Triplet

by Timothy Zahn

  “Can you see the way house from here?” Danae asked, leaning uncomfortably close as she tried to follow his gaze.

  “It’s actually a couple of kilometers north of here,” he told her, easing back from her a few centimeters. “But these cities are continually changing, and when you find a good place to set down, you’re usually smart to go ahead and take it.”

  “Why—? Oh, right. The sky-planes can’t fly closer than ten meters or so to buildings, can they?”

  “That’s it,” Ravagin nodded, vaguely surprised she’d picked up on that so quickly. “And they can’t hover directly over one, either. Anti-burglar protection, presumably, though with the edge barrier always running it’d be hard to use for second-story work anyway. Sky-plane: forward slowly.”

  It was a little tricky to pinpoint a sky-plane onto so small a plot of ground, but Ravagin had had lots of practice and within a couple of minutes they were safely down. Danae, he noticed, poked a hand over the edge before standing up and stepping off the carpet. “Unh,” she grunted, stretching carefully. “Left foot’s gone to sleep. Do we walk or ride?”

  “Up to you,” he told her, easing his own stiff leg muscles as he took a careful look around them. “Most of the local people would walk such a short in-city distance, but I can call a carriage if you want.”

  “No, let’s walk,” she said, her voice almost dreamy.

  He glanced back. She was gazing around her at the colorfully dressed people filling the streets, head turning this way and that as one thing or another caught her eye or ear. It was, he realized, the same way she’d reacted to her first look at Shamsheer. An almost sad twinge of cynicism tugged at him, and he hoped she wouldn’t have to run into the darker side of the storybook city before her. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “This way. And stay close to me.”

  They headed off, threading their way through the bustling crowds. Shamsheer had often been described as a society of contradictions, and the contrasts were nowhere more strongly in evidence than in cities like Kelaine. They passed a smoking armorer’s shop and a sweating smith tending the fires of a computerized Forge Beast metal-working machine while, right across the narrow street, a skinner sewed his animal-hide garments together by hand. Danae had to sidestep at one point to avoid a fruit grower and his ox-like beast of burden as they carried their oranges to market—oranges, Ravagin knew, that would be protected from the early frosts of this part of Shamsheer by a small obelisk that somehow kept the entire grove at a safe temperature until the fruit was completely harvested. Further along, they passed a baker whose oven consisted of simple fire-heated rock and iron, just as a customer called via prayer stick for a carriage to help carry away her purchase. Simple people, casually using technology totally beyond their comprehension … or, for that matter, the comprehension of anyone in the Twenty Worlds.

  Magic, by any other name. Small wonder that visitors so often treated Shamsheer as a storybook kingdom … at least until the harsher realities came crashing down onto the facade.

  For this trip the expected crash came all too quickly.

  They were barely halfway to the way house and had just left the market place for a residential area when Danae suddenly gripped his arm. “Look—over there,” she hissed, nodding across the street.

  Ravagin followed her gaze to see a veiled woman backed up against a building by three fairly grubby-looking men. “What of it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, what of it?” Danae snapped back. “She’s being assaulted—shouldn’t we do something about it?”

  “No,” he told her flatly, keeping his voice low, his eyes flicking around to make sure none of the passers-by were listening in.

  “Ravagin—”

  “We leave them alone,” he insisted. A portly man looked curiously in his direction; Ravagin glared back and the other gulped and looked quickly away. “They won’t hurt her out in the open, and defending her honor’s the job of her men—”

  He looked back to find Danae gone.

  “Damn!” he spat. “Danae!—get back here!”

  He was too late. Already she had made it through the streams of pedestrians ignoring the situation and glided up behind one of the three men … and even as Ravagin belatedly set off after her she jabbed her fist hard beneath the man’s shoulderblade.

  He bellowed and spun around, and Ravagin snarled a curse under his breath. There was no way to avoid it now; he’d either have to fight, risking the wrath of Kelaine City law, or else stand by and watch his client get herself carved into fish bait. Shoving through the crowd that was already beginning to form, he snatched the scorpion glove from his belt and jabbed it onto his right hand, fastening the wrist strap snugly as he moved. The familiar tingle told him the neural sensors were functioning, but there would be no time to double-check their positioning. Against three armed men, he was going to need whatever advantages surprise could give him.

  The man Danae had hit had his sword out now and Ravagin gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt as the blade slashed out at her abdomen. But she had already dropped into a crouch beneath the arc, her foot snapping out toward his knee. The kick missed, her foot caught up short by the unfamiliar length of her Shamsheer dress. The man raised his sword over his head—

  “Halt!” Ravagin shouted, stepping into view behind Danae.

  The man paused, his companions drawing their own swords and stepping up to flank him. “You protect this carhrat?” the first man growled the insult, his left hand twisting up behind him to rub his back.

  Ravagin fought down a flush of anger. “I protect this noblelady, yes,” he returned evenly. “Do you in turn make your livelihood assaulting helpless women like the one yonder?”

  “It is a private family affair,” one of the others snapped. “No concern of yours.”

  “Perhaps,” Ravagin said. “Perhaps not. I had not heard it said that private family business was carried out on the streets of Kelaine City.”

  “For an outlander with no weapon,” the first man said, eyes flicking to the empty glove on Ravagin’s right hand, “you show amazing foolishness. Kelaine law permits an attacked citizen the right of equal response; and if you interfere you and she will both suffer worse.”

  “Equal response to a blow of a hand does not require the use of a sword,” Ravagin pointed out, feeling beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The man was right about the law, unfortunately, and Ravagin knew most of the crowd behind him would have a similar dislike for interfering strangers. On the other hand, he could sense that the three men weren’t held in the highest esteem among their neighbors, either. It probably worked out to a fairly neutral audience—better than might be expected, worse than might be hoped. The men themselves were probably competent enough with their swords, but their clear unfamiliarity with his scorpion glove might balance that somewhat.

  He had, in other words, an even chance of getting them out of this alive. Maybe. “If you wish to invoke the equal response law,” he continued to the other, “you may strike the noblelady a single blow with your empty hand.” Danae, still crouched in front of the man, threw him an astonished look; he ignored it, concentrating on the other’s expression. It was beginning to waver—perhaps he’d cooled down enough to realize that Ravagin wouldn’t be standing against three armed men without some kind of unseen and potentially lethal protection. The bluff was actually going to work. …

  “Are you mad, Maruch?” one of the man’s companions snarled abruptly. “Are you going to let a stranger push your face into the dust?”

  Maruch’s face darkened, all traces of hesitation vanishing into freshly kindled pride-driven rage. Eyes on Ravagin, he raised his sword high and took a step toward Danae—

  Cursing under his breath, Ravagin leaped forward and to the side, raising his hands chest high with palms together. Maruch clearly expected the move; changing direction in mid step, he turned to face Ravagin, his blade beginning its downswing directly toward Ravagin’s head—

  And the coil
ed tentacle on the scorpion glove snapped out like a whip, slapping Maruch’s wrist with a loud crack.

  The other howled, his stroke going wild as he tried with limited success to hold onto his weapon. Ravagin sidestepped with ease, coiling the tentacle again and then snapping it out a second time to strike at the blade itself. The sword went flying, barely missing one of Maruch’s companions before it clattered to the paving stones.

  Someone in the crowd gasped … but what Maruch’s companions lacked in manners one of them, at least, made up in cunning. Even as Ravagin stepped back, coiling the whip again, the man on the left raised his own weapon and shouted, “Sorcerer! Black magic! Help us, citizens, against this Power of Darkness!”

  The crowd stirred, clearly unsure of what to do. Ravagin gritted his teeth, his full attention by necessity on the two men cautiously moving in on him. Snapping the whip out again, he held it extended in a stiff z-shape between him and his attackers. One of them slashed at it; he pulled it back slightly and the blow missed. At least they’ve only got regular swords, he thought, counting one of the few blessings available at the moment. A spark-sword would cut through a scorpion glove whip with ease if it connected; with ordinary swords it would take half a dozen solid blows to do the same.

  Which gave him an idea …

  Easing the defensive line back toward himself, he took a slow couple of steps to the right. His opponents shifted in response, the sword tips easing closer toward him as the whip withdrew. Almost in position … and as one of them started to lunge, Ravagin braced his feet and snapped the whip out in a converging helix around both swords.

  One of the men yelped as the tightening coil slammed the two blades—and their sword hands—together, but it was already too late for either to fight back. Bracing his palms together, Ravagin yanked hard, and an instant later both swords stood at his feet, securely tangled in four meters of whip, their points grounded against the stones.

  For a long minute all three of the disarmed men just stood or crouched there, looking dumfounded at Ravagin. “Now,” Ravagin said softly, “the noblelady and I will be on our way.”

  “Not quite yet, outlander,” an authoritative voice came from the crowd. Ravagin turned to see an old man dressed in purple and gold step forward, the half-scepter of a justice official held before him. Beside him, a similarly garbed younger man held a sword at the ready position, its vaguely indistinct blade pointed in Ravagin’s direction.

  A spark-sword.

  Chapter 7

  THE KELAINE CITY WAY house was one of a couple of dozen that the government of the Twenty Worlds had quietly set up in Triplet, their purpose to provide both travelers’ aid and relatively permanent centers for a handful of continuing studies. A large house situated in the northwest part of the city, it had a permanent staff of four and could provide overnight lodging for a party of up to six more. Ravagin hadn’t planned to stay that long; but under the circumstances, he’d had little choice in the matter.

  “So what did our esteemed justice officials say?” Pornish Essen asked as his two visitors settled into chairs in the way house’s spacious conversation area.

  Ravagin shrugged, automatically taking an estimate of the way house’s director. He’d never met Essen before—way house directors generally served terms of one to two years in a given location, but Ravagin had seldom visited Kelaine City in the past few years. Still, the man seemed at first impression to be competent enough. “Fortunately, one of them had seen a scorpion glove before and could confirm that it wasn’t black sorcery,” he continued. “There was some question about whether I’d attacked first—the official hadn’t gotten there in time for his half-scepter to record how things started—but they apparently knew the three carhrats well enough to believe my story.”

  “The woman wouldn’t testify for you?”

  Ravagin glanced over at Danae, noting the lines of barely concealed anger still in evidence on her face. “The woman apparently cut out on her own sometime after Danae and I took the center of attention away from her.”

  Essen shrugged. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I’m not, either, but it could have made things damned awkward. But as I said, the city seems to have tangled with those idiots before. Anyway, they dithered around for awhile trying to find her and probably consulting the town’s crystal eye for anything other cities or protectorates might have on us. Finally decided they wouldn’t lay any punishment against us if we would agree to leave the city.

  “So you came here instead?” Essen’s eyebrows went up politely. “Wonderful.”

  “Relax—I talked them into letting us spend the night since it was getting so late. We’re to meet one of the officials at a sky-plane landing area a few streets north of here tomorrow and he’ll watch us leave. Until then, we’re your guests.”

  “And honored am I to have you, too,” the other replied, the sarcasm of the words blunted by the twinkle in his eye. “This assignment is certainly turning out to be a caseload of thrills—just last week we had a traveler come through with a case of ymaricc fever and had to petition to use the Dreya’s Womb.”

  “I thought Dreya’s Wombs were supposed to be accessible to anyone,” Danae spoke up from deep in her chair.

  “Anyone who’s a citizen, yes,” Essen told her. “But outlanders don’t have any such automatic rights. Fortunately, Kelaine is fairly relaxed about such things and we basically just had to go through the motions to get permission.”

  Ravagin nodded. Outside, it was becoming dark enough for the first faint stars to appear; in a few minutes the globe atop the Giantsword to the southeast would begin to glow, supplementing the pale moonlight overhead.

  Essen had apparently followed his gaze. “Could I interest either of you in sampling Kelaine’s night life?” he asked.

  “Not me,” Danae said before Ravagin could reply. “I’ve had my fill of Kelaine for one day, thank you. I’d rather just go to bed early and get started for Karyx as soon as possible in the morning.”

  “Ah.” Essen shrugged. “To each their own, I suppose. Personally, I find Shamsheer a much more fascinating and potentially useful world than Karyx. However … Ravagin, if you’d be interested in accompanying me there’ll be others here to look after Ms. Panya.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass, too,” Ravagin shook his head. Shamsheer’s entertainment facilities showed the same sharp contrast as everything else on the world, and while it could be interesting and sometimes even fun, it had a tendency to depress him. “As Ms. Panya said, we want to get an early start tomorrow. I think we’ll just get some dinner and settle in.”

  “Up to you,” Essen said, levering himself out of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I need to go get ready for the evening’s festivities. I’ll leave instructions about dinner, and I’ll try to get up in time to see you off in the morning.” Nodding at each of them in turn, he strode from the room.

  For a moment Ravagin and Danae sat in silence. Out the window, the Giantsword light was beginning to glow; a city’s traditional demarcation between the work of day and the relaxation of evening.

  “Certainly doesn’t seem to be a hardship post, does it?” Danae muttered. “Housesit all day, party all night.”

  Ravagin shrugged. “He’s new here. Give him a few more months and he’ll be as frustrated as every other person from the Twenty Worlds that spends much time on Shamsheer.”

  “Frustrated how? By the laws?”

  He shook his head. “By the technology.”

  “Come again?”

  Abruptly, Ravagin stood up and headed for the stairs. “Come on, let’s go sit outside on the balcony.”

  Danae’s face was suddenly wary. “Why?”

  “Why not? It’s a nice night … and besides, it’ll give you a good chance to see part of the answer to your question.”

  She followed silently as he climbed the steps to the second floor and found the doors leading out to the wide balcony facing out onto the street. Essen and his
staff clearly spent a good deal of time here themselves: the furniture included both stuffed chairs and meal-size tables, and the guardrail was equipped with a spindly sort of device that Ravagin recognized as a minor bit of magic called a rainstopper. Choosing a chair near the rail, he sat down.

  “Well?” Danae asked, looking around.

  “Have a little patience,” Ravagin advised her. “The pace of life on Shamsheer is slower than you’re probably used to. Sit down and listen to the sounds of Kelaine at night.”

  “I said I wasn’t interested in Kelaine at night,” she grumbled, but pulled a second chair up to the rail anyway and sank into it. From somewhere down the street the sounds of musicians warming up could be heard, as well as the rising rumble of conversation as the locals began gathering.

  “What’s that, a bar or something down the street?” Danae asked, craning her neck to look toward the sound.

  “That, or a private party. Though ‘private party’ is something of a misnomer—most of them are open to anyone who wants to drop in.”

  “Sounds like a typical university party.”

  “Mm. I think you’d find one of them interesting, but if you really don’t want to go—there,” he interrupted himself, pointing southward into the sky.

  “What?” Danae asked, turning to look.

  “The sky-planes—see them?”

  “Yes. Huh. Where are they all going at this time of night?”

  “Eastward, to Forj Tower. Carrying all the gadgets that broke in Kelaine City today.”

  “The—? Oh. Oh.” She watched in silence for another minute, until the aerial caravan was out of sight, then turned back to Ravagin. “I counted at least twenty sky-planes. And all the stuff they’re carrying will be repaired overnight?”