by Andre Norton
Only—
Zass’s antennae stiffened, the zorsal rumbled a low note of warning. As the starman came on, Simsa pushed the closer to the window, knowing well that her dark face, from which she had not rubbed the soot that overlaid her brows and lashes, could not be sighted by any watcher below.
Six paces such as his long legs would take, a little more, from the outer door of the Spindwaker’s and a shadow detached itself from another doorway diagonally across the way. With a leap like that of a throat-slashing ver-rat, the lurker was on the man she waited for, hurling feet inward in one of those maneuvers practiced by night runners, so that boots, especially made for the purpose with four heavy thicknesses of hide, would strike against the back of the intended victim’s legs, sending him forward in a helpless crack against the cobbles.
Thus, the attacker planned. Only, when he would have thudded home to complete his skillful and long practiced attack, this victim had moved with a matching speed slightly to the left. Only one of those boots struck, as at the same time, the off-worlder spun about and brought a hand chopping down.
Simsa’s hand struck out into the night air in turn without her quite realizing that she did so (unless she could not bear to so easily lose the only fortune she had ever come even promise-close to obtaining). Zass, though her flying skill had never been restored since her wing had mended, was still not altogether lost in the air. The zorsal’s claws scraped the girl’s arm as she ran down its length, Simsa holding steady until the creature took off in a fluttering downward spiral which was far from the beautiful, exact swoops of her progeny, but which landed her near upon the struggling men below. Simsa turned and grabbed for a weapon—the extinguished lamp on the table. Pushing that, dripping its oil down her, into her broad girdle, she flung the shutter wide and followed the zorsal out.
There was a narrow ledge, which she had earlier marked, running to the edge of the inn’s front wall. From that. it was easy enough to swing to the pavement, land with the expertise she had learned years earlier. Once she had shaken off the jar of her meeting with the cobbles, she was on her feet and running.
There came a screech from the entanglement on the pavement. Simsa nodded to herself. As silent as any night thief, the unexpected attack of a zorsal was something which could tear worse than that cry out of him if Zass was given a fair opening to go for throat, face or eyes.
Before the girl reached the fighters they had separated.
One lay in a huddle on the ground, but the one who had risen to his feet was clearly the off-worlder. There were voices now—Simsa reached the two and the man turned, crouching, ready to attack just as she got out:
“Come, star rover!” She caught at the arm which was rising to aim at her, held on while she stooped and dropped her heavy burdened sleeve for the zorsal to catch at and climb so swiftly that its claws tore well into even that stout material.
Then with her fingers sliding down the man’s arm to close about his wrist, she jerked him towards the other end of the street.
“We run!” she said and gave an extra pull to the wrist she held as a way of urging him on.
He did not stop to question her and for that she was thankful as, still hand linked, they dodged into a side street, found the wide door of the inn’s ware entrance and that gave to the nudging of her shoulder. Since there were no rivermen here to leave their cargoes in the cubbies provided, she had made very sure earlier that the bar was loosened to aid in an unseen going or coming. The Burrowers’ instinct that one must always have two entrances at least to every hole had brought her to make this discovery and prepare to take advantage of it.
Inside, she led her companion up the back stairs to the upper-roofed but unsided gallery and so through a hall and into the room. Even as she dropped the bar of that into place and was free to jerk the dripping lamp out and smack it down on the uncertainly legged table, she could hear movement, low voices, and a clatter in the street.
The zorsal fluttered toward the now open window where Simsa, brushing past the off-worlder, was also a moment later.
There were men below—at least three of them—gathered around one who lay groaning on the pavement. Coming with stick lamps down the street were peacemen—who never ordinarily ventured into this district at all. Simsa’s eyes narrowed almost as did Zass’ when the sun struck them. There was no reason for the Guild Watch to come—who had summoned them? The one cry the assailant had uttered could not have reached over five streets, up one wide avenue, to their usual patrol route. Even if it had, they would have taken no note since that sounded from the lower town. The Thieves’ Guild had their own watchmen—so—
“Arfellen’s men—” He spoke in a whisper which was uttered so close to her that his breath could be felt against her cheek. She started, unaware that he could move so silently as to come up beside her without her noting.
Lord Arfellen! So sure was she that the attacker had been one of the Thieves’ Guild that at first the name he had uttered meant nothing to her. Then she saw in the blaze of the stick torches gathered in a knot about the man still lying on the pavement (some of those about him had managed to get away before the arrival of the watch guard, but two were having their arms twisted expertly behind their backs, nooses drooped over their heads) that these same guards wore shoulder badges not of the Guild itself but of some lord’s personal following—
Arfellen! Without thought, Simsa whirled, her claws unsheathed, ready to tear to ribbons this fool who had brought down upon her such disaster. She heard her own guttural sound of sheer rage, not unlike that cry of Zass’s when the zorsal was about to attack. Her claw nails caught—once—and then there was a grip of iron about her thin wrist; expert in defense as she was, she could not break that grasp. He twisted her arm about and up behind her shoulders with the same ease that the guard below made sure of their prisoners. Next he would march her down the stair, join her to that sorry company and what she could expect waited beyond!
Simsa shivered and hated herself for shivering. However, instead of jerking her around and pushing her towards the door she had so lately barred, he instead pulled her closer to him. His other arm came up about her waist holding her a vise of bone of flesh strength such as she had never met before, once more then he whispered, his breath once more warm against her cheek.
“Be still!”
Completely bewildered, Simsa tried to understand. Was the starman not going to claim protection from one of the foremost and most powerful guild lords? Surely that squad below who had come so swiftly after the attack on him must have been sent for his benefit. It was well known that the off-worlders were not to be touched in Kuxortal—they were not to be considered natural prey by anyone, high or low.
Yet this one did not call down to his would-be deliverers. He was acting instead as might a man who had something to hide, or someone to fear. Slowly, Simsa relaxed a little, no longer tensing her whole body against his prisoning hold.
4
No one approached the inn door nor the doors of any of the other buildings though Simsa fully expected them to come searching for this off-worlder. Why else would the personal guard of one of the highest of the Guild Lords trail him to this lower level? She stood unresisting now in his grasp watching the men gather up the one lying on the street, forcing at least two of their other captives to carry him, or rather half drag his limp body between them, as the whole party started up slope the city above.
Zass had flown over to hang on the shutter, her antennae fully extending towards what was happening below. Now, as the guards went on their way, the off-worlder released the girl and reached out to swing the shutters to, leaving them in darkness.
“What do you do here?” Simsa broke the silence of that darkness first. She had to know what he was involved in in order to prepare for her own defense.
“What I promised—to bring you this!”
She heard a rustle in the dark, then a clinking from where the table must stand.
“Here is the rec
koning between us.”
She felt her way to the table, sought the lamp. A goodly portion of its content had gone on her when she had seized it up as a possible weapon. She stank of its thick odor. Now she clicked a fire-spark and set what was left to its work. There was indeed a pouch, a fat pouch, on the table top. On the other side of the board stood the off-worlder watching her through eyes which seemed now to be the narrowest of slits.
Simsa made no move to touch the pouch. To be drawn further into this stranger’s affairs, even just to the point of selling him what he wanted, was the last thing she desired. Yet—they had made trade bargain—and no one save he, she, and the Old One (in her time) knew of the two pieces Simsa carried. She was very certain that if they did trace what she had sold Gathar back to her, they could not fix on this second sale. She would leave here before dawn, using that same back way—or even the house tops if she must. Still—she had to know.
She used her oil sticky fingers to free the wrist band of her sleeve, seek out the carvings, not looking at what she did, rather keeping a wary eye on the other. He had not moved and his hands, free and empty, hung in plain sight.
As the girl pulled out the small packet which contained the carvings, something else spun free into the light of the lamp, the violence of its spin freeing it from the scrap of cloth she had thought so firmly bound around it. It was as if fate itself had begun to betray her, Simsa thought, as she snatched for that, caught only the cloth and dumped the contents fully into the shine of the lamp.
The ring did not glitter, the metal of its fashioning was too soft a sheen, it had been buried perhaps too long, and its single remaining stone was milkily opaque and not cut to blaze forth in glory. Yet, there was no mistaking, no hiding now what had so seemingly loosened itself through no will of hers.
That circlet with its tiny castle mount for the unknown stone lay revealed to both of them. Simsa hurled aside the packet of the carvings, scooped, with claw-extended fingers, for the ring. She might have parted, had there been both opportunity and need, with the two other pieces of jewelry—those from the Old One’s caches, but this—no! From the first moment she had found it, something within her claimed it, knew that it must be hers alone.
Though the off-worlder had picked up the packet, shaken the carvings free of their covering and inspected them as any prudent purchaser would, he quickly turned his attention again to her hand. For some reason, perhaps defiance, because he had handled her so easily at the window, Simsa did not thrust the ring into hiding once again. Rather she slipped it over her thumb in full sight.
He did not bend his head any closer to view it. Still, she was as certain as if he did, that he studied it with care. Then, at last, he said—as if the words were forced from him against his will:
“And from where came that?”
“This?” She tapped it with the slightly extended foreclaw of her other hand. “This was the Old One’s gift—(which was truth after a fashion—had Simsa not labored to bury Ferwar, she would never have chanced on it)—I do not know from where she had it.”
Now he did extend his hand. “Will you let me see it?”
She would not take it off, the longer she felt its weight on her finger the more natural that seemed. But she lifted her hand a fraction closer to him.
“X-Arth maybe,” he said very softly, almost in wonder.
“The ring could be that of a Moon Sister, or High Lady. But here?” He must ask the question of himself rather than her, Simsa decided. She had a new flow of curiosity.
“What is Moon Sister? A High Lady? Yes, of them I have heard.”
He shook his head and there was impatience in his voice when he answered.
“I do not speak of the Lady of one of your Guild Lords. The High Lady was of another world and time. She could summon powers my race were never able to measure, and the Moon was her crown and her strength.”
Though the Burrowers gave no lip service nor bowed knees except to Fortune, Simsa thought she understood: A goddess.
The temples of the upper city served only those with precious metal to pay for sacrifices (not that Simsa had ever heard of any surprising answer to prayer muttered or full-sung in any of those halls). If there were gods and goddesses on this world, they busied themselves only with those who already had the warm right hand of fortune on their shoulders. Only how did the symbol of a goddess known to the off-worlder come to lie under a rock down by the burial pits?
This X-Arth he hunted—what did the Lord Arfellen have to do with that?
“Those guards—they followed you.” She flipped the ring about so only the band was showing, the castle, as he called it, lay against her palm in hiding. “What has Lord Arfellen to do with you—or—what is more important—does he know of me?”
She was not sure he would tell her. He was frowning now, wrapping the carvings in the same piece of cloth she had used, putting them with care into his belt pouch. He did not answer, but rather went once more, with a tread so quick and easy that in spite of his spacer’s boots he made no sound crossing the room, to peer out a crack between the shutter and the casing.
“The lamp—” He made an impatient gesture and she guessed what he wanted, blew out the flame, then heard the squeak of the shutter as he must have pulled it farther open. Zass complained with a growl and Simsa joined the off-worlder in time to take the weight of the zorsal back on her shoulder.
There was nothing below. No one moved. They might be looking down upon the street of a deserted city. Simsa, bred to the Burrows and the alarms of the fringe places, understood the threat which hung as a part of that very silence.
“Lord Arfellen—” she whispered.
He made a swift movement, held his hand hard across her mouth. His answer came in the thinnest thread of a whisper. She wouldn’t have believed he could have spoken so softly and yet have the words reach her with such clarity.
“Listen well—Arfellen’s men followed me to spy. Is there any way out of here? He may have loosed more than just the guard to dog me—”
How much would her help be worth, that question flashed first into her mind, only to be followed by the sense of her own danger. If the Guild Lord’s men hunted this off-worlder, an alien whom all the customs of Kuxortal protected, then how much more they would profit in taking her for whose very skin they would not have to answer to anyone? They could crush her dry in one of their question rooms and learn all she knew—yet try to wring more out of her. Only if the off-worlder was safe—for now—could she also hope to have time to work out her own method of escape from his troubles.
There was only one place—the Burrows. No one of the upper city came seeking there. There were far too many runways and passages, too many hiding holes. Those from the upper city had long ago given up hope of flushing any who fled there, depending indeed on the clannishness of the Burrowers themselves, who resented any newcomers and would set up and deliver up to the authorities an upper-town fugitive.
Only if one struck a bargain with a Burrower—one of enough weight of arm to defend himself and his prey—could any fugitive hope for refuge—then only for a short time.
Simsa’s thought spun back and forth in a whirl. There was one way she could take the off-worlder back to the very den she had hoped to have seen the last of. It would cause talk, yes—but she could do it openly and none would stand between her and a dubious, fleeting safety. First—the money.
She pulled out of the off-worlder’s loose hold to catch up the bag of broken bits, stuff it deep into her sleeve and fasten the wrist button. Then her hands went to the tight wrapping about her head. She pulled off the many strands of that, shook free her thick mat of silver hair, then smeared the band pieces across her eyebrows and lashes to remove some of the protective coloring. She was not to be Shadow now, but play a very different role.
“There is a way,” she said softly as she scrubbed away her disguise. “We have some play-women in the Burrows. None have ever brought back a ship man. Though some of the
lesser river traders—when they are drunk enough—will come for their pleasure. Take this,” she groped her way to the bed she had hoped to lie soft on and never had a chance to even try, and snatched up its upper cover pushing it on him where he stood—a darkened blotch between her and the open window, the lights from below giving her that much guidance now. “Put it about you as a cloak. Now—if you can stand being thought a Burrow woman’s pleasure buyer!”
He was following her, though she was not sure at that moment whether she wanted that or not. Once more, they made the way through the back parts of the inn, even as they had entered a short time before.
As they came under a dim lantern, she thought she heard a faint exclamation out of him, but when she turned her head quickly he was quiet. So they passed into a side street, Simsa in the lead, he following with that soft tread on her very heels. Down they went, skirting a wall which was a division point between the city and the fringe. There were secrets there, known well to her people. She stopped beside what looked to be a regular section of that same wall, but was merely lamperwood, hard as iron even in such a small panel and skillfully overlaid with paint and dirt to appear as solid as the stone on either side.
Simsa slipped through that easily enough, her large companion found it a tighter squeeze, but he did not delay her longer. She went only a few more steps until she darted into a cellar left open to the sky and then caught his hand to lead him through a maze of passages far better known to her than the streets above their heads.
Thus she came back after a momentous day and night in a full circle to that place she had never thought to see again—Ferwar’s Burrow. In the dark, she found a battered lamp which fed upon not oil from the upper city but the squeezings of certain ill-smelling ground nuts which had to be pressed for weary spaces of time to give forth their juices, so that lamp light at all was treasure in the Burrows. Still, if there were eyes for the seeing now, let them mark that she was not alone.