Dark Matters_ Ghost Dance (Book 2) - Christie Golden [78]
"His soul has gone already," Trima continued. "It has merged with the smoke of the Sacred Planet and flown to the Grafters. They have surely welcomed as gentle and wise a Culil as Matroci."
Paris heard muffled sobs. Everyone was trying hard to make Matroci's death seem like a good thing, but Tom had yet to attend a happy funeral.
"Though we are full of joy for Matroci's soul, we are permitted to be sorrowful for ourselves. For we will no longer have his wisdom and gentle good humor to guide us."
Paris regarded the new Culil and thought, No, we won't. We'll only have you, Trima, and your icy adherence to the letter of the law. For no reason that he could name, his skin began to crawl.
"Now it is time to send Matroci's body to be with his spirit. As his soul wafted to the Grafters on the smoke from the Sacred Plant, so now we send his body after the same fashion." She turned and, taking the nearest torch, thrust it deep into the pyre. It sputtered, lighting only grudgingly. Wisps of smoke seeped out. It would be well into the morning before Matroci's body would be consumed, if then.
Trima then unwound a scarf similar to the one Paris wore about his throat. She held it up so that all might see the rent in it, then placed it on the body. Soliss imitated her.
Around the circle it went, until it was Paris's turn. He stepped forward and tugged at the scarf. He held it aloft in both hands, showing the rest of Sumar-ka the hole, then started to place it on Matroci's chest.
He paused. He was standing fairly close to the body. The pyre was hardly too hot for comfort and he wanted to place the scarf on the dead man, not just toss it. From this vantage point he had a clear view of Matroci's abdomen.
The robes the Culil wore had fallen away from the body slightly during the trip from the hut to the pyre. Tom could see very clearly a bright blue ring on the man's skin. Within the ring, the skin was paler. It looked like a bizarre birthmark, which was clearly what the Culilann had taken it for. But it was not.
Sweating suddenly, Tom let go of the scarf and stepped away. Winnif stepped forward with her own scarf, and the ritual continued around the circle.
His mind reeled with the knowledge. What he was looking at was the characteristic wound pattern produced by a weapon using directed energy of some sort. Matroci" might indeed have died of asphyxiation, but before that, someone had placed a weapon over his heart and fired.
The Culil had not committed suicide. He had been murdered-murdered by someone who had the weapon with which to do it.
The Culilann did not have technology that advanced. Three options flooded into Tom's brain.
The Alilann had attacked last night, killed Matroci, and abducted Chakotay. With no one hearing anything? Hardly likely.
Someone in the Culilann was in actuality an Alilann spy. Paris glanced at the faces and dismissed that thought. The third option was the worst, and just as unlikely as the others-which was to say, just as valid.
A phaser could be reconfigured to leave just such a mark, and Chakotay was gone.
CHAPTER I8
NEELIX SANG TO HIMSELF AS HE CLEANED THE LAST few pots and pans. It had been a pleasant day. All of his dishes, including a few new recipes, had turned out wonderfully. People had had seconds and thirds of that dish he'd created for Harry Kim, the Szechwan yrus-and-broccoli. He was pleasantly tired, looking forward to storytime with Naomi Wildman, a nice hot bath, then bed.
He was surprised to hear the door hiss open at this hour, even more surprised to see a haggard-looking Khala enter. She took a few steps, then halted.