know. âWeâd be a distraction.â
Marcus nodded listless agreement. He waved the turrif. âAll for you, Enris. Iâm not hungry.â
Enris pursed his lips, ignoring the food. He wanted to trust the Human. To an extent he did, though how much of that was Arylâs belief in Marcus, how much his own?
The Human couldnât read Omâray emotion. He was disturbingly good at reading Omâray faces. Whatever he saw on Enrisâ brought Marcus slowly from the door, to stand within reach. âThere is no trade,â he stated. âNot by me. Not of my work. Not of this.â He moved his hand to draw a connection between them. A smile that didnât light his eyes. âBut you were right to ask. What weâve collected . . . the samplesââ a nod at the door, ââIâll take with me. I could trade one item and retire âstop working. I could live in comfort for the rest of my life, travel wherever I want, not worry.â He sat on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees. âThere are people who would pay âtradeâanything for verified Hoveny artifacts.â
While he had no idea what âanythingâ might mean to the Strangers and their vast Trade Pact, he wouldnât say no to a bioscanner and Marcusâ healing technology.
It hadnât been offered. Nothing would be, Enris realized abruptly. âBut not with the Oud. Or us.â
âNo.â The Human blew out a breath, then ducked his head to look up at Enris. âNot my idea, Enris. Not a Human one. Before we came, before the Commonwealth reach this far, this space governed by species already here. The First. They made rules for those searching for what remained of the Hoveny Concentrix. The search must be by Triads. Triads must be of different species. Discoveries must be shared. Include Humans. Good rules.â He grimaced. âOne not good rule. On worlds with vestigialpopulations, with people who no longer remember the Hoveny existed, or maybe later colonists who never overlapped âlived togetherâany discoveries belong to the Triads. These,â he pointed to the crate of wafers, âare yours. The Cloisters are yours. The artifacts are not.â
âDo the Oud understand this? That youâll take what theyâve found?â
âThink so. Hope so. Maybe.â Marcus looked older, weary. âOud donât want the artifacts. They want to know what they are for.â
âWhat is?â the Oud had asked him. Enris would never forget that day. âWhy?â
Another sidelong look, something of a smile. âOud are makers. They want ideas, more and more ideas. What could be made? What would it do? How to make itâthey work that out themselves. Busy. Always busy. Like you, that way.â
He bristled. âThey are not,â Enris said through clenched teeth, âlike me.â
âNot like you,â Marcus agreed, too quickly. âBecause some Oud want something else. They want to know why they are here.â His toe tapped the floor.
âHere. At Sona?â
An appraising look. A second tap. âOn Cersi.â
It was as if the floor tilted, or the light changed color. Aryl had warned him how mere words could make the Human suddenly strange and terrifying. That if they werenât careful what they asked, Marcus could change their world the same way. He hadnât understood.
Until now.
Enris found himself short of breath. âThe Oud,â he said finally, firmly, âhave always been here. Like the Tikitik. Like us.â
Marcus considered him silently for a moment, then made the gesture of apology heâd learned. âMy mistake.â
There was nothing on his face but kindness.
Without touching him, without reaching for the Humanâs feelingsâcertain to cause Marcus painâEnris couldnât be sure.
He didnât need to be. After Marcus Bowman was willing to believe what heâd
C. Dale Brittain, Brittain