by Sharon Lee
"Even Morela," the man was telling Theo, "wasn't foolish enough to love you. But we digress! The riddle was this: 'Why will noble Qaffir not take Theo's message to the lovely and delectable Morela, queen of a thousand hearts, stupid sow and slut?'" He tipped his head, cruelty glinting from those dark, intelligent eyes.
"I have the answer," he said softly and leaned down, putting his lips, loverlike, next to Theo's ear. "Because," he murmured, though still clearly enough for Corbinye to hear; "the bitch is dead."
"No!" shouted Theo and leapt back, which moved Qaffir to more laughter.
"Oh, but yes!" He assured her with utmost glee. "Dead and no doubt rotted by this time—think of that, little freak! Her face fallen in, her hair out in clumps . . ." He paused, as if struck by a thought. "But I forget that you are a painter! Morela has been your subject in all of her estates. Of course you would wish to paint her in this, as well. How selfish I have been! I will send straightaway and have the cadaver brought to you! You must forgive my shortsightedness—"
"Morela!" Theo cried out, meaning herself, but Corbinye was frozen where she stood, stomach churning, hands sweating, knife thrust, useless, through her belt.
"Morela!" mimicked Qaffir, shrilly, and Corbinye felt herself jerked forward one step, as if he held the reel-end of a harpoon buried into her soul.
"Morela," he screamed again, taunting Theo, and Corbinye's body jerked forward one more step, through the curtain and into the room.
Qaffir's eyes widened as his laughter abruptly cut off. Theo dodged sideways, face aglow with blood lust, lips half-parted, showing teeth.
Corbinye stood entirely still, except for the shivering she felt in her limbs and prayed that neither could see.
"Well," said Qaffir. "It appears I am—misinformed." He smiled in full malice. Quailing, Corbinye made a concerted effort and willed her hand toward her knife, though she doubted she could follow through with the throw.
"Morela!" Theo cried. "Kill him!"
"Kill me?" demanded the man, in apparent delight. "Oh, but Morela would never kill me, little freak. Far more likely that she would kill herself. Which is what she did, you know—and very artfully."
He moved forward a step and the craven body had not even the strength to step backward in balance. Laughing low in his throat, he extended a smooth, scented hand and stroked the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. Desire heated Corbinye's belly, salted with terror.
"The Blue House had the keeping of her," Qaffir murmured, running his fingers across her lips. He pulled lightly on the lower and they parted, as if for a kiss. He smiled. "There's someone else living in Morela's body, but that someone else heeds me as she did, little freak. Is this not fascinating?" Still smiling, he cupped Corbinye's chin in steel fingers, tipped her face up and sidewise until her neck ached and then leisurely, tauntingly, bent and kissed her.
The desire flared, and Corbinye hung, near senseless with terror, barely heeding as he moved closer, crushing her body painfully to his, wrapping fingers in her braid and pulling her head even further back as he bit at her lips and moved his mouth down, nuzzling the arch of her throat, mouthing a breast—
A wordless shriek interrupted him—Corbinye staggered and fell to the floor as he abruptly let her go, though she retained enough sense to fall into a ball and roll. She fetched up near the curtain and there she lay, unable to rise to her feet, watching Qaffir try to pry Theo from his back.
"I'll kill you!" the little woman wailed, skinny, paint-spattered hands clawing at his throat. "Bastard! Murderer! Kill the only pure and beautiful thing either of us has ever known—"
Qaffir spun and shook. He roared, yanked fruitlessly at the choking hands and hurled himself backward against a wall.
Astonishingly, Theo hung on, though it seemed to Corbinye that her hold slid a little.
So it must have seemed to Qaffir, as well. He renewed his grip and stood utterly still in the center of the room, all his strength focused on wrenching those skinny, desperate hands apart.
From Theo, a cry, half-savage, half-despairing. Qaffir bared his teeth, mustered a last spurt of power and flung the little woman from his back.
She fell with a grunt, twisted and scrambled sideways, too slow to avoid the kick that smashed into her ribs, breaking bone with an audible crack.
"No!" The cry wrenched itself from Corbinye's throat, and she was somehow standing, hand snatching at her knife, while still the body shook and fought her and Theo's keening ran like acid along nerves already stretched beyond sense.
Qaffir spun. "No? I'll 'no' you, bitch. I'll—" He took a stride forward, another, pointing at the blade in her hand. "What's this? A weapon? Do you actually think you can kill me?"
Corbinye held onto the knife, held to the proper stance like her last hope of salvation, and knew the body would not—would never—obey her in this. Then she looked into his eyes and knew that she was dead.
Qaffir laughed, stepped within striking distance, paused a moment, all exposed, then laughed again, reached forth and grabbed the blade.
She twisted, turning the knife with a will, slicing palm and finger-flesh and he screamed, the other fist swinging out of nowhere toward her head, her dodge limited by the desperate need to hold onto the knife—
"Gaah!"
The descending fist struck her temple a glancing blow as the fingers loosed the knife blade and Qaffir crashed to his knees, eyes glazed and blood running, thinly, from the corner of his mouth. A sorl-knife the very twin of her own protruded from the base of his throat.
A moment he knelt before her, as if in worship, or contrition, then all his muscles gave loose at once and he fell forward upon his face.
Anjemalti was past her in the next instant, kicking the body to its back, wrenching the blade free and cleaning it with two rapid passes over the fine shirt front. He thrust the knife away, spared a glance at Theo, curled around her hurt and moaning, then swept back the way he had come, grabbing Corbinye's arm and jerking her with him.
In the foyer he dropped her to take up the Trident, gathered the silent Witness with a nod and finally favored her with a word.
"Can you keep the pace?"
Corbinye drew breath, put her knife in its place and met his eyes, which were cold beyond ice.
"Anjemalti," she said, and so far had she sunk in her own esteem that she was amazed to hear her voice firm; "I can."
"Good," he returned, and, jerking open the door, walked out into the alleyway.
Chapter Forty
The cab dropped them at the spaceport gate, speeding away with neither coin nor memory of the fare, by grace of Anjemalti's spiders. Corbinye stood poised on the balls of her feet, hair pricking along her nape, straining through senses still oddly fogged, trying to sort normal port bustle from possible threat.
"Dart will be on a hotpad," Anjemalti said, and was off, weaving through the various tractors and high-lows as if he had no enemies within system, much less on world, the Trident cradled against him and Witness at his back. Biting her lip, Corbinye followed.
Ostensibly, all was as it should be, and Anjemalti's headlong march no bravado. Yet the hackles would not settle along her neck and the soft, betraying fingers twitched, yearning for the knife she would not draw.
At the edge of the hotpads the traffic thinned and became sparse—except for the crowd of vehicles clustered tight around Pad Eleven.
Corbinye flung forward, meaning to snatch him back from danger, but he had already seen, already checked and sidestepped and disappeared into the shadow of a cargoslide. Corbinye sought the shadow a heartbeat later and found both Witness and Anjemalti craning there, studying the vehicles and their meaning, in a silence more dreadful than any cursing.
"Grav beams," Anjemalti said flatly; "screen grips and catapults."
"Cousin?" She slipped to his side. In the darkness, she sensed his head move; saw the shine of his eyes, looking down at her.
"Dart is pinned. Linzer . . ."
"Dar
t is pinned," she agreed with rapid patience, as if he were one of the nursery. "But Hyacinth is not."
Large eyes widened further and she felt him pull away from her in the dark. "You council me to abandon my friend to his troubles—cousin? And if I had followed such advice an hour ago?"
"Am I honorless and stupid?" she cried, sliced to the quick and caring less that she might be heard by enemies than he despise her. "How will you free your friend in your present state, Anjemalti? Send spiders, one at a time, to disable the machinery? Brandish that thrice-damned piece of metal and demand to be let within? How will you let your friend know he is liberated, shout through the hull?" She heard the rising note in her voice and took an abrupt breath.
"Hyacinth has guns," she finished, flatly and in undertone. "Guns—and a comm."
Silence for a slow count to seven; then a long, soft exhale and a blink of the glowing eyes.
"Pad Sixteen, I think you said?" His voice was as flat as hers had been.
"Pad Sixteen," she agreed, and dared to lay a hand on his arm. "This way."
* * *
Luck had placed Hyacinth's hatch a half-turn away from Dart, and all the busyness surrounding her. Corbinye waved Witness to a post where he could observe that action and cry warning, should some part of it take interest in Hyacinth.
Anjemalti was already bent over the lock, frowning at the palm plate. Something moved beneath his collar and came into sight on his shoulder, heading purposefully down his arm, purple eyes glowing.
Corbinye held her breath as the spider marched across the back of Anjemalti's hand, over the single bridging finger and vanished behind the lockplate.
Straightening, Gem flashed her a look, noting the flush mantling her cheeks.
"Number Eleven," he said, with more gruffness than he intended. "Fifteen's elder brother." He pushed the sleeve back from the telltale. "We should have a configuration in few moments." He glanced over again, trying not to see how the red shirt molded to her breasts. "Where's the Witness?"
"Watching Dart's trouble, in case it has mind to become ours," she said, taking a breath that tightened the fabric alluringly. She looked up. "Your friend's difficulties are legion, Anjemalti. Hyacinth is yours, but she is not a battlewagon."
And for one of the Crew, Gem knew, a ship was life itself, whether it be shuttle or Greatship.
"Did you register your weapons with the Port Master?" he asked, knowing in his deepest heart what the answer to that was.
Corbinye blinked. "I?" She laid her hand briefly against the well-kept, ancient hull. "An M-class jumpshuttle, Anjemalti. Who mounts guns on such?"
Only the Crew, thought Gem, and his quick grin carried all a Crewman's feral humor.
The telltale on his wrist chimed.
"Ah."
The data was unexpectedly complex and he took several minutes to sort it through, aware of a vibration against his shoulder, where the Trident leaned, and a tightening of concentration to his left, where Corbinye was schooling herself sternly to patience.
He looked over at her.
"Number Eleven requires assistance. Number Fifteen is somewhat larger—a bit more intelligent. If I may have his service back from you?" He barely waited for her nod; had turned back to the telltale before desolation bloomed in her eyes.
Obedient to the telltale's summons, Number Fifteen climbed out of her pocket and into Anjemalti's palm. Corbinye swallowed against the hard lump in her throat, beseeching the gods not to let the body shame her again with its too-ready tears. Cry over the loss of a mechanical toy, no matter how clever? Why, she bid fair to become as unstable—
As Anjemalti, she thought suddenly, remembering his face as she laid the ruined spider before him on that day, the last she was to spend as herself. . ..
Behind her, a noise, louder than the unending whine of the grav-beam generator.
The body spun; Corbinye controlled its forward dash, and crept toward the sound.
She arrived at the sentry's post in time to see Witness kill the first guard with a knife thrust through the throat. She was just a heartbeat too slow to catch the second, who was racing back toward Dart. Already one of the attackwagons was breaking formation, turning its ugly nose toward Hyacinth.
Cursing, she grabbed Witness and dragged him back with her.
"Anjemalti, we are discovered! The guard calls for aid and a tank moves to attend us!"
One glance he spared her, from ice-blue eyes, then bent again to the lock, fingers tapping at his wristlet.
Behind, the sound of treads across hardtop and the more distant sob of a siren.
"They came upon me without warning," Witness declared, gently disengaging his arm. "One drew his weapon—without even a hail! A man may protect himself against hunters of men."
"Indeed he may," Corbinye agreed with ready sarcasm. "And a quick man may slay two enemies in the time a sluggard kills one."
Witness turned his head, stolid face showing slight amaze. "The other did not draw, O Warrior. He ran when he understood he faced a man."
"Very proper in him, I'm sure," she snapped, as the treadwork drew closer and the siren was joined by another. "Anjemalti . . ."
The spiders clung to his collar, and he laid his palm against the lock with the assurance of a man expecting admittance.
Nothing happened.
The twin sirens had been joined by a third, this one much closer.
Anjemalti laid his hand against the plate again.
Again, nothing happened.
The closest siren wailed into the causeway. Corbinye heard tires squeal against blast paving as the driver forced the turn and then the scream was heading straight toward them.
Behind, the tread-sound had been overlain by the puff of the attackwagon's motor and the blather of radio static.
"Damn you!" Anjemalti's low-voiced curse was charged with fury. He gripped the Trident where it leaned against his shoulder and stared at the lockplate as if his glare alone would force it.
"Open, damn you!"
There was a flare, as of a energy bolt, a whomp of sound felt in the chest rather than heard, and a stink of ozone in the air.
Corbinye cried out, simultaneously slamming back against the hull and spinning toward the rear, thinking only that the attackwagon had fired the moment it was in range and that two knives and an antique Trident were worse than useless against—
"Glory and praise! The Smiter lives!" Witness grabbed her arm and turned her back, toward the lockplate and Anjemalti. "Look, thou, O Warrior, and rejoice!"
Snarling, she allowed herself to be turned—and blinked once at the gaping hatch before she looked to Anjemalti.
He met her eyes, his own seeming slightly dazed. "Edreth had—always said—that I must contrive to control—my temper."
"It would seem potent," she agreed unsteadily and became alive again to the other sounds, especially those of the closing police car, and leapt forward. "Inside!"
Anjemalti went first, pitching the Trident before him and rolling in clumsily, careful of the wounded arm.
Corbinye went next, and landed running. She pushed past Anjemalti, smacked the toggle to release the inner lock and pelted down the hall toward the command center.
She hit the chair and opened the board in one motion, barely aware that he had found the co-pilot's seat and was unsealing the ship's Eyes. She was herself busy with screen readings and a demand for damage report on the forced hatch. She touched the red toggle almost as a by-the-way and in a moment heard Anjemalti murmur, "Weapons armed."
"So," she acknowledged and let a little breath hiss between her teeth in relief as ship's stats reported the hatch sealed and spaceworthy. "That's a remarkable toy you possess, cousin."
"None of mine, and all of the Bindalche's," he said. "I'm sworn to return the thing to them at earliest—There's Dart on Three. I'm searching a clean comm line. . .."
"Go through Weapons for a scramble and transmit direct," she told him and he nodded, fingers flying over the ke
ys.
"Anjemalti," Witness said suddenly over their heads, "the Smiter lies alone in the inner hatch."
"It needs remain there for the present, friend," Gem said, as the buzz of an open comm line filled the cabin. "It is my deepest hope that the Goddess is not angered."
There was a sound from where he stood behind them—almost it seemed to be a laugh. "No, Anjemalti," he said. "I think the Goddess is not angered at all."
"Good," he said absently, and then, more forcefully: "Linzer. It's Gem."
"About damn' time," Skot's voice was as laconic as ever. "This your idea of a party, ser Edreth?"
Gem grinned. "What do they want?"
"You, so the gentle who's been haranguing me for the past two hours says. I told her I didn't have you, but she seemed inclined to doubt it. Wanted me to open the door and let a search party in." He snorted. "Mama Skot's youngest ain't that big a fool."
"I thought you were the eldest," Gem said, fingers playing over the keys. He sent an image to Corbinye's main screen, saw her read it and begin to ply the weapons keys.
"This ain't the time to argue lineage. You fixing this mess or am I?"
Gem tipped his head, reading over the rather distressful situation surrounding Dart. By comparison, their own ring of one attackwagon and three armored cop cars were mere decoration.
"Can you fix it?" he asked Skot.
"I can broadbeam a piloting lesson about what happens to an energy field generated by, say, gravbeams, when the object enclosed by the field suddenly goes hyperspatial and kick in the engines for emphasis. Ought to give 'em something to scramble for." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a characteristic sound that told Gem Linzer was more worried than he allowed. "These are cops, kiddo. They ain't gonna risk their lives over physics."
"Maybe . . ." Corbinye had done with the weapons keys and was gently easing the engine feed up. Gem nodded at the schematic she'd sent to his screen, heard her murmur, "We have attempted contact, Anjemalti—from the 'wagon. I feign deafness."
"Sounds too risky," he said to Skot. "What if we draw their attention away for a moment? Can you lift?"