Текст книги "Hastrom City Rising (The Adventures of Letho Ferron Book 2)"

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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THREE – Trajectory

Letho joined his cohorts inside the cramped office. A gnawing sensation lit up his belly, and he had to grasp the doorframe to steady himself as a hunger pang like he had never known surged through his body.

“Hey Letho, you okay?” Deacon asked, standing up from the computer desk.

“Yeah. Just realized how incredibly hungry I am,” he replied.

“I know what you mean. It might be a good idea to see what supplies we can scavenge. Can’t imagine there’ll be a welcoming committee waiting for us with fruity beverages and a cornucopia of delicious treats when we get planetside.”

Many of the group nodded in agreement, and the air of desperation that was slowly permeating everything around them seemed to lift a bit. Finding a sense of purpose in a time of turmoil can do that. But Letho didn’t quite share in the communal sense of optimism. Chances were that the whole damn ship had been picked clean. He didn’t really know what the situation was on Eursus’s surface. Of course he’d seen the Eursus vids that came from Hastrom City during his time as an information sector worker; those vids had made it seem that even though most, if not all, other cities had gone dark, Hastrom City’s light still burned bright. Hastrom City was ever on the mend, and was all but ready to welcome back the intrepid Fulcrum explorers. But Letho couldn’t help but wonder what they would find when they actually set foot on his home planet for the first time.

Home.

Letho remembered gazing through portholes at the multitude of stars, like grains of salt scattered across black velvet, wondering if one of the coruscating crystals that hovered in the black might be Eursus. And now he was about to see it for the first time. What would the air taste like? He thought of plunging his hand into black soil and crumbling it between his fingers, breathing in the sweetness of the loam.

“We should start with the underneath,” Bayorn was saying. “Perhaps our brothers left something behind for us.”

“That sounds like fun,” Thresha said, appearing as if she had manifested from the very shadows. Can I come?”

Letho marveled at her cockiness and the fearless way she goaded the Tarsi. It was brash, and the cumulative effect of this behavior would no doubt make his life more difficult, but he still found it strangely attractive.

“Surely you don’t intend to bring the Mendraga to our home,” Maka said.

“I have a name, you know,” Thresha said, glaring. She was truly unafraid, Letho noticed. There was no way she could survive an attack by both Maka and Bayorn, but she did not back down. Letho wondered for a moment if he was underestimating her abilities. An image of Crimson Jim’s demise flashed through his mind; he saw her straddling him, rending the flesh from his shoulders, plucking his head like an overripe grape from a vine.

“No,” Bayorn answered. “She will stay here,with me. You and Letho will go to the underneath and retrieve what we need.”

“I will not leave my Elder with a Mendraga. What if she deceives you with her trickery and takes our ship?” Maka asked.

Trickery? Letho thought. What does Maka think she is, a witch?

“I am flattered that you think I am capable of either of those feats,” Thresha said coldly, “but I don’t even know how to fly the damn ship. I need Flyboy there just as much as you do. And it just so happens that I left my bag of magic deception dust in my other suit, so sorry, no Mendraga trickery, as you put it.

“Look, I know none of you trust me, but frankly I don’t think it really matters at this point. Hero Boy over there,” she said, nodding theatrically in Letho’s direction, “put us all in this unfortunate situation, and I don’t like it any more than you do. I think we can all agree that our goals are aligned until we get on the ground, at which point we can go our separate ways. So let’s just drop all the glaring and second-guessing and trying to stay one step ahead of each other, shall we?”

Silence, thick enough that Letho could taste it, filled the room. Letho realized he had been staring again. Thresha was glaring at him, unflinching. His gaze flicked away and focused on a filing cabinet that had suddenly become very interesting.

“The Mendraga, Thresha, makes a very good point,” Bayorn said

“Very well, I will trust your word, Mendraga,” Maka said through a grin. His eyes, however, were distant, cold, like mercenary’s eyes.

“Hey, are you guys finished?” Deacon interrupted. “If I don’t get some food in my stomach soon, I am going to murder and eat you all myself.”

****

Maka led Letho down access tunnels that he had been completely unaware of during his time as a Fulcrum citizen. They were hidden in plain sight, and so painfully obvious when Maka accessed them. Touch pads opened doors that had appeared to be ordinary wall panels. Service tunnels that ran under and over walkways Letho had used on a daily basis. How had he not seen them? How blind had he been? Self-absorbed and completely unaware of his surroundings, drunk on the narcotics that the machine had been feeding him. Falling in line, rolling in lockstep, teeth meshing with the other cogs that kept the machine running. Get up, go to work, do your job. Do not seek meaning. Collect paycheck. Go home. Do it again.

The familiar smells of the underneath filled Letho’s nose, memories drifting to him on vapor trails that sparked deep nostalgia. He had both loved and hated his time in this dark place. A place of labor and struggle. But also of life and Kinsha. He thought of Fintran, and wondered if the old one was somewhere in the sky, watching him from afar—but then he remembered that he was inside a space station, above what land dwellers would call the sky, well beyond the encapsulation of that atmosphere, surrounded only by a black vacuum sea and scattered stars.

Still, even though the old one had been gone for quite some time, Letho could feel his presence.

Letho had known that he wouldn’t find any Tarsi down here. Abraxas and Alastor would have needed the Tarsi’s strong backs and servile nature to achieve whatever plans they had concocted down there on the planet’s surface. There was no familiar Tarsi musk, the smell that usually permeated any place they made their home. It had been Letho’s first glimmer of hope when he had found himself at the bottom of a maintenance shaft so long ago, and now it was gone. Replaced by something else. Something earthy but corrupt. The smell of death.

“Long time, eh, Letho?” Maka said, nudging Letho with an elbow and almost knocking from him from his feet.

“Yep, just like old times, right?”

But they both knew it wasn’t like old times. Something was very, very wrong.

They came across the first Tarsi carcass just outside the entrance to the dormitories. Merely a poor collection of bone and hide scraps, the body was contorted as though its former passenger had died in anguish. Tarsi blood—once gold, but now reduced to a dim rust color—spattered the wall above the fallen body. There were telltale bullet holes in the wall there, and in other places too, Letho noticed, as he looked around.

“This is Alastor’s work,” Maka said in a low, conspiratorial voice, though Letho wasn’t sure exactly why they needed to conspire, or whisper for that matter.

“How do you know? Anyone could have fired these shots.”

Maka wrinkled his nose. “Can’t you smell it? Even among the smell of my fallen brethren rotting in this tomb? Mendraga!” He ran a hand across the scars on his face and then slammed his fist into the wall. His mouth quavered as he fought to hold back his tears.

Letho looked away, giving him a moment; he made a point of scanning his surroundings so as to allow Maka some dignity. There were at least two more Tarsi in the hallway just outside the dormitories, though the collected pile of remains was relatively small. As were the bones themselves. Young ones…

“Do you think there are still any more here?” Letho asked.

“There are no living Tarsi here, save for the ones that we brought with us.”

“No, not Tarsi. I mean Mendraga.”

“If there were, I think they would have tried to kill us by now. Don’t you? Let’s go.”

They made their way into the domiciles, past the room where Letho had once bunked, and found themselves in the mess hall. The place had seen better days. Tables and chairs were overturned or smashed, and traces of rusty dried blood indicated that the fighting had spread here. They found a few slain Mendraga, some of them missing their heads and limbs. One was splayed across a table, his mummified face forever frozen in a gape of surprise. His throat had been torn out and now hung in parchment-like tatters.

“They don’t claim their dead and offer them a proper burial. Savages,” Maka muttered.

“At least our brothers took a few down with them,” Letho offered.

Maka did not reply. He still seemed on the verge of tears, but would not allow himself to cry. Letho did not understand why the Tarsi was holding in his emotions. Letho had certainly shed his share of tears over the past few days, and Maka surely knew that Letho wouldn’t pass judgment in that regard.

“Letho, I want you to look around the eating place and search for any food or water that might have been left behind. I will return to the dormitories and see if I can find anything useful.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Letho said, offering a mock salute. Maka replied with a raised eyebrow, but after a moment his lips softened into a weak smile. Then he turned and left, leaving Letho alone in the presence of the dead.

A shiver ran down Letho’s spine as he walked across the trash-ridden floor of the eating place, avoiding the dried pools of blood and bowing his head solemnly every time he passed a fallen Tarsi. The pantry was on the opposite end of the room, through a small kitchen where food was prepped and dishes were washed. Standard Tarsi fare was a pasty grey protein soup that, to Letho, had always seemed to be too lumpy and lukewarm, yet somehow inexplicably laden with surprise pockets of scalding heat. He almost hoped that he would find none of it left, but then his stomach spasmed, reminding him that he needed to eat something soon, and couldn’t be too picky. His head joined the conversation with a moment of dizziness that reminded him of the awful detoxification he’d suffered during his first days among the Tarsi.

If the eating place had been untidy, the pantry was in absolute disarray. The room was four times as big as Letho’s old domicile in the above, and nearly all the shelves had been overturned. Letho found that many of the cans had been punctured, leaving only flaky remains. The room stank, not quite like death, but close enough to make Letho’s empty stomach lurch. Dead Tarsi and Mendraga rotted together in a communal tomb.

How could the Mendraga be so fundamentally evil? Causing others to suffer for the sake of their own survival? It was a question that Letho didn’t quite yet have the philosophical capabilities to answer. Survival and morality, he knew, did not always align. Sometimes one had to engage in abhorrent behavior: kill or be killed. Letho thought about the Mendraga he had slaughtered on Alastor’s ship, and felt no guilt whatsoever. In this, Letho decided, they were even.

He managed to gather a few cans of Tarsi yum-yum paste, and even a few containers of water. He wasn’t sure if the water was drinkable; Deacon might know. He loaded the cans and water containers into a sack he found on the floor, then tossed the heavy sack over his shoulder and headed out to find Maka.

Maka had just completed his task as well, and they met in the hallway. Maka appeared to be even more withdrawn than before. He laid his bag on the floor and handed Letho a ragged scrap of paper. Hastily scribbled pictograms covered it, smudged and diffused by water stains.

“What’s this? I can’t read Tarsi glyphs. You know that.”

“It is a message from the Tarsi on this station. It says that all Tarsi were rounded up and taken by Mendraga soldiers. Many proud Tarsi refused to be taken as prisoners, and stood to fight the Mendraga.”

“That explains the bloodbath.”

“There is more, Letho. The note is addressed to you. They have given you a name: Sartan-Sien.”

“Sartan-Sien. What does it mean?”

“It is a combination of two words. The first part means warrior. The second part means anointed. They say they await your return, so that you might free them from their bondage. The paper also says that something has been secreted away in the Elder’s cabin. For you.”

“That is some heavy shit,” Letho said. His head spun. Sartan-Sien. Anointed Warrior. He had barely managed to get out of Abraxas’s ship with his hide intact, and he certainly hadn’t been able to save anyone, except for the last being the Tarsi would have expected the Sartan-Sien to save. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing thoughts. He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched his bearded chin. Maka was staring at him, waiting, clacking his toe claws.

“What?” Letho asked.

“The shit. It is heavy? I do not understand this expression. Do you require medicine, Letho?” Maka gestured at his stomach and pressed downward with both hands, as if he were pushing something down from inside his belly.

“No, Maka.” Letho almost laughed. “It means that I find this situation very intense.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that then?”

“Forget it. Let’s go find our secret message and get the hell off this station.”

Maka nodded in agreement, then gestured with both arms toward the hallway.

“After you, Sartan-Sien,” he said.

“Shut up,” Letho said, but not unkindly.

“That is no way for an anointed one to speak, Letho. I am very disappointed.”

“Cut it out, already.” Letho tried to screw his face into a surly expression, but he couldn’t help but smile, for it was good to see Maka in a jovial mood; he had been far too brooding lately for Letho’s taste.

Maka clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. Letho placed a hand on Maka’s and squeezed as well. After the exchange of brotherly affection, which lasted approximately three and half seconds, they returned their hands to their sides. Any longer and the contact would have become awkward for the both of them.

****

Bayorn was the new Elder of his Kinsha, but to everyone, even Bayorn, the room still belonged to Fintran, the former Elder. Many of Fintran’s possessions were still just as they had been on the day that Fintran died. But someone had clearly been in the room since the excursion to Alastor’s ship, for a few of his belongings were missing. Maka growled, his hackles rising as he scanned the room.

“Relax, big fella. Maybe your Kinsha took them for safekeeping,” Letho said.

“Nartwa! If they break any of Fintran’s things, they will answer to me.”

Letho flinched at the outburst. He had never heard Maka use a Tarsi expletive before, and Maka certainly hadn’t taught Letho any of these most useful of expressions. But Letho had encountered a few Tarsi around his age who were more than willing to share their knowledge.

“So if I were a terrified Tarsi committing an act of treason and espionage possibly punishable by death, where would I hide something?” Letho wondered aloud. He took a step forward into the room, and his footfall rang hollow on the tile beneath his foot. He dropped to a crouch and attempted to pry the tile up, but he couldn’t quite get leverage with his fingernails.

A pillar of green fur surged down from above, causing Letho to fall back onto his ass. A singular ivory claw extended from Maka’s middle finger, piercingthe metal tile as though it were a sheet of tissue paper. He lifted the tile out and began spinning it on the axis of his claw.

“Very funny,” Letho said as he scrambled to arrange himself in a more dignified position.

Beneath the tile was a bundle of cloth. Letho looked at Maka, who only shrugged. He made no motion to retrieve the object.

“Okay, I guess I’ll do the honors,” Letho said. He picked up the cloth bundle; it was heavy and warm in his hands. As he carefully unwrapped it, the thin linen revealed the head of Fintran’s staff.

“Okay… so now what? Is this a clue of some sort?” Letho asked, turning the wire-wrought staff head over and over, examining it carefully. Multi-colored faux gems and chips of glass lenses glimmered in the overhead light.

“Let me see it, Letho,” Maka said. Letho handed the staff head over, and Maka performed the same close inspection. He sniffed it a few times, then brought it close to peer into the largest crystal, a bluish orb at the tip of the staff.

“There is something underneath this crystal,” Maka said at last. He extended the tip of his index finger claw and used it to pry the crystal from the staff. The bauble popped from its binding, and Maka caught it with his free hand. Then, scraping a claw into the recessed area, he retrieved a microchip. He scrutinized it for a moment before turning up his nose.

“It is Eursan technology,” Maka said, handing it to Letho.

“It’s some sort of data chip. Let me try something.”

Letho couldn’t remember the last time he had used his uCom. Perhaps back on Alastor’s ship? To be honest, he had been afraid to engage the device—not out of fear that it wouldn’t work, but from apprehension that by using it he might propel himself down a path from which he had fought so hard to remove himself. Just like a recovering junk-head avoiding familiar haunts that might cause a relapse. But there was now no alternative—he really needed for his uCom to work.

Letho took a deep breath and clicked his fingers together. Relief filled him as the the implanted device sprang to digital life and the familiar green smiley face appeared.

“Just a sec, Maka.” Letho placed the data chip in his palm, and the word downloading appeared on the uCom screen. A green progress bar filled quickly, and within seconds the transfer was complete. A video then began to play. At first it was nothing but static, but then a familiar face appeared, and Letho’s heart leapt with transcendent joy.

“I don’t believe it!” he shouted. Maka clamored to look, abruptly invading Letho’s space. Letho shoved Maka back, and said, “Hey, ease up, hoss. Just give me a second!”

Letho flicked his fingers toward a nearby wall, and the screen spun across the ether, growing larger as it moved, and ultimately filling the entire wall. The image was of a gruff man, looking frazzled and uncomfortable in front of the camera. His dark mustache twitched as he began to speak in a familiar drawl:

“This message is for Letho Ferron, and the Tarsi in his company.”

Zedock Wartimer paused to dab his sweat-slick forehead with a rather tatty handkerchief.

“You’re probably dead, judging by the fact that we’re currently orbiting Eursus and Alastor’s crew is banging on my door even as I’m recording this message. Lord, I hope it isn’t so. You might be our only hope at this point.

“Alastor’s plan all along was to gain control of the Fulcrum stations. That’s what all the attacks on the Fulcrum stations were about: finding Fintran. I don’t know what was so special about the old-timer, but for some reason, Alastor needed him in order to get the job done. Anyway, Alastor somehow managed to beat us home, and now he has a whole damn operation set up in Hastrom City.”

There was a resounding thud in the background, and Zedock turned to look to the side, alarm clear in his expression.

“I don’t have much time, so I’ll cut to the chase. They’re rounding up all the Fulcrum folk on our station, and the Tarsi as well. We’re going to try to make out of here on a transport ship if we can manage. I’ve got a handful of Tarsi that are rip-roarin ’ and ready to tear some heads off, so I’m going to see if I can oblige them on our way out.”

Another thud, this one mingled with the sound of metal tearing.

“I gotta go, Letho. We’ll be looking for you once we get down to Eursus. If we don’t make it, hell, I guess I’ll see you on the other side. Zedock out.”

 

“Zedock is alive. I’ll be damned!” Letho exclaimed.

“Sir, the video appears to have been recorded roughly ten years ago. Probability of survival decreases significantly over a longer timeline…”

“All right, Saladin, thanks for that information. We’ll take it from here,” Letho said.

“Zedock Wartimer is a good Eursan. Strong, brave. I am sure that he still breathes,” Maka said.

Letho found that he did not really share Maka’s sense of optimism. His estimation of Zedock’s chance of survival fell more in line with Saladin’s. But any chance was better than none. If Zedock had indeed survived, where might he be? Was he in prison? Some sort of work camp? Maybe he had found himself a plot of land, dug himself a well, and was sitting on a porch watching the sunset at that very moment.

“Yeah, I bet he is. Old bastard.”

****

“Bayorn, you’ll never believe what we found!”

Letho and Maka dropped their rucksacks on the floor of the office. Before Bayorn could reply, Letho tossed the uCom display onto a nearby wall, and they all sat in silence as the message from Zedock played again.

“This is great news. There may yet be a chance for us,” Bayorn said.

He opened the bags and surveyed the items inside.His expression did not match his words as he surveyed the small number of food canisters. “The protein synthesizer?” he asked.

Maka shook his head. “Gone. The whole place was stripped. We found the bodies of many Tarsi and Mendraga as well. There was a battle in the underneath.” He glowered at Thresha, who shrugged.

“What do you want from me, slave bear? I wasn’t even there. Am I responsible for every atrocity that Alastor commits?”

“We have a saying in Tarsi that goes like this.” Bayorn sang a few chopped syllables in Tarsi.

“What does it mean?” Thresha asked.

“It means condemnation through association,” Bayorn answered.

“Charming,” Thresha said, using a small bit of wire to scrape nonexistent grit from under her nails. Letho found himself mesmerized by the grooming ritual. Her hands were graceful things, with long and dexterous fingers, the nails carefully manicured, filed, polished, and painted black. Or perhaps all Mendraga had black fingernails. He hadn’t really paid attention until now. Letho realized he was staring and looked away, a small flush rising to his cheeks.

The tension still remained, as though the very atmosphere pulsed with it, a cloud of pent-up frustration that soaked them all to the very core.

“Is there anywhere else we should check for supplies before we head out?” Deacon asked.

“Let’s head up to the domiciles, hit up the cafeterias on the way up,” Letho said. “Might find some better food than this Tarsi slop. No offense, guys.”

“None taken,” Bayorn replied.

Bayorn issued some commands to some of the other Tarsi milling about in the background, and the group filed out into the open area of the Fulcrum station’s loading bay. They passed Deacon’s ship, and soon reached the elevator at the very back of the loading facility. It was large, with thick metal doors marked with yellow and black hazard strips. Inside it were only two buttons: up and down.

They rode the elevator to first level of the Fulcrum station. There was nothing of use there, as it was merely a staging area for the dockworkers. Letho eyed a workers’ break room, but he could see that the cabinet doors yawned open and the shelves appeared to be empty.

“Anything we can use on this floor?” Letho asked Deacon.

“Just work rooms and shower areas, pretty much. Not a lot of food stored down here,” he answered.

Just outside a set of glass doors was a sort of lobby with a reception desk and a waiting area. A coffee machine sat in silence atop a nearby counter, somehow managing to look forlorn, as if it knew that it no longer had a purpose in the world. The familiar bank of elevators that led to other places of work were just outside the reception area, but the ceiling above no longer displayed a sunny sky. The only light came from halogens that hung midway up the walls in sconces. Every third or fourth light no longer functioned, having burnt out with no one to replace them.

“God, I hope they didn’t turn off the shuttle-trains,” Letho muttered to himself. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They made their way down a nonfunctional escalator that still functioned perfectly as a set of stairs, and down onto the loading deck. Serendipitously, a shuttle waited for them, loading lights twinkling as a dog’s tail might wag, beckoning them to board. It was all too familiar to Letho, and it brought up some relatively unpleasant memories. Memories of drudgery, of a futile search for meaning in a meaningless environment. How things had changed.

But had they really? Here he was again, minding his step as he boarded the shuttle for the nine-thousand-and-first time, still thinking of the man from so long ago that hadn’t minded his step and had tumbled into the open door of the shuttle, ass over tea canister, his cup of coffee sailing through the air. Letho smiled at the memory, even as misgivings filled his mind.

He took a look behind himself and saw the small cadre of Tarsi, Maka, and Bayorn leading a sulking Thresha, who took care to remain a few paces behind them all. Letho felt the reassuring press of Saladin between his shoulder blades, as well as the snug leather belt that Zedock had given him, the forged-steel death machine resting in the supple holster on his left hip. Things had changed, and would continue to do so, in ways that Letho couldn’t yet understand.

He had an inkling, traces of imagery that sometimes danced across the canvas of his subconscious, fantasies of leading a Tarsi army to battle against Abraxas and his hordes. If, at that moment, he had been given a glimpse of the truth, a vision of what was actually to come, he might have broken under the weight of it. But for now, he found solace in putting one foot in front of the other. If things got in his way that needed to be punched or shot, he would do that too.

****

The cafeterias here were just as empty as the ones underneath, but they managed to scavenge a few canisters filled with fruit and others with something called “Valhalla Sausages.” Letho had never had this particular Fulcrum delicacy before, but the Tarsi seemed quite excited about them. Apparently they were big fans of highly processed synthetic meat particles molded into finger-length sausages floating in a sea of brine and preservatives. Letho tossed a can to Maka, who grinned like a child. Bayorn stopped in his tracks, turned to face Letho, and gave a grunt, a little smile on his face as well. Letho tossed his other can of Valhalla Sausages to Bayorn, a little forlorn as he watched the Tarsi pluck it from the air. Calories had become a precious commodity.

“Hey guys, save one for me, all right?” he called to Bayorn and Maka. They didn’t answer, making no promises.

A rustling and clanging from a nearby kitchen area drew Letho’s attention. Checking it out, he found Deacon lying on the floor, half buried in pots and pans.

“Hey man, you all right?” Letho asked.

“Yeah,” Deacon said as he struggled to his feet. He favored Letho with a drunken smile and staggered a little. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his skin had taken on a sickly pallor.

Thresha!

Thresha and that hungry atrocity that lived in her belly. The tentacles, the barbs like organic hypodermic needles.

“Let me look at you,” Letho said. He grabbed Deacon by the shoulders, careful of how much force he applied, but even so he was taken aback by how little resistance Deacon offered. Letho grasped Deacon’s chin and turned his head up and to the side, examining his friend’s neck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Deacon said, slapping at Letho’s arms. He might as well have been slapping at the gravity that held the Fulcrum station in orbit.

“Just, uh, checking something.”

“Go check it on someone else, buddy. Deacon Shipke don’t fly that way.”

“Whatever. What happened?” Letho asked.

“I don’t know. I was looking for some plates and stuff that we can take with us—you know, knives and forks, that kind of stuff. I guess I just blacked out for a second. I must be running on fumes.” Deacon shrugged.

“Here, take these,” Letho said, offering Deacon a can of the Valhalla Sausages from a cargo pocket on his coveralls. “Don’t tell the Tarsi I gave these to you. Eat them now. We need you to get us to Eursus in one piece.”

“Oh, Letho, a can of Valhalla Sausages. You really know the way to a guy’s heart.”

“Yeah. Don’t ever say I never gave you anything. Have you seen Thresha?”

“Not in the last ten minutes or so.”

Concern filled Letho. It wasn’t safe for Thresha to be unguarded.

Is that what you call it, Letho? Guarding her?

Hoping to find Thresha quickly, Letho slipped away from the group. It wasn’t difficult, as everyone else was absorbed with the task of scavenging. Letho imagined that the Tarsi probably enjoyed it—he remembered the repurposed items and cobbled-together instruments he had seen in the underneath. Fintran’s coffin, a beautiful vessel fit for a king, had been made from actual garbage.

As Letho stole away, his footfalls were hidden by the clatter of Tarsi digging through drawers and cabinets, tossing items into large piles on the floor. Once he was alone, his anxiety began to rise. Perhaps Thresha was trying to escape, trying to get word back to Alastor? He wondered what he would do if he caught her in the act of betrayal. Would he kill her? More importantly, could he?

Yes. You could. It would be easy.

It took only a minute or two to find her; and when he did, he didn’t like what he saw. At all.

Thresha was crouched in the center of a shadowy storage room. She was holding some small thing, a thing that his brain attempted to identify, but couldn’t. All the Eursan words at Letho’s disposal failed to describe his dawning horror and anger. It threatened to manifest in a flare of energy that would split him into atoms. He shouted out in Tarsi, choosing a word that implied carnal knowledge of another being, and Thresha’s shoulders flinched, but she remained rooted where she was. Letho, finally coming down from the shock of what he saw, began to piece together the reality before him.