Free The Thrones of Kronos by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page B

sour.
“Everyone thinks Bori be furniture.” When Lar opened his mouth to deny that,
Tat’s sour smile deepened. “We’re as good as anyone crewed any ship—better. And
we know others of our kind same thing. But have you ever seen a Bori captain?”
    Lar shook his head.
    “Been thinking about it, ever since we got here,” Tat said,
pulling on her boots. “Not just that no one would crew for us, but none of us
ever try to run our own ships. Never mind. Go.”
    Lar hugged her. His cousin fitted his arms comfortingly, her
smell nice, her hair tickling his nose. He wished fiercely they had time for a
good cuddle, and sensed the same reaction in her, but a beep from her chrono
made them pull apart, and soon they were hastening in opposite directions.
    Though he had to run, he was glad he’d let her know right
off, for she was a better planner than he was, and maybe she’d see some way to
exploit this new development. Until then, she’d be on the lookout for data that
would help him.
    The guards outside the Rifter chamber checked his ID, then
permitted him to pass. Again he skipped quickly through the dilating door—he
didn’t care who saw him do it.
    His first reaction to the room with its tangle of beds and
storage modules was amusement. Bori would like this arrangement, but he knew at
a glance that these people didn’t.
    The Rifters stopped whatever they were doing and turned his
way. He could tell by the stiffness in a couple of them that they were annoyed
that he had not employed an annunciator. Why had Norio had one, and these
people did not? More of Barrodagh’s twisty games, no doubt; they probably had
to earn it first, with a semi-successful test. Lar did not look forward to the
seismic ruction.
    Drawing in a deep breath, he scanned them.
    The Dol’jharian was easy—the tallest, with slanted black
eyes and long blue-black hair. She looked strong and capable. Behind her stood
a lean man whose braided hair had chimes in it. Lar met his somber assessment
and felt a curl of danger inside, though there was nothing overtly threatening
in the man’s face or stance. A thin handsome man dressed in a silvery silk
shirt edged with gold and loose black and gray trousers made Lar feel a tug of
longing for Rifthaven; near him a short woman with yellow hair yawned. Behind
them sat a huge, bulky, bearded man and a squat, gray-haired woman, and from
one side an adolescent with long red hair regarded him with grave interest. A
band of green had been inked into one of his wrists. Lar wondered what that
signified. He thought he knew all the ink sigils for Rifter rat gangs.
    “I’m . . . Larghior,” he said, hating it. He
wanted to tell them he was Lar Ombric—a Rifter. “The heir assigned me to you.
Your console will summon me.” He pointed to his compad. “Is there anything you
need?”
    The small female—no taller than he, if that—propped her chin
on her hand, her curly yellow hair falling in her face. She had a merry,
challenging grin. “First question. Who was the sick-brained chatzer had these
rooms before us? There’s some ba-ad vids still in the console. One real rasty
one with Hreem the Faithless and his mindsnake bunnyin’ with some poor blit
tied to a chair right next to ’em. Wonder what that cost on Rifthaven?”
    Lar shook his head. “That was Norio Danali’s private
collection. He died during an experiment just as you arrived.”
    Glances passed between some of the Rifters. They knew Norio,
obviously.
    “Died, you say?” The man with the braids spoke quietly.
    “Yes.” Lar glanced at the console, then said as neutrally as
he could, “Norio’s belongings were distributed. I guess no one bothered to
flush the local node.”
    “No, I just did that,” the squat woman said dryly. “Although
I suspect the chips themselves are still around somewhere.” Lar noticed the
little blonde looking her way. “And to replace that data, may I request some
chips on the Dol’jharian language? And