by Jo Clayton
He gave a shout of laughter, shook himself. "University can't know what it's missing."
"Hmm. You think these d'dabs are ever going to sleep?"
"Shouldn't 'ye stirred them up so much."
"Well, thaaank you, so glad you enjoyed my singing."
"Didn't say that." He wiggled his heavy brows and smiled at her, mouth shut, mustache tails lifting-not the grin he gave Silvercreep; tooth baring was a threat-gesture among the Dyslaera, not a pleasantry. He waited another beat. "I did, though. You're older than you look."
"I told you that."
"Yeh, but I didn't believe you, it's the sort of thing kits always say. They're putting more wood on the fire, seems like they plan on staying a while."
"Waiting for the high-bidder to arrive, I suppose."
"Could be." He looked up, produced a peculiar fluttering whistle. Sassa came swooping down, flew over the cage; at another whistle, he went spiraling up again to perch among the fronds of the tree top. "Good bird. I raised him from the egg. Braincrystal knife, hmm? Should cut through that wood like cheese. They'll have a sentry posted. What kind of a shot are you?"
"Adequate for the occasion."
"Lots of occasions it seems."
"Flattery? What do you want?"
He laughed, slapped his leg. "I do like you, little cat. Lovely claws you've got there. Remind me of Miralys when she was a kit."
"Toerfeles?"
"Vanity, vanity, thy name is woman."
"Well?"
"True."
"So?"
"Let me use the needier."
She caught hold of his hand, measured her own against it. "I don't know. It's so small you wouldn't even feel it." He gave her a smoldering look. "I can handle little things."
"You think so, huh?"
"Know so."
"All right." She yawned. "I'm going to snatch some sleep, wake me whe." she yawned again, "aahhh! When it's time."
Chapter 9. Fugitives
A cold drop splatted into the hollow at her temple, trickled into her eye; another hit her mouth. Shadith sputtered, sat up. "Sar!" She reached for the harpcase, shifted it until it was standing upright, pushed between two bars, presenting the minimum area to the wind and the rain. Swardheld built tight and strong, but there was no point in putting unnecessary strain on his work.
The night was a black felt blanket thrown across the glade; the fire's light made little impression on it. She held her ringchron close to her eyes and clicked her tongue when she saw what it said; she'd only been sleeping an hour. More drops hit her, a flurry of them; the wind coming through the bars was chill and damp, it cut to the bone.
The locals were running about as if the storm had blown in out of nowhere, as if the clouds hadn't been piling up all evening-and they were completely ignoring their prisoners.
Rohant dropped to a squat beside her. He was shivering but trying to ignore it; he wasn't dressed for the weather and Dyslaera were savannah bred, used to dry heat and dust. His eyes shone red like bits stolen from the embattled fire as they watched shadows chase each other about the glade while the fire sizzled and smoked and threatened to go out and the locals struggled with " wind gusts and an unwieldy tarp, trying to hoist it over a rope they'd tied to staples driven into two of the trees. "City boys." He snorted. "Like a bunch of ants, you kick over their hill."
More flurries of the icy drops hit Shadith in the face, went trickling down her neck. "Tsoukbaraim!" She scraped the wet out of her eyes, pulled her shirt together at the collar and glared at Silvercreep who was yelling invective at his men while they fought the canvas and the wind and tried to pin the tarp's edges to the ground with a handful of wooden pegs.
After they got the improvised tent anchored solidly, the locals went rushing about the glade collecting their blankets and the pile of firewood. The rain started coming down steadily, the wind driving it at a strong slant.
Shadith thrust two fingers in her mouth and produced a whistle that knifed through the storm noise. "Hey," she yelled, "What about us?"
They ignored her, treated the whistle and her screaming like windhowl and forgot it as they built a new fire under shelter of the canvas and left the old one to drown in the rain. Well, that shows what we're worth. Sar! Bless us Three, pneumonia and catarrh and misery.
A few minutes later one of the locals came out, a smaller piece of canvas wrapped about him. Shoulders rounded, the wind at his back snatching at him, making him unsteady on his feet, he crossed the glade to the cage and settled himself on a root of the nearest tree, out of reach but close enough to hear them if they moved or spoke.
Rohant leaned down, his mouth close to Shadith's ear. "The needier, you think it'll penetrate that tarp?"
"With this wind? I don't know. To say true, I've had it less than a year, just took a few practice shots. On a calm day…" she peered at the huddled figure of the sentry, a blot barely visible in the rapidly diminishing firelight, "at about twice that distance, a needle'll go through an inch of hardwood. I never tried it on cloth, so I don't know… anyway, I doubt it would reach him from here, it's too light to carry well against a blow this strong."
His fingers beat against his thighs, he whistled an irritating two-note dirge. He was close enough for her to feel the shiver-pulses shaking him. "We wait," he said finally. "Let them get to sleep, it shouldn't take long."
Shadith smiled at.the red glint in his narrowed eyes. "Tell you what, Ro, take the cats over with you, and you and Kikun and them clear out my way and I'll operate on a couple those bars. It rains much harder you can walk right up to that d'dab and tunk him on the head before he knows what's happening.
Shadith stretched out on her stomach and felt at the bars near the ground because she couldn't see much more than black columns barely blacker and more solid than the night; they were slick with rain, slimy with debris from the slow rotting away of the outer layer of wood. She sucked on her teeth and thought about that a minute. Take it slow, Shadow old girl, or you'll be without a hand. Ahlahlah, this mud is ice.
She pushed up, laid her left leg out straight and drew the knife from the bootsheath. Holding it carefully away from her, she eased herself onto her stomach, slithered to the chosen bar and set the cutting edge against it. Wrist resting on her fist so she wouldn't tremble, she applied pressure whisper bit by whisper bit. A shake at the wrong time or a shift off the horizontal and the blade could whip back on itself and slice her hand off. Slowly, slowly, the knife sank into the wood, cutting through the bar like a hot wire through butter.
When the blade was nearly through, she let go of the hilt, sloshed onto her back and lay massaging her wrist, her arms and hands shaking. She tucked her hands into her armpits and lay with her eyes closed, the rain beating on her face, until the worst of the tension was out of her.
On her stomach again, she braced her wrist, eased the knife from the wood and stopped her hand immediately. "One," she said aloud.
She dealt with the second pole in the same way, then slid the knife into the wood again before she tried getting to her feet so she could make the second cut in each of the bars. "Two," she said. She was cold, stiff, suddenly and desperately tired, but she wasn't going to get warmer or more comfortable, so she lifted onto her knees, then pulled herself all the way up; when she felt ready, she bent down, retrieved the knife and, braced herself against the next bar over, set the edge against the wood and started the freeing cut.
"Three." She turned her head, called to Rohant, "Any interest in us?"
"None so far." She could barely hear him through the rain.
She moved cautiously to the second vertical, making sure of her footing before she shifted her weight. Again she braced herself against an intact bar and laid the knife against the wood. She closed her eyes a moment before she began this last cut, this was the dangerous one, this was the time when patience frayed and caution ran out.
Slow and slow, the knife moved through the wood, slow and slow and slower as it neared the fa
r side. She forgot the rain, the cold, the locals, everything but the knife. The blade oozed out of the wood. She stopped it. Held it steady for a moment. Using the bracing bar as a support, she sank to her knees, eased around until she was sitting in the mud. When the knife was finally back in its sheath, she started shaking all over. She tried to say something, but her teeth were chattering too badly and she couldn't talk.
Rohant got to his feet, crossed warily to her, moving more quickly when he could see that her hands were empty. He scooped her up, took her to the place where he'd been sitting and slid to the ground, his back against the bars. "I've warmed up this patch of mud," he said, "no use wasting the heat." He held her until her shaking stopped, murmuring the liquid purring nonsense he'd used with his children.
She tilted her head, looked up at him. "It's done. Pressure's keeping the sections in place, but a kick will knock them out. Whenever you're ready." She yawned, murmured drowsily, "Cut the ropes." She yawned again. "When you're ready." She nestled against him; she didn't want to move, she didn't want him to move.
The rain hissed down, a steady soporific drone, the wind groaned and moaned through the trees, whined across the glade, boomed against the canvas of the big tent; darkness was a blanket wrapped around her head, but she was content to feel the strength and cradling gentleness of the arms wrapped around her, she didn't need to see them.
The minutes slid past. The camp settled deeper and deeper into sleep.
***
Rohant sighed, shifted under her. "Time to move," he murmured.
"Mmmmnnnn, not yet."
Staggering a little because his legs had gone to sleep, the Ciocan surged onto his feet, lifting Shadith as he rose. He shifted his grip on her, set her on her feet. "You don't stand up, it's mud in the face."
"Tsoukbaraim!"
"No doubt. Someday you'll have to tell me what that means."
"Whatever." She reached inside her sodden shirt, brought out the needier and thrust it at him. "Here. Take this. You might's well have it. Wind doesn't seem like it's going to calm down for a while yet. There's a clip on the butt, it'll snap onto wherever you want to put it for safekeeping. It's a present from a friend, so don't lose it."
He snorted but took the weapon without comment. A deeper darkness in the darkness of the night, his outline shifted as he ran his fingers over the needier, the reached inside his tunic and clipped it to the cloth. He lifted his head, there was still enough light coming from the second fire under the canvas to wake the phosphor in his eyes, they shone with a fugitive crimson as he smiled down at her. "So. Time is…
A low whistle came from the darkness. Shadith started, swore; she'd forgotten Kikun again. The lacertine was a blot down low against the bars, he seemed to be staring toward the guard. "Someone's come out of the tent," he said, "he's a little behind the guard now, talking to him. Hanh! Hard to be sure, but I think he's just cut the guard's throat. He's coming here now."
"Huh?,
"Listen."
She heard the chains rattling on the cage door; someone was there, working on the padlock. She reached out, tasted with her Talent. The Fanatic. Ahlahlah, looks like he lost the bidwar. That's one way to recoup, steal the prizes. Yaiii! that's bright.
As soon as the Fanatic had the door open, he'd turned a blinding flare on them, obviously not worried about trouble from Silvercreep and the men in the tent.
"Out," he shouted at them. His voice was gruff, tight, the only evidence of his tension; the full-mouth tonguedance of the local langue went mushy with the stiffness of his lips. "Don't try games. One will kill you before one sees you go to the Gospah."
Rohant cleared his throat, spat to one side. "What do you want?" His deep growl was surprisingly easy to hear through the storm noise, which was just as well since he was taking no trouble to be heard.
The wind whipped the answer back at them. "One means to take you to someone. If you cooperate, we can go easy, if you want to make it hard, hard it'll be." He backed away from the door, but kept the light fixed on them. "Come out. Now. Bring the cats with you. Stop soon as you're out. One will tell you where to go then."
Switching to interlingue, Rohant said, "If we let him get us away, then…" He broke off as Shadith pinched his arm. "What?"
"He understands interlingue. I can feel him react to what you just said, to what I'm saying now."
"Dio."
Kikun strolled past them, went out through the opening and stood waiting for them.
Shadith sighed. Here we go again, plans down the tubes. All that work wasted. Ah well, tie a knot and go on, where's that case? Ah.
She slid the muddy strap over her shoulder and followed Kikun. After a minute, Rohant growled and followed her.
With the Fanatic's flare lighting the way, they moved quickly through the trees, despite the rain and wind and the treacherous, thorny canes of the amtapishka vines that sprawled in furious complication between the root gnarls, canes the wind whipped about their ankles like sawchains. Shadith was very glad of her boots and amused despite her predicament by Kikun's skip-dance as he adroitly and effortlessly avoided the thorns. He had even less trouble than the cats who loped along unconcerned, though they were still not liking the rain much.
The flit had its canopy pulled over and one of Silvercreep's men was visible through the translucent bubble, curled up asleep in the back. The Fanatic made them crouch down beside it where they couldn't be seen; when he was sure Rohant had the cats under control, he rapped on the canopy. "Ocsipishopasti."
Shadith wrinkled her nose as the click failed to happen and the word stayed a collection of nonsense syllables. That's not in the vocab Ginny put together for us; it's either obscene or a password. Maybe both.
There was a sleepy grumble, then a hatch opened in the canopy and a tousle-headed local looked out. The Fanatic shot him, waggled his gun at Rohant. "You, Hunter. Pull him out," he snapped. "Move."
Rohant didn't move. "I'm going to bring Sassa down. Stay loose, will you?"
"What is this Sassa?"
"Bird. Raptor." The hawk came dropping through the trees, perched on the canopy. "You see." Rohant got to his feet, hauled the dead local out of the flit and, tossed him to the ground. Arms crossed over his chest, he faced the Fanatic. "Anything else?"
"Get the bird away from the flit and keep it away from one if you want it alive."
"He comes with us. Like the cats."
The Fanatic stared at him, his face deeply shadowed, illuminated by the dim light coming from inside the canopy and the backleak from the flare. "I see. You and the others move away from the flit, take your livestock with you. Don't make me shoot, the noise might bring company none of us would like. I repeat, I will NOT allow the Gospah to have you. I'll kill you if I think Kwantawiyal is about to get his hands on you."
Expressionless and silent, he watched them move away from the flit; when he considered they were far enough off, he stopped them and backed toward the hatch. Without taking the gun or the light off them he sat in the opening and drew his legs up, then maneuvered himself inside. "Hunter, come here. Climb in and sit at the offseat, put your hands on the board and wait."
He gave Rohant no chance to jump him and when the Dyslaeror was in place, he called Shadith, then Kikun. Getting them into the flit was tricky and difficult, but he managed it without losing control over them, which considering the storm and the darkness and the cramped quarters was an impressive feat of juggling.
"Hunter, call your beasts. One humors you for the moment, but if you wish them alive and intact, don't push."
Rohant snorted. Staccato whistles repeated in groups of two brought the cats leaping inside. He settled them by his chair where they lay grooming each other, happier than they'd been anytime since the rain began. He had more trouble with Sassa, had to land him on the rim and walk him inside. Announcing his disapproval of all this with short sharp cries and ruffled feathers but pleased to be out of the wet, Sassa let Rohant coax him onto one of the seats with n
o more than a token protest.
The Fanatic pulled the hatch shut and locked it.
The space under the canopy filled with the smell of wet fur and feathers-and the anger-musk boiling off Rohant.
"Singer." The husky hoarse voice brought Shadith's head around.
"What?"
"Do you know anything about these machines?"
"Why me?"
He answered with iron patience. "Being female and a child you are less apt to let pride lead you into foolishness. Well?"
"I can fly this one, yes. Give me a minute to look over the board."
"Do it."
She tapped up the lights, nodded to herself. Export job, not much more than three buttons and a lever, as foolproof as you can get, probably sealed drives, unit replacement when something breaks. Wonder how long it's been since anything on this piece of junk has been replaced?
Clicking her tongue with disgust, she ran her fingers across the stained and gritty board (carefully not-thinking about what those smears were made of), flicked on the drives and listened to the whine build up louder and louder with an ominous beat in it that set her nerves twanging.
She started to say something, clamped her teeth together at a loud yell from outside. Two locals came from the trees and rushed at them. Swearing under her breath, she fed in some power and felt the flit wobble as the ragged drives began lifting them slowly too slowly off the ground. Despite her misgivings, when she saw one of the shadowy forms raise his rifle, she turned up the feed. The pellet ricocheted from the nose of the flit, went screaming away, then the drives kicked in, the lift suddenly accelerated and the flit went surging into the tree tops. Breath catching in her throat, she managed a nervous laugh. "Nothing like a little encouragement." She took the flit crashing through the springy fronds as more pellets went whinging off the sides or whistling through the canopy-one cut a hot line across her arm. "Sar!"