The inner portion sank to form a ramp leading down to the back wall. A wall, Aryl saw with interest, covered with weapons displayed behind metal grids. She walked over to it, impressed. “Are these yours?”
Several eyes bent to look at her. “Their owners left them with me.” Its voice was a deep rumble. “I suggest you do the same.”
A hand slapped the counter before she had to answer. “Gurdo! Whaddabout our refund!?”
The tone wasn’t one she’d use, given one of “Gurdo’s” claws would span the Human’s ample torso. But its reply was mild. “You’ll have to take that up with Louli. I can call her for you.”
The florid-faced Human lost all color. “No,” he said quickly. “That’s not necessary. ’S was only a little bet. Some fun. That’s all.”
“Generous of you. Yirs? Beer for this fine Grandie. On the house.”
Once the Human was mollified, Gurdo tipped its big head back to Aryl. “Ordinary knives—no one cares. But any constable will seize that,” a gesture to the longknife still out in her hand, “and throw you in jail for the privilege, first chance they get. Which will be when you leave the ’Dive. You see, locals call this Tax Free Layer, but that’s only because few here can afford to pay them, not that we don’t get interfered with by the powers above. There’s always a couple here. Yirs?”
One of the servers spoke without turning around. “End of the stage, as usual. Waiting for Brocheuse.”
Aryl tightened her hand on the hilt. “They can try.”
Enris coughed. Leaving?
“I do enjoy your grist!” The Carasian made a sound like rain on metal. Amusement, she guessed. Having bellowed them out of the pit, it had become a jovial host, its rage apparently a show for the disappointed spectators. Now it opened one of the metal grids and selected a disappointingly plain, stubby cylinder. “Try this. Force blade,” it told her. “Has a number of advantages. Hides. Intimidates,” it announced as it pressed the fine tip of a claw into a depression, producing a thin glowing line that extended from the cylinder about the length of Aryl’s arm, a line that hissed as it moved through the air. “With no inconvenient residue to worry about, if you get my meaning.” It pulled a piece of white cloth from a stack behind the counter, tossing it into the air so it passed through the glowing line. Two halves fluttered to the floor. The Carasian turned it off. “Give me your pretty pox-sticker. I’ll let you have this for twenty rimmies.”
“A trade,” Enris nodded.
“A fair one,” as if her Chosen had protested. “Either way, you can’t take that with you.”
She certainly could, but Aryl didn’t see the value in arguing. What she did see was the value in what it offered. “We’ll need more of those,” she said firmly. “Many more.”
The eyestalks went in several directions at once. “I’m no dealer, friend. Just a bartender keeping the peace.” With a little more volume than required, as if speaking for other ears.
Enris leaned forward, eyes aglow with interest, but not in the remarkable weapon. “What are ‘rimmies’?”
“More force blades and a place for our people to live,” Aryl interjected before Gurdo could answer. “A safe place.”
Let me do this. “We’re offworlders,” Enris explained smoothly. “Arrived today. We could use some guidance.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Leaving most of its eyes on Aryl, the Carasian spared a few for her Chosen. Who looked, she thought, remarkably smug.
“You talk like Grandies,” Gurdo observed after a moment. “Look like you can’t afford a beer. Guidance is expensive. Especially the good kind.”
Enris smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t judge us by appearance.”
What was he doing? Aryl kept her mouth closed and shields tight. Her hair, however, writhed up and over her shoulders, reaching for her Chosen. Who lifted a finger to let a tendril wind itself around like a ring.
She did her best to smile and not grab it back.
“Amazing grist,” the Carasian muttered. It shifted on its rounded feet, producing a muted clank, then came to a decision. “Can’t talk here. Come with me. No promises, though.”
A tap on a panel opened a door in the wall, splitting the weapon display into sections. The air wafting through was warm and damp. “But first.” An upper claw opened and waited.
Impossible to read a face composed of what looked like polished metal bowls separated by a dark gap filled with restless stalked eyes.
Aryl.
She frowned, but gave the Carasian her longknife. Leaving her hand extended.
All eyes came to rest on her. Aryl didn’t budge.
“Call it a sample,” Gurdo grumbled, dropping the force blade in her palm. “Do not,” with emphasis “use it here.” Her longknife went on the wall, the grid replaced over it.
Aryl tucked the cylinder in a pocket, satisfied.
“This way.”
It wasn’t, she discovered, an ordinary door. No sooner had Aryl stepped through than sprays of bitter water struck her from all sides. Sputtering, she hurried forward to get away from them, Enris doing the same.
The Carasian followed more slowly. While it appeared to enjoy the spray, the door wasn’t wide enough for it, so it leaned to one side and pulled itself through by force, claws grabbing the door edge for purchase. From the deep scars in the door-frame, this was its usual practice.
Aryl spat out the bitter stuff and glared at the glistening Gurdo. “What was that for?”
“You were covered in sand.” As if she should have realized. “I can’t have sand in my home.”
And as if the blue blood staining that sand didn’t matter in the least.
As homes went, this wasn’t much: a square room no more than five long strides wide in either direction, though two levels high. Quiet, dimly lit, its furnishings were four large polished rocks, speckled with gray, set into the floor. In the midst of the rocks, a small pool of dark water gurgled busily to itself. A set of stairs against a side wall led to the only other door, at the next level. There were no windows, but the wall straight ahead featured a framed image of water sliding over black rocks. Rocks with small black eyes. Eyes that disturbingly followed any movement, Aryl noticed.
The Carasian lowered itself over one of the chair-rocks, resting its pair of big claws on the floor. “Let me guess,” it said briskly once the two M’hiray had sat. “You need idents. Certificates. For how many?”
Aryl pushed an impatient lock of wet hair back. “Everyone.”
A flash of caution.
She understood Enris’ concern; she had no time for it. Not while the M’hiray waited beneath their feet, trusting them to find the way out. “There are seven hundred and thirty of us. We need a place to live. Now.” Aryl thought of the crowded roofs and buildings outside and shuddered inwardly. “Better than this. Private. Away from Humans.”
So much for blending in. With a hint of irony.
It knows we aren’t Human. Flat and sure. Trust me.
The Carasian dipped its head from one shoulder to the other. “If you picked this world, you know anything can be arranged for a price.”
“A price?”
This is where you trust me, beloved.
She’d prefer to test her new weapon, but this was Enris’ knowledge, not hers. Though why was she so sure?
The reason slid away, leaving only belief.
Aryl subsided, crossing her legs on the rock to prove it.
“We’ve brought items to trade,” Enris said in a casual tone. “Offworld items. Quite valuable.”
We did?
I’ve asked Naryn and Haxel to check our belongings. There must be something. Any doubt of that Enris might have had—which Aryl shared—he didn’t allow to reach his face or voice. “We’d be glad to show them to the right trader. Would that be you?”