The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [18]
“Just one more omen in a season of omens—all of them bad.” Turning away from the nocturnal vista, he regarded his visitor. “Do you know what’s been happening in the civilized galaxy?”
Riddick’s expression twisted slightly. “Sorry. I’ve kinda been out of touch. When trying to stay alive and find enough to eat becomes a full-time occupation, you tend to give the news a pass.”
Imam nodded, not needing to know the details. “Coalsack is gone. Dead and silent. The Aquilian system, gone quiet too. Helion Prime shares its bounty with several less naturally endowed worlds nearby. If we fall, they fall. And after that . . .”
He stopped talking. Riddick was at a table, playing with a knife. As Imam looked on, his guest passed the blade through a pair of decorative metal candle-sticks, severing them cleanly. His expression said unambiguously, “Nice edge.”
Imam risked the sound of impatience. “Have you heard anything I’ve said? Or are you always focused on—business.”
Riddick put the knife up. “Yeah, I heard you. Said it’s all circlin’ the drain. Whole galaxy. Civilization local, nearby, distant.”
“That’s right.”
His guest shrugged. Imam might as well have been describing the loss of a garden to weeds. “Had to end sometime.”
The three clerics drew their robes tighter around them. A wind was rising, whistling through the streets of the upper-class residential quarter. Picking up dust and pollen, the breeze carried it along, flinging it in the faces of those who were too slow to turn away. No casual conversation passed between the men. Though they were confident in their purpose, they were not sure of the outcome of their visit. These days, it was hard to be sure of anything. But a respected member of their own had bid them come, and they had complied. Willingly, if not happily.
Reaching the house, one of them whispered toward the pickup set beside the entrance. Ancient bells, beloved antiques, jangled in response. It was a sound from humanity’s past, cheerful and reassuring. Characteristic also, they knew, of the owner of the house. An unusual man, who had been through things they could only imagine. It was another reason they had come.
The door was opened by a woman in the full flower of her maturity. There was no need to speak. She recognized each of them and, more important, so had the door’s security system. In response to her gesture, the shrouded trio headed for the stairs. Behind them, Lajjun moved to close the door. Something outside made her hesitate. Staring into the darkness, she saw nothing. Just the wind and what it carried. The door closed with a reassuring electronic snap.
As the three clerics emerged onto the upper-floor veranda, Imam turned to greet them with a gesture. Though they responded in kind, no one was looking at him. Their attention was reserved for the visitor nearby.
Imam turned to him. “The one you want is now here.”
Riddick moved forward, seeming to cross the intervening space between himself and the clerics with barely a step. One by one, he pushed back hoods and examined faces. He had no divining equipment with him, needed none. He knew men better than any machine.
Expecting to recognize the culprit, he was momentarily taken aback when none of the three faces proved familiar. No question: they were all strangers to him. His thoughts churned. Was this some kind of test? Was he being played? And if so, to what purpose? He turned to his host. Imam’s face was devoid of duplicity. What was going on here? If these holy men had not been brought here for him to inspect, then why had Imam called them? So they could examine him? What could be the reason for that? Or was there something more? A second glance in his host’s direction suggested as much. But what?
“‘Even if I looked,’” he murmured, echoing what Imam had told him earlier.
A twitch drew his attention to one of the clerics. The first one was nervous, unable to meet Riddick’s eyes. Though he fought hard against doing so, he kept glancing over the big man’s shoulder. Had