Warlock - Cook Glen Charles (читать книги онлайн полные версии txt) 📗

"Thank you." Wrong mode of address? What difference? Unless it was something the nervous guard had let carry over from the mysteries of the tradermale brethren.

She supposed she ought to examine the relevant data-what was known-if she was going to be dealing with Bagnel regularly.

Time enough for that later. After today's encounter had shown its promise, or lack thereof. "Grauel, go down the hall and keep watch. Barlog, check the building here, then watch the street." She stepped around the desk and began leafing through the guard's papers. She found nothing interesting, if only because they were printed in what had to be a private male language. She opened the desk's several drawers. Again she found nothing of any interest.

Well, it had been worth a look. Just in case. She rounded the desk again, recalled Grauel and Barlog. To their inquisitive looks she replied, "I was just curious. There wasn't anything there."

The guard took another five minutes. He returned to find them just as he had left them. "Kentan Bagnel will be here shortly, mistress. Can I make your wait more comfortable somehow? Would you care for refreshments?"

"Not for myself, thank you. Barlog? Grauel?"

Each replied, "No, mistress," and Marika was pleased with their restraint. In years past they would have chastised any male this bold.

"You called Bagnel Kentan. Is that a title or name?"

The guard was fuddled for a moment. Then he brightened. "A title, mistress. It denotes his standing with the brethren."

"It has nothing to do with his job?"

"No, mistress. Not directly."

"I see. Where does a kentan stand with regard to others? How high?"

The guard looked unhappy. He did not want to answer, yet felt he had to conform to orders to deal with her hospitably.

"It must be fairly high. You are nervous about him. The year has treated Bagnel well, then."

"Yes, mistress. His rise has been ... "

"Rapid?"

"Yes, mistress. We all thought your last visit would cause him grave embarrassment, but ... "

Marika turned away to conceal her features. A photograph graced the wall opposite the desk. It had been enlarged till it was so grainy it was difficult to recognize. "What is this place?"

Relieved, the guard came around his desk and began explaining, "That is the brethren landhold at TelleRai, mistress."

"Yes. Of course. I have never seen it from this angle."

"Marika?"

She turned. Bagnel had arrived. He looked sleek and self-confident and just a bit excited. "Bagnel. As you see, I'm behaving myself this time." She used the informal mode without realizing it. Grauel and Barlog gave her looks she did not see.

"You've grown." Bagnel responded in the same mode. His usage was as unconscious as Marika's.

Grauel and Barlog bared teeth and exchanged glances.

"Yes. Also grown up. I spent the summer in the Ponath, battling the nomad. I believe it changed me."

Bagnel glanced at the guard. "You've been grilling Norgis. You've made him very uncomfortable."

"We were talking about the picture of the Tovand, kentan," the guard said.

Bagnel scowled. The guard retreated behind the barrier of his desk. He increased the volume of the sound accompanying the display on his screen. Marika was amused, but concealed it.

"Well," Bagnel said. "You're here again."

Grauel and Barlog frowned at his use of the familiar mode.

"I hoped I could look inside the aircraft this time. Under supervision, of course. Nothing secret seems to be going on now. The fighting ships and the big dirigibles are gone."

"You tease me. Yes, I suppose we could look at the light aircraft. Come."

As they stepped outside, Marika said, "I hear you've been promoted."

"Yes. Chief of security. Another reward for my failure at Critza."

"You have an unusual concept of reward, I'd say."

Grauel and Barlog were displeased with Marika's use of the familiar mode, too.

"I do?" Bagnel was amused. "My superiors do. I haven't done anything deserving." Softly, he asked, "Do you need those two arfts hanging over your shoulder all the time?"

"I don't go anywhere without Grauel and Barlog."

"They make me nervous. They always look like they're planning to rip my throat out."

Marika glanced at the huntresses. "They are. They don't like this. They don't like males who can or dare do more than cook or pull a plow."

He gave her a dark look. She decided she had pushed her luck. Time to become Marika the packless again. "Isn't this a Seifite trainer?" She indicated an aircraft standing straight ahead.

"Still studying, are you?"

"Always. When I can get anything to study. I told you I plan to fly. I have flown three times, on darkships. Each flight left me more convinced that flight is my tomorrow." She glanced at several males hurrying toward them. Grauel and Barlog interposed themselves quickly, though the males were not armed.

"Ground crew," Bagnel explained. "They see us coming out here, they expect us to take a ship up."

The males slowed when they discerned Marika's silth garb. "They're having second thoughts," she said.

"You can't blame them, can you? Silth are intimidating by nature."

"Are they? I've never seen them from the outside."

"But you grew up on a packstead. Not in a cloister."

"True. And my pack never mentioned them. I was silth before I knew what was happening." She made the remark sound like a jest. Bagnel tried to respond and failed.

"Well?" he asked. "Would you like to go up? As long as you're here?"

"Can you do that? Just take off whenever you want?"

"Yes."

"In cloister we would have to have permission all the way from the senior." She climbed a ladder to the lower wing of the aircraft. "Only two places. No room for Grauel and Barlog."

"Unfortunately." Bagnel did not sound distraught.

"I don't know if they'd let me."

"You're silth. They're just-"

"They're just charged on their necks with bringing me back alive. Even if that means keeping me from killing myself. They don't trust machines. It was a fight just getting to come here again. The idea wasn't popular at the cloister. Someone made a protest about last time."

"Maybe another time, then. When they understand that I don't plan to carry you off to our secret breeding farm."

"What? Is there such a place? Oh. You are teasing."

"Yes. We recruit ragtag. Especially where the traditional pack structures still predominate. A lot of the Brown Paw Bond youngsters came out of the Ponath."

"I see."

Each spring newly adult males had been turned out of the packsteads to wander the hills and valleys in search of another pack willing to take them in. They had had to sell themselves and their skills. Thus the blood was mixed.

Many, though, never found a place. A pack did not need nearly as many males as females. Marika had not wondered much about what had become of the unsuccessful. She had assumed that they died of exposure or their own incompetence. Their fates had not concerned her, except that of her littermate Kublin, the only male for whom she had ever held much regard.

"Well? Up? Or another time?"

Marika felt a longing so intense it frightened her. She was infatuated with flight. More than infatuated, she feared. She was obsessed. She did not like that. A weakness. Weaknesses were points where one could be touched, could be manipulated. "Next time," she grated. "Or the time after that. When my companions have learned to relax."

"As you wish. Want to sit in it? Just to get the feel?"

And so it went, with Marika getting a look at every ship on the field, including the Stings. "Nothing secret about them," Bagnel assured her. "Nothing you'd understand well enough to tell our enemies about."

"You have enemies?"

"A great many. Especially in the sisterhoods. Like that old silth-what was her name? Gorry. The one who wanted us thrown back to the nomads when we came to Akard asking help. Like all the other dark-faring silth have become since we joined the Serke and Redoriad in their interstellar ventures."