by Andre Norton
The old woman had had her own hiding places and most of those she had kept secret from Simsa also. But over the months since her death, with the aid of the zorsal’s keen sight, the girl had managed to uncover a number of them.
Their burrow was one of those which had originally been a portion of a house, long buried by debris from above. Simsa had often marveled at patches of painting which still clung to the walls in one corner and had wondered what it must have been like to have lived here when Kuxortal was lower and this house might have been even a portion of a High Lord’s palace. The wall itself was of sturdy stones, set in careful pattern, yet not as solid as they looked.
Now, she pressed at points here and there and then slid out what appeared to be intact stones, but were in truth shells of such, behind which were hollows from which she garnered all the contents, to spread these gleanings out on the floor and survey them critically to judge their market values.
Some that she knew or guessed might be of great value, though only to special buyers, she had to regretfully push aside, for Ferwar had collected old writings, pieces of stone on which were carvings of broken length, a few pieces of rotting leather scrolls which she had protected as best she could. Simsa could spell out some of those words, having been lectured on their value when Ferwar was in a good mood. Only none of them made sense. Now she bundled all those together and packed them carefully into a sack. Valuable to no one else, such just might be of interest to some starman, but she knew she had little chance of finding such a buyer. However, this was her day to check on her charges. If Gathar was in a good mood, she could perhaps sell these to him at a price which might make her inwardly rage but would be more than she could raise by any effort of her own.
Placing the bag carefully to one side, she concentrated on the rest of the plunder she had uncovered. There was more hope of bargaining over this on her own.
These were the best of Ferwar’s treasures and the Old One had never told where she found them, but Simsa remembered seeing them from her earliest days, thus they had been a long time in the old woman’s possession. The girl had often wondered why the Old One had not made some bargain—perhaps directly with Zack who was known to be a runner for the Thieves’ Guild and who was as honest as any such would be (especially if first he were blood sworn as Ferwar could insist, and had in the past).
There were two pieces of jewelry, a broken chain of thick links of silver—bearing at one end a long, narrow plaque set with pale stones. The other was a thick cufflike armlet certainly forged for the wearing of some man, also silver. It had a ragged break across it which destroyed part of an intricate pattern consisting of heads of outlandish monsters, most of which gaped wide to show fangs, those being insets of a crystalline, glittering stuff.
Both pieces came, Simsa was sure, from the far past. If she sold them to the wrong hands, they would go for the metal alone to be fed into some melting pot and so be forever lost. Something within her resisted the thought of that. She draped the necklet across her knee, and as she turned the armlet around in her hands, she thought.
There was one more thing—but that was her own find and she did not want to get rid of it. Also, it had come to her almost as a gift from Ferwar, though she was not silly enough to believe in such things. When she had gathered the rocks to pile over that thin and wasted body, she had seen a glint in the earth and scooped up what seemed to be a bit of metal, sticking it hurriedly in her belt pouch to be examined later.
Now, she brought this out, laying the armlet aside. It was a ring—but not a broad band, gem set, such as she had seen commonly worn in the upper city. In its way, it was cumbersomely made and awkward to wear. Still, as she slipped it now over her thumb (for that was the only finger it would fit), she eyed it with a fond feeling of possession. The band was fashioned of a silver metal, which apparently neither age nor exposure could darken or erode. Its form, jutting well up above the round of her own dark flesh, was that of a towered building wrought with minute detail—showing even a tiny stair which led to a doorway in one of the two towers. The smaller of those towers had been used to form the setting for a white-gray opaque stone as its roof. There was a vague hint in its styling of one or two of the more imposing buildings of the upper hill. Still, Simsa decided the ring was much older and of a time when there was much danger from raiders perhaps, and such structures were meant as positions of defense.
This was her own. It was not as beautiful as the other bits of jewelry, but something within her made her stare long each time she brought it forth. Sometimes, a queer idea crossed her mind that if she were able to lift the milky jewel which formed that roof on the second tower and peer within she would see—what? Strange forms of life busy about their own concerns? No, not this to be sold, she decided quickly as she rewrapped and returned it to her pouch.
Even as she put out a hand for the bag of Ferwar’s fragments with the plan of going straightaway to Gathar’s, there was a roar. The ground under her shook slightly, small bits of broken stone and dust shifted from over her head.
A starship had planeted.
Ferwar had spoken now and again of the luck which fate might dispose, even on those as lowly and portionless as the Burrow folk. Was this her luck arriving—so that on the very day, the moment when she had made up her mind to part with that which held the greatest worth, a ship had landed to offer her the best customers? She mumbled petitions to no gods, as some of those about her might. Ferwar had at times crouched over the fire basin, tossed a handful of larweed into the coals to puff out sweet smoke while chanting a sentence or two. However, the Old One had never explained to Simsa why she did so or what ancient power she might think would stir carelessly, if at all, to bring her an answer to such petition. Simsa had no gods, and trusted in no one—save herself, and Zass—and perhaps somewhat Zass’s two offspring, who at least would answer her calls. But in herself first and most. If she were ever to achieve any rise above the Burrows, out of this constant state of having to be on guard, it would not be by the wave of any god’s hand, it would be by her own determined efforts.
She slung the bag by its cord over one shoulder where the bones were sharply apparent and hissed gently at Zass, who made her crippled half-flight down to perch on the girl’s other shoulder. Then, after a quick look right and left at the opening of the Burrow, Simsa went out. It was still day, but she had taken the usual precaution of covering her hair and blacking her white brows. Her ragged clothing was drably brown-grey against the darkness of her skin and, as she went down the zigzag path to where the river water washed, she passed very light-footed and as unseen as she could hope to be in daytime. Though she could not be sure that she would have no followers, the zorsal would warn her if any tried to overtake her.
One could not approach the landing field of the starships too closely. All the town Guild officials would be there to greet the newcomer, their guards quick to drive off any save the representatives of those who had paid trader’s tax and so wore their proper badges about their necks. Simsa could not go there as yet, but she could visit the warehouse which was her regular place of call each fifth day. No one watching her so far might guess she was planning to leave the Burrows for good.
Already, her mind was busy with what she might do if she were able to part with the contents of the bag in the manner she wished. She would do the best bargaining possible, then go straight to the Thieves’ market to dicker for clothing which did not stamp her as a Burrower. She had three bits of broken silver in her pouch, turned up on a last rake through of a side tunnel where she had been engaged in delving earlier. Those were worth something even though they were but shapeless knobs of metal, that metal was not base.
Gathar was striding down the wide aisle of his main warehouse as she flitted in, keeping prudently to shadows as she always did. She had no need to call the zorsals. Through the dusk of the large building they came planing down to encircle her and their crippled mother, uttering sharp cries, their voices so high the girl cou
ld hardly distinguish them, though she had learned long ago that her hearing was keener than that of most of the Burrow people.
Their dam lifted her undamaged wing and fanned it, the leathery surface whispering through the air. At some signal from her which Simsa, for all her familiarity with the creatures, had never been able to catch, they went silent. The girl did not try her throat talk with them, rather padded on in a noiseless, barefooted tread until she rounded a mountain of crates to confront the waremaster himself.
He was in a good mood, showing teeth in a grin which suggested more a desire to devour than to please, but Simsa knew that of old. Now she made a single slight gesture with one hand—his eyes narrowed, were instantly drawn to the bag she shouldered. He pointed up the ramp which led to the quarters from which he could watch all the activity below. As Simsa ran lightly ahead of him, she heard his voice bellow an order or two before he followed. She was frowning, wondering just how much it would be worth to share a little of the truth with him. Their relationship had never developed any difficulties, but then she had always been the one with a necessary commodity to offer. Truth came very high in Kuxortal, sometimes beyond the power of any to buy.
As the bag thudded from her shoulder to the top of a table littered with sheets of tough grif-reed paper, all scrawled upon with untidy lines of crooked script, Simsa had her story fully in order.
“What’s to do, Shadow?” Gathar asked. She saw, with satisfaction, that he closed the door behind him. So he thought that she might have something to offer worth serious notice.
“The Old One died. Some things she had worth selling to learned ones in the high towers. I have heard there are such who pore over such bits and pieces, just as mad about them as was the Old One. Look!” The girl opened her bag and dragged out several slabs of the inscribed stone.
“I don’t deal in such.” However, he came nearer, leaned over to peer at the markings.
“As we both know. But there is a profit in such, I have heard.”
He was grinning again.
“Go to Lord Arfellen. He has taken a fancy these past two seasons to having men grub for such since that mad starman talked with him so long and then went off hunting a treasure which he never found. At least he never returned here with it.”
Simsa shrugged. “Treasures are never lying easily about for one to pick up. The gateman at the High Place would never look or listen to a Burrower. I know that you shall take a goodly portion.” She grinned in turn, her teeth so white in her black face as to startle one who did not know her. “But the Old One is dead—I have plans—I will give you these for fifty silver bits.”
He exploded as she knew he would, but she also knew the signs—Gathar was caught. Perhaps he might use her bits and pieces to sweeten the temper of this lord he spoke of, gain some favor from him. That was the way Guild’s men worked. They fell to serious bargaining then, and each was a worthy match for the other.
2
Simsa turned this way and that, studying her reflection. The slab of cracked mirror wedged up on one end in the back of the frowzy tent gave one only a crooked view, but she nodded briskly in satisfaction at what she saw. The dealer in old clothes (undoubtedly many of her wares stolen) stood to one side so she could keep an eye on both the girl and the forepart of the tent which lay beyond the half division of a much mended curtain. Simsa strove to catch a glimpse of her back over one shoulder.
She had, she was very certain, chosen well and made the string of trade tokens, plus one of her bits of broken silver go farther than most she knew who dealt in this part of the market. Now, she stooped and gathered up the smock and underpants she had discarded and rolled those into a bundle, which she tied up into a shawl of a drab and dusty grey. The shawl she had insisted on sale-gift. It had a number of holes but it was still serviceable for transport purposes.
However, the girl who turned purposefully away from the cracked mirror was quite different from the ragged Burrower who had entered a short time earlier. Now she wore a pair of quasker-skin trousers, tapered down to her slender ankles, their sturdy outer layer lined withfes-silk. They were a dark, serviceable blue and perhaps had been snapped out of the luggage of some ill-fated land-rider. She was lucky in that they were so narrow of leg—a fact she had pointed out firmly to the seller. There were few potential customers who could have drawn them on with any ease.
Her own undershirt had been the best piece of clothing she had owned and she had kept it reasonably clean even in the Burrows. Simsa had a fastidious dislike of filth and washed both her underclothing and the body beneath it whenever she had a chance, a trait which most of the Burrowers found a matter of huge amusement. So this, she had kept and beneath it, the band about her enlarging breasts; in its folds were hidden Ferwar’s two jeweled treasures, plus the ring.
Over the chemise Simsa now wore the short coat of a courtyard upper servant. That was tightly sashed about her narrow waist, and she felt the weight of the long, wide sleeves which were gathered into wrist bands so that their folds also served as storage pockets. It was of the darkest color of the three Simsa had been offered, a wine, near black. There were roughened threads on one shoulder where some House badge must have been cut away, and it had no trim, except for a piping of silver gray about the high neck and wrist bands. The material was good; there was not a single mend nor fray, and the girl decided that it was enough to pass her into the lowest round of the hill city—perhaps even a round above that. Certainly, she looked respectable enough to be allowed onto the ship-verge market, which was what she wanted now.
Her hair she still kept within its tight wrapping and she had darkened her eye lashes well before she had come into the market. Not for the first time, she wished that nature had not made her so noticeable. Perhaps when she could make more free of the upper town she could discover some dye which would serve to keep her what Gathar had called her—a shadow.
“You are not the only buyer,” snapped the woman by the curtain’s edge. “Should you take all day to view those clothes you have stolen from me? Stolen indeed! I am too kind of heart with the young, too ready to give when I should get!”
Simsa laughed and the zorsal croaked.
“Market woman, when you are kind in any dealing the cie-wind of Kor will bring the vasarch trees into bloom. I should have bargained for a full turn of the sand glass longer, but I am in a good mood today, and you have profited by that.”
The woman pursed her mouth in a gesture of spitting and made an obscene gesture. Simsa laughed again. She no longer had the bag she had left at the warehouse, but she swung the shawl bundle to her shoulder with the same practiced ease, then scooped up Zass who settled on her other shoulder. Slipping by the woman, she was out of the tent in a moment.
This section of the frowzy market was above the lines where the Burrowers were usually to be seen. For all of that the girl still kept a wary eye on what lay about her, the din of market seller cries and shouts being enough to cover the advance of an army.
By now, the starship would have landed and the authorities should have begun dealings with the officers over the main cargo. There would be little or no trading with the crew until perhaps the next day. However, that delay would give the small traders, the lesser thieves, and the scavengers time to gather and stake out their own places, to wait until the crewmen were released for planet leave and a chance to dicker. Most of the crew would, she knew from having watched a number of such landings during past seasons, head for the upper town with its better drinking places where there were rent-women and other things denied during long voyages. Always, though, there were some to come seeking what they could buy—pickings which just might make them a small fortune when offered on another world. Simsa, shuffling sandals (which were a bit too large for her narrow feet, but in her present garb she could not go bare of sole) across the pavement, wondered briefly what it would be like to spend one’s life going from world to world, always greeting the new and strange. She had never been away from Kuxort
al and, though she had explored all of the city save those crowning palaces at the very crest of the mound, her world was a small one indeed.
Those born in Kuxortal did not wander. They knew that there was a wide land behind them, a broad sea before. Ships came overseas, barges, smaller sailing, and slave-oared vessels down the river. Still the land immediately beyond the wide cultivated strips that provided the double croppings per year that fed the city was desert, and no man traveled on land when there was water of sea or river to carry him. There were a number of ancient and very strange tales about what might lie beyond the city gardens—tales such that no one was minded to prove the truth of them.
Simsa found a stall selling ripe fruit, some cakes of dark bread of nut-flour, and stacks of hardened packa pods hollowed out and filled with sap-sweetened water. Again, she bargained, sharp-tongued and narrow-eyed, tucking her provisions into the ever-ready sleeve pockets.
As she prowled through the market, she eyed stalls and ground boards, assessing the worth of what she could see. Most here was broken trash but several of the dealers of such called a greeting as she paused, recognizing her for one who dealt in the lesser finds of the Burrowers. She knew that each and every one would note her new clothing, would speculate on how she had raised the price of such. Rumor spread through any market even faster than the first breezes of the wet season. She would be a fool to return to the Burrows now. There would be those who would lie in wait seeking to discover what she had found—what Ferwar must have treasured through the years.
The Old One had had her own ways of handling any upstarts who might question her rights. Only a cursing from Simsa, no matter how dramatically delivered, would mean nothing to the combined forces the Burrowers could assemble at the faintest hint of loot.
