Part 37 (1/2)

Five of them, he counted as he lay motionless. The guard nearest his fallen weapon scooped it up, jamming it into his own empty holster. ”You will make no move,” said a man standing at Pyre's feet in the middle of the semicircle, in harshly accented Anglic.

Pyre locked eyes with him, then sent his gaze leisurely around the ring of guards. ”I want to talk to Mayor Kimmeron,” he said to the spokesman.

”You will not move until you are judged to be weaponless,” the Qasaman told him.

”Is Kimmeron here?”

The other ignored his question. He spoke instead to his men, two of whom handed their weapons to the others. They knelt down on either side of Pyre... and the

Cobra kicked his heels hard into the pad.

The pad was spongy, but the kick had servo strength behind it and an instant later Pyre was flipping rigidly around the pivot point of his head. One of the guns barked, too late-and then it was too late for any further response as Pyre triggered the laser salvo he'd set up while looking around the guard ring. For an instant the room blazed with laser fire... and by the time Pyre's body had completed its flip the five Qasamans were kneeling or lying on the floor in various stages of shock, their flash-heated guns scattered among the dead mojos.

Pyre got to his feet, eyes seeking the spokesman. ”I could as easily have killed all of you,” he said calmly. ”I'm not here to kill Mayor Kimmeron-”

Without warning, the other four Qasamans leaped to their feet and rushed him.

He let them come; and as the first one got within range, he snapped out his arm to catch the other in the chest with his palm. There was a wumph of expelled air, the sharper crack of snapped ribs, and the Qasaman flew two meters backwards to crash to the floor. The other three skidded to a halt, and Pyre saw an abrupt swelling of fear and respect in their faces. It was one thing, he reflected, to be disarmed by effectively magical bursts of light; it was quite another to see brute physical force in action. Or to feel it, for that matter.

The temporary numbness in his palm was wearing off and the skin there was aching like fury. The Qasaman would feel a lot worse when he woke up. If he ever did.

Pyre's eyes caught the spokesman's again. ”I'm not here to kill Mayor Kimmeron, but merely to talk with him,” he said as calmly as his tingling hand permitted.

”Take me to him. Now.”

The other licked his lips, glancing over to where one of his men was ministering to his injured colleague. Then, looking back at Pyre, he nodded. ”Follow me this way.” He said something else to his men, then turned and headed for a door in the far end of the room. Pyre followed, the two remaining Qasamans falling into step behind him.

They pa.s.sed through the door, and Pyre felt a split second of dj... vu. The same cus.h.i.+ony throne and low tables as in the office upstairs were here as well. But this room was smaller, and the hanging curtains had been replaced by banks of visual displays.

And glaring darkly at one of the displays was Mayor Kimmeron.

He looked up as Pyre and his escort approached, and the Cobra waited for the inevitable reaction. Kimmeron's gaze swept Pyre's matted hair and growth of beard; his borrowed jacket over camouflage survival suit; the dead mojo now hanging over his shoulder by a single thread. But his expression didn't change, and when he looked up again at Pyre's face the Cobra was struck by the brightness of the other's eyes, ”You are from the s.h.i.+p,” Kimmeron said calmly.

”You left it before our cordon was set up. How?”

”Magic,” Pyre said shortly. He glanced around the room. Another fifteen or so

Qasamans were present nearly all of them staring in his direction. All had the usual sidearm and mojo, but no one looked like he was interested in making any move for his weapon. ”Your underground command post?” he asked Kimmeron.

”One of them,” the other nodded. ”There are many more. You will gain little by destroying it.”

”I'm not really interested in destroying anything,” Pyre told him. ”I'm here mainly to arrange our companions' release.”

Kimmeron's lip curled. ”You are remarkably slow to learn,” he spat. ”Didn't the death of your other messenger teach you a lesson?”

Pyre felt his mouth go dry. ”What other messenger? You mean the contact team?”

For a moment the other frowned. Then his face cleared in understanding. ”Ah. The jamming of your radio signals was effective against you, at least. I see. So you do not know the man Winward left your s.h.i.+p without permission and was shot.”

Winward? Had Telek started her breakout attempt already? ”Why did you shoot him?” he snapped. ”You just said he was a messenger-