The Star King Page 18

  “At our colony. In the mountains above the city. In fact, my sister and I will return there this evening.” Beela regarded Jas warmly, toying with the chain around her neck. “You must join us for dinner. The others love to have visitors. Particularly travelers from afar, such as yourself.”

  With a twinge of genuine regret, Jas shook her head. When Rom returned tonight, she wanted to be with no one but him. “I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone this evening.”

  “Oh, you must come. You have time. I have something that I know will interest you. Please, what could be so important that you can’t spare a little time?”

  Beela so quivered with urgency that Jas had to press her lips together to keep from chuckling. The woman sounded like the galactic version of a time-share sales rep. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t. I’ll be leaving the Depot soon.” Bowing to her inner judgment, she declined to say more. “Do you have a card, though, a way I can reach you the next time I pass through?”

  Beela pressed a glittering, microthin disk into Jas’s hand. Not knowing what to do with it, Jas felt more like a frontier woman than ever before. “Your business card?”

  “Yes. Data on the colony, and how to get there.” Beela lifted the golden chain from her neck and dropped it over Jas’s head. “And now, a gift.”

  Jas protested. “I can’t accept this—”

  “Bah. I make them at the colony and have many, many more.” Beela’s motherly tone reminded Jas of Betty. “Keep it, Jasmine Hamilton; meditate on it. May it lead you to the truth.”

  Which Jas now hoped wasn’t a slide show on how to make a fortune selling black-hole merchandise. Thanking Beela again, she wished the friendly but peculiar sisters luck with their ventures and beat a hasty retreat.

  Outside, the dreary, overcast sky seemed to envelop her, dampening her mood, and she promised herself a hot bath when she returned to her room, one that would be a thousand times better if she could share it with Rom.

  Muffin trailed her into the gardens of the Romjha. Before heading inside, she paused to say hi to the birds. “You guys get cuter every day,” she said in English to the green six-legged ones. “Like parakeets on steroids.”

  They trilled wildly, scrambling over the mesh cage until the entire flock had gathered in front of her. They’d never paid her any mind before. Jas glanced around uneasily to see if anyone else had noticed. “What’s caught your eye? This?” She held Beela’s necklace toward them. Recoiling, they squawked. Curious, Jas lifted the medallion a little higher. There was an explosion of green feathers. The birds dashed to all sides of the cage, as far from her as possible, where they chirped sullenly, peering at her with accusing eyes.

  Perplexed, Jas lowered her gaze to the engraved ornament attached to the flat-linked chain. The piece glowed in the dull light, as if from within. An exotic alloy, she supposed, but still a benign piece of jewelry—if not to birds.

  As she walked into the hotel, she slowed her pace in front of Romjha’s towering statue to cradle Beela’s weighty medallion in her hand, tilting it from side to side, contemplating the way the woman had positioned the sunlike image from her drawing above two hands clasped together in prayer. One man’s one woman’s. An unsettling recognition flared in her at the sight. Considering all the information she’d crammed into her head recently, she wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t figure out why. It was a nice piece, though. But too masculine, not to her personal taste. “What do you think,” she asked Romjha, “something your great-thousands-of-timesover-grandson might like?”

  Blinking, Jas gave her head a shake. Had she not known better, she’d swear the old warrior had just frowned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Great Mother!” Eyes watering, Gann choked on the liquid he’d just sipped. “It tastes like boiled twigs. If you wished me dead, B’kah, I would have hoped you’d choose a more compassionate method than this.” He shoved aside the Quillie’s cook’s first attempt at beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Rom helped himself to a serving of the chilled, sour-smelling beverage and raised the glass to the light. “The color isn’t bad. Not quite golden, as it should be, but a pleasant light brown.”

  Gann made a contemptuous snort.

  Rom closed his eyes and sipped, rolling the liquid over his tongue before swallowing. “We will keep trying,” he said, and poured the remainder of the beer into the sink.

  “Be honest with me, old friend. It is not this…refreshment that has you rhapsodizing about ‘smooth texture, clear, crisp taste, and lingering salubrious effects.’ It is the woman.”

  Rom gave a deep, enigmatic chuckle. “The potential for profit selling beer is staggering. There is nothing like it in the galaxy.”

  “Evidently,” Gann said under his breath. He picked up his playing cards. “I raise you five units.” He slid the currency toward Rom. “And one gold chip.”

  Rom scrutinized the five cards cupped in his palms. Jas had given Gann her deck of cards and taught him how to play various forms of what Earth-dwellers called poker. After they left the Depot, Gann had introduced him to the positively entertaining game. It eased somewhat his impatience to reach Skull’s Doom, complete his business, and return to Jas.

  “I match you,” Rom told Gann, keeping all expression from his face as he considered his cards—one depicting a singular red gem, another with a singular black leaf, and three cards with seven units apiece, black leaves, gems, and hearts. An excellent hand, one Gann had called a full palace—for whatever reason. “And I raise you one cube of salt.”

  A smile tugged at Gann’s mouth. With the tips of his fingers, he pushed a tiny white cube next to Rom’s wager.

  The men presented their hands.

  “Full palace,” Rom announced.

  “Full house,” Gann corrected. “But for a B’kah, I suppose the two are interchangeable.”

  Rom cast him a long look.

  “Three of a kind. Your victory.” Gann pushed the salt and currency toward Rom. With admirable skill, he began shuffling the deck.

  The viewscreen chimed. Terz appeared. “Call’s come in for you, sir. Drandon Keer.”

  “Keer?” Rom gave a laugh of disbelief. “I haven’t heard from the man since we left Nanda with that bag full of stolen seedpods. Put him through.” The viewscreen flickered. Rom spread his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “Drandon, you unrepentant space bandit!”

  Drandon gave a familiar lopsided grin, his teeth blinding in his now deeply suntanned face. “B’kah. It’s been a long time.”

  “You’re damned right it has. You’re looking good. I take it growing Nandan silk agrees with you. How’s the plantation?”

  “Quite profitable. But those pesky Nandans won’t give up. Just last harvest they intercepted one of my outbound shipments. I blame them for all this gray hair.”

  “A familiar refrain. I believe those were your words the day I hauled you out of that Nandan excuse for a prison.”

  The men shared a laugh laden with memories. The years had mellowed Keer’s harder edges. Rom recalled the spunky Nandan princess who’d helped his friend obtain the seedpods. “And how is lovely Jhiara?”

  “Very well,” Drandon replied smugly. “Three children now. All under six seasons. And you?”

  “Still married to my work.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t found a wife yourself. Surely there’s a woman who’d put up with you.”

  Jas had been gone just two nights, yet it seemed like years since he’d last held her in his arms. “I may have found her,” he said casually. “Her willingness to put up with me is one of her many endearing qualities.”

  Drandon chuckled. After a pause, his smile faltered. “Listen, I’ve come across something. Something you of all men might want to know about.”

  The remark didn’t surprise Rom. The smuggler– turned–plantation owner—illegal plantation owner—was not the type to make casual social calls.

  Drandon opened his hand
. “One of the seedpod pickers I hired for the season gave this to my wife. Claimed it would bring her to the truth.” He held the glinting object toward the screen. “I didn’t think so.”

  Rom shoved away from the table. Every bad memory he had coalesced into the medallion resting in Drandon’s palm. Praying hands, a rising sun. Utter evil. “Where is the picker now?” he demanded, his heart hammering inside his chest.

  “Gone,” Drandon answered regretfully. “Before I could squeeze any information from him or the rest of his fanatic pals.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t allow anyone to wear the necklace.” Rom pushed himself to his feet. “Lock it away until I see it for myself.”

  “When will you arrive?”

  Rom glanced at the progress display next to the time-teller on the bulkhead. “If I divert now—at maximum speed—I’ll be there by morning.” He could fly there and still make it back to the Depot by nightfall.

  Drandon held up one hand in farewell. “Rom, Gann,” he said. “Until then.” The screen went blank.

  Rom swore under his breath and raked his hands through his hair.

  “It may be the same cult,” Gann said. “Or a perhaps an imitator.”

  Rom’s gut clenched. “Either way, I fear the darkness has finally caught up with us.”

  At the arrivals checkpoint Jas stood before a floor-to-ceiling display that showed incoming flights. She scanned the list, looking for the Quillie. Disappointment flooded her. They’d posted a seven-hour delay, long enough even to warrant returning to the Romjha. She searched the crowd for Muffin and found him pretending to peruse the contents of a food stand.

  Turning, she pushed her way through the travelers and traders wedged into every available inch in the cavernous but stuffy chamber. She made sure that she held her purse close as she squeezed through the doors to the foggy early evening streets. The pungent odor of overheated bodies blended with rocket fumes. Despite the poor air quality, she breathed deep, glad to be outside after almost an hour inside the terminal.

  Except for a group of boisterous pleasure servants on display on the opposite corner, the boulevard was almost peaceful. The musical sound of young women’s laughter tinkled from behind her. Just as she suspected, Muffin had slowed his pace near the pleasure-servant stage. A few of the more enthusiastic girls had leaped down and were tugging on the big man’s shirt. He glanced at her helplessly. She spread her hands and shrugged, and he turned his attention to them, no doubt arranging some late-night entertainment. He’d been following her relentlessly, faultlessly, for two days. Even when she’d tried to shake him, just to see if she could, he’d always shown up moments later. The way she saw it, he deserved a little fun. She was more than capable of walking the few blocks back to the hotel on her own. She turned left at the first intersection, where the pavement narrowed, just as she remembered. Shadows slanted across the frond-trees between her and the street. From the depths of the gap between two buildings, she heard the sounds of a scuffle.

  Stay clear of the alleys, Rom had warned. She quickened her pace just as a man bolted out of the darkness. Cloak swirling, he stumbled across her path and fell to the ground. She barely avoided tripping over him.

  “Careful! You might hurt someone,” she scolded irritably. He groaned, then rolled to his side. “Are you all right?” she asked guiltily, but he didn’t answer.

  Heart thudding against her ribs, she glanced around for possible help. No officials in sight, and Muffin hadn’t yet caught up. Everyone else looked to be hurrying about his or her own business.

  She bent forward, then caught herself, not wanting to get too close. Her soldier’s instinct urged her to nudge the writhing man with the toe of her boot to get his attention, but she nixed that, too. “Can you walk?”

  He moaned pitifully.

  “Listen, I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’ll bring help.” Something faintly sweet permeated the air, like old incense. It quickly changed into the sharp odor of male sweat. Then someone tugged on the strap of her purse from behind.

  “Hey!” She resisted and pulled the opposite way.

  The man sprawled at her feet came miraculously back to life, leaping up as a shadowy figure appeared behind her. Jas lurched forward in a running start. Another yank on her purse wrenched it off her shoulder and onto the street with a muffled tinkle of breaking glass—likely her salt vials and a tiny bottle of perfume.

  “Help!” she shouted. “Thieves—” A hand clamped down over her mouth. Then a sinewy arm caught her around her waist, pinning her to a strong, wiry body.

  Maybe they weren’t going to rob her. Maybe they intended worse. They could rape her, or kill her. Terror turned her insides to water. Inhale…exhale…inhale. Grinding her teeth, she fought against it, using everything she had to turn her fear into something useful. No use dying over a few grains of salt.

  A robed, shadowy figure rummaged through her purse. The scent of spilled perfume seemed horribly out of place, wafting as it did to her nose. Nearby, one of her lipsticks rolled lazily into a puddle, chased by an unbroken vial of salt.

  “You there! Leave her be!” an indignant female voice called out in the misty twilight. More voices joined in, all shouting for assistance. Jas tried to wrest free. But the man who held her shoved her forward, and she hit the wet pavement hard, scraping her palms. The sound of shoes slapping against the wet street came closer, and her attackers fled in the opposite direction. Jas kneeled, panting and tingling with shock.

  Gentle hands closed over her upper arm. “Oh, my,” a woman said, helping Jas to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

  Jas’s cheek brushed against a fluffy gray cloak. Her gaze swerved upward. “Beela!”

  The woman’s austere features softened slightly. “A fortuitous reunion, wouldn’t you say?”

  The hatch lifted and Rom strode down the gangway, leaving Gann behind to ready the Quillie for departure as soon as he returned. This visit to Drandon’s silk plantation was not a social call. Although Rom was anxious to see his friend, he had no time to spare. A sense of foreboding continued to shadow him. As soon as he examined Drandon’s discovery, he would return to collect Jas. And only when he’d assured himself of her safety would he be able to rest easy again.

  Still, the hazy sunshine felt surprisingly good. A humid breeze bore the distinctive perfume of Nandan silk blossoms and left a film of moisture on his exposed skin. He welcomed it. Unlike most of the traders he’d known over the years, he preferred solid ground to the deck of a spaceship. There was a certain permanence to living on a planet, something he was just beginning to realize he missed. The dangers and harsh loneliness of a smuggler’s life no longer held the allure it once had.

  His friend called out across the landing zone: “Romlijhian!”

  Rom waved and increased his pace across the gritty soil. Despite the man’s expression of concern, Drandon looked better than Rom had ever seen him. He wore the look of happiness and satisfaction only a good marriage could bring.

  A mix of emotions tumbled through Rom. He wanted what Drandon had—a woman he loved by his side, a home where he could put down roots, a stable livelihood. He’d come to believe these things were for other men. But his life was his own now, was it not? Such contentment could be his, too.

  Rom grabbed Drandon’s forearm in a vigorous shake. The formal greeting dissolved into a warm embrace. Then, gripping each other’s shoulders, they regarded each other. For the moment, the reason for Rom’s visit was left unspoken.

  They stepped apart. Rom scanned the lush, landscaped gardens, beyond which sat a hangar sheltering at least ten starspeeders. Drandon had never been a man to rely on others for protection. Consequently, it didn’t surprise Rom to see him in possession of a well-armed personal fleet. Closer in, a red ball and a worn, toy ketta-cat lay next to the path. Rom smiled. “Where are Jhiara and the children?”

  “She took them to the sea. I’m afraid they won’t return until tomorrow. We didn’t expect your visit.” Drandon s
earched Rom’s face. “She’ll want to see you.”

  “As much as I’d like to stay, I can’t. Someone awaits me at the Depot.”

  Drandon nodded gravely. “Come inside,” he urged. “At second sunrise the temperature will become unbearable.”

  They walked toward a sprawling one-level abode built with natural-rock walls and surrounded by shaded courtyards and a wide, wraparound porch—a typical design in tropical climates.

  Drandon led him onto the veranda. It overlooked a vast plantation of young Nandan silk trees. Rom admired the view, evidence of Drandon’s years of hard work, while a young female servant poured juice into two iced glasses, then left, her slippered feet silent on the flagstone floor. Rom followed Drandon’s lead and settled onto one of the wickedly inviting cushions made from Nandan silk. The planet’s second sun, a tiny, white-hot orb, peeked above the horizon.

  “Over the next hour the temperature will climb twenty degrees,” Drandon said. He lifted the lid of one of two ornately carved wooden boxes and handed Rom a dried leaf rolled tightly around what was surely top-grade tobacco. “When it does, we will lower the molecular heat barrier. The humidity here is formidable.”

  “As bad as on Nanda?” Rom asked as Drandon lit his cigar.

  “Worse. Of course, Jhiara loves it, being Nandan.”

  “And you?”

  “Actually, I detest it”—cigar clamped between his teeth, Drandon laced his hands behind his head—“less and less each day.”

  Rom chuckled. He understood as only another trader could. Success was a thing to be proud of. “Like your wife, the trees love the climate, which is driving your change of heart.”

  “They grow twice as fast and produce four times as much as those on Nanda.” The man’s eyes shone. “My grandchildren will live to see this plantation eclipse the production of that entire planet.” Suddenly pensive, he shifted his gaze to the rows of lush green trees on the hillsides below. “Or will they?” he asked quietly.