Michael Payne - The Language of Ghosts

The tayshil all stared for a moment, then lifted their hands and flicked their fingers. Lynn flicked hers in return, muttering, “What, Orel? Am I supposed to give a speech?”

Before the rachnoid could do more than wiggle, though, the tayshil had turned back to their own conversations, only the eyes of the four humans still on her. “You okay?” she heard Malcolm call to her.

Lynn spread her hands, started toward them, thought of something, and turned back to the farmer. “Prin, can we get vests? I’d rather not have anyone taking shots at us.”

“Sure thing, Speaker.” Prin took hers off and handed it to Lynn, then called out, “Hey, Tair! You guys give the humans your vests, okay? I’ll round you up some more, but they’ve got traveling to do yet.”

One of the guards flicked her fingers, and she and the others began undoing their vests. Lynn came up to the group just as the baffled humans were taking the vests from their former captors. Lynn raised her hands before they could start asking and said, “Don’t translate, Orel. Let’s get back to the settlement first. This’s all some sort of civil war or something, but I think we’re okay for now. Translate, Orel. Speaker Rogateth has told me some interesting stuff, and we’ve got to get back to the settlement to share it with the others. There was a lot going on here that we didn’t know about.”

They stared at her, but Mr. and Mrs. Conover nodded, shrugging into their vests, their rachnoids scuttling up and around to avoid being buried by the cloth, Lucy looking too scared to ask any questions. Malcolm shook his head and grinned. “I’m glad I don’t come into town with you every day,” he said.

Lynn forced a smile—well, so much for romance—and the guards laughed, their eyes opening wide. One of them gave her a torch. “You’ll need this till you get out of town; I’ll bet this smoke stretches halfway down the hills.”

“I’ll bet.” Lynn took the torch. “Any idea how to get back to the road from here?”

The tayshil laughed again, then gave a series of directions that Lynn hoped Orel was taking note of. Lynn pushed out her lips, stroked the guard’s metin, waited till she’d tapped Orel, then muttered, “Which way, Orel?”

“Straight ahead, mistress, for seven blocks.”

“Right. Come on, folks.” She pushed through the furry bodies. “And Orel?”

“Yes, mistress?”

“The next time I say anything nasty about eggplant, you just whap me right in the side of the head, understand?”

She felt his legs grip tighter along the back of her neck. “I shall so endeavor, mistress.”