David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“A Caldurian woman is stronger than a man of most other races,” Ceravanne said. “You saw the rings on her fingers? Six master rings of emerald for her swordsmanship. Four rings of topaz for staff. When a Caldurian proves equal in training to a master, he or she gets a ring. To win more rings, they must cut them from the fingers of their dead foes.

“She is an accomplished warrior, and it is rumored that the Caldurians cannot be turned by the Inhuman.”

“Why not?” Gallen asked.

“Some think that it is because they are so highly disciplined,” Ceravanne said. “Others think that their minds are just too different from ours, so the Word cannot function properly with them. It is whispered that the Inhuman does not even bother to try to convert them now. Instead, they are killed outright.”

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Orick said, “but I’m getting nervous with all of this talk. I think there’s trouble on this ship. I saw those Tekkar. Even without your warnings, I knew they were dangerous.”

“Yes,” Ceravanne agreed. “The Inhuman is with us, but does it know of our plans? Will it seek to thwart us?”

“I don’t think any of them followed us from the city,” Maggie said. “Orick and I watched the boats, and we saw no familiar faces.”

“That’s a good sign,” Gallen agreed.

“But the Inhuman is often subtle,” Ceravanne warned. “Just because you do not see it, that does not mean it isn’t here. We should take care. We should stay to our cabins as much as possible for the duration of the trip, and never speak openly about our quest again. I know that it is much to ask for you to agree to such seclusion, but it should only be six or seven days till we reach Babel.”

Well?” Captain Aherly asked.

Zell’a Cree pulled his head away from the cabin wall where he’d been listening. “They don’t suspect either of us strongly,” he whispered. “But they are wary of the Tekkar.”

“You should have left the Tekkar in Northland,” Aherly said. “They’ll be nothing but trouble. They’ve already asked my permission to kill some of our guests. I denied them, but they’re thirsty for blood.”

“Yet we may need their services before this is over,” Zell’a Cree whispered. He considered. He had only three copies of the Word left in his pouch. He couldn’t harvest all of the souls in the neighboring cabin. But perhaps he didn’t need to. The bear was expendable. Still, most unwilling converts would fight the Word, and there was no way to be certain that three copies would be enough.

“The Tharrin woman, Ceravanne, is beautiful,” Aherly said. “I have often longed to see a Tharrin. And yet I find that if I had seen this one on the street, disguised as she was, I would have passed her, never knowing what she was, knowing only that she was lovely.” His tone became hard, commanding. “Whatever happens, I don’t want you or your men to kill her.”

“She’s more than just beautiful, she’s useful. I’ll order the Tekkar to stay in their room,” Zell’a Cree agreed.

Aherly shook his head in bewilderment. “Are you sure these people are what you say they are? Gallen and Maggie look like … well, just nice kids. Not Lords of the Swarm. And Ceravanne looks like their younger sister. They’re practically children!”

“Were we not children before the Inhuman claimed us?” Zell’a Cree said.

“Well, yeah,” Aherly fumbled.

Zell’a Cree sighed, obviously fatigued. “We’ll find more copies of the Word when we reach port. It seems that time is against our friends. From now on, at night we will put the sails at quarter mast.”

“You bastard!” Captain Aherly said. “I’ve got cargo to carry. You’ll cost me days!”

Zell’a Cree scowled at the man. Aherly might be Inhuman, but he was still greedy, a vice that Zell’a Cree could not claim for himself.

“If you have complaints about how I treat you,” Zell’a Cree whispered dangerously, “perhaps you should take them to the Tekkar.” Zell’a Cree was a broad man, incredibly stocky, so that even in spite of the fact that he was not much taller than Aherly, Zell’a Cree seemed to dwarf the captain.

Aherly’s jaw quivered, and Zell’a Cree studied the movement … wondering if he could learn to simulate fear.

* * *

That night, Gallen wore his mantle to bed. The heavy metal ringlets were uncomfortable, and the many tiny knowledge crystals dangling from it tinkled when he moved his head. But he cared little for sleep this night. He needed knowledge, and so he lay thinking for a long time, wondering how best to speed their trip to Moree.

With his mantle’s many sensors, he could see around the room clearly, and he let the mantle heighten his hearing, until the creaking of timbers and water lapping the hull were well amplified. Maggie slept beside him in the narrow bunk, facing the wall, and Gallen enjoyed the sweet scent of her off-world perfumes.

He lay curled against her, smelling her hair, just holding her.

Outside, there was the occasional sound of a scout calling his reports, and the scurry of feet over the weather deck.

Gallen tried to call up files about the Tekkar, but he was using Veriasse’s old mantle, and Veriasse had never battled that race. His mantle carried information about the planet Tekkar-a fiendishly hot world where near-sentient dragons hunted by night. Gallen could guess at the specifications one might set in creating a subspecies to dwell on that world, but the reasons for colonizing the place at all were baffling.

And so after a bit of study, Gallen let his mantle seek files on other subspecies he would find on Tremonthin-size, coloration, distinctive features; visual, auditory, and olfactory sensitivity; speeds and strengths; various traits. The information he received was very discomfiting. He found that many races had been boosted for sensitivity, for dexterity, for intelligence, for fierceness.

The Lords of Tremonthin were designing subspecies to colonize thousands of worlds in this galaxy and beyond, yet Gallen saw that the attributes given to some made for incredibly dangerous combinations. He shook his head in wonder, wishing vainly that Ceravanne and the other Tharrin would have had more control over such decisions.

Late in the night, Gallen suddenly became aware of soft footsteps outside his door, and he realized that for several minutes he had heard stealthy sounds-the creaking of timbers at long, infrequent intervals.

For a moment, he watched his door. He’d thrown the bolt home before retiring, but he watched the door handle. His mantle let him see it dearly in the dark, and Gallen silently willed the mantle to let him view the scene in infrared.

He spotted two people standing on the other side of the door-their form revealed by the warmth of their body heat striking the planks.

For a long time they stood, then one of them gently pulled the wooden door handle, testing to see if the door was locked.

Gallen silently sat up, pulled his knife from his sheath, and began stalking toward the door, thinking to pull it open, surprise the men.

He slid his feet across the floor, careful to make no sound, and his mantle detected none. But suddenly the man at the door froze and distinctly hissed to his companion, “The Lord Protector!” They turned and fled above deck.

Gallen rushed to his door, threw it open, and raced above deck. The deck was cluttered with the lines and mast, dozens of nooks where someone might hide. There was a swift, cold breeze outside, and a dozen sailors were on deck, but Gallen couldn’t be certain which of them had been at his door. He looked at them in infrared, and their bodies seemed to shine while flames flickered across their skins as if they were demons from hell.