Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) Read Free

to their plight.  
    But obviously powerless to help.  
    Dismissing the lady as a possible ally, he focused on the lively discussion off to the side.
    The ruler snapped question after question at the officer who’d first captured them. Nate detected a family resemblance between the noble and the man he was grilling, but the man in charge didn’t appear satisfied with any of the answers he received, kinsman or no. In five days and nights of captivity, Nate had picked up a smattering of the local language but not nearly enough to follow the rapid question-and-answer session.  
    A new woman arrived, emerging from the palace and walking to join the noble, placing her arm possessively around his waist. Head tilted imperiously, her white-painted lips set in a thin, straight line, she listened to the discussion in silence. Nate met her eyes briefly before she contemptuously tossed her head and centered her attention on the gesticulating officer. She took a few steps forward, one hand raised to silence the ongoing briefing. Standing in front of Nate, forcing the protesting officer to move aside, she cupped Nate’s chin with one hand, nothing gentle about the gesture. Her long fingers were tipped like talons, with long, curved, purple-gray painted nails resting on his cheek with a clearly implied threat. He glared at her, attempting to communicate his defiance through his expression and stance. Still holding his chin, she asked the officer a question, which he hastily answered. The woman released Nate’s chin but ran one hand through his hair, caressingly, down the back of his neck and onto his bare chest. Her touch burned his skin. He wondered if she had poison painted on her nails.
    As if impatient with her inspection, the ruler fired a question at Nate in a dialect unlike anything he’d heard on this planet. Shaking his head, he said, “Sorry, not a language I speak.”
    There was an indrawn hiss of breath from those closest to the man in charge. He recoiled a few inches, wide-eyed, mouth open in excitement. Fear. Why would anyone be afraid of us, especially chained the way we are? How do I use this?
    The woman stalked in a circle, studying Thom and Harada, peering closely at their faces. When she came to Atletl, she laughed, shaking her head. Taking the officer by the elbow, she engaged him in rapid conversation.
    Atletl stood motionless, his demeanor proud. Obviously, he understood the discussion regarding their fate, but whether it was good or ill, he gave no sign. Nor did he speak.
    Finally, the soldier grabbed Atletl’s left arm and tugged the prisoner sideways a few steps, imploring the haughty noblewoman to examine him more closely. Nate tried to see what the item of interest might be. A tattoo on Atletl’s well-muscled bicep in the shape of a small, stylized reptilian creature in blue and scarlet inks was the focus of attention. The symbol matched the decoration on the young priestess’s dress. Rival deities perhaps?
    “T’naritza,” the officer said insistently, tapping one finger on the tattoo. He waved his other hand to take in Nate and his men, including them in this designation.
    Elegant eyebrows raised, the woman nodded. She spoke to the man in charge, and the two of them paced hand in hand to the thrones, seating themselves. Chin resting on his fist, the ruler took a pinch of a pale green substance from a platter at his side and chewed lazily as he studied Nate, Haranda and Thom for a long moment. Raising the staff, the dignitary made a lazy circle in the air above his head, a gesture of dismissal accompanied by one curt syllable from fleshy lips. The crowd filed silently out of the courtyard.
    “Wish I had a clue what they want from us,” Nate said, more to break the uncanny silence than for any other reason.
    “Maybe we don’t really want to know.” Thom straightened. “These primitive planets have pretty unpleasant ways of dealing with unexpected guests.”
    The black-clad ladies—the ones Nate