16
Dragoika flowed to a couch, reclined on one elbow, and gestured at Flandry. “Don’t pace in that caged way, Domma-neek,” she urged. “Take ease by my side. We have scant time alone together, we two friends.”
Behind her throaty voice, up through the window, came the sounds of feet shuffling about, weapons rattling, a surflike growl. Flandry stared out. Shiv Alley was packed with armed Kursovikians. They spilled past sight, among gray walls, steep red roofs, carved beams: on into the Street Where They Fought, a cordon around this house. Spearheads and axes, helmets and byrnies flashed in the harsh light of Saxo; banners snapped to the wind, shields bore monsters and thunderbolts luridly colored. It was no mob. It was the fighting force of Ujanka, summoned by the Sisterhood. Warriors guarded the parapets on Seatraders’ Castle and the ships lay ready in Golden Bay.
Lucifer! Flandry thought, half dismayed. Did I start this?
He looked back at Dragoika. Against the gloom of the chamber, the barbaric relics which crowded it, her ruby eyes and the striped orange-and-white fur seemed to glow, so that the curves of her body grew disturbingly rich. She tossed back her blonde mane, and the half-human face broke into a smile whose warmth was not lessened by the fangs. “We were too busy since you came,” she said. “Now, while we wait, we can talk. Come.”
He crossed the floor, strewn with aromatic leaves in his honor, and took the couch by hers. A small table in the shape of a flower stood between, bearing a ship model and a flagon. Dragoika sipped. “Will you not share my cup, Dom-maneek?”
“Well … thanks.” He couldn’t refuse, though Starkadian wine tasted grim on his palate. Besides, he’d better get used to native viands; he might be living off them for a long while. He fitted a tube to his chowlock and sucked up a bit.
It was good to wear a regular sea-level outfit again, air helmet, coverall, boots, after being penned in a spacesuit. The messenger Dragoika sent for him, to the Terran station in the High Housing, had insisted on taking back such a rig.
“How have you been?” Flandry asked lamely.
“As always. We missed you, I and Ferok and your other old comrades. How glad I am the Archer was in port.”
“Lucky for me!”
“No, no, anyone would have helped you. The folk down there, plain sailors, artisans, merchants, ranchers, they are as furious as I am.” Dragoika erected her tendrils. Her tail twitched, the winglike ears spread wide. “That those vaz-gira-dek would dare bite you!”
“Hoy,” Flandry said. “You have the wrong idea. I haven’t disowned Terra. My people are simply the victims of a lie and our task is to set matters right.”
“They outlawed you, did they not?”
“I don’t know what the situation is. I dare not communicate by radio. The vaz-Merseian could overhear. So I had your messenger give our men a note which they were asked to fly to Admiral Enriques. The note begged him to send a trustworthy man here.”
“You told me that already. I told you I would make quite plain to the vaz-Terran, they will not capture my Domma-neek. Not unless they want war.”
“But—”
“They don’t. They need us worse than we need them, the more so when they failed to reach an accord with the vaz-Siravo of the Zletovar.”
“They did?” Flandry’s spirit drooped.
“Yes, as I always said would happen. Oh, there have been no new Merseian submarines. A Terran force blasted the Siravo base, when we vaz-Kursovikian were unable to. The vaz-Merseian fought them in the air. Heaven burned that night. Since then, our ships often meet gunfire from swimmers, but most of them get through. They tell me combat between Terran and Merseian has become frequent—elsewhere in the world, however.”
Another step up the ladder, Flandry thought. More men killed, Tigeries, seajolk. By now, I suppose, daily. And in a doomed cause.
“But you have given me small word about your deeds,” Dragoika continued. “Only that you bear a great secret. What?”
“I’m sorry.” On an impulse, Flandry reached out and stroked her mane. She rubbed her head against his palm. “I may not tell even you.”