“Why would he show me this?” Aryl sank back down. “Why this and not the truth?”
“It wasn’t a lie,” Maynard said quietly. “At a guess, Bowman was far from home. Living like that—you take your best memories with you, not your failures. Do you understand?”
“Lie” she understood. Now. Another meaning revealed. To say what wasn’t true, to do it on purpose. She didn’t like the words the constable taught her. She didn’t like them at all.
“If Marcus didn’t lie to me,” Aryl replied with a scowl, “he lied to himself.” To pick and choose parts of a life to remember, parts to forget? If that was what the M’hiray had done, they’d lied to themselves, too. She should go home. There was no point to this. To any of it.
The past was broken.
“Listen to me, Aryl di Sarc.” Maynard came and sat across from her, the disk held flat between his palms. “I said this was a puzzle. It’s not an ordinary one. Parts of your friend’s life are being hidden by those in power. There’s a stench to what’s being left in the open. If Hoveny relics show up anywhere, right after a Triad Analyst is declared dead and his belongings confiscated? The snoops will be all over it. Bowman will be accused and convicted by opinion. His reputation won’t be worth a pox’s piss.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Besides believe him. Besides believe it was all their doing, that by selling the artifacts the M’hiray had done exactly what this Human predicted: plant suspicion on Marcus.
Who’d known this would happen.
The look in his eyes from the vid. Why hadn’t she seen it?
Marcus Bowman had known what giving the M’hiray the artifacts, what sending both to Stonerim III would mean. The destruction of his reputation. The cost to his family.
He’d traded it all for them.
“There’s nothing I can do,’ Aryl repeated, hair sliding limp over her cheeks. “It’s too late.”
“Might be.” Maynard pressed the disk into her hands. “Might not. Keep this,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind you. It could take a while—a long while. I can’t make this a public search. Not and avoid—certain elements.” His sudden smile was predatory. “But if I find her, you’ll know.”
“Then what?”
“Then, Aryl, you give Marcus Bowman’s daughter the truth. Some of it, which is more than she has now.”
Her hair slipped down her arms to cover their hands. Aryl gazed at the constable and for a instant saw another face, with wise green-brown eyes and a smile that quirked at the corner.
“You have a daughter.”
He half smiled. “Three.”
If she’d met Maynard first that night . . . if the M’hiray had found a better kind of Human in Norval, one to trust instead of use . . . so much would be different.
As well wish for a world of their own.
“I’ll be waiting, Constable,” she said solemnly. “As long as it takes.”
Chapter 8
FIRST TEERAC, THEN VENDAN moved, establishing their place away from Sarc. Aryl missed them all, something she kept to herself. She seemed the only one who wanted the M’hiray to stay together; happiest when they gathered again, quiet for days when they left.
Enris believed it was the baby. “Who should,” Aryl whispered to the considerable bulk that preceded her, “be out by now.” She wasn’t, according to Seru and Sian, late. As her cousin had given birth two weeks ago, and Sian’s Chosen had never had a child, she didn’t think much of their opinions. “Late you are.”
Notlisteningnotlistening.
Opinions, her baby did have. And a will as strong as her Chosen’s. “You’d be happier out.” To prove it, Aryl walked through the door to the upper balcony to greet the morning.
The gardeners had finished only days ago. Other M’hiray, especially Naryn, had thought this the strangest notion she’d had yet. Being First Chosen, Aryl thought smugly, she didn’t have to think much of those opinions either.
The balcony stretched out from the Tower, curved back, and formed a gentle ramp as it wrapped completely around the Sarc holding. She could walk to the roof from here.
Not quickly. The gardeners had followed her instructions with Human enthusiasm, accomplishing more than she’d imagined. Where other balconies had transparent floors or rich surfaces of tile and wood, that of Sarc was soft turf. Vines climbed the Tower walls. Sections of the senglass were programmed to allow their flowering tips to pass through, so at night, it was hard to tell where the garden ended and their home began.
As she did every morning now, Aryl plucked a wide, sturdy leaf, sniffed its pungent fragrance, then absently folded it once, then again. Once more, she decided. She went to the railing and tossed it gently into the wind. The folded leaf flew straight for a few seconds and she began to smile, then it tumbled and spiraled straight down. “Not right,” she murmured.
Taller plants made islands of shade and foliage. Nothing appeared groomed or tame, though of course it all was. But when she stood here during the nightly rain, in the midst of growing things, Aryl could almost touch . . .
“Thought I’d find you here.” Enris wandered in, ducked a low-hanging branch, and flung himself down on a sunny spot of turf. “How’s our bundle?”
She smiled and brought over a stool, having discovered their “bundle” resented the amount of bending required to lie on the ground. Her bare toes caressed the turf. “Not as impatient as I am.”
“Did you hear Council asked Lymin and Suen to consider our daughter for their son’s Choice?” He rolled over on his back and grinned at her. “Suen said to remind them in fourteen years or so. Not that he has anything against ties with the Sarcs.”
Aryl laughed. “As if Council can dictate Choice.” Warmth slipped between their minds, as soothing as the sun on her back.
You two dressed?
Enris snorted.
We’re fit for company, Aryl replied, smiling as Naryn materialized. “Glad you’ve decided to—”
“I’m not here to visit.” Naryn’s red hair writhed over her shoulders, dipped across one eye. “There’s a Human asking for you in the Tower antechamber. She won’t give a name.”
Uninvited visitors didn’t reach the Towers of Lynn. There were abundant—and costly—measures to ensure the privacy of those who lived here. Enris sat up. “How did she get this far?”
“She was brought in an undeclared vehicle. It had the right codes. Cader took a look. He says,” Naryn’s lip curled with distaste, “it was one of the stealth pursuits used by Norval’s constabulary. How your nephew would know this is something you should investigate, First Chosen.”
Maynard.
Aryl rose to her feet, heart pounding. “Have her brought—have her brought here.”
Who is it?
“Here?” Naryn’s eyebrow lifted.
“Here.”
To Enris. I know who I hope it is.
How long did it take to come up the lift? Enris had gone down to greet their guest—greet and assess any risk she posed. Time enough for Aryl to stand in the shade of a willow, move back into the sun, shift to be next to a small fountain, only to wind up on the stool again when her ankles protested.
All this time, there’d been no word from the constable. Aryl had known not to seek it, had done her best, after confiding in Enris, to put the affairs of Marcus Bowman from her mind and concentrate on her people.
Even when rumors had indeed spread into the news, linking Bowman’s name to more words she didn’t like: collusion, treachery, greed. Not that there was proof. But proof didn’t seem necessary. The mysterious death of several researchers. The confiscated goods of one. A now-sealed world. More than enough to condemn the innocent.