Rift in the Sky

Prelude

A FIVE-FINGERED HAND, thick and spotted with age, brushed over plas sheets, tipped a mem-cube on its side, then turned palm up. “That’s it?”

“Yes. Everything portable was gone. We searched for remains with orbital scanners and midlevel vidbots with no success. We’re contacting next of kin based on staff records. Members of an indigenous population, the—” a slim, delicately scaled finger tapped a screen, “—the Oud, may have been involved although there’s—ah—distinct possibility of scavengers. You saw the last annual report, I’m sure.”

“No ground search.”

“The Oud revoked permission for any offworld presence. It may be tied to an unanticipated territoriality. They’re expanding at the expense of the other sapients, despite what early surveys described as peaceful coexistence.” A pause. “In my professional opinion, the situation’s unstable. Even with intervention by the First, I’m sure the planet will be closed in the next vote. This quadrant is still more Commonwealth than Trade Pact.”

“The find?”

“There’s no proof. Bowman played it close. He could, with his reputation. The funding committee did request a presentation next month, but expansion to a priority site and additional security was a given. For what, now becomes the question. Instead of supposedly productive excavations, we found landslides and sinkholes.”

One thick finger pinned a plas sheet and jerked it free of the rest. “And explosive residue. Your thoughts.”

“I couldn’t speculate—”

The hand turned palm up.

“As you wish. The residue was inconsistent with local technologies, implying offworld origin. We recovered a handful of observation ’bots. They’d been shut down before any disruption. The authorization code was Bowman’s. I regret to say there could be a connection.”

“Elaborate.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a field researcher found a more lucrative market for his work. As for the result? Deals go badly. They might have been surprised or met more than expected resistance onsite. My speculation, with your indulgence, is that considering the rarity of confirmed Hoveny relics, the goods weren’t as advertised. Bowman could have used his reputation to entice a buyer who wasn’t fooled by fakes.”

“Murder and fraud. Serious accusations.”

“Speculations. There is, of course, no proof.” Scaled fingers met at their tips. “Other than Bowman’s own report of being contacted by a representative of the Deneb Blues, which raises questions. Among them, why would a prominent criminal organization approach him, of all the researchers based out of this facility? And was his report sincere, or a clever attempt to throw off suspicion in case they’d been observed?”

“Insufficient.”

“There is also the matter of his more recent reports. After the—accident—that killed the rest of his initial Triad, Bowman began encrypting all raw data, including vids. His submitted reports since have consisted of summaries and analyses. The support materials we have on file are inaccessible.”

“Not unusual.”

“Indeed not. Despite the First’s impeccable security, many Triads keep their findings private until they are ready to share them. Still, for Bowman, this was a change in habit. Changes have reasons.”

The flat of the thick hand swept the mem-cube aside as if offended. Dozens littered the long beige table. More waited in their racks. Potential finds, urgent demands, chances for glory, fool’s hopes. “Enough of Cersi. The First has a lifetime’s worth of stable worlds with as good or better indicators.”

“No investigation? Surely we must tell the next-of-kin what happened.”

An impatient wave. “Send out the standard condolences, hazards of pushing the boundaries of science, the First assumes no responsibility, et cetera.” A finger tapped the table. “Inform the appropriate authorities the First considers Marcus Bowman a being of interest in the destruction of Triad sites and the murder of offworld personnel. See that Bowman’s materials, encrypted or otherwise, are sealed, pending any internal review of the matter. Liquidate any assets and transfer to this office.”

Slim scaled fingers collected the sheets and mem-cube. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“Next planet.”

“No ss-sign of the artifactss-s?”

Slim, scaled fingers curled around a stem, lifted the preserved flower, held it to the light. Crystals lined each petal, sparkled like gems. “I have no explanation.” A mauve tongue fastidiously removed a single crystal, brought it between nonexistent lips, waited for it to dissolve. The tongue’s owner gave a delicate shiver as the sugar hit its bloodstream. “An excellent harvest. A shame you can’t appreciate such flavors.”

“A ss-scam is unlikely. Thossse we work with undersstand the cons-ssequence.”

“It’s possible the information was flawed. Or Bowman suspected. He worked alone most of the past year, refused extra staffing of the new site. Our contacts put it down to a pretty local he’d taken an interest in, but . . .” another crystal, another shiver, “. . . but the Human may not have been the fool we hoped.”

“If he ss-stole from us-ss, he was-ss!” Drops of black spittle landed on the vase of waiting flowers, drops that sizzled and spit and left holes behind. The stems bent, the flowers shriveled.

“Why don’t I order another round?”

Chapter 1

...SHE TOOK A STARTLED BREATH, heard others do the same. From above, beside, below. Sighs afloat in darkness.

The air in her mouth was warm and dry and tasted of dust. A word settled in her mind, an awareness bathed in peace and happiness.

Home.

The skin of her hand cooled as fingers fell away from hers.

Hold still!

Curiosity stirred. Why?

A cough, not hers, quickly stifled.

A shuffle. Something fell and shattered.

Hold!

She obeyed the thought. She waited for more, hoped for sense.

There. There’s light.

Light? She blinked to be sure her eyes were open, then turned her head slowly to find it. When she did, she blinked again to be sure.

Not much. Distant, like the gleam of a star through leaves. Below, far below where she stood. For she was standing. Steady, without flicker.

Don’t move until I turn on the mains.

That couldn’t have been her thought. Could it? Self became a new curiosity; she contorted her face, yawned wide, then pursed her lips. Rolled her head on her neck. Moved her shoulders and discovered weight on her back. Darkness pressed everywhere against her skin, soothing and close, except for the tiny gleam.

Except for the sounds of breathing, she might have been alone.

Breathing and now steps. Fumbling steps with frequent hesitations. The brush of fabric along a rough surface.

She tilted her head, tracking whoever moved with so little care. Step, brush, step. Until the sounds become fainter than her breath, so she must hold it to follow.

I’m at the panel! Shut your eyes.

She obeyed, then flinched at the dazzling brightness that spotted her closed eyelids, flinched but opened them as soon as she could bear it. Gasps of indrawn breath echoed her own.

“Hold still” had been excellent advice, for she stood on a ledge, one of many, one of—a glance up—the highest. At her feet, more and more ledges descended; they shortened and converged, like a three-sided staircase too large and awkward for use, scarred surfaces littered with crumbled debris and ash. Opposite, three facing walls, not as wide, similarly angled. Centered at the bottom, where the dim light had been, was a flat area covered in neatly separated stacks of—something.

Above was a pool of deep shadow. Where its edges met light, the darkness pulled away from shapes carved into the walls, shapes she didn’t know, one supporting another all the way down, until they seemed not walls but crowds of watchers eagerly looking back at her.

At them. She wasn’t alone. The lights—hanging, leaning, everywhere lights—shone on figures shaped like her. They stood on ledges, amid debris, looking as startled by the bags in their hands as they were to be . . .

Where?

Abruptly, where didn’t matter as much as who. A visceral shock, the need to know one another again, a need more necessary than her next dusty breath. She joined the mutual reach for identity through the M’hir. Identity and connection.

There . . . Chosen to Chosen.

There . . . baby to mother, children to parents.

There . . . as more subtle connections overlapped the rest: family, heart-kin, friendship . . .

Above all, Power. Within the M’hir, the Watchers remained silent as the lesser M’hiray slipped aside while the stronger held their place, a natural sorting without word or conscious thought. And once they knew one another . . .

Everything became real.

Aryl di Sarc shuddered back to herself. Enris!? All around, a general shifting as everyone set aside burdens and hurried to be with their Chosen and family.

Here. Always. He was at her side that quickly. They touched each other with trembling hands. She worried at the angry scratch down his cheek, then forgot as their lips met.

Enris pulled away and smiled. Then, with growing wonder as he looked around. “Here being where, exactly?”

“Aryl!” A small figure jumped from ledge to ledge toward her. “We did it!” Yao di Gethen thudded into Aryl’s hastily raised arms. “We did it! We’re here!”

The next question. Aryl put the child down, tugged a curl gently. “Yao. Do you know where we are?”

“No,” with a child’s equanimity. “But it’s not where we were. That’s what everyone wanted, wasn’t it? To go far?”

“It was.” Another figure approached, one ledge below. “A new life, for all M’hiray. Welcome, Aryl! Enris!” Golden hair rose in a joyous cloud.

“Oran.” Her heart-kin’s Chosen. Aryl smiled a warm greeting, feeling better by the moment. “And Bern?”

“Here.” From above.

Enris crouched by Yao to point. “There’s your father.” Hoyon d’sud Gethen was hurrying in their direction. Yao gave a happy cry and ran to meet him.

“Any idea where we are?” This to Oran and Bern as well as Aryl.

“Council will know.” Bern shrugged. “The main thing is we’re all here and safe.”

Oran went to Enris. “Let me fix that,” with a Healer’s insistence.

“Nothing wrong with an impressive scar,” he protested with a grin. Oran tsked at him before laying her hand on his cheek. She took great pride in her Talent. There’d be no scar, impressive or otherwise.

They were together and safe, Aryl thought, content, but where? She knew this place, she realized suddenly. Or a version of it. The lowermost carvings shouldn’t be smeared with colors and black soot. None should be chipped away. The ledges were empty of all but refuse, but there should be—seats, she remembered triumphantly. Seats, oddly shaped seats, lining every ledge. The ledges should be polished.

Her content faded. How could she remember this, and nothing of where they were?

“What’s Naryn doing?”

Enris wasn’t the only one to notice the Chosen who’d left everyone else to walk to the flat area at the foot of the walls. Conversations quieted.

After peering into the nearest stack, and taking a quick step away, Naryn turned to face them.

“Welcome to Stonerim III.” The words were as clear as if the other stood beside her.

That name . . . Aryl’s brief sense of familiarity was washed away by the flood of confusion and dismay from those around her. “Where is that?” “What kind of place is this?” More shouts. “How do we get out?!” “We’re trapped!”

Hush! The same mindvoice that had held them still in the dark, that had kept them safe until she turned on the lights. Lights she’d known were there. Because Naryn di S’udlaat knew this place.

She’d led them here.

Hadn’t she?

The others calmed. Aryl’s own uncertainty faded as Naryn continued to speak. “We aren’t trapped. We’re in Norval, the Layered City, on the highest of the pre-Arrival layers. This place—locals call it the Buried Theater. There’s access to the surface.” At this, a stir of eagerness traveled mind-to-mind. “Not yet. We can’t leave until we’re ready.”

They couldn’t stay. Why had she felt at peace here, in this ruin? What could possibly make a M’hiray happy here? Aryl controlled her impatience. Naryn was right. To rush into the unknown made no sense either.

A second figure dropped easily from ledge to ledge to join Naryn. Haxel di Vendan. Why the “di?” Aryl wondered. Her Power was less. She dismissed the puzzle. Power was a matter for Council, not ordinary Chosen.

“Naryn is right,” Haxel said. “Scouts will go ahead, find a safe locate for the rest. Before that, let’s get belongings and supplies on the highest ledge, at the back where they won’t be easily seen.”

No one moved.

Naryn’s hair rose and snapped. “Do as Haxel says. She’s First Scout of the M’hiray and responsible for your safety.”

Shouldn’t the full Council take charge? Enris sent privately, as they gathered their packs and climbed to the top with the others. Why is Naryn giving orders? And why are we listening to them?

Aryl met her Chosen’s dark eyes. “Naryn knows what’s outside this place.”

“We don’t. Why?”

It wasn’t just outside they didn’t know, she realized, feeling her heart pound. “Where did we come from?”

“From our home—” She watched Enris struggle to find more to say, then give up. “We had to leave,” he said at last, frowning in earnest. “I’m sure of that. For the good of everyone.”

“We were better than the others,” Oran offered. “More powerful. We didn’t need them anymore, so they made us leave.”

“If we were more powerful,” countered Aryl, “how could they make us do anything?”

Bern chuckled. “Then we must have wanted to go. Home was too small for the M’hiray. We wanted something better.” Oran smiled at him.

Aryl felt . . . doubt. She couldn’t explain it. The words were right. They’d had to leave. They hoped for better.

They weren’t the only ones speculating, Aryl noticed. Heads were bent in conversation, verbal or silent, as the others climbed with their burdens.

Enris. What do you remember?

Remember? His foot caught a loose bit of stone and he stumbled, a too-large pack not helping matters.

Aryl shoved the pack hard with her shoulder to restore his balance. “Careful!”

“You, too.”

“I—” Aryl closed her mouth. After a look ahead for the best route, she could have run to the top with her eyes closed. Most of the others moved with excessive care, helped one another, lifted awkward bundles together; a few leaped from ledge to ledge with fluid grace. Why?

The reason slipped away, like the memory of a dream.

Enris paused and scuffed his boot toe where a seat had been attached then chipped away. “I remember this place being in better shape.” With a tinge of unease. “How can that be?”

“It’s been a while since Naryn was here, that’s all,” Oran explained easily, taking Bern’s hand to help her to the next ledge. She didn’t, Aryl observed, climb well. “If time mattered to a locate, we’d never arrive where we wanted to go. What’s important is that she’s familiar with all this—the lights, what’s above. After such a long ’port, I’m just relieved we aren’t confused.”

“You aren’t?” Enris gave his deep laugh. “Bern, you picked the right Chooser.” But afterward, he looked at Aryl, as if his own words made him unsure.

As if, Aryl thought, dry-mouthed, he’d remembered a dream too.

“I’ll be fine,” Weth di Teerac protested, white hair straining its net. The blindfold across her tan face was no hindrance; a Looker could move effortlessly using her visual memory of a place. Which was the problem. Like all the M’hiray, Weth remembered the Buried Theater as it had been. To one with her Talent, the change from the memory of the locate was too sudden. Her hands clenched her belt to stop their trembling, but she fooled no one. She’d need time to recover.

“We’ve enough scouts,” Haxel repeated, from her tone expecting no argument. “I want you ready when we all go.”

For someone of so little Power, Aryl thought with admiration, the First Scout managed a fine air of authority over those who did.

Twenty groups of scouts waited, each containing one or more with Power sufficient to reach through the M’hir to the rest, all able to ’port back here to safety in need. The groups were small in number, none more than ten. They were to learn what they could about the city Naryn claimed lay above them. And find a way out for those who’d wait here.

To Aryl’s surprise, she’d been one of the five Haxel selected to accompany Naryn, who would go first. Not a surprise, her Chosen stood nearby, clearly intending to be the sixth. Which he wouldn’t be, she decided with exasperation, if he continued to poke his finger between the small bars to annoy those inside. “They probably bite,” she warned him under her breath. Again.

“Haven’t yet,” he replied, bending in a vain effort to see what moved within the shadows. The stacks on the flat area had turned out to be full of something alive. Many small and lumpy somethings, that rattled when disturbed.

As they were now. Enris!

It got me! He sprang violently back, clutching his right hand, then held up only three fingers. When she gasped, he grinned at her and lifted the fourth, wiggling all of them. “See?”

“I see I’ll have two children to raise,” Aryl snapped back, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re as bad as . . .” The vague sense of a name slipped away. “Bad,” she finished and pretended to pay more attention to the creatures than her Chosen.

They entertained Enris; they disturbed her. It wasn’t the potent smell, or potential to lose her Chosen’s fingers, but what the crates meant. The right height and no higher, they’d been designed for this use, with slots for air and light too narrow to allow the rattlers to escape. Each crate was wider than her outstretched arms, twice that in length, and every one full of moving little lumps.

Seventeen stacks, each ten crates high. A large number of still-vigorous creatures, with no sign of food or water. Left with a small light.

They hadn’t been here long, Aryl said to herself, growing alert. They wouldn’t be left for long either. “Haxel.”

The First Scout looked her way.

Aryl nodded to the nearest stack. “Someone’s going to come for these.”

“Naryn?”

The Chosen gestured apology to the other Councillors before she walked over to Haxel. “What is it?”

“These.” Haxel jerked her thumb at the rattlers. “Someone’s property. Aryl thinks this is temporary storage and I agree. The owners will be back.”

Naryn’s nose wrinkled. “Offworld vermin.”

“ ‘Offworld?’ ”

“Not native to Stonerim III,” the other clarified. “From another world.”

“Like us.” Enris looked inordinately pleased. “We’re offworlders.”

As if they didn’t belong anywhere.

Aryl decided to ignore words she didn’t like. “Only one door,” she said. Something else she didn’t like. Hundreds of M’hiray, presently waiting more or less patiently with their families, sharing the supplies they’d brought, the crude sanitation of a deep hole surrounded by a blanket, a hole from its stench, used by others for the same purpose.

To get their people out on foot would be time-consuming. To ’port out, they must have a locate.

Another reason to scout quickly.

Another reason doubt shivered down her spine.

Why come here, to such an unsuitable place? Not even their Council could explain it.

“We can’t delay any longer.” Haxel looked at Naryn. “You know it.”

“I know. My fellow Councillors have a great many questions.” For the first time, Naryn looked weary. “More than I have answers.” Her hand sought the swelling beneath her tunic, as if for comfort.

Maybe she could hear her baby. Aryl’s was a still-silent presence, a sparkling glow in the M’hir. “Seru said our babies are fine.”

“Yes. She did.” Naryn’s eyes met Aryl’s. For a heartbeat, there was such aching loss in their depths Aryl instinctively reached for the other, only to be rebuffed by impenetrable shields. Then it was gone. A lifted eyebrow. “I’ll tell Council questions can wait.”

“We go up?” Enris countered Haxel’s quelling scowl with his boldest grin. Aryl shook her head. The First Scout might as well surrender.

Coming to the same conclusion, Haxel curved her lips in what wasn’t necessarily a smile.

“We go up.”

Aryl ran curious fingers over the dusty stone, freed a chunk of lighter crumbly stuff to toss thoughtfully into a corner. This jagged tear in one wall wasn’t the entrance intended by the long-dead builders of the Buried Theater, but Naryn remembered nothing else. They’d seen no sign of another passage.

There were, however, abundant and troubling signs this one was in regular use, putting Syb and Haxel in the lead, despite Naryn’s knowledge. She came next, with Enris, while Aryl and Veca followed behind.

Veca wasn’t happy. “No side corridors.”

“None yet,” Aryl replied, feeling the same. No way to avoid a confrontation—or slip aside and strike from behind.

Though why she’d thought of that strategy . . . Aryl shook her head.

Bright enough. Naryn had pressed a sequence of numbers into a box jammed between two stones, activating a series of small lights, themselves stuck in cracks or hanging from wires. The passage itself was hard packed dirt, with dirt and stone walls, and a ceiling that, though propped up by supports, showered dirt and dust at random.

Not the way to build things, Aryl decided, glad when Haxel picked up the pace.

They hadn’t gone far when the passage made a sharp turn. Beyond were none of the small lights, but after a moment, Aryl’s eyes adjusted and she could make out a rectangular glow ahead. They eased forward until they stood under what was the outline of a door.

In the ceiling.

Anyone bring a ladder?

Syb chuckled at Enris’ plaintive sending. We brought you.

Sending instead of speech. Aryl approved. A closed door could hide any number of surprises, most likely unpleasant ones.

But this, Naryn remembered. “It’s a lift,” she informed them calmly. Silhouetted against the lights from the first portion of the passage, she slipped her hand inside the wall—Aryl rubbed her eyes—then grimaced as she felt around. “Substandard piece of—” Naryn muttered confusingly, then stood back with an exclamation of pleasure. “There.”

The outlined section of ceiling lowered itself, spilling light and dust everywhere, and came to rest at their feet.

Haxel, who’d leaped aside, muttered something of her own as she returned to squint upward. “Good place for an ambush. Veca, wait here. Now, how do—” She fell silent as Naryn walked onto the piece of ceiling and gestured they should do the same.

Enris stepped on, grinning happily. One of them, Aryl thought grimly, should put sense ahead of adventure, but she followed her Chosen. Haxel and Syb drew their longknives as they did the same.

“Up,” Naryn said.

And the section of ceiling rose into the air, carrying five M’hiray—one large—without effort. Aryl glanced down at Ve ca’s dimly lit face, disappearing below, then resolutely faced where they were going.

The ceiling became floor, leaving them standing somewhere so different from the passage below, from anywhere she could imagine, that Aryl could hardly believe her eyes.

If not for the ceiling above, they might have stood out in the open, so vast was the space. The floor stretched, smooth and flat, away from the wall behind them. Wall? It was more like the slanted side of a huge buttress root, but what could be above to need such support?

Root?

Aryl shook away the confusing image.

More isolated sections of slanted wall connected the floor and ceiling as far as she could see. Between, everywhere, immense pipes writhed like growths. White ones. Red ones. Black. Some narrow, some oval. Some looped up to a distant ceiling. Others flopped along the floor and headed in either direction as far as the eye could see.

They could see, Aryl realized, because one kind of pipe glowed. She stepped closer. The pipe was clear-sided; what produced the changeable bluish light was inside. And moving. Aryl averted her eyes quickly. What flowed within was more disturbing than this place.

“Maintenance Layer,” Naryn informed them, and pointed left. “The next lift is over there.”

“This one’s the only access below?”

“To the theater, yes.”

Haxel looked to have as many questions as she did, Aryl thought, but merely nodded. “Aryl. Call Karne, Galen, Bula, Josel, and Imi.”

She nodded. An instant’s concentration to send those names into the M’hir, less to find the five, and their groups, standing beside them. They looked around in awe, then focused on Haxel. “We’re going that way,” she pointed. “The rest of you fan out, look for a way to the next level. Naryn?”

Naryn used her hands to mark out a square. “Lifts are marked by a panel, this size. On a wall, or in the floor. Press it and the lift shows itself. You speak your command, up or down, to control it.”

The others nodded.

“When you find one,” Haxel took over, “check the next level. If it’s promising, send for your next three groups and have them fan out. If not, keep going up on your own till you find something worth exploring. Understood? I don’t want M’hiray scampering over each other or worse, being noticed. We need to see as much as we can, not take risks. Don’t ’port where you could be seen. By anything.”

Several looked uneasy at this. Karne d’sud Witthun among them. “What do you mean, ‘anything’?”

“Stonerim III is more Commonwealth than Trade Pact,” Naryn answered, making, in Aryl’s opinion, no sense at all. “Most of the beings you’ll encounter above will be Human.

They look like M’hiray. But you’ll see those who don’t. Avoid conversations with either.”

Haxel’s scar gleamed white. “I’ll want reports. Often.”

Agreement. The scouts turned and left.

“Syb?” The First Scout turned to the grizzled Chosen. “Picked your spot?”

“Up there.” His nod indicated a shadowed rise of gray pipe. He’d have a perfect view of anyone approaching the lift.

“Good.”

Aryl nodded to herself. Haxel knew her people. If Veca and Syb couldn’t stop would-be intruders—unlikely, but most of what was around them was unlikely—from here, they could ’port back to the others to deliver a warning and share the locate to this layer.

While she, Enris, and Naryn would receive the scout reports. Good news, she hoped.

Their own quiet footsteps were swallowed by the gurgle and thump of the pipes as Naryn led them across the floor to another slanted wall.

“Maintenance Layer,” Enris commented. “So these carry water, heat, whatever’s needed above us. Makes me wonder.”

Aryl glanced at him. “Go on.”

“What’s above that could need so much?”

He didn’t expect an answer.

Aryl wasn’t sure she wanted one.

When they reached their destination, Naryn ran her hands over the featureless smooth wall, and gave a helpless shrug. “There should be a lift here. I thought there was. This is all—it didn’t matter,” with an odd desperation. “Only the theater mattered.”

Aryl understood Haxel’s somber expression, the grim that leaked through her shields. None of the other groups had found a lift yet. If Naryn’s memory couldn’t guide them . . .

“We’ll split up here. You try that way,” the First Scout ordered, waving Enris right, Aryl left. “Make it quick,” she added.

And careful, Aryl sent to her Chosen, who grinned back at her.

You, too.

Quick suited her. Aryl ran along the wall, eyes searching for a panel. When the wall ended, rather than follow it around, she sped to the next section, doing her best to ignore the sudden drafts of cold or blasts of heat when she passed under different pipes, listening for danger past the gurgle and occasionally loud thunks coming from the same source. Not a place for living things, she decided.

But living things were what she found.

Voices, ahead.

Avoiding one of the glowing pipes, Aryl veered into the shadow of a black one and crept closer. Closer. After a cautionary touch to be sure the metal wasn’t of the too hot or too cold variety, she found a seam and eased herself on top.

There.

She grinned. Perfect.

Who needed a lift, when there were stairs?

Stairs currently in use by a raggedly dressed assortment of beings, some M’hiray-like—Human—others definitely not. The arrangement of poles and steps appeared solid, if clumsily built.

And not, she guessed, supposed to be here.

The beings had attached a cluster of small tubes to a yellow pipe’s lower loop using some kind of disk. The tubes led to a droning machine that spewed forth a white liquid the beings were collecting in a variety of containers with every indication of delighted greed. Full containers were being carried up the stairs, while others carried down what Aryl presumed were empty ones to fill.

One tripped, its container spilling on the floor.

“That’s outta your share!” shouted a Human near the machine.

The sloppy individual lifted its container. “Lemme refill. There’s plenty.”

“Get greedy and you’ll get gone, my friend. Think this is a perm-tap? Them as work for Grandies will be down sooner than not. We’ll all be locked then, won’t we.”

“I’ve a family—”

“Who don’t need juice? Ack. Take your due and hurry it. All a’you.” This as others on the stairs slowed to watch. “We need to wrap this.”

The mess was ignored; the sloppy one refilled its container and ran up the stairs.

Good, Aryl decided. The sooner they finished their theft, the sooner they’d leave the staircase and the opening to the layer above they’d made through the wall at its top.

No reason not to encourage them.

Smiling to herself, Aryl slipped her hand through her metal bracelet and tapped it sharply on the pipe.

She might have poked her finger in a rattlers’ crate. Everyone scrambled. Most threw away their containers and ran—or tried to run—up the stairs, disappearing through the opening. One fell—she winced—from near the top, to land with a sodden thud. It didn’t move again.

The two nearest the machine dropped down behind it, which she hadn’t anticipated. One leaned from that cover to point a small device in her direction. The other shouted in protest then leaped up as if running for shelter.

Aryl slid down, using the pipe as protection.

A snap, a flash of light and . . .

BOOM!

As explosions went, Aryl told herself, that hadn’t been much, but when she cautiously looked past the pipe, she saw it had been sufficient.

The puddles of white burned. The machine was in scorched pieces—as were those who’d been near it.

The staircase, however, was intact. Mostly.

I’ve found a way up, Aryl sent to Enris, Naryn, and Haxel.

You aren’t serious.

Aryl blinked at Enris. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“A part just fell off,” Naryn pointed out, her face pale. “How is that safe?”

The First Scout shrugged. “Wait here, then.” She went to the staircase and began to climb, using the supports rather than the steps themselves.

As Aryl went to do the same, Enris protested. “Haxel can send a locate once she’s reached the top. If she does.”

Though made from scraps of metal and fastened with everything from rope to elaborate clamps, the stairs were solid. After all, they’d carried a multitude of beings and outlasted an explosion. They’d most certainly hold two M’hiray. He should know that.

How did she? The question distracted . . . the answer eluded . . . “Wait if you want,” Aryl said more tersely than she intended. Turning temper to action, she swarmed up behind Haxel, quickly catching up.

Aryl!

Warned by Haxel’s sending, she leaped through the opening at the top.

To find herself staring into golden eyes the size of her fist.

Chapter 2

ARYL WASN’T SURE WHICH of them shouted first, but she knew which took off at a run. She was giving chase before Haxel’s exhortation to “Get it!”

Something in her responded to the speed, to following a target. She grinned as she hit the right pace, arms and legs pumping smoothly, focus narrowed to the figure ahead. Her surroundings mattered only when they presented obstacle or hazard.

Like the aircars filling this tunnel. Aryl stayed close to the curved wall, avoiding that traffic as it whizzed alongside. Not aircars, she noted absently. Most were the same size, and a featureless gray. ’Bots. Machines that could fly on their own. Moving too quickly to avoid, in both directions. At least some had lights on their sides so she could see.

One zipped across her path, aiming for the wall. Aryl dove and rolled, feeling her clothing lift in the wind left by the machine. There wasn’t a collision. The wall simply opened a circle to receive the machine and then closed again.

Aryl!?

Interesting layer, she sent, breaking into a run again.

The one she chased kept looking over its shoulder, huge eyes reflecting the lights of the ’bots. Hardly wise, Aryl thought. Not only did it slow by a stride each time, but exiting ’bots were a constant threat. A shame if one of those killed the creature before she caught it. They needed a guide.

A guide with special knowledge. Its trailing coat was tanta lizingly close to Aryl’s outstretched fingers when another ’bot zipped in front of it. Instead of stopping, her quarry whirled to follow the machine through the opening wall.

She leaped after both, the unusual door closing too quickly for comfort. On the other side, the ’bot darted into yet another stream of moving machines, one that curved upward within their tunnel.

The thud of footsteps heading right told Aryl which way to go. And that her quarry hadn’t slowed.

Admirable. If annoying.

Immense pipes. Now thousands of machines. Just as well, Aryl decided cheerfully, she didn’t have to worry about such things, only to catch one irritating creature.

Two legs. Two arms. A green fuzz of what might have been hair sprouting from its head. Those overly large golden eyes were all she remembered of its face. The flapping white coat disguised everything else. It had screamed in a voice like hers; presumably, it could talk.

It stopped without warning, slapping one hand against the wall. A lift! This one came from the floor, taking the creature with it. It turned to give her a mocking bow.

Until she jumped, fingers catching the edge, and was over and on top before it could react. “Got you,” Aryl panted.

She’d startled, not stopped it. Her quarry jumped every bit as high as she had to reach the edge of the opening above them, hauling itself up and away.

A challenge.

Aryl jumped after it, only to find herself on yet another different layer of Norval.

Still no sky. Light spilled from the buildings that rose on every side. None were very large; none stood alone. They were stacked on one another in no order she could find and shared walls with their neighbors. Doors opened on roofs. Instead of roads or walkways, steps led from rooftop to rooftop. The stack meandered upward to a distant ceiling, obscured behind the lines hung with wet clothes that stretched across every open area.

Water trickled along pipes cut in half. They met or poured into lower pipes, the pattern continuing to produce a minor waterfall. It disappeared through a wide grate, half choked with debris, close to where the lift had brought her.

Everywhere, people. Aryl hadn’t imagined so many people could exist at once, let alone be in the same place. People leaning out windows. People sitting on steps. People walking along rooftops. Talking. Shouting. The sounds of work and life. Laughter and argument. Smells and colors and warmth.

Her mind said “people,” but these weren’t M’hiray. Human, most of them, if the similarity in shape mattered—though Human seemed to cover a remarkable array of possibilities—as well as a few, stranger, forms.

All this Aryl took in with one sweeping glance. Her quarry wasn’t that far ahead. The white coat helped, but she knew how it moved, now. Even in a crowd, it couldn’t hide from her.

As if it knew, it didn’t stay in a crowd. Instead, it scampered up a wall, grabbing laundry lines and windows for handholds to a chorus of amused—or angry—shouts, twisting its body to fling itself onto the next roof.

This was more like it, Aryl thought gleefully.

Haxel wants a report. A barely contained hint of worry, which wasn’t the First Scout’s.

Still following our guide, she assured her Chosen, tamping down her excitement. It knows this place.

Send a locate. I’ll help.

She looked up at the wall, but tactfully refrained from sharing that image. Too many would see. I’ll find a place.

And started to climb.

Messy. Cluttered. Busy. All things that made for handholds and footholds and a variety of ways to move through space without colliding with those who chose more predictable paths.

Aryl’s feet and hands rarely touched the same object twice as she surged over the rooftops in pursuit. For the first time, she had the advantage. Her quarry might know its terrain, but every part of her knew how to move like this, when to use balance and momentum instead of strength, when to use strength to increase speed and distance.

The sounds and colors around her blurred as she focused only on the next hand- and footholds, blurred into something else, into a dream of fronds and vines and branches that gave extra spring to her leaps. Where anything that moved was a threat.

So when her quarry slipped and fell in front of her, Aryl drew her longknife with one smooth pull and—

ARYL! Enris, with an urgency that made her stumble. A stumble that let her quarry leap to its feet and throw itself through the nearest open door. A guide, remember? he sent almost too calmly.

He was right. She might have killed it. What had she been thinking?

Aryl wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand, and went through the open door.

Stairs led down, steep stairs.

Enris. Be ready. You first.

Aryl took the steps without a sound, staying to one side, knife still ready. The air thickened around her, filled with eye-straining smoke and odors that might have been food—or food after it had been dead too long.

She was alone. Aryl paused and sent the locate. Here.

Enris appeared beside her, grabbing for her arm and the nearest wall as he realized where he stood. “More stairs,” he complained.

Aryl chuckled. “I’ll see if I can do better next time.”

“So we have it cornered,” her Chosen said hopefully, easing down the stairs behind her. She heard him sniff. “Wonder if that’s edible.”

She wondered why such a knowledgeable creature would pick this narrow dark stairway for its hiding place.

Until the stairs ended at a pair of sturdy, closed doors.

“At least it’s private,” she grumbled, sharing her memories of the chase. “I’ll send the locate to the others.”

“No need.” He chuckled at her expression. “All our scouts are already on this layer.”

“How?”

“While you, my dear Chosen, were running through tunnels and up walls, we found a lift right beside the door at the top of those stairs.” A mock shudder. “Seeing it led to a nice empty building, Haxel took Naryn back to Council, I stayed to wait for you, and the scouts used that locate to get here.” He lifted a finger and twirled it once. “Naryn says this is the lowest inhabited layer of Norval and the most densely populated. She suggested, strongly, we keep moving up.”

Having seen the crowded buildings, Aryl agreed with that. “Have they found a way?”

“Not yet. Haxel suggested, strongly, we continue the hunt. In case your friend runs in the right direction.” As if she could stop you, he added with affection.

Aryl grinned.

They both stared at the doors for a long moment, then Enris laid his palm against one. “Feel that.”

A vibration against her palm. “Machinery,” she hazarded.

“More like—” his voice became uncertain, “—drums.”

“Drums?”

“I—it’s gone.”

“What is?”

Enris ran his fingers through his hair, the way he did when frustrated. “I don’t know. Something I thought I remembered. It was almost words this time.” A sudden grin. “Doesn’t matter. Knock or go right in?”

“Wait.” Aryl put her hand on his chest, felt her hair slide restlessly over her back. “I’ve been having moments like that, too. As if the past is a dream I’ve almost forgotten, but not quite. How can that be? What’s wrong with us?” How can we exist without a past?

“By leaving such questions for a more suitable time.” He kissed her forehead. Before she could object, reassurance filled her mind. We don’t remember being carried in our mothers either. Maybe this was a choice we made when we left our home—to save us from regret and make us look to the future. “Which includes,” a light rap on the door with his knuckles “this.”

Aryl stood on tiptoe, took his shirt in both hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

A rush of warmth. “What was that for?” Enris asked with a small smile.

“I’ll tell you later,” Aryl replied, smiling back. She looked at the doors. “We go right in.”

Her Chosen put out both hands and pushed.

The doors swung inward to reveal a disappointingly small, plain space and another set of doors. They stepped in. The vibration of machinery—or drums—was more pronounced here, as was the smell. Enris shoved the next set of doors.

“Careful there!” a loud voice complained. Its owner stepped out of the way of the still moving door, balancing a tray of drinks on four hands, a fifth carrying a rag.

Loud it had to be. The vibration here was a heavy pulse that hurt her ears, accompanied by other sounds. Singing. Maybe. Loud, regardless. Aryl and Enris glanced at each other. She put her longknife away. We’ll have to walk around.

That won’t be easy.

Enris was right. It was impossible to see any floor through the crush of people filling every available space. A second level ran around the outside edge of the room, also, from what she could see, crowded. She shuddered inwardly. Not only at the risk of such close proximity to unknowns, but at the thought of being touched—and worse, by not-M’hiray.

Their quarry could hide here, without doubt. It could be standing next to them and they’d miss it.

Giving up? with a hint of challenge.

Follow me. Only three areas had any opening at all, so Aryl braced herself and headed for the nearest.

It was worse than she’d imagined. Not only touch, but the stench of strange breath and the heat of other bodies. Her feet were in constant danger and she found herself unable to force her way through. Before she had to resort to a technique she saw a tray carrier use, namely several elbows applied with force to unsuspecting body parts, Enris took her by the arms and turned them both around. Let me go first, he suggested.

That did, Aryl had to admit, work better. Her Chosen was larger than most and had a gift for finding the right pair of beings to push between. Not that he had to push most of the time. The Humans, especially the females, responded to his smile with their own. At least until they saw Aryl right behind him.

Friendly place.

Aryl poked him in the ribs.

The open area was surrounded by a rail. Enris edged his way to it and made room for Aryl by scooping her alongside.

While the rest was dimly lit, large lights were aimed into the rectangular pit. Deeper than she was tall, the bottom was filled with sand. Blue-stained sand. There were holes along the side across from her, holes with eyes glistening in their depths. Aryl’s hand went for the hilt of her longknife. Enris intercepted it with a low chuckle. “I believe this is an entertainment.”

“If you like pox fighting,” the Human female on his other side volunteered. She leaned into Enris, red-gold beads rolling back and forth over her large chest. Aryl had noticed a wide variety of clothing and styles of hair among the Humans here, much of it brightly colored, making their M’hiray clothing inconspicuous, if drab by comparison. This female’s face was colored in patterns that changed with her expression. At the moment, her cheeks pulsed with pink-and-blue spirals. “I prefer more—personal—pleasures myself.”

“What are ‘pox’?” Aryl asked, leaning forward herself. The free portion of her hair, well mannered till now, slipped forward to twine possessively over Enris.

“Pox? Attitude with teeth,” the Human female replied, looking startled—enhanced by black-and-white stripes coursing over her skin—then intrigued. “How do you do that? An implant? I must know.” She waved a length of lifeless black curl under Enris’ nose.

She might not remember her own past, but Aryl found she knew more than she expected about Humans. For one, a female’s hair remained the same, Chosen or not. “You’re incapable,” she said sympathetically.

“I’m—you piece of crasnig crust! Don’t you know who I am?!”

Irritating? Aryl restrained herself. “No. Who are you?”

Surrounded by an unflattering blaze of yellow dots, the Human’s bright blue lips flapped without sound coming out. That was entertaining, Aryl decided, but probably not a good sign.

“Look! Are those pox?” Enris interrupted with an air of desperation.

Balls of harmless-looking brown fluff were launching themselves—or being pushed—from the holes. They dropped on the sand, where they huddled in terrified-seeming clumps. A loud whistle from overhead drew everyone to press close, talking excitedly. Many slapped palms to black trays being passed around by the multi-armed servers. Each time, the black flashed a symbol in silver.

And each time the black sparkled, one of the pox did, too, only its silver symbol remained in place, hovering above its fur.

Aryl reached out to try for herself, but under her palm, the black turned a dull gray. The server shook its doleful head. “No credit, no wager.”

“Crasnig crust,” the female beside Enris repeated, her lip curled disdainfully. She slipped her arm into his, the skin of cheek and brow now flickering with cheerful pink-and-green spirals. “You’re better off with me, gorgeous. I could buy this place for you.”

Enris laughed. Aryl, too busy watching what was happening, missed his reply.

For a tall, thin door had opened at one end of the pit. At the same time, a bell rang out, loud enough to be heard over the hammering drums and din of voices. The pox stilled and oriented themselves to the opening.

Through which was shoved a—Aryl frowned. The bulky big-eyed creature with flopping ears and large back feet seemed completely harmless, unless it sat on the much smaller pox. If this was a contest of some kind, she couldn’t see the point of it.

The creature lumbered forward, awkward in the sand. The surrounding pox shifted to face it, trembling in place. Those watching began to shout, as if exhorting some effort.

Their quarry wasn’t among them. Let’s look over there, Aryl sent. She tried to turn away, only to find a solid wall of beings behind them. Enris, his other arm encrusted with Human female, half shrugged.

We’ll have to wait till this is over.

Aryl shared her frustration.

The shouts intensified. The fluff on the pox flattened against their bodies, revealing them to be long and thin, with small eyes, heavy jaws, and protruding yellow teeth. The symbols glittered above each, like bizarre decorations. Suddenly, the pox were in motion. As one, they scurried at the creature, kicking up little clumps of sand in their haste. Almost too quickly to see, they were on it, climbing, biting, eating.

Aryl watched in horror as the bigger creature bawled its torment. It reared and struggled, but any pox it dislodged jumped back. Tufts of fur filled the air like snow. Blue blood streamed from each bite.

Some pox weren’t biting, but instead climbed the creature’s back and sides, their target the eyes. They bickered as they climbed, snapping and pushing. Often they’d lock jaws and fall to roll in the sand. When one of those went limp, its symbol disappeared and someone among the spectators would cry out with disappointment.

The creature threw itself against the walls, tried to shake off its tormentors, but the pox gripped with their teeth. It wouldn’t last long.

Nothing should have to face the swarm.

Aryl didn’t stop to think. She threw herself over the rail, her longknife finding targets before her feet hit the bloody sand. The pox were slow to react, intent on their prey. They died with a little squeal, as if surprised, their symbols winking out. She slashed one way, then used the side of the blade to send a pox against the wall with a most satisfying crack.

They were slow to react, but more and more began to notice her, reoriented, scurried her way. Making it easier to smack them. Aryl bared her teeth.

Enris landed beside her, his boots squashing several pox. “This is not—” he said calmly, stomping another, “—one of your better ideas. The people up there aren’t happy.”

“I noticed.” Raised fists and shouts. Objects thrown at them—though most of those hit pox. She shouldn’t feel satisfied, Aryl told herself with a smidge of guilt. Haxel would doubtless have something to say about such behavior. “I don’t like them,” she finished, taking out a clump with a sweep of her longknife. She didn’t bother clarifying which she didn’t like; her Chosen didn’t bother to ask.

Abruptly, the symbols over the remaining pox disappeared. Red light shone from the holes in the walls. It was a summons; the pox stopped, fluffed out their fur, and scurried back inside.

Their prey, half stripped of its fur and bleeding from innumerable small bites, leaned against the door through which it had come and heaved a sigh.

A sigh she could hear, Aryl realized, because all other sounds had ceased.

Except for an approaching thunder of clanking metal, as if several someones fought with empty pots.

The spectators melted away from the railing where they’d been standing, to be replaced by a looming black shape.

Dozens of shining black eyes on stalks stared down at them.

Aryl and Enris stared up at the eyes.

Just as she wondered if she should say something, the silence ended in a deafening bellow.

“WHAT IN THE SEVENTEENTH SANDY ARMPIT OF URGA LARGE ARE YOU DOING IN THE POX PIT!!?”

They were now the entertainment, Aryl thought glumly as she followed the huge black being through the crowd, a passage made easy by the space granted the creature. Its lower immense pair of claws might have been the reason, though it was equally likely the creature’s imposing air of “move or I’ll run you down” was responsible.

It did give her a better view of the place. She looked around for their quarry, knowing Enris did the same, but also marked possible escape routes, should they have to give up the chase.

There were several doors, like the one they’d come through, both on this floor and the one above. Interestingly, there was a lit dais, shaped like a licking tongue, filling the midst of this floor. No railing separated viewers from whatever they watched there, but tables with chairs were pulled up all around it. At the moment, the dais was empty. The air around it swirled with white smoke, though there was no open fire in sight.

More tables and chairs, most in use, filled the shadowy edges. The exception was a long curved counter that jutted out from one wall, its outer surface reflecting the legs and feet of those who sat on stools beside it. This turned out to be their destination. The giant creature used one of its smaller, more flexible upper claws to lift part of the counter, then snapped a lower impatiently when they hesitated to go through. “Inside.”

Aryl obeyed, Enris behind her. The creature barely fit. It dropped the counter back in place with a bang: a signal to someone, for the loud drumming and singing resumed, and those who’d been watching turned away as if disappointed.

Explain to me again why we’re not leaving.

We need help.

This is help?

She didn’t know why she believed it, only that she did. The other scouts still hadn’t reported success; Imi’s group had retreated to the Buried Theater, after being chased by some kind of authority. Or a cook. The sending had been confused.

It’s a Carasian. We can trust it.

The floor directly behind the counter was at the same level as the larger room. Three of the multi-armed beings stood there, busy wiping, filling drink containers, or taking away empty ones. They ignored the new arrivals.

The inner portion sank to form a ramp leading down to the back wall. A wall, Aryl saw with interest, covered with weapons displayed behind metal grids. She walked over to it, impressed. “Are these yours?”

Several eyes bent to look at her. “Their owners left them with me.” Its voice was a deep rumble. “I suggest you do the same.”

A hand slapped the counter before she had to answer. “Gurdo! Whaddabout our refund!?”

The tone wasn’t one she’d use, given one of “Gurdo’s” claws would span the Human’s ample torso. But its reply was mild. “You’ll have to take that up with Louli. I can call her for you.”

The florid-faced Human lost all color. “No,” he said quickly. “That’s not necessary. ’S was only a little bet. Some fun. That’s all.”

“Generous of you. Yirs? Beer for this fine Grandie. On the house.”

Once the Human was mollified, Gurdo tipped its big head back to Aryl. “Ordinary knives—no one cares. But any constable will seize that,” a gesture to the longknife still out in her hand, “and throw you in jail for the privilege, first chance they get. Which will be when you leave the ’Dive. You see, locals call this Tax Free Layer, but that’s only because few here can afford to pay them, not that we don’t get interfered with by the powers above. There’s always a couple here. Yirs?”

One of the servers spoke without turning around. “End of the stage, as usual. Waiting for Brocheuse.”

Aryl tightened her hand on the hilt. “They can try.”

Enris coughed. Leaving?

“I do enjoy your grist!” The Carasian made a sound like rain on metal. Amusement, she guessed. Having bellowed them out of the pit, it had become a jovial host, its rage apparently a show for the disappointed spectators. Now it opened one of the metal grids and selected a disappointingly plain, stubby cylinder. “Try this. Force blade,” it told her. “Has a number of advantages. Hides. Intimidates,” it announced as it pressed the fine tip of a claw into a depression, producing a thin glowing line that extended from the cylinder about the length of Aryl’s arm, a line that hissed as it moved through the air. “With no inconvenient residue to worry about, if you get my meaning.” It pulled a piece of white cloth from a stack behind the counter, tossing it into the air so it passed through the glowing line. Two halves fluttered to the floor. The Carasian turned it off. “Give me your pretty pox-sticker. I’ll let you have this for twenty rimmies.”

“A trade,” Enris nodded.

“A fair one,” as if her Chosen had protested. “Either way, you can’t take that with you.”

She certainly could, but Aryl didn’t see the value in arguing. What she did see was the value in what it offered. “We’ll need more of those,” she said firmly. “Many more.”

The eyestalks went in several directions at once. “I’m no dealer, friend. Just a bartender keeping the peace.” With a little more volume than required, as if speaking for other ears.

Enris leaned forward, eyes aglow with interest, but not in the remarkable weapon. “What are ‘rimmies’?”

“More force blades and a place for our people to live,” Aryl interjected before Gurdo could answer. “A safe place.”

Let me do this. “We’re offworlders,” Enris explained smoothly. “Arrived today. We could use some guidance.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Leaving most of its eyes on Aryl, the Carasian spared a few for her Chosen. Who looked, she thought, remarkably smug.

“You talk like Grandies,” Gurdo observed after a moment. “Look like you can’t afford a beer. Guidance is expensive. Especially the good kind.”

Enris smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t judge us by appearance.”

What was he doing? Aryl kept her mouth closed and shields tight. Her hair, however, writhed up and over her shoulders, reaching for her Chosen. Who lifted a finger to let a tendril wind itself around like a ring.

She did her best to smile and not grab it back.

“Amazing grist,” the Carasian muttered. It shifted on its rounded feet, producing a muted clank, then came to a decision. “Can’t talk here. Come with me. No promises, though.”

A tap on a panel opened a door in the wall, splitting the weapon display into sections. The air wafting through was warm and damp. “But first.” An upper claw opened and waited.

Impossible to read a face composed of what looked like polished metal bowls separated by a dark gap filled with restless stalked eyes.

Aryl.

She frowned, but gave the Carasian her longknife. Leaving her hand extended.

All eyes came to rest on her. Aryl didn’t budge.

“Call it a sample,” Gurdo grumbled, dropping the force blade in her palm. “Do not,” with emphasis “use it here.” Her longknife went on the wall, the grid replaced over it.

Aryl tucked the cylinder in a pocket, satisfied.

“This way.”

It wasn’t, she discovered, an ordinary door. No sooner had Aryl stepped through than sprays of bitter water struck her from all sides. Sputtering, she hurried forward to get away from them, Enris doing the same.

The Carasian followed more slowly. While it appeared to enjoy the spray, the door wasn’t wide enough for it, so it leaned to one side and pulled itself through by force, claws grabbing the door edge for purchase. From the deep scars in the door-frame, this was its usual practice.

Aryl spat out the bitter stuff and glared at the glistening Gurdo. “What was that for?”

“You were covered in sand.” As if she should have realized. “I can’t have sand in my home.”

And as if the blue blood staining that sand didn’t matter in the least.

As homes went, this wasn’t much: a square room no more than five long strides wide in either direction, though two levels high. Quiet, dimly lit, its furnishings were four large polished rocks, speckled with gray, set into the floor. In the midst of the rocks, a small pool of dark water gurgled busily to itself. A set of stairs against a side wall led to the only other door, at the next level. There were no windows, but the wall straight ahead featured a framed image of water sliding over black rocks. Rocks with small black eyes. Eyes that disturbingly followed any movement, Aryl noticed.

The Carasian lowered itself over one of the chair-rocks, resting its pair of big claws on the floor. “Let me guess,” it said briskly once the two M’hiray had sat. “You need idents. Certificates. For how many?”

Aryl pushed an impatient lock of wet hair back. “Everyone.”

A flash of caution.

She understood Enris’ concern; she had no time for it. Not while the M’hiray waited beneath their feet, trusting them to find the way out. “There are seven hundred and thirty of us. We need a place to live. Now.” Aryl thought of the crowded roofs and buildings outside and shuddered inwardly. “Better than this. Private. Away from Humans.”

So much for blending in. With a hint of irony.

It knows we aren’t Human. Flat and sure. Trust me.

The Carasian dipped its head from one shoulder to the other. “If you picked this world, you know anything can be arranged for a price.”

“A price?”

This is where you trust me, beloved.

She’d prefer to test her new weapon, but this was Enris’ knowledge, not hers. Though why was she so sure?

The reason slid away, leaving only belief.

Aryl subsided, crossing her legs on the rock to prove it.

“We’ve brought items to trade,” Enris said in a casual tone. “Offworld items. Quite valuable.”

We did?

I’ve asked Naryn and Haxel to check our belongings. There must be something. Any doubt of that Enris might have had—which Aryl shared—he didn’t allow to reach his face or voice. “We’d be glad to show them to the right trader. Would that be you?”

Silence, then a deep, “No.”

Aryl prepared to get to her feet. We can still find the creature I chased.

“That would be Louli,” the Carasian continued. A smaller claw indicated the stairs.

“Lawren Louli. This is my place. Doc’s Dive. Do you like the name? It’s a little joke. Not everyone gets that. Gurdo tells me you have a problem that could mean profit. Profit I like. Wasting time, I don’t. You look like a waste of time. You get that?”

Bemused by this rapid stream of words—Louli seemed to not need to breathe—Aryl missed the tiny pause that was her chance to speak.

“That’s a lot of offworlders to settle. Private and safe, I hear. Quick, too. Why’s that? Why quick?”

“We don’t waste time,” Enris countered, smiling. “Can you help?”

This Human female was different from the others Aryl had seen, beginning with her clothing. Every colorful section was a different eye-twisting pattern. There were two sections for each arm, and left and right arms didn’t match. Each shoulder differed from the torso, which was itself, though shaped like a snug-fitting jacket, in four fabrics. The sleek pants were divided into three down each leg, neither leg coordinated to the other. Each foot, Aryl noticed when she snuck a peek under the table, wore a different kind of shoe.

The only item of clothing spared the battle of color was the white cap on Louli’s short-cropped white hair. Was “cap” the right word? The object in question was taller than any cap Aryl remembered, and sat neatly on the back of the Human’s head. It did add height, she decided.

Not that Louli needed help to dominate the conversation. Her bright blue eyes darted between them as if she suspected trickery. Between her quick incisive speech, and the way the Carasian lowered itself at her side—once it had forced its way up the stairs and through the door with loud rattling and complaints—Aryl was quite sure who felt in charge.

Here.

They overlooked the packed floor, with its “stage” and pox pit. The area around them was quiet except for their own voices and, though they could see the crowded tables to either side of this area, no one there appeared to see them. Aryl didn’t know how it was done, but she approved. The three tables by the rail looked the same as the rest, but were of polished wood. Real flame burned in bowls of scented oil at their centers. Except where a second set of stairs led down, the floor was covered in a thick, rich carpet, its surface carved with an ornate design.

Marred with wet footprints. Aryl’s hair had dried itself, but she and Enris sat at the Human’s table in sopping clothes courtesy of Gurdo’s aversion to sand. She sniffed self-consciously. The bitter water had left a smell behind.

Louli didn’t remark on it. Perhaps because more carpets hung on the back wall and she’d have this one changed once her damp guests had left.

“Help you?” she repeated. “Depends. Depends. Names would help. If you have them. Species. Gurdo says you aren’t Human. Could have fooled me. Look it, both of you.”

Her Chosen’s silence said it all. Aryl felt her face grow warm. “I’m Aryl di Sarc,” she said quickly, before Louli went on. “This is Enris d’sud Sarc. We’re M’hiray. The only Clan—”

“Clan. Simple. I like simple. Start giving me glottal stops and nonsensical spits, and I won’t bother remembering you. Now. Aryl and Enris of the Clan. I’m a busy being.” Not that there was anything to be busy about in sight, but Louli sounded definite. “Tell me what you have to offer.”

Something she’d like to know, too.

“I can do better.” Enris was unperturbed. “I’ll show you. There’s a sample on the way here.”

There is? she asked.

We can hope.

“Better not take long.” The bright blue eyes snapped to Aryl. “You. Go enjoy the ’Dive while we wait. Unless you have something against honest gambling.”

“ ‘Gambling?’ ” Aryl echoed.

“Luck, chance, fortune, wagers, house always wins. Gambling.”

“The pox,” Gurdo rumbled helpfully.

Never back down, Aryl thought, and lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t—” she said in her best imitation of the blue-lipped female’s voice, “—entertained.”

Louli stared, then laughed. “House won. I’ve no quarrel. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in a repeat performance? Solid demand for pretties who’ll butcher in public.”

Before Aryl could attempt to decipher this, Enris spoke up. “Thank you for the offer, but we’ll be leaving with the rest of our people.”

“If I like what you show me. Otherwise, you won’t be going anywhere.”

Aryl’s focus narrowed to Louli’s fragile neck.

The Carasian slowly rose from its crouch.

Words, beloved. Only words. Go. This will be easier if I deal with her alone.

She was, Aryl decided, heartily sick of words. And of Humans who threatened what she cared about. “I’ll wait down there.”

Making it her idea to leave.

Interlude

ENRIS DID HIS BEST to look relaxed as his Chosen followed the giant Carasian down the stairs to the ’Dive’s main level. Aryl had no concern about its company, though the bizarre creature could read her intentions in a way this seemingly clever Human did not.

Something to remember.

If only he could remember more, starting with the contents of the containers the M’hiray had brought to Stonerim III. Maddening, to be sure there was something of great value, without knowing what. Value they needed. Four groups had reported finding ways to go from this to the next level, ways closed to the M’hiray. Every lift and ramp way was guarded by those who checked for identification before allowing passage. Or took payment.

Payment they didn’t have. They had to depend on Naryn and the others to find what they needed.

And this Lawren Louli to do what she implied she could.

Enris leaned back and smiled his best smile. “Tell me about this settlement you have in mind for the Clan.”

“On this world? There’s really only one worth considering—for those who can afford it. The Towers of Lynn, on the Necridi Coast. I’m not saying there’s any left to buy, can’t promise, but for the right price another purchaser might be convinced to step aside. We aren’t talking cheap, Friend Enris.” She tapped a forefinger on the table, nail tipped with white. “Sun Layer Grandies couldn’t swing a Tower now. Offworld funds snapped up the first offering and the coming builds. Which makes it what you want. Private. Safe. Mostly non-Human.”

“We’d have to see it first.” He knew better than to seem desperate, even if they were.

Are you sure you don’t need me there, Enris? A definite hint of desperate in Aryl’s sending, too. She wouldn’t enjoy the crowded floor below.

I’m sure, he replied, with a twinge of guilt. But his Chosen’s honesty and passion were the last thing he needed when dealing with a trading partner like this Human. Enjoy yourself and don’t attract attention.

A promise as her presence retreated from his, I’ll blend in.

Unlikely, under any circumstances. Enris smiled to himself.

“A drink?”

His stomach remembered for him. “I’d prefer something to eat,” he said gratefully. “It’s been a while since . . .” Supper? Breakfast? “. . . I ate.”

“What’s your rating?” Louli smiled. “Wouldn’t do to poison such a handsome guest.” When he hesitated, she pursed her lips. “You really aren’t local, are you? Are you First, then? Unaligned? Fringe?”

He had no idea. “Offworld.”

“I got that. Don’t want to say. Don’t need to know. Fair enough. I’ll screen your blood for something safe. If you Clan have blood? Not every being does.”

“We do.” Safe was important, Enris thought, though how his blood could tell a Human what would be, he didn’t know.

Naryn? Anything?

Nothing yet. Seeds, of all things. Tools. Food. But we’re not done.

Following Louli’s guidance, he put one finger into a hollow cube she held out. Numbers and symbols swarmed across its surface. “Do I get to eat?” he asked hopefully.

“Anything the ’Dive serves.” Louli shook her head. “Wish I had your tolerance. Some of the hots Gurdo tosses in give me a rash. What’s your pleasure?”

He had no idea. “Surprise me,” Enris replied, feeling clever.

Enris. We found them. Naryn, excitement bubbling through her mindvoice. The artifacts. I can’t believe I didn’t remember. What do you need?

To know what an artifact was? Enris didn’t bother to ask. Something to impress our contact.

Done. With reassuring promptness. Send me the locate.

Somewhere without a witness. When you’re ready, ’port here. He showed Naryn the Carasian’s quarters. It will be empty. Come up the stairs.

“Surprise you? Glad to.” Louli pressed her palm against the tabletop. “Number Four, Suicidal,” she said. “Pitcher of water. Bucket in case. Two beers, the good stuff.”

Sitting back, the Human put her fingertips together, or tried to. The tips didn’t appear to want to meet, and Enris watched in fascination. When they finally did, Louli regarded him over the cage they formed. “Don’t you surprise me, Friend Enris,” she warned. “You get hospitality because Gurdo’s got a feel for opportunity and sees something in the two of you I don’t. I expect to see merchandise worth the effort. Legal. Portable. Not alive merchandise. Anything else gets complicated. Complicated drops you a layer. Get that?”

“A layer?”

“Local expression. Cause me trouble. Lowers the value. Complications? You don’t get so much in trade. Waste my time altogether, I won’t be happy. You don’t want me not happy. Fair enough?”

He copied her position, his fingers cooperating. “We won’t be happy,” Enris replied smoothly, “if you’ve wasted ours.” Naryn?

Here.

“No time for food. Our sample’s arrived,” he added, as the door to the Carasian’s quarters opened and Naryn stepped through.

Followed immediately by Haxel and Worin, his young brother.

Being outnumbered didn’t appear to bother Lawren Louli. “Don’t tell me. More wives. Bet that one doesn’t share.” A nod at Haxel, who might have been carved in stone after her quick assessing scan of their surroundings.

Enris ignored the obscure comment. What do you think you’re doing here? he sent to Worin, with a lash of worried anger.

Though he paled, the younger Mendolar stood his ground. He lifted the small crate he carried against his chest. They needed me to ’port this.

So Haxel could have free hands and Naryn look impressive.

Despite the fear that things could spiral out of control, Enris took a deep breath and gestured approval. It wasn’t Worin’s fault. “Lawren Louli. This is Naryn di S’udlaat, Haxel di Vendan, and Worin di Mendolar.”

Naryn did, he had to admit, impress. She’d taken the time to don her white Councillor’s robe, and her dark red hair fell in a magnificent cloak over her shoulders and back, loose but under control. Haxel, as always, had hers tightly netted. As well Gurdo hadn’t seen her longknife.

Though doubtless she’d want one of the force blades, too, once Aryl showed her.

Louli’s eyes were fixed on the crate. “This the sample? What’s inside? Let’s see.”

Your turn, Enris sent to Naryn, rising from his seat and giving her a small bow. This Human claims to know of a suitable home for us. If we have something of value to trade.

He hoped so, for all their sakes.

At a gesture from Naryn, Worin put the crate gently on the table and stepped back.

Louli rose to her feet as Naryn first pressed a finger to one corner, then tapped the remaining top corners in a specific pattern. The lid began to rise.

Enris held his breath.

Which was when Worin pointed to the floor below. “What’s Aryl doing?”

Chapter 3

“THEY SHOULD MAKE THE DOORS your size,” Aryl commented as Gurdo tilted its massive back, waved its claws vigorously in the air, and somehow maneuvered its bulk through the opening. The spectacle did clear a more than adequate amount of floor space, since anyone who’d been in the way moved quickly elsewhere. Spilling a few drinks.

A clawtip pointed up. “Lower layers support the upper; lower buildings support those above. Wide doors make the old-timers nervous.” That rain on metal sound. “Louli prefers I make them nervous,” it boasted.

Aryl carefully didn’t smile, though Gurdo, despite its formidable natural weapons and loud voice, seemed more a threat to unwary toes and elbows than individuals. She glanced at the upper level. The window walls worked in Louli’s favor. Where Enris sat with the Human was clouded from this side, allowing only blurred outlines to show. Her Chosen felt confident. He wasn’t, she thought dourly, always right to do so. “I should have stayed there.”

“Come. Have a drink. Enjoy the show.” The Carasian dipped its head closer to hers. “That way you won’t make me nervous.”

Astute being. Aryl made a “lead on” gesture. The stage, as they’d called it, was still empty. No one crowded them—crowded Gurdo, to be exact—but the rest of Doc’s Dive offered no room to squeeze between anyone.

Or peace. Between their shouted voices and the heavy thumping—with occasional shrieks of song—that made shouts necessary, Aryl could barely hear her own thoughts. “Do Humans enjoy this noise?”

She decided the dip of head dome to either shoulder was the Carasian version of a shrug. “They don’t have a choice,” it rumbled. “When the musicians tried to keep their tips, Louli had a ’bot band installed. A used one. Only plays like that. Smokeheads tell me it’s beautiful music, but they chew the ends of their fingers to pulp, so I don’t trust their taste. The smart ones wear plugs in their ears. It’s better when the show’s on.”

Probably no quieter, Aryl thought resignedly. Are you sure you don’t need me there, Enris?

I’m sure. He sounded distracted but hopeful. Enjoy yourself and don’t attract attention.

Aryl buried her reaction to that highly unnecessary bit of advice behind shields. I’ll blend in, she promised.

She took his tinge of disbelief as a dare.

“When’s the show?” Aryl asked Gurdo. Whatever it was.

“Now!” the Carasian bellowed unnecessarily.

White smoke billowed out from the stage edges and spilled overtop. It gave the illusion that the figures who suddenly appeared on the stage—to raucous shouts Aryl presumed indicated cheerful anticipation and not the blood lust of the pox pit, though the sound and facial expressions were quite similar—that those figures had ’ported there.

Except the swirling smoke around their feet made it obvious they’d come up on lifts.

The “music” changed at the same time, to something as loud, but more complex, almost pleasant.

A clawtip pointed to the curved counter. She understood. It had to get to work. There were stools there. An easy step from any of those, a leap, and she’d be at the door to Gurdo’s room and the stairs to Enris. Satisfied, Aryl nodded and followed the Carasian as it lumbered its way through the milling crowd.

Not that there was a free stool until Gurdo snapped a claw and two scrawny Humans jumped off theirs and disappeared into the shadow and smoke. Aryl didn’t bother trying to shout her thanks. Instead, she rapped her knuckles on the nearest part of the huge being, then took her seat.

About to turn to watch the stage, Aryl realized one of the many-armed servers behind the counter was asking her a question. “Yes?” she shouted.

The server’s mouth moved again. Aryl cupped her hand behind one ear and shrugged helplessly. Obviously used to coping with the din, three hands appeared with empty containers of different shapes.

It meant a drink, but what? Aryl looked at her neighbors. The most popular beverage had an alarming plume of dirty yellow smoke; those drinking it used a long spoon to approach from the side.

“Let me,” said a friendly male voice in her ear. “Two Pink Riders, Yirs.”

“Coming up, KaeCee.”

This KaeCee was tall for a Human. Aryl studied him warily as he took the stool beside hers. He smiled and seemed harmless. Seemed. “Thank you,” she said politely, when the drinks arrived and he passed one to her. It didn’t look daunting. A layer of pink froth over a green liquid. Fruit had been impaled on the stick rising from it, fruit cut in the shape of an implausibly endowed male. She glanced at her new companion to see where to start.

He pulled the stick and fruit from his drink and tossed it on the counter, then leaned closer. “Louli tells them to reuse the garnish.”

Whatever that meant. Aryl dutifully tossed hers aside with some regret. Enris wasn’t the only one to feel hungry. She sipped the froth, then gave KaeCee an appreciative smile. The pleasant taste included an interesting warmth down her throat. “This is good.”

“Better than the floor show, that’s for sure.”

The figures on the stage? Aryl watched for a moment, non plussed when all they did was sway in time to the music and shed their clothes. The fruit on a stick had been not only implausible in size, she noted, but the wrong shape. “Much better,” she agreed, and turned away again.

“Personally, I’m more interested in beautiful strangers than dancing boys.” He edged closer on his stool. “I’m KaeCee. Tell me all about yourself.”

Aryl, busy taking another sip, glanced up in surprise. “No.”

“Beautiful and mysterious.” The Human licked pink froth from the hairs above his narrow mouth. All of his features were narrow, as was he. The hair on his head, an improbable blue, curled to his shoulders. When he ran one hand through it, Aryl noticed his fingernails were the same color. “Play nice,” he urged. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

Aryl put down the drink and frowned. “Go away.”

Perhaps he couldn’t hear her over the music, for he didn’t move. Instead, his eyes traveled over her. “You have the most remarkable hair. And that net you wear. Old. A family heirloom? I’ve never seen work like that. Where did you get it?”

About to repeat her warning, much louder, Aryl hesitated. “From home . . .” she answered, losing whatever else she might have said. “Before we left.” On impulse, she lifted her arm and showed him her bracelet. “This, too.”

“Nice work. But new,” in a dismissive tone. “My specialty is the ancient. The rare. Rare like you.” The Human reached for her hair. “What is it about you?” he asked, his voice gone strange, his eyes not quite focused. “There’s something . . .”

Don’t attract attention. Blend in. Which precluded slapping his hand away, she decided reluctantly. Her hair promptly retreated, twisting itself into an uncomfortably tight knot at the back of her neck.

Encouraging that unwelcome hand to pursue.

Hair wasn’t, Aryl realized, particularly clever. She slid off the stool and away from the hand before it touched. “I’ll be leaving,” she said firmly and did.

“Don’t go!”

Aryl joined the others pushing their way into the crowd around the stage.

KaeCee, undeterred, followed.

Aryl?

Remind me to tell you how well I blended, Aryl sent, not holding back a snip of outrage. Which wasn’t all because she was forced to run away. There was being surrounded by too many Humans, everyone with sloshing drinks and foul breath. There was breathing smoke and enduring brain-numbing noise.

Not to mention the floor was sticky.

Without warning, Aryl found herself pressed against the side of the stage by the crowd. She looked up naked legs and other parts to find herself staring into golden eyes the size of her fist.

“You!” she shouted.

“Wait!” KaeCee cried from behind.

There were times no action would end well. Aryl stared up at her quarry, quivering with the desire to leap on the stage and grab it, knowing she shouldn’t. It, meanwhile, began a graceful gyration to the left, traveling away from her as quickly as it could given the lack of space between its fellows and their lack of cooperation getting out of its way.

Unfortunately, not moving gave the persistent Human all the time he needed to catch up and breathe down her neck. Aryl dug a discreet elbow sharply into his ribs. As he gasped, she took advantage of a gap between tables to go left herself, keeping the golden-eyed creature in sight.

Only wise, she told herself, to keep all options available.

A sweaty hand gripped her arm. Shields tight, proud of her restraint, Aryl glared into his flushed face and said very clearly, “I will break your wrist.”

KaeCee let go, but didn’t retreat. “If you want the Aala, I’ll hire him for the night. Just come back with me.”

Aala. The golden-eyed creature had a name. Was male.

Night? How could she know for sure, down here?

How could she believe anything this Human told her? Aryl forced the edge from her voice. “I don’t need him all night. I need him to show me how to reach the top layer of this city.” To free her people. To take them to the sun and sky. She hadn’t realized the urgency of that need until now. Her breath caught. “Can you arrange it?”

This produced a beaming smile. Two of his teeth, she noticed, had been inlaid with tiny stones. “My dear beauty. I can do better. You don’t need him. I can take you.”

“You know the way?”

“Of course. You don’t think I live here, do you?” He paused as if waiting for a reply, then continued more quickly. “My offices are in the Sun Layer itself. I come down occasionally. For the scenery.” With a move closer.

Moved or was pushed. The music had increased in tempo, causing a mass shuffle toward the stage among the spectators. To express disapproval? From what Aryl could see, those who made it close to the stage either threw items to impede the footing of those on it or slapped them.

Then she noticed how those on the stage came perilously near its edge to provide flesh to be slapped, and how each slap left behind a patch of gold or silver.

Not disapproval. As for what it was?

Aryl shook her head. Watching pox eat their flop-eared prey made more sense.

“Here.” KaeCee pressed something small and round into her hand. “Why should Brocheuse get them all?” With a wave at a nearby gyrating Human, whose bare skin sparkled with patches. Among other things. Flecks of metal pinched his skin along lines that suggested the seams of clothing. That had to hurt. Maybe those watching gave him the patches out of pity, Aryl thought dubiously.

“Go ahead,” her companion urged. “Have some fun. Be daring.”

The suggestion from one who belonged here was all Aryl needed. “I will,” she said happily.

And leaped on the stage in pursuit of the Aala.

Chapter 4

AS CHASES WENT, it was over too quickly. The Aala spotted her approach, eyes dilating, but when he tried to flee, his limbs tangled with those of his neighbors, knocking several down. On rising again, they began, most unfairly, to strike him with fists and feet.

The spectators appeared to enjoy this even more than the movement to music, raising their own fists and shouting. Some started to hit each other. Drink containers and chairs began to fly through the smoke.

All of which didn’t stop Aryl. She ran lightly along the stage, not touching anyone else, ball in hand. Once in reach, she grabbed the Aala from beneath a heaving pile of naked bodies, smiled happily at him, then slapped the ball against his receding forehead, leaving a gold patch. “Thanks for showing me the way here,” she said.

“That’s all you wanted?” the creature asked incredulously. “Directions to this place?”

“We’re from offworld,” Aryl explained. Before she could say another word, the Aala was pulled back into another skirmish.

She shrugged and jumped down, stepping over a body that crashed to the floor by her feet. Everyone was busy hitting one another. Or trying to. They weren’t, Aryl decided, very good at it.

Humans.

Where was KaeCee?

“Hold it, Femmine.”

The unexpectedly stern voice belonged to a Human male who wasn’t fighting. Unlike KaeCee and the others here, he wasn’t dressed in bright colors. Instead, he wore a simple black shirt and pants tucked into knee-high boots. Paired belts crossed his chest, with loops for various small objects. Another server, Aryl guessed. “I don’t want anything,” she told him, and moved away, looking for KaeCee’s bright red jacket.

The server blocked her way. “You can’t come in here and cause a disturbance.”

Why, when it was so easy to do? Aryl thought with some self-pity, but gave more attention to the Human. Not a server. “I was told to enjoy myself,” she explained.

“BY THE WORM-RIDDEN THIRD ARMPIT OF URGA LARGE, DON’T MAKE ME COME OUT THERE!”

Gurdo’s bellow produced an instant of silence, then everyone erupted into movement and noise again. A table smashed nearby.

“A few drinks don’t give you license to break the law, Femmine. You’ll have to come with me.”

Why did Humans believe simply saying a thing would make it happen?

They exchanged measuring looks. What he thought of her, Aryl didn’t care. She judged him strongly built for a Human, but no more so than the performers on stage. If the objects he bore were weapons, she had her short knife and the force blade.

Which wasn’t, she realized belatedly, blending in. She gestured apology and tried a smile. “I’m sorry if I—”

“There you are.” KaeCee shoved his way past two females preoccupied with holding their shoes high above their heads, despite the risk to their bare feet. He had a bruise forming over one eye and his blue hair was matted with some green substance. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Not so fast, Gennine,” said the Human in black. “There’s the matter of a fine and—”

“Nonsense!” KaeCee stiffened, the good humor gone from his face. “What’s your name? I’ll have your badge!”

“Constable Gene Maynard.” The other looked unimpressed. Aryl wouldn’t have been either. “And you would be KaeCee Britain of Norval Antiquities and Otherworld Imports, looter of graveyards. Down to visit your suppliers, KaeCee, or for other diversions?” This with an odd look at Aryl.

Aryl—

At the faint touch from her Chosen, Aryl sent quickly, It wasn’t my fault. They started hitting one another. I haven’t hit anyone, she added proudly. Despite provocation. I’ve found a guide.

Triumph surged outward, so strong she wasn’t entirely sure Enris had heard her. I may have found a home. Louli’s impressed by our sample. She’s sent for someone to verify its value. You should be here. Come.

She should never have left, Aryl told herself, eyeing a pair of Humans wrestling on the floor a little too close for comfort. I’ll be there as—

“KaeCee! There you are.” As the Carasian clattered toward them, it used its closed lower claws to shove oblivious combatants out of its way. “Louli wants you topside! Now.”

“This wasn’t my fault,” KaeCee protested.

Aryl might have sympathized, but she had a sinking feeling the summons wasn’t about the fighting at all.

The M’hiray would have to deal with this Human, too?

“Tell Louli,” Gurdo said with some relish. “AS FOR YOU—” The “you” in question was apparently everyone else. It rattled away, shoving and pushing.

With a discordant wail, the ’bot band either died or gave up. The lack of deafening “music” did more to quench the participants’ enthusiasm than the Carasian. Some headed for the exit doors. Most headed for the counter, or began righting tables and shouting for drinks.

The rest were on the stage, retrieving the tossed items despite outraged protests from the naked performers. Gurdo roared something and headed for them next.

“This won’t take long,” KaeCee said with a pronounced quiver to his voice. “Promise you’ll wait right here for me?”

“I’ll come with you,” Aryl offered.

“No, no.” He looked at the clouded window, not her. “Louli doesn’t like surprises. Stay here.” With a tug on his jacket, a brush of both hands through his dripping hair, he headed for the stairs with the air of someone about to face punishment.

Fine, Aryl thought. She’d go up the Carasian’s stairs and surprise him.

“Hold on—”

She whirled to face the constable. “I said I was sorry. Explain what a ‘fine’ is so I can finish my business with you and leave.”

Maynard tilted his head. He had nice eyes, Aryl noticed absently. Right now they were troubled. “Forget the fine,” he said quietly. “Listen to me, Femmine. KaeCee’s trouble. Not this kind,” with a nod at the smashed tables and groaning patrons. “Another order altogether. Cross him, and you’ll disappear without a trace.”

He couldn’t mean KaeCee. “Him?” Aryl’s lips twitched.

The constable nodded grimly. “Doesn’t look like much, I’ll grant you. But somehow KaeCee dances a step ahead of the law. He’s got connections, too. We can’t touch him. Not yet, anyway. Don’t let him touch you. That’s all I’m saying.”

This Human thought of her as one of his own, unaware she was something far more dangerous. Still, the warning seemed well meant. “I’ll be careful,” Aryl promised.

“You do that. But if you run into more than you can handle, or learn anything about KaeCee I should know, contact me. Here.” He offered her a small brown rectangle, careful to keep it low as if no one else should see.

Aryl took it, then looked a question.

“It’s a burst.”

“A burst?”

“Pop it in any comport or reader on Stonerim III. It will send an alert to the constabulary. Where you are. That you need help or want to talk.”

“Your help,” Aryl countered warily. “To talk to you, no one else.”

Maynard smiled for the first time. He reached to press his thumb against the rectangle. “Just mine.”

Aryl walked away, the rectangle in her closed fist, fist at her side. With every step, she was less sure why she’d accepted it. Humans weren’t M’hiray. They were too many, too different. Dangerous in number. Humans were to be avoided—or used, if safe. Her fist lifted when she passed an ownerless drink oozing yellow smoke at an empty table. She should toss the “burst” into it . . .

Instead, Aryl tucked it in a pocket. She’d discard it later, less obviously.

She wouldn’t need it.

A warm flash of gladness filled her as Aryl stepped once more on Lawren Louli’s thick carpet—in drier shoes. It had nothing to do with what was going on; Enris, her Chosen, reacted to her presence. His smile would have lit the darkest night.

She smiled back. I missed you, too.

Naryn. Haxel. Worin? She sent them each a greeting.

They were pleased to see her—well, Haxel had the look of someone planning a “discussion” for later, presumably about the bar fight which hadn’t been, Aryl told herself firmly, entirely her doing.

KaeCee stood near Louli. He’d looked dismayed by her arrival, but quickly wiped any emotion from his face. Now, he kept glancing from her to Enris and back.

Maybe he wasn’t a total fool.

“All here. Shall we get down to business, then? Sit sit.” Louli had transformed into an effusive host. She beamed from one to the other, finishing with Aryl. “I’ve introduced the respected and renowned KaeCee Britain to the rest of your delegation, Aryl. KaeCee, this is Aryl di Sarc.”

“I’ve had the pleasure,” KaeCee said, with a slight bow. He’d decided to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Glad you could join us, Aryl.”

Dangerous, this one, despite his appearance. She didn’t doubt the constable.

Haxel had a way of going still when she picked up trouble. Aryl made sure to brush her fingers over the First Scout’s wrist as she passed. Watch him.

Enris didn’t need a warning. His relaxed stance covered an inner alert.

One of the M’hiray’s white crates sat in the center of the table, its lid open. Though chairs had been added, no one sat. Worin stood behind his brother. Naryn faced the Humans, Haxel to one side. Aryl stopped on the other, across from KaeCee, beside Enris.

“Shall we continue?” Naryn suggested, gesturing to the crate.

“Go ahead, KaeCee. I’ve taken my look.” Louli crossed her arms. Her fingers ran from elbow to shoulder and back as if restless. Aryl didn’t let the peculiarity distract her. What could Naryn have found?

The Human tugged the crate closer with a casual finger, his expression bored. He tipped it forward and peered inside.

Then looked up, eyes wide. “Where did you get this?” Almost a whisper.

“It’s ours,” Naryn asserted. “As are the rest.”

KaeCee licked his lips, eyes flicking between all the M’hiray. “There’s more?”

“Well, well?” Louli interjected. “That what I think it is? What do you think?”

He reached into the crate with care, pulling out a bag. The bag itself rippled with color. Not only color, but numbers. “Watch.” When he set it gently on the table, the numbers moved across the bag’s surface, coming together in a final, complex pattern. “That’s a Triad seal, Louli. Can’t be forged. Only the First from a site can apply it.”

Do you know what he’s talking about? Enris asked her.

No.

Naryn’s eyes never left the bag. I do. Hush.

“Open it.”

There were beads of sweat on his forehead. “Is the room tight?” When Louli didn’t answer at once, sharper. “Is it?”

“Will be.” She moved one of the hanging carpets, revealing a panel. After pushing a few controls, she let the carpet drop and returned to the circle around the table, staring down at the bag. “We’re tight. No one in or out.”

Worin leaked anxiety. Enris soothed him. Let the Humans believe they’d locked the M’hiray in, Aryl thought, amused.

“I’m going to open this.” KaeCee didn’t pull out a knife or ask for one. He took the bag by two upper corners and pulled those apart very slowly.

It split neatly down the middle. Not a protection, Aryl realized. The covering had served as identification.

What lay exposed caught the flickering light from the flames on the other tables, caught it and reflected it everywhere.

Aryl drew back, disappointed. It appeared to be a device, hardly larger than the force blade hidden in her pocket, shaped to be held in a hand and pointed. The reflections were from crystals stuck all over it. It looked like the ornaments worn by the Humans in the bar below.

She kept her opinion to herself. The Humans were transfixed by the thing, their mouths slightly open, eyes dilated. They found value in it; that was what mattered.

“Is this the right price?” Naryn asked, her voice low and soft.

“Price?” KaeCee tore his eyes from the object and visibly collected himself. “I admit to some interest. What do you want for it?”

“Wait there, KaeCee!” Louli bristled. “This is my deal. You’re here to authenticate the value, not push me gone.”

“And where could you go to sell Hoveny artifacts, except to me?”

“Hoveny.” The word might have had taste, the way Louli sa vored it. “I knew you weren’t wasting our time, Enris Friend.”

She was too confident. Too calm. Something wasn’t right. Aryl tensed. Naryn!

I know what I’m doing. “What we want is a home for our people.”

“I told them about Lynn,” Louli said quickly. “Seemed to suit.”

“The Towers?” Blue eyebrows rose. “Aiming pretty high.”

“We can arrange our own transport. We would want to move as quickly as possible. Tonight, if possible.”

KaeCee gestured to the artifact. “For this, I could maybe get the five of you rooms in a Sun Layer resort. Best service in Norval. Say for a week. But a Tower?”

“That’s only a sample,” Naryn assured him, her hair rising on her shoulders. “The least of what we have to trade. Everything is Triad sealed and authenticated.”

His eyes followed her hair. “I’m sure we can do business, Femmine.”

Reading Human expressions was not, Aryl would be the first to admit, like reading M’hiray emotion. But there was something ominous in Louli’s small, tight smile.

Then, she knew. “What have you done?” she demanded. “While you wasted our time, what have you done?”

The smile widened. “My dancing boys report to me first, Aryl of the Clan. I know you came up from the deep. Likely the Buried Theater. Your people are down there? Well, so are mine. Those are my artifacts now—or they will be very soon.”

Gijs and his scouts have been following some intruders. Haxel’s matching smile was even colder. “Did you think we wouldn’t be watching?”

“What I think is that sample of Clan blood I took means my people can take out yours with no risk at all. Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. I don’t waste time.”

BEWARE! Naryn drove the warning through the M’hir. GO! Aryl sent into its echo.

Haxel, Enris, and Worin disappeared, leaving them to deal with the Humans.

“Neat trick,” KaeCee commented, his voice almost steady. “What was that? Projected illusion? I’d like to see the specs. I could have a buyer.”

Dangerous indeed. “It’s Clan,” Aryl said warningly. She brought out the force blade and thumbed it on as Gurdo had demonstrated.

Louli had been backing away. Now she leaped forward to snatch the glittering artifact from the table. Aryl swept the force blade down as she would a knife . . .

Only to have Louli’s arms come apart before the line of force touched them. Not only her arms, but her chest and legs and shoulders!

Every piece snapped neatly away from the others, where the differing fabric met. Once apart, they landed on the floor and sprouted fleshy limbs. They scurried in various directions, ran around legs and circled back to dive under the one table. “What is that—them!?” Naryn demanded with a horror Aryl shared.

“Assembler,” the Human informed them. “Did you think she was Human?”

The head had landed on top of the table. Having lost—or absorbed—its face, the thing looked like a large hairless pox but still wore its tall white cap. It pounced on the artifact, stuffed it under its cap, then dropped to the floor and scurried under the table with the rest.

“Get the hat!” KaeCee shouted.

Hat. Not cap. Aryl absorbed the new word as she shut off the force blade and exchanged it for her short knife, being safer under furniture.

She and the Human dove under the table together. KaeCee cried out as what had been a knee sprung up and hit him in the nose, but didn’t back away. Aryl squirmed between the table legs, watched for movement in the dim light. Where were the rest?

And the hat?

“There they go!”

He was right. Aryl rushed forward on her elbows, but couldn’t stop the next bit—something chest-ish—from jumping through the neat hole cut in the floor. As an escape, she had to admire it.

She glimpsed something white. “Get the hat!”

KaeCee grabbed; Aryl reached. They had it!

The hat came off in their hands, the artifact rolling free on the carpet, while the last piece of Lawren Louli plunged through its hole to safety. To put themselves back together below? Aryl let go of the hat and wiggled forward, cautiously peeking down the hole as she picked up the artifact.

It didn’t open to the lower level of Doc’s Dive but to a curved pipe just wide enough to fit the bits. Clever, Aryl had to admit.

Then KaeCee’s hand clamped over her bare wrist. You are for me. You are MINE!

She could hear him?

MINE!

Waves of heat and need and domination. Something fumbled at her mind. Inept, untrained, blind to what it violated. MINE! You will want ME!

Repulsed on every level, Aryl freed herself with a quick twist, shields now firmly in place. She hurried out from under the table and to her feet, putting the artifact back on the table. Not that it mattered.

ARYL!? Enris, there at once. Are you all right? What was that?

The Human. He has some kind of Power. He touched me.

The flood of fury that answered made her hands shake. I’m coming!

No. Stay. Protect the others. Aryl calmed herself and sent reassurance and determination.

Naryn and I will handle this.

KaeCee straightened his jacket as he stood, smiling with triumph.

The Human’s a fool, she finished, and smiled back.

“You are ours, now,” said Aryl di Sarc.

YOU ARE OURS! Naryn’s Power struck the Human’s mind.

He staggered, smile gone. “So that’s your game, is it? Filthy mindcrawlers! If it’s a fight you want, that’s fine with me. I’ll make you beg,” with quite inexplicable confidence. Unless the Human couldn’t imagine abilities great than his own.

He’d learn. Scan him, Aryl suggested coldly. All we need is to know who will buy the artifacts, what to expect. They could leave the body here.

Naryn lifted an eyebrow. Oh, I think our KaeCee has much more to offer than information. “Hold him.”

The last thing she wanted to do was touch him again, but Aryl didn’t hesitate. The Human was pitifully slow. Before he could begin to evade or struggle, she slammed the side of his face against the tabletop, her arm around his sweaty neck and a knee in his spine. It wasn’t helping the M’hiray below. It wasn’t being with Enris. It did, however, feel remarkably satisfying.

“That will do.” Naryn laid her palm along his forehead. Now, Human. Teach me.

He began to scream.

Just as well, Aryl thought coldly, the Assembler had such a private space. She kept her shields at their most impenetrable. Even so, she felt the Power Naryn drew through his mind, like a knife through flesh.

More than an echo, she felt a surge of Power from another source altogether, like a welcome breath of fresh air. Pride. Relief. She had to smile. Enris. Whatever he’d done, it would protect the M’hiray from Louli. Her smile faded. Good.

She couldn’t leave Naryn now.

The screams were replaced by a soft moan with each inward breath. He had no shields—no shields against M’hiray.

Suddenly, the moans stopped. The body in her hands relaxed. Naryn took away her hand.

Let him go.

Aryl released her grip slowly and stood back, tensed to spring at the Human if he offered any threat.

There was none. His face was reddened on one side. Trails of clear fluid glistened on his cheek and chin, but a peaceful smile played over his mouth. His hands straightened his jacket, then tidied his hair. His eyes were shot through with blood, and absolutely calm. He stood at ease, as if waiting. For what?

She stared at Naryn. What have you done?

“It’s called ‘influence,’ ” with unutterable disgust. At herself, or the Human? Both, Aryl decided, gorge rising in her throat. “KaeCee’s an expert. That’s what he wanted to do to you. Turn you into—” Naryn shook her head. “—it doesn’t matter. The technique only works on Humans, and only those Humans with their M’hirless version of Power. Telepaths. Weak minds, susceptible to suggestion. The effect is permanent.”

“Why?”

Naryn sat down and took hold of the artifact, tipping it to send reflections over his face. “KaeCee? What should we do with the Hoveny artifacts?”

The Human answered at once, his tone sure and brisk. “It means a deep cut in price, but I’ve buyers in mind on Unaligned worlds. No Commonwealth or Trade Pact connections to worry about. We couldn’t move them on any Innersystem world, or within any space held by the First. I’ll ensure no one can trace the artifacts to you. I regret this will take time to arrange, but I’ve sufficient creds in my hidden accounts to get the Clan into proper accommodations immediately. And to buy clothes, idents. You’ll want to be able to move around Grandie society without undue notice. When the artifacts are sold, I’ll deposit the funds in various separate accounts and will recommend suitable individuals to manage each for maximum growth. The Clan won’t have to worry about wealth.” Finished, he stood, waiting. Peaceful, content.

Better to have slit his throat, Aryl thought, sickened to her core. Naryn . . .

Think I enjoyed being in a Human’s mind? That I wanted to learn this? Her mindvoice was weary. That I wanted to do this, even to him? Aloud, “How many Humans are on this world, Aryl? How many of them could help us? Of those who could, how many would? Council will agree with my actions. We couldn’t afford to waste this opportunity. There might not be another.”

“There are thirty-one Human telepaths in Norval,” KaeCee corrected. “Fourteen of those are under my influence. They could be useful. I’ll introduce you.”

“See what I mean? I can’t imagine a better Human.”

“Naryn!”

Naryn tucked the artifact within her robe. “Haxel’s sure our people are safe for now. KaeCee, we’ll ’port with you to your office in the Sun Layer and you can . . .”

Aryl stopped listening.

Naryn’s quick thinking, her sacrifice—for soiling her mind had been that, too—had probably saved the M’hiray.

She closed her eyes.

What Naryn had done—she wished she could believe it would never happen again. But she couldn’t.

Aryl reached, feeling strangely fragile. Enris?

Beloved. With joy and relief.

Almost—almost enough to ease the turmoil inside. I felt your Power, she ventured, sharing curiosity. So much safer than anything else.

We locked the door. With pride. Then, something dark stirred. Tell me he’s dead. That Human.

Peace, Enris. Naryn’s dealt with him. She learned what we need to do. Even better—she tightened her shields—we know how to influence his mind.

You mean control. That’s what he wanted to do. Make you obey him.

He’ll save the M’hiray. He has no choice. Aryl opened her eyes and stared at KaeCee’s too-peaceful face. We’ve left him none.

Interlude

THEY’RE IN SIGHT.

Come back.

When Veca appeared beside her, Haxel snapped aloud: “How many?”

The Chosen held up both hands, fingers outstretched. “Syb and I could have handled them.” With barely restrained frustration.

Enris shook his head. “Not with knives,” he said, remembering Louli’s threat. That it involved his blood still made him flinch inwardly, as if he’d betrayed his own. “And not if more keep coming.” And they would. He and Haxel had shared with the M’hiray what they’d seen above; he’d added what Aryl had shown him of the homes built one upon the other, the rooftops filled with Humans and other beings. No M’hiray doubted there were even more above.

“He’s right.” Haxel turned to the waiting Council.

Enris lost whatever was said, whatever he could see around him, his mind suddenly consumed with heat and need and something twisted and dark . . . It was in their Joining. After his Chosen!

ARYL!?

The sense of violation was gone as quickly as he’d felt it. Are you all right? What was that?

The Human. With revulsion. He has some kind of Power. He touched me.

Enris could hardly breathe for the rage coursing through him. I’m coming!

But even as he formed the locate . . . No. Stay. Protect the others. With reassuring calm. Naryn and I will handle this. That, not calm at all.

His hands were fists. Enris made himself relax. Protect the others. She was right.

“You paying attention?” Haxel asked. “Council’s agreed.”

“Move everyone back,” he warned. Everyone but those he’d picked for this task: Worin and Fon, Kran and Netta. UnChosen and young. They were nervous, not afraid. We can do this, he told them, believing it.

Though he couldn’t have explained why.

Once the M’hiray had climbed to the uppermost ledges, Enris and the others positioned themselves on the lowest. “Those first,” he said, pointing to the crates of rattlers. An easy start that rid them of a potential threat.

Power surged from all four. Stacks of crates rose in the air. Disturbed, the creatures made their rattling sound. “Don’t drop them,” Enris advised mildly.

Worin made a face, but concentrated.

Stack by stack, the crates were carefully placed across the opening.

“Now.”

He’d shown each what to move. Worin and Netta displaced the supports within the opening. Kran and Fon raised a mass of rubble into the air and flung it at the crates. While Enris concentrated, focused . . .

. . . . and dropped the wall above.

As the roar subsided, they grinned at one another, faces covered in dust. Cheers broke out from the others. A swell of pride and relief moved from mind-to-mind. They were safe, Enris thought.

For now.

Haxel jumped down beside him. “Good. The lights still work.”

He squinted at her in disbelief. “You let us do this without being sure?”

“Weth was ready,” with absolute calm. “We’ve oillights.”

Pebbles tumbled; stone continued to groan into place. He cast an eye over the rest of the wall. Some carvings had lost their faces—if those had been faces. A crack snaked upward from where he’d tugged rock out of position. But nothing else appeared ready to fall. Enris ruffled Worin’s dusty hair. “Well done. All of you.”

Coughing, Fon frowned. “What’s to stop the Humans using Power to remove it?”

“They can’t.” Gur had joined them. “Feel the M’hir, unChosen. Do you sense anyone there but us? Of course not. It is ours alone. As for the Humans? Our most Powerful Adepts have reached to their limit. Some open minds, none capable of answering. Humans are lesser beings. The feeble Power of a few is no threat.”

Enris? Quiet. Too quiet.

Beloved. Enris didn’t hide joy or relief. The something loathsome was gone from their link. It had been like a whiff of rotting food . . .

I felt your Power. Familiar curiosity.

We locked the door. Gur claimed Humans were no threat, but he’d felt what one had tried to do. Tell me he’s dead. The Human. To dare touch his Chosen—not only her skin, but her mind. He fought to keep his shields tight.

Peace, Enris. So much for that effort. Naryn’s dealt with the Human. She’s learned what we need to do. Even better, an underlying unease contradicted her words, we know how to influence his mind.

His blood pounded in his ears. You mean control. That’s what he wanted to do. Make you obey him. What were Humans, to conceive of such a thing? The enormity of that trespass—

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t acknowledge Worin’s question. Couldn’t.

Why isn’t he dead? Enris asked with what remained of his control.

He’ll save the M’hiray. He has no choice. With a bleakness he’d never sensed from her before. We’ve left him none.

Enris shut his mind. Closed his eyes. Wished he didn’t understand.

But he did.

This was the price of their future.

Chapter 5

NARYN’S EYES WERE HALF-SHUT, her face beaded with sweat. Her hair, freed of its net—the M’hiray no longer confined their hair—lashed against the mattress. She was conscious. And impatient. “How long will this take?”

Seru didn’t laugh, but dimples appeared in her cheeks. “As long as it does.” She busied herself rearranging towels.

Aryl perched on the windowsill and poked the senglass with a finger. Still hard. “Nippy outside,” she commented. The transparent stuff responded to its environment as well as the wishes of those inside. As the day warmed, it would open to let through the breezes and whatever smells or sounds Naryn had decided to enjoy. She wasn’t fond of florals.

The warming was controlled, too. As befitted an Innersystem world, Stonerim III had civilized weather, thoroughly planned and implemented. Necessary rain was scheduled during sleep cycles, unless other arrangements had been requested. For a fee—there was always a fee—a rousing thunderstorm could be supplied to order, or an evening kept summer warm and dry for an outdoor party.

“No one else is coming.”

Aryl met Seru’s troubled look, then hopped off the sill to sit on the end of Naryn’s bed. “Who else do you need?” she asked lightly. “You’ve our Birth Watcher and me. I can call Enris if you like.”

“That big oaf?” Naryn almost smiled. “No, thanks.” She grimaced as another powerful contraction rippled over her abdomen. The sheets were dark purple na-fiber—nothing but the best for the M’hiray—but she’d tossed off her coverings. “Hurry up, will you?”

Don’t you listen, Aryl sent inwardly, her hand on the so-far quiet bulge at her waist. The presence within acknowledged this attention with a cheerful ticklemeticklemeTICKLEME that she quickly shielded from the other adults, then obliged, fluttering her fingers against a protruding foot. Conversation would come eventually, she supposed, but babies were all about needs and wants.

There should be others here. A birth was attended by the other pregnant Chosen. Should be celebrated by family and friends.

And the father.

Which was the problem. Aryl gazed at Naryn, filled with her own curiosity. No one, not even Naryn, could explain how she’d Commenced and become pregnant without a Joining. At first, they’d assumed she’d somehow survived when her Chosen had failed to make the journey from the Clan Homeworld, or been left behind during the Stratification.

A place and event with names now, the beginnings of M’hiray history, kept with care.

But none of their Healers, not even Sian, with his ability with the mind, could find any trace of a Joining. Worse, they’d found no trace of a mind within the developing child.

No one else was here, because no one, Aryl thought sadly, expected a live birth. The M’hiray respected Naryn too much to be witness to her failure.

Not that Naryn di S’udlaat admitted the possibility.

“Oh,” she said suddenly. “Oh. I think something’s going on,” in a strangely calm voice. “Seru?” That, not so calm.

Seru bent over Naryn, ran fingers lightly over the distended skin.

“OH!”

“We’ll help you stand. Aryl?”

They eased Naryn to her feet. Her abdomen flexed in and out, each powerful contraction driving air from her lungs. Her hair lifted in a blinding cloud and Aryl batted it away with her free hand, holding her friend tight with the other.

If her hands were busy . . . Seru, how are we going to catch—

Before she could finish, the birth sac slipped free with a rush of clear liquid, landing on the pillows her more experienced cousin had wisely put in place. Easing Naryn into Aryl’s arms, Seru went to her knees to pick up the sac in a towel.

Welcome . . . The sending died away. “There you are,” her cousin said aloud instead, cradling the sac. She turned her back to them, hair limp to her waist.

“Let me see her.” Aryl, please!

She slipped an arm under Naryn’s shoulder and helped her to where Seru stood before the hammock.

The sac was as black as Seru’s hair, flecked with starlike patches of pale, new-grown skin. It steamed in the room air.

It didn’t move. It should move.

“Naryn—” Aryl began, her heart thudding in her chest.

“She knew,” Naryn said, the strangest look on her face. She reached a trembling hand to the sac, touched it lightly. “She couldn’t come with us. All along, she knew but didn’t say a word.”

“Who knew?”

“This wasn’t her time.” Naryn staggered, and both Aryl and Seru supported her.

Fingers brushed Aryl’s. Get her back to bed. I’ll look after this.

Wait! She knew what—who—Naryn meant. Didn’t she? Someone old but strong, someone . . .

The memory slipped away, no matter how hard Aryl tried to hold it.

“To bed,” Seru insisted. “You’re getting cold.”

Naryn didn’t move. “The vessel is empty. Look in the M’hir. See for yourself. Please, Aryl!”

The M’hir? Aryl eased into that other place, rested in its steady motion, then tried to see what Naryn meant.

Their glows—Naryn, her cousin and her baby, the life within her own body—lit the darkness. The glorious pulse of Power that was her Joining to Enris, his comfort there if she needed it. Always.

Nothing more.

But something made her keep looking, though the M’hir reacted to the effort and became turbulent and distrustful. Looking, looking until . . .

Something looked back.

Something interested.

A Watcher. Or more than one. No M’hiray was sure of their number, only that they’d brought with them from the Homeworld a presence—or more than one—that existed in the M’hir and nowhere else.

Benign, declared Council. Guardians of the M’hir. They never spoke, only watched. But this . . . she almost grasped identity.

Who are you? Aryl demanded.

And was answered by a mindvoice so different and distant, she wasn’t sure it was real. We are you.

Meaning what? What do you want?

What do you want?

Not an echo. Not her imagination. She held on as the M’hir crashed against her, held on and poured Power into her sending. I want the baby to live! Fill the vessel!

Where is it?

A question so ordinary and impossible to answer, it threw Aryl out of the M’hir.

She stared at the sac. “Make her move.”

“Aryl—it’s—”

“I’ll do it.” Naryn grabbed the sac in both hands.

Seru pulled it away from her and put it down again. “Naryn. Come to bed. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more we can do. Aryl. It’s time to remove the husk—”

“She still has a chance to live,” Aryl said bluntly. “The Watchers have to find her. She has to move.”

“What are you—” her cousin stopped, her hair lashing her shoulders. “Stop this, Aryl. You aren’t helping.”

Cousin, trust me, Aryl sent, encouragement and love beneath the words. We have to try.

For a heartbeat, Seru hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. “Naryn in bed first,” she insisted.

“Aryl?”

“Listen to your Birth Watcher,” Aryl told Naryn and helped her lie down. The other was shivering and spent. Seru brought over a soft blanket and set it to warm.

“Stay there,” she ordered.

Naryn’s eyes filled with tears. “You’ll try, Seru? Promise me.”

“That’s all I can promise.”

“It’s enough.” Naryn closed her eyes.

The sac was hard, hard and cold. Aryl shuddered to imagine her own like this. “A force blade?”

Seru shook her head. “All the technology in the Trade Pact doesn’t change what we are. A birth sac opens from within. There’s only one choice.”

Aryl blinked at her. “What?”

“If the Watchers need to find her,” Seru said simply, “take her to them.”

Her hand found Aryl’s. If this doesn’t work, leave the husk in the M’hir.

The more Powerful called it suspension, to begin a ’port then linger in the M’hir. Those Adepts who studied that other space called it a valuable technique; those who wanted to arrive safely called it reckless. For the longer the mind stayed within the M’hir, the less likely that mind would remain whole.

The longer within, the more likely to encounter the unreal presence of a Watcher. Another reason normal M’hiray nipped in and out as quickly as possible.

I’ll be careful, Aryl promised her Chosen. But I have to try.

I know. A warmth, like his arms around her.

Aryl thought of her favorite place, and concentrated . . .

. . . then HELD . . .

. . . and HELD . . .

Power crackled around her, disturbing the M’hir. She was used to the effect and ignored it. Where are you?

Where are you?

. . . she HELD . . .

Power crackled and bled away, or was it self that diminished?

. . . she HELD . . . but for how long? Where are you?

Here. Here. Here. Here.

She was surrounded. Or was she alone? Aryl fought to keep her wits. Where are you?

A Presence. The vessel awaits.

The darkness boiled with movement. Something was coming.

Not coming. Being forced toward her. Chased. Pursued. Hemmed in despite frantic efforts to flee. Helpless and despairing, it lunged at her!

Aryl flung herself away and . . .

. . . found herself standing on the roof of the Tower, the sun warm on her face. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of growing things. What had just happened?

Enris appeared beside her and threw his arm around her shoulders. “You did it!”

Aryl looked down at the sac in her hands. It squirmed and flexed, then split open down its middle.

A tiny fist pushed through, then a foot. HUNGER!!!

They both winced. “Back to your mother,” Aryl told the newest M’hiray.

Their first birth in their new home. Small wonder everyone wanted to celebrate. If there were questions, they’d wait. For now, Aryl thought peacefully, life was good.

“Knew I’d find you here.” Enris approached the roof edge cautiously, then sat beside her. “Though why you like doing this, I don’t know.”

Aryl snuggled against his shoulder. She didn’t know either. But it relaxed her to sit here, dangling her feet over nothing—though the Tower had its safeguards, among them automated netting to catch anything or anyone that dropped off its roof or balconies. The view perhaps. “It’s lovely up here.”

The Towers of Lynn glittered night and day. Each rose almost to cloud height and stood apart. Each was unique in design. All were beautiful, like flowers of crystal and light. Those closest to the M’hiray belonged to methane breathers, and had senglass windows that modified their atmosphere. Though neighbors were always perilous, these were safer than most: unable to leave their homes, unwilling to exert the effort to invite guests. Below was the well-groomed and exclusive expanse of forest, sand, and ocean called the Necridi Coast. It had been a hunting preserve when Humans first colonized Stonerim III, for there’d been an indigenous population. One the Humans had cheerfully absorbed within three generations.

They were good at that, Humans. At changing worlds. At changing those around them. Abruptly chilled, Aryl was glad of her Chosen’s big arm around her shoulders. His fingers played with her hair, or her hair played with his fingers. A meaningless distinction, she thought, nestling closer.

Then his fingers paused on the side of her neck, his touch lighter, curious. Anything?

She tried not to stiffen. No. The deep scar looked like a bite, but from no animal they’d been able to find in a database. Similar ones marred her shins, different ones ran up her arms. More than most M’hiray, less than others. Like symbols none of them could remember to read. “Have you heard if Council’s come to a decision?” she asked aloud, changing the subject.

“They’ll vote for dispersal. I don’t think anyone doubts that. We’re crowded here. Too vulnerable, all in one place.”

“I want to stay here.”

“I’m sure there are death-defying heights on other worlds.”

Worlds with locates taken from KaeCee or any of the other Human telepaths influenced by M’hiray scouts. That’s all they hunted now, Aryl thought grimly. The weak-minded. Occasionally, their Humans hunted for them. It was—more convenient—to nip curiosity using what KaeCee called “traditional” methods. The M’hiray didn’t ask details.

Survival, by any name.

The Humans offered maps. The M’hiray found them irrelevant. What was distance, when Power was what mattered? What was the point of aligning stars or plotting orbits, of landmarks or descriptions when the real of a place could be set in a mind, ready for use and infallible? As for schedules?

Aryl snorted. The Humans imprisoned themselves in time. The only use M’hiray found for it was to note when interesting events would begin. They’d discovered plays and drama. And music that wasn’t played by a ’botband.

“I just don’t want to move anymore.” Her hair wove itself over his shoulders and neck. “We’ve left too much behind already. I’m afraid if we—if I go any further—I won’t be the same.”

“You’ll always be my Chosen,” Enris assured her, gathering her into his arms as white birds flew past below. “You’ll always be who you are.”

Aryl held on with all her strength.

And wished she could believe.

Chapter 6

THE M’HIRAY WOULD DISPERSE. How far was determined by the practicalities of ’porting. No one trusted the starships that plied between worlds, let alone was willing to be confined for days with Humans or Assemblers, though belongings would travel as freight. As for who would go, and where?

Where was determined by the practicalities of wealth. Human worlds—the Inner ones, long-settled—offered technology and luxury suited to M’hiray bodies and acquired tastes. Among those worlds, the most suitable had laws offering protection and privacy to offworlders and their investments, since M’hiray would not mingle with Human.

Seven families were selected, each to establish a House under his or her family name. Caraat, Friesnen, Mendolar, Parth, S’udlaat, Sarc, and Serona. The title of First Chosen would go to the most Powerful female M’hiray of each House. Other families would live with them at first, but ultimately move to their own.

UnChosen would no longer travel alone, even if strong enough to ’port such distances by themselves. Thus candidates seeking Choice in any particular House would seek the approval of Council, who would consult with the First Chosen. There was talk of fostering promising children within other Houses, to prevent any being too isolated, but it was only talk so far. Still, all agreed, whatever could be done to protect the M’hiray, should be done.

It was a start.

“First Chosen,” Aryl grumbled. “It’s not as if I want to be in charge of anything.”

Enris grinned at her. “What, not interested in hosting our Council? They’ll still meet here, you realize. And had the good taste to ask me to consider a Council seat, when the next comes open.” With distinct smug.

He’d make an outstanding Councillor, Aryl thought, carefully keeping her pride private. “Since you have to be fed anyway . . .”

“At least you don’t have to pack.” Seru’s eyes were suspiciously bright, and she leaked unhappiness through her shields.

Ezgi gave her a quick kiss. “I said I’d pack.”

“And we’ll visit,” Aryl promised.

Sarc had been given the Tower on Stonerim III. Teerac would stay here, too, for now, as would Vendan, Gethen, and five other families. The First Chosen of S’udlaat, Naryn, had elected to remain here with young Lilia until she could be replaced on Council, but Worin would leave with Ruis di Mendolar—until, as all expected but the two youngsters, Council allowed him to offer Choice to Ziba Uruus.

Nothing would be the same.

“It won’t be the same.” Seru threw herself awkwardly into Aryl’s arms. The two managed to hug despite their growing bellies.

The M’hir connects us. It always will. “Besides, I expect you back for my birthing.”

“Then be thoughtful and time it for a Council Meeting.” They both laughed.

The door chimed and opened. Haxel leaned in. “Enris, you ready?”

He glanced hopefully at Aryl. Sure you won’t come?

To sort the remainder of the M’hiray’s belongings in the Buried Theater?

Quite sure.

The artifacts had been removed a month earlier and moved to safekeeping within the Tower. All but one. Naryn had given Enris the very first. A start to their new history, she’d called it. So long as he kept it out of her sight, Aryl thought. The rest—hard to imagine a use for the tattered things they’d brought with them. Hard to imagine a life where they’d been useful. The hairnet yes, but though she missed wearing it, such wasn’t a fashion that suited Norval society. No one wore knives here.

The force blade, however, she refused to leave in a drawer.

Once Seru and Ezgi left, once Enris was gone, Aryl found herself unsettled. She went to the roof and sat in her spot.

Nightfall. The Towers of Lynn outshone the stars, reflected in the white caps that danced over the ocean. Their exterior lights could be turned off at whim, senglass set to keep the interior from shining through, but Aryl liked the glitter. Safer, she thought, hugging herself. Always safer to have glows at night.

A thought as useless as the packs beneath Norval. She tried to ignore it. Sometimes it was easy.

Sometimes, like now, everything became not-real, from the taste of the air in her mouth to the words in her mind. Everything but having her toes over an edge. Everything but Enris and . . . and . . . she cradled the swell at her waist.

They’d given their baby a name.

Hadn’t they?

Aryl rested her chin on one knee and stared at the methane breathers’ Tower.

Were they this confused by life here?

“Other than the somgelt Sian wanted—he says the Humans should be able to culture it—there wasn’t much of value. We left the rest.”

Value? The gleaming inlaid floor of the Sarc gathering chamber was covered in rags and dirty tools. Aryl sighed as she picked her way around gourds of unrefined lamp oil. “You couldn’t have left those, too?” She pointed to the bags of seed. “Stonerim doesn’t look kindly on exotics.”

Enris laughed. “Husni worried about vermin. I told her we’d store everything properly. But you have to admit the parches were a find.”

“So long as we don’t have them here.” Which they wouldn’t. Dann d’sud Friesnen had pounced on the rolled lists of names and ancestors, happy to offer his House as the keeper of M’hiray history. Though how history could come from names for people no one remembered, she didn’t understand. All she knew was that their existence reminded her of what they’d lost and endangered what they’d kept.

He held out a pack. “Yours.” With a little shake. “Might be something nice inside.”

“I have closets of nice things,” Aryl reminded him. Naryn enjoyed shopping. Or rather spending, which was the same thing.

“Which you don’t wear,” he observed. “Maybe you’d prefer what’s in here.” The suggestion was only half in fun. Enris watched her, waiting for a reaction.

Because he thought her old things might stir memories. Aryl glowered. We agreed not to try and remember. That our former lives were gone.

Are they? You cry in your sleep.

“I—” She closed her mouth, taken aback.

“Every night.”

“Why don’t you stop it? Wake me?”

A gentle smile. “Because I’m asleep, too, Beloved.”

Chosen shared dreams. Not always, not all, but the emotional load, that passed from mind to mind.

Aryl gestured apology then shook her head. “I won’t sleep again.”

“I’m no Healer,” Enris chuckled. “But I think it’d be easier to find out what’s upsetting you.”

“I’m not—” she glared, “—upset!”

He slid the bag across the floor to her feet, then sat in the closest chair and stretched out his long legs. Smiling all the while.

Annoying, irritating . . . She grabbed the bag and dumped its contents on the floor, nudging them apart with the toe of her slipper. Nondescript scraps of fabric, not all of it clean. Had she had no access to a fresher? Boots worn and patched. Because she’d liked them or been forced to live in them? “As I thought. Nothing useful. I—” Aryl stopped.

“What is it?”

Something that didn’t belong. She bent to pick it up. “An image disk.”

“Ordinary enough.” Enris put his hands behind his head.

“Here,” Aryl emphasized. “Has anyone else found a Trade Pact device in their gear?”

Oran and Bern appeared near the doorway. The Adept noticed the clutter on the floor. “Redecorating?” Oran asked with a sly smile. “I thought you’d wait till we’d all left.”

“Aryl found a Trade Pact image disk in her things—from the Homeworld,” Enris offered, being a little too helpful, Aryl thought, closing her hand over the palm-sized device. Her Chosen loved a puzzle.

For no reason she could name, she couldn’t share this one. Not yet. “Is everything settled with Yao?”

As she’d hoped, the change of subject made both frown. “No,” Oran snapped. “The child’s being difficult.”

Enris chuckled. “Haven’t found her yet, have you?”

Not helping. The Powerful child’s ability at ’port and seek was becoming a problem. Though Aryl sympathized. When Council had insisted the unChosen be tested for Talent, Yao had turned out to be the only potential Healer. Each of the M’hiray’s adult Healers had been considered as her teacher; Council and Yao’s parents had picked Oran di Caraat.

No one had asked Yao. Who’d been hiding ever since.

Aloud, “I’m sure Yao’s grateful for the opportunity you’ve offered, Oran—”

“You’re First Chosen,” Bern interrupted. “Can’t you control those in your own House?”

Any desire Aryl had to be conciliatory vanished. “M’hiray don’t control one another, Bern d’sud Caraat,” she told him, hair billowing over her shoulders.

“Excuse my Chosen,” Oran replied smoothly and Bern subsided, looking sullen. “He doesn’t appreciate the burden of our new responsibilities. As First Chosen of the House of di Caraat, I’m sure I, too, will have the occasional—difficulty—to handle.”

Smooth, dignified, and with a flick of Power. Perhaps unintended.

Perhaps not. Aryl let her own swell past her shields, saw with no satisfaction how the other’s mouth tightened in response. Games. Did Oran not see how pointless they were? How destructive they could become?

“Feel free to leave this particular difficulty to the House of Sarc,” she suggested. “I appreciate how much work you have ahead of you.”

The two disappeared without another word.

Enris raised an eyebrow. “Husni’s right. ’Porting could use some manners.”

Aryl gazed at the place where they’d been. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she sighed. “Bern’s . . .”

He stopped being your heart-kin the moment he let Oran control him. Beneath, something cold. Enris wasn’t about to forgive Bern.

“She’s more Powerful—”

“Since when did that matter between Chosen? Between any of us?”

“Since we came here.”

Once said, the words were like the mended clothing spread over the expensive floor. Out of place. Impossible to ignore. Aryl gestured apology and wasn’t sure why.

“Is that what we tell our children?” Enris asked, drawing in his feet, his face clouded. “Is that our future? Power to be the measure of a M’hiray’s worth. Power to be what decides right from wrong. Will it be our excuse for every mistake?”

Aryl went to sit on the floor beside him. She laid her cheek on his knee, felt his fingers seek comfort in her hair. Power is all we have. We need it to protect ourselves. We need it to survive among the Humans. The wealth from the artifacts wouldn’t last; already scouts on other worlds sought Humans who could keep wealth flowing to the Clan, more Humans susceptible to their “influence.” They had no other choice. Only Power will keep our children safe.

Enris pressed his lips to her head. What if that’s why we’re here?

She twisted to meet his somber gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What if our mothers and fathers had planned a different path for our kind? What if we—the M’hiray—were the ones who became ‘difficult,’ like Yao, and refused to do what we were told?”

“So our families threw us out? Took our memories so we’d never come back?” About to protest, Aryl found the words died in her throat. Being terrible to contemplate didn’t make it wrong.

He sighed. “All I know is that believing we left because we were somehow superior is dangerous. It encourages M’hiray like Oran, who already judge others by Power alone. Power shouldn’t mean privilege.”

“Of course not,” Aryl scowled. “Those with more Power have a duty to those with less.”

Enris smiled slowly, his eyes growing bright. “Which is why you—” he interrupted himself to give her an enthusiastic kiss, “—will be such a fine First Chosen for the House of Sarc. And mother.” With a nerve-tingling surge of affection and heat.

Pushing all other thoughts aside, she leaned in happily. He laughed and held her away. “Yao?”

She’d had to mention duty.

But first . . . with desire blazing across their link, Aryl took his hand and concentrated . . .

... after all, being First Chosen of Sarc entitled her to a very large and private bedroom.

Aryl dressed. A loud snore made her smile, a smile so deep and shared she watched it curve his sleeping lips. Chosen could do that.

Loath as she was to leave Enris, he’d been right. Yao needed to be found. By her, no one else. On impulse, Aryl slipped the mysterious image disk into a pocket. From the clothes in her pack, she’d always preferred pockets.

She tried again to tug her favorite jacket down over her stomach, then gave up. After the baby was born, it would fit.

No need to play ’port and seek through the Tower and startle those enjoying their evening. She couldn’t catch the child that way regardless. There were rooms in the extravagant building even she hadn’t seen, whether because of the sheer size of the place or because they were the domain of ’bots. Aryl frowned. Humans appeared to accept the mindless servants. No M’hiray was comfortable in their presence.

The Tower contained three hundred and forty apartments, each large and luxurious, plus nine that were more like buildings within a building. These would be home to the families staying here, with the topmost belonging to Sarc. And its roof, Aryl thought contentedly.

Among her duties as First Chosen, she decided, would be the manners Husni wanted. No surprise ’ports, unless an emergency. Polite farewells before disappearing. Not that children would pay attention, but it would help.

Yao.

Aryl nodded to herself and added a handlight to her pocket. The best place to escape an unwanted future?

In the only past they knew.

The lights no longer worked. Aryl switched on hers before she moved, though there was one glow in the darkness. A small fire burned on the stage. A smaller hand fed it.

Aryl took her time climbing down the ledges between. When she spotted a piece of debris that would burn, she picked it up. She had a small armload by the time she reached the bottom. “May I join you?”

Yao’s eyes caught the firelight, reflected red and yellow. “If you want.”

Impeccable shields. To Aryl’s inner sense, the little figure seated across from her was almost invisible. No matter. She made herself comfortable, added a handful to the fire.

Waited.

The flames took her offering; the extra light revealed dusty knees covered with scrapes. The injuries were new since yesterday; the healing process well underway. Power indeed. “Oran’s left.”

The knees pulled out of the light. “Don’t care.” Very quiet. Very sure.

Aryl pulled out the image disk. “This was with my things—from before.” She turned it over and over in her hands. It had finger-sized depressions on both sides but poking them accomplished nothing. “I think it’s broken.”

“You aren’t doing it right.”

She held it out without a word or smile. A shadow became Yao, who took the device. Careful not to touch skin.

Too young for the caution of an adult; too old to forget it now.

She could have intervened at the start, Aryl realized with sudden guilt. Being First Chosen, it was her responsibility to speak up for those who looked to her.

Yao didn’t go back to the other side; she did, however, stay out of reach. “Like this,” she announced, holding the device in both small hands. She pressed several places at once.

No wonder it hadn’t worked for her, Aryl thought with wry amusement, then stared as four figures took shape above the fire.

“They aren’t real,” Yao assured her.

Two adult females, two children. Human, if appearance could be trusted. The one adult had long red hair, and held the youngest. A girl. The older child was a boy.

“Why would I have images of strangers in my pack?”

“They aren’t strangers,” as if she was being silly. “This is his family. Marcus’.”

The name from the artifacts. Aryl swallowed, staring at the Humans. “Marcus Bowman.”

“That’s right!” Yao smiled. “I wanted him for my father because . . . because . . . “ Her smile faded. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “Why do I think my father—my real father—how can I think he didn’t love me before?”

Because he hadn’t. Aryl knew it, as surely as she knew her own name. Hoyon d’sud Gethen had spurned his own daughter, his only child, until arriving on Stonerim III. Why, she couldn’t imagine, feeling sick inside.

“We don’t—we don’t remember our lives before coming here, Yao. Maybe that’s for the best. Your father loves you now. You know that.”

“Will he love me tomorrow?”

Children made a game of falling. Dared the worst to happen. Taught themselves to survive. She wasn’t as brave as a child anymore, Aryl realized. She didn’t dare answer such a question.

Then the image changed. “I didn’t do that,” Yao said quickly.

A face gazed at them over the sinking fire. “It’s all right,” Aryl heard herself say. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t all right. Her breath caught in her throat. Her pulse pounded. She knew that face, even battered and bruised.

The lips moved. Yao did something and the quiet voice rose to every ledge in the Buried Theater. The voice that belonged here.

“My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”

The image and voice vanished.

Yao calmly passed the disk back to Aryl, who took it with numb fingers. “Can I come with you? To find Karina?”

“What?” Aryl shuddered back to reality. “No. We’re going home, to the Tower. You don’t have to go with Oran,” she added before the child could ’port away. “But I need you to promise to stay with your mother until I get back.”

“From finding Karina.” Yao sounded satisfied. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not—” Aryl closed her mouth, remembering that tormented face with green-brown eyes.

Apparently she was.

She looked up, into the darkness above Yao’s little fire. There were hundreds of millions of Humans living within the layers of Norval.

“How do I find one?” she said out loud.

Even Yao didn’t have an answer.

Interlude

“ARYL DI SARC IS NOT in the Tower.”

“I know Aryl’s not here,” Enris glared at the panel. What use was a machine that gave answers he knew? “Where did she go?”

“I am unable to answer that question. Do you wish me to initiate a missing person’s report with the constabulary?”

“No,” Naryn said firmly. She reached by him to turn off the Tower interface. “Enris. Aryl’s shielded herself from any of us. If you won’t send to her, at least let me contact one of our Humans.”

“ ‘Our Humans?’ ” he repeated acidly. “When did the mind-wipes become property?”

Naryn’s eyes flashed, but she restrained her temper. “The name Yao gave us is the one from the artifacts. If Aryl uses it among Humans who aren’t—sensitive—to Clan concerns—she could stir up trouble we can’t control or survive. Have you thought of that?”

“Aryl has.” With all the belief he had in his Chosen. “You know she would never endanger us. She wants to deliver a father’s dying message, a message entrusted to her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“A Human’s message.” Cetto shook his big head. “From the Homeworld. It makes no sense, Enris.”

Not for the first time since Yao’s return—by herself—Enris was grateful he only had two members of Council under the same roof. “You should trust her,” he insisted.

“You want to find her, too,” observed Naryn, with a lift of one brow.

“Because I don’t trust anyone else.” Enris forced his hands to relax. Over the past hours, they’d tended to form fists. “I can’t send to her. She’s hunting.” He had no other way to describe the way his Chosen felt, how her mind had focused until all he sensed were movements, the flick of her eyes side to side, the graceful, careful steps she took, her alert patience.

But Cetto nodded as if he knew what Enris meant. “Best not to distract her, then. She’ll reach you if she needs help.”

Aryl, call for help? Enris wanted to laugh. Joined for life and deeply in love, yes, but that didn’t make his Chosen any less independent. Her first impulse would be to keep him out of trouble, not bring him into it. Which was why she’d simply ’ported back with Yao, picked up some things, and left again without anyone, including the Tower machines, any wiser.

He’d know if she were hurt or afraid. Which could be too late. Power, courage, and strength meant nothing against the kind of weapons possessed by the Humans and other aliens of this world.

She expected him to trust her and do nothing. Which meant pacing in the Tower, while others expected him to do something.

Aryl di Sarc was the most stubborn, annoying . . .

“We wait,” he told Naryn.

And hoped that wasn’t a mistake.

Chapter 7

SEEN FROM THE AIR, Norval resembled a mountain, its sides cloaked with green, its peak sparkling with what might have been snow. None of it real, Aryl thought as the aircar went around to the shadowed side and slowed on approach. The city squatted on the ruins of what had been there before, pressing the past into the soft marshy land that had once surrounded it. Not only ruins. On occasion, it had reinvented itself, burying the streets and architecture of before beneath the latest craze in materials and style. Or to hide design mistakes of the past.

Humans hadn’t started the process; three other civilizations, of other shape and mind, had built atop one another over time in this place. As usual, Humanity had added its own enthusiasm.

Producing this. A city where access to light was determined by wealth, its outer skin garden-bedecked luxury and senglass, topped by towers of privilege. Broad openings allowed light—and storm runoff—to nourish the businesses below. Narrow openings and pipes shed some light—and all refuse—down through subsequent layers to be used or dealt with by the least wealthy, until the utter dark of the machine domain.

No wonder starships couldn’t land anywhere near here, Aryl thought wryly. For all its bulk and history, Norval was a fragile beast, ultimately dependent on pillars and stone no one had seen in centuries.

Except Marcus Bowman. She gripped the slippery memory as the automatics brought the aircar in for a landing. He’d rediscovered the Buried Theater. It had been his place, while he’d been on this world.

Making his the memories Naryn had used to bring them here.

“Amni InterWorld Shopping Concourse, Sun Layer. Your one-stop—” Aryl hit the button to silence the machine voice, though tempted to gesture apology afterward. This was how M’hiray entered the Human part of the world. The automated aircars were everywhere here, buzzing around Norval and Stonerim’s other cities like the insects called flies over too-ripe fruit left outside. They waited for their next passengers in quiet parking areas; the M’hiray owned several such, careful to remove all monitoring devices.

The shopping concourse was the only address Aryl knew, having used the system only once, with Naryn. She didn’t care to be near Humans, in small numbers or large.

She especially didn’t care to be near the ones “influenced” by the scouts. The ones who had only been “encouraged” to trust M’hiray were almost worse.

None of them here.

The concourse lay within a bubble of senglass that erupted from Sun Layer, that cover set to exclude most of the outside world. Why, when the outside was a limited commodity, Aryl couldn’t guess. But much of what Humans did confounded her.

Not shopping. She could understand the pleasure of walking through colorful, changing displays as a couple or in a family group. Most of those here, however, didn’t appear interested in the displays, though a few attracted the most interest. She joined one such cluster around a storefront, curious, only to find it was display of small furred animals, tumbling around one another.

Aryl walked away before teeth showed.

She had a good plan, she told herself, eyes flicking from side to side. There was a restaurant here, with food she’d enjoyed. More importantly, every table had a comport. Safely in her pocket, with the image disk, was the burst Constable Maynard had given her to summon him.

He would come at once, she’d give him the disk, and then she’d return home.

What could go wrong?

The first thing that went wrong was the constable’s arrival—or rather lack of it. Two hours later, on her seventh order of sombay and fifth run to cope with the result, Aryl had began to wonder if she’d misunderstood. It had sounded straightforward. Drop the burst into any comport or reader, he’d know where she was, and he’d come.

She plucked another feather from the decorative bowl and began stripping the soft bits from it, adding to the growing pile.

How long should she wait? she wondered glumly. What if he’d died? How long did Humans live, anyway?

The staff wouldn’t care if she stayed forever. The M’hiray had been told the importance of generosity. Aryl was quite sure they’d never been paid so much for a beverage and her wish for privacy had been taken seriously. No one was seated at the nearby tables. A family that tried had been forcibly removed.

Feather stripped, she pulled out the disk, careful not to press any of the depressions. Small. Ordinary. Old-fashioned, from what she’d seen in the stores that sold such things. There were signs of wear. Scratches on the dull gray metal. None deep. It was sturdily built. Made to last.

To carry a message from a dying father.

Why hadn’t hers sent a message? Why nothing from those left behind?

Enris wanted to know what she dreamed that made her cry in her sleep. Wanted to help her find out, so she’d stop.

Aryl’s finger traced the nicked edges of the disk. Oh, she knew well enough.

She dreamed the end of the world.

Every night.

She dreamed the M’hiray were the last of their kind, survivors of a catastrophe so complete, they couldn’t bear to remember it.

Or that they’d caused.

Dreams like that, Aryl thought heavily, didn’t stop. She’d try to wake up more often, before she disturbed Enris. The baby would help there.

“I came as soon as I could, Femmine.”

Aryl looked up, annoyed to have let herself be startled. Not that it was Maynard’s fault. “I kept busy,” she told him.

His lips twitched as he noticed the ruined feathers. “May I sit?”

Courtesy. She nodded, grateful for the moment to recover her calm. Too much sombay. A server delicately caught her attention and she nodded again to bring him to the table. “A drink?”

“Water, please.”

“For you, Femmine? More sombay?”

Aryl shook her head, queasy at the thought.

“More, ah, feathers?”

“I’ve had enough for now,” she assured him.

Once the server had left an iced pitcher of water and a glass for the constable, Aryl pushed the disk to the middle of the small table. “I need to you deliver this.”

Maynard paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You don’t waste time, Femmine.”

She’d wasted hours, Aryl thought, but kept that to herself. “It belongs to a Human, a young child. All I know is her name and that she lives in this city.”

He took a sip, regarded her over the top. He looked almost elegant in the fitted black jacket, symbols in red and gold at cuff and collar. No sign of a weapon, but she doubted he was unarmed. Dressed for the Sun Layer wealthy. Human protocols. “You look different,” he commented.

The baby was bigger. Then Aryl realized he meant the Human clothes. “I’ve been shopping.”

“Expensive place, the concourse.” With this oblique comment, he put down his glass and stared at her. “I didn’t think KaeCee could afford it.”

KaeCee? Aryl’s confusion must have answered some unasked question, for Maynard colored and leaned back. “My apologies. Let’s start again. May I know your name, Femmine?”

“My name.”

“You know mine.” He had a pleasant smile.

There was no harm in it, Aryl realized. She was a property owner on his world—hers too, now. The First Chosen of Sarc shouldn’t hesitate to deal with local authority.

In fact, that was probably her responsibility, too. Enris, she decided, would be laughing at her right now.

“My name is Aryl di Sarc.” She tapped the disk. “I need you to find the person this belongs to and make sure she receives it. Please.” Her hair slid over her shoulders as if to add its encouragement. She shoved it back.

His eyes dismissed the hair. “So that’s not evidence to help me convict KaeCee or any other criminal. You used a burst to call me to run an errand.” Maynard stood, his face and manner cold. “Thank you for the water, Femmine Sarc.”

This would be, Aryl decided, the second thing to go wrong. “Wait. I can pay—”

“I’m sure you can. But I’m not for sale.”

He turned and left, walking with the stiffness of someone truly offended. The servers backed out of his way.

Three. Her plan, she thought bitterly as she hurried after him, was a disaster.

“Will you wait?”

Maynard glared over his shoulder, then stopped. “I can have you arrested for following me.”

“No, you can’t,” Aryl guessed. They were standing at the edge of one of the storefront crowds.

“Wasting my time. I can certainly arrest you for that, if you don’t go away. Good evening, Femmine.”

“I’m sorry,” Aryl said quickly, getting in his way. “Here.” She handed him the burst. “I thought this meant you’d help me. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

He took it between two fingers and rubbed it pensively, then looked her in the eyes. “I’m listening.”

“This belonged to a—a friend of mine who died. Not long ago. Offworld. He left it with me. It contains a message for his daughter. But I’m—”

“Not from here,” he finished when she hesitated.

“Not from here,” Aryl agreed. “I don’t know how to begin to find her. I can’t trust—” she stopped before saying “anyone.” “There are reasons I can’t attract attention to her. But she should have this. A daughter should hear what her father wanted to say.”

Maynard shook his head. It wasn’t at her, since he said, “Let’s walk.”

Once they were away from the crowd, he began asking quiet questions. “Don’t say her name. Not here. She’s Human? Local?”

“Yes. Human children stay with their mothers, don’t they?”

That drew a considering look. “Usually. Do you have her name? Don’t say it.”

“Yes.”

They walked in silence. As he seemed deep in thought, Aryl held back her own questions. Finally he spoke again, so quietly she had to step close to hear him. “If you don’t want to attract attention, you can’t leave with me.”

“Why?”

Almost a smile. “There are two kinds of people on Stonerim III, Aryl. Grandies and Commons. Grandies pay exorbitant taxes so the law will ignore them, as long as they keep their noses clean dirtside. Commons? Well, they pay as little as they can to have help when they need it.”

“I need your help,” Aryl pointed out, sure of that, if not taxes.

A real smile. “I get that. But to those looking at us, you’re a Grandie. It’s one thing for me to meet you on your terms, but you’d never get into my vehicle or go with me anywhere. I want you to go out the doors we’ll pass soon, take the lower path until you come to a small garden, and wait there for me. Will you do that?”

Aryl nodded. Caution was never a bad strategy.

“If you see anyone who makes you nervous, come back here. We’ll find another way.”

“I have a force blade,” she assured him. “If anyone makes me nervous.”

“Please don’t tell me things like that.”

“Whatever you say, Constable.” Aryl hid her own smile.

They came to the doors. Without a backward look, she went through them into the warm evening air.

No one made her nervous. No one else was outside. Aryl supposed it was the rain.

Well-behaved rain. She lifted her face to the steady drizzle, enjoying how it collected on her cheekbones then ran down her neck. The plants lining the well-lit lower path enjoyed it, too, their leaves dancing in the drops. Aryl drew the air through her nostrils, promising herself she’d go to the base of the Tower every night, to smell this, wondering why she hadn’t before.

No puddles threatened her delicate shoes. The path was made of a material that whisked away moisture. The buildings to either side, even the light poles, refused to get wet.

Too tidy. Too polite. She stuck out her tongue.

The small garden where she was to wait was easy to find. The path widened to go around an island of yellow-and-white flowers. Their striped faces were upturned to the rain, too. Aryl stepped closer, noticing that the water dripping from the petals and leaves fell into a clear pipe. She followed it to where it plunged into the ground.

How many Grandies had seen where the water went? Aryl gazed at the towers that grew like a forest high above, thinking of the maze of giant pipes far below. Of the Commons who’d been stealing fuel and died for it. If not for the artifacts, which would the M’hiray be?

She came to attention as a shadow stopped overhead, taking away the rain, then waited as the black aircar moved ahead, then slowly descended to almost touch the path. A door in its side opened, but no light welcomed her.

Aryl drew the force blade and switched it on. The line of energy turned the rain to steam.

The aircar jigged up and down, as if impatient.

The constable.

Embarrassed, she put away the weapon and climbed in, feeling her way to a bench. Once the door closed, the lights came on.

Maynard set the machine in motion, then came back to sit across from her. “We can’t be overheard in here.”

Haxel and others who routinely left the Tower used scramblers and other tricks they’d learned from the Clan’s Humans, careful to leave normal traces but not reveal too much. Anyone who could afford it did the same. She should have. Aryl winced at the lecture she’d doubtless receive—and deserve—on her return. She gestured gratitude, then thought “Human” and added “Thank you.”

“Wait till we see if I actually can help,” he advised. “The names?”

“Karina Bowman is the daughter. The mother’s name is Kelly Bowman. The father’s—he was—” For some reason, Aryl found herself unable to say it. She pulled out the image disk and handed it to Maynard, folding her hands on her lap. “It’s in there.”

He touched the insignia on his jacket. “Look up ‘Karina and Kelly Bowman.’ Norval city limits to start. All occurrences.” He lifted his fingers away. “That’ll start the data flow. Now.” Like Yao, the constable had no problem operating the disk.

She watched him, not the images; saw how he gazed without expression at the image of the four, how, when Marcus’ face appeared, muscles along his jaw clenched. Maynard played the message through once, then again. Again.

Aryl closed her eyes.

“He was tortured.”

She opened them, saw his anger and didn’t understand. “Injured—”

“You call that ‘injured’? Ossirus save me from fools!” His anger was at her now. “I know torture when I see it. That was deliberate harm, Aryl di Sarc, by someone who wanted answers, information, something from this Bowman. Who? Where did this happen? When?”

Tears filled her eyes. Marcus had been tortured? “I don’t know,” she fumbled. “Offworld. I—I found the disk in my things when we unpacked. I don’t know how it got there, only that I—I must have promised him. To give it to Karina. Why else would I have it?”

His eyes were cold. “Why, indeed?”

Aryl stiffened. “Will you help me or not?”

Without answering, Maynard took the disk and went to his seat at the front of the aircar.

Aryl stayed where she was, looking down at her hands, and did her best to keep her thoughts—and her feelings about them—from Enris.

Torture.

Did that terrible word describe what Naryn had done to KaeCee? What M’hiray scouts did to any Human vulnerable to Power?

If so, they were no better than those who’d tormented Marcus Bowman. He hadn’t deserved to be treated like that.

He’d only tried to help them. To help their . . . it faded . . .

No, she wouldn’t lose the memory. She wouldn’t!

... help their world. Marcus Bowman had been a friend, not only to her, but to the M’hiray. A Human friend, of his own will.

Had he died for it?

Aryl waited, lost in her own concerns. She didn’t know how long it was before the constable swiveled his seat to look at her again. “You say he was your friend.”

“Yes. Have you found something?”

“A puzzle. I hate puzzles,” Maynard added almost lightly. “In my line of work, they mean elements who prefer to hide certain truths. Elements who will be distinctly unhappy if I happen to find them.”

Aryl didn’t bother working this out. “Did you find Karina?”

“I found Marcus Bowman.”

She blinked.

“In the records. What’s left of them. He’s listed as having died offworld—but not where or how. His work appears in the indices of various academic publications, where he’s described as a prominent xenoarchaeologist and Triad Analyst—but the First won’t comment on whether or not a Marcus Bowman did research for them. According to a source, any and all original materials attributed to a Marcus Bowman have been sealed and removed from public access.

“The one item that does keep surfacing? Marcus Bowman was an expert on the Hoveny Concentrix. Does that mean anything to you?”

KaeCee said the artifacts were Hoveny. Marcus Bowman had put his name on them as proof. “A past civilization,” Aryl said. “One that ruled this section of space a long time ago.”

“Hoveny relics are rare. Incredibly valuable,” the constable informed her, leaning his arm on the back of his chair. His eye glinted. “Our mutual friend KaeCee would be interested, but the oddest thing? There hasn’t been so much as a whiff of anything untoward about his activities in weeks. Since you’ve arrived, in fact. Have you been a good influence?”

She tried not to flinch. Maynard was on the hunt; she knew the signs. She’d been wrong to come, Aryl realized, her mouth dry. Wrong not to see the dangers in names and data. Haxel would want this Human “handled.”

Not going to happen, Aryl told herself fiercely. “Did you find Karina Bowman?”

“She’s dropped off.”

She’d never understand the Human fondness for meaningless expressions. “Off what?”

Maynard regarded her. “The First may not acknowledge Marcus Bowman, but they legally claimed everything he owned. Home. Credit deposits. Savings. We’ve no current location or work address for anyone in his family. My guess is those who got wind of the claim took what they could and ran offworld. It happens.” With a shrug. “Puts them out of my jurisdiction.”

Offworld. It meant away from here. But where?

Like most M’hiray, Aryl wasn’t quite convinced the locates for the seven Houses were on other planets entirely and struggled with the scope of the newly formed and growing Trade Pact. Worlds. Solar Systems. Quadrants. Galaxy. Words. That’s all they were. Offworld said it all.

“They’re gone?”

He brandished the disk in one hand. “Which leaves this. Whatever Bowman put in here, it’s encrypted. Secret,” at her questioning look. “You’d need his code to access it. Might be for privacy. But secrets raise another possibility. Not a pleasant one.”

“Nothing about this is,” she retorted. “What possibility?”

“That Bowman never intended this for his daughter. The First’s claim went through about the time you arrived. Maybe he knew she’d be gone. Maybe he expected someone else to obtain it from you, someone with the code.”

Aryl relaxed and smiled. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this is for the baby.”

“Baby?” His gaze sharpened. “What baby?”

“Karina.”

Maynard activated the image disk again. “The little girl here?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t know—I see.” He turned off the image. “This vid was made fourteen standard years ago.”

No. That was Marcus’ family. He’d shown her. Talked of them. They’d been alone together, both lonely . . . Family was everything. To him as well.

Aryl surged to her feet. “I don’t believe it!”

The constable didn’t move. “City records state Kelly Bowman dissolved their partnership shortly after this was taken, keeping the son, Howard. The daughter became the sister’s ward, Cindy Bowman, and both were last known to reside in the Bowman home in Norval. Karina Bowman isn’t a baby anymore.”

“Why would he show me this?” Aryl sank back down. “Why this and not the truth?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Maynard said quietly. “At a guess, Bowman was far from home. Living like that—you take your best memories with you, not your failures. Do you understand?”

“Lie” she understood. Now. Another meaning revealed. To say what wasn’t true, to do it on purpose. She didn’t like the words the constable taught her. She didn’t like them at all.

“If Marcus didn’t lie to me,” Aryl replied with a scowl, “he lied to himself.” To pick and choose parts of a life to remember, parts to forget? If that was what the M’hiray had done, they’d lied to themselves, too. She should go home. There was no point to this. To any of it.

The past was broken.

“Listen to me, Aryl di Sarc.” Maynard came and sat across from her, the disk held flat between his palms. “I said this was a puzzle. It’s not an ordinary one. Parts of your friend’s life are being hidden by those in power. There’s a stench to what’s being left in the open. If Hoveny relics show up anywhere, right after a Triad Analyst is declared dead and his belongings confiscated? The snoops will be all over it. Bowman will be accused and convicted by opinion. His reputation won’t be worth a pox’s piss.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Besides believe him. Besides believe it was all their doing, that by selling the artifacts the M’hiray had done exactly what this Human predicted: plant suspicion on Marcus.

Who’d known this would happen.

The look in his eyes from the vid. Why hadn’t she seen it?

Marcus Bowman had known what giving the M’hiray the artifacts, what sending both to Stonerim III would mean. The destruction of his reputation. The cost to his family.

He’d traded it all for them.

“There’s nothing I can do,’ Aryl repeated, hair sliding limp over her cheeks. “It’s too late.”

“Might be.” Maynard pressed the disk into her hands. “Might not. Keep this,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind you. It could take a while—a long while. I can’t make this a public search. Not and avoid—certain elements.” His sudden smile was predatory. “But if I find her, you’ll know.”

“Then what?”

“Then, Aryl, you give Marcus Bowman’s daughter the truth. Some of it, which is more than she has now.”

Her hair slipped down her arms to cover their hands. Aryl gazed at the constable and for a instant saw another face, with wise green-brown eyes and a smile that quirked at the corner.

“You have a daughter.”

He half smiled. “Three.”

If she’d met Maynard first that night . . . if the M’hiray had found a better kind of Human in Norval, one to trust instead of use . . . so much would be different.

As well wish for a world of their own.

“I’ll be waiting, Constable,” she said solemnly. “As long as it takes.”

Chapter 8

FIRST TEERAC, THEN VENDAN moved, establishing their place away from Sarc. Aryl missed them all, something she kept to herself. She seemed the only one who wanted the M’hiray to stay together; happiest when they gathered again, quiet for days when they left.

Enris believed it was the baby. “Who should,” Aryl whispered to the considerable bulk that preceded her, “be out by now.” She wasn’t, according to Seru and Sian, late. As her cousin had given birth two weeks ago, and Sian’s Chosen had never had a child, she didn’t think much of their opinions. “Late you are.”

Notlisteningnotlistening.

Opinions, her baby did have. And a will as strong as her Chosen’s. “You’d be happier out.” To prove it, Aryl walked through the door to the upper balcony to greet the morning.

The gardeners had finished only days ago. Other M’hiray, especially Naryn, had thought this the strangest notion she’d had yet. Being First Chosen, Aryl thought smugly, she didn’t have to think much of those opinions either.

The balcony stretched out from the Tower, curved back, and formed a gentle ramp as it wrapped completely around the Sarc holding. She could walk to the roof from here.

Not quickly. The gardeners had followed her instructions with Human enthusiasm, accomplishing more than she’d imagined. Where other balconies had transparent floors or rich surfaces of tile and wood, that of Sarc was soft turf. Vines climbed the Tower walls. Sections of the senglass were programmed to allow their flowering tips to pass through, so at night, it was hard to tell where the garden ended and their home began.

As she did every morning now, Aryl plucked a wide, sturdy leaf, sniffed its pungent fragrance, then absently folded it once, then again. Once more, she decided. She went to the railing and tossed it gently into the wind. The folded leaf flew straight for a few seconds and she began to smile, then it tumbled and spiraled straight down. “Not right,” she murmured.

Taller plants made islands of shade and foliage. Nothing appeared groomed or tame, though of course it all was. But when she stood here during the nightly rain, in the midst of growing things, Aryl could almost touch . . .

“Thought I’d find you here.” Enris wandered in, ducked a low-hanging branch, and flung himself down on a sunny spot of turf. “How’s our bundle?”

She smiled and brought over a stool, having discovered their “bundle” resented the amount of bending required to lie on the ground. Her bare toes caressed the turf. “Not as impatient as I am.”

“Did you hear Council asked Lymin and Suen to consider our daughter for their son’s Choice?” He rolled over on his back and grinned at her. “Suen said to remind them in fourteen years or so. Not that he has anything against ties with the Sarcs.”

Aryl laughed. “As if Council can dictate Choice.” Warmth slipped between their minds, as soothing as the sun on her back.

You two dressed?

Enris snorted.

We’re fit for company, Aryl replied, smiling as Naryn materialized. “Glad you’ve decided to—”

“I’m not here to visit.” Naryn’s red hair writhed over her shoulders, dipped across one eye. “There’s a Human asking for you in the Tower antechamber. She won’t give a name.”

Uninvited visitors didn’t reach the Towers of Lynn. There were abundant—and costly—measures to ensure the privacy of those who lived here. Enris sat up. “How did she get this far?”

“She was brought in an undeclared vehicle. It had the right codes. Cader took a look. He says,” Naryn’s lip curled with distaste, “it was one of the stealth pursuits used by Norval’s constabulary. How your nephew would know this is something you should investigate, First Chosen.”

Maynard.

Aryl rose to her feet, heart pounding. “Have her brought—have her brought here.”

Who is it?

“Here?” Naryn’s eyebrow lifted.

“Here.”

To Enris. I know who I hope it is.

How long did it take to come up the lift? Enris had gone down to greet their guest—greet and assess any risk she posed. Time enough for Aryl to stand in the shade of a willow, move back into the sun, shift to be next to a small fountain, only to wind up on the stool again when her ankles protested.

All this time, there’d been no word from the constable. Aryl had known not to seek it, had done her best, after confiding in Enris, to put the affairs of Marcus Bowman from her mind and concentrate on her people.

Even when rumors had indeed spread into the news, linking Bowman’s name to more words she didn’t like: collusion, treachery, greed. Not that there was proof. But proof didn’t seem necessary. The mysterious death of several researchers. The confiscated goods of one. A now-sealed world. More than enough to condemn the innocent.

Wrong.

Aryl smoothed the blue silk that covered their bundle with one hand. The other held the image disk.

We’re here.

She looked up eagerly.

Careful. From his mind; nothing but welcome showed on his face as Enris d’sud Sarc graciously bowed the first non-M’hiray to set foot in the House of Sarc through the door.

Warned, Aryl stayed where she was, and schooled the smile from her face.

Young, this Human, and not. Her eyes were old. They didn’t acknowledge the luxury of a Lynn Tower, or the magnificent view that encompassed the horizon. They locked on her and waited with a hard patience.

What had Maynard told her was waiting, Aryl wondered desperately, that she looked so angry?

“I’ll wait up top,” Enris said easily, and strode up the ramp. He saw no threat, then. The caution hadn’t been for her sake, but for the Human’s. Aryl waited until his footsteps faded.

“You’re Karina Bowman.”

“You want to run my code, too?”

Aryl ignored what she didn’t understand. “Please, have a seat.” There were more stools.

“I won’t be here that long.”

“For the sake of my neck,” Aryl suggested gently. “You’re tall.” Like her mother. With the same red hair, though Karina’s scalp was shaved with the exception of a single long strand that fell behind her left ear. Beads were tied through its length.

Aryl’s hair lifted in protest, and she pushed it back.

“Quite the trick.” With all the disdain of someone who couldn’t afford new clothes, let alone the kind of ornamentation Grandies preferred.

“Trust me, it gets annoying,” she replied calmly.

Something in her tone eased the defensive stance. The Human grabbed one of the stools and moved it, then sat.

Graceful. Lean. Worn. That was it. Worn.

A sudden tilt of the head—curiosity. The movement was ach ingly familiar. Aryl blinked before tears filled her eyes. “I have something of yours, Karina.”

“Kari. I go by Kari.”

“And I by Aryl.” This old-child made her feel like Husni. “It’s a message from your father.” She held out the disk.

The laugh was harsh and bitter. “What is it? An apology? A ‘sorry I abandoned you as a baby’ or ‘sorry I made sure to ruin your life’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what do you know?” The Human sprang to her feet again with such violence Aryl had to fight not to react. “Are you the ones he stole for? Did he pay for all this?”

“Yes.” It felt as though she’d plunged a knife into her own heart.

Karina hadn’t expected an answer—or that answer. For the first time, there was something vulnerable on her face. Then it was gone again. “So what now? Are you going to give me creds?”

“ ‘Creds?’ ”

“Set me up or shut me up.”

“The House of Sarc will always include you and yours,” Aryl said. And it would. She would see to it that this debt was never forgotten. The child had no conception of the resources that had been waiting for her arrival. Funds, in the right amount and no more, from sources above suspicion. Human sources. A suitable home. An education. The protection of the M’hiray, that always. “But that isn’t why you’re here.”

She pressed her fingers to both surfaces of the disk as Yao had shown her. First the image of the family, then . . .

His face gazed at them, bruised and worn.

“My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”

Karina didn’t move. Didn’t seem to breathe.

“The message for you is encrypted. No one else has heard it.” Aryl rose and put the image disk in Karina’s unresisting hand. “I trust Marcus to have made it possible for you to access it. I’ll be waiting, inside, when you’re done. Take your time.”

A hand, broken-nailed and callused, fastened on her wrist.

Worry/hope/grief.

Aryl strengthened her shields, unsurprised. “What is it?”

Karina stared at the disk. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because your father was my friend,” Aryl told her. “His loss was the hardest of them all.”

And then, as if a wind had blown through her mind and taken with it all the mist and confusion,

“I could never forget him.”

Interlude

ARYL FOUND ENRIS, sitting on the roof’s edge, dangling his bare feet over the air. “I thought you didn’t like it up here.” She used his shoulder to ease down beside him.

“I’m getting used to it.”

She leaned against his comforting bulk. I remember now. Not all of it. Not most. But Marcus. I remember Marcus.

And felt light inside, for the first time.

“I’ll want you to show me,” he said, putting his arm around her. “But first, I have something to tell you. I’ve thought of a name for our daughter.”

Aryl smiled to herself. “Not ‘Bundle’?”

“What do you think of Taisal? It’s your mother’s name.”

“I know.” They’d all looked at the parches, hunting connections to the past.

As Karina did now, Aryl realized, listening to her father’s voice.

Unlike Marcus, the name brought no resonance of meaning or emotion. Still . . . she hesitated.

Enris stopped smiling. “We don’t have to—”

Aryl put her fingers over his lips. Taisal she’ll be. Thank you.

Then, as if she’d been waiting, Taisal di Sarc chose that moment to announce she was ready to be born.

NOWNOWNOW!!

Epilogue

THE WATCHERS WERE A PALPABLE, disconcerting presence. Others, more tangible and equally impatient, at least waited outside the door. Mirim di Sarc pressed her sweat-soaked face into her pillow, wishing she could hide from both.

Not that they cared about her. They awaited the one she carried. Her grandmother Naryn hadn’t approved Council’s candidate for her Choice; was this why? Impossible to ask the dead. Impossible to defy the living. Mirim moved fretfully, glad of the unfashionable net that bound her hair, the one trace of before she could claim as her own. Before. Before. Before.

Her hands sought her swollen abdomen, felt the band of muscle grown tight and strong, the slight movement beneath. Peace, she sent, in no hurry to give her daughter to them.

For Mirim could taste change. That was her Talent, her only strength of worth.

Change would begin with this birth, more profound and far-reaching than anything a M’hiray could imagine. I warned them.

The impatient fools told her they knew better. That what she sensed was Power. Power they’d control.

She knew better.

Sira di Sarc would change everything.