Alien Chronicles 1 - The Golden One (13 page)

Ampris thought that the sri-Kaa should be told the truth about everything, but no one cared about the opinion of a young Aaroun. Truth, in the Viis imperial court, was a slippery concept at best.

In the meantime, however, Ampris decided she had been gone long enough. She knew she had better return before Israi found that she was missing.

She reached for the door latch, but before she opened it she glanced over her shoulder at the room she was in and found herself transfixed.

It was a hideous place, long and gloomy with narrow, antiquated windows. Preserved heads of all kinds of animals hung on the walls. Their dead, glassy eyes stared at Ampris in silent accusation. Bared teeth, yellowed with age, snarled perpetually.

Horrified, Ampris walked away from the door and slowly ventured deeper into the room. She felt as though she had entered a tomb. Her blood ran cold in her veins, yet she could not stop walking from one mounted head to another, staring at each and every one of the dead visages.

In one corner, she found a collection of five adult Aaroun heads mounted in a row. Severed pairs of hands, wizened into mummified claws, hung beneath each head.

Shocked, she stood like one frozen, unable to tear herself away from the sight.

On the wall with them hung an inscription relating to the incident. It described a battle between these five Aarouns, labeled assassins, and the former kaa, who had killed them single-handedly. The ceremonial sword he had used was also present, mounted in a special display case.

With a trembling hand, Ampris reached out and touched one of the Aarouns. Its fur felt silky soft, as soft as her own, yet the form beneath that thick pelt was stiff and alien. She jerked back her hand, hearing a faint, sobbing sound in the back of her throat.

The dead Aarouns loomed above her, dark and menacing, their teeth bared in eternal snarls. Their sightless eyes glittered in some trick of the pale light and seemed to follow her as she backed away.

Suddenly she could not breathe. The room seemed to be spinning around her. It was too hot. The Aarouns grew bigger and bigger, their open mouths ready to speak.

She stumbled back, suddenly convinced that if they said her name, she would be forever trapped here with them, and just as dead.

“No!”

The cry wrenched itself from her throat. Whirling around, she fled, slamming her way out of the room and running back into the passageway with all the speed she possessed.

As she ran, arms and legs pumping, her breath rasping in her throat, she thought she heard the laughter of the Viis guards echoing behind her, mocking her and the dead.

CHAPTER
•SEVEN

A cold winter rain funneled down the back of Elrabin’s collar, plastering his fur to the nape of his neck. Muttering to himself and hunching his shoulders tighter beneath his new coat, he dashed across the Street of Regard and ducked beneath a bright yellow awning that proclaimed the dwelling a brothel.

Three streets over he could hear the hourly chime of a temple bell in the historical district. Elrabin sighed to himself. Feval was the season for reflection of one’s soul, for renewal of one’s conscience, for rest following the vigorous celebrations of Hevrmasihd, the winter festival. Or so the high-and-mighty Viis claimed. In reality, the temple probably held about three contemplative Viis in the decrepit stages of otal, their final life cycle, looking at their future and finding it quite short. The city itself was all but shut down. The Kaa was out of town, with his court scattered to the far directions of the planet or beyond. Half the shopping district was closed for the season, the rest yawning through empty afternoons like this one.

Feval, the season of slim pickings and boredom, when even the slave labor went on half shift. Dozy and slow, many of the abiru races crawled into their cheap lodgings for winter hibernation, only venturing out for basic necessities and work mandates. Gullible marks were hard to find this time of year, making grifting almost impossible. Yet here Elrabin was, out in the cold, wet weather, scoping the brothels in search of Cuvein.

Standing under the yellow awning with its discreet black circle that also marked it as a gambling establishment, Elrabin shook water from his coat, hoping its bright blue dye wouldn’t ran and stain his fur. His last coat he’d worn until it was threadbare and the sleeves had grown absurdly short. Finally declaring him to be an embarrassment, Cuvein had given him some credit vouchers to buy a new one. Elrabin smoothed down the front, admiring the metallic thread embroidery that embellished it thickly enough to hide the cheapness of the cloth. It was not well-made, but he thought it made him look handsome.

He needed to look sharp if he was to continue charming the Viis widow he’d discovered in the Keskian district. Keskia was an old part of Vir, a crescent-shaped area of crumbling old houses, cramped shops, and a few struggling market plazas that bordered the fringes of the affluent Zehava district. Populated mostly by elderly Viis, including lun-adults and otals, Keskia housed retired merchants and minor aristocracy who had lost both fortune and favor at court.

The widow had caught Elrabin peering in her upper-story windows one day. Trying to avoid arrest charges, he’d fed her a glib tale of being a window inspector and told her that she had damage from worm rot (this last being pointed out to the lady to explain the gouges he’d made in trying to pry the window open). Her servants watched him with suspicion, but the lady herself was old, lonely, and eager for company, even if in the guise of a shabby Kelth grifter. She seemed to believe his story, informed him that he reminded her of a Kelth pet she’d had as a chune on her father’s country estates, and grew worried enough about the bogus damage to listen to his proposal to sell her new windows (modern, flimsy ones that would be easier to pry open later).

Elrabin himself had never gone in for burglary. But he had a contact on the east side, a Kelth named Sant, who paid for information on good targets. The widow’s house stood on a lonely street, jammed between two deserted dwellings with inheritance notices pasted to the front portals. If the heirs would pay the death taxes, they could have access to their property. From the look of things, no one was eager to redeem these crumbling edifices. So the widow had no close, snoopy neighbors to keep an eye on her. She was old and gullible and half-deaf. Best of all, her house was so crammed with goods and furniture that she probably wouldn’t even notice if some of it got hauled off.

So Elrabin planned to sell the widow’s address to Sant, plus he was hoping to sell her new windows. Either way, he stood to earn. He had an appointment to see the lady this evening, which was why he needed this fine new coat.

Except it wouldn’t look so fine if the dye ran and the cloth shrank against its stitching. Damn Cuvein for making him come out in this weather.

Shivering, Elrabin rang the brothel’s bell for admittance. The cold, moist air was clearing his head a bit from the slight buzz that made his thoughts sometimes crawl sideways. That meant the Dlexyline was wearing off: He had maybe an hour to be out on the streets with this dose, and then it would be time for trouble that he couldn’t afford.

Impatiently he rang again.

Someone shuffled to the other side of the door and slowly slid it open. Behind it a security field shimmered opal white.

Elrabin squinted, trying to see through it. “Tiff?” he asked, hoping it was the owner who stood there. All he could see was a looming shadow. “Is that you? Let me in.”

The speaker beside the door spat out a hissing crackle of static. “Get lost,” the voice said. “You’re underage.”

“I’m legal,” Elrabin said.

“You’re under twenty.”

“I’m close enough.”

“Close don’t count. What’re you doing here? Trying to get us busted?”

Elrabin recognized the voice now through the hissing static. It belonged to Tiff’s wife, never easy to charm. He tried, though, baring his teeth in his most appealing grin. “Hey, you can tell the patrollers you invited me in for lunch.”

“Get lost.” The door started to close.

“Wait!” He stepped closer, trying reflexively to block it even though the force field repelled his hand. “I don’t want the wares, Oma, although Tiff did promise them for my nameday—”

“Get lost,” Oma growled.

“Wait!” he said sharply, cutting out the patter. “I’m looking for Cuvein. It’s important.”

The door opened again, and the force field abruptly cut off, leaving the air smelling like ozone. Tiff’s wife, a chunky Aaroun with brown and fawn stripes and a light brown mask across her eyes, stood there with her rounded ears folded back against her skull.

“Come inside before you drown,” she said.

Grinning, he hopped over the threshold into the warmth. The place smelled good, with scent cones burning on stands in the corners. Soft music played unobtrusively from concealed speakers, sounding almost—but not quite—live. The interior lay swathed in shadow, dimly lit with tiny, radiant lamps, adrift in velvet cushions and plush hangings.

Elrabin glanced around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the employees, but saw no one.

“Stop that,” Oma said sharply, glaring at him. She pointed at a hallway behind her. “You go that way, straight through to the door at the back. He’s in there.”

Something in her tone made Elrabin glance at her sharply. “He pay up?”

“No.”

Shame flashed through Elrabin. Always before, his da only came here if he could afford it, out of respect for Tiff’s friendship. Now it seemed Cuvein was going to treat Tiff like everyone else.

Rubbing his muzzle, Elrabin dropped his gaze from hers. “I’ll make it good,” he mumbled.

“When?”

Irritated, he flashed her a glare in return. “When I can. Maybe a day or two. Things’re slow.”

She growled something he didn’t understand, but the contempt in her tone was plain enough to make him cringe.

He was tempted to boast about the con he had going right now with the widow, but superstition held his tongue. Cuvein had taught him a long time ago never to brag about a deal until it was bagged. Tomorrow, when he had a fat credit voucher in his pocket, he could come back and make Oma’s eyes bulge. Meanwhile, he kept quiet and took her scorn.

She pointed again at the hallway. “In there,” she said gruffly. “Don’t let him come back until he’s paid up. Don’t let him take advantage of Tiff that way.”

Panting with embarrassment, Elrabin hurried past her hostile bulk and went to the door she’d indicated. His curiosity about what lounged upstairs had been quenched by his fresh annoyance with his da. Cuvein was already causing him enough trouble without putting them in debt with their only friends.

The door ahead of him was adorned by the painted gambling circle. Tendrils of smoke curled around the door’s edges, and muted sounds of sour, keening music came from the other side.

It was Pixyl music and made Elrabin’s ears hurt. Wincing, he flattened his ears and knocked on the door, then went inside without waiting for permission.

A thick haze of smoke and swirling mist engulfed him, and he stopped just inside the threshold, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the murky gloom. The music wailed and moaned, depressing stuff that could only appeal to stoned patrons. The decor was early cave—meaning low ceiling, walls made of faux stone, heavy beams, dark corners. A half dozen tables swathed in green baize cloth dotted the room. Fake candles flickered on each one. On the opposite side of the room, a trio of robots played the music.

Scowling at them, Elrabin wished he dared switch them off.

Three prostitutes were seated, maybe to welcome customers, maybe to conceal the fact that there were no customers. Two of them, both Kelths with their fur dyed vivid pink, sat together at a table, chatting in soft voices and playing Junta. Every throw of the carved pebbles made their bracelets jingle.

Elrabin caught himself staring, felt the fur around his neck stand up, and realized one of them was stealing glances at him in return over her shoulder. She and her companion giggled, and he wanted to writhe in embarrassment. Maybe it was the coat they were laughing at.

Fighting the urge to look down and see if the dye was running, Elrabin swung his gaze hastily to the third female, sitting alone, drinking alone. She was Viis, a Reject probably. Her skin was mottled in muted shadings of yellow-green. Her rill lay flat on her shoulders, smaller than usual and lacking spines. Her eyes met his, morose and dangerous.

Without a word, she pointed toward the back of the room, where two males sat hunched over a table.

Not daring to speak to her, Elrabin nodded and hurried on by while the pink Kelths tittered.

He had expected to see Cuvein sprawled in a stupor, dusted to the eyes and singing bawdy ditties.

Instead Cuvein sat perched on a wooden stool, bent intently over a drawn diagram spread out on the green baize tablecloth. Lean and long-necked, with dark gray fur marked distinctively with white on either side of his throat, Cuvein was a handsome Kelth male of middle age, still rakish, still getting by on charm and insouciance. The dust was starting to take away some of his looks. His memory wasn’t as good as it had been, either. He suffered from stiff-joint, a progressive bone disease that was a side effect of long-term dust addiction, but he wouldn’t admit it. He was unpredictable, moody, capricious, and unfair, but he’d taken Elrabin in years ago, fed and housed him at least part of the time, trained him in a number of trickeries, and supplied him with Dlexyline, a nonaddictive chemical compound that masked Elrabin’s registration implant and allowed him to venture out publicly without setting off any alarms.

Now he looked up when Elrabin came to the table, fixed his son with a long, unblinking stare of nonrecognition, and returned his gaze to the diagram on the table. “Show me again,” he said.

His voice gave him away. He was enunciating slowly, with too much care and a slight slur in his words. Elrabin looked at him and saw the telltale streaks of dust around his nostrils.

Dust wasn’t as trendy as some of the fancier recreational drugs. It wasn’t as expensive. As contraband, however, it was the most valuable commodity smuggled to every point of the empire. It had been sapping the life force from its users for the nearly four hundred years since its discovery, and no amount of laws, penalties, antidust campaigns, or slogans had eradicated its simple, inescapable lure.