"Tig?"
"What?"
"He didn't pick up our knives. They're still on the floor where we dropped them. I can just see them."
Aha, I thought, progress. "Why didn't you crawl over and get them long ago? We'd be free by now."
"Do you imagine I didn't think of that?" she said defensively. "We're tied together at ankles and neck—I nearly throttled us both when I tried. We might manage it now you've condescended to wake up. Can you move?"
"I think so." I lifted my head experimentally; the red glow throbbed in protest and I groaned, but the pain was bearable and the nausea just under control. "You start, I'll follow."
She wriggled sidewise off the edge of the pallet and I felt the pressure on my neck immediately. Hurriedly, I wriggled after her; with a jar that loosed forks of red lightning inside my head, I bumped off the pallet, half on to the floor, half on to Calla. She grunted.
"Get off me, you great lump. No, better if you roll right over me, so we're on our bellies."
I swallowed a throatful of something vile and heaved myself across her, the jerk of the rope nearly taking my head off, but when the red light in my head stabilized again, we were face-down on the floor and able to rise on to our knees and elbows. At that moment the candle-flame climbed the last of its wick and guttered out; dizzy as I was, I lost my bearings at once.
"This way," Calla hissed. She jerked ahead before I was ready; the ropes at my neck and ankles pulled me off balance and I toppled with the majestic inevitability of a felled tree. As far as my belly was concerned, it was the raindrop that burst the dam; I vomited copiously, mostly on the flagstones, but partly on Calla, who had been pulled over on top of me.
There was a meaningful silence.
"Ecch," Calla said at last. She jerked to her knees again, yanking me after her. "My hair—why didn't you tell me you were going to be sick? Disgusting!"
"It's no more disgusting than what's usually in your hair," I muttered rashly.
This silence was even more meaningful. Then Calla said, primly and dangerously, "The contents of my hair didn't appear to bother you last night."
I groaned. "Forget about last night—"
"Oh, I shall. Indeed I shall. All about it. I hope you do, too. Come on, my lord."
I cursed myself with all the curses I could think of in Gillish and Sheranik and Satheli, throwing in a few from Plav and Tata for good measure. Meantime we humped across the floor in the pitch-darkness, the two of us swinging our bound knees after our bound hands like synchronized caterpillars, occasionally bumping off each other's shoulders. When my forehead crashed resoundingly into the table, I began to curse out loud. Calla took no notice. At last, after what seemed like half the distance to the Archipelago, I felt a cold iron blade under my hand.
"I've got one! Where're your hands?"
"Let me do it," she said coolly, "I don't trust you with a knife." I ignored that and began sawing carefully at the lump of rope around her wrists. She stopped protesting after a bit. Strand by strand, I could feel the ropes falling apart; my own wrists ached with the effort of pressing the knife, and I was starting to feel sick again. Just when I thought I could hold the knife no longer, Calla grunted and pulled her wrists apart, snapping the last few strands. She grabbed the knife and hacked at the ropes yoking us together, then groped for the cords at my wrists.
"Almost there, my lord Scion. And then we're going to get out of here. Back to the scullery."
"What?"
"You heard me. We're going back."
Astonished, I shook my head in the darkness. "No, we're not."
"Yes, we are. Heaven knows how long we've been tied up—if we're not back by the time the crockers leave, we'll be trapped in the Gilgard. And you, my lord Scion, are in no fit state to carry on."
"I'm fine," I lied, "and we must go on; Calvo's count will be correct if he sends the doubles out in our stead, if that's what you're worried about. We've come too far, Calla."
"Then we'll have to hurry to get back," she said firmly.
"No. This could be our best chance—we may not have the same luck getting into the between-ways again—"
"You call it luck, do you?" she interrupted. "Bad luck, maybe. Isn't that lump on your thick head proof enough?"
"Of what? That the between-ways aren't the royal road we hoped for? They're still the best route to the caves, probably the only route."
"We'll go back," she insisted. "Bekri and Jebri will think of another plan. Our orders—"
"Orders? I am a Scion of Oballef, Calla, nobody gives me orders." The little voice in my mind jeered at me: clown, coward, weakling, who are you trying to fool? I hushed it, and went on, "if you don't want to come with me, then you're free to go back; I'll carry on alone."
She stopped sawing at the ropes around my wrists. "Not if you're still tied up, you won't." Her voice was thoughtful.
"Calla!"
She didn't answer. She began to saw busily at the ropes on our ankles, leaving my hands still securely bound.
"Calla, finish freeing my hands."
No reply.
"Calla."
Flinty silence.
"You're planning on carrying me back, are you?"
"If you won't walk," she said calmly.
I gritted my teeth with frustration. "Gilwoman, I am ordering you to free my hands."
"Too bad, Scion, my orders come from the First Flamen. I will free your feet, of course."
"Oh, many thanks." I paused to think. "What about your hairy friend?"
"What about him? He won't take me by surprise again."
"That's not what I meant. He's not necessarily hostile, you know."
"No, no, of course not. He knocks you out and nearly strangles me, and then ties us up like two hens on a spit, but that doesn't make him hostile—can you stand, my lord?"
"I'm not going to move until you listen to me. He's not a Sherkin—if he were, he wouldn't have left us here in the between-ways, he'd have hauled us in front of Lord Kekashr before you could blink, demanding a reward. And do you really imagine a Sherkin would be living here, in the thickness of the walls? It's not the Sherkin style."
"What else could he be? A Gilman? Don't make me laugh." She snorted incredulously.
"Why not a Gilman? Those bones under the buttery were Gillish bones. We should talk to him if we can; he may even be of use."
"But he attacked us, Tig."
"I'm not surprised. See us through his eyes: we skulk through the between-ways looking like the Ghouls of Ghasca in these cobwebs, and then traipse across his bedchamber flashing bloody great knives—what would you do in his place? For that matter, he may have thought we were the Sherank."
"I still don't—"
"Ssh!" Suddenly I could see: nothing much, only the phantom of a glimmer, a faint greyish rectangle projected on to the blackness across the room, strengthening as I watched. A distant candle, I realized, advancing steadily along the passageway towards the clearing chamber. "Someone's coming. Quickly, loosen my hands."
She must have looked over her shoulder and seen it too, for she found my hands and hastily finished slicing through the cords. The rectangle was sharper now, and the quiet rasp of sandals on stone came clearly to our ears. Hand-in-hand, we groped our way in the opposite direction, where I figured the foot of the stairs should be. Miraculously, we stumbled right into it, and just in time; a second later there were low voices in the room, and the candle glowed on the wall. I peered cautiously around the door-jamb. And froze. And then walked out into the candlelight, ignoring Calla's frantic tugs at my cloak.
It was the Lady herself, just as I had seen her in my dream, her back turned to me, her silvery hair limned by candlelight, her marble body silhouetted through a diaphanous cobweb cloak as she bent gracefully over the pallet. At the sound of my footsteps, she straightened abruptly, and whirled around to face me. After a moment, she smiled.
* * *
24
DID I TRULY think she was the
Lady? I would have to say yes—for a mad few moments anyway, until the shock of seeing her faded and sanity returned. The resemblance was extraordinary, but not flawless: the features marginally less than perfect, the eyes harder than marble for the broken second before she smiled, the smile itself most provocative and unLadylike. I goggled at her like a finny-fish until a shaggy shadow interposed itself and a pair of large tough-skinned hands fastened around my throat. They were just getting a good purchase on my windpipe when the girl spoke.
"Let him go, angel, you can see he's no Sherkin." The thumbs pressed for a moment, then fell lingeringly away. I regained my breath with a gasp, but lost it again as the shaggy personage pressed a knife blade where the thumbs had been. The girl chuckled. "He's just a dirty Gilman, angel, though Raksh knows how he got here—what are you doing here, darling?" Her voice was low and breathy, with laughter threaded through it like ribbon—a bedworthy voice if ever I heard one. She pushed the shaggy one aside and held the candle closer to my face. "Talkative, aren't you? But angel said there were two of you; where's the other?"
A sandal scraped on the flags behind me as Calla emerged from the staircase. "I'm here—Lissula," she said coldly.
Shaggy growled like an animal and surged forwards, but stepped back at once. Calla advanced into the circle of candlelight. The knife was long and sharp in her hand and her face was businesslike. Even without the knife, she'd have looked formidable—I'd have retreated from her myself, and she was on my side. The knives flashed at each other as Shaggy feinted and Calla matched his move; but Lissula's musky laugh broke the tension.
"By Raksh, it's Calla under all those spiderwebs. Angel darling, put the knife down; meet an old friend."
"No friend of yours, Lissula." Calla's knife glittered warningly, but Angel (it was dawning on me that this was not an endearment, but his name) slowly lowered his. Lissula laughed again.
"Same darling Calla—how wonderful to meet you again! How is the dear old Web these days?"
Calla's hand shook, probably with rage, but her guard remained up. I cleared my throat. "Lady Lissula—" I began. Calla icily cut me off.
"Forget the title, Tig. 'Whore' would dignify that one."
I gulped at the twitch of Angel's knife-bearing hand. Lissula's eyes narrowed, leaving the rest of her smile unaltered.
"You really haven't changed at all, have you, Calla?" she said sweetly. "Tell me, darling, is that puke in your hair?"
Calla drew herself up; I could swear she gained a span in height. The tension became a slender cord drawn tautly between the two women, a strikingly ill-matched pair, Lissula curved and satiny, Calla a gaunt fierce construction of twigs and mud and ravelled string. Half in shadow, Angel shifted uneasily from foot to foot, probably feeling as redundant as I was. Abruptly, Calla tucked the knife back inside her cloak and folded her arms. "You haven't changed either, Lissula—darling," she said pointedly. "Cleaner on the outside, perhaps, but a gutterbutt all the same."
The dimples deepened in Lissula's rounded cheek. "How you talk, Calla. Who's your friend?"
"Who's yours?"
I opened my mouth eagerly, which might have been tactless considering Calla's hostility; at any rate, she cut me off again before I could begin to introduce myself. "Say nothing," she snapped, "Lissula was never to be trusted."
"Don't be like that, Calla," I said, "it's obvious they're not friends to the Sherank."
"Aren't they? Don't you realize what little Goldbottom here—that's what we used to call her in the street—does in that harlot's kit? Friendly! Ha!" She advanced a step towards Lissula, who held her ground. "You're in the shintashkr, aren't you?"
"Of course I am." Lissula tossed her silver curtain of hair and surveyed Calla with a look that said: my, you're dirty. Then she turned to me. "Tig is what my good friend Calla called you; is that all of your name, darling, or is there more?"
"Tigrallef—" I said without thinking. Lissula nodded and held out her hand, ignoring Calla; but Angel, whom we seemed (incredibly) to have forgotten, started violently and moved closer, much closer, until he was practically standing on my toes. He stared into my face.
"Tigrallef," he repeated wonderingly. His voice sounded rusty, as if he didn't use it much; his face, what little of it was visible in the borderless tangle of grey hair and beard, was dead-pallid in the candlelight, and finely wrinkled. His dark eyes were disconcerting—not with madness, exactly, but with something close to it. Somehow I managed not to drop my gaze. "A royal name," he went on haltingly, "for one of Oballef's line—"
"Er—yes."
"A Scion."
"Yes, that too."
Abruptly, he dropped to the floor and pressed his forehead to my feet. Apart from embarrassing me, this was a typical Sherkin courtesy; Calla reacted by kicking the knife out of his hand, then kicking him in the side of the head for good measure, an unacceptable tactic according to the Heroic Code but quite normal in the Web. It was less effective than she was accustomed to. Angel grabbed her foot and jerked upwards, throwing her on to the flagstones with a painful thonk; a second later he was sitting on her stomach with his knife back in his hand, the point poised over the hollow of her throat. I lunged forward to help, but Lissula's dainty hand was already on Angel's shoulder.
"Let her up, Angel, there's my good little man. Really, Calla, you mustn't startle him like that. Poor dear, he's very sensitive."
Calla glowered helplessly from the floor. "She hurt me," Angel said in his flat rusty voice, not moving. "She kicked me."
I squatted so that my eyes were level with his. "Let her up," I said quietly. At once, he nodded vigorously and sprang off her body; and then, with a shy ducking of his head, fell to embrace my feet again. I sighed.
"Please don't do that—Angel." I gagged on the name. He swivelled his forehead on my instep, so that one bright black eye glinted up at me through the facial undergrowth; otherwise, he didn't move.
"He doesn't know any better," said Lissula, helping Calla to her feet. "All his life he's been watching the Sherank through peepholes, and he's picked up a few of their customs. Not the nasty ones, of course," she added, reaching down to pat his upthrust bottom, "in fact he's perfectly sweet."
I looked at Calla, who shrugged off Lissula's hand and turned away. "I don't understand any of this," I said.
Lissula smiled charmingly. "There's no mystery about us, darling, just about you. What's all this about royalty? What's a Scion?"
"You don't know?"
"Goldbottom never took any interest in history," said Calla without turning around. "She's an ignorant little gutterbutt, who never could see beyond the bottom of someone else's purse."
"Please, Calla." I tried to step towards her, but Angel was still firmly planted on my feet.
"I think you have to kick him a little in the face," said Lissula helpfully. It worked—Angel scuttled backwards to watch me impassively from the shadows. It was horribly distracting, but at least I could move. I turned again towards Calla, but found that Lissula had mysteriously appeared in my way, and was looking up into my face with apparent adoration. This was distracting too, but not horrible. She was so close that I could feel her warm scented breath on my chin.
"Er," I said.
She took my arm and wafted me towards the table. "Those Koroskan sows won't miss me for a while," she said. "Why don't we sit down here, darling, and you can tell me all about yourself."
Calla whirled fiercely. "No! I won't allow it! Tig, I demand—" She stopped for a moment, and then continued in a softer voice, "I beg you to come back to the scullery with me now, before it's too late. Please, Tig."
I wavered. Calla knew Lissula much better than I; perhaps she was right. Perhaps I'd be a fool to reveal myself to this troopers' whore from the gutters of Gil. But did Calla realize that if we did not treat with them, we would be well-advised to kill them—if we could? And even if Lissula had been less soft and golden, cold-blooded killing was not an idea I could relish; they were, after all, my
own people. I hesitated and then pushed past Lissula to where Calla was standing. "We should at least hear what they have to say," I whispered. "It's probably too late to go back anyway."
"It's a bad idea, Tig."
"Maybe." I hesitated again. "Perhaps, when we've heard them out, you should go back alone and report to the council. You know the way, don't you?"
"Of course I do. But the answer is no."
"But this could be important—especially Angel. I have a strange feeling about him."
"Have all the strange feelings you want. I'm not going back without you."
I sighed. All my instincts told me that to go back would mean the end of the quest; the little voice at the back of my head pointed out patiently that it didn't matter, I was bound to fail anyway, and at least I might exit with a whole skin if I returned now. Calla's eyes caught the candlelight. She was looking at me levelly, pleading with me, a dignified and resolute plea; it was more persuasive than all her blustering. But I shook my head, and signed with my fingers: I can't go back.
Then neither can I. Aloud she said, I think mostly for Lissula's benefit, "I'm not leaving you alone with that man-eating shark in whore's clothing. And that's final."
"Marvellous," said Lissula. "Now come and sit down—we have so much to tell each other."
Not daring to look at Calla, I went back to the table and pulled up one of the stools. Calla followed, dragging her feet. Lissula gazed at me expectantly.
"Tell me about Angel," I said quickly.
She looked hurt. Somehow her stool was closer than it had been and one of her knees was delicately juxtaposed to one of mine. "Angel? If it's Angel you want to hear about, so be it, I'll tell you anything you want. But—Tigrallef, is it?" her voice became soft and inviting, "I really wanted to hear about you." Calla snorted. I hemmed uncertainly.
"I can speak for myself, my lord Scion." The words came haltingly from the shadows where Angel crouched. I turned to him in surprise and found him edging forwards, though still on his knees. For the first time I noticed that he was dressed in a dirty, ragged version of what could only be a Sherkin long-gown, the kind the ill-begotten bastards wear when they're off duty. His eyes followed mine. "The long-gown is stolen, my lord Scion," he said.
Gil Trilogy 1: Lady in Gil Page 17