Witch Of Rhostshyl s-3

by J F Rivkin

  He was not deceived by her pose of indifference. “I thought this young fellow seemed to catch your fancy,” he said, taking Lorr roughly by the arm and turning him this way and that for Nyctasia’s inspection. “He may not look like much now, but clean him up and a pretty lad like this will fetch plenty in Celys.” He grabbed a fistful of Lorr’s hair and pulled his head back, the better to display his features. “If you want him, you’ll have to chaffer with the traders, though.

  He belongs to some estate in the valley, they say, and his owner’d probably pay well to have him back. But I daresay they’d part with him for the right price.”

  Greymantle growled, and Nyctasia hastily quieted him. The guard pushed Lorr aside carelessly, and turned back to Nyctasia. “But perhaps you haven’t that much to spend, eh?”

  Nyctasia had been considering whether or not to make an offer for Lorr, and now she came to a sudden decision. She had money enough, for she carried her valuables safely hidden, and had lost only a few crescents when her pouch was stolen. But the money she had left she needed for her passage from Larkmere to Stocharnos, and if she spent it now there might be days-perhaps weeks-of delay before she could arrange for payment, She was desperate to reach Rhostshyl as soon as possible. Too much time had been lost already, and lives might depend upon haste now.

  Now, as she watched the guard bully Lorr with obvious enjoyment, she made up her mind what to do, compelled as much by rash anger as by necessity.

  “You’re right,” she told him, “I haven’t much money. But I do see something I like, after all, and maybe I can afford just that much.” She looked him up and down in a way that made her meaning unmistakably plain. He was tall and broad, with large hands and a muscled neck, rugged, coarsely-carved features and thick, tightly curling hair. He was probably a southerner like Corson, hired for his size and strength. But Corson, Nyctasia knew, would starve sooner than work for slave-traders.

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, and smiled seductively. From her shirt she drew a small leather bag and took out a shiny ring, set with a red gemstone, which she slipped on her finger and held out for the guard to see.

  He grinned. Oho, so she was that sort, was she? That was common too-some folk couldn’t resist a chance to lie with a slave-handler, and they liked a bit of rough handling themselves, he had found. He pulled Nyctasia into an empty stall and dragged her down onto the straw. The trinket she offered wasn’t worth much, but then she didn’t ask much in return. And she was a pretty little thing, too, now that he had a good look at her. He wouldn’t mind satisfying her curiosity for free.

  Nyctasia laughed and threw her arms around his neck, clasping her hands behind his head, as he rolled on top of her, tugging impatiently at her breeches.

  Feeling completely calm, she pressed her finger firmly against the red glass jewel in the ring, to release the tiny, curved spring-blade it concealed. Then she turned her hand and just scratched his neck with the needle-sharp crescent of steel. He gave one cry as the merciless, burning poison seized him by the throat, but he was dead within the moment, Nyctasia crawled free of his lifeless weight with some difficulty, then carefully sealed the deadly ring and put it away. It ought not to be dangerous until it was dipped in manna-venom again, but she had no intention of pricking herself with it, all the same. She straightened her clothes, grimacing with distaste, and picked up her harp before she bent to pull the keys from the guard’s belt.

  The slaves in the shed did not realize what she’d done until they saw her emerge from the stall alone and release Lorr and his two companions from their fetters.

  “You really do have that poison!” Lorr whispered. “You said-”

  “I thought you wouldn’t need it. I had Marrekind in hand, and I wasn’t planning to leave, then.”

  By then the rest were clamoring to be freed as well, calling for the keys and crowding around Nyctasia as she hastened from stall to stall. Having just committed murder, she did not hesitate to augment her crime with theft, and she was able to unlock a good many manacles and leg-irons before the other guards noticed the commotion, and remembered that they weren’t paid to watch the acrobats. They ran in through the far door, whips swinging, and were set upon at once and outnumbered. In the confusion, Nyctasia tossed the keys to the last set of prisoners, grabbed Greymantle’s leash with one hand and Lorr’s arm with the other, and dashed out the way she’d come, hoping to disappear into the crowd.

  No one paid much attention to them as they mingled with the throng of marketers and idlers gathered in the square to gape at the troupe of tumblers plying their trade in a space cleared before the town hall. Had she been less intent on escaping, Nyctasia too would have lingered, entranced by the spectacle. The rope-dancer had finished her act, but the performance on the ground was well worth watching.

  Dressed in colorful costumes and fantastic masks, adorned with ribbons and feathers and crystal beads, the dark-skinned acrobats balanced on tall poles, juggled flaming clubs, and did astonishing leaps and flips to the dramatic rhythm of the drumbeat. A boy clambered up an unsupported ladder, launched himself into the air, flipped over, and landed gracefully on the upturned feet of a woman balanced on her hands on the shoulders of one of the men. A girl with a wooden flute stalked among them, embellishing their tricks with trills and flourishes of music.

  Nyctasia and Lorr made their way to the edge of the crowd, but looking back they saw one of the guards from the slave-market pushing through the press toward them-a woman tall enough to see them over the heads of the crowd. She was pointing in their direction and shouting something over her shoulder.

  During their travels together, Corson had given Nyctasia some practical-and often painful-lessons in swordfighting, and now a piece of Corson’s advice came back to her. “When your opponent is bigger than you are, keep the fight in a tight place, where the enemy will be hampered while you can move freely. You can’t help being such a little speck of a thing, but you can put your size to use.” Nyctasia hurried Lorr into a narrow, cramped alleyway that led to the back of the town hall.

  When they turned the corner, Nyctasia drew her shortsword and waited. “Keep going,” she ordered Lorr. “Get away from here, find someplace to hide.” With surprise on her side, and Greymantle at her command, she felt confident that the odds were in her favor.

  But Lorr’s escape was cut off. “Someone’s coming the other way,” he cried, panic-stricken.

  Nyctasia thrust Greymantle’s leash into his hand. “Take the dog, he’ll defend you. Now run!”

  She very rapidly revised her plans. No one could prove that she’d killed the guard, after all. There was not a mark on him to show how he’d died. Suppose she claimed that she’d run off in fright when he collapsed-who was there to contradict her? And the slaves might have stripped his body of the keys themselves. They were not likely to bear witness against her, and if they did she could deny it all. Even the word of a penniless minstrel-lass was worth more than a slave’s. Why would a harmless harper commit such a crime in the first place?

  And if matters came to the worst, she could always reveal her exalted rank to the magistrates. It was true, as Jheine said, that the law often gave way before a title. Perhaps it was a slim chance, but Nyctasia had talked her way out of tight straits before this. She only hoped that she wouldn’t be delayed too long in Larkmere by the formalities. But Lorr was truly in danger-he must be given time to get away.

  She had not long to wait till her pursuer rounded the corner, but by then she had sheathed her sword and merely stood with her hands on her hips, looking aggrieved and defiant. “Why are you chasing me?” she demanded. “It’s nothing to do with me! Leave me alone-”

  But the guard was in no mood to be reasoned with. Several of the slaves had escaped while she was supposed to be on duty, and if she came back empty-handed she’d be blamed, perhaps accused of theft and held accountable for the loss. She could be enslaved herself for such a debt. But if this sneaking minstrel was somehow r
esponsible, she might redeem herself by capturing the wretch. She seized Nyctasia triumphantly, ignoring her protests, and twisted her arm painfully behind her back.

  Nyctasia revised her plans again.

  Swinging her feet off the ground, she made herself a dead weight and pulled her captor completely off balance, breaking her grip and allowing herself a chance to draw her blade again. The guard was armed only with her whip, and there was not room enough to swing the lash in the confining space of the alleyway.

  Nyctasia was able to hold her off for a time, but her skill with a sword was no match for the enemy’s longer reach and superior strength. Wielding the haft of the whip like a club, she soon drove Nyctasia back against the wall of the building that loomed over them.

  “It’s not enough to defend yourself,” Corson had taught Nyctasia. “In a fight, you must always be on the attack.” Nyctasia ducked to avoid a blow, scooped up a handful of dirt and pebbles, and flung it straight into her opponent’s face with all the strength of desperation.

  When the woman staggered back, Nyctasia pressed her advantage, gripping her shortsword with both hands and swinging from her shoulders, forcing the strength of her whole back into the blow. Corson would have been proud to see the result of her teaching.

  Nyctasia had aimed for the knees, hoping to cripple her adversary and flee, but though she strained every muscle, the wound she inflicted had little effect. The guard suddenly crumpled to the ground in a spreading puddle of blood, but it was not Nyctasia’s sword that had felled her. It was a large chunk of masonry pushed from the parapet of the city hail.

  16

  a heavily knotted rope-end thudded to the ground at Nyctasia’s feet, and a voice from overhead said urgently, “Catch hold, hurry! There are more of them coming.”

  Perhaps the most important lesson Nyctasia had learned from Corson was that there were times when action, not thought, was called for. This, unquestionably, was one of those times. She grabbed hold and began to climb.

  The rope was drawn upward, and for a moment she found herself face to face with a stag with silver antlers-a sight that nearly made her fall. But then the masked acrobat dropped to the ground, landing on his feet in a practiced crouch.

  “Here, I’ll give you a boost,” he said. Taking Nyctasia by the ankles, he half-lifted, half-tossed her up to where the rope-dancer, hanging by her knees from a carved waterspout, could catch hold of her arms. For a small woman, she was surprisingly strong. She quickly pulled Nyctasia up to a ledge, somehow righted herself, and clambered over the parapet, dragging Nyctasia after her.

  While Nyctasia lay hidden behind the stone battlement, the rope-dancer leaned over the crenellated wall, looking down into the alley. A moment later, Nyctasia heard her call, “They went down that way-a woman and a boy-”

  “We saw them from up there,” the other acrobat said excitedly. “Follow me, you might still catch them.”

  When the sound of running footsteps receded, the rope-dancer helped Nyctasia to her feet, and for the first time she had a good look at her rescuer. Like her confederate, she too was disguised, but her mask was painted directly onto her face, so as not to hinder her vision when she was doing her daring aerial tricks. A lacy pattern of green leaves and white blossoms adorned her dark skin, as if she were spying out from behind a screen of flowering vines, and her close-fitting leggings and vest were embroidered with the same design. It was impossible to discern what she really looked like.

  She grinned, returning Nyctasia’s scrutiny. “I’m Ashe,” she offered, “and that was Auval who ran off just now. He’ll lead them a merry chase.” She spoke with an accent Nyctasia did not recognize.

  “But they’ll suspect you,” Nyctasia worried. “That guard-”

  “Not a bit of it. Auval will tell them we saw the lad attack her from behind, while you fought with her. He knocked her off her feet, and she hit her head on that fallen stonework. See for yourself.”

  The woman’s body had been moved so that she lay on her face near the bloody masonry. Nyctasia looked down at her, then turned away. “Come,” said Ashe, “we’d best not stand about here.” Nyctasia followed her along the narrow stone walkway to the twisting stairs that led to the roof.

  “They’ll not suppose we had anything to do with it,” Ashe continued cheerfully.

  “We’d nothing to gain by it, had we?”

  “No, nothing. But you’d plenty to lose. Why in the vahn’s name did you take such a risk?”

  “You took the greater risk, harper, setting loose half the chattel in the marketplace, all on your own. We can see quite a lot from up here. You went in alone, and came out running, with the boy in tow, and it rather looked as if you might have forgotten to pay for him, no? Then the slaves were scattering and the warders chasing about-a fine to-do you caused! I don’t ask why you did it, but as for us, we don’t like slave-traders, or their minions, and we have our reasons.” They had reached one of the twin towers, and Ashe began to fasten her tightrope to a stout pillar. “No one will notice you up here, friend,” she assured Nyctasia.

  Nyctasia looked around her, feeling half-dazed, as much by the strange course of events that had brought her there as by the height and the long climb. Her companion was right, she realized. From this vantage point she could see all the chaos of the town square below, and anyone who looked up could see her-but not recognize her. In full view of the whole marketplace, she was as good as invisible.

  “Forgive my ill manners,” she said, “I ought to have introduced myself. I’m Nyc brenn Rhostshyl. And I’ve not even thanked you for your help.”

  “Well, we’ve no time for that. You’ll have to help me now, since Auval’s busy elsewhere. There’s more of a crowd than ever down there, thanks to you, and that means it’s time I went back to work. Wait here.” She darted off across the steep roof with her rope, and made it fast to a column of the other tower. After testing the knots, she tightened the laces of her supple doeskin slippers and ran nimbly across the rope back to Nyctasia. A few people below stopped and pointed. “Now hand me the horn,” she ordered Nyctasia.

  Flourishing the long, straight brass trumpet, Ashe marched boldly to the middle of the rope and blew a few loud, clear notes to catch the attention of her audience, then swept them a low bow. Nyctasia held her breath, but Ashe’s balance never wavered. She straightened up gracefully and strutted to and fro, with her head thrown back, playing a lively song on the horn, and not seeming to pay any mind to where she stepped. Then she threw the horn down to another member of the troupe on the ground, who caught it and took up the tune, while Ashe-to Nyctasia’s horror-performed a series of cartwheels from one end of the rope to the other. The crowd cheered lustily, and the drummer (and the pickpockets) collected a tidy sum.

  Nyctasia was kept busy tossing out wooden balls and clubs for Ashe to juggle.

  When she finished with one set Ashe threw them to her fellow tumblers below, not trusting Nyctasia to catch them. A large hoop she used like a skipping-rope, rapidly swinging it over her head and hopping through it, over and over again. A dozen times Nyctasia restrained herself from crying out in alarm, or playing the fool by begging Ashe to be careful. But much to her relief, it was not long before the rope-dancer called a halt, at the first fading of the daylight.

  “I could do this in the dark,” she boasted, “but if no one can see me, there’s nothing to be gained.” She dropped the remaining objects down to the waiting jugglers, including-before she could protest-Nyctasia’s harp. “You’ll not want to be seen with that,” she explained. “They know it’s a harper they’re looking for. We’ll wait till after dark, of course, but you’ll find the climb easier if you’re not hampered with a harp.”

  “Climb…?” said Nyctasia uneasily.

  They made their way across the closely crowded roofs of the city, silently and slowly, with Ashe in the lead. When she found that Nyctasia was fairly surefooted, and could follow her with only occasional help, they moved more quickly from buildin
g to building, only stopping to wait, lying flat on the slate shingles or crouching behind a chimney, while warders of the night watch patrolled the street below them.

  “This is the place,” whispered Ashe. When a sentry on his rounds had ridden past, they dropped to the top of the high wall that circled the city, and she gave a low whistle, which was answered almost at once. A tall pole was leaned up against the wall between the two of them, “I’ll hold this end steady for you,” she told Nyctasia. “You’ve only to slide down.”

  Nyctasia drew a deep breath, then leaned over the edge to grasp the pole, and let herself swing tree of the wall, out into the night. She wrapped her legs around the pole, and it held firm, but she seemed to drop down through the darkness for a very long time before strong hands caught her and set her on the earth.

  Ashe was beside her on the instant, and the three moved off together without a word. There were encampments of tinkers and gypsies and peddlers outside the city walls, but Nyctasia and the others took care to stay out of sight until they approached the wagons belonging to the troupe of acrobats. Then Ashe laughed in relief and said, “You did well, Harper Nyc. I believe we could make a tumbler of you.”

  “Yes, let’s,” agreed the other. Nyctasia could barely see him, but she recognized his voice as Auval’s. “She weighs no more than a walnut-I could toss her as high as the treetops and catch her in one hand.”

  “I would like to learn your trade, in truth,” said Nyctasia. “To me it seems a most beautiful Discipline. But I fear I cannot take it up now.”

  “You could, you know-I can tell. We’ll first teach you to juggle. You must be good with your hands or you’d not be a harper.”

  “I’m not a harper,” said Nyctasia, with unwonted candor. “I’m a scholar and a healer, and much as I admire your art, I cannot take to it now because I must get to the coast just as soon as I can.”

  “Well, don’t try to take a riverboat. The city guard will be watching the waterfront for you.”