For what lay inside these crates.
“I don’t understand. Why would they kill Oud?” Netta was pale. “Didn’t the Oud invite the Strangers here? Didn’t they work together?”
“The Oud worked with Marcus. They knew the artifacts were important to him; that he wanted them kept safe. And what does ‘safe’ mean to Oud?” Enris gestured to the pile. “Underground. My guess is the Oud decided to take all this into their tunnels and the thieves had to stop them. Try to stop them.”
Silence, inside and out, as the others absorbed this. He understood. This wasn’t good, on any level.
Josel spoke first, radiating worry. “The dead Strangers look like Om’ray. What if the new Mindeds think we did this?”
Her twin answered, her eyes widening. “They’ll attack us, like Tuana!”
Hush! Galen projected confidence. “You forget. Aryl di Sarc is our Speaker. Leave the Oud to her.”
More loaded on Aryl’s small shoulders.
Enris would have winced if he hadn’t agreed completely. “Let’s get out of here, before we’re the ones who confuse the Oud.” Above ground, and with his Chosen.
“What about the artifacts?” Suen asked, eyes flashing. “If they’re valuable, we should take them with us.”
Galen frowned, but gestured agreement. “You’re right.”
Maybe to a Runner, used to grabbing whatever could be moved in hopes of future gain. Enris fought for patience. “Their value to the Strangers caused this problem. We can’t risk bringing them to Sona.”
“We could ’port them to a hiding place,” Netta offered eagerly. Josel nodded, coming to stand beside her twin.
About to argue the goo-stained crates were well hidden right here, Enris felt a stir. Aryl. An alert, not quite a warning. “Something’s happening above ground.” Something astounding.
Aryl, he sent quickly. We found the crates. And Marcus’ people. Dead.
How? The Oud?
Yes, but . . . There was no easy way to say it. We think Marcus’ people were part of it. He shared the image of the bristle-eared Stranger. This one was with them. They killed the Minded for trying to protect the artifacts. That aroused the Digger Oud. Marcus was betrayed by his own.
She grew distant.
Aryl? Enris stared down the tunnel. What is it?
Marcus is here.
Chapter 11
THE PITTED SURFACE of the old wall was warm beneath Aryl’s splayed fingers, returning the last of the sun’s gift. The air itself was cooling rapidly; mountain spring, colder than any season in Yena. Her coat hung on its hook in Sona. As if cold or coat mattered.
The ramp from the machine to the ground was metal. It rang with their careless steps. The cliff echoed their voices. The four who glanced beyond their fellows from time to time carried thick black objects in their hands. She marked them as threat.
The remainder were not. Aryl counted five, then a final two came out of the shadowed top, each holding a tether to a platform that floated in midair.
No faces at this distance, but the figure who led the rest wore Om’ray clothing, but wasn’t.
Marcus.
Was this rescue?
Something kept her close to stone, held her still, uncertain.
He’d gone to Site Three. Maybe that was a bigger place, with more resources. Maybe this was help coming.
Or it was something else. Her Chosen’s sending burned through her mind, left a foul taste.
Aryl eased around for another quick glance.
On the dirt now. Walking as if they didn’t know or need care what lay beneath. Coming this way.
To the buildings. Where the artifacts would have been waiting, except for the ever-unpredictable Oud.
They could know she was here. Marcus had had devices to sense the presence of others. But none looked her way. A pair continued to talk in their incomprehensible words to one another, their tones easy. Triumphant.
Enris. Haxel. Aryl sent the image of the Strangers, then of the buildings. Received instant assent, before all the Om’ray tightened their shields. They would be ready, out of sight.
She smoothed her rumpled, sorry dress and moved to where she could be seen.
Instant chaos. The four pushed the others aside, aimed what must be weapons at her. They were tall and thin, skin scaled like a Tikitik but with heavy fanged jaws that were likely their preferred armament in a fight. Crests rose over their heads and behind where ears might have been.
Aryl kept her hand from her longknife and waited.
A sharp command stopped their rush forward, lowered weapons, produced what sounded like a laugh. Naryn’s new knowledge would have been useful, but not essential. This, Aryl understood perfectly.
Someone didn’t think she was dangerous.
Fools came, she mused, in every shape.
Not in a hurry; not tarrying either. They reached the long shadow of the cliff and kept moving toward her. Toward the stairs, Aryl corrected to herself. Marcus was still in front. She couldn’t explain to herself why she waited without a smile. Why she didn’t call out a greeting or expect one.
Then Marcus stepped onto the first rise of stone and sunlight washed across his face.
Across bruises and blood.
Aryl whirled and ran, abandoning the stairs for the wall, dropping to the uneven ground to hit that in full stride. She ran for the grove, her heart hammering in her ears and shouts behind.
Marcus led the way because a terrible thread cut deep into the flesh of his neck, a thread held by the Stranger behind him. He led the way—Aryl dodged by instinct and a stone burst where she’d been, shards stinging her side—he led because a weapon pressed into his spine hard enough to bow his body.
He led—she was in the grove and threw herself forward as nekis flamed behind her—because there was nothing alive in his eyes.
Aryl drew her longknife, knew where she had to be . . .
... and was there.
The brush of fingertips. The shift of hand and blade. They moved no more than this. They had no need.
The Strangers had the technology to save themselves. There was no need to walk noisily into a trap even a stitler would have suspected. But that technology, Aryl judged coldly, was their weakness here. Having beaten their own kind, they felt themselves superior to the “vestigial populations” left on this world . . .
NOW.
... and they died for it.
Enris caught Marcus as he crumpled forward, Aryl’s first cut having been through the thread that bound him.
Her second severed the head of the creature at the other end.
It was over, of course, in paired heartbeats. The Tuana held unused knives, giving the Yena startled looks. Being traders, Aryl thought curiously, had they planned to offer a warning?
You didn’t warn what could kill you.
Haxel wiped her blade on the nearest husk. “Enris, take the Human to Oran.” Declaring Marcus one of them without hesitation. “We’ll deal with what’s left in the air machine.” She picked up one of the dropped weapons. Nothing happened when she pointed it. She gave it an irritated shake.
“Only wor—” They turned at the faint, pained rasp of a voice. Marcus didn’t try to smile. Aryl doubted his mashed lips could have formed one. “Only—works—for owner,” he managed.
The First Scout shrugged and dropped the weapon on that body. “Shame.”
“Can—can’t—”
“Hush,” Enris said kindly. He cradled the Human in his arms with no obvious effort. “Haxel can manage.”