emotion; her generous red lips were thin with anger. The only flaw to the effect was the way her feet floated a hand-breadth above the floor.

  “Rael,” Barac said with disgust. “I hope you know you scared me out of what wits I’d left—” Keeping a wary eye on the ominously silent Clanswoman, Barac strode past her to the room’s servo-panel. He tapped a request for Denebian wine—an expensive Denebian wine. When the panel opened seconds later, Barac took out two glasses. He turned, holding one glass of wine out toward Rael. At her slight nod, he pushed the glass with his power out of normal space, into the M’hir.

  The glass winked out of existence, reappearing the same instant in Rael’s hand. Barac hid a sigh of relief. It would have been most embarrassing if Rael hadn’t accepted his offering. Alone, he couldn’t pass an object through the M’hir from one hand to another. Barac raised his wine in an appreciative toast. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Rael.”

  Rael lifted her glass, checking its color, frowning. “No thanks to you for wasting the effort.” The Clanswoman— or rather her image, for Rael’s physical form was on a planet a considerable distance from Camos by Human measurement—lowered into a chairlounge Barac couldn’t see. She adjusted the silken panels of her skirt so her long legs could stretch. Since Barac had last seen her, she’d had the skin of both arms and legs altered to the dappling of a Gentek—probably a current Denebian fad. When she kicked her feet free of her slippers, which promptly disappeared from view, Barac noticed the dappling extended to her toes as well. He was mildly curious as to whether the coloring went to other areas of her body as well. Rael finished settling herself and looked at him.

  She smiled, a brilliant smile quite without warmth. “Let’s say the fee you proposed was interesting—as a starting point. I presume it’ll be for more than repairing your pretty face,” the Clanswoman added wickedly, surveying the livid bruises extending from Barac’s ear to chin. She cocked an exquisitely shaped eyebrow. “Actually, I was planning to get in touch with you myself, Cousin.”

  Behind her light words, Barac sensed a disturbance, a troubling of the M’hir he registered as anger. He tilted his glass, watching how the wine effortlessly held its level, thinking how well it matched Rael’s usual approach to life. The storm cloud she carried with her today was unusual, but Barac had little doubt as to its source.

  Or that he had better deal with it first. “What’s wrong with the family today?” he asked, casually sipping from his wine.

  The M’hir, in which Clan power dipped and mingled, through which image and form could be sent at the speed of thought, quivered between them as if charged with static. Barac cursed silently, quickly tightening his shields far past the limits of politeness, withdrawing from the M’hir, limiting his awareness to this room. As a di Sarc, Rael’s power within the M’hir was several magnitudes greater than his. And suds learned early to protect themselves.

  Rael graciously ignored his withdrawal—or didn’t care. She stretched, a deceptively easy movement of her long arms that rolled muscle under her dappled skin. Her eyes were shadows behind a drift of hair. “When is your Joining with Risa?” she asked, instead of answering.

  Risa sud Annk. The sound of her name ignited a desperate longing; it coursed through Barac’s body like a disease, upsetting all reason. His Risa.

  Only Rael di Sarc had the gall to form spoken words around the central hope of his life—of any unChosen one’s life. Barac stood, feeling too vulnerable sitting, then began to pace around the room.

  “Have they told you when?” she prodded, aware of his reaction and not hiding her amusement. Those Chosen were often cruel to those still ruled by need. Barac hoped to be amused and cruel himself one day.

  He balled his fists, kept desire from his voice. “The Council hasn’t decided—probably soon.” It couldn’t be soon enough. To meet Risa, his intended . . . Barac forced his mind back to Rael. She had fired that name at him for a reason. “Why?”

  Rael brushed back her hair, her eyes leaping into the light, their expression of pity holding him still. “Refuse to be a candidate for her Choice, Barac. Otherwise, I promise you won’t survive.”

  It was like a belly blow, driving out his breath and sending a wave of nausea up through his brain. “Council decides the matches. Risa—” he couldn’t help the naked need in his voice this time, “—will be right for me.”

  “You unChosen think with your guts.” Rael’s eyes continued to pin him, her full lips curving into a shape of disgust. “Try to use your head instead, Barac, and be grateful you’ve me to fill it. I happened to meet your Risa ten days ago. Oh, she’s ready to Choose, all right—will you listen to me!” Rael’s power swelled and rammed against his shielding, quelling his eager questions before they were more than thought. “This Risa is no more sud than I am, Barac. Those on Council are mad to think you could Join with her.”

  “But I must.” Barac tried not to tremble, hearing at first only what mattered. Kurr, Sira, all other thoughts melted under surges of passion. Choice. It was his turn. He’d waited so long for his Joining, to have a mate of his own, to be complete. And Risa was ready for him. Rael said so.

  Then the rest of what Rael was saying sank in past his excitement. “Council selected me as her candidate,” he protested. “They don’t make mistakes. You’re wrong, Rael—”

  The form of the Clanswoman shimmered as though he saw her through waves of heat, the image she was projecting through the M’hir affected by emotion if not by physical distance. Her rage pounded at his mind. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with any Sarc,” Rael said scornfully. Then her image firmed. She leaned forward, put her hands on her knees, and hissed, “Risa di Annk has already tried to Join!” The abrupt end to her rage in his mind should have warned him. “And the candidate failed.”

  Of all his questions, Barac could only form one. “Who?” he demanded, tasting bile in his mouth.

  “Faitlen’s second son. Osbar di Parth. You knew Osbar, didn’t you?”

  Yes, he did. Barac closed his eyes, involuntarily remembering a summer night, a night warm with promise, a night full of the unheard voices of a rare Clan gathering. Even rarer, Clan children. He, Kurr, Osbar, and the other unChosen males sneaking away. Tag in the dew-wet grass. ’Port and seek among the dark hedges.

  Then, safely out of range of adults, someone starting the game called Chooser-Loser, the child’s game that teased instincts deeper than survival. Barac could almost feel the hot sweat of the ritual grip, his right hand locked in another’s, his knees wet from the grass. He could almost sense the strain of channeling power into brute force, aiming that force through the M’hir, against another’s, struggling to conquer.

  It was just a game, but it was for boys only. Without needing to be told, Clan children knew today’s girl would be tomorrow’s Chooser, driven when adult to test any unChosen male’s mastery of the M’hir, to challenge that mastery with her unique power, to kill the weak with a thought.

  It was just a game, after all, just children pretending in the dark, giggling with excitement and a touch of delicious fear. There was no risk, no true Joining, no climax. That would come immeasurably later, when, one so-distant day, the struggle would be against the full power of a true Chooser. Young boys talked about it among themselves, intrigued and titillated, sure of their tomorrows.

  The ones old enough to be called unChosen didn’t talk about it at all. Their tomorrows were much less certain. Win or even hold your own, and a Chooser’s Power-of-Choice would turn from weapon to a promise of paradise. Win
or tie, and become one in the Joining, the forming of a permanent bond through the M’hir, connected across distance, mated for life, guaranteed a future.

  Lose, and die.

  In the child’s version, the loser got a headache and a fair bit of teasing. Barac had won some matches that long ago night. But of course, as only sud, he’d lost to Osbar.

  As Osbar had lost the real game to his Risa.

  His thoughts had been unguarded; Rael followed the memory to the present and sighed with him. Her power had cooled but her voice remained harsh.

  “Make sure you understand, Barac,” Rael said. “Your Risa ripped Osbar’s mind open like a knife. The witnesses said he didn’t last her testing long enough to draw air for a scream. You must refuse her if you intend to live.”

  Barac felt like a moth offered the brilliance of a flame to die in and struggled to keep his mind focused. “Risa?”

  “Disappointed. Eager to try another candidate. She’s not getting any older, you know.” Rael’s fingers traced the ripe swelling of her own breasts with an absent pride.

  Barac’s eyes followed her movements. Of course he knew. Choosers waited like buds for the stroke of spring, unchanging, unable to flower within the warmth of Joining, as if frozen in time. As Risa waits for me, he thought in a horrified daze of longing, then recoiled. “The Council lied to me.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  One last burst of need tore through him. “How can I refuse?” he wailed.

  Rael raised a brow. “By showing some common sense, Barac. The Prime Law gives the unChosen the right to three refusals. Risa’s only your first. Sira and I will back you if there’re hackles about it.”

  Sira. How could he have forgotten? And what of Kurr? The sick realization that his passion had so easily pushed Kurr’s murder aside cleared the last clouds from Barac’s mind. Like the wine in his glass, he felt a centering calm restore the universe Rael had tipped.

  “Risa can wait, Rael,” Barac said without so much as a twinge. He returned to his seat, carefully preparing what he had to say. “It’s Sira we need to talk about. She’s in danger.”

  Rael raised one elegant brow. “Sira?”

  “Yes. Sira. She was on her way back to Camos—”

  “Back? What are you babbling about? Sira is studying history or something at the Cloisters.” Rael’s voice was flat and definite. “Ossirus knows why she loves stuffing her head with the stuff, but she waited long enough for the chance. Of course she hasn’t left—”

  “I was Sira’s escort on Auord,” Barac interrupted heavily. “I don’t know why Sira left the Cloisters. Or when. Sira couldn’t tell me. Rael, she was under a full stasis block.” He took a deep breath. “Have you heard anything about a candidate for her?”

  “Stasis.” Rael’s face seemed to close, as if over an unpleasant memory. She shook free of it with an impatient toss of her hair and her look at Barac was purely malicious. “Well, you can’t be making that up to annoy me. If Sira had been herself, she’d have made shorter work of you than Risa would, dear Cousin.”

  “I thought at least Sira was safe from your tongue.” Barac glared at Rael, forgetting power and rank in his anger.

  Rael flinched, then made an elaborate and graceful gesture with her right hand. “Forgive me,” she said, the fire in her eyes fading into puzzlement and concern. “Sira knows I sometimes forget her pain and think only of my pride.” Rael paused, then sighed. “No. Of course there’s been no news of a candidate. Why do you say she’s in danger? Where is she?”

  Barac relaxed only slightly, the cool evening breeze being drawn down to the room by the wall vents drying some of the sweat on his forehead. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know where she is. I lost her.”

  “You lost her,” Rael repeated as if the words made no sense. Her wine spilled and she pushed it away, annoyed at the distraction. “And Sira still in full stasis?”

  Misery in his eyes, Barac nodded. “We were attacked on Auord, in Port City itself. Clean, professional job—if I hadn’t had an Enforcer on my tail, they’d likely have finished me,” Barac rubbed one hand over his eyes. “When I came to, Sira was gone and a Pact Investigator named Bowman was set to ask all the wrong questions.” He took a large gulp of his wine, not tasting it. “This Bowman knew about Sira, if not who she was. I wasn’t that groggy. I think Sira did the only sensible thing and ran. Somewhere.” Barac hesitated. “You know I can’t scan for her in stasis.”

  Rael sat up suddenly, tension in every line of her body. “You’re hiding something. Something worse.”

  “Bowman is investigating a murder—Kurr’s murder.” Barac felt Rael’s shielding break; her shock echoed in his mind as it flooded through her clear, cold thoughts.

  Then the sensation vanished as Rael regained her control. “What of Dorsen?” Rael’s words were clipped.

  Barac shuddered and dropped his head. “Gone.” Three lives lost, now. Kurr’s Chosen, her link to her mate locked through the tiny mind of their unborn child, had been dragged into the M’hir at the instant of Kurr’s death. Even so, she might have been held in reality by her Watcher, but for tragic timing. Kurr had been sleeping, his life signs strong, the customary time to grant the Watcher a short reprieve from what was almost always a routine vigil. Death had surprised them all.

  It wasn’t thought to be a quick ending, dissolving in the M’hir; the taste of lost power and personality lingered to haunt any who traveled nearby, encouraging nightmares as well as caution.

  Barac roughened his voice deliberately, knowing this wasn’t the time for grief. “Kurr and I were about to start some scanning along the Acranam Corridor. Harc asked me to help guide Sira through her stopover on Auord. I was kin, after all, and had met her before. Kurr went on, alone.” And alone had been vulnerable. Barac nursed that pain, drew strength from it. He would find Kurr’s murderer.

  Rael rose, seemed to stand right in front of his eyes. “Let me see,” she demanded imperiously. Barac considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. His mental shields thinned and dropped as their surface thoughts merged.

  Barac allowed Rael to direct his memories, cringing despite himself at the pain bound inseparably to reliving the blast globe’s explosion. She followed his path to the present, experiencing with him the disastrous news that Sira hadn’t reach Camos. And the quick excuses he had produced to quell suspicion here that all was not well on Auord.

  “Bah!” she spat, severing their linkage so abruptly Barac felt disoriented. “Bad enough you contacted that Human again. But to deliberately lie to the Council about Sira? What were you thinking of?”

  “Betrayal.”

  There was silence as their eyes met and Barac watched Rael add the word to the facts she had just obtained from his mind. He saw reluctant conviction settle small lines around the edges of her mouth. “Yes. You’re right, of course,” Rael said slowly. “How else could such attacks be timed? But who? The Council may use pawns like Kurr or Dorsen, you or I. But not Sira. I can’t believe they’d risk her in any way.”

  “You know what they’re capable of, Rael,” Barac argued. “What would they do if she was escaping them?”

  Rael drew in a startled breath. “What do you see that I don’t? What do you think has happened to Sira?”

  Barac shook his head. “I don’t know. My Talent, as you so often remind me, is not the strongest. Yet since losing Sira, I’ve had the taste of change in my thoughts. A foreboding.” He watched for her reaction. “I think it has to do with the Human, Morgan. He might just be other than he seems—”

  “Your Human?” Rael’s mouth curved around laughter she restrained with an effort. “You Scouts are obsessed by them. I doubt your Morgan has tried to find Sira.”

  “You could be right, Rael.” Barac was unconvinced. “But we have to find her. I have a ship ready to return to Auord.” He paused, then added more to himself than to her: “But I will talk to Jason Morgan again.”

  Chapter 6

  I RAN m
y fingers along the smoothness of the spoon one last time before tucking it lovingly in its place beside the pen and record tape. I replaced my extra coverall on top of my illicit collection, then closed the drawer with a satisfied pat.

  So now I was a thief. When I worried about this, I consoled myself that I couldn’t have been a real criminal before losing my memories. I was lousy at it. And soon my victim, who wasn’t exactly blind, would notice how things were vanishing whenever I watched him work. I cringed at the thought.

  But anything Morgan touched, held in his hands, was completely irresistible. I had to have it, as if second-hand it was Morgan himself.

  Which was the other side of my current obsession. Folding my guilty hands together, I sat down slowly, shaking my head. There was something not quite right about how I felt when I thought about Morgan. Despite the pushes and pulls in my mind, I knew there had to be more to life than daydreaming about the warmth of a man’s hand.

  However, the part of me that could think for itself had little better to offer. And at least I had a home.

  I curled up in the chair Morgan had found for me. It, a plas crate for a table, and my hammock now constituted my world for however long I could convince Morgan to let me stay.

  And I had no intention of leaving the Fox at Ettler’s.

  I had a plan—if I could overcome my criminal urges before being caught. Morgan had given me a selection of training tapes. He was trying to keep me busy. But I knew the Fox was easily big enough for both of us. All I had to do was make myself so useful he’d want me to stay.

  I pulled out the tape marked “Calculating Stowage in a Vacuum,” and reached for the hand viewer. Two weeks to Ettler’s meant no time to waste.

  The light in my room dimmed briefly. The signal for shipnight. My second night on the Fox, with Morgan. I prepared for bed, planning my dreams carefully. If they revolved around a certain ship’s captain, that was my own business.

  But dreams rarely obey one’s waking fantasies. As I slipped deeper into sleep, it was harder to hold on to thoughts of Morgan, to remember I was safe on his ship, and he was only steps away. I lost control, falling into a dream that had nothing to do with pleasure.