Without a Front

  Micah rolled his eyes. “Surely not, Herot.” With a sigh, he strapped on his wristcom and spoke into it.

  “We’re being followed.” Gehrain’s voice was clipped. “By Herot Opah.”

  “I know. I can feel him.” The last thing Tal wanted this morning was another encounter with Herot, but based on what she was sensing, she didn’t think it would happen. “As long as he keeps his distance, we’ll all be happy.”

  “Shall I send someone back to make sure he does?”

  “No. Let him be, unless he closes the gap. I doubt he’ll be with us for long.”

  Nor was he. Only a short distance past the point where he had collapsed the last time, Herot gave up. Tal sensed his receding presence. “He’s returning to the house.”

  “Good.” Frowning, Gehrain asked, “Why do you think he followed us?”

  “Perhaps he has something to prove.” Tal had no desire to be part of his struggle, but he was Salomen’s brother, after all. A few days ago, that meant very little. Now it meant he would soon be part of her own family, and she would bear a responsibility toward him. She groaned internally. How unfortunate that she couldn’t pick and choose which of the Opah family she accepted! But then she reminded herself of why Herot had been behaving so poorly and vowed to be a little more tolerant.

  If he had something to prove, she would not stop him.

  CHAPTER 50

  Sparring

  “Jaros,” said Tal, “I brought something from Blacksun yesterday. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes!” The instant answer was spoken around a mouthful of biscuit.

  “Jaros, swallow first,” Salomen said. “And do you not even want to know what it is?”

  Tal smiled; Jaros could always be counted on for total enthusiasm. She looked forward to mornmeals at Hol-Opah if only to see him light up the way he so often did.

  Jaros audibly swallowed his food. “If it’s from Blacksun, it must be something speedy.”

  “It’s very speedy,” she assured him. “I brought my sword and Colonel Micah’s as well. We’re going to spar after you come home from school.” Micah had suggested that a good sparring session might tire her out enough to relax her before her date with Salomen. Tal agreed that it would be a good precaution. Besides, she knew Jaros would be thrilled. Of course, they’d had this brilliant idea before staying up all night, but Micah hadn’t asked for a delay, and Tal would be damned if she’d be the one to do it.

  “Really? That is speedy!” Jaros bounced in his seat. “Wow! I get to watch a sword fight!”

  “There’s a difference between a sword fight and a sparring session,” Micah said. “When Lancer Tal and I spar, there is no acrimony between us, nor any wish to do harm. That changes the way we move.”

  “Yes, but swords!” Jaros was fixated on one thing. “Where are they? Can I see them?”

  “You can see them after school,” Salomen said, fixing Tal with a warning glare.

  “But that’s a whole day. Can’t I see them now?”

  Mindful of the glare, Tal shook her head. “But when you come home, you’ll get a good look. And if you’re very careful, you can hold mine.”

  That sent Jaros into the atmosphere. He spoke of nothing else for the rest of mornmeal, and when he had finally been pushed out the back door to reluctantly trudge to school, Salomen turned to Tal with a spark in her eye.

  “You had to tell him that.”

  “I just thought it would make him happy.”

  “Oh, it made him happy all right. If he hears a word of his lessons today, I’ll be shocked. Don’t you know he worships you and everything about the warrior caste?” While Tal blinked over that statement, Salomen came closer and took her hand. “You have so much power over his happiness. Please be careful with it. He does not need dreams that will forever escape him.”

  Tal could sense an entirely different message behind the words. “His happiness is important to me too. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  Salomen nodded, and they might have stood there staring at each other until midmeal had Herot not walked into the kitchen. He stopped, shot Tal an evil look, and left again.

  “Well, at least Jaros worships me,” Tal said.

  Salomen sighed. “You can’t expect him to be overjoyed to see you after you humiliated him.”

  “I don’t think it’s just me he’s not overjoyed to see. He’s not happy to see you and me together.”

  “He’ll have to get used to it. I have a date tonight.”

  “Yes, you do. And I’m looking forward to it.”

  “As am I.”

  They smiled at each other again, until Salomen shook her head and took a step back. “This is ridiculous. We’re never going to get anything done at this rate. Come on, Lancer Tal. We have work to do.”

  “Yes, Raiz Opah.” Tal followed obediently, laughing at herself. She was the leader of the world everywhere but here.

  Somehow, the thought was a comforting one.

  It was a busy day, made no easier by the fact that Tal’s sleepless night had finally crashed over her. She had been so wound up after Salomen’s acceptance of their date that sleep wasn’t an option, and even after staying up all night, she still had energy to burn on her dawn run. But by midmeal she wanted nothing more than a very long nap. What had she been thinking? She wasn’t twenty cycles anymore, for Fahla’s sake. And poor Micah had looked quite a bit worse for wear this morning.

  She held on by pure will power, until Salomen shook her head and sent her back to the house two hanticks early. “I’ve never seen you so tired,” she said. “Go home and rest.”

  “But we’re not done here.” Tal’s protest was half-hearted, and she knew Salomen saw right through it.

  “You are. You’re asleep on your feet. And I would prefer my evenmeal companion to be able to make rational conversation.”

  Tal didn’t even try to pretend. A Guard drove her back to the house, and she barely paused long enough to check her reader card for messages before dropping into her bed. But when her head hit the pillow, she had a smile on her face. Aldirk had done his job.

  All normal activity at Hol-Opah was completely disrupted that afternoon. Tal may have engineered the sparring for Jaros’s sake, but news had traveled. All of the field workers arrived with the Opahs, turning a demonstration into an exhibition bout.

  Jaros was bouncing around like a ball, unable to contain himself. He had made it home from school in record time, swollen with pride at the fact that most of his classmates were dying of envy. Not only would he get to see the Lancer fight, but he was going to hold her sword as well! Or so Tal heard him telling Salomen, Nikin, and every other person who would listen.

  The Guards arranged the onlookers in a ring, leaving the center clear for the combatants. At the inner edge of the ring, all of the Guards stood facing outward, their expressions serious. This was a challenge to their ability to guard Tal. If anyone in this dense crowd wished to cause harm, it would be difficult to detect in time unless they could sense the intent before the action. It was for this reason that nearly all of her Guards were high empaths. Though not as strong as she was, they were certainly strong enough to go through the fronts of most Alseans.

  Tal and Micah walked through the crowd together, sword grips clipped to their belts. The onlookers parted respectfully, closing the gap after they passed through. Once in the center of the ring, Tal eyed her opponent. Fortunately, Micah had been wise enough to schedule a nap for himself as well and looked to be in about the same shape as Tal—which wasn’t saying a great deal. But at least they were both alert enough to not accidentally kill each other.

  “I see word has gone out,” Tal said, using her Council voice. “Has anyone here ever seen a sword fight before? Entertainment vids don’t count.”

  Several hands, which had begun to be raised, promptly dropped at the la
st sentence.

  “Then Colonel Micah and I will begin by demonstrating the basic moves at a slow speed, so you can see exactly what we’re doing. Once we’ve shown you the basics, we’ll gradually increase our speed until we reach the normal pace of a sparring match.” It was a great idea for pleasing the crowd and had the added advantage of allowing the two sleep-challenged combatants a very long warm-up. As Tal turned back to Micah, she caught Salomen’s eye and saw the wink.

  She pulled her grip from her belt and pressed the switch, watching in appreciation as the blade extended itself. Fahla, but she loved this sword. She’d had it custom made at a tiny village on Pallea, back when she had been a fresh young trainee. It had cost nearly two moons of her minuscule salary and was worth every bit of it. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the grip fit her hand perfectly, and the balance was sublime. After her election as Lancer, she had been offered much fancier swords by various makers who wanted the prestige of their product in her hand, but she politely returned every one of them. They certainly had flash and shine, but they just didn’t compare to this one.

  Micah extended his blade as well, and a collective “ooh” rose from the crowd.

  Tal smiled at him. If they were already impressed with that, they were going to love the actual match!

  They began slowly, taking turns explaining their moves as they thrust, parried, feinted, and attacked at a tenth of their normal speed. Tal felt her body settling into an old and familiar rhythm as she went through motions she could do in her sleep. When one trained in a physical art form long enough, the muscles themselves retained the memories, and Tal’s muscles were waking up and remembering their training. The very familiarity of the moves allowed her to block external distractions, and as they sped up, she ceased to be aware of anything but her opponent. These moments, when she was fully engaged in a demanding physical sport, were the times when she was most vulnerable. Her Guards knew it, and as her focus narrowed, theirs expanded. She was dimly aware of this, then let go of even that awareness as she and Micah reached full speed. Their swords whistled through the air, clanging and sliding as they connected, and Tal gloried in the knowledge that they were both skating along the edge of harm, held back only by their skill and trust in each other.

  Micah grinned at her, feeling the same physical and mental euphoria. Their speed increased even further as they began to push themselves to greater effort, each seeking an opening to exploit. Micah had the advantage of strength and height, but Tal had long ago learned how to use her stature in ways that taller opponents found difficult to block. When the right moment came, she cut low, forcing Micah to reach down. By the time his sword arrived at its low point, hers had already circled back up and around, crashing on top of his and sliding down its length to keep his tip pushed down. A quick kick to his wrist and Micah stumbled back, shaking his stinging hand as his sword fell to the ground. Tal picked it up and retracted the blade, then tossed him the grip as the crowd roared its approval. Under cover of the shouts and applause, she leaned in and said, “At least I didn’t slap you with it.”

  “Eh. I let you do that, you lovesick fool. It would have been cruel to make you lose face in front of your mate.” Micah attached his grip to his belt and put an arm around her shoulders. “Next time I won’t be so generous.”

  “You are so full of dokshin your lips are turning brown.”

  As they laughed, Jaros ran up, his eyes glittering with excitement. “That was fantastic! Wow! Can I hold it now?”

  Tal knelt in the dirt. “Give me your hand.”

  When he put his hand in hers, she rested the base of her grip in his small palm, retaining the upper part in her sword hand. “Hold it very carefully, Jaros. Don’t try to swing it, and don’t touch the blade.”

  “I won’t.” He closed his fingers around the grip, and the excitement that flooded her senses abruptly changed to awe. “This is so speedy! It’s still warm.”

  “Bring up your other hand.”

  He did, and Tal let go, her senses alert to any movement on his part. If he forgot himself in childish excitement, she would have to catch his wrists.

  But Jaros simply stood there, holding the sword in both hands, staring at it as if it were a vision. “Lancer Tal…”

  She could feel it in him. This was more than hero worship.

  He looked up at her. “Last nineday you said that I could challenge my caste. Is that true?”

  “I would not lie to you. It’s possible, but very difficult.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I want to be a warrior. What would I need to do?”

  A shadow fell across them, and Salomen knelt next to her brother. “That’s not a decision you need to make now, Jaros.”

  Tal felt the silent plea. “You cannot challenge until you’re at least twelve cycles,” she said. “You still have time to think about it.”

  “I have thought about it. I want to be a warrior. I want to be like you and Colonel Micah. You do things.”

  “And your family does not?” Salomen asked.

  “No, we do things, but not like this. Lancer Tal and Colonel Micah are different.”

  “Don’t judge all warriors by us. We’re not only different from you, but from most of our caste as well. And we’ve paid a price for our duty. A warrior’s life in the Alsean Defense Force is often demanding and lonely. As a producer you know where your home is, and where it will be until you Return. As an ADF warrior you may not know from one cycle to the next where you’ll be.”

  “That’s what I want! I want to go places and see things and fight for Alsea if the Voloth come back. I don’t want to do what everyone else has always done.”

  “Do you want to leave your friends and family behind?”

  “I would miss you,” Salomen said.

  Jaros was torn. At last he put the sword back in Tal’s hand and turned to his sister, who enveloped him in a warmron. “You’re only nine cycles,” she said as she squeezed him. “There’s still so much for you to learn.”

  “And in the meantime,” Tal said, retracting her blade, “you handled my sword very well. Thank you for being so careful.”

  His enthusiasm resurfaced. “You’re welcome. Can I hold it later? Will you show me how to make it come out of the grip?”

  “Because you were so careful this time, yes, I will.”

  “Okay.” Jaros bounced up and down. “You were speedy! Do you always win?”

  Tal shook her head. “Colonel Micah has taken my sword away on many occasions.”

  “Wow. He’s speedy, too.”

  “Yes, he is.” She looked up at Micah, who was happily discussing the bout with Shikal and a dozen of the field workers. “He taught me much of what I know.”

  “Then you learned more from someone else,” Salomen said. “I saw his face when you disarmed him. He was surprised.”

  Tal’s pride was out of all proportion to the statement. “He hasn’t seen that move in some time; I think he’d forgotten. And you’re right, I learned it from an instructor after leaving Micah’s unit.”

  “That must have been strange for him,” mused Salomen. “Becoming your subordinate after being your superior and your instructor.”

  “You’re presuming that he’s my subordinate. Micah never quite accepted that.”

  “What’s a subordinate?” Jaros wanted to know.

  “Someone who takes orders from someone else,” said Tal.

  “Oh.” He frowned in thought. “But I’ve heard you tell Colonel Micah what to do.”

  “Yes, but did you actually see him do it?”

  Jaros stared, and Salomen laughed as she rubbed his shoulder. “Lancer Tal is teasing. What she really means is that Colonel Micah is her friend more than her subordinate. But he still has to do what she asks.”

  Further conversation became impossible when Nikin arrived, followed closely by several field
workers, and Tal was soon busy answering questions and explaining some of the history and details of traditional sword training. She was surrounded by people whose smiles were open and friendly, whose questions were unguarded and lacking hidden motives, and with a start she realized that somewhere in the last half moon, she had become a part of Hol-Opah. These people saw her working in the fields with them every day and had come to accept her as an Alsean who simply had a different life than they did.

  From the beginning she had seen Hol-Opah as a sanctuary, a world apart from the rest. Now she was beginning to see it as home.

  Then she felt a sharper note and looked past Nikin to see Herot on the edge of the crowd. He was watching her with a frown, and when their eyes met, he turned and walked away.

  Well, most of them accepted her. There was always an exception to the rule.

  She just wished the exception weren’t Salomen’s brother.

  CHAPTER 51

  Fighting words

  Tal couldn’t remember the last time she had taken this much care with her appearance. She had been to banquets studded with the planet’s political and entertainment elites and not given half this much thought to how to arrange her hair. It was a little embarrassing.

  At least she didn’t have to think about her outfit. Micah had already picked it out for her last night in Blacksun, saying that only one thing would do for tonight’s date. She had protested that it was far too formal for a small village like Granelle, but Micah would have none of it. “The village is not the point,” he said. “Your evenmeal companion is.”

  She pulled on the black trousers, tailored to fall perfectly over boots, then stepped into her shiniest and most formal dress boots, with a heel that she would never wear if she needed to move quickly. A high-necked crimson top, buttoned at the side of her throat, denoted her caste and rank by virtue of its color and the almost incandescent glow of the precious bluestones which served for buttons. It was doubtful that anyone in Granelle had seen its like. But the short white jacket was bound to draw the most attention, with its intricate gold patterning on the front, back, and wrists, formal braid at the right shoulder, and dark blue starburst over the heart. It was a dress uniform that stated exactly who she was and where she came from.