Free Demon's Fire by Emma Holly Page A

said instead, knowing he had to give her this reassurance, no matter how personal it was. “Worlds away from the man I was when we first met at the pillow house. Then I hardly cared if I lived or died. Now I would mind not waking up tomorrow. Now it would bother me not to see what happens next.”
    She didn’t have to work then to show her mixed heritage. Her eyes welled with tears, the refraction of the moisture calling a hint of alien blue into the silver.
    “I am glad to hear it,” she said, blinking the shine away. “You deserve as good a life as anyone.”
    The tears were enough to set his course. Pahndir refused to be pitiful. Somehow, some way, he needed to develop other interests.
     
    Pahndir had never been to the Hhamoun site, though like everyone else in the city he was aware of it. With so few Yama in Bhamjran, some might have expected him to automatically seek out another of his race, but Welland Herrington—as the man called himself—didn’t share Pahndir’s royal class. He was daimyo , yes, but an aristocrat was not the social equal of a prince.
    Since Pahndir planned to cadge himself an uninvited tour, he hoped Lord Herrington remembered that.
    He drove his rented desert motorcar into the hive of workers’ tents, unused to the human vehicle but quick enough to figure it out. He often thought humans were brighter than his people gave them credit for. It hadn’t taken the Ohramese long to repurpose the engine technology his emperor had granted them, though it went without saying that these primitive contraptions couldn’t compare to aircars. Pahndir’s teeth were nearly rattled out of his mouth by the time the first guards stopped him.
    He used his title to get through them, and the even more effective expedient of a few gold sovereigns to grease their palms. That precious metal was the universal persuader. Once he’d breached the barrier of the guards, politeness was all the coin he needed to gain directions to his countryman.
    He found Herrington supervising the removal of a long procession of padded artifacts from a tunnel. Floating pallets would have been safer for the purpose than human hands, but Pahndir supposed even famous diplomats couldn’t get permission to use them here. Antigrav technology was a number of orders above electrical engines.
    Pahndir parked his car behind a tent and proceeded the final distance in his impractical silk slippers. His clothing was considerably brighter than that of the dig’s workers. Even Herrington was dressed in khaki like a Northerner. Given that Pahndir stood out like a peacock, it was no surprise when one of the diggers drew Herrington’s attention to his approach.
    A flash of irritation crossed the great man’s face.
    “Pahndir Shan,” Pahndir said, offering his hand in the human way. Herrington accepted it blankly, his palm as dusty as the rest of him. His eyes didn’t widen until the name sank in.
    “ Prince Pahndir Shan?”
    “Yes,” Pahndir confirmed. “Reports of my demise were premature.”
    Herrington glanced back at his workers, his longing to return to overseeing them as conspicuous as his sweaty brow. “My felicitations,” he said, then cleared his throat. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
    The insult was small but deliberate. Strictly speaking, Herrington should have asked how he could be of service to a higher-ranking member of his kind. Insult aside, Herrington’s reluctance to show Pahndir due respect was probably a blessing in disguise. Pahndir’s interests were likelier to stay private if he pursued them under eyes less sharp than Yamish ones.
    “Curiosity brings me,” he said, his tone as smooth and bored as any prince could make it. If there was one thing he had practice at, it was ignoring slights to his dignity. “I’ve heard such astounding claims about the work you’re doing. I’m wondering if you might spare some assistant to show me around.”
    “Claims,” Herrington repeated, bridling just a