CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Into the Cohort
Orange was a horrid color—a color for ass lickers and fungi. But she couldn’t put off wearing it any longer, because the medic had cleared her for duty, provided she taped her ankle every morning. That she should see the day! Just looking at the trousers made her head hurt. Melín belted on the handheld bolt-weapon in its holster, and buckled the short knife to her belt sourly, remembering her stolen blade.
She still had to get it back. Somehow.
That blasted Karyas!
Karyas wouldn’t have returned her blade to the Division; it was registered to her, and she was supposed to return it herself, so if she didn’t, Captain Keyt would know something was wrong. Karyas might have thrown the blade away, or had it destroyed.
She wouldn’t, though. A blade like that had uses.
In Karyas’ hands, not good ones.
Melín punched herself in the thighs a few times to stop the twitching, and put the orange jacket on. Gnash it, gnash it—the helmet had no crest, and no brim against sunblast. Nekantor and his pet might as well have pinned her under a rock. She’d never get back up there, to the one fight that really mattered.
Today she had to march in a review.
Fantastic.
Her ankle gave her almost no trouble down the level-rampway stairs. Credit to the medic for that. He’d been pretty blasted frustrating, in that Kartunnen way, insisting on the proper exercises, and the proper taping technique. But she didn’t blame him for the nightmares, even though more than a few of those nightmares had involved him taking her ankle apart. No; bad dreams came whenever she was off the fields.
Today’s order from Commander Abru had been to report to the Ring. She had no reason to think it was false. By Sirin’s luck, she found the place busy with mates—dressed in orange, but what can you do—and unclenched her teeth a little.
Everybody had gathered outside the tall outer wall, because inside, Grobal were waiting. There was a lot of talk and shoving in the crowd. Talk, she didn’t care, but shoving was a pain when most people’s shoulders were at the level of her head. She moved through the group, calling sharply, “Watch it, seni!” when elbows got too close.
Someone behind her said, “Wysp!”
Melín whipped around, reaching down for a bolt rifle that wasn’t there.
“Made you look,” a tall man sneered. “You scared of wysps, seni? ’Cause I’m not.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He sounded suspiciously like that ass, Helis.
“I can handle them just fine, seni,” she said. “If you try to mess with them, I’ll fix your face for you.”
The man laughed.
Waste of her time. She was supposed to be finding her own eight. It seemed like she’d have to ask where to find Crenn, and hope he’d make no attempts to fix her face when she found him.
His face needed fixing first. But not today.
She pushed for some distance from the wysp idiot, and nudged one of the nearest elbows.
“Hey, seni, where’s—”
“Aren’t you the one the Heir picked out?” A big pale woman with the rank pin of a Seventh bent down into her face, chin jutting forward. “How much did he pay you for your loyalty?”
“Better ask the Heir that question,” said Melín. “Where’s First Crenn?”
“You would say that, carrion breath. No respect where it’s due.”
What in Plis’ name? She snorted. “Plenty where it’s due.”
“I should report your lack of loyalty to the Eminence,” said the pale woman. “Or I could just—”
The pale woman’s fist came at her face.
Melín ducked fast. She spun and tried to slip away into the crowd, but the woman shoved after her.
Gnash it, gnash it, kick and blast it! That woman might be a Seventh, but Helis had been an Eighth. Docked for insubordination on her first day . . . ?
Two backs parted ahead, but before she could escape through the space between them, she found First Crenn coming the other way.
My ass. Docked, and now decked by her own First . . .
“Touch our Eighth and you’ll regret it,” Crenn snarled.
Was he on her side now?
All right, then.
It wasn’t just him, either. Sahris was here, too. Melín took the risk of giving them her back—and found not just the pale woman, but two more guards lining up with fists ready.
This was some bigger dispute, older to the Cohort than she was.
If Crenn wanted to defend her, though, she wasn’t going to stop him. Even if his sudden about-face made no sense. She backed around him to a spot where, to reach her, the woman and her mates would have to attack Crenn first. Then she stood her ground.
A whistle sounded across the crowd. Most basic signal she knew, meaning ‘line up.’
Good timing. Instead of leaping in to fight, the pale woman spat toward Crenn’s feet, and walked away. Melín cast a glance toward Crenn and found the rest of her eight had joined him; relaxing slightly, she moved around to the line’s end. This was basic stuff, same as they’d learned at Norendy.
Of course, line up didn’t mean move. There was always the standing-around part. Pointless. Dragged-out. Don’t-shift-your-feet-but-don’t-lock-your-knees. With her heart aching for sunblast, reminded of her loss by each throb in her head and twitch in her thighs, it became a special form of torture.
Finally, they marched. Row by row, into the Ring. Easy stuff, minimal planning or commitment, and no fancy maneuvers to keep up with. Just line up in a block eight by eleven, and salute, right hand to left shoulder, in front of the Heir and the Eminence beneath their metal canopy.
She studied their smug Grobal faces. The Eminence was a ridiculously pretty man in a ridiculously pretty suit. He’d probably turn a beautiful brown if he ever stared Father Varin in the face. He looked over them with a brilliant smile that was probably intended to make them feel—rewarded? like family?—for safeguarding his life. The pale, narrow-faced Heir eyed them like targets. His eyes flicked constantly face to face to face.
Gods, did she ever feel like a perfect tool.
In the corner of her eye, weird shadows shifted. Wysp shadows. She focused on peripheral vision without moving her eyes. There it was: a wysp had come up out of the ground by the mate in front of her, and now drifted upward at a weird inconstant angle. Agitation level zero—but it was agony to watch.
What was she doing here, when she should have been in the sun?
Someone gave a singsong whisper. “My shot.”
Rage whited out her vision.
“Eminence Herin and Heir Nekantor!” she shouted. “Thank you for the honor of nomination to your Cohort. But whoever shoots that wysp now will cause an explosion that will kill the Heir, the Eminence, and most of this Cohort. As a certified Wysp Specialist, I’m informing every one of you: I will personally deactivate you if you try it!”
Every member of the formation turned on her. For a split second, she thought she might be crushed.
“Cohort!” Commander Abru barked, and the implosion froze around her. “Attention! Eyes front!”
The Cohort returned to its previous position.
The Eminence Herin stood up.
Melín braced herself—maybe Plis would smile, and he’d be angry enough to expel her back to where she belonged.
“Thank you for your valiance, all of you,” said the Eminence. “I can’t imagine whose idea it was to shoot wysps underground where they cause no harm, but—” His voice hardened. “This ends. Now.” He pointed a finger and waved it across the group. “Anyone attempting to shoot wysps will be immediately expelled from my Cohort.”
The Heir stood up beside him. “Is that clear?” Nekantor demanded.
Melín snapped her heels together. The sound of eighty-eight pairs of obedient boot heels echoed across the ring, followed by the voices. “Yes, sir!”
Thank Heile. Melín exhaled.
What a bunch of pathetic tools.
You’re upset, Melín,” Aripo said. “Did you break somebody today?”
“Nah.” Melín punched her fork into a bite of kelo mushroom fry. The tines protested against the metal plate. When she put it in her mouth and chewed it, the outside was crisp, the inside meaty and just slightly sweet. Maybe it even eased her headache slightly. “Thanks for making this.”
“Gotta look at me when you say that.”
Melín closed her eyes, tempted to roll them, but Aripo was right. Better to have beauty in her head than images of the Eminence and Heir cycling over and over. She looked up from her plate at Aripo’s face. Aripo was leaning her chin on her hand, gazing. She had deep, incredible eyes. Incredible hands. Incredible everything.
Yeah, that did feel better.
“Isseni.” Melín took a deep breath. “Thank you for making this.”
Aripo smiled until her lips parted. “You’re welcome. So, you gonna tell me how it went?”
Melín spiked another fry, considered it, and bit off one end. “You shouldn’t have to bring your work home.”
“That bad, huh?”
“He took me off the fields for this!” A quick stab-stab-stab cleared the rest of the fries off her plate. She shoved them in her mouth and ground them between her teeth, like Varin should the Heir. The Eminence, too, for that matter.
“Hmmm, and how does that make you feel?”
That croon was deep and comforting. Aripo had used it with her before, back when Melín was just her Division client, to coax her to talk about her problems. Now it made her stomach tingle.
Melín played with the ring in her left ear. “The Cohort’s weird, Aripo. Something’s off.”
Aripo gazed and nodded silently. Twins, did she have beautiful eyes.
“Were they always like this?” Melín asked.
“They always loved their connection to the Eminence, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” She scowled at her empty plate. “Gnash them all.”
“Put your fork down, isseni,” said Aripo. When she did, Aripo pulled her hand across the table and started playing with it. Aripo’s strong fingers pressed into the meat of her thumb, and between her fingers, massaging, stretching . . .
Ooh, that felt good.
“Isseni, you’re making me jealous of my fingers.”
Aripo chuckled. “Jealousy is so unbecoming. What would Drefne say?”
“He’d say it was their turn.”
“He actually might.” Aripo twined her fingers through hers, and stood up, walking closer around the table. Melín loved the way the movement wrapped her own arm across her chest; Aripo, behind her now, found her other hand to hold, and bent down.
Heat surging in her tender places, Melín turned her head up for a kiss.
“Don’t get ideas now,” Aripo murmured. “You still have to tell me about your day.”
“Traitor. Take me to bed.”
“Will do.” Aripo pulled her hands away, leaving Melín grasping after. Aripo hauled her up by the underarms.
“Hey!” A toss, and she was draped across her isseni’s arms. Melín reached for Aripo’s neck.
“I’ll drop you.”
“Isseni!”
“I know you, isseni. You have the headaches. You’ve had the nightmares. You’re not facing your traumas. Do I have to wring words out of you?”
Melín wriggled. “Oh, yes. Wring me.” She went for a kiss.
Aripo dropped her head.
“Aaaa!” A sharp grip at her knees stopped her upside-down. She punched Aripo in the thigh. Oh, look at her magnificent thighs . . .
Aripo hauled her across the apartment into the bedroom, swung her up and tossed her on the bed. “Words.”
Melín gazed up at her, panting. Wanting. Aripo’s breasts stretched the fabric of her white shirt; she could imagine holding them in her hands, and—
Plis’ balls, words. All right.
“I hate the Heir for trapping me underground.”
“Good start. I’ll give you . . . a shirt.” Aripo peeled the white shirt off, and tossed it in the corner.
“Oh, holy Twins . . .” Melín’s hands closed on their own, and she licked her lips. Swallowed hard. “There’s no reason why my eight shouldn’t have hated me today, just like the day they tried to break my ankle. But they defended me.” That had to be enough words. “Come here, seriously, I need those nipples.”
Aripo laughed aloud. “Only if you turn on your stomach and keep talking.”
“I’m going to kill you. I could go to the Cohort’s therapist, you know.”
“You won’t. What are the Cohort’s traumas, anyway?”
Melín turned over on her stomach. She could feel Aripo coming closer; she rubbed her knees together for the friction that ran all the way up her thighs. “The Heir’s the trauma. I think he’s doing something. He doesn’t look at everyone. He—”
Aripo’s hands landed on her ass and pushed her down, all of that godly weight behind them. The hands moved up, pressing into the small of her back, then higher, pressing the tension out of her with her breath—oh, yes—and then Aripo’s knee pressed in between hers, nudging upward.
“Uhnnn,” she said.
“I couldn’t understand that,” said Aripo, closer now. Her hair was down, tickling deliciously between Melín’s shoulder blades.
“They might—” She gasped as Aripo’s hands sneaked under her hips, grasped her inner thighs, and then pulled back out again.
“Might what?” Aripo asked.
“Hahh—uh. They hate me. My eight.”
“Yeah?”
“But they hate me less than they hate that other woman. The woman who accused me of disloyalty to the Eminence.” For an instant, she forgot everything else, even the woman behind her. “Because everybody knew the Heir had picked me. Holy Mai help me, the Cohort’s split into factions. I hope I’m wrong.” She turned on her elbows and looked around at Aripo. “I’d better be wrong.”
“I love you, Melín.” Aripo reached down to her.
After that, everything was right.