by Sharon Lee
But on the short straight the superior speed of the newer skimmers showed and Araceli dropped to tenth.
“Amateurs!” howled Scant’s pilot as that craft passed them. “Get off the course if you can’t drive!”
Shan waved politely and threw a quick grin at Val Con, motionless in the copilot’s seat, cloak tucked carefully around him.
Shan nodded a heartbeat later and Val Con threw his weight to the right as the craft spun sideways to descend the hill, setting up for the second curve. There was a bunch-up at the bottom and several skimmers overshot into a field of grain, releasing a storm of silvery pollen.
Val Con shifted to the left and Araceli skidded around, taking the corner raggedly, but in the running as they came into the second longest straight.
“Now!” yelled Shan.
Val Con knocked twice on the thin metal skin and curled himself into a tight ball behind his larger brother; ducking his head inside the silk of the cloak to create a smooth-backed fairing.
They neither gained nor lost on the straight and Val Con stayed hunched over. A gone feeling in his stomach warned him and he was instantly up, sitting far back; trying not to look at the ramp ahead, or at the gap they must jump.
The ramp edge was crossed and he lunged forward, grabbing for the kink at the base of the rollbar—
They went up with a craft slightly to their right and in front; another just behind. Val Con caught a glimpse of that one and winced: they’d entered the ramp wrong and the sharp front of the skimmer was too high. Not only did they lose time as the air flow caught the broad base, but almost flipped as the back sank.
Shan gunned the jets as Araceli made the receiving ramp. The shock of it, rather than conscious thought, brought Val Con back into running position.
Araceli was the second of three skimmers approaching together, making a bid to take the next corner sharply and enter the weaving tree-lined “tunnel.”
Shan nearly missed the proper moment for reversal of the jets; kicked them and leaned to fight rotation as Val Con jerked hard to the right, sending them into the tunnel between the two challengers.
Out of the trees and into the longest straight, with the start/finish line at its center, and the advantage of the other craft showed again, as three caught Araceli before the line and one after, until the frantic braking for the corner broke the flow and reshuffled the field.
By the fifth lap, several skimmers were out of the race. One flipped at the ramp, both crew members still strapped in. Shan had the measure of the course, but Araceli was losing precious seconds on each lap. Tolanda, in bright blue, was running a conservative third behind the two contenders for the lead.
Araceli was a steady eighth and there was no hope of catching the leaders on speed.
Out of the tunnel, they managed to pass a careless Kelti and got a good start on the long straightaway. Shan’s voice carried back over the rush of air.
“Now, Val Con!”
PAT RIN WAS annoyed. Worse, he was bored. Races were not among his favorite amusements and to be forced to sit and watch such a race when one might be ribbonfasted or—Well, and here they came again.
He dutifully kept his eyes on the black skimmer with the bright-orange copilot as it rushed past the stands, seventh in the field—gaining perhaps half-a-length on the number six position. Val Con was hunched down in back, using his cloak as a fairing—not too bad a notion, Pat Rin admitted, grudgingly.
Araceli passed number six and was gaining on the leaders, who were starting to bunch up into the braking zone for the curve. Pat Rin tensed. Korval’s entry was hurtling on—deeper and deeper into the braking zone! Madness to take the corner at that speed—
He came to his feet, Nova beside him, Anthora hanging on her arm, as a burst of orange exploded from the back of Araceli, which could only be Val Con, jumping—
The crowd’s groan turned to a cheer, under which Pat Rin heard Anthora’s voice, repeating urgently, “He’s all right, Sister. They’re both all right. Sit down. They’re—”
Pat Rin sat slowly, staring at Val Con, who was standing like an orange balloon in the back of the skimmer, his astonishing cloak hauling the craft’s speed down from the absurd to the reasonable.
And entering the sickle-curve Korval was fourth, approaching third.
TOLANDA’S PILOT glanced back, disbelief on her face; shouted to her teammate and fishtailed for the nerf—the intentional glancing collision which would push the upstarts off the course.
Val Con snapped half-erect, cloak billowing over one arm, air-braking and tipping Araceli—and Tolanda was fourth, fighting rotation. Shan was laughing.
The hill loomed. Val Con ducked into his cocoon to preserve speed and snapped out at the crest, catching an over-the-shoulder grin from Shan. They charged downhill neck-and-neck with Tolanda; and left it in the dust as the Terran began braking for the corner.
Again Val Con stood, gripping the rollbar tightly; again the cloak went from a bright-orange stream to an inflated airfoil.
Again Araceli picked up ground on the leaders.
Cries of “Foul! Foul!” hit them as they whipped past the pits.
Their opponents, faced with a common enemy, charged harder down the long straights, took more risks, tried—with some success—to emulate Korval’s airbrake, using shirts and vests. But Araceli was a clear second, Tolanda third and the former second, fourth.
The lead changed hands several times on the tenth lap.
“Two more laps to win it!” Shan yelled.
Val Con nearly groaned. His arms ached, he was sweaty, his hands within the gloves were raw, his legs throbbed with strain. Two laps—an eternity!
They crossed the start/finish line, lapping several slower racers, and came even with the first place craft just before the braking zone.
Val Con leapt for the bar and blinked: the other skimmer was still even with them, trying to take the coming corner at exactly the proper angle.
Execution fell short. The other craft shivered; started to spin—Araceli was past, taking the lead by two skimmer-lengths.
They held that minor lead through the eleventh lap, but the second place craft was showing its speed and inching closer.
Korval threw everything into the turns, dove a little further into the corners, waited a little longer on the straights. Val Con concentrated on the pattern of his movements, grooved in after this hard hour, and ignored the ache in his arms and legs.
They skidded into the tree tunnel nearly two full lengths ahead—Shan yelled, but the words were ripped away by the rushing wind, and Val Con saw the green skimmer charging them from inside the corner, a would-be human airbrake frantically trying to regain control.
Shan choked the jets, trying to throw Araceli clear of the charge, fighting spin and time was too short—
Val Con leapt to the bar, arms wide: “Left, Shan! Left!”
Araceli snapped left as Val Con’s cloak ballooned and the green skimmer missed them by a hair, the pilot struggling with the stick, trying to avoid the second place craft, just coming into the curve . . .
They were through; out into the straight, and Val Con folded himself into a fairing for the last time. Araceli roared as Shan opened the throttle for the long run and Val Con sweated inside the cloak, hearing sounds—sounds of many people, shouting; and, closer, the sound of another skimmer, gaining; a shout from Shan as they slewed sideways and—
“We won! Brother, we won!” Shan was pulling the cloak back from Val Con’s head, grinning hugely. “It worked!”
“Of course it worked,” said Val Con, somewhat crossly, as they began the victory lap, and sighed. Shan was steering one handed and waving at the crowd as wildly as they waved at Araceli. Val Con’s arms felt too heavy to wave at anyone.
“Shan?” He called above the roar.
“Yes, my blueblood?”
“We’re not going to make a habit of this, are we?”
Shan laughed. “No, denubia. Why push the luck?”
> THE WINNER’S CIRCLE was crowded. Val Con and Shan managed to squeeze to their sisters’ side; each accepting a glass of wine and a kiss.
The Right Noble Lady Kareen yos’Phelium approached and bowed to Shan—the bow of Clanmember to First Speaker.
“Well raced, my Lord,” she said, quite audibly. “You and your brother are a credit to the clan.”
Shan blinked, inclined his head, murmuring a civil, “Thank you, Lady Kareen.”
The old lady was bowing to Val Con now: clanmember to delm.
“You are precipitate, Aunt,” he chided softly.
“I think not,” she returned. “A ring does not make a delm. You are Korval, whether you judge yourself ready or no. You will do as you deem wise and necessary. For the clan. It is as it should be.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Let us have peace between us then, Lady.”
“Of course,” said the Right Noble. “How else?”
Anthora’s fairlove leaned over, whispering in her ear. She laughed softly and linked her arm in his; waving at her eldest brother as they moved off toward the pleasure-tents.
Shan raised his glass in salute; lowered it to drink—and snapped his eyes to Val Con’s face as he felt the younger man start.
“If the family will excuse me,” Val Con murmured, sketching a bow toward all. “I am reminded of a previous appointment.” He was gone, slipping through the crowd like an orange wraith.
Shan, watching from his tall vantage, saw a lady start forward—a blur of dark hair and bright eyes; hand outstretched in welcome. Val Con’s arm slid around her waist and he began to turn her toward the pleasure-tents—then his cloak swirled suddenly wide, hiding both from Shan’s view.
He glanced down to find Nova’s eyes on him.
“The reason Lady Kareen heard of Val Con frequenting a tavern in spaceleathers?” she murmured. “Is he courting a barmaid, Brother?”
He sipped. “She seems a very nice barmaid.”
“Shan—”
He sighed and tried to break her gaze, without success.
“All right,” he said grumpily. “I’ll talk to him.” He raised his glass. “Later.”
Where the Goddess Sends
TIME AGO ONE went out from Circle, sent by the Mother’s Own Word. The one was called Moonhawk, and she knew neither the face nor the name of what she went Seeking.
The course of Seeking wound through the land and through the seasons and brought Moonhawk to a place that stank of Evil.
It is told that she hesitated at the edge of this place and thought she would not go in. This is the first of the things told here which must without fail be said: Moonhawk thought she would not go in.
At the moment of thinking so, she heard the Voice of the Goddess and the Words were: “Enter, thou.” Obedient, Moonhawk went forward.
The second thing that must without fail be said is this: Moonhawk was afraid.
“THAT’S MINE.”
Lute flashed a grin sideways and upward, chidingly.
“Apologies, Noble Lady. The bag is mine. It contains the necessities of my trade. The repository of magics, you might say. Dangerous in untutored hands.” He gripped the disputed item and straightened, smiling with urbane idiocy.
“You will understand my reluctance to place so beauteous a lady as yourself in the slightest peril.”
The lady took a breath that brought the principals of her beauty into high display, and thrust out her lower lip.
“It’s mine.”
“Noble—”
“She said,” the walking mountain at her side interrupted, “that the bag’s hers, tricksman. Are you calling Lady Drudae a liar?”
Lute sighed inwardly. The intervention of the mountain was as unwelcome as it was inevitable. He made a mental note to curse himself roundly for visiting this Goddess-blasted place at all, and smiled more widely.
“It would give me nothing but joy to surrender my bag into the care of the Noble Lady if I did not know that it contains instruments of dread magic. Even now, I might place it in her hands safely, for I should be here to hold her protected. But think, sir, what if I were to leave the bag with the very Noble Lady and withdraw myself and my protection over the boundary of your delightful village, as we all know I must. What then?” He affected a shudder. “I cannot complete the thought.”
It was doubtful that the mountain had ever completed a thought in his life. The lady was more facile.
“You say only you can keep me safe from these dangers?”
“I say it, Noble, and it is veriest truth.”
She frowned, then smiled with pretty malice. “Why, then, it is simple! Since the bag is mine—and only you may control it—you must be mine, too!”
She laughed and clapped her hands.
“Take him to the pit, Arto. And leave the bag here.”
MOONHAWK CAME INTO the place of darkness and she was afraid. Still, she held her head high and made her step firm, as befits a Witch-in-Circle, and gazed upon those that crept out from between the thatch-bald hovels with calm eyes and compassion.
“Goddess give you good even,” she said softly to the one who ventured nearest, though the taste of its emotions sickened her. Terror lanced the creature and it scuttled back to its fellows. The boldest lifted a hand, showing rock.
Moonhawk stopped, anger heating fear. “For shame! Is this how you treat a traveler, most blessed of the Mother? I claim travel-right, and mean you no harm.”
“Travel-right?” That was the boldest, rock yet steady. “You claim travel-right in Relzda?”
“If this be Relzda, then I do.”
The rock-bearer laughed like another woman’s weeping. “If you claim travel-right, you must go to Lady Drudae. I can show the way.’
Moonhawk bowed her head. “It is a kindness, sister. My thanks.”
“No kindness. Your cloak is fine.” With no further words, she scrabbled between two lean-together huts.
Listening in vain for the Goddess, Moonhawk followed.
Lady Drudae sat upon a wooden throne in the center of a drafty hall. The floor was dirt and the wall-rugs threadbare. Smoky oil-lamps gave uncertain light. There was a musk of rotting wood.
“Come forward.” Petulance rather than command. Moonhawk and her guide obeyed.
“Well?”
“This one claims travel-right, Noble Lady,” gabbled the bold one, not so bold now. “I brought her. Her cloak, Noble Lady. My bounty, my—”
“Shut your horrid mouth!”
The rock-bearer did so, bending until her unkempt hair brushed the dirt floor. Moonhawk stood forward, sharpening her eyes in the gloom.
The woman on the throne was beautiful: red-gold hair above a face the uninitiated would claim for the Goddess. The robe of doubtful crimson revealed her breasts, in the manner of Circle robes. But this one was not of Circle.
At the woman’s side a man—hulking and muscle-gripped—stood stoic. There was a gash below one eye and a purpling bruise along the line of his jaw.
“Well,” said the woman again. “Travel-right, is it? You are bold.”
“I am in need,” Moonhawk replied levelly. “Night comes and I ask the boon of a roof.”
“Do you? But this is a hard land from which to scratch a living, traveler. We have little to give. Even the favor of a place to sleep must be balanced by a valuable of your own.”
Moonhawk bowed her head. “I will work for the House with gladness. I sing the Teaching Tales, give news, heal . . .”
Lady Drudae was laughing. “Hear her, Arto? She can sing! She does not fear labor!” The laughter stopped. “You misunderstand, traveler. The boon of a roof demands the balance of a—personal—favor.” A snap of shapely fingers. “Arto!”
The man’s sluggish face lit and his lust was a thrust of jagged ice.
For a second time Moonhawk feared, and stepped back, gathering her mantle close.
“I do not choose to give that gift,” she said, flinging the words like stones to stop him.
The man lunged forward, snatching her cloak. Whirling, she left it in his hand and stood ’round to face him, clad in travelers’ breech and shirt.
He threw the cloak aside and the creature who had guided her here scrambled forward in the dirt, wadding the cloth against her. The man lunged again.
Moonhawk danced away, but his hand had touched her arm. Thrusting away fear, she stood straight and, staring into his dull, exultant eyes, reached out, as those in Circle may—
His cry was hoarse with terror and he bent double, hands gripping his privates. “It burns! Noble Lady—aid me!”
Moonhawk stepped around him. “Be still and you will have no pain. Seek to harm me and you will burn.” She withdrew her attention from the man and laid it upon Lady Drudae.
“I am charged by the Mother’s Word to come to this place. I require—”
It was here that the Goddess in Her wisdom withdrew Her hand from about the person of Her daughter and allowed a well-aimed rock to fell her from behind.
* * *
THE EYES WERE open and of indeterminate hue; the face was blank, whether by intent or by nature it was not yet possible to know.
Lute nodded pleasantly and smiled.
“How lovely to see you wake! Allow me to offer congratulations. The mountain has only recently stopped wailing, from which I surmise that your aim is superior to my own. Well-played! I wish I’d been there to see it. Sound is useful, but I sometimes find it a bit confusing when not aided by sight. Don’t you?”
The eyes blinked once, slowly.
“Who are you?”
“A thousand apologies, Stranger Lady! I am Lute, Master of prestidigitation, illusion, and sleight-of-hand. No doubt you’ve heard of me.”
The eyes closed. Lute sighed and settled back against the dirt wall.
