Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03

by Lythande (v2. 1)

  She moved her sword a handsbreadth. He backed up three fast steps and spun around, glancing spasmodically from one face to another, to another. He found only amusement. He bolted, through a roar of laughter, fighting his way to the door.

  The tavern-keeper sauntered over. "Foreigners," he said, "I don't know whether you've made your place or dug your graves tonight, but that was the best laugh I've had since the new moon. Bauchle Meyne will never live it down."

  "I did not think it funny in the least," Quartz said. She sheathed her short-sword. She had not even touched her broadsword. Wess had never seen her draw it. "And I am tired. Where is our room?"

  He led them up the stairs. The room was small and low-ceilinged. After the tavern-keeper left, Wess poked the straw mattress of one of the beds, and wrinkled her nose. -

  "I've got this far from home without getting lice, I'm not going to sleep in a nest of bedbugs." She threw her bedroll to the floor. Chan shrugged and dropped his gear.

  Quartz flung her pack into the corner. "I'll have something to say to Satan when we find him," she said angrily. "Stupid fool, to let himself be captured by these creatures."

  Aerie stood shivering in her cloak. "This is a wretched place," she said. "You can flee, but he cannot."

  "Aerie, love, I know, I'm sorry." Quartz hugged her, stroking her hair. "I didn't mean it, about Satan. I was angry."

  Aerie nodded.

  Wess rubbed Aerie's shoulders, unfastened the clasp of her long hooded cloak, and drew it from Aerie's body. Candlelight rippled across the black fur that covered her, as sleek and glossy as sealskin. She wore nothing but a short thin blue silk tunic and her walking boots. She kicked off the boots, dug her clawed toes into the splintery floor, and stretched.

  Her outer fingers lay close against the backs of her arms. She opened them, and her wings unfolded.

  Only half-spread, her wings spanned the room. She let them droop, and pulled aside the leather curtain over the window. The next building was very close.

  "I'm going out, I need to fly."

  "Aerie, we've come so far today—"

  "Wess, I am tired. I won't go far. But I can't fly in the daytime, not here, and the moon is waxing. If I don't go now, I may not be able to fly for days."

  "It's true," Wess said. "Be careful.”

  "I won't be gone long." She climbed out the window and up the rough side of the building. Her claws scraped into the adobe. Three soft footsteps overhead, the shushh of her wings: she was gone.

  The others pushed the beds against the wall and spread their blankets, overlapping, on the floor. Quartz secured the leather flap to the windowframe and put the candle on the sill.

  Chan hugged Wess. "I never saw anyone move as fast as Lythande. Wess, love, I feared he'd killed you before I even noticed him."

  "It was stupid, to speak so familiarly to a stranger."

  "But he offered us the nearest thing to news of Satan we've heard in weeks."

  "True. Maybe the fright was worth it." Wess looked out the window, but saw nothing of Aerie.

  "What made you think Lythande was a woman?"

  Wess glanced at Chan sharply. He gazed back at her, mildly curious.

  He doesn't know, Wess thought, astonished. He didn't realize—

  "I ... I don't know," she said. "A silly mistake. I made a lot of them today."

  It was the first time in her life she had deliberately lied to a friend. She felt slightly ill, and when she heard the scrape of claws on the roof above, she was glad for more reasons than simply that Aerie had returned. Just then the tavern-keeper banged on their door announcing their bath. In the confusion of getting Aerie inside and hidden under her cloak before they could open the door, Chan forgot the subject of Lythande's gender.

  Beneath them, the noise of revelry in the Unicorn gradually faded to silence. Wess forced herself to lie still. She was so tired that she felt as if she were trapped in a river, with the current swirling her around and around so she could never get her bearings. Yet she could not sleep. Even the bath, the first warm bath any of them had had since leaving Kaimas, had not relaxed her. Quartz lay solid and warm beside her, and Aerie lay between Quartz and Chan. Wess did not begrudge Aerie or Quartz their places, but she did like to sleep in the middle. She wished one of her friends were awake, to make love with, but she could tell from their breathing that they were all deeply asleep. She cuddled up against Quartz, who reached out, in a dream, and embraced her.

  The darkness continued, without end, without any sign of dawn, and finally Wess slid out from beneath Quartz's arm and the blankets, silently put on her pants and shirt, and, barefoot, crept down the stairs, past the silent tavern, and outside. On the doorstep, she sat and pulled on her boots.

  The moon gave a faint light, enough for Wess. The street was deserted. Her heels thudded on the cobblestones, echoing hollowly against the close abode walls. Such a short stay in the town should not make her uneasy, but it did. She envied Aerie her power to escape, however briefly, however dangerous the escape might be. Wess walked down the street, keeping careful track of her path. It would be very easy to get lost in this warren of streets and alleys, niches and blank canyons.

  The scrape of a boot, instantly stilled, brought her out of her mental wanderings. They wished to try to follow her? Good luck to them.

  Wess was a hunter. She tracked her prey so silently that she killed them with a knife; in the rain forest where she lived, arrows were too uncertain. She had crept upon a panther and stroked its smooth pelt—then vanished so swiftly that she left the creature yowling in fury and frustration, while she laughed with delight. She grinned, and quickened her step, and her footfalls turned silent on the stone.

  Her unfamiliarity with the streets hampered her slightly. A dead end could trap her. But she found, to her pleasure, that her instinct for seeking out good trails translated into the city. Once she thought she would have to turn back, but the high wall barring her way had a deep diagonal fissure from the ground to its top. It gave her just enough purchase to clamber over it. She jumped into the garden the wall enclosed, scampered across it and up a grape arbor, and swung into the next alley.

  She ran smoothly, gladly, as her exhaustion lifted. She felt good, despite the looming buildings and twisted dirty streets and vile odors.

  She faded into a shadowed recess where two houses abutted but did not line up. Listening, she waited.

  The soft and nearly silent footsteps halted. Her pursuer hesitated. Grit scraped between stone and leather as the person turned one way, then the other, and, finally, chose the wrong turning and hurried off. Wess grinned, but she felt respect for any hunter who could follow her this far.

  Moving silently through shadows, she started back toward the tavern. When she came to a tumbledown building she remembered, she found finger- and toe-holds and climbed to the roof of the next house. Flying was not the only talent Aerie had that Wess envied. Being able to climb straight up an undamaged adobe wall would be useful sometimes, too.

  The rooftop was deserted. Too cold to sleep outside, no doubt; the inhabitants of the city went to ground at night, in warmer, unseen warrens.

  The air smelled cleaner here, so she traveled by rooftop as far as she could. But the main passage through the Maze was too wide to leap across. From the building that faced the Unicorn, Wess observed the tavern. She doubted that her pursuer could have reached it first, but the possibility existed, in this strange place. She saw no one. It was near dawn. She no longer felt exhausted, just deliciously sleepy. She climbed down the face of die building and started across the street.

  Someone flung open the door behind her, leaped out as she turned, and punched her in the side of the head.

  Wess crashed to the cobblestones. The shadow stepped closer and kicked her in the ribs. A line of pain wrapped around her chest and tightened when she tried to breathe.

  "Don't kill her. Not yet."

  "No. I have plans for her."

  Wess recognized the voic
e of Bauchle Meyne, who had insulted Quartz in the tavern. He toed her in the side.

  "When I'm done with you, bitch, you can take me to your friend." He started to unbuckle his belt.

  Wess tried to get up. Bauchle Meyne's companion stepped toward her, to kick her again.

  His foot swung toward her. She grabbed it and twisted. As he went down, Wess struggled up. Bauchle Meyne, surprised, lurched toward her and grabbed her in a bear hug, pinioning her arms so she could not reach her knife. He pressed his face down close to hers. She felt his whisker stubble and smelled his yeasty breath. He could not hold her and force his mouth to hers at the same time, but he slobbered on her cheek. His pants slipped down and his penis thrust against her thigh.

  Wess kneed him in the balls as hard as she could.

  He screamed and let her go and staggered away, holding himself, doubled up and moaning, stumbling over his fallen breeches. Wess drew her knife and backed against a wall, ready for another attack.

  Bauchle Meyne's accomplice rushed her. Her knife sliced quickly toward him, slashing his arm. He flung himself backward and swore violently. Blood spurted between his fingers.

  Wess heard the approaching footsteps a moment before he did. She pressed her free hand hard against the wall behind her. She was afraid to shout for help. In this place whoever answered might as easily join in attacking her.

  But the man swore again, grabbed Bauchle Meyne by the arm and dragged him away as fast as Meyne, in his present distressed state, could go.

  Wess sagged, sliding down the wall to the ground. She knew she was still in danger, but her legs would not hold her up anymore.

  The footsteps ceased. Wess looked up, clenching her fingers around the handle of her knife.

  "Frejojan," Lythande said softly, from ten paces away, "sister, you led me quite a chase." She glanced after the two men. "And not only me, it seems."

  "I never fought a person before," Wess said shakily. "Not a real fight. Only practice. No one ever got hurt." She touched the side of her head. The shallow scrape bled freely. She thought about its stopping, and the flow gradually ceased.

  Lythande sat on his heels beside her. "Let me see." He probed the cut gently. "I thought it was bleeding, but it's stopped. What happened?"

  "I don't know. Did you follow me? Did they? thought I was eluding one person."

  "I was the only one following you," Lythande said. "They must have come back to bother Quartz again."

  "You know about that?"

  "The whole city knows, child. Or anyway, the whole Maze. Bauchle will not soon live it down. The worst of it is he will never understand what it is that happened, or why."

  "No more will I," Wess said. She looked up at Lythande. "How can you live here?" she cried.

  Lythande drew back, frowning. "I do not live here. But that is not really what you are asking. We cannot speak so freely on the public street." He glanced away, hesitated, and turned back. "Will you come with me? I haven't much time, but I can fix your cut, and we can talk safely."

  "All right," Wess said. She sheathed her knife and pushed herself to her feet, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. Lythande grasped her elbow, steadying her.

  "Perhaps you've cracked a rib," he said. They started slowly down the street.

  "No," Wess said. "It's bruised. It will hurt for a while, but it isn't broken."

  "How do you know?"

  Wess glanced at him quizzically. "I may not be from a city, but my people aren't completely wild. I paid attention to my lessons when I was little."

  "Lessons? Lessons in what?"

  "In knowing whether I am hurt, and what I must do if I am, in controlling the processes of my body—surely your people teach their children these things?"

  "My people don't know these things," Lythande said. "I think we have more to talk about than I believed, frejqjan."

  The Maze confused even Wess, by the time they reached the small building where Lythande stopped. Wess was feeling dizzy from the blow to her head, but she was confident that she was not dangerously hurt. When Lythande opened a low door and ducked inside, Wess followed.

  Lythande picked up a candle. The wick sparked. In the center of the dark room, a shiny spot reflected the glow. The wick burst into flame and the spot of reflection grew. Wess blinked. The reflection spread into a sphere, taller than Lythande, the color and texture of deep water, blue-gray, shimmering. It balanced on its lower curve, bulging slightly so it was not quite perfectly round.

  "Follow me, Westerly."

  Lythande walked toward the sphere. Its surface rippled at her approach. She stepped into it. It closed around her, and all Wess could see was a wavering figure, beyond the surface, and the spot of light from the candle flame.

  She touched the sphere gingerly with her fingertip. It was wet. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand through the surface.

  It froze her fast; she could not proceed, she could not escape, she could not move. Even her voice was captured.

  After a moment, Lythande surfaced. Her hair sparkled with drops of water, but her clothes were dry. She stood frowning at Wess, lines of thought bracketing the star on her forehead. Then her brow cleared and she grasped Wess's wrist.

  "Don't fight it, little sister," she said. "Don't fight me."

  Against great resistance, she drew Wess' hand from the sphere. The cuff of Wess' shirt was cold and sodden. In only a few seconds the water had wrinkled her fingers. The sphere freed her suddenly and she nearly fell, but Lythande caught and supported her.

  "What happened?"

  Still holding her up, Lythande reached into the water and drew it aside like a curtain. She urged Wess toward the division. Unwillingly, Wess took a shaky step forward, and Lythande helped her inside. The surface closed behind them. Lythande eased Wess down on the platform that flowed out smoothly from the inside curve. Wess expected it to be wet, but it was resilient and smooth and slightly warm.

  "What happened?" she asked again.

  "The sphere is a protection against other sorcerers."

  "I'm not a sorcerer."

  "I believe you telieve that. If I thought you were deceiving me, I would kill you. But if you are not a sorcerer, it is only because you are not trained."

  Wess started to protest, but Lyhande waved her to silence.

  "Now I understand how you eluded me in the streets."

  "I'm a hunter," Wess said irritably. "What good would a hunter be who couldn't move silently and fast?"

  "No, it was more than that. I put a mark on you, and you threw it off. No one has ever done that before."

  "I didn't do it, either."

  "Let us not argue, frejqjan. There isn't time."

  She inspected the cut, then dipped her hand into the side of the sphere, brought out a handful of water, and washed away the sticky drying blood. Her touch was warm and soothing, as expert as Quartz's.

  "Why did you bring me here?"

  "So we could talk unobserved."

  "What about?"

  "I want to ask you something first. Why did you think I was a woman?"

  Wess frowned and gazed into the depths of the floor.

  Her boot dimpled the surface, like the foot of a water-strider.

  "Because you are a woman," she said. "Why you pretend you are not, I don't know."

  "That is not the question," Lythande said. "The question is why you called me 'sister' the moment you saw me. No one, sorcerer or otherwise, has ever glanced at me once and known me for what I am. You could place me, and yourself, in great danger. How did you know?"

  "I just knew," Wess said. "It was obvious. I didn't look at you and wonder if you were a man or a woman. I saw you, and I thought, how beautiful, how elegant she is. She looks wise. She looks like she could help us. So I called to you."

  "And what did your friends think?"

  "They ... I don't know what Quartz and Aerie thought. Chan asked whatever was I thinking of."

  "What did you say to him?"

  "I. ..." She h
esitated, feeling ashamed. "I lied to him," she said miserably. "I said I was tired and it was dark and smoky, and I made a foolish mistake."

  "Why didn't you try to persuade him you were right?"

  "Because it isn't my business to deny what you wish known about yourself. Even to my oldest friend, my first lover."

  Lythande stared up at the curved surface of the inside of the sphere. The tension in her eased.

  "Thank you, little sister," she said. She looked greatly relieved. "I did not know if my identity were safe with you. But I think it is."

  Wess looked up suddenly, chilled by insight. "You brought me here—you would have killed me!"

  "If I had to," Lythande said easily. "I am glad it was not necessary. But I could not trust a promise made under threat. You do not fear me; you made your decision of your own free will."

  "That may be true," Wess said. "But it isn't true that I don't fear you."

  Lythande gazed at her. "Perhaps I deserve your fear, Westerly. You could destroy me with a thoughtless word. But the knowledge you have could destroy you. Some people would go to great lengths to discover what you know."

  "I'm not going to tell them."

  "If they suspected—they might force you."

  "I can take care of myself," Wess said.

  Lythande rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. "Ah, sister, I hope so. I can give you very little protection." She—he, Wess reminded herself— stood up. "It's time to go. It's nearly dawn."

  "You asked questions of me—may I ask one of you?"

  "I'll answer if I can."

  "Bauchle Meyne—if he hadn't behaved so stupidly, he could have killed me. But he taunted me till I recovered myself. He made himself vulnerable to me. His friend knew I had a knife, but he attacked me unarmed. I've been trying to understand what happened, but it makes no sense."

  Lythande drew a deep breath. "Westerly," she said, "I wish you had never come to Sanctuary. You escaped for the same reason that I first chose to appear as I now must remain."

  "I still don't understand."

  "They never expected you to fight. To struggle a little, perhaps, just enough to excite them. They expected you to acquiesce in their wishes whether that meant to beat you, to rape you, or to kill you. Women in Sanctuary are not trained to fight. They are taught that their only power lies in their ability to please, in bed and in flattery. Some few excel. Most survive."