Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) by Julie E. Czerneda Page A

village’s latest offering of food safely distant—and thus out in the rain—started so violently that he almost dropped the basket and gourd.
    “Yes, Lady Witch,” he said courteously enough, considering the dilation of his pupils. The provisions were rapidly pushed into the entrance hall, their bearer obviously torn between a desire to escape my notice and a fear of offending. Irritated, I waved him to freedom, less than pleased to be beginning my adventure by accepting the homage—and unpleasant reputation—accorded to real Ram’ad Witches.
    Still, the quarters were comfortable and I was given all the privacy I could desire. Morgan’s memory of the place had promised at least that. I sat cross-legged on a thick, rust-red mat to examine the contents of the basket, careful to taste only those fruits I knew from the city markets.
    It should have been good to be alone, to have time to think. I scowled at the fruit I was disassembling with unnecessary force. Think? I had too many thoughts rattling around in my mind already, the focus of most persistently straying from the steady purpose I had held foremost for so long. I blamed the quiet, the peaceful sleepiness of this remote forest village.
    Then I shook my head, knowing better. This was Morgan’s hut, his things. I had fallen asleep where he had slept for so many weeks, my cheek on a pillow his had warmed. I’d been so careful to avoid any physical association with the Human—to keep an insulating distance.
    Coming here was a mistake.
    I was so tired of battling myself. Such conflict was unproductive and damaging; better to make the best of my time in this new environment, learning from it, gaining every scrap of information I could—as I had in the Haven. As I had from Barac’s mind, I recalled with a shudder.
    “Lady Witch.” I looked up in surprise at that soft summons from the door. An older hunter/warrior stood there, head respectfully bent. No fear here, I noted with relief. No fear, but I detected a strong sense of purpose.
    At my “Yes?” the hunter stepped boldly into the hut, pulling the door cloth closed behind him. Unlike the race who preferred the city, familiar to me as patrons and staff of the Haven, this Poculan was tall and lean, his color closer to cream than the more vivid yellow-brown I’d seen previously. The pattern of soft, fleshy knobs covering each of his joints differed as well, although I couldn’t quite name why I thought so. I did know better than to ask.
    Intrigued, I motioned him to join me on the mat. “You are the Lady Sira,” the hunter announced in quite reasonable Comspeak, dropping into a practiced crouch, second knees level with his head. Well enough. My own grasp of the local dialect owed a bit too much to the Haven’s clientele to be reliable or always polite.
    “Names have power, Hunter,” I replied, warned to caution by the gleam in his eye.
    A slow blink. “I am Premick, Lady Witch,” the hunter said with a quicker courtesy. First naming was an important moment among these widely-scattered people. I’d been right not to ignore his slight insolence. “These past two seasons I have been a furseeker.”
    So. “You’ve been guiding Captain Morgan.” I examined this Premick with increased interest.
    “We have been brothers in the hunt,” Premick corrected. “And thus I have in truth been your faithful gatherer as well.” This last came out a shade too quickly, as if to forestall any denial.
    I restrained a smile, aware now of what this enterprising hunter was after. By the standards of his culture, Premick was well within his rights to assume that my appearance without Morgan meant that the Human’s place in my household was now available. There was valuable status to be claimed by one chosen to serve a Ram’ad Witch. I arched one brow before pointing out: “You are already burdened with three sisters, Hunter Premick.”
    Premick removed a leather pouch from his belt with one thin-fingered hand. He