The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [16]
Blade in hand, Riddick walked slowly toward Imam. “I told one person where I might go. Trusted one man when I left this place. After what we had been through together, I thought I could do that much. Was I wrong? Did I make a mistake?”
Imam swallowed hard and gathered himself. He did not want to stammer. Normally, that was not a potentially fatal condition. But in the presence of this man, there was simply no predicting what might constitute such. He needed to sound more confident than he felt.
“Honest and true, I say to you that there is no simple answer.”
At about the exact instant the last syllable was formed by his lips, the blade was resting on his neck. He never saw it move. One moment it was dangling from the big man’s hand; the next, the razor edge was resting against the delegate’s throat.
“Did I make,” Riddick repeated with deceptive softness, “a mistake.”
Despite Imam’s determination, there was a noticeable quaver in his voice as he replied, “I give you my word, Riddick. As a delegate to the government of Helion Prime—” The big man made a small noise that some listeners, had there been any, might have construed as unflattering. “—and as a friend, that whatever has been said was meant to give us a chance, a fighting chance. Were it not for the events of the past few months, events without precedent in the entire history not only of Helion Prime but of this entire sector, things might—”
He broke off as a third presence established itself in the room. Riddick noticed it, too. The attention of both had shifted to the stairway mezzanine, where a slim, bright-eyed young girl was watching both of them keenly. While Riddick’s gaze shifted, the blade did not.
The girl was nothing if not perceptive. “Riddick?” she whispered, clearly in awe. Emerging from such a young throat, and such an innocent one, somehow made it sound less intimidating. She was not afraid. Her wide eyes suggested wonder, not fear.
The emotions of the woman who stepped up behind her, still wet from the shower, were considerably more confused. “Riddick,” she said, echoing the girl. Her tone was neither so innocent nor so indifferent. Her head was cocooned in a setting wrap. When she removed it, her hair would be set in the style she had chosen prior to entering the shower. Riddick guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties, the girl five or maybe a little older.
He had never met either of them, but they clearly knew him well enough to recognize him, even in the shadowy light. If they knew him by sight, it followed that they also knew his reputation. It did not appear to bother the girl. But the look in the woman’s eyes . . .
Making a decision for reasons only he could fathom, Riddick drew the knife away from Imam’s throat. Advancing, he examined the woman. She did not back away, but neither did she feel comfortable under the stare. It hinted at all sorts of experiences, all manner of knowledge. It made her feel undressed without knowing why.
Having turned his back on the delegate without so much as a care, Riddick now glanced at him. “A wife.”
Imam nodded. “Lajjun. We were married not long after . . .” His voice trailed away. He didn’t need to explain to Riddick. Riddick had been there for all the “after.”
Riddick looked at the woman, down to the girl, then at the woman again. “You know,” he said finally, “it’s been a long time since ‘beautiful’ entered my brain. I’d pretty much forgotten what it meant, what it could apply to. It’s been even longer since I was able to apply it human beings. How long has it been, Imam?”
“Five. Five years.”
It became very quiet in the room. Imam thought he could hear his own heart beating. To her credit, Lajjun held her poise. She would not back down for anyone, he knew. It was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her, one of the reasons he had married her. But he would not have thought any the less of her if she had backed away, or fled upstairs, or started screaming. There was an exception to every rule, and right now that exception was standing