A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

hands wrapped tightly around his middle to hide their trembling. It also helped hold together the ribs which were again grating each time he drew a breath. “I need you to find someone. I had a companion when I arrived on Auord. We were attacked last night.” The Clansman gritted his teeth, remembering. “During the struggle, we were separated.”
    “Attacked? How?” Morgan sat back down. He supported his chin on steepled fingers, watching Barac intently.
    “They hit during the storm.” Barac considered Morgan for a moment, then added: “They had mind-deadening devices. Conveniently stolen, I am to believe. Maybe I do.”
    The Human digested this in silence, then raised one brow. “Your companion?”
    “Her name is Sira. I know she escaped in the confusion.” Barac hesitated, unsure of how much to say, how much to leave out. “I can’t detect her. She could be anywhere—alone, possibly injured. You know people in the city. You could find her, get her offworld without alerting the authorities—”
    Morgan’s blue eyes flashed. “While you abandon her? I thought the Clan looked after their own.”
    “I can’t stay on Auord a moment longer.” Barac tightened his lips, studying the human’s face, frustrated he couldn’t reach into the mind behind those scornful eyes and make Morgan do what was necessary, know only what was necessary. He hated having to stoop to reason.
    Still, there didn’t appear to be any alternative. “Whoever ordered the attack last night was after me,” Barac began reluctantly.
    Morgan held up his hand. “I want nothing to do with Clan squabbles,” he said emphatically. “My time is tight—”
    “Kurr and I were checking on a Council matter in this quadrant,” Barac went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Kurr’s been killed. Last night’s attack was aimed at me. The best thing I can do for Sira is to lead whoever’s after me away from her until I can deal with them.”
    The impatience drained from Morgan’s features, replaced by a shock which darkened the blue of his eyes. “Kurr’s dead? But how—his power . . .”
    Barac held out one slim hand and gazed at the fist he formed. “Power . . .” he repeated, his voice trailing away to silence. He paused so long Morgan shifted in his seat. Then, slowly: “We of the Clan aren’t so different from you, Human. We measure our strength by comparison, one against the other. It tells us who is in control—and who is vulnerable. Or does it? Kurr was killed by power, but by whose? Even as Kurr died, he burned my name into the metal of his ship’s floor plate. I,” Barac opened his fist, holding the empty hand palm upward. “I can’t do such a thing whole and well. But Kurr’s the one gone.”
    “Kurr was a brother to be proud of,” Morgan offered gently. “I will honor the debt between us,” he said more formally, as someone making a vow.
    Barac made no effort to hide his pain, letting it add a cold edge to his voice. “Any debts to be settled are mine, Human.” Barac forced himself back to the topic at hand with an effort, trying to make his tone persuasive. At least the being was listening. “If you want to help, find Sira and get her safely off Auord. I’ll meet you on Camos as soon as possible.” Barac drew a small plate from his pocket. “I had this made in the market—it’s the best I can do.”
    Morgan took the plate, sparing only a quick glance at its imprisoned memory of a woman or girl, dressed in the latest insystem fashion, hair elaborately dyed and styled, eyes too large for the face. Barac tensed. Would he refuse?
    “The best you could’ve done was to leave me out of it,” Morgan snapped, but not unkindly. He tucked the plate away in a pocket. “Failing that, tell me the rest.”
    Barac’s ribs burned like a ring of fire. The way Morgan persisted in complicating what should have been simple didn’t help. “Tell you what?” the Clansman snapped. “They attacked us last night, on Embassy Row.