Bloodsong Ch. 06

Sighing, as that might take a while and, in the meantime, she had nothing to do with herself other than be hungry, cold and on edge, Valeriana put her back to the wall and slid down.

Her arm bumped against something along the way. Shining the crystal over it revealed an iron knocker. Not a wall but a door, then. It wasn't hidden, but in the poor lighting and with it being so wide that it blended into the surroundings, she wouldn't have noticed its presence if she hadn't leaned against it.

When she pressed further, it gave. Unlocked; from the other side, nothing but silence. Gods willing, it would be the kitchen. If not, she'd be less exposed in there than in the passageway.

Those were her thoughts as she braved inside, pausing by the door arch to check if there was a proper lamp hanging somewhere, as the crystal only let her see so much. No such luck. The next step she took changed her mind on staying in there, too, as there was no insulation to speak of. She could feel invisible fingers of ice gripping her arms and throat, wind blowing in through slits and cracks. She might have been standing outside, for how chilly it was.

The place brimmed with boxes. Sizeable ones. She wondered what—

A gulp escaped her in tandem with a shudder as it dawned on her that there was only one thing that they were likely to contain.

Overcome by an aberrant, floaty detachment, she moved closer to the nearest box and held the crystal over the top portion. Her regret was instant — why had she done it, when she'd known? — and the urge to flee tantalizing. Still, she couldn't move. Couldn't look away.

Only a face could be made out, through a translucent panel surrounded by what must be breathing holes. Asleep, or dead — no, silly, silly, why would they be dead? Cynihean; although in the orange light it was difficult to see the gray, the size of the containers gave it away. At a rough estimate, there were dozens, perhaps a hundred of them, and more underfoot, given that she could make out stairs descending ahead.

"You shouldn't be here."

Valeriana didn't find her voice in time to scream.

The second glow blooming behind her, as well as the booming steps closing in, had escaped her entirely. She stumbled back, managing to drop the crystal so hard it broke and flinching when her impromptu retreat sent her smack against one of the containers.

The very much awake Cynihean who'd snuck up on her paused, muttered something indistinguishable and raised both his arms. When that prompted a fearful whimper, he sighed and raised them higher, splaying his fingers. In whatever measure sighs could have a tone, Valeriana recognized his as having a meaning in the vein of 'I'd rather be doing anything but this right now'.

She heard it at least ten times every time she took Jack shopping. Hearing it here was just shy of reassuring.

"I'm not armed, see?" The Cynihean waved his arms in demonstration, unaware or tacitly ignoring the fact that hands that large were weapons. "I'm not going to hurt you. But you can't be in here."

"What is this?" Valeriana made herself ask. He appeared taken aback by the question, and wasted a second scanning the area where her hand pointed, as though trying to discern whether there was something there other than the container which she was unequivocally motioning at. Once sure that he hadn't missed anything, he returned her stare, brow raised.

"It's a slaver ship. What did you expect?"

"Well. I mean." There was no answer that wouldn't paint her as an idiot, since he'd made a good point. "But they're your . . . why are you leaving them like this?"

"There's three hundred of them, seven of us, and they won't be in great shape after all the time they've spent collared. We'll need to wake them in batches, preferably somewhere safer." There was an unmistakable tension in his voice and stance, further marked when he swept his gaze over his boxed up kinmates. With a shudder, poorly suppressed, he gestured at the exit. "Come away, this place creeps me out."

"Uhm. Al . . . alright." Valeriana got the sense that he could scarcely wait to leave. She didn't fault him. Were she in his shoes, seeing herself reflected in those listless faces, she wouldn't wish to linger there either. Darkness, she didn't want to linger there as it was. Even keeping that in mind, she flinched and squeaked when his elbow brushed her arm on the way out. By now, she allowed that it was not a reasonable reaction. "I'm sorry, sorry, that was just . . . reflex."

"I've grown to expect it, to be honest."

"Oh." It struck her that this was the same Cynihean on whose account she'd gone into hysterics earlier. At the time she hadn't taken in details that would have made recognition possible. At a glance, Cyniheans didn't vary noticeably in looks, and when they were all huge and dressed the same, it became harder still to tell them apart. Memorizing subtle differences in bone structure might be the only way to manage. "I am sorry for this afternoon, too. You were . . . trying to be helpful, and I was horribly rude."

"You've calmed down, then?"

"Yes, thank you." Valeriana made as though she didn't notice the sideways glance telling her, in no uncertain terms, how convincing a statement she hadn't made. By now, he must believe her several types of mentally unbalanced. "I, uhm, I'm also sorry that you had to find me in there. I was looking for the kitchen."

"That's on the other side of the ship. I'll take you there if you want."

"I . . . yes." He wouldn't harm her, she assured herself, forcing the primitive, impulse driven parts of her to acknowledge that the manner in which he'd conducted himself so far was the opposite of threatening. Were he not Cynihean and behaving the same way, the possibility of him attacking wouldn't have crossed her mind.

Knowing that, she could set some of her wariness aside. Just never all of it.

"I'm Qurion," he said, as though it hit him just then that they hadn't gotten around to introductions.

"Valeriana. Lazur."

"Never heard that surname." The way he spoke suggested that it counted as a point in her favor.

He lapsed into silence after that, limiting his interaction to gestures and the occasional look over his shoulder to see whether she was still following. The distance between them remained constant as they moved through the ship. At first Valeriana presumed that he allowed her to lag behind for the sake of her nerves, but the longer she watched him, the more she grew convinced that he didn't want her sticking too close by for the sake of his own peace of mind. She began to wonder if he didn't keep looking back not to make sure that he hadn't lost her, but to reassure himself of her position; as though it were him who needed to beware of her.

Everything about the idea felt laughable, yet she didn't have an easy time shaking it.

The kitchen, when they reached it, turned out to be noisy and packed. Likely it only seemed to be the latter because it was a small space to begin with. There were only four occupants. One busied himself leafing through a binder, whereas the other three played a game of some sort.

Qurion grumbled a greeting, which was chorused back without anyone looking up. Valeriana lingered by the entrance, quailing on the inside, wondering if a vague promise of food was worth crossing the threshold and potentially ending up locked in with them.

"Kemel, Ione, Vadar—" Valeriana thought at first that Qurion had switched to his own language, but he appeared to still be addressing her. Belatedly, she realized that he was naming the crew. "—and the ugly prick in the corner is Mazet. Avoid him, his personality is even more unpleasant than his face."

"Why are you bringing that thing in here?" The one called Mazet put the binder down and turned towards her in full, allowing an unimpeded view of his scowl and the accompanying features. Valeriana quickly averted her eyes. A mesh of puckered scars covered him from brow to shoulder, making half of the skin on his face and neck look like a patchwork blanket. Livid, wherever it wasn't a necrotic black. The smile her reaction prompted was as gleeful as it was biting. "Heh, look at her fidgeting. Sensitive little varmint, aren't you? Or is that just the itch to give me some more of these?"

"When I called you a prick, I wasn't asking you to demonstrate. Leave her be."

"Why? So that she'll like me and therefore, perhaps, if the sky turns sideways, acknowledge my personhood? If she needs me to be pleasant before she gets there, she's already not worth the effort."

"Prick. Avoid." Qurion's dry delivery couldn't make it clearer that this was an argument that had been had, and wrongfully believed solved, beforehand. Realizing it didn't diminish Valeriana's distress. "Is there any dinner left?"

"Briseis and the Commander took the leftovers. There should be bread somewhere, though," the one introduced as Ione replied. It took looking at her a third time for Valeriana to realize that she was female. In her defense, secondary sex characteristics were virtually nonexistent among Cyniheans, and if she didn't know the significance of the blue markings on the other's forehead, the fact might have continued to elude her. "Do you know if those two are going to take much longer? They've been cooped up together for hours, discussing — what do they even have to discuss that we can't be there for?"

"I still posit that they're fucking," Mazet drawled. One of the others — she wasn't clear on which was Kemel and which Vadar — unleashed a disgusted utterance and pelted him with game pieces, presumably as retaliation for forcing that image in their collective heads.

"I just came away from there," Qurion retorted, ignoring the bait. "Unless the commander thinks that 'HOW FAR AHEAD ARE THEY GETTING WITH ATOMIC FISSION?' is proper bedroom talk, they're being decent. Would make for a nice change if you could follow their example."

Mazet shrugged one shoulder, letting the insult slide off, and returned to his perusal of the binder.

"I don't think I'm hungry after all," Valeriana murmured, edging away from the doorway and keeping her eyes fixed on the oxidation marks on the floor. If the others judged her for being loath to keep their company, she'd rather not face them. "I think I'll just . . . leave. It was . . . nice to have met all of you. I'm sorry for being a bother."

"Wait." Qurion interrupted the long-suffering look he'd been aiming at Mazet and moved in front of a stack of crates. She couldn't tell what he was doing until he turned, holding a cloth napkin tied around a bundle of what appeared to be food. Evidence, unrequested, of her failure to be convincing about her lack of appetite. He thrust it out to her; at arm's length and leaving the knotted end free, so that there was no chance of her hand brushing against his.

She grabbed it from him after a beat.

"Th—thank you?"

"It's nothing. I'll walk you back to your cabin."

"Yes. Right."

There was a spot of silence as they stood facing each other, exchanging cautious stares, trying to determine who should move first. Eventually, and for the best, since he would know the way through the ship better than her, it was Qurion who set out, motioning at her to follow.

Valeriana hastened away from the doorway to give him space. As before, Qurion disregarded her presence and didn't say much while they walked. As before, he ensured he remained four steps ahead of her at all times.

It remained unclear on whose behalf the safety distance was maintained. The Cynihean didn't look any more at ease in her presence than she felt in his. Valeriana suspected that if she were to stumble and crash into him, he'd first jump a foot in the air and only then attempt to break her fall. More or less as she would have done, if their roles were reversed. She couldn't think of any reason why, taking that into account, he'd wanted to accompany her.

She was struck by the thought, intrusive, irrational, that he was taking her back to a cabin with a bed.

She had enough self-possession to remind herself that if he wanted to try anything, he'd just as soon have done it when he'd found her. There was no need to stammer an excuse to make herself scarce.

Lack of a need didn't stop her, however.

"I . . . actually, I'll go up to the main deck, if you could tell me how to get there. It's out of the way and I . . . I need air." She hoped she sounded enough like she did to make for a convincing argument.

Qurion stopped and faced her, eyes inscrutable. With him standing directly under a lamp, she could tell their color beyond 'light'. Cynihean eyes came in two tones: a gray slightly darker than their skin, which disturbed her because at first glance it made it seem like the sockets were empty, or a pale blue a shade off from white.

His, thankfully, were the less frightening latter.

"I'll show you the way."

'Why', Valeriana burned to ask. Since it would have been rude, she made a small, jerky gesture of assent.

"I'm. Uhm. Thank you. And again, for the food." 'And for stopping Mazet from picking on me,' she nearly added. It must have had more to do with a preexisting conflict than Qurion taking exception to the other Cynihean's unpleasant attitude, but all the same, it had been kind of him.

"You're welcome."

It was the most he said to her until they arrived on the deck.

Under the night sky, bathed in the cool light of the stars, Valeriana felt the same pangs of distress that had rendered her a mess after boarding. The things she'd thought then assailed her again, magnified by everything that had passed since. They were adrift. No land, only dark water for miles and miles without end. What were the odds that she'd—

No. No. Calm. Calm. She could — had to — get a grip on herself.

She forced down the urge to scream, breathed in, squared her shoulders and focused on something useful, such as finding a spot protected from the wind where she could have her meal in peace.

In hindsight, she shouldn't have been surprised that Qurion stayed too. Though he didn't appear to enjoy her company, he seemed to have trouble leaving her. He slouched over the railing, his back to her, while Valeriana unpacked the bundle. It contained half a loaf of bread and a tin of unidentified fish. She ate quickly, eyes darting at her silent companion between bites, assuring herself that he remained where she expected him to be. In the absence of a blood song, letting him out of her sights made it feel as though she were alone.

"Can I ask a question?"

After the prolonged period of quiet, hearing the Cynihean speak startled her. He'd been staring at the sky. Valeriana had assumed, hoped, that he'd lost himself in stargazing, but he'd lost himself in thought, and whatever he'd been thinking had compelled him to talk to her.

Should she be worried?

"I . . . I suppose?"

"You keep acting as though you expect me to attack you. Why?"

The noise Valeriana made was something between whistling and strangled. He waited, expecting her to offer up a better answer.

Stall, she told herself, and did. Or tried to.

"I don't know what you'd like me to say."

"The truth? You're afraid of me. Of us."

"No, I . . ." The trepidation she already brimmed with spiked when Qurion moved away from the railing. She'd made a misstep. He'd asked for the truth and she'd returned a lie so blatant that he would have been unable to believe her even if he wanted to.

It was especially obvious because her gut response to him changing his position the smallest amount was to inch back as if a predator had reared its head.

"You sure about that?" His tone verged on accusing. At least he didn't sound angry. Yet.

"I'm sorry. Truly." She went on babbling while Qurion sat himself against a container, closer by but respecting the distance they'd implicitly agreed upon. Which made her feel better. Which, on the flipside, made her feel guiltier for how she was acting towards him. Which made her feel worse. There appeared to be no winning. "I just . . . I can't say. Why I'm afraid."

His smile was a twisted echo of the one he'd directed at her on the pier. Looking back and reanalyzing, there'd been a conspiring edge to it then, an assumed camaraderie. It had meant to say something like 'Hello — these people we work for, mad, aren't they?'

At the time, he must have assumed that she was one of the humans in Mrs. Drakma's employ. Both her allegiance and her species had been clarified to him somewhere down the line, as this new smile of his was still crooked, but caustic rather than warm.

"I'll guess, then. You're afraid I'll . . . what are the classics again? . . quarter you and roast you and devour you! Lob off your head and stuff your tentacles down your neck stump! Or fire! — paralyze you and toss you on a pyre, to burn alive without being able to move a muscle. You even made a song revolving around that last one. It's actually catchy." He hummed a few bars, lingering on the notes as though savoring them. Valeriana couldn't make herself think in a straight enough line to place the tune. It was enough of a victory that she refrained from flinching when he stopped humming and regarded her, mouth tilted sardonically. "Did I get all the main ones?"

"You forgot about . . . uhm." She dry-swallowed to stop herself from finishing the sentence. Replying while she was keyed up with nervous energy had been a horrible idea. What had she been thinking?

Nothing. She hadn't thought. She'd let the first words that came to her lips fly free, and they'd turned out to be those, and it was too late to take them back.

"Rape?" There went her hopes that she'd silenced herself in time to prevent him from grasping her meaning. Qurion raised his brow, not with outright mocking but something close to it. "No, I think you're getting yourself confused. That's your species, not mine. Which isn't to say that it's unheard of, but you don't see half the population making a sport out of it the way Tsikalayans do."

"We don't—"

"And, you know what else? Would that we could have that as our chief complaint about the monsters you call kin. Compared to the other shit, it often barely registers."

"We're not monsters." The protest slipped off Valeriana's tongue before the voices from deeper down the well of her mind could catch up and issue a reminder that some were. Some. Enough to matter. In a very small voice, she added: "I'm not like that. I hope."

"I'm not talking about—" He sucked in air and shook his head at himself, like he'd said more than intended, or ventured into waters where he hadn't meant to swim. "This isn't personal. Or — no, I said that wrong. It's painfully personal, but it has nothing to do with you, personally. Barashi and Cynihe have four centuries of bad blood between them, and when I say bad blood, what I mean is that your world has been bleeding mine dry. You seem to have a well-developed idea of what to expect from our kind; I gather that you've heard at least a few of the stories they tell about us?"

"I have. Are . . . are they made up to make people afraid of you?" she risked, almost hopefully. She would accept an affirmative answer, would believe it unreservedly, because she was afraid despite her best efforts and would rather shed the feeling.

Qurion chuckled.

To say that she hadn't expected such a reaction would be an understatement.

"No, they aren't. You wish they were." The way he looked, as though a fire had sparked in him to, incongruously, darken his mood rather than brighten it, sent a shiver down Valeriana's spine. Thoughts of running jumped back to the forefront of her mind. Him not making any moves that hinted at an intention to get up was all that held her back from bolting. "I don't know them all, of course. Still, I'd say about nine tenths are based on fact. We give you enough material to spin that you aren't left with a lot you need to make up."