The Star King Page 17

  Fascinated, Jas studied them. “They’re dressed identically, every last one of them. They look like gymnasts. Are they athletes?”

  “You could say that.” Rom urged her along.

  One of the women spotted him, and two dozen blondhaired heads swerved his way. He groaned inwardly. They started to beseech him in Basic slang he prayed Jas could not understand, flaunting their small breasts and swaying their hips in a demonstration of sexual positions that made the palace courtesans of his younger days look like amateurs.

  Jas gaped at them. “They’re pleasure servants, aren’t they?”

  “That they are.”

  As they passed in front of the stage, Rom hunched his shoulders in a futile effort to deflect the relentless and intimate invitations. Jas threw him a sidelong glance. “You’re causing quite a stir, Captain B’kah.”

  “It’s my appearance,” he explained uncomfortably.

  One corner of her mouth tipped up. “Yeah, well, you are incredibly handsome.”

  “I’m Vash Nadah.”

  “That, too.”

  Clenching his jaw, he explained, “Vash Nadah are raised to respect women—and to be skilled lovers. Everyone knows this.”

  Jas blushed, as he knew she would. Then she linked her arm possessively around his. He grinned at the unconscious gesture, and how she twisted around for one last look as they left the platform behind. Suddenly she said in alarm, “He is!”

  “He is what? Who is what?” Rom’s fingers curled around the laser pistol he kept hidden in his cloak.

  Jas lowered her voice. “That man there, behind the two traders—he’s been following us since the marketplace.”

  “Keep walking.” Rom focused straight ahead. “Tell me what he looks like.”

  “He’s huge,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t see his face, though. He’s wearing a hood.”

  “What else?”

  “A brown cloak, thigh length.”

  The tension went out of him. “Knee boots?”

  She nodded.

  “Light brown knee boots? With black soles?”

  “Yes.”

  “A cloak with a double row of stitching down the front?”

  “As a matter of fact, he is.” She edged aside her hood and eyed Rom suspiciously.

  He could no longer hide his smile. “It’s Muffin.”

  Her head whipped around. Then her head snapped back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You knew he was my bodyguard.”

  “Yes, but, well…You’re right,” she conceded. “I just never pictured him following us here.”

  “Which is his job, one he normally does quite well. I don’t know whether to laud you on your commendable situational awareness, or berate Muffin for his lack of stealth.”

  “Do neither and you’ll make us all happy.” She peered over her shoulder and, of all things, blew Muffin a kiss. The man hastily tugged his hood lower and faded into the crowd.

  Chuckling, Rom said, “when you are alone, he will stay closer.”

  Her step faltered. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Muffin. He will be your bodyguard during your travels.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Quite.”

  “But you’ll need him at Skull’s Doom.”

  “There I’ll have the protection of my entire crew. You’re a woman traveling alone. Simply forget that he’s here. He has his own accommodations near you. Whatever sights you choose to see, he’ll accompany you—somewhat more discreetly, I hope.”

  They slowed as they entered the gardens of the Romjha Hotel. Rom inhaled deeply and savored the setting. In the ten years since he’d last been to the Depot and passed through these gardens, nothing had changed. Towering fountains filled the air with a cold, crisp mist, softening the harsh edges of the surrounding structures. Birds flitted inside roomy cages, filling the courtyard with song. It was a singular oasis in a gritty, urban port. Yet his stomach twisted into the usual knots.

  Jas framed his face with her hands. “Can’t I change your mind about coming inside?” He shook his head, and she nodded in understanding. Her voice softened. “Thank you for bringing me here. And for last night.” Wonder swam in her gaze. “I won’t ever forget you.”

  At her words, every muscle in his body went rigid. You’ll return here, only to find her gone. The old fears of abandonment plowed into him: the Balkanor angel, his father, the other Vash Nadah families, they had all turned their backs on him without a care. He’d ventured to hope Jas was different. But how would he know for sure unless he allowed fate to run its course? “This is not good-bye,” he stated. “I’ll be waiting for you in the arrivals terminal in precisely two standard days.”

  “I know.” She flung her arms over his shoulders and stretched up on her toes. “I’ll be there.”

  He brought his mouth down over hers and lifted her against him, drinking in her passion, her faith in him. His absolution.

  In that one dizzying, exhilarating moment, nothing existed but the two of them, no pasts conspiring to keep them apart, no old wounds that needed healing. Then an overpowering sense of foreboding chilled him, like a cloud passing over the sun. He gripped her shoulders and slowly pushed her back. He tucked his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “Two days, angel.” His thumb lingered a moment longer; then he swept his cape around him and walked away, leaving his heart behind.

  Jas curled her arms around her stomach and watched Rom’s long strides carry him away from her, his proud posture that of a king, reflecting thousands upon thousands of years of royal ancestry.

  He did not look back.

  She watched as he had a brief conversation with Muffin, then disappeared into the crowd. Shaking off a moment of longing, she saw her new protector begin a slow stroll along the pathways, staying well within view. Rom had been sweet to make sure she was looked after, and certainly Muffin was capable.

  She carried her travel bag to the nearest bench and arranged her cloak over the cold, wet stone. A light mist was falling. Burrowing into the snug warmth of Rom’s cloak, she peered into the birdcage closest to her. There, incredible feathery creatures flitted around their cage. Some had feathers that resembled fur, while the green-spotted ones clinging the wire mesh had curled snouts and six legs.

  Fluffy yellow birds scratched for feed on the floor of the aviary. They looked like chicks—cheeped like them, too—and might have been cute if they weren’t baldheaded, with gnarled beaks that would make vultures proud. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. Alice couldn’t have found Wonderland much stranger than this.

  Gradually the novelty of the birds wore off. Emptiness swamped her, as it had after the crash, as it did after her dreams, something she hadn’t once felt on board the Quillie. Yet this time she understood the reason behind the desolation: she missed Rom. He’d filled the void inside her as no one ever had. Maybe there was something to the concept of a soul mate, what she’d dismissed mere weeks ago as New Age hype. The thought gave her a chill.

  Recalling the palm reading Tina had given her in Betty’s gallery, Jas unfurled hands she hadn’t realized were clenched into fists and stared at the webwork of lines etched there.

  There has been heartache and disappointment in your past, yet this pain will continue to make you stronger, strength you will need for your true love.

  The prediction reverberated inside her. Without warning, tears swelled, and she bit the inside of her cheek to subdue the impulse to cry.

  He will require the full power of your spirit, your faith…your flesh.

  Not all men were like her ex-husband. Dan and the men in her family had proven that. And Rom. But what if her magical, destiny-driven feelings for Rom shut off, without warning, as they had with Jock, leaving her bereft, while Rom continued to demand what she was incapable of giving him?

  Trust…believe…

  Yes. That was exactly what she was going to do. She gathered her things and set out toward the Romj
ha with a sense of inevitability, of certainty. If her postcrash dreams were the key to figuring out the path her life had taken, then her relationship with Rom was the key to understanding the dreams. Then she could enjoy her time with him with a clear conscience and none of the guilt that had ravaged her life. That alone kept her walking.

  From the moment Jas stepped into the vast, open-air lobby, she understood Rom’s reluctance to come here. The place was a veritable shrine to his ancestors. Little wonder he’d stayed close to the frontier all these years, far from such incessant reminders of the family that had shunned him.

  A lifelike statue of Romjha, the original B’kah, towered above the bustling crowd of intergalactic travelers. It was easily thirty feet tall—and solid gold, she’d bet. Romjha stood with his legs apart, his arms poised and ready for battle. His features were rugged, resolute, and his eyes, looking toward a long-ago horizon, were as perceptive and intelligent as Rom’s.

  Anger edged aside her awe. Romjha might be the “hero of the realm,” as the plaque so plainly stated, but the current B’kah ruler, Rom’s father, must be a heartless man. How else could he turn his only son into an outcast? The way she saw it, Rom deserved a statue of his own. He’d saved the galaxy from a sociopath intent on destroying them all. And all his father cared about was Rom’s damned sperm count.

  “Pardon me.” A man wrapped in a long black cloak eased past her and a nearby couple to lay a bundle at the statue’s feet. As he meditated in silence, Jas noticed for the first time the other items scattered around Romjha’s huge boots. A dish of exotic fruits, gloves, a colorfully embroidered scarf, a scroll tied with a silk ribbon. Charity? Signs of respect? Or had hero worship blended with religion?

  Impulsively she twisted off one of her silver bangles and set it on the base of the statue—for good luck…and in hopes that Romjha could guide Rom toward some semblance of inner peace.

  A clammy breeze swept in from outside the hotel. It ruffled the hem of her cape and tried to lure her hair from the shelter of her hood. Clutching her cloak around her, Jas hoisted her travel bag onto her shoulder and headed across the lobby.

  Her instincts prickled, and she slowed. Someone was following her. She peered over her shoulder, half expecting to find Muffin—though she’d already noticed him walking ahead of her. But all she saw was a preoccupied sea of travelers.

  Be cautious, not fearful.

  She pressed her bag closer to her hip and strode forward. The hotel brimmed with wealth, in contrast to the underlying sense of decay outside. The magnificent floor and much of the furniture were carved from stone the color of caramel, shot through with russet stripes. She veered toward what she assumed was the reception desk, where a clerk dressed in a crisp blue uniform with silver piping was shuffling through a handful of plastic cards that passed for Basic currency. Young, like Zarra, and even blonder, he sported a row of tiny silver squares glued down the bridge of his prominent nose. Skin jewelry, Rom had explained earlier when she’d seen others adorned this way.

  “Good morning,” she said to get his attention.

  He greeted her with a respectful bow. It would be hard getting used to Earth manners again after a year of this. His gaze flicked over her cloak and hesitated on the clasp at her neck. Immediately his manner became more deferential. “Honored lady, how may I help you?” He stooped to peer under her hood.

  “A room, please,” she stated, tossing the hood back off her head. He drew back, his expression one of curiosity and surprise. She explained dryly, “I’m from the frontier.”

  As if that explained everything, he relaxed. “Have you a reservation, honored lady?”

  “Yes, a standard room.” It was what the reporter had stayed in when he was at the Depot, and what she had asked Terz to request from the hotel when he radioed them earlier.

  The clerk stored the currency cards he’d been counting in a drawer. “The length of your stay, please?”

  “Two days.” She handed him a paper card, one of a dozen she’d prewritten with her name in Basic letters. “My name is Jasmine Hamilton.”

  He bowed again, then busied himself at his viewscreen. Scrutinizing the wafer-thin display, he said, “I have a mountain view, if you prefer.”

  What mountains? She hadn’t seen a thing through the smog. “Fine, whatever you have.”

  “Your method of payment?”

  “Salt.” She reached into her waist pouch, withdrawing and handing him one of the vials she’d used to separate her booty into smaller, more manageable quantities. He brought it to a computerized scale, where she was relieved to see him measure out a half teaspoon–sized scoop. It gave her a better idea of how fast she’d spend her salt. The device began beeping, testing for authenticity and purity. After a long tone, it beeped again and dispensed her change in Basic currency, a light blue plastic card, which she slipped into her waist pouch along with the vial. “This is of the highest quality.” His voice dropped. “Almost pure.”

  “It’s Morton table salt. Iodized,” she confided under her breath. He nodded slowly, and she couldn’t resist: “‘When it rains, it pours.’”

  “Ah…of course.” Clearly befuddled, he swiveled his viewscreen so she could see. “Your door code, honored lady.”

  The four numbers were the closest she’d get to a room key. “Memorize them,” Kendall Smith had advised his Earth public. That was what was done here. Repeating the Basic numbers several times in her head, she thanked the clerk and left. “When in Rome,” she reasoned, “do as the Romans.”

  Two days later, after exploring most of the upper floor of the Depot art museum, Jas rested on a bench in a room where the main attraction was a free-form sculpture made from the same alloy as the glow-jewelry Rom had bought her. Recessed lights alternately dimmed and brightened, making different areas of the sculpture come alive. Not all of it was luminescent, she realized after a few fascinated minutes. The artist had ingeniously chosen which parts he wanted to hold the light, and which parts he didn’t, creating absolute magic as the outer illumination rose and died. While she scribbled notes and sketched, she pondered new techniques she could bring to her own work. Two women strolled in, the same pair she’d seen entering the museum shortly after she had. Jas lowered her pencil. After what Rom had told her, she hadn’t expected to see anyone else here.

  The pair sat on the opposite end of her bench, and Jas returned their warm smiles. The taller of the two was a patrician-looking woman about Jas’s age, with chin-length hair the color of Rom’s. She unfastened her fluffy gray cloak, opened a sketchpad, and, as her shorter companion looked on, she began to draw. Taking the risk of appearing hopelessly nosy, Jas craned her neck to see. “Are you an artist?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the woman responded with a serene smile. “My name is Beela. What is yours?” As they went through the introductions, Jas felt the instant bond she often did with others in her field.

  “My sister Janay is an artist, as well,” Beela pointed out.

  Jas glanced from Beela to Janay. Sisters, hmm? Talk about the strange inconsistency of genetics. Janay was fair, for a non-Earth type, with wide, pleasant features, whereas Beela’s bronze coloring was closer to Rom’s. Beela also shared his long, aristocratic nose and sculpted cheekbones. Didn’t that mean that she, too, was of the Vash Nadah?

  Jas clasped her hands in her lap and smiled. “I can’t tell you how nice this is—meeting other artists so early in my trip. Painting is my livelihood on my homeworld.”

  “Earth,” Beela said, nodding.

  Jas gaped at her.

  “Your hair color,” Beela explained, fingering the chain of a necklace half-hidden in the folds of her cloak. “It gives you away. My family and I have viewed images of the gentleman from your homeworld. We were very much taken with his appearance. And also by the news that another Earth-dweller followed him here, a woman. After it was discovered, it made big news on your planet.” Her smile softened her features, but not her penetrating gaze. “The Depot is smaller t
han it looks; few actually live here. Word travels fast. Your arrival—it was no secret.”

  “I see.” A flicker of unease shivered through Jas. The idea of others knowing her whereabouts made her uncomfortable. She was glad Muffin was outside, meandering through the corridors, pretending to be interested in fabric art.

  Beela slid her hands out of the way so Jas could view what she was sketching. The drawing wasn’t rendered in pencil or charcoal as she’d expected, but in a vivid medium resembling pastels: star-strewn black space, where a burst of colors bloomed, concentric rings of bright white fading into shades of yellow, orange, and finally blue and indigo. But what drew her were the ethereal rays of light emanating from the center.

  “Riveting,” Jas remarked quietly. “It reminds me of water when you throw a pebble into a still pond…a deep, dark pond at sunset.”

  “Sunrise, actually.” Janay had finally spoken.

  Beela cast her a sharp glance. The woman’s fingers darted to her mouth. Lips pressed together, she withdrew a large pad of paper from her portfolio. On the top page was a virtual replica of Beela’s drawing. But it was flat and lacked the passion of her sister’s.

  Jas employed tact as best she could, murmuring words of praise. “Forgive my ignorance in asking, but what is it?”

  Beela’s aristocratic features came alive. “It is our galaxy’s heart. A place the Trade scientists call a domain of cataclysmic violence, a black hole, a hungry monster swallowing mass, light, even time. But that is not the case.” Her pale eyes glazed over, and she absently caressed her necklace with her fingertips. “It is the womb from which all life comes. And where all life will return, in the end.”

  The woman looked to be in rapture. Chills prickled the hairs on the back of Jas’s neck. Good Lord, did she herself appear this way to others, too? Driven and slightly demented? She thought of the desert landscapes she had been compelled to create in the aftermath of her dreams, how, locked inside her studio, she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept until the period of furious creativity passed, leaving her depleted but never quite satisfied. The black hole must inspire Beela in the same way the desert affected Jasmine. The insight evoked a sudden emotional identification with the gifted woman. “Do you display your work in a gallery?”