Melein had known better than what she had done: kel-trained and sen-trained, she knew dusei, and she knew that she was provoking the beast dangerously, worrying at Duncan, drawing panic from him. But like the other she’pan that he had served, Melein had coldness for a heart.
And Duncan, his naked skin exposed to the heat and the secretions of the dus’ hot hide, its venom flowing in his veins, would adapt to the dus and the dus to him if he did not die; or if the beast did not go mink, into that madness that sometimes came on stressed dusei, that turned them killer. That was what Melein had risked, and knew it.
If the beast went, Niun did not know now whether he could prevent the human from going with it. He had heard of it happening: a mri dragged into insanity by a miuk’ko dus; he had not, he thanked the gods, seen it.
The warning siren sounded.
Niun looked frantically at the starscreen, and cursed in anguish. It was the worst of all possible times that they should prepare to transit.
The bell sounded. The dusei roused, terrified, and Duncan for his part simply flung his arms about his beast’s neck and bowed his head and held on, lost, lost in the dus-fears and the mind of the beast.
Perhaps it protected him. They jumped, emerged, jumped again within half a night. The man and the dus clung together, and radiated such fear that the other dus could not stay by them.
It was said of the dusei that they had no memory for events, only for persons. And perhaps it was that which drew the human in, and prpvided a haven from which he would not emerge.
“Duncan,” Niun said the next morning, and without pleading with him, held a cup to his lips and gave him water, for he was not a dus, to go without. He bathed the human’s face with his fingertips.
“Give me my robe,” Duncan said then softly, startling him, and he was glad, and drew the human away from the afflicted dus, helping him to stand. Duncan was very weak, the arm hot and swollen still; he had to be helped into his clothing, and when he was given the headcloth and veil, he veiled himself as if he earnestly wished its privacy.
“I will speak to the she’paft,” Niun offered earnestly. “Duncan, I will speak to her.”
The human drew a great breath, let it go with a shudder, and pushed away the dus that nosed at his leg. It nearly threw him with its great strength. He caught himself with Niun’s offered hand, then pushed help aside a second time, stubborn in his isolation.
“But you are wrong,” Duncan said, “and she was right.” And when he had drawn another breath: “There are ships on our trail. My people. Warships. I lied, Niun. It was no gift. They have the same series of directions we do, and they will come on our heels. What they will do then, I do not know. I am not in their confidence. They put me aboard for the reason the she’pan guessed: to make you trust the gift, to learn things the tapes cannot tell, to get me and the information back if I could. I tore the ship out of their hands and ran. Tell her that. It is all that I know. And you can do what you like about it.”
And he walked off, to the far side of the room, and curled up in the corner. The dus padded over, head hanging, and wearily flung its bulk down against him. Duncan put his arms about its neck and laid his head against it, and rested. His eyes were blank and weary, and held such a look of despair as Niun had never seen on any face.
“Bring him,” Melein told him when he had reported the things Duncan had admitted.
“She’pan,” he protested, “he has helped the People.”
“Be silent,” she answered. “Remember that you are Jcel’en, and kel’anth; and that you owe me some loyalty.”
Right was on her side, the Tightness of the mri, the lightness of their survival. He felt the impact of it, and bowed his head against her head and acknowledged it and sat by in misery that evening while she began to question Duncan, and to draw forth from him all that he could tell.