Killashandra unconsciously hugged Lars’s arm. “That is a very deadly looking machine. Do they have many of those?”
“Enough!”
“Can Nahia and Hauness escape it?”
Lars chuckled, relieving his own tension and reducing hers. “The Yellowback is smaller and faster, highly maneuverable and could slip through reefs that would ram the cruiser. Once they’re away, they’re well away.”
Killashandra could see the coming and going on the ramp leading to Olav’s – people bearing tables, chairs, seating cushions, baskets of fruit, bowls of fruit, jars, several men staggering under loads of provender. Killashandra had been expecting another beach barbecue, with its pleasant informality. It had not occurred to her that there might be no beach at North Harbor, nor would the Elder have been entertained in the casual setting she had so much enjoyed at Wing. She groaned.
Lars squeezed her hand. “What’s wrong?”
She gave a gusty sigh. “State occasions! Formality! Scrapes and smiles and total boredom.”
Lars laughed. “You’ll be surprised. Pleasantly.”
“How will your father get away with it?”
Lars grinned at her. “You’ll see.”
What she first saw was the disposition of guards, lining the route up from the harbor, spaced neatly and stiffly about the Residence, and armed. She had seen very few stun rifles in her life but she could recognize them.
“What was he expecting? Civil war?”
“Elders usually travel with a considerable entourage. Especially in the islands. We are so aggressive, you see.” Lars spoke with deep sarcasm and she took in an anxious breath. “Oh, don’t worry, Killa. I’ll be circumspect. You’ll not even recognize me as your impetuous lover.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll expect a return of that lover as a reward for my evening with Torkes. And why is it Torkes? I thought he was in charge of Communications.”
Lars choked back a loud laugh, for they had neared the first sentry. “Elder Pedder is afflicted with motion sickness.”
The sentry who had been watching them approach from the corner of his eye suddenly pivoted, ported his weapon, and stared with impartial malevolence at them. “Who goes there?”
“The crystal singer, you fool,” Killashandra replied in a loud and disgusted tone. “With her bodyguard, Lars Dahl.” When Killashandra would have proceeded she was stopped by the weapon. “How dare you?” She darted forward, grasped the weapon by its muzzle, and levered it forcefully to the ground. The surprised young sailor panicked and relinquished his weapon. “How dare you threaten a crystal singer? How dare you threaten me?”
Killashandra was seized by a violent surge of real anger at the archaic and inane formality. She didn’t hear Lars trying to soothe her; she barged past two more sentries who came to assist their mate; she would have gone through the officer who came hurrying up the ramp, flanked by three additional guards on either side. She paused momentarily, seething at this additional obstacle. The officer had either encountered Elders in a tearing fit or he instantly recognized an elemental force. He barked an order, and the barricade suddenly became an escort which fell in behind the officer and Lars, who had managed to keep at Killashandra’s heels as the enraged crystal singer stormed forward to the Residence seeking the initiator of this additional affront.
Here Lars took the lead, adroitly indicating the way. She heard an exchange of urgent shouts. She had a confused vision of more guards snapping to attention, and another pair hastily opening the elaborately carved wooden doors – which despite her involvement in anger, she recognized as magnificent panels of polly wood. Then she was in the formal reception antechamber of the Residence, and she remembered thinking that the tip of this iceberg was the business end. She continued her angry progress right to the shallow tier of steps that led down to the main level. With an alert and wary expression, Olav was half way across the floor to greet her. Behind him Elder Torkes was seated on a high wooden chair, members of his staff standing about the room, conversing with several islanders.
Automatically, Killashandra gave the assembled one quick glance before she proceeded toward Torkes. “Did I spend weeks on a deserted island to be stopped and questioned by an armed minion? To have a weapon thrust in my face as if I were an enemy? I” – and Killashandra nearly bruised her breast bone as she thumped herself with rigid fingers – “I am the one who has been assaulted and abducted. I am the one who has been at jeopardy and you – ” Now she pointed an accusing finger at Torkes, who was regarding her in a state of shock. “You have been safe! Safe!”
Afterwards Lars told her that she had been magnificent, her eyes visibly emitting sparks, her manner so imposing that he had been breathless with astonishment. What operatic role had she been using?
“I wasn’t,” she’d replied with a rueful smile, for the effect of her dramatic entrance had more than satisfied her rage. “I’ve never been so angry in my life. A weapon? Pointed at me?”
Torkes heaved himself out of his chair, his expression that of a man confronting an unknown and dangerous entity and uncertain which course to take. “My dear Crystal Singer – ”
“I am not your dear anything.”
“Your experiences have unnerved you, Guildmember Ree. No aggression was intended against you, merely – ”
“ – Your wretched, suffocating need for protocol and an irrelevant show of aggression. I warn you” – and she waggled her finger at him again – “I warn you, you may expect the most severe retribution” – she caught herself; in her rage, she had been on the point of revealing too much to Elder Torkes – ”from my Guild, reparation for the callous and undignified way in which I have been treated.”
Torkes regarded her finger as if it were some sort of deadly weapon in itself. Before he could assemble a suitable reply Olav was at Killashandra’s elbow, offering a glass of amber liquid. “Guildmember, drink this . . .” His baritone voice, so soothing and conciliatory, penetrated her ranting. She knocked back the drink, and was rendered momentarily speechless. The shock of the potent beverage effectively restored her to discretion. “You are understandably overwrought, and have been needlessly upset, but you are safe here, now, I do assure you. Elder Torkes has already initiated the most thorough investigation of this terrible outrage and personally supervised your security here on Angel Island.”
Olav’s tactful reassurances gave her the time to regain use of her throat and vocal cords. Her throat was on fire, her stomach throbbing, and her eyes watered. Which seemed a good cue to develop. She allowed her tears to flow and reached weakly for Olav’s hand to support her. Instantly she felt Lars take her right arm, and the two men led her to the other elaborate chair in the chamber, seating her as if she were suddenly fragile.
“I am overset. Anyone would be, enduring what I have,” Killashandra said, using her sobbing to purge the last dregs of anger, for she estimated that she’d worked that pitch long enough. “All alone, on that wretched island, not knowing where I was, if I’d ever be rescued. And then the hurricane . . .”
A second glass was proffered. When she glared at Olav, he winked. Nevertheless, she sipped cautiously. Polly wine.
“Please accept my apologies, Elder Torkes, but that ridiculous weapon was the last straw.” Her voice died away but she managed to sound reasonably sincere. Then she smiled weakly at the nonplussed Elder, and fluttered her eyelashes at his attendants. They seemed afflicted by some sort of paralysis. It afforded Killashandra considerable satisfaction that she had managed to confound an entire Optherian crew. They had stood in great need of such a lesson. She relaxed into the cushioned back of the chair.