Read Online The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald
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the long way is faster .
The district of seedy rooming houses and small shops where G. Munngralla’s Five Points Imports did business was far enough away from the spaceport to close down at night. Most of the storefronts in the buildings along the muddy streets had grillwork up over their darkened windows—this wasn’t a district that could afford security force fields and all-night displays. Streetlights here came one to a corner, making the intersections into puddles of bright light that never reached far enough to illuminate the middle of the block. The random glow from upstairs windows cast odd blocks of light and shadow onto the rutted streets; but not even that light reached the sidewalks under the shop awnings.
Ari kept one hand near the holstered blaster and moved as quietly from shadow to shadow as he knew how. He might not be able to disappear from plain view in broad daylight like his brother Owen the apprentice Adept, but he’d learned to hunt like a Selvaur in the forests of Maraghai, stalking the fanghorn and the rock hog on foot and bringing them down barehanded.
Now he moved in silence down the street leading to Munngralla’s shop, and cast his mind back to the hunting lessons of his adolescence. *Watch everywhere, youngling, * Ferrdacorr had told him. *And listen, always. You humans have no noses, but better eyes than the Forest Lords—and you personally, at least, have something that passes for a sense of hearing.*
Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening in the street itself. Something scaly and four-legged was digging through an overturned trash barrel; and upstairs in the building on the next corner a woman’s voice berated somebody named Quishan for an unspecified, but apparently habitual, offense. But Five Points Imports was as quiet and dark as its neighbors to either side.
Ari reached out a hand to give the door a gentle push—mechanical hinges could make more noise than a feedback regulator about to go down hard—and got no result at all. Munngralla had locked up the shop.
Careless of him, thought Ari. He checked his chronometer. I’m right on time . And then, still standing with one hand reaching out to touch the doorknob, He’d never be that careless. Not with a deal coming up that might lead to a long-term contract. Somebody else must have locked the door.
He moved closer to the door, and put one ear to the crack between it and the jamb. Deliberately, he blocked out the scrabbling and rustling from the overturned trash barrel, the shrill voice with its accusations against the luckless Quishan, and the ever-present rumble from the port … and listened.
He heard nothing at first, then something: a distant, arrhythmic thumping and bumping from deep within the shop. If Munngralla had good soundproofing in his back rooms and upstairs apartments—which as the local agent of the Quincunx he more than likely did—those bare hints of noise implied that all hell was breaking loose somewhere.
Then Ari was sure of it, because faintly through the other sounds came a deep, ragged-edged roaring—the war cry of a Selvaur outnumbered but refusing to go down.
“Right,” Ari said aloud, and took hold of the doorknob again. One quick, sharp jerk, and the door swung open without further trouble. Munngralla would have to repair the doorjamb and replace the lock.
Inside the shop, the noises were more distinct, though still muffled. Ari ran for the beaded curtain at the back of the shop, snatching up a pugil stick from the display rack as he passed. By night, the beaded curtain hid a solid metal door—thick enough for soundproofing, but still not strong enough to hold against a well-placed kick. It caved inward, leaning drunkenly from the only remaining hinge. Ari slid past it and into the back hall.
He ran up the steps three at a time, to where a slanting rectangle of light shone out into the upstairs hallway. The last door wasn’t locked. Munngralla must have come upon the
The district of seedy rooming houses and small shops where G. Munngralla’s Five Points Imports did business was far enough away from the spaceport to close down at night. Most of the storefronts in the buildings along the muddy streets had grillwork up over their darkened windows—this wasn’t a district that could afford security force fields and all-night displays. Streetlights here came one to a corner, making the intersections into puddles of bright light that never reached far enough to illuminate the middle of the block. The random glow from upstairs windows cast odd blocks of light and shadow onto the rutted streets; but not even that light reached the sidewalks under the shop awnings.
Ari kept one hand near the holstered blaster and moved as quietly from shadow to shadow as he knew how. He might not be able to disappear from plain view in broad daylight like his brother Owen the apprentice Adept, but he’d learned to hunt like a Selvaur in the forests of Maraghai, stalking the fanghorn and the rock hog on foot and bringing them down barehanded.
Now he moved in silence down the street leading to Munngralla’s shop, and cast his mind back to the hunting lessons of his adolescence. *Watch everywhere, youngling, * Ferrdacorr had told him. *And listen, always. You humans have no noses, but better eyes than the Forest Lords—and you personally, at least, have something that passes for a sense of hearing.*
Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening in the street itself. Something scaly and four-legged was digging through an overturned trash barrel; and upstairs in the building on the next corner a woman’s voice berated somebody named Quishan for an unspecified, but apparently habitual, offense. But Five Points Imports was as quiet and dark as its neighbors to either side.
Ari reached out a hand to give the door a gentle push—mechanical hinges could make more noise than a feedback regulator about to go down hard—and got no result at all. Munngralla had locked up the shop.
Careless of him, thought Ari. He checked his chronometer. I’m right on time . And then, still standing with one hand reaching out to touch the doorknob, He’d never be that careless. Not with a deal coming up that might lead to a long-term contract. Somebody else must have locked the door.
He moved closer to the door, and put one ear to the crack between it and the jamb. Deliberately, he blocked out the scrabbling and rustling from the overturned trash barrel, the shrill voice with its accusations against the luckless Quishan, and the ever-present rumble from the port … and listened.
He heard nothing at first, then something: a distant, arrhythmic thumping and bumping from deep within the shop. If Munngralla had good soundproofing in his back rooms and upstairs apartments—which as the local agent of the Quincunx he more than likely did—those bare hints of noise implied that all hell was breaking loose somewhere.
Then Ari was sure of it, because faintly through the other sounds came a deep, ragged-edged roaring—the war cry of a Selvaur outnumbered but refusing to go down.
“Right,” Ari said aloud, and took hold of the doorknob again. One quick, sharp jerk, and the door swung open without further trouble. Munngralla would have to repair the doorjamb and replace the lock.
Inside the shop, the noises were more distinct, though still muffled. Ari ran for the beaded curtain at the back of the shop, snatching up a pugil stick from the display rack as he passed. By night, the beaded curtain hid a solid metal door—thick enough for soundproofing, but still not strong enough to hold against a well-placed kick. It caved inward, leaning drunkenly from the only remaining hinge. Ari slid past it and into the back hall.
He ran up the steps three at a time, to where a slanting rectangle of light shone out into the upstairs hallway. The last door wasn’t locked. Munngralla must have come upon the
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