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“Because I want to help him,” Oliver said. “I know he’s joining the Resistance.”
Serihk didn’t miss a beat. “And what makes you think something as ridiculous as that?”
“Because he’s not here. No one’s seen him.” Oliver sighed. “And because he’s a good man.”
“Too good for the likes of you, don’t you think?”
“Serihk!” Harrison snapped, but Oliver was already nodding.
“Yes.” That wasn’t so difficult to admit. Oliver had always known that. “But I’m still here. I just want to help him. I need to help him. I can’t abandon him now. But I need your help.”
Serihk looked at him, something in his eyes softening. He glanced at Harrison—or more accurately at Harrison’s horribly broken leg—then back at Oliver. He shook his head. “You think you can protect him. Trust me, it won’t work out the way you think it will.”
Then he turned away toward the private bar cart at the back of the room, and Harrison let out a sigh and went to him.
Oliver bit his tongue as he watched Harrison grab Serihk’s upper arm and pull him close. His big hand ran up the tall qesh’s arm to the back of his neck and tugged his head down so he could speak softly to him—too softly for Oliver to hear. Oliver watched Harrison’s thumb smooth circles over Serihk’s nape as swirls of gray eddied with purple just under his collar.
Serihk said something, and Harrison shook his head, his thumb still stroking softly. Finally, Serihk nodded and glanced over his shoulder at Oliver. He straightened up as Harrison’s hand dropped off and clasped his hands behind his back again.
“You’re very convincing, Turner, I’ll give you that,” Serihk said. “But Mal’ik’s survival and success during the next few hours rely on secrecy. What do you have to convince me to trust you other than a sob story?”
Oliver took a deep breath and lifted the chain of his heavy pendant over his head. He held it out to Emissary Serihk. “This.”
* * *
Mal’ik calmly walked down the hall, gatlung slung over his shoulder more as a security blanket than anything else. If anything went wrong at any point in the next couple of hours, a gatlung was going to do him no good.
“Cap—Commander Mal’ik.” The guards on either side of the door to the holding cell stood at attention when they saw him.
Mal’ik nodded at them. “All quiet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has anyone spoken to him?”
One guard nodded. “Smith and Teav both have, sir.”
The other guard made a face. “Though I don’t think they got anything out of him by the way they smelled when they left.”
Mal’ik knew for a fact they hadn’t gotten anything. And they hadn’t been surprised. This wasn’t the torvar’s first stint in a holding cell.
“Alright, I’ll take it from here. Smith needs you both at the banquet. They’re opening an extra room and we need a couple more feet on the ground.”
The first guard nodded crisply and turned to start walking down the hall, but the second hesitated.
“Excuse me, sir, but a torvar should always be guarded by two men at least.” He shifted from foot to foot and grimaced. “So that the second one can raise the alarm if the first one gets taken, or at least…kill him.”
Mal’ik clasped his shoulder. “I know. I’ve fought a few torvars before, during the occupation.” The memories still sent chills down his spine. “Don’t worry. I won’t open the door.”
The second guard looked like he was going to continue to be a problem, but he eventually nodded and turned to follow his partner. “Good luck, sir.”
“And to you.”
Mal’ik watched them walk down the hall and turn the corner. Then he waited for a beat before opening the door.
The holding cell was blindingly bright, with so many white lights as to obliterate any shadows, giving it an eerie, otherworldly feel. Mal’ik blinked as his eyes adjusted and could then take in the expected wall of glass that separated him from the dark mass of Governor Tesh. The klah’eel was tied tightly to a chair, his arms behind his back, and a thick metal collar wrapped around the entire expanse of his neck.
At the sound of Mal’ik closing the door behind him, the governor’s head lifted, and Mal’ik met the eyes of someone who was very much not Governor Tesh. The torvar wearing a klah’eel’s body lifted his chin and let his dark hair fall out of his eyes, lips twisting in a smirk around tusks. The torvar were masters at disguise, deception, and camouflage. But this torvar wasn’t even trying, not right now at least. He let the sickening incongruence show through.
