The first door she approached was locked and her quick rap met with no response. The second door was jerked open just as she got to it. She needed no urging to step into the sanctuary. Indeed, not a moment too soon for the searchers came pounding around the corner and stormed past the door.
“That was a bit foolish, if you ask me,” said the woman beside her in a hoarse accusation. “You may be an alien but that wouldn’t matter to them did they apprehend you down here.” She gestured for Killashandra to follow her to the rear of the little house. “You must have some thirst to go roaming about Gartertown in search of quenching. There are places which legally serve drink, you know.”
“I didn’t, but if you could tell me – ”
“Not that the hours you can drink are that convenient, and our brew’s superior to anything out of the Bascum. The water, you know! This way.”
Killashandra paused because a crate of the illegal bottling was sitting in the middle of the floor of the rear room, right by a section of flooring which had been removed.
“Give me a hand, would you? They might do a house-to-house if they’re feeling particularly officious.”
Killashandra willingly complied and, when the crate was stored, the section replaced, the hiding place was indistinguishable.
“Don’t like to rush a body’s enjoyment of a brew, but . . . .”
Killashandra would have preferred to savor the second bottle, but she downed it in three long swallows. The woman took the empty and chucked it toward the disposal. With a loud crunch the evidence was disposed of. Killashandra drew her fingers down the corners of her mouth, and then belched yeastily.
The woman took a position by her door, ear to the panel, listening intently. she jumped back just as the door swung in wide enough to admit a fall figure.
“They were recalled,” the man said. “And there’s some sort of search going on in the City – ” He broke off then because he had turned and caught sight of Killashandra standing in the doorway.
She was as motionless with surprise as he for she recognized him, by garb and stance, as the young man from the infirmary corridor. He recovered first while Killashandra was considering the advisability of dissembling.
“You’re making this far too easy,” he said cryptically, striding up to her. Surprised, she saw only his fist before a stunning blackness overcame her.
She roused the first time, aware of a stuffy atmosphere, the soreness of her jaw, and that her hands and feet were tied. She groaned, and before she could open her eyes, she felt a sudden pressure on her arm and her senses reeled once more back into unconsciousness.
She was still tied when she woke the second time, with an awful taste in her mouth and the tang of salt in her nostrils. She could hear the hiss of wind and the slap of water not far from her ears. Cautiously she opened her eyes a slit. She was on a boat, all right, in an upper berth in a small cabin. She was aware of another presence in the room but dared not signal her consciousness by sound or movement. Her jaw still ached though not, she thought, as much as on her previous awakening. Whatever drug they had given her was compounded with a muscle relaxant, for she felt exceedingly limp. So why did they bother to keep her bound?
She heard footsteps approaching the cabin and controlled her breathing to the slow regularity of the sleeper just as an outer hatch was flung open. Spray beaded her face. A warm spray so that her muscles did not betray her.
“No sign?”
“No. See for yourself. Hasn’t moved a muscle. You didn’t give her too much, did you? Those singers have different metabolisms.”
The inquisitor snorted. “Not that different, no matter what she said about alcoholic intake.” Amusement rippled in his voice as he approached the bed. Killashandra forced herself to remain limp though anger began to boil away the medically induced tranquillity as she reacted to the fact that she, a member of the Heptite Guild, a crystal singer, had been kidnapped. On the other hand, her kidnapping seemed to indicate that not everyone was content to remain on Optheria. Or did it?
Strong fingers gripped her chin, the thumb pressing painfully on the bruise for a moment, before the fingers slid to the pulse-beat in her throat. She kept her neck muscles lax to permit this handling. Feigning unconsciousness might result in unguarded explanations being exchanged over her inert body. And she needed some before she made her move.
“That was some crack you fetched her, Lars Dahl. She won’t appreciate the bruise.”
“She’ll have too much on her mind to worry about something so minor.”
“Are you sure this scheme is going to work, Lars?”
“It’s the first break we’ve had, Prale. The Elders won’t be able to fix the organ without a crystal singer. And they’ve got to. So they must apply again to the Heptite Guild to replace this one, and that will require explanations, and that will bring FSP investigators to this planet. And there’s our chance to make the injustice known.”
What about the injustice you did me? Killashandra wanted to shout. Instead she twitched with anger. And gave herself away.
“She’s coming round. Hand me the syringe.”
Killashandra opened her eyes, about to argue for her freedom when she felt the pressure that brooked no argument.
Her final awakening was not at all what she had been expecting. A balmy breeze rippled across her body. Her hands were untied and she was no longer on a comfortable surface. Her mouth tasted more vile than ever, and her head ached. She controlled herself once more, trying to sort out the sounds that reached her ears. Wind soughing. Okay. A rolling noise? Ocean waves breaking on shore line not far away. The smells that accosted her nostrils were as varied as the wind and wave, subtle musty floral fragrances, rotten vegetation, dry sand, fish, and other smells which she’d identify later. Of human noises or presences she had no input.
She opened her eyes a fraction and it was dark. Encouraged, she widened her vision. She was lying on her back on a woven mat. Sand had blown onto it, gritty against her bare skin, under her head. Overhead, trees bent their fronds, one sweeping against her shoulder in a gentle caress. Cautiously she lifted her torso, propping herself up on one elbow. She was no more than ten meters from the ocean, but the high-tide mark was safely between her and the sea, to judge by the debris pushed into an uneven line along the sand.
Islanders? What had Ampris said about the islanders. That they’d had to be disciplined out of autonomous notions? And the young man of the corridor who had assailed her. He had been suntanned. That was why his skin was so dark in comparison to the other onlookers.
Killashandra looked around her for any sign of human habitation, knowing that there wouldn’t be any. She had been abandoned on the island. Kidnapped and abandoned. She got up, absently brushing the sand off her as she swung about, fighting her conflicting emotions. Kidnapped and abandoned! So much for the prestige of the Heptite Guild on these backward planets. So much for another of Lanzecki’s off-world assignments!
Why hadn’t she left a message for Corish?
Chapter 8
Killashandra grimaced as she crossed off yet another week on the immense tree under which she had erected her shelter.
She sheathed the knife again and involuntarily scanned the horizon in all directions, for her polly tree dominated the one elevation on the island. Once again she saw distant sails to the northeast, the orange of the triangles brilliant against the sky.
“May their masts snap in a squall and their bodies rot in the briny deep!” she muttered and then kicked at the thick trunk of the tree. “Why don’t you ever fish in my lagoon?”