A cold chill settled in her spine. She closed her eyes, biting her lip. Snapping the epaulet that held her braid in place on her shoulder, she straightened. With all space about to come loose, what would they pay for Staffa's loyalty — or his death?
As she palmed the door latch she demanded of the empty air, "Damn you, Staffa, where are you?
Ily Takka luxuriated in the bubbling hot water of the bath. The decadent opulence of Itreata had taken her by complete surprise. She'd expected some Spartan asteroid base with minimal gravity, slightly unbalanced miners bouncing off the walls, and hydroponic yeast cakes for food. Itreata, it turned out, had been built in a planetoid, a rogue moon — with 0.8 gravities and all the amenities of Rega — if not more.
Dy had more or less expected the presence of the Sassan envoy. That they had arrived first constituted a minor annoyance — but nothing more. That Staffa had failed to meet her at the dock, however, caused her unease. A clever move on his part, no doubt, which would be explained soon enough.
She swirled the water, letting her long black hair cover her breasts like an ebony mantelet. It amused her that her attendants — all male — suffered between their desire to stare and their fear of who and what she was. She got distinct pleasure from their discomfort and wondered if Staffa were watching.
On that odd chance, she purposely adopted a position meant to entice. Saucily, she moved through the water, displaying her perfect body, allowing her hair to wrap around her in a sensuous mist.
She ran the reception through her mind. Not badly done for having been called to order so quickly. The Companions had been truly impressive with their scars and their hard-
eyed gazes. One or two had been weaving on their feet. More than one had openly stared, allowing admiration to slip through their warrior's glare. All in all, it had affected her more than if they'd all been letter perfect. These were men — fighters first, not parade ground martinets — and they made no bones about it.
Ily shifted and stood up, allowing the water to drain off her as she threw her head back and filled her lungs. And what, pray tell, was the relationship between Wing Commander Lyma and Staffa kar Therma? Lovers? If so, Skyla would be a potential rival.
Ily stepped from the bath and into the fresher, enjoying the sensations of warm air on her skin. Dry, she allowed her men to dress her, almost laughing aloud. They fumbled over her, trying to do the job without touching her sacrosanct flesh. Using their confusion and orchestrated mistimings, she watched their expressions turn ghastly as their hands accidentally brushed her. Each drew back as if her flesh were fire; a tiny sadism she delighted in.
Her meeting with Skyla Lyma had been brief but disconcerting. She'd met that bow and looked into those of icy crystal blue eyes. This Skyla Lyma was no hot-squeezing bed fluff. Rather, Ily felt she had met a worthy opponent. Lyma had met her gaze with an equally measuring one that controlled and challenged; and that, Ily decided, could have an effect on the way she manipulated the Lord Commander. If the blonde wench were his lover as well as his military confidante, Ily's plans would have to be adjusted accordingly.
A subte tension had radiated from Skyla Lyma. Ily paused, finger on chin, brow creased. The Wing Commander had been unsettled — and not just by an unexpected visit from Rega. The very air in the station rippled with unease — with suspense. Coupled with the fact that Staffa had not come to greet her, that bespoke trouble of some kind. Among the troops? No, the Companions had stood easily and unconcerned. Rather, it had been among the officers and administrators. A political problem? And the Sassans had just arrived? Divided loyalties among the upper echelons perhaps? Some wishing to go Sassan — some siding with Rega?
Ily Takka's perfect mouth flickered momentarily in a sati-
sfied smile. Trouble meant leverage to a woman with her skills. Leverage meant advantage could be taken. Power may be up for grabs here — and I will-have it!
No, things in the Itreatic Asteroids were not going to go as smoothly as she and Tybalt had hoped. Of course, if the Wing Commander proved as formidable as she appeared, a drop of thrakis would solve that. Thrakis was a rare poison, and dreadfully expensive, but it left no traces which an autopsy could detect.
Bruen walked out among the trees, his steps crunching the long pine needles underfoot. The wind whispered among the branches overhead and he filled his nostrils with the vanilla scent of the pine-laden air. As he had hoped, Arta Fera stepped into view on the trail. She wore a loose black dress that didn't hide the charms of her young body. The leather belt at her waist held a olstered pistol— required dress for all Seddi now that revolt swept Targa. Shadows dappled her fine features and the sunlight that filtered through the pines gleamed in her chestnut hair.
Bruen stopped and rubbed a frail hand over his aching hip as he stared up through the green limbs to the little patches of sky. How pleasant the day had turned out. He caught Arta's shy greeting smile and turned to walk with her in silence until they entered a grassy meadow.
All in all, she'd been progressing beyond expectations. In the last five standard years, she'd had an entire education inserted in her fertile brain. Each day, she spent four hours under a brain cap, taking direct information from the Mag Comm. And what else has the machine implanted? What errifying secret might it have left triggered to a word or action?
Bruen had carefully reviewed each of her lessons from the tape. But, of course, he had no guarantee the Mag Comm didn't hold something back.
"You look pensive, dear girl." Bruen tried to stretch a friendly smile over his age-battered features as he caught the anxiety in her expression.
She pushed her red-brown hair back when the breeze teased it. "How do I tell you what I think, Magister? I don't
know myself. I… I'm confused. From the time I was a child. Well, they taught me to dedicate myself to the Blessed Gods. Now you tell me I am to be an assassin? It's. it's just inconceivable. If I didn't know you and trust your wisdom so, I'd…" She shook her head, mouth tight with frustration.
He nodded as he glanced up at the fluffy white clouds that drifted over the ridge-broken western horizon. "Why did the Etarians have you scrubbing the floors, dear girl? You're much too precious for that. It's a poor use for pulchritude at best."
Arta blushed and looked down; her fingers caressed the cool black fabric of her dress. "I was under penalty for unseemly behavior, Magister. I–I raised my voice when the High Priest turned my initiation down in favor of another."
How far can I push her? Is she ready for the next step?
He cackled angrily. "Hah! Etarians! And a good thing it was too, dearest. Don't you know they auction the girls for their 'initiation'? It's a gang rape, you know."
"Magister! It is not! It's the Blessing of the Service ritual!" She puffed in exasperation. "We all looked forward to the consecration of our bodies to the service of the Blessed Gods!"
"They auction you children off to the highest bidder," he corrected, voice tart. "It so happens your consecration coincided with the arrival of a Sassan Vicar. He liked darkskinned girls with more, um, more ample bodies than yours. The Blessed High Priest knew that if he'd auctioned you, he'd take a loss over what they could get on a more marketable piece of meat."
"You make it sound like. like whoremongering! You're blaspheming the Sacred Rites! It's a lie!"
"Whoremongering? I couldn't have said it better." He observed the sudden change in her eyes.
"You don't know! We serve the Goddess. What better way than by bringing pleasure to a man?"
"For a price, dear Arta, for a price. Isn't that what whores do? Wrapping it up in the silken gauze of religion is nothing more than—"