The Star Shard

by Frederic S. Durbin

  Twisting itself like a gimlet, the enormous beast oozed through the narrow opening. Plopping into the sublevel, it puffed its bones back into place and became again a mountain of fury. The soldiers above must have attacked it with fire. Red welts scarred the huge head and side where the fur had burned away. Its eyes fixed on Cymbril, who clutched the blue-green stone. The nargus roared, its mouth stretching impossibly wide, the hooked teeth swiveling forward. A blast of fetid breath blew Cymbril's hair back, and she screamed.

  Loric pushed her behind him, putting himself between her and the horror. For one instant, his eyes met hers, and she saw that he was ready to die for her—ready to meet the monster head-on, so that she might have a chance to flee.

  A silvery blur flashed past them.

  A lithe, slender figure vaulted at the nargus—a form like that of a person, yet covered in fur. Cymbril glimpsed an outstretched arm, a hand with the pale fingers spread. Sharp claws emerged suddenly from the fingertips and raked the nargus across the snout.

  The figure landed on the monster's back, delivered three more vicious claw swipes, and was somersaulting away before the nargus had finished its bellow of outrage.

  Two more agile shapes struck at the nargus, one from the left, one from the right.

  The first of the three alighted at a crouch before Cymbril, and she found herself eye to eye with a person both human and feline. The arms, legs, and much of the face were distinctly humanoid. But the entire body glistened with short silver fur. Large cat ears crowned the head, and the mouth was catlike, the upper lip divided and whiskered.

  "Miwa?" Cymbril could hardly believe what she saw. She recognized her old friend by the color of her fur and by her eyes.

  "Go!" said Miwa in a woman's voice. "The far stairway. We'll catch up with you."

  Behind Miwa, the yellow tom and the black cat were also half-human. They taunted the nightmare beast, staying just out of its reach.

  "It will lose interest in us," Miwa hissed. "Go quickly!" Then she spun back to the fight, springing through the air.

  Stairway. Yes. Cymbril forced herself to think. There was a second stairway, on the other side of Barrel Corner. She led Loric to it and clambered up ahead of him, glancing again at the battle. "What are they?" she asked.

  "Ferials," he said, close behind her. "Upwalkers. Those Who Go on Two Legs."

  "People who turn into cats?" Cymbril winced as the nargus cuffed the tom, who slid over the floor, smashing through a heap of metal scraps.

  "No." Loric pushed her upward. "Animals who can take a form close to human. These three are felid ferials—upwalkers of the cats."

  Cymbril stuck her head through the stairwell's hatch and looked across the wide avenue. Near the other stairway, the soldiers were tending to their wounded. A haze of smoke hung over the wreckage of a cart and shattered barrels. If she and Loric kept to the shadows, they could probably pass down the street unnoticed.

  She warned Loric of the danger, and, moving quickly, they flitted into the murk beneath the loggia. In moments the battle's aftermath was well behind them.

  Thinking through the shortest route to the aft hold, Cymbril glanced at Loric as they ran. "Why did Miwa need you to cast that spell?"

  "The ferials had only just arrived on the Rake when the Eye Women recognized them for what they were. Those witches placed an enchantment on them that trapped them in their cat forms. They've been unable to change for years. The Eye Women want to dominate all magic on the Rake. Ferials are too powerful—the Sisters had to control them."

  "Couldn't someone at the Night Market have helped them?"

  Loric shook his head. "Not there, where the Sisters rule everything."

  "Why didn't the ferials just leave the Rake, then? They could have gone to the Sidhe, or—"

  "They couldn't leave," Loric began, "because—"

  The withering roar of the nargus stopped him in mid-sentence. Cymbril looked back and saw the monster charging down the center of Barrel Corner, following the Star Shard. Her heart sank. Panic beat around her like a cloak in a high wind.

  Loric's eyes told her not to give up. His grip on her wrist was firm.

  She shook dread from her mind. "This way." She took Loric into a side lane—Bottle Alley—and chose another climbing stair. Up. Down. Confuse the nargus. This stairway was an external addition to the passage, only a framework of beams and slat steps. She could feel the monster's black eyes watching her, and she longed to be hidden.

  A sudden thought came to her. I could put the Star Shard down. I could leave it behind, and the nargus couldn't smell us anymore. She glanced at the radiant stone in her hand, the gift from her father. A whirl of panic threatened again to overwhelm her.

  She faltered at the stairway's top, pressing the stone to her chest. Loric looked at her searchingly.

  Below, the monster slammed into the stairway's base, not slowing, its limbs scrabbling to drag its bulk upward. But it was too big for the flimsy structure. Railings flew apart. Nails shrieked, yanked from their holes. Stairs buckled, and still the nargus climbed, plowing, destroying the steps that supported it. Halfway up, the framework gave way completely, and the creature fell back to the floor amid a storm of timbers. Opening its cavernous maw, it let loose its roar. Its hide still smoked from the soldiers' fire, and Cymbril caught the reek of charred flesh. Shrugging the boards aside, the nargus hurled itself against the wall and buried its claws.

  "It's coming up!" Loric said.

  Again Cymbril ran with him. They ducked through a candle makers' workshop, where early rising chandlers and apprentices stared at them, tracing holy symbols in the air to ward off evil. They'd heard the pandemonium in Barrel Corner.

  "It's chasing us!" Cymbril yelled to them. "Go out that way!"

  At the workshop's far end, an open window led out onto the balcony of Horseshoe. Cymbril led the way half around it, through the moss garden at its apex, and down a flight to the Doll Makers' Court. She turned left at an intersection she knew well, where the doll makers had hung from a post a jointed, life-size wooden puppet whose costume they changed each season.

  Dashing over the dark, rippling canal by the Kind-bridge, its pillars carved into a thousand tiny faces of people and animals, she steered Loric up the quiet lane of Dusk. Workshops and merchants' dwellings alternated with stretches of trellis that walled and roofed the passage, the lattice twined with dark-growing aromatic herbs. Some of Rombol's earliest risers had begun their day's routine, preparing for the market. Others clustered nervously, awakened by the clamor, exchanging rumors that strange and terrible things were afoot in the fading night.

  Cymbril and Loric descended past a final view of the canal, a pole lantern paving the water's surface with a pathway of gold. They stood still a moment, trying to get their breath back. Cymbril realized they'd heard no sounds of pursuit since Bottle Alley.

  Peering out across the water, they listened to it lapping the hulls of the barges and punts.

  Cymbril felt Loric take her hand. His touch was warm and comforting. She gazed into his luminous brown eyes, remembering how he'd stood between her and the nargus. She longed to be out of danger, safe with him somewhere far from the Rake...

  "Don't stop here," said a voice.

  With a start, Cymbril looked around.

  Miwa darted from between blue nightberry hedges along the canal, still in her graceful womanlike shape. The jet-black ferial emerged behind her, also female, with a more angular face. The male came third, the yellow tom who had been with Cymbril at the prow on the night when the nargus had made its presence known. Blood oozed from a cut on the tom's shoulder, but he greeted Cymbril with a rakish bow. For the first time, Cymbril noticed that they retained the long, articulated tails of cats—proportionately larger to suit their human stature.

  Cymbril pocketed the Star Shard and wonderingly touched Miwa's forearm and hand. The claws were retracted now, and the hand felt soft, its palm like a cat's paw pads.

  "Where is the nargus
?" asked Loric.

  "We wove a spell," said the dark ferial in a lilting accent. "The nargus took a wrong turn, following a false scent. But there's little time. The soldiers are hunting you, too."

  Cymbril shook her head, so full of questions that she hardly knew what to say. "For so long," she said to Miwa, "I've wished you could talk to me."

  The silver ferial smiled. "It would have made things easier." Pulling Cymbril by the hand, she led the group down the final flight of steps. It was not far now to the aft hold, where Urrt had promised to leave a hatch open.

  "You've always helped me," Cymbril said as they walked. "For as long as I can remember."

  The ferial nodded. "It was a duty we were given, a magical binding, though I must admit, I've enjoyed it far more than I expected."

  "It's cost us nothing," said the male, following at the rear. "We have nine lives, you know, and these years under the spell don't even count as one."

  "A duty?" Cymbril asked. "I don't understand."

  They had reached the lower hallway now. The daytime lamps hadn't been lighted yet, but a single night torch cast enough shine for Cymbril to make out the door of the hold.

  "We were bidden to watch over you," Miwa said. "To protect you from harm with our lives. More than one of them, if it came to it."

  Cymbril blinked. "But who—?"

  The ferial held up a hand. "There's no time to give you the full story. Let's just say that there is one concerned with your welfare, who asked us to keep an eye on you for as long as you were aboard this Rake. When you leave, our duty will be fulfilled and the binding undone."

  The other female winked at Cymbril. "You never saw me at all, did you? I kept my distance, working the perimeter."

  Miwa gazed toward the hold, then took Cymbril by the shoulders. "This is farewell, Cymbril. When you're off the Rake—truly free, and not just at a market—then the spell will take us back to the time and place at which it was cast. More than nine years ago! I don't know if we'll remember this or not."

  Cymbril searched her friend's eyes. "If I meet you again, you may not even know me."

  The ferial nodded ruefully. "That is possible. But be the same, and I'll like you again."

  Cymbril threw her arms around Miwa, burying her face in the woman-cat's soft warmth. "Thank you, Miwa."

  Miwa started to reply, but the words caught in her throat, and she only held Cymbril tightly and stroked her hair. When she found her voice again, the ferial said, "By the way, my name is Memenisse—Miwa was your idea. Memenisse. Remember it. You may need to know it someday."

  Still in Memenisse's embrace, Cymbril gave her hands to the other ferials, thanking them.

  "Be well and happy, Cymbril," said the tom.

  Cymbril touched Memenisse's face, where the downy fur was wet with tears. "You can cry," she whispered.

  "Only when we're half-human. Now, go."

  Cymbril pulled away, lifting her hand in a wave.

  But there came a rustle of movement. At the far end of the passage, just beyond the hold's door, a man stepped around the corner.

  Cymbril heard Memenisse growl.

  The man had a strange, unkempt appearance. He was not one of Rombol's people. Short and broad, he had a giant belly and stood on wide, bare feet.

  "You!" Memenisse spat the word. "Stay back! Let them pass."

  Cymbril glanced at Loric, who stared at the man, slightly frowning.

  The stranger was dressed like a beggar, one piece of cloth tied around his waist as a crude skirt, another doubled over him, his head through a hole ripped in the center.

  "You thick-skulled longtail," said the man, approaching on bandy legs. His eyes were wide-set and round, with droopy bags beneath them. He had fat lips and thinning hair that clung wetly. "'Let them pass,' you say? Yarn-batting nitwit! You think this girl would be alive with no other protection than yours?"

  The black ferial and the tom flanked Loric and Cymbril, crouching with hands raised menacingly at the stranger, claws out. All three were growling, the fur on their backs standing up.

  "Loric," Cymbril whispered, "who is he?"

  "Master Ranunculus," said Loric.

  Memenisse muttered, "The fat frog."

  Cymbril stared at the odd, waddling man. The sorcerer—"R," the owner of the magic books and everything else in the secret storerooms. He hadn't vanished in the swamp, after all.

  "They did it!" Cymbril blurted, understanding. "The Eye Women turned you into the frog." She remembered how Loric's orb of fire had divided, the final part shooting away behind the stacked furniture. It had restored another who was trapped in a form imposed by the Sisters' magic—the fat frog, who had been hiding there.

  Ranunculus scowled in disgust. "They were always jealous of me. They've gotten most of my possessions from Rombol, thanks to you." He eyed Cymbril darkly.

  "I'm sorry," she said, but couldn't manage to feel too guilty, remembering the unwholesome nature of the books and the way that the frog had always watched her. "You followed me everywhere."

  "Protecting you," said Ranunculus. "Blocking my cousins' spells. Time and again they tried to turn you into something far nastier than me."

  "Why would they do that? I'm not powerful."

  The sorcerer's lip curled. "More so than you think. The witches never liked you. But what made them hate you was that you robbed them. A dozen years of their work snatched away."

  "What are you talking about?" Cymbril asked.

  Somewhere overhead, the nargus roared.

  "There's no time for this," said Memenisse. "It's coming."

  Ranunculus brushed past them all, the ferials baring their teeth, backs arched and bristling. The sorcerer stretched his joints as he walked. He popped his neck and cracked his knuckles. Flexing his fingers, he drew sparks from the tips, and Cymbril knew he was preparing for battle. He faced the direction of the nargus's approach.

  Once more, he glanced over his shoulder at Cymbril. "Those young twins, the Curdlebrees. My cousins were stealing their minds and spirits, year by year—it's a slow process. I tried to slow it further, but another few months, and they would have been empty vessels. The witches would have abandoned their withered old bodies and taken over the new ones. Young again! They must have been delighted to sell you that Nixielixir, if they guessed who it was for. But then—" He snorted with laughter. "Yes, you've made enemies of my cousins, girl."

  "Hmf! A second life to live," grumbled Memenisse. "Humans striving to be cats."

  "Will Gerta and Berta be all right?" Cymbril called after the magician. One level up, the nargus rampaged, much closer. Globes of red flame roared into life in the sorcerer's hands, coalescing from the air.

  "You saved those girls," Ranunculus said, his makeshift robes whipping in a rush of wind. "Away from my cousins, their minds and spirits will grow back strong. Now go to your freedom, mischievous imp. Since the elf boy did me a good turn, I'll deal with this black nargus."

  From the doorway to the hold, Cymbril called her thanks.

  "Oh, I'm no friend of yours," Ranunculus shouted back. "Believe me when I say you wouldn't like me. I protected you to spite my cousins. Now, go!"

  He was a dark silhouette against the fires he held, huge spheres of twisting smoke and flame, shot through with inner lightning bolts. Waving to Cymbril and Loric, the ferials retreated past the door, heading for the shadows. On the stairs beyond Ranunculus, the nargus appeared in a vile temper.

  Loric tugged Cymbril into the hold and heaved the door shut.

  Chapter 20

  The Rising of the Sun

  The wide, lofty chamber was packed with spice bales, cloth bolts, grain sacks, and boxes stacked in pillars. Cymbril held up the Star Shard for light.

  An explosion shook the Rake as Ranunculus unleashed his fires in the corridor outside. A tremor shot through the floor, toppling boxes. Loric and Cymbril fell to their knees and covered their heads. A cabinet dropped from the wall with a crash, and a howling gale swept the hallway. P
ower crackled and blasted, drowning the roars of the nargus.

  Slowly the vibrations ceased, and silence returned. The door behind Cymbril and Loric remained closed.

  They threaded forward, stepping over rope coils and spooled carpets. Somewhere in the shadows must be a hatch. Somewhere ... but the hold was jammed with tools and merchandise.

  Thinking again of Ranunculus, Cymbril glanced at Loric. "Did you mean to turn him back into a human?"

  "No. I had no idea he was hiding there, or that the frog was more than a frog."

  "And did you notice the cloth he found to wear?" she asked. "Both pieces were of Moonpine blue. Probably Gerta and Berta dyed them."

  "Everything in the world is interconnected," Loric said. He closed his eyes and held up both palms. "There!" He pointed toward the far wall.

  "Was that a finding spell?" asked Cymbril.

  "No," he said. "I feel a draft."

  They hurried around a wagon with no wheels, past a barrier of crates, and there it was in the wall: a hatch of timbers banded with iron, so large that Cymbril doubted even a strong man could open it alone. But Urrt had been here. It stood open, hooked in place, just as he had promised. Beside it lay a hefty coil of rope, one end tied to the mooring ring. Dear Urrt!

  The night breeze wafted in, bringing the smell of wet grass and plowed earth. A slope fell away from the Rake's side to a dense forest, the trees like black, billowing clouds in the darkness.

  "The Greenmouth," Loric whispered. His eyes were wide, gathering the faint light of the stars.

  They sat on the threshold, feet dangling. Even from this lowest sublevel above the axles, it was five fathoms to the ground. "Be careful," they both said at once, and smiled.

  "You first," said Loric, pitching the rope overboard. "I'm right behind."

  "Goodbye, Thunder Rake." Cymbril held the rope in both hands, scissored it between her feet, and made the dizzying, skin-burning slide to the grass. She rolled aside as Loric touched down next to her. They were both drenched at once with dew.

  No sooner had Cymbril picked herself up than men shouted overhead. Figures moved between the torches at the rail, pointing. She and Loric had been seen.