Pip was fond of any kind of fruit or berry, though it shied away from vegetables. Something else they had in common, Flinx thought. Oddly enough, the snake would even lap up milk. Flinx was sure he could supply enough variety to keep his pet both happy and alive. Maybe it would even eat table scraps. Perhaps that would weaken Mother Mastiff’s antagonism. As he experimented further, he discovered that the snake was particularly fond of anything with a high iron content, such as raisins or flakes of guarfish. Had he been a biochemist equipped with a field laboratory, he might have learned that the minidrag’s blood contained an extraordinary amount of hemoglobin, vital to transport the oxygen necessary to sustain the snake’s hummingbirdlike flight.
When Pip had swollen to twice his normal diameter, Flinx stopped trying new foods on his pet. He relaxed in the booth, sipping mulled wine and watching the lights of the city wink to life. It wouldn’t be too bad to live out his life on Moth, he admitted to himself. Drallar was never dull, and now he had a special companion with whom to share its excitement.
Yes, the flying snake had filled a definite void in his life as well as in some mysterious, deeper part of himself. But he still longed for the stars and the magical, unvisited worlds that circled them.
Be realistic, he ordered himself.
He waved to some acquaintances as they strolled past the restaurant. Older men and women. Sometimes Mother Mastiff worried that he preferred the company of adults to youngsters his own age. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, merely that he chose his friends carefully. It was the immaturity of those his own age that drove him into the company of adults.
A fleeting emotion from one of those to whom he had waved reached back to him as the group rounded a corner, laughing and joking in easy camaraderie. Flinx snatched at it, but it was gone. He sat back in his booth, the wine making him moody. Better to have no Talent at all, he thought, than an unmanageable one that only teases.
He paid the modest bill, slipping his card into the table’s central pylon. Outside, the evening rain had begun. Pip rode comfortably on his shoulder beneath the slickertic, only its head exposed. It was sated, content. Ought to be after all you ate, Flinx thought as he gazed fondly down at his pet.
Rain transformed the brilliant scales of the snake’s head into tiny jewels. The moisture did not seem to bother the snake. I wonder, Flinx thought. Is Alaspin a wet world, also? I should have asked old Makepeace. He’d probably have known. People lucky enough to travel learn everything sooner or later.
Suddenly a stinging, serrated burst of emotion—hammer blow, unexpected, raw—doubled him over with its force. It was like a soundless screaming inside his head. Flinx was feeling the naked emotion behind a scream instead of hearing the scream itself. He had never experienced anything like it before, and despite that, it felt sickeningly familiar.
A bundled-up passer-by halted and bent solicitously over the crumpled youngster. “Are you all right, son? You—” He noticed something and quickly backed off.
“I—I’m okay, I think,” Flinx managed to gasp. He saw what had made the man flinch. Pip had been all but asleep on his master’s shoulder only a moment before. Now the snake was wide awake, head and neck protruding like a scaly periscope as it seemed to search the night air for something unseen.
Then the last vestiges of that desperate, wailing cry vanished, leaving Flinx’s head aching and infuriatingly empty. Yet it had lingered long enough for him to sort it out, to identify it.
“Listen, son, if you need help, I can—” the stranger started to say, but Flinx did not wait to listen to the kind offer. He was already halfway down the street, running at full speed over the pavement. His slickertic fanned out like a cape behind him, and his boots sent water flying over shop fronts and pedestrians alike. He did not pause to apologize, the curses sliding off him as unnoticed as the rain.
Then he was skidding into a familiar side street. His heart pounded, and his lungs heaved. The street appeared untouched, unaltered, yet something here had been violated, and the moment of it had touched Flinx’s mind. Most of the shops were already shuttered against the night. There was no sign of human beings in that damp stone canyon.
“Mother!” he shouted. “Mother Mastiff!” He pounded on the lock plate with his palm. The door hummed but did not open—it was locked from inside.
“Mother Mastiff, open up. It’s me, Flinx!” No reply from the other side.
Pip danced on his shoulder, half airborne and half coiled tight to its master. Flinx moved a dozen steps away from the door, then charged it, throwing himself into the air sideways and kicking with one leg as Makepeace had once shown him. The door gave, flying inward. It had only been bolted, not locksealed.
He crouched there, his eyes darting quickly around the stall. Pip settled back onto his shoulder, but its head moved agitatedly from side to side, as if it shared its master’s nervousness and concern.
The stall looked undisturbed. Flinx moved forward and tried the inner door. It opened at a touch. The interior of the living area was a shambles. Pots and pans and food had been overturned in the kitchen. Clothing and other personal articles lay strewn across floor and furniture. He moved from the kitchen-dining area to his own room, lastly to Mother Mastiff’s, knowing but dreading what he would find.
The destruction was worse in her room. The bed looked as if it had been the scene of attempted murder or an uncontrolled orgy. Across the bed, hidden from casual view, a small curved door blended neatly into the wall paneling. Few visitors would be sharp-eyed enough to notice it. It was just wide enough for a man to crawl through.
It stood ajar. A cold breeze drifted in from outside.
Flinx dropped to his knees and started through, not caring what he might encounter on the other side. He emerged from the slip-me-out into the alley and climbed to his feet. The rain had turned to mist. There was no hint that anything unusual had occurred here. All the chaos was behind him, inside.
Turning, he ran two or three steps to the north, then stopped himself. He stood there, panting. He had run long and hard from the street where the scream had struck him, but he was too late. There was no sign that anyone had even been in the alley.
Slowly, dejectedly, he returned to the shop. Why? he cried to himself. Why has this happened to me? Who would want to kidnap a harmless old woman like Mother Mastiff? The longer he thought about it, the less sense it made.
He forced himself to take an inventory out front. There was no sign of anything missing. The shop’s stock seemed to be intact. Not thieves, then, surprised in the act of burglary. Then what? If not for the ample evidence that there had been a struggle, he would not even have suspected that anything was amiss.
No, he reminded himself, not quite true. The lockseal on the front door was dead. It would have taken half the thieves in Drallar to drag Mother Mastiff from her shop while it stood unsealed. He thought of thieves a second time, knowing he would not be staying here long. His mind full of dark and conflicting thoughts, he set about repairing the lock.
6
“Pssst! Boy! Flinx-boy!”
Flinx moved the door aside slightly and gazed out into the darkness. The man speaking from the shadows operated a little shop two stalls up the side street from Mother Mastiff’s, where he made household items from the hardwoods that Moth grew in abundance. Flinx knew him well, and stepped out to confront him.
“Hello, Arrapkha.” He tried to search the man’s face, but it was mostly hidden by the overhanging rim of his slickertic. He could feel nothing from the other man’s mind. A fine and wondrous Talent, he thought sarcastically to himself.
“What happened here? Did you see anything?”
“I shouldn’t be out like this.” Arrapkha turned to glance worriedly up the street to where it intersected the busy main avenue. “You know what people say in Drallar, Flinx-boy. The best business is minding one’s own.”
“No homilies now, friend,” Flinx said impatiently. “You’ve been neighbor to
my mother for many years, and you’ve watched me grow up. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” Arrapkha paused to gather his thoughts. Flinx held back his anxiety and tried to be patient with the man—Arrapkha was a little slow upstairs but a good soul.
“I was working at my lathe, feeling good with myself. I’d only just sold a pair of stools to a programmer from the Welter Inurb and was counting my good fortune when I thought I heard noises from your house.” He smiled faintly. “At first, I thought nothing of it. You know your mother. She can fly into a rage at any time over nothing in particular and make enough noise to bring complaints from the avenue stores.
“Anyhow, I finished turning a broya post—it will be a fine one, Flinx-boy, fashioned of number-six harpberry wood—”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Flinx said impatiently. “I’m sure it will be a fine display stand, as all your work is, but what about Mother Mastiff?”
“I’m getting to that, Flinx-boy,” Arrapkha said petulantly. “As I said, I finished the post, and since the noise continued, I grew curious. It seemed to be going on a long time even for your mother. So I put down my work for a moment and thought to come see what was going on. I mediate for your mother sometimes.
“When I was about halfway from my shop to yours, the noise stopped almost entirely. I was about to return home when I saw something. At least, I think I did.” He gestured toward the narrow gap that separated Mother Mastiff’s shop from the vacant shop adjoining hers.
“Through there I thought I saw figures moving quickly up the alley behind your home. I couldn’t be certain. The opening is small, it was raining at the time, and it’s dark back there. But I’m pretty sure I saw several figures.”
“How many?” Flinx demanded. “Two, three?”
“For sure, I couldn’t say,” Arrapkha confessed sadly. “I couldn’t even for certain tell if they were human or not. More than two, surely. Yet not a great number, though I could have missed seeing them all.
“Well, I came up to the door quickly then and buzzed. There was no answer, and it was quiet inside, and the door was locked, so I thought little more of it. There was no reason to connect shapes in the alleyway with your mother’s arguing. Remember, I only heard noise from the shop.
“As it grew dark I started to worry, and still the shop stayed closed. It’s not like Mother Mastiff to stay closed up all day. Still, her digestion is not what it used to be, and sometimes her liver gives her trouble. Too much bile. She could have been cursing her own insides.”
“I know,” Flinx said. “I’ve had to listen to her complaints lots of times.”
“So I thought best not to interfere. But I have known both of you for a long time, Flinx-boy, just as you say, so I thought, when I saw you moving about, that I ought to come and tell you what I’d seen. It’s clear to me now that I should have probed deeper.” He struck his own head. “I’m sorry. You know that I’m not the cleverest man in the marketplace.”
“It’s all right, Arrapkha. There’s no blame for you in this matter.” Flinx stood there in the mist for a long moment, silent and thinking hard.
Arrapkha hesitantly broke in on his contemplation. “So sorry I am, Flinx-boy. If there’s anything I can do to help, if you need a place to sleep tonight, ay, even with the devil thing on your shoulder, you are welcome to share my home.”
“I’ve spent many a night out on my own, sir,” Flinx told him, “but the offer’s appreciated. Thank you for your help. At least now I have a better idea of what happened, though not for the life of me why. Could you see if Mother Mastiff was among those running down the alley? She’s not here.”
“So I guessed from your look and words. No, I cannot say she was one of them. I saw only shapes that seemed to be human, or at least upright. But they seemed to run with difficulty.”
“Maybe they were carrying her.”
“It may be, Flinx-boy, it may be. Surely she would not go off on her own with strangers without leaving you so much as a message.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Flinx agreed, “and if she went with the people you saw, it wasn’t because they were her friends. The inside of the house is all torn up. She didn’t go with them quietly.”
“Then surely for some reason she’s been kidnapped,” Arrapkha concurred. “Fifty years ago, I might could give a reason for such a thing. She was a beauty then, Mother Mastiff, though she has not aged gracefully. Grace was not a part of her, not even then. A hard woman always, but attractive. But for this to happen now—” He shook his head. “A true puzzle. Did she have access to much money?”
Flinx shook his head rapidly.
“Um. I thought not. Well, then, did she owe anyone any dangerous amounts?”
“She owed a lot of people, but no great sums,” Flinx replied. “At least, nothing that she ever spoke to me about and nothing I ever overheard talk of.”
“I do not understand it, then,” Arrapkha said solemnly.
“Nor do I, friend.”
“Perhaps,” Arrapkha suggested, “someone wished a private conversation with her and will bring her back in the morning?”
Flinx shook his head a second time. “I think that since she didn’t go with them voluntarily, she won’t be allowed to come back voluntarily. Regardless, one thing she always told me was not to sit around and stare blankly at the inexplicable but always to try and find answers. If she does come walking freely home tomorrow, then I can at least try to meet her coming.”
“Then you’re determined to go out after her?” Arrapkha lifted bushy black eyebrows.
“What else can I do?”
“You could wait. You’re a nice young fellow, Flinx-boy.” He waved toward the distant avenue. “Most everyone in the marketplace who knows you thinks so, also. You won’t lack for a place to stay or food to eat if you decide to wait for her. Your problem is that you’re too young, and the young are always overanxious.”
“Sorry, Arrapkha. I know you mean well for me, but I just can’t sit around here and wait. I think I’d be wasting my time and, worse, maybe hers as well. Mother Mastiff doesn’t have much time left to her.”
“And what if her time, excuse me, has already fled?” Arrapkha asked forcefully. Subtlety was not a strong trait of the marketplace’s inhabitants. “Will you involve yourself then in something dangerous which has chosen to spare you?”
“I have to know. I have to go after her and see if I can help.”
“I don’t understand,” Arrapkha said sadly. “You’re a smart young man, much smarter than I. Why risk yourself? She wouldn’t want you to, you know. She’s not really your mother.”
“Mother or mother-not,” Flinx replied, “she’s the only mother I’ve ever known. There’s more to it than simple biology, Arrapkha. The years have taught me that much.”
The older man nodded. “I thought you might say something like that, Flinx-boy. Well, I can at least wish you luck. It’s all I have to give you. Do you have credit?”
“A little, on my card.”
“If you need more, I can transfer.” Arrapkha started to pull out his own card.
“No, not now, anyway. I may need such help later.” He broke into a broad smile. “You’re a good friend, Arrapkha. Your friendship is as solid as your woodwork.” He turned. “Did you see which direction these figures took?”
“That’s little to start on.” He pointed to the north. “That way, up the alley. They could have turned off any time. And in the weather”—he indicated the clouds hanging limply overhead—”they’ll have left no trail for you to follow.”
“Perhaps not,” Flinx admitted. “We’ll see.”
“I expect you will, Flinx-boy, since you feel so strongly about this. All I can do, then, is wish luck to you.” He turned and strode back up the street toward his shop, keeping the slickertic tight around his head and neck.
Flinx waited until the rain had swallowed up the older man before going back inside and closing the door behind him. He wandered morosely around the livi
ng area, salvaging this or that from the mess and returning things to their proper places. Before long, he found himself in Mother Mastiff’s room. He sat down on the bed and stared at the ajar slip-me-out that led to the alley.
“What do you think, Pip? Where did she go, and who took her, and why? And how am I going to find her? I don’t even know how to start.”
He shut his eyes, strained, tried to sense the kinds of emotions he knew she must be generating, wherever she had been taken. There was nothing. Nothing from Mother Mastiff, nothing from anyone else. His Talent mocked him. He started fixing up the bedroom, hoping that contact with familiar objects might trigger some kind of reaction in his mind. Something, anything, that would give him a start on tracking her down. Pip slipped off his shoulder and slithered across the bed, playing with covers and pillows.
There were gaps—missing clothing—in the single closet, Flinx noted. Whoever had abducted her evidently intended to keep her for a while. The sight cheered him because they would not have troubled to take along clothing for someone they intended to kill immediately.
Pip had worked its way across the bed to the night table and was winding its sinuous way among the bottles and containers there. “Back off that, Pip, before you break something. There’s been enough damage done here today.” The irritation in his voice arose more out of personal upset than any real concern. The minidrag had yet to knock over anything.
Pip reacted, though not to his master’s admonition. The snake spread luminous wings and fluttered from the tabletop to the slip-me-out. It hovered there, watching him. While Flinx gaped at his pet, it flew back to the night table, hummed over a bottle, then darted back to the opening.
Flinx’s momentary paralysis left him, and he rushed to the end table. The thin plasticine bottle that had attracted Pip was uncapped. It normally held a tenth liter of a particularly powerful cheap perfume of which Mother Mastiff was inordinately fond. Now he saw that the bottle was empty.
For Love of Mother-Not Page 8
