Rift in the Sky

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.

Wrong.

Aryl smoothed the blue silk that covered their bundle with one hand. The other held the image disk.

We’re here.

She looked up eagerly.

Careful. From his mind; nothing but welcome showed on his face as Enris d’sud Sarc graciously bowed the first non-M’hiray to set foot in the House of Sarc through the door.

Warned, Aryl stayed where she was, and schooled the smile from her face.

Young, this Human, and not. Her eyes were old. They didn’t acknowledge the luxury of a Lynn Tower, or the magnificent view that encompassed the horizon. They locked on her and waited with a hard patience.

What had Maynard told her was waiting, Aryl wondered desperately, that she looked so angry?

“I’ll wait up top,” Enris said easily, and strode up the ramp. He saw no threat, then. The caution hadn’t been for her sake, but for the Human’s. Aryl waited until his footsteps faded.

“You’re Karina Bowman.”

“You want to run my code, too?”

Aryl ignored what she didn’t understand. “Please, have a seat.” There were more stools.

“I won’t be here that long.”

“For the sake of my neck,” Aryl suggested gently. “You’re tall.” Like her mother. With the same red hair, though Karina’s scalp was shaved with the exception of a single long strand that fell behind her left ear. Beads were tied through its length.

Aryl’s hair lifted in protest, and she pushed it back.

“Quite the trick.” With all the disdain of someone who couldn’t afford new clothes, let alone the kind of ornamentation Grandies preferred.

“Trust me, it gets annoying,” she replied calmly.

Something in her tone eased the defensive stance. The Human grabbed one of the stools and moved it, then sat.

Graceful. Lean. Worn. That was it. Worn.

A sudden tilt of the head—curiosity. The movement was ach ingly familiar. Aryl blinked before tears filled her eyes. “I have something of yours, Karina.”

“Kari. I go by Kari.”

“And I by Aryl.” This old-child made her feel like Husni. “It’s a message from your father.” She held out the disk.

The laugh was harsh and bitter. “What is it? An apology? A ‘sorry I abandoned you as a baby’ or ‘sorry I made sure to ruin your life’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what do you know?” The Human sprang to her feet again with such violence Aryl had to fight not to react. “Are you the ones he stole for? Did he pay for all this?”

“Yes.” It felt as though she’d plunged a knife into her own heart.

Karina hadn’t expected an answer—or that answer. For the first time, there was something vulnerable on her face. Then it was gone again. “So what now? Are you going to give me creds?”

“ ‘Creds?’ ”

“Set me up or shut me up.”

“The House of Sarc will always include you and yours,” Aryl said. And it would. She would see to it that this debt was never forgotten. The child had no conception of the resources that had been waiting for her arrival. Funds, in the right amount and no more, from sources above suspicion. Human sources. A suitable home. An education. The protection of the M’hiray, that always. “But that isn’t why you’re here.”

She pressed her fingers to both surfaces of the disk as Yao had shown her. First the image of the family, then . . .

His face gazed at them, bruised and worn.

“My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”

Karina didn’t move. Didn’t seem to breathe.

“The message for you is encrypted. No one else has heard it.” Aryl rose and put the image disk in Karina’s unresisting hand. “I trust Marcus to have made it possible for you to access it. I’ll be waiting, inside, when you’re done. Take your time.”

A hand, broken-nailed and callused, fastened on her wrist.

Worry/hope/grief.

Aryl strengthened her shields, unsurprised. “What is it?”

Karina stared at the disk. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because your father was my friend,” Aryl told her. “His loss was the hardest of them all.”

And then, as if a wind had blown through her mind and taken with it all the mist and confusion,

“I could never forget him.”

Interlude