Fortunately, Acorna’s gown was made of a fabric much more durable than it looked, but the fashionable boots that hid her oddly shaped feet were very clumsy and might make enough noise to be heard. How she finally got them off she never knew because it involved contortions of her lithe body she’d never had to make before, even in her selfdefense exercises. Lying on her back, she sort of inched her feet up to where she could grab the boots and untie the laces. She would have loved to abandon them right there, but it seemed unwise to leave this proof of her escape route. Turning back on her stomach, she managed to tie the boots around her waist to keep them from hitting the tube walls. “Good idea,” her rescuer approved in a bare thread of a whisper. After that they made better, and much quieter, progress along the tube. She wondered once or twice if her blood pounded more loudly than her body slithered, but no alarm was sounded.
She did sneak a peek through the other vents, but Calum was not in any of the three cells she could see into. The apathy of the detainees did nothing to reassure her about his safety.
They came to an intersecting tube, and the boy swung his body expertly to the left and wriggled down it. How long she followed him in this snakelike fashion Acorna had no idea, but suddenly they were in a much wider place-wider by comparison, at least-and she could sit without hitting her head on the ceiling. She was breathless and dry-mouthed from all her exertion.
“It’s safe enough here. We can talk now,” her savior said, but his voice was only a faintly raised whisper, warning her that their “safety” was only relative.
“What about Calum?” she whispered back.
“Who?”
“My … pilot.”
The boy shook his head. “Must have been held in another area. I didn’t see anybody but you and some of our own people.” Acorna’s heart sank at this information, but she tried to put a brave face on it. “We must search for him,” she said. “But first, I should thank you for rescuing me. I am Acorna. …” She let her voice trail off as she could not decide how else to identify herself. Was it safe to tell this unknown rescuer of her connection with the houses of Harakamian and Li? It might be better to find out a little more about him first.
“I’m Market Illart. My father …” He gulped. “They … the ones who caught you … they’re not Starfarers, not really. They were refugees we were helping out, and then that Nueva had a coup and spaced practic’ly all of the First Gen. I couldn’t do anything, they’d locked the cabins. I couldn’t do anything,” he repeated, his voice rising dangerously.
“No, of course you could not,” Acorna said at once, though she was not at all clear on the situation-except that her rescuer, having shed his self-confident air, was clearly only a boy, a lost youngling in need of comfort. Despite, or perhaps because of, her sympathetic reassurance, Markel suddenly crumpled into sobs, even though he tried very hard to suppress them.
Immediately Acorna transferred herself to his side of their refuge and pulled him into her arms. Despite the hat, which had somehow remained in place through all her recent gyrations, she could touch his head with her concealed horn, to help relieve his anguish. The hands that he held to his face to muffle his sobs were bruised and bloodied as well as filthy. She could, and did, heal them. If he was to be of any further assistance to her, he needed to be whole. She left the dirt, having no water anyhow to clean him up. That reminded her of her own thirst.
“I’m terribly sorry, my dear,” she said, hoping that he could feel the sympathy and reassurance she longed to give him. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Days, weeks, months it could be. It … it isn’t easy to keep track of time up here.” His voice wobbled dangerously.
“No, it certainly wouldn’t be,” Acorna agreed at once, “and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for rescuing me.”