Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Hunger's Harmattan (8 page)

He was proud of his accomplishments from
unwanted child of a nameless mother and careless father to one of the most
respected positions within the Riezell Conclave. He took his job seriously and
to have anyone question the way he did it was to incur Strom’s wrath.

“You can tell that ass-wipe that if I’d
heard something from Iphito, I would have already informed him!” the general
yelled at the calm face of his secretary on the vid-com. He flicked off the
receiver then flicked it back on just as quickly. “And tell him to stop calling
this office every time the wind shifts direction. I am sick of it!” Once more
he turned off the vid-com.

Drumming his fingers angrily on the desk,
Strom reached over and turned the vid-com back on. “Get me…”

“The arch-counselor is on the line, Sir,”
Miriam said, and her face changed to that of a diminutive one that was creased
with humor.

“Is that bad little vice-counselor annoying
you, Max?” Arch-Counselor Euphrates inquired. He was what was politely termed a
little person but there was nothing small about the man’s broad grin or his
twinkling green eyes. His stubby little fingers were steepled together and
loaded down with a fortune in jeweled rings on each one.

“If he doesn’t get the fuck off my back,
I’m going to flush him down the loo with yesterday’s turds!”

The arch-counselor winced then laughed.
“Please tell me you flush your loo more often than that, Max.”

“It isn’t funny, Sebastian!” the general
snapped.

“No and very unsanitary, I should think,”
the arch-counselor agreed. “Not to mention malodorous.”

Strom growled as he flopped back in his
chair. “I hate that little prick anyway.”

“You and eighty percent of the Conclave,”
the arch-counselor stated with a heartfelt sigh.

Narrowing his eyes, the general ground his
teeth. “I could get rid of him for you.”

“Let me think about that for a while,” the
arch-counselor said. “So is there any news about Lieutenant Harmattan then?”

“We know he’s there but until the ship
returns to Theristes, we won’t know if he’ll come home with our Guardian.”

“I knew his father of course,” the
arch-counselor said. “Good man, although a bit too stern for my tastes. I heard
he was very rough on his eldest.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Strom said. “If I
were Ailyn Harmattan, I wouldn’t want to return to Riezell. What is there for
him here?”

“An inheritance worth more than that of the
Supreme Legare’s.”

“I’m sure he knows that and doesn’t give a
Diabolusian rat’s ass about it,” the general commented. “Money is worthless on
Theristes.”

“Umm,” the arch-counselor drawled, stroking
his small little chin. “Perhaps we could get him to donate the monies to the
Conclave treasury.”

“That would surely kill the old bat Jost
shackled himself to,” Strom said with a snort.

“Milady Jost wants a fledgling, Max, not
the money, although if money could buy her a revenant worm on the black market,
she’d have been shopping there long before now.”

“I imagine the day will come when some
enterprising bastard convinces a Reaper to let him harvest a few hellions to
breed. A fortune could be made and lives endangered,” the general said, and his
face showed his unease with such a notion.

“The Conclave has already thought of that
and we’re pushing through legislation to make it illegal before someone does
indeed try it. We’ll be assigning the death penalty to such a crime so perhaps
that will deter the less enthusiastic mobsters.”

“Hopefully the general public hasn’t heard
about what was done on R-9 but the news is bound to leak out eventually. It’s
best to be prepared.”

“And we will be,” the arch-counselor
assured him. “So other than to complain about Jost being a pain in your ass,
was there another reason you wished to annoy me?”

General Strom smiled. The two men had been
very good friends for a long time and Strom knew he directly owed his present
promotion to head of Command Central to the arch-counselor. “Can’t I just call
to rattle your cage now and then, Bas?”

“You assume I have nothing better to do
with my time than sit here and wait for you to interrupt me,” the little man
grumbled. “I—unlike you—have a life, you know.”

“And how is the lady arch-counselor?”

Sebastian Euphrates rolled his eyes.
“Speaking of pains in the ass! Pregnancy has not made Trini glow. It has made
her puke and given her copious heartburn. It has not made her maternal. It has
made her a veritable harpy! Her constant demands keep me scuttling back and
forth between the bed and the duplicator with such odd things as kumquats and
glazed fried cakes and Serenian potted meat.” The arch-counselor grimaced.
“Potted meat, Maximillian. Potted meat!”

“It’s not so bad on bread with a little
Gearmánach mustard,” the general told him.

“She sticks her finger in it and laps it up
as though it is honey!”

“Poor Sebastian. It will all be worth it
when the little one arrives. You’ll see.”

The arch-counselor heaved a sigh bigger
than himself. “I suppose.” He shrugged. “Best let Jost live awhile longer,
Max.”

“Aw come on, Bas! Can’t I at least cripple
him? Carve off a leg? An arm? Take out an eye?”

“No, leave him be. We’ll just have to work
around him for the time being. Let me know when you hear back from our
Amazeen.”

That said, the vid-com screen went black.

In a much better frame of mind now that
he’d swapped silliness with his friend, Strom propped his feet on his desk and
threaded his fingers together at his waist. He stared up at the ceiling for a
moment then closed his eyes to take a little nap.

It was good to be the man in charge.

* * * * *

Vice-Counselor Laverne Jost was not a happy
man. Twice in one morning he’d been spoken to as though he were no one of
consequence and twice more he had been simply ignored. Such insults were not to
be tolerated.

“I wish to hire one of your people,” the
vice-counselor snapped as soon as his vid-com revealed a black-hooded figure
sitting at a desk behind which was a stark white wall.

“Fifty thousand gold
cúirs
up front.
The price is non-negotiable,” the figure said, its voice electronically altered
to hide the speaker’s identity.

“What will that buy me?”

“A single unit disposal.”

“Guaranteed?”

“Unless—as it was in your case—a Riezell
Guardian gets in the way,” the figure stated. “Then, we can not guarantee
success.”

Jost thought about the Storian assassin who
had been sent after him and the way the man had died at the hands of the
Primary Riezell Guardian Chastain Neff.

“I knew about the attempt,” the
vice-counselor said. “This person won’t.”

“Whatever you say,” the figure drawled. “I
require half the money now along with the target’s name given to the man who
supplied you with my vid-addy. The other half must be paid upon completion of
the disposal.”

“That’s a bit steep.”

“Take it or leave it,” the hooded man said.

“All right,” Jost muttered. “We have a
deal.

* * * * *

Queen Polemusa, the defense queen of the
Amazeen, had long hated her sister Molpadia, the domestic queen. Their rivalry
went back to the cradle when each had fought over a simple rag doll both had
wanted. Polemusa had won then and she won now, brutally tossing her sister over
her head as they fought still once again, each striving to outdo the other on
the mat. The wind knocked out of her, it was easy for Polemusa to fall upon her
sister and pin her, the referee calling the match.

“Bitch,” Molpadia managed to get out as she
struggled for breath.

“Ugly hag,” Polemusa replied, and got
lithely to her feet, striding away with her naked shoulders gleaming with sweat,
her long bare legs rippling with muscles.

“You won’t always win,” Molpadia hissed as
she struggled to get up from the mat.

“Yes I will,” her sister said with a sneer.

Glaukia Terramedes, Polemusa’s assistant,
came over to the defense queen and whispered something in the tall woman’s ear.

Polemusa’s face paled. “You are sure of
this?”

“As sure as I am that the sun will rise
over Mount Thermodosa come morning,” Glaukia replied, holding the defense
queen’s narrowed gaze.

The pallor fled Polemusa’s face and anger
replaced it. “Ready my runabout. I…”

“The new one to replace the one your
treacherous daughter stole,” Molpadia said with a snort. She had buried her
sweaty face in a towel and did not see her sister move. With one sweep of
Polemusa’s leg, Molpadia went down hard on the bare wood floor, crying out as
her forearm snapped when she fell upon it.

“Open your mouth one more time about Shanee
and I swear I will relieve you of your tongue, Molpadia!” Polemusa shouted,
snatching up the dagger from her belt lying on the exercise table.

Sucking up the pain that was invading the
entire left side of her body, Molpadia pushed herself to a sitting position.
Her jaw was clamped tightly shut—partly so no other sign of weakness would
escape her mouth and partly because she feared her sister would make good on
her threat. She sat there and glowered at Polemusa with hatred.

“I will be gone for a while,” Polemusa told
Molpadia. “Try not to send our world into ruin while I am away.”

Molpadia watched her elder sister leave the
gymnasium and cursed her when she was no longer in sight. “One day soon,
Polemusa, I will chant at your funeral byre!”

Chapter Five

The trek across the mountain in the
moonlight was strangely romantic, Shanee thought. She was walking beside her
lover, following a trail he knew by heart. He had dressed her once again in the
black blouse and short skirt that he seemed to like so well while he was clad
in the breechclout that fit his powerful physique to perfection. While he had
fashioned boots for her, he was barefoot.

“Will Tariq know we are coming?” she asked.
Her right hand was in Ailyn’s as they walked. His right hand carried the spear
that was never far from reach.

“Aye, he will.”

Ailyn had been quiet since they left the
stream. He’d stopped only long enough to gather several pieces of fruit for
their evening meal and even then he’d seemed preoccupied.

“Are you angry at me?” she asked.

He stopped and looked down at her. His face
was hidden in shadow, the moon behind him, but she could see a faint reddish
glow in his eyes.

“No,
ionúin
.
Why would I be
angry at you?”

“For wanting you to go back to Riezell with
me. For me wanting to continue my job with the Guardians,” she answered.

“We won’t discuss that now,” he said, and
began walking again, tugging gently at her hand.

“Then when will we discuss it?” she asked
in a petulant voice.

“When the time is right,” he said.

Miffed at his response, Shanee clamped her
mouth shut. If he didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t talk either.

It didn’t seem to take as long going back
to the village as it had coming out from it, Shanee thought. Ailyn had taken a
different trail than Barat had and the climb up and over the mountain had not
seemed as strenuous or taken as long. She wondered if Barat had been ordered to
take her a longer way around to give Ailyn time to meet them.

The village was still for it was very late
by the time they entered the grassland where the huts sat in a semicircle
around the massive waterfall. Here and there torches had been left burning to
light the way and it was to the largest of the huts—Tariq’s—that Ailyn led her.

Ducking beneath the leather flap that
covered the arched entrance to the bamboo dwelling, Shanee was surprised to see
Tariq sitting beside a lantern, a book in his hand. He smiled at them as they
entered his abode.

“You are well, Shanee?” he asked.

“My mate is in good health,” Ailyn
answered, and in his voice was a bit of a warning.

Tariq nodded and put a leaf in the book to
mark his place before putting it aside and getting to his feet. He noticed
Shanee looking at the old-fashioned tome. “A gift from Ryden,” he said. “Its
origin is Terra.”

Shanee drew in a surprised breath. “Surely
not!”

“Aye, it is,” Tariq assured her. “It is a
history of their world before the Burning War. I am finding it very
informative.”

“I would like to read it when you are
finished,” Ailyn said, drawing the Prime Reaper’s eyes back to him.

“Of course,” Tariq said. “My lady-wife has
prepared a pallet for you and Shanee. It is late and she should be abed.”

“I agree,” Ailyn said. He turned to look at
Shanee. “I will be along shortly.”

“But…”

“Your mate and I have business to attend,
Shanee,” Tariq said.