Outrageous Fortune-Errant Freight Book One

Chapter 42

Shohreh looked up from her desk upon hearing Glynna's distinctive rap on her office door. The rhythmic sequence was one Glynna swore had come from Earth, and Shohreh had no reason to doubt it. She did feel, however, that the five-rap series was somehow unfinished, and wondered if, perhaps, was part of a larger whole, the only surviving remnant of a pattern now lost to the ancestors.

Since she'd no more answer now than she had in all the years of responding to Glynna's knocks, Shohreh opened the carved wooden door and allowed Captain Pitte to enter, noting that, despite the obvious exhaustion, there was an easiness in his expression that had been lacking in their first meeting.

Glynna bowed and departed, leaving Pitte looking around himself at the office, though she considered it less office and more a treasure box of comfort—a kind of reparation for being delegated to the reams of paperwork her position required.

The floor, covered with thick woven carpets, helped hold warmth on a plateau that, even during high summer, remained cool. She'd covered the granite walls with pen and ink drawings contrasting with soft tapestries in shades of green.

Deep cushions in jewel tones lay scattered around the low desk, upon which a brass teapot and bright red cups steamed with the mint tea she'd poured just before Glynna's knock, and the lamp overhead gilded all with a warm glow while the fire in the hearth added both heat and a friendly crackle of flames.

The window behind her desk was half-draped, revealing only a sliver of the dark wilderness beyond, where the clouds drifted in tatters as the first sliver of Ma'at rose into the crystal field of stars.

"I am pleased to see you again, Captain," she told him once his eyes returned to her. "I trust your injured are on the road to recovery?"

"Yes," he said, the relief cresting in his eyes like a wave. "My first mate is past the crisis and sleeping comfortably, and Dr. Montagne assures us Rory's hand will heal soundly."

"Edwin has a great deal of triage experience," Shohreh said, gesturing him to the cushions at her desk. "And your mother-to-be?" she asked, though she already knew, for Anya made her report hours ago. But by speaking the diagnosis out loud, Captain Pitte made it more real for himself.

"Jinna is well. And the child also. And your Dr. Dvorak... I wasn't aware sensitives had the ability to make that sort of determination," he added, his expression shifting from relief to curiosity.

"Not all can," Shohreh said. "We are fortunate Anya chose to use her gift so productively. Only last month she Sensed an abnormality in one of the marshals' heart that, left untended, would have killed him."

"An amazing gift," John said. "And, I would imagine, a burden." He folded himself onto one of the cushions and looked up. "Is that why she chose a life in the Keep rather than a city posting?"

"Perceptive of you, Captain." Shohreh pushed one cup in his direction. "And yes. While Anya's skills would benefit any hospital, the strain of so many injuries, so much pain, so much death, might well have driven her mad."

"But not here."

"Not here, no. We have our share of traumas, and the Keep provides ample fodder for a family practitioner, as Tariq could attest...were he more inclined to conversation."

"Did he grow up here?" John asked, sipping at the tea, savoring the bite of the mint, much fresher than the concoction he and Jinna had brewed when she'd first boarded the Errant.

"Here, and in Nike, with his father," Shohreh said.

"Forgive me." John set the cup down. "I didn't mean to pry."