Rift in the Sky

Aryl tightened her hand on the hilt. “They can try.”

Enris coughed. Leaving?

“I do enjoy your grist!” The Carasian made a sound like rain on metal. Amusement, she guessed. Having bellowed them out of the pit, it had become a jovial host, its rage apparently a show for the disappointed spectators. Now it opened one of the metal grids and selected a disappointingly plain, stubby cylinder. “Try this. Force blade,” it told her. “Has a number of advantages. Hides. Intimidates,” it announced as it pressed the fine tip of a claw into a depression, producing a thin glowing line that extended from the cylinder about the length of Aryl’s arm, a line that hissed as it moved through the air. “With no inconvenient residue to worry about, if you get my meaning.” It pulled a piece of white cloth from a stack behind the counter, tossing it into the air so it passed through the glowing line. Two halves fluttered to the floor. The Carasian turned it off. “Give me your pretty pox-sticker. I’ll let you have this for twenty rimmies.”

“A trade,” Enris nodded.

“A fair one,” as if her Chosen had protested. “Either way, you can’t take that with you.”

She certainly could, but Aryl didn’t see the value in arguing. What she did see was the value in what it offered. “We’ll need more of those,” she said firmly. “Many more.”

The eyestalks went in several directions at once. “I’m no dealer, friend. Just a bartender keeping the peace.” With a little more volume than required, as if speaking for other ears.

Enris leaned forward, eyes aglow with interest, but not in the remarkable weapon. “What are ‘rimmies’?”

“More force blades and a place for our people to live,” Aryl interjected before Gurdo could answer. “A safe place.”

Let me do this. “We’re offworlders,” Enris explained smoothly. “Arrived today. We could use some guidance.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Leaving most of its eyes on Aryl, the Carasian spared a few for her Chosen. Who looked, she thought, remarkably smug.

“You talk like Grandies,” Gurdo observed after a moment. “Look like you can’t afford a beer. Guidance is expensive. Especially the good kind.”

Enris smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t judge us by appearance.”

What was he doing? Aryl kept her mouth closed and shields tight. Her hair, however, writhed up and over her shoulders, reaching for her Chosen. Who lifted a finger to let a tendril wind itself around like a ring.

She did her best to smile and not grab it back.

“Amazing grist,” the Carasian muttered. It shifted on its rounded feet, producing a muted clank, then came to a decision. “Can’t talk here. Come with me. No promises, though.”

A tap on a panel opened a door in the wall, splitting the weapon display into sections. The air wafting through was warm and damp. “But first.” An upper claw opened and waited.

Impossible to read a face composed of what looked like polished metal bowls separated by a dark gap filled with restless stalked eyes.

Aryl.

She frowned, but gave the Carasian her longknife. Leaving her hand extended.

All eyes came to rest on her. Aryl didn’t budge.

“Call it a sample,” Gurdo grumbled, dropping the force blade in her palm. “Do not,” with emphasis “use it here.” Her longknife went on the wall, the grid replaced over it.

Aryl tucked the cylinder in a pocket, satisfied.

“This way.”

It wasn’t, she discovered, an ordinary door. No sooner had Aryl stepped through than sprays of bitter water struck her from all sides. Sputtering, she hurried forward to get away from them, Enris doing the same.

The Carasian followed more slowly. While it appeared to enjoy the spray, the door wasn’t wide enough for it, so it leaned to one side and pulled itself through by force, claws grabbing the door edge for purchase. From the deep scars in the door-frame, this was its usual practice.

Aryl spat out the bitter stuff and glared at the glistening Gurdo. “What was that for?”

“You were covered in sand.” As if she should have realized. “I can’t have sand in my home.”

And as if the blue blood staining that sand didn’t matter in the least.

As homes went, this wasn’t much: a square room no more than five long strides wide in either direction, though two levels high. Quiet, dimly lit, its furnishings were four large polished rocks, speckled with gray, set into the floor. In the midst of the rocks, a small pool of dark water gurgled busily to itself. A set of stairs against a side wall led to the only other door, at the next level. There were no windows, but the wall straight ahead featured a framed image of water sliding over black rocks. Rocks with small black eyes. Eyes that disturbingly followed any movement, Aryl noticed.

The Carasian lowered itself over one of the chair-rocks, resting its pair of big claws on the floor. “Let me guess,” it said briskly once the two M’hiray had sat. “You need idents. Certificates. For how many?”

Aryl pushed an impatient lock of wet hair back. “Everyone.”

A flash of caution.