A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [47]
Voices.
He crept even closer. The voices became more distinct. There were a number of them, some louder than others. He put his ear to the door and listened.
“That can’t be, Ma’alor. History shows…”
“The hell with history. They’re desperate, Brother. Can’t you see that?”
“And besides, they’ve already gotten away with it. There have been no repercussions due to Ralak’kai’s appearance-no widespread objections at all. And that opens the door for others to be used like Ralak’kai.”
“Damn them. Can you imagine if they took all of those who’ve been imprisoned and…”
“It won’t happen, I tell you. Perhaps they can get away with Ralak’kai, even one or two others. But if they were to conscript many more like him, the results would be catastrophic for them. The people would rise up-just as they’ve feared all along.”
“You are too much the idealist, Zanc’cov. If the people were capable of rising up, they would have done so long before…”
Dan’nor never heard the rest. A hand gripped his shoulder, spun him around. And before he could protect himself, something slammed into the side of his head.
The next thing he knew, he was lying facedown on the floor, looking at a circle of shoes. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth.
“He’s a spy,” said one of his antagonists. “A damned Military spy.”
“Is he armed?”
Someone rifled the pockets of his coat. He didn’t move to stop them.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“What do we do with him?”
“Kill him. What else can we do?”
Dan’nor didn’t like the sound of that. It was obvious that he had stumbled onto something worse than a gambling den-much worse. If he didn’t escape now, he told himself, he might never have another chance.
Scrambling halfway to his feet, he tried to bull his way through the circle. But his captors caught him and drove him back. They forced him down against the floor again and held him there-despite his struggles.
“Let me go,” he snarled, his words muffled by the pressure of the floor against his mouth. “You’re making a mistake.”
“It’s you who made a mistake,” said one of them.
“I’m not Military,” he growled. “I work in the shoe factory.”
“He’s lying. I can hear a Military accent a mile away. Get my knife-it’s in my jacket.”
That gave Dan’nor reason to struggle even harder-but it gained him nothing. There were too damned many of them.
“I don’t like this,” said another voice. “Insurrection is one thing. But murder…”
“You must have known it would lead to this, Zanc’cov. How could it have led anywhere else?”
“Here it is, Ma’alor.”
Dan’nor saw the glint of the knife, fought with renewed intensity.
“All right. Hold him steady now, and I’ll make a quick end of…”
“Wait!”
They all seemed to freeze at the cry. Whoever was holding Dan’nor’s head down grew lax and he was able to twist it around. To look up, to see who had cried out.
But when he saw, he couldn’t believe it.
“Let him go. I can vouch for him.”
“What do you mean? He’s a spy.”
“I’m not,” said Dan’nor. “I thought this was a gambling den. I swear it.”
“No-he was listening at the door. I caught him.”
“Out of curiosity,” argued Dan’nor. “Nothing more.”
“What’s the difference? He found us out. We can’t just let him go.”
“We can-and we will.”
“Why? Just because you say so?”
“Because we must trust one another. Without that, we might as well cease to exist.”
“I trust you, Tir’dainia. But why should I trust him?”
The man who had interceded on Dan’nor’s behalf looked around at the others. “Because he’s a Tir’dainia too. He’s my son.”
There were looks exchanged. Mostly surprise, but also suspicion. Only one of the men exhibited relief. “There,” he said. “You see? We need not kill him after all.”
“Zanc’cov’s right. Put the knife away, Ma’alor.”
The one called Ma’alor eyed Dan’nor’s father. “I hope you are certain about this, Tir’dainia. Very certain. Because if you’re wrong, we will all pay dearly for it.”
“I’m certain, Brother. Now let him up.”
Gradually, Dan