Serpents in the Garden Page 9

  Meena turned to face him and put her hands on his forearms. The contact sent a thrill through Kirk; more so than he had expected. He didn’t want any kind of romantic entanglement during this mission. But he was surprised by the almost electric tingle he felt, beginning in his arms and coursing through his body. “These are not even your people, James. And yet, you are so willing to help them, even at the risk of your own safety and that of your friends. You lost one today. Many people would have walked away from us after that, would have decided the cost is too great, that our problems are not yours. But not you. You are still here, still ready to help, even when you know it could be dangerous.”

  Kirk paused, enjoying the contact. He couldn’t tell her about Starfleet, about the oath he had taken when he joined, or the more private one he’d made to himself. He had, over the course of his career, put himself and his crew in harm’s way, over and over again. That was part of Starfleet’s mission. They traveled through space to extend the protective arm of the Federation wherever they could. They sought to stand up for the defenseless and to stop those who would oppress them. The concepts were old ones, although they had often been set aside: freedom, justice, equality. With Starfleet, he had been able to bring those concepts to dozens of worlds.

  He would do the same here. True, his interests here on Neural were personal. He genuinely liked the Freeholders, and his concern for them was as authentic and as vital as they themselves were.

  “It’s my fight now,” he said, unwilling to try to put the rest into words she could understand.

  “There is one other possibility,” Meena said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you see Nyran’s face?”

  Kirk hadn’t. He had been watching for signs of ambush and then had been struck by the beauty of the valley. “Not really.”

  She indicated the town around them with a turn of her head, and gave a sad sigh. “We pretend we all get along. The original Freeholders, and those who’ve joined us from other settlements throughout the hill country and beyond. The truth, I’m afraid, is not so pretty. There are rivalries, old feuds reignited by forced proximity, feelings of prejudice and distrust. Nyran has taken up with Joslen, a girl from the settlement called Rocky Bluff—you saw her there tonight, with Elanna. Some of her people resent Nyran for it, and it appears he took a bad beating sometime in the last few days.”

  “What are you saying, Meena? Do you think they came for him in the valley? Took him away somewhere?”

  “I do not see how they could have, without being seen. But I think the possibility should be explored, if he is not found quickly.”

  “Something else to keep in mind, then,” he said. “We should get some rest. It’s going to be an early morning, and a long day.”

  * * *

  Nyran had spent the afternoon alternately jogging and hiking briskly, following trails already being overgrown by brush and wild grasses. They led out of Providence Valley, up a steep slope, and through a mountain pass. On the far side was a narrower valley, and beyond that the mountains rose higher still. They were thickly forested, but at a certain altitude the trees gave way to bare earth, then snow. The peaks were rounded and white, appearing soft from here. He suspected that was illusion—that would be hard country for anyone, particularly for a young man on his own, with no experience there.

  But somewhere up there—before the snow, he fervently hoped—was Rocky Bluff.

  Over the course of numerous conversations, Joslen had described the journey she and her people had taken to get to Freehold. Nyran had a good memory for details and had tried to recall everything she had told him, then had found a map that substantiated her description, for the most part, and had brought it along. Between her memories and his map, he was convinced he could find the place.

  He wondered what Rocky Bluff would be like. Her tales had only told part of the story, and he knew the reality would not match the impressions he carried in his mind. Nyran thought he would like the place, because it had given him Joslen, and if it wasn’t love he felt toward her, he didn’t know what else to call it. He thought her the most incredible creature he had ever encountered. Her smile enchanted him; her soft brown eyes, when they looked into his, transfixed him. He liked the lilt of her voice; the full-throated way she laughed with her head thrown back, as if her laughter could reach the very stars overhead; the way she whispered, her lips so close to his ear he could feel her breath on him, when they held each other tight on a dark evening. When he was with her the time raced past, and when they were apart minutes seemed to slow, to stretch into hours or days, until they were together again. She was the last thing on his mind at night and the first he thought of when he woke each morning.

  Rocky Bluff had become a magical landscape, as if no normal settlement could have produced someone who was so clearly at least half goddess. Her mother must have been all goddess, he had decided, because her father was decidedly human, frail and sickly. Still, he felt he owed the man his thanks, for the part he had played in bringing Joslen into being.

  Night fell early in the mountain valley. Though sunlight still glimmered around the snowy peaks, where he was, the mountains blocked it. The shadows kept the air cool, and despite his quick pace, Nyran’s cheeks were chapped by a cold wind. He hadn’t brought heavy clothing or provisions, just what he could stuff into a leather pouch strapped across his chest. He had not wanted anyone to guess his intentions, and if he’d been carrying anything unusual, he’d have given away the game. If he was wrong and had to spend the night outside, Nyran knew he would regret the lack.

  His way was slowed by the steepness of the hillside and the rocks and trees that lay in his path. Once, trade between Rocky Bluff and the community that had come to be known as Freehold had been commonplace. That had been before the slavers had started preying upon them all, before the communities took a defensive crouch that kept their people isolated and estranged from the others. The years since that change had been few, but the effects were quickly felt. The route from one settlement to the next became seldom traveled, and people who had once been friendly turned suspicious. The old paths had fallen into disrepair, a condition exacerbated by the harsh mountain climate.

  Undaunted, Nyran climbed. He was alternately sweating from the effort and gripped by sudden chills as cool winds dried his sweat. Nyran began to worry about losing the trail in the encroaching darkness. If he lost his way in these mountains, he might never find Rocky Bluff, and he might never see home—or Joslen—again.

  Nyran came to a place where three paths converged. Joslen had described it from the other direction, as a spot where the narrower route from Rocky Bluff came together with others to join the wider pathway toward the valley. He had thought he remembered which fork was the correct one, but now that he saw it he realized the picture in his mind’s eye didn’t match the reality. He unrolled the map he had borrowed, but it was hard to make out in the dim light. The path on the left, he thought. But he couldn’t be absolutely certain. He would have to follow it for a while, see if it took him to the next landmark he expected to see: a huge tree, split down the middle by lightning. If he didn’t find that soon, he’d have to return here and try another fork.

  He was beginning to question the wisdom of this venture. He couldn’t turn back now, though. He’d never make it back to Freehold before full night. As it was, he probably wouldn’t make Rocky Bluff in time, either, but at least he was closer to that than to home.

  He swallowed back his anxiety and started up the left-hand path. Hunger gnawed at him; he had expected to be able to find edible fruits along the way. In his pouch he had a couple of confolli that he had picked, but that was all. Since he’d discovered how quickly dark was falling, he hadn’t wanted to spend time searching for other food. Nyran knew he needed to maintain his strength, though, and eating something might help calm his nerves. He reached into the pouch, brought out a small, firm confolli, and set about carefully peeling it as he
walked.

  He had taken just a single bite when he heard a sound in the trees.

  The wind was picking up, so there was a constant rush through the leaves and branches. But this sound wasn’t like that. It was a footfall, deliberate and stealthy. Nyran dropped the fruit and drew from his belt the only weapon he had, his curved-bladed knife. He froze and listened. The sound didn’t repeat, so he continued on his way, at a faster clip this time.

  Moments later, he heard something different, a chuffing sound that could only have been made by an exhalation of breath. It came from the other side of the path, and slightly ahead of him. Two of them, then? But who, or what? Slavers? They would have attacked by now.

  No, this was more likely beasts of the forest. Four-legged hunters like eldas, with their powerful jaws and legs that allowed them to spring a dozen paces or more to bring down their prey, or—

  Another footfall, this one louder and closer. He spun around and saw a mugato coming toward him, clawed arms outstretched. The thing paused, threw its head back and released a roar, then charged. Mated pairs often hunted in teams, he knew. With one behind and at least one other ahead, he was hemmed in. He couldn’t fight two mugatos, not with just a knife.

  Which meant he had to abandon the path.

  One mugato was rushing toward him from behind, and he saw the other break from the trees on his left. So Nyran broke right, darting into the cover of the forest. Here, though, he was deprived of the moonlight that had been his only illumination. His shoulder slammed into a tree trunk and he nearly lost his footing. Regaining it awkwardly, his left leg became ensnared by some ground vine. Wrenching it free sent him sprawling onto the forest floor. The knife flew from his hand. He found it and scrambled to his feet again, threw his arms out to probe for obstacles, and moved as fast as he dared.

  Now the mugatos were running on slightly different tracks, from the sounds of it. They communicated through growls and grunts and whistling noises. They were trying to catch him in a kind of pinch, one following a route that would take it ahead of him while the other flushed him from behind. It was the same tactic they had used on the path, he realized. Maybe it was the only trick they knew, short of catching their prey by surprise or simply wearing it down.

  Knowing that gave him one advantage. If they did the same thing each time, then he had to vary his response to it. Last time he had gone to his right, so this time he angled left, crossing the path of the one who had moved ahead of him. That one would have to backtrack to catch him.

  Still, it was only a momentary victory. The mugato could see in the dark, and they knew the forests like few other creatures did. There were rumors that they grew impatient quickly, or simply lost track of what they were about—jokes were made all the time, comparing people with short attention spans to mugatos. But Nyran didn’t know if those jokes were grounded in truth or in some popular misconception. Few people who had been individually tested by the beasts were still around to tell about their experiences.

  From the sounds they made, it took the mugatos several moments to adjust to his change of strategy. There was a brief flurry of confusion, signaled by high-pitched grunts and angry thrashing about, but then they were after him again.

  He shifted to the left again, not giving them time to flank him. This direction would reconnect to the path, he believed, and the path might give his longer legs an advantage, as long as both mugatos were behind him. The mugato had short legs, though they could build up speed by dropping down and using the knuckles of their arms as well as their feet. With a head start, Nyran thought he could outpace them.

  But a crashing in the brush nearby told Nyran he hadn’t gained as much ground as he’d hoped. He altered course again, trying to veer away from the mugato that had surprised him, and he barreled into another tree.

  It probably saved his life.

  He hit it headlong and the impact stunned him. He bounced and fell flat on his back. The rest of his confolli bounced out of his pouch, but he barely noticed. The mugato, just reaching him, leapt but soared over Nyran instead of crashing into him. Nyran sensed the beast—smelled its rank odor, heard its rapid panting and its grunt of shock as it hit the forest floor empty-handed, followed by a curious huffing as it wondered where its prey had gone—more than he saw it. He had managed to hang on to the knife, and as his vision cleared, he discovered that the mugato was right in front of him, facing away, slowly turning in a circle to seek him out.

  He had only one chance. He lashed out with the blade, catching the thing in the upper back. It screamed—a truly horrific sound that made his teeth hurt—and lurched away.

  The other mugato was coming fast. The one he’d stabbed was wailing, hunched over, slapping at its back with one clawed hand as if to swat whatever was hurting it.

  Nyran sheathed the knife and ran. He would not get a better chance.

  The mugato before him flailed out an arm that almost knocked Nyran off his feet again, but he stumbled and kept going.

  When he reached the path, he raced flat-out, taking long strides, coming down lightly on the balls of his feet, pumping his arms. He breathed through his open mouth, and before long, the uphill slope had him panting. Still, he ran, devoting every ounce of strength to the effort. His lungs ached from the cool night air. He figured expending this energy, punishing his body in this way, wouldn’t kill him. But if he didn’t do it, the mugato very likely would.

  It really wasn’t much of a tradeoff.

  When he was certain they were no longer following him, Nyran allowed himself to slow to a walk. The muscles of his legs were complaining; they might give out at any moment. He couldn’t push them much longer, though, and he already knew they would ache miserably by morning.

  * * *

  Nyran was still breathing hard, his heart galloping in his chest, when he saw Rocky Bluff.

  Just over a rise, the settlement was spread out below the ridgeline on the other side. It was small, with fewer than three dozen permanent structures interspersed among massive boulders. Beyond the settlement’s edge the ground fell away sharply, in a nearly vertical cliff. Joslen had told him they had built here for defensive purposes—if they could guard the ridgeline above, they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone attacking from below.

  In the pale light of the moon, Nyran got his bearings, again working from Joslen’s description. A large building in the approximate center was the roundhouse or public house. Off to that one’s left was a slightly smaller, squared-off structure that spanned a trickling creek; that had to be what Joslen had called the bathhouse. From that central point, pathways stretched out like the spokes of a wheel, and the homes were arrayed along those spokes, most of them with small garden plots where the residents had teased vegetables and herbs from the rocky soil. Every building was made from the native stone, making the whole place look like something that had sprung from the earth itself rather than being constructed by the hands of the people.

  Joslen had said her home was so close to the cliff’s edge that the time the earth shook, stones from its outer wall had gone over the side, and she had feared that the whole building would follow. She had slept outdoors for weeks after that, afraid to go back inside, in case it happened again. Finally, winter weather had forced her inside.

  She also had described the home next to hers, where she said the family kept growing and kept having to build on new sections to accommodate their members. It only took a minute to identify that house: a larger central structure with wings built onto it on almost every side, and additional chunks tacked onto those. Given those landmarks, he knew which house had to be Joslen’s.

  In the silence and the faint silvery glow, the place was eerie, its homes abandoned, doors open like the gaping mouths of the dead. He half-expected to see movement; children playing, someone cooking over one of the fire pits, people carrying game strung over their shoulders. Despite appearances, this was a place built by people, built for people, never meant to stand vacant. The homes hinted at liv
es lived, at lovers and parents, at feuds and shouting matches, games played, stories told, babies birthed, elders breathing their last.

  Only none of that was happening now. Rocky Bluff was as empty as a broken promise, and the only sound was a faint whistle as a night breeze scoured the abandoned pathways.

  Reaching Joslen’s home, he stifled the impulse to announce himself at the door—that would be foolish; the place was empty, and if there were anyone around he didn’t want to call attention to himself. He went inside, into the blackness where not even moonlight filtered, and sat down, back against a wall, to wait for the dawn.

  Twelve

  Apella preferred dealing with Krell at the mine office. There, he was in control, he had power. Power granted him by Krell, but power just the same. The Klingon couldn’t help but see how deferential others were toward him. And when necessary, Apella could put on a display of his power, could have a laborer whipped or beaten, for instance. That reminded everyone of Apella’s strength, and he knew the Klingon derived pleasure from the demonstration.

  But the Klingon refused to go along with his request this time. That’s what they always were with Krell: requests—Apella liked to think of them as demands, but he was realistic enough to know the truth. Krell had to pay a visit to the spaceport the Klingons had built nearby, to handle what little starship traffic there was. All of their visitors were Klingons, and while most of the traffic was freighters coming in to load ore from the mine, there was also a steady trickle of bureaucrats and other officials arriving for what business Apella did not know. When he asked, Krell told him it was none of his concern, and he said those words with such a fierce finality that Apella let the matter drop.

  This time, Krell told Apella that if he wanted to talk, they could talk while he walked to the port. “I am a busy man,” Krell added. Apella knew if this opportunity wasn’t seized it might be some time before another one arose.