Vicious Circle Read online

  I reached down and pulled up my skirt to reveal well-formed calves. Not what the sergeant expected. His eyebrows rose, though he didn’t stop brandishing the knife. While his thoughts wandered higher, I drew my own blades from my boots so I gripped one in each hand.

  I took a quick glance around the property. One of the wooden porch support beams sported a knothole in its white-painted surface. I pointed the tip of one blade at it. “See that dark spot?”

  The merc turned sideways a fraction so he could see where I indicated and still keep an eye on me. Scrunching up his face, he squinted at the pillar. “What of it?”

  I drew back and threw the knife from my right hand. It flew in a blur of motion, end over end, landing its point in the center of the tiny knot. The hilt twanged, quivering where it extended from the weathered wood. The merc gaped at the feat. I breathed an inner sigh of relief. I excelled with throwing weapons, but weeks had passed since my last target practice.

  Raising the second knife, I faced him. “Next one between your eyes.”

  The sergeant’s blade dropped to land with a dull thud in the dead grass and sand at his feet. He extended his arms, palms outward in surrender.

  “I’d like to buy some climbing gear for wood and stone,” I said, addressing him as I would any shopkeeper or merchant behind a counter.

  “Who are you? A thief?”

  “What’s available, and how much will you charge?” My real identity would remain secret. He had my physical description, of course, but all of us in the shadow professions tended to keep quiet about one another. Sort of a professional courtesy between loosely connected comrades. Which made Captain Derrick Vargas’s betrayal even more painful. My stomach clenched at the memory. My smile hardened.

  The sergeant grunted in response. “Let me check in with my supplier.”

  An hour later I had everything I needed, or thought I might need, tucked into a large carry sack I’d also procured from the mercs.

  I went from the boarding house to the tourist district—quaint inns, an inviting pub, a few outdoor eateries, and a row of shops selling homemade arts and crafts. The open doors of the alehouse beckoned. The sun hung high overhead, beating down and making sweat bead on my forehead. The bag of gear weighed heavily on my shoulder. I could hear clinking glassware and jovial conversation inside the pub, and a cool drink would have gone down nicely. It took great effort to turn away.

  Between buildings, in a side alley, I spotted three men hunched together in the shadows. They haggled for a few moments, then exchanged credits for something small and reflective. A duraglass vial.

  Despite the heat, I shivered. Cold sweat replaced the hot sheen on my skin. I closed my hand around the anonymous credit chit in my skirt pocket, then turned the plastic over and over between my fingertips.

  I had no way of knowing if the dealer was selling palotrin, but whatever was in that vial, my body wanted it.

  I felt no pain. Except for occasional aches, the leg and arm had given me little trouble in recent days. Didn’t matter. The draw of the drug pulled at me, urging me to step away from the side of the building I leaned on and walk into that alley. My arms and legs trembled with need—nothing violent, but annoying and anticipatory. I’d been naive in the extreme to think I’d conquered a growing addiction so easily.

  My gaze darted up and down the thoroughfare, searching for any kind of distraction. Some of the shoppers cast concerned looks in my direction. One older well-dressed gentleman asked if I needed help, but I managed a faint smile and waved him away. As he left, I spotted a more modern copy of the Generational tucked under one arm.

  At last I noticed a sign advertising blankets and wall hangings, just the thing the gate guard suggested Kila’s brother might like for his birthday, and I couldn’t return from my supposed shopping trip without some sort of gift.

  I thrust myself away from the wall with a shove of pure will. After crossing the street on jerky limbs, I pushed through a swinging door and set off a set of tinkling bells. Inside, fans circulated the ocean air, drying the sweat and cooling my body temperature by degrees. It took me a long moment of closed eyes and deep breaths standing in that doorway before I moved another centimeter. When I felt I’d regained control, I raised my eyelids.

  Rows of racks held a veritable rainbow of woven artwork. Some consisted of colored patterns in primaries or pastels while others had been threaded into very realistic depictions of seascapes, starfields, and local wildlife. I spotted one of the type of beast Kila had ridden in that holo in her room. Another displayed a field of the purple fruits we’d consumed on our journey. Everything reminded me of her and made it harder to think about the drug dealers in the alley. I released the breath I’d held and set about selecting something for her brother.

  In the end, I purchased two pieces—an abstract weaving of sunset colors for the young lord and a patchwork of pastels for Kila. After all, as twins, it was her birthday as well. She’d been left out quite enough in this monarchy.

  When the elderly woman shopkeeper rang up my purchases, I caught a quick glimpse of the balance remaining on the chit. It took some effort not to gape at her screen and choke on the small mint I’d selected from a bowl of complimentary hard candies. Kila had transferred thousands of credits in the standard currency onto the small piece of plastic. It covered my expenses, the as-of-yet-incomplete assassination, and a generous bonus besides.

  If I fretted over her trust in me and my ability to complete this assignment, this laid all my worries to rest.

  I headed back toward the T’ral home, but singing and chanting drew me to a domed structure on the outskirts of town.

  The wooden temple boasted fieldstone finishings, though the materials seemed wrong somehow. Granite or marble would have been more appropriate for such an ornate building, with its carved exterior curlicues and intricate patterns.

  Despite my distrust of religions, curiosity pulled me to the heavy wooden double doors. I cracked one open, wincing as it creaked, but none of the hundred or so seated within seemed to hear it over the hymns.

  At first, the parishioners appeared as no more than huddled shadows, but as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting, I discerned more detail. The templegoers knelt upon colorful pillows scattered about the wood floor, facing an altar at the far end. The seating had no particular order, no rows or plan. They seemed to drop wherever they felt comfortable, and indeed, a bin of cushions stood just within the door to my right. I didn’t take one.

  Instead, I leaned against the interior wall next to a stand bearing an offering plate that overflowed with local currency. Good thing I wasn’t a thief as the mercs suggested. I dropped my purchases lightly on the floor beside me and watched.

  Sconces holding flickering candles ran in two lines up the walls toward the altar, and scented smoke wafted from each one, creating a thick haze in the sanctuary. I inhaled, identifying the smell. Therix wax. Mildly narcotic. Completely legal in small amounts, though the parishioners were pushing it with so many candles. They produced a soothing effect, reduced tension. I’d tried using one as a sleep aid shortly after my arrival on Deluge but quickly discovered a need for something stronger. Besides, I hadn’t liked the side effect of suggestibility.

  I glanced again at the brimming offering plate. Explained a lot.

  I took in the temple with a more critical eye, noting its cleanliness but some signs of disrepair—fraying edges on the pillows, cracks in the stonework. My cynical side wondered where all that money was going.

  Kila might be devout. Didn’t mean everyone who professed belief was equally so, including the local religious leader.

  Each worshipper held a copy of the Generational in both hands. From it, the congregation recited or sung passages selected by the “leader,” for want of the appropriate name. This white-robed figure stood behind the altar, expressive face and energetic hands conveying his message. His dark hair was close-cropped and neat, his angled cheekbones and a thin mustache adding to his di
stinguished appearance.

  I peered closer at him. Bright, almost feverishly intense eyes roved over the congregation and back to the altar where he presumably kept his own copy of the Generational. No sign of narcotic dullness. An antitox tab taken before each service would do the trick. He was slight of build but full of stage presence, and his charismatic voice carried to the gathered assembly without the use of any sort of amplification technology. I marveled at the acoustic architecture, appreciating a simplistic solution to a problem dating back hundreds or thousands of years.

  “…and the Guardian shall protect the Chosen from those sent to do Him harm. In defense of Him, the Guardian’s life is forfeit.”

  In response, the parishioners chorused, “May the Guardian be found.”

  “And in return, the Chosen shall bless the Guardian, empowering the Guardian with all His gifts of life.”

  “May the Guardian be found.”

  It was all complete and utter nonsense, and yet a small part of me envied these simple, happy people and their unwavering beliefs. Faith for me came from the barrel of a laser or the tip of a blade. Those were my gifts of life. But it would be nice, for once, not to have to fight for it.

  Prior to meeting Kila, I’d considered religious types gullible, perhaps less intelligent, and the potential corruption here added a bit to that. But Kila had no lack of intelligence. Though she was inexperienced, I would never name her gullible either.

  What instilled faith in some but not others? Was I too damaged to ever truly believe?

  In the coolness of the temple, I listened to the religious service and tried to understand, hoping to better understand Kila, herself.

  At its conclusion, and no better enlightened than I’d been going in, I followed the congregation from the temple. Apparently tradition dictated the worshippers follow their religious leader to his abode after a service. They followed him, and I followed them.

  We arrived at a pleasant boarding house in yellow with white trim, overlooking the ocean. The structure had weathered many a storm, and a few missing roof tiles and some chipped paint attested to that, but it was a far cry from the run-down inn the mercs occupied, and in a much better part of town. Still, these lodgings didn’t account for the missing temple’s funds.

  Maybe they gave it all away to charities. I mentally kicked myself for my earlier uncharitable thoughts.

  The pastor, priest, whatever this religion called him, stood at the entry and shook hands warmly with each parishioner before he or she departed into the village. With some, he stopped to exchange a few words, a sympathetic smile, a touch on the shoulder.

  Curiosity placed me at the end of the lineup, and when the preacher got to me, he froze, then fluttered one hand up to smooth his thin mustache. His handshake was firm, but his fingers were cold, colder than they should have been after shaking with so many others. I wondered if I had blown my cover somehow.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, keeping my tone light and pleasant.

  His faltered smile righted itself. “No, my dear, nothing at all. You simply reminded me of someone.” His gaze darted about, searching the now empty yard of the boarding house, though what he looked for, I had no idea. “New here?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Passing through. Sampling cultures.” I favored him with a rare smile. “I hope that’s all right?”

  “Of course. Of course. Curiosity can make for many a convert.”

  I got the impression he was quoting the Generational, though I hadn’t read that particular passage.

  “And you live here year-round, I presume?”

  To my surprise, he laughed. “No, I’m almost as much of a transient as you. I stay here on worship days, to conduct the services, but my permanent home is on a smaller island, privately owned. Much solitude is a requirement for proper meditation.”

  Of course it was.

  Private island, huh? Something like that would cost a small fortune.

  Chapter 14

  UPON MY return to the T’rals’, I tossed the climbing gear in its sack over a secluded area of fence, behind the mansion and among some trees. Then I strolled through the front gate with the woven art I’d picked up as my diversion for the guards. I’d had some concerns about retrieving the gear, but my worries proved pointless. The house bustled with activity: caterers, florists, and well-dressed individuals coming and going in a constant stream. I could have sneaked around with a blast cannon and no one would have noticed.

  After removing a comforter and sheets from the chest at the foot of Kila’s bed, I stored the gear within it, then placed the coverings on top and closed the lid. My formal attire lay spread across the mattress, a floor-length gown of shimmering silver and shoes to match. I showered and slipped into the dress, which fit me like a blade’s sheath. The sparkling material contrasted with my dark hair, setting it off nicely.

  The costume provided no place to hide a weapon. I couldn’t fit anything between myself and the fabric. A slit up the side went halfway up my right thigh, leaving little to the imagination, and the back and front dipped low enough to make even me a bit self-conscious of the amount of exposed skin. At least the full-length sleeves hid my Guild brand, though I’d cover it with the beige goop to be safe. I wondered what Kila had been thinking when she selected this for me. My mind wandered to thoughts of what she might be wearing this evening, and I wrestled it back to more pressing concerns.

  I spent time applying makeup and fastening my shoes, and still Kila had not returned. I practiced walking in the high heels, back and forth across the floor, until I could do so with grace. Natural agility helped, though I wondered if wearing them for any length of time would aggravate my former leg injury. During my pacing I spotted a small handwritten note on the armrest of the couch:

  Expected at dinner. Will meet you there. Can’t wait to see you in the dress. And a smiley face. Instead of rolling my eyes, I smiled down at it.

  Armed with nothing more than my good looks, I ventured forth. I noted the hallway guards’ absence as I made my way down the stairs.

  Sounds of clinking tableware drew me to a large banquet hall complete with a parquet dance floor at one end. Elegant couples in various combinations swirled over the glossy surface to the lilting music of a live string quartet. About a dozen circular tables were laden with expensive crystal and hand-painted dishes. Servants in white jackets bore tureens of soup, bowls of exotic fruits, and trays of roasted vegetables that caused a rumbling in my empty stomach. Rays of the setting sun flowed through long rectangular windows overlooking the bay, the village, and the gated grounds.

  A huge stack of wrapped and unwrapped presents made a pyramid against one wall, and for a moment, I regretted leaving the woven art in Kila’s suite. The regret faded fast. I had a different gift in mind for Kila’s rapist brother.

  I scanned the crowd for Kila’s face but couldn’t spot her. Instead, my eyes fell upon the head table, situated at the front of the room adjacent to the dance floor. Five of its six seats sat empty, and a pair of guards stood behind its single occupant.

  I got my first look at the young man I’d come to kill. He was nothing like I expected.

  The resemblance between him and Kila showed in every feature, from the delicate cheekbones to the thick gold-and-auburn hair. His hung shorter, in fashion with other men of Lissex, just below his earlobes, but he had the same gentle innocence of his sister.

  A mask for his depravity, I reminded myself. Somewhere in the T’ral line, genetics had failed, producing this sweet-faced monster.

  Unseen, I moved to a corner beside a temporary bar serving beverages from all the settled worlds. From there I watched him while he nodded and smiled, exchanged pleasantries with passing guests, and nibbled at the food on his plate. His friendliness seemed forced and false. The smiles didn’t reach his eyes, and I wondered if I imagined my interpretation or if he couldn’t fully suppress his guilt and shame.

  Interesting also were the reactions of others toward him. Men
bowed. Women curtsied. Some kissed his hand or clutched his fingers to their chests with tears glistening in their eyes. That preacher from town was here too. No surprise there. Every village leader seemed to be present. He greeted Kila’s brother Jaren, then appraised him with an intensity of gaze that seemed to bore through the younger man. Finally, he nodded and moved on. The display sickened me, and I understood Kila’s hopeless position more than ever. If the villagers worshipped Jaren now, how would they interact once he took over control of the family affairs in another couple of days? His father would retire, and he would be in charge. Of everything. And everyone.

  The bartender offered to pour me a drink, suggesting something pale blue and sparkling, and I politely refused. When I turned back, the young lord stared right at me.

  He studied me with piercing green eyes uncomfortably like Kila’s, nodding in appreciation at whatever he saw. Then he smiled… a genuine smile.

  I blinked twice and walked in the opposite direction, unsure of my destination and not caring so long as it carried me away from him. Was that approval? Did he know who I was, or at least who I was supposed to be? Or was he simply scoping out a new conquest?

  This undercover nonsense discomfited me. On occasion, Guild members had to play parts and infiltrate large groups of people to get to their targets. Didn’t mean I had to like it. I had no desire to pursue an acting career. Give me a straight hunt-and-shoot any day.

  Add to that the personal and emotional nature of this particular assignment. This was not going to be easy.

  Blinded by fury and confusion, I collided with Kila before I focused on her. She stumbled on her own heels, and I caught her before she fell, wrapping my arms around her warm bare shoulders. Heat flooded me, spiraling outward from the middle of my stomach up to my face and down to places I tried, without success, to ignore.

  Kila’s giggling laughter brought me around, and I examined her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes with practiced expertise. “How many have you had?” I whispered, leaning to speak into her ear. She shivered in my arms as my warm breath passed over her neck. I watched the little hairs on her skin rise and swallowed hard at the response.