Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Poke the Dathalka

A gentle fog blanketed the colony, turning the buildings into isolated islands on a deep black lake. Petre and Rowen crouched in the shadows of a transport vehicle just outside the gate, waiting for the guard rotation at the south entrance. He popped Kina on the ground and held her little face. “Home, Kina. Go home.” Her eyes luminesced in the reflected light for a moment, then she turned and scurried away.

Two Verit warriors stood at their posts with military attention. Petre didn’t know them well, but they were warriors, dedicated to their duty. He prayed MakenRoy had arranged the promised distraction. He really did not want to have to kill his own clan brothers tonight.

“Incoming,” Rowen murmured, her empathic senses picking up new emotional signatures approaching. “Malurien. They feel… amused?”

Right on cue, three Malurien guards sauntered toward the checkpoint, their casual manner a stark contrast to the Verit's rigid formality. Petre recognized SirutYua, one of MakenRoy's second cousins, leading the group.

“Evening, brothers!” Siru's voice carried easily in the quiet air. “Thought you might appreciate some real Malurien coffee. None of that synthesized nonsense from the mess.”

One of the guards’ posture shifted slightly. Not quite relaxation, but perhaps a softening of his usual vigilance as he chuckled. “You Maluriens and your coffee.”

“Coffee?” Siru pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I'm wounded! This is not just coffee. This is prime triple roasted coffee from the Sunar system. It’s worth almost as much as the Zyilan.” He produced an ornate flask from his jacket. “Besides, what's the point of having family in the trading fleet if you can't get the good stuff?”

The guard’s lips twitched. “And I suppose this completely official diplomatic offering has nothing to do with trying to bribe your way into the sixth night poker tournament?”

“Would I be so transparent?” Siru's grin widened as he poured the coffee into tiny cups. “Though now that you mention it…”

Petre felt Rowen's amusement brush against his consciousness. “They're good,” she whispered.

He nodded, watching the Malurien guards position themselves, one leaning against the doorframe in a way that just happened to block the security scanner's line of sight, another gesturing expansively as he told an increasingly outrageous story.

“MakenRoy’s cousin has style,” Rowen observed. “Though I suppose that runs in the family.”

Petre huffed a quiet laugh. “MakenRoy would say it's not style, just superior tactical planning.” His hand found hers in the shadows. “Ready?”

She squeezed his fingers once. “Lead on, warrior.”

They moved like shadows through the murky night, timing their progress with the ebb and flow of conversation ahead. Siru's voice provided cover, rising and falling with practiced ease.

“…and then the Ambassador says, 'That's not a ceremonial headdress, that's my mate’s favorite hat!'”

Laughter covered their passage through the first security zone. Petre felt a familiar ache in his chest, seeing his clan brothers caught up in the Malurien's performance. Their ignorance was a kindness, he reminded himself. He knew exactly how hard it was to choose between a brother and a Maman.

Rowen held her breath as they passed the second checkpoint. “They're angry,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Not at the guards, but… at the situation? The necessity of the deception?”

Petre nodded. The Maluriens understood honor, understood the corruption they were helping to expose.

“…absolutely shameless,” one of the Verit guards was saying as they slipped past. “The whole diplomatic corps?”

“Every single one,” Siru confirmed cheerfully. “Took weeks to get the dye out of their formal robes. The Ambassador's mate won't let him live it down.”

They were almost clear when one guard whipped around, warrior instincts catching some subtle sound or movement. But Siru was already in motion, “accidentally” knocking over his coffee flask with a theatrical curse.

“Ah, damn! Sorry about that. Here, let me—”

The resulting scramble to save the precious contraband covered their final dash to safety. “Quite the performance,” Rowen mused as they moved through the darkened corridors. “Though I noticed none of that coffee actually got spilled.”

“Of course not.” Petre's lips twitched. “Maluriens never waste good coffee. It only grows on three planets in their empire.” His smile faded as they approached their destination. “Ready for the real performance?”

She extended the tendrils of her empathic senses to their limit.

“They're waiting,” she murmured, fingers brushing his arm in silent support. “Frei, Scara, and Bylelle are all there.” She shuddered. “They’re very confident.”

“Good.”

The Maman had arranged themselves in the center, a tableau designed to remind everyone of their assumed authority. As soon as he entered, Broken gripped his arm, “apprehending” him for the Maman.

“Petre.” Frei's voice dripped with sarcasm. “How good of you to finally present yourself for judgment.”

She bestowed a small nod to Broken. “Well done, warrior. You are a credit to the clan.”

Broken inclined his head slightly. “I live and die for the clan, Lady.”

Rowen caught the slight twitch at the corner of Petre's mouth, the only outward sign of his reaction to Broken’s non-statement. His emotional signature thrummed with anticipation rather than fear.

“Judgment?” His laugh was genuine, if not for the reasons Frei assumed. “Is that what we're calling extortion now?”

Rowen felt the subtle shift in the room's emotional landscape, the first whisper of uncertainty from the Maman.

“You forget yourself—” Frei began, but the rebellion in Petre’s gaze made her falter.

“No, Maman.” His voice carried the quiet authority of a warrior who had chosen his battlefield. “I’ve finally remembered exactly who I am.”

“What is this?” Bylelle said sharply.

“This,” Petre said quietly, “is what happens when you mistake a warrior's patience for weakness.” He withdrew the data crystal, setting it on the table with deliberate precision. “You wanted me here, Maman? Congratulations. You have me.” His smile showed teeth. “Though perhaps not quite the way you expected.”

Frei smiled cruelly. “I think you need a little reminder of your loyalty. Broken—”

“No.”

Frei blinked, thrown off by Broken’s bald statement.

“Broken, I command you—”

“No, Lady,” Broken replied firmly. “You do not command me. Never again.”

Frei gaped in shock. “Broken, you have served the Dathalka clan for nearly three decades! Don’t throw that away now.”

His voice was a rumble of quiet menace. “Did you really think I would stand by and let you torture and murder my blood brother? Harm these that are like sons to me? You’ve lost your mind, Frei. You imprisoned and abused him for months on a whim, after decades of faithful service!” He glared at her and spat deliberately on the floor. “He did everything you asked and more, fought for you against your enemies, and you burned him. You are not worthy of our loyalty.”

She flinched as if struck. Frei examined the room, slowly realizing that she had no support apart from her Maman. No males around to order to violence. No protection. A hint of fear crept into her gaze, as she weighed the odds and didn’t like the answer.

“Clever,” Frei said finally. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Petre.”

“I learned from the best.” Petre's voice held no warmth. He glared at Bylelle. “I may be slow, but I learn eventually, though perhaps not quite the lesson you intended to teach.” He gripped Rowen’s hand.

“What do you want? What is this charade for?”

“I’ve a proposition for you, Lady. It’s simple. The data for safety and freedom for myself, Broken, my father, Luken, and Rowen. Make your choice.”

Bylelle zeroed in on their intertwined hands. “And then what?” she demanded. “You think you can just walk away? That we'll forget your disobedience?”

“Actually, yes.” His smile showed teeth. “Because the alternative is me going to the K'Dec with proof of your extortion. How do you think the Falosian and the Malurien governments will react to learning you were trying to steal technology for your own gain? How you used my father as leverage?”

“Your father?” Frei sneered. “Your father is—”

“Safe,” Petre finished. “Beyond your reach.” He held her gaze steadily. “Did you really think I wouldn't have contingency plans? That I'd leave those I love vulnerable to your games?”

“You dare—” Bylelle started forward, but Frei's sharp gesture stopped her.

Frei's voice dropped dangerously. “There are always consequences for defiance, warrior.”

“Touch anyone I love,” Petre said, “and I burn it all down. Every dirty secret, every manipulation, every way you've twisted our sacred traditions into tools of control.” His voice hardened. “I'm done whoring my honor for your games.”

“As if you have any honor left to sell,” Bylelle spat. “Does she know, Petre? What you did to me. What a good little puppy you were? The way you begged—”

“Enough!” Scara's voice cracked like a whip. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Bylelle recoiled as if struck. “Sister—”

“Don't.” Scara's usually gentle features twisted with disgust. “You're sick, Bylelle. This obsession, these games… this isn't who we're meant to be. The Maman were created to guide, to protect. Not to break males for sport.”

“Weak,” Bylelle sneered. “You were always too soft—”

“Silence.” Frei glared at Bylelle. “You've caused enough problems already.”

She turned back to Petre, her gaze calculating. “The data for your freedom. A fair trade.”

“And the other’s safety,” Petre pressed. “No retaliation. No more games.”

Frei's lips thinned, but she nodded once. “Agreed. Though don't expect forgiveness for this… defiance.”

“I neither expect nor require your forgiveness, Maman. My loyalty belongs to those who've earned it.”

After the Maman swept from the room in a rustle of expensive fabric and wounded dignity, Petre sagged against the wall, the strain of maintaining his warrior facade finally showing. Rowen moved to his side instantly, her hand finding his.

“Well,” Broken's voice held dry amusement, “that was certainly dramatic.”

Petre huffed a laugh that held more exhaustion than humor. He rolled his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the confrontation. “Luke needs to know it's done.”

Rowen was already activating the secure comm channel. Luken's response was immediate. “Brother? Tell me you're not in chains.”

“Not yet.” Petre's lips quirked. “Though the night is young.”

The relief in Luken's voice was palpable. “I'm on my way.”

While they waited, Broken produced a bottle of that expensive Malurien spirit. “To successful negotiations,” he said dryly, passing them each a glass.

“Is that what we're calling it?” Rowen accepted her drink with a tired smile. “I thought it was more like poking an angry Dathalka with a stick.”

Broken's eyes sparkled with genuine pride. “About time, if you ask me.”

Petre mock-glared at his mentor. “I've always had a backbone. I just… misplaced it for a while.”

“For which we’re all grateful.” Luken's voice preceded him through the door. He crossed immediately to his brother, pulling him into a tight hug.

“You should have seen their faces,” Rowen said, leaning into Petre's side. “When he called their bluff? I thought Bylelle might actually explode.”

“Speaking of Bylelle…” Luken's expression sobered. “You know she won't let this go easily.”

“Good.” Petre's smile held predatory intent. “That's exactly what we're counting on.” He set his glass down. “Tomorrow, we push her over the edge.”

“Are you sure about this?” she asked quietly. “We could leave. Take MakenRoy's offer…”

“No.” His voice hardened. “She needs to be exposed. For every male she's broken, every tradition she's corrupted.” His arms tightened around her. “Besides, I'm done running.”

“Then we do this together,” Luken said firmly. “All of us.”

“Together,” Broken agreed, raising his glass. “Though perhaps we should discuss strategy when we're all a bit more…” He gestured vaguely at their various states of exhaustion. “Coherent.”

Petre nodded, feeling the last of his adrenaline fading. “Tomorrow then. Early.”

As they made their way back to Petre’s quarters, Petre's hand never left Rowen's, as if afraid she might disappear if he broke contact.

“You're worried.”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “But not of Bylelle.” At her questioning look, he explained, “I'm afraid of failing. Of not being strong enough to protect everyone I love. Again.”

She stopped, turning to face him fully. “Hey.” Her hand found his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You're not alone anymore. You don't have to be strong enough for everyone.”

His smile was tender as he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “No,” he agreed. “Just strong enough to stand beside you while you save us all.”

“Flatterer.” But she was smiling as she pulled him down for a proper kiss.

When they finally made it to his quarters, exhaustion hit like a physical force. Kina murmured a sleepy welcome from her hammock, but they were so tired they barely had energy to strip off their outer layers before collapsing into bed, Petre curling around her with unconscious protectiveness.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured against her hair, “I love you.”

She laced her fingers through his where they rested against her stomach. “I know.” Then, because she could feel his anxiety humming beneath the surface, “We've got this. All of us together.”

His arms tightened fractionally, and she felt his emotional signature finally settle.