He continued to wonder about all the effort and expense someone was going through to abduct a harmless old woman. The implausibility of the whole situation served only to heighten his anxiety and did nothing to dampen his anger or determination.
Several days went by before he detected the change in the air. It was an alien feeling, something he couldn't place. The omnipresent dampness remained, but it had become sharper, more direct in his nostrils. "Now what do you suppose that is, Pip?" he murmured aloud. The flying snake would not have answered had it been able. All its efforts and energies were still directed to the task of digesting fur, meat, and bone.
The mudder moved up a slight hill. At its crest a gap in the trees revealed a scene that took Flinx's breath away. At first, he thought he had somehow stumbled onto the ocean. No, he knew that couldn't be. No ocean lay -north from Drallar, not until one reached the frozen pole or unless one traveled east or west for thousands of kilometers.
Though the body of water looked like an ocean, he recognized it for what it was: a lake, one of the hundreds that occupied the territory from his present position northward to the arctic. No sunlight shone directly on it, for the clouds were as thick here as they were in distant Drallar, but enough light filtered through to create a glare-a glare that exploded off that vast sheet of water to reflect from the cloud cover overhead and bounced again from the water.
The-Blue-That-Blinded, Flinx thought. He knew enough of Moth's geography to recognize the first of the lakes which bore that collective description. The lake itself he could not put a name to, not without his map. It was only one of hundreds of similarly impressive bodies of fresh water whose names he had had no need to memorize during his readings, for he had never expected to visit that part of the world.
The glare imprisoned between surface and clouds brought tears to his eyes as he headed the mudder toward the water's edge. The lake blocked his path northward. He needed to know whether to skirt it to the east or the west or to attempt a crossing. He had no way of figuring out what his quarry had done.
The weather was calm. Only a modest chop broke the otherwise smooth expanse before him. A mudder could travel over water as well as land, provided its charge held out; if not, the vehicle would sink quickly.
Flinx decided that the first thing he needed was some advice. So he turned to his map, which showed a single, isolated lodge just to the east. He headed for it.
The building came into view ten minutes later, a large rambling structure of native stone and wood. Boats were tied up to the single pier out back. Several land vehicles were parked near the front. Flinx tensed momentarily, then relaxed. None of the craft displayed government markings. Surely his theft had been discovered by now, but it was likely that the search would tend more in the direction of populated areas to the south-toward Drallar-rather than into the trackless north. .
Nevertheless, he took a moment to inspect the assembled vehicles carefully. All four were deserted. Two of them were tracked-strictly land transportation. The others were mudders, larger and fancier than his own, boasting thickly upholstered lounges and self-darkening protective domes. Private transport, he knew. More comfortable than his own craft but certainly no more durable. There was no sign of riding animals. Probably anyone who could afford to travel this far north could afford mechanized transportation.
Flinx brought the mudder to a stop alongside the other vehicles and took the precaution of disconnecting the ignition jumper. It wouldn't do to have a curious passer-byspy the obviously illegal modification. The mudder settledto the ground, and he stepped out over the mudguard onto the surface.
The parking area had not been pounded hard and smooth, and his boots picked up plenty of muck as he walked up to the wooden steps leading inside. Suction hoses cleaned off most of the mud. The steps led onto a covered porch populated by the kind of rustic wooden furniture so popular with tourists who liked to feel they were roughing it. Beyond was a narrow hall paneled with peeled, glistening tree trunks, stained dark.
Flinx thought the inn a likely place to obtain information about lake conditions, but before that, something equally important demanded his attention. Food. He could smell it somewhere close by, and he owed himself a break from the concentrates that had been fueling him for many days. His credcard still showed a positive balance, and there was no telling when he would be fortunate enough to encounter honest cooking again. Nor would he have to worry about curious stares from other patrons-Pip, still unable to eat, would not be dining with him this time. He inhaled deeply. It almost smelled as if the food were being prepared by a live chef instead of a machine.
Flinx found his way to the broad, exposed-beam dining room. The far wall had a fire blazing in a rock fireplace. To the left lay the source of the wonderful aroma: a real kitchen. A couple of furry shapes snored peacefully nearby. An older couple sat near the entrance. They were absorbed in their meal and didn't even turn to look up at him. Two younger couples ate and chatted close by the fireplace. In the back comer was a group of oldsters, all clad in heavy north-country attire.
He started down the few steps into the dining room, intending to question someone in the kitchen about the possibility of a meal. Suddenly, something hit his mind so hard he had to lean against the nearby wall for support.
Two younger men had entered the dining room from a far, outside door. They were talking to the group of diners in the far corner. No one had looked toward Flinx; no one had said a word to him.
He tottered away from the wall, caught and balanced himself at the old couple's table. The man looked up from his plate at the uninvited visitor and frowned.
"You feeling poorly, son?"
Flinx didn't answer, but continued to stare across the room. Faces-he couldn't make out faces beneath all that heavy clothing. They remained hidden from his sight-but not from something else.
He spoke sharply, unthinkingly.
"Mother?"
Chapter Nine
One of the bundled figures spun in its chair to gape at him. Her eyes were wide with surprise as well as with a warning Flinx ignored. She started to rise from her seat.
The rest of the group gazed at the young man standing across the room. One of the younger men put a hand on Mother Mastiff's shoulder and forced her back into her chair. She promptly bit him. The man's companion pulled something out of a coat pocket and started toward Flinx. The group's stunned expressions, brought on by Flinx's unexpected appearance, had turned grim.
Flinx searched the floor and walls nearby, found the switch he was hunting for, and stabbed at it. The lights in the dining room went out, leaving only the dim daylight from the far windows to illuminate the room.
What a fantastic Talent he possessed, he thought as he dove for cover. It had reacted sharply to Mother Mastiff's presence-after he had all but tripped over her.
The room filled with screams from the regular guests, mixed with the curses of those Flinx had surprised. He did not try to make his way toward the table where Mother Mastiff was being held; he had been through too many street fights for that. Keeping the layout of the dining room in his mind, he retreated and dropped to a crawl, taking the long way around the room toward the table in an attempt to sneak behind her captors. Three had been seated at the table with her, plus the two who had arrived later. Five opponents.
"Where is he-somebody get some lights!" Very helpful of them, Flinx mused, to let him know their location. He would have to make use of the information quickly, he knew. Soon one of the guests, or a lodge employee, would have the lights back on, robbing him of his only advantage.
A sharp crackling richocheted around the room, accompanied by a brief flash of light. One of the other guests screamed a warning. Flinx smiled to himself. With every-one bugging the floor, that ought to keep the lights off a little longer.
A second bolt split the air at table level, passing close enough to set his skin twitching. Paralysis beam. Though Flinx took some comfort from this demonstration of his opponent's
intent not to shoot to kill, he did not stop to think why they might take such care. The kidnappers continued to fire blindly through the darkness. With those nerve-petrifying beams filling the room, no employee was likely to take a stab at a light switch.
Grateful once more for his small size, Flinx kept moving on his belly until he reached the far wall. At the same time, the random firing ceased. Imagining one of his opponents feeling along the walls in search of a light switch, Flinx readied himself for a hurried crawl past the glow of the fireplace. Then someone let out a violent curse, and he heard the sound of chair and table going over very close by. Flinx's hand went to his boot. He rose to a crouching position, waiting.
Again, he heard the sound of stumbling, louder and just ahead. He put his hand on a nearby chair and shoved it into the darkness. A man appeared in the glow from the fireplace, and a flash enveloped the chair. Flinx darted in behind the man and used the stiletto as old Makepeace had instructed him. The man was twice Flinx's size, but his flesh was no tougher than anyone else's. He exhaledonce, a sharp wheeze, before collapsing in a heap. Flinx darted forward, out of the illuminating glare of the fire.
"Erin," a voice called uncertainly, "you okay?" Several new flashes filled the air, striking the stone around the fireplace where Flinx had stood moments earlier. If the intent of those shots was to catch Flinx unaware, they failed; on the other hand, they did force him to hug the floor again.
Moments later, the lights winked back on, shockingly bright. Flinx tensed beneath the table that sheltered him, but he needn't have worried. The party of travelers had fled, along with the remaining paralysis-beam wielder and Mother Mastiff.
Flinx climbed to his feet. The other guests remained cowering on the floor. There was no hint of what had brought the lights back to life, and he had no time to think about it.
The door at the far end of the room was ajar. It led out onto a curving porch. He hurried to it but paused just inside to throw a chair out ahead of him. When no one fired on it, he took a deep breath and jumped out, rolling across the porch and springing out of the roll into a fighting crouch.
There was no enemy waiting to confront him-the porch was deserted. The beach off to the left was not. Two mudders were parked on the shore. As Flinx watched helplessly, the travelers he had sought for so long piled into the two crafts. Heedless now of his own safety, he charged down the steps onto the slight slope leading toward the lake shore. The first mudder was already cruising across the wave tops. By the time he reached the water's edge and sank exhausted to his knees, the useless knife held limply in his right hand, both craft were already well out on the lake surface itself.
Fighting for breath, Flinx forced himself erect and started back up the slope. He would have to go after them quickly. If he lost sight of them on the vast lake, he would have no way of knowing on which far shore they would emerge. He staggered around the front of the lodge and grabbed at the entrance to his mudder. A supine and unsettled shape stared back at him. Pip looked distinctly unhappy. It flittered once, then collapsed back onto the seat.
"Fine help you were," Flinx snapped at his pet. The minidrag, if possible, managed to look even more miserable. Clearly, it had sensed danger to Flinx and had tried to go to his aid, but simply couldn't manage to get airborne.
Flinx started to climb into the cab when a voice and a hand on his shoulder restrained him. "Just a minute." Flinx tensed, but a glance at Pip showed that the flying snake was not reacting defensively.
"I can't," he started to say as he turned. When he saw who was confronting him, he found himself able only to stare.
She seemed to tower over him, though in reality she was no more than a couple of centimeters taller. Black hair fell in tight ringlets to her shoulders. Her bush jacket was tucked into pants that were tucked into low boots. She was slim but not skinny. The mouth and nose were child-sized, the cheekbones high beneath huge, owl-like brown eyes. Her skin was nearly as dark as Flinx's, but it was a product of the glare from the nearby lake and not heredity. She was the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He tracked down his voice and mumbled, "I have to go after them." The hand remained on his shoulder. He might have thrown it off, and might not.
"My name's Lauren Walder," she said. "I'm the general manager at Granite Shallows." Her voice was full of barely controlled fury as she used her head to gesture toward the lake. Ringlets flew. "What have you to do with those idiots?"
"They've kidnapped my mother, the woman who adopted me," he explained. "I don't know why, and I don't much care right now. I just want to get her back."
"You're a little out-numbered, aren't you?"
"I'm used to that." He pointed toward the dining-room windows and the still-open porch doorway. "It's not me lying dead on your floor in there."
She frowned at him, drawing her brows together. "How do you know the man's dead?"
"Because I killed him."
"I see," she said, studying him in a new light. "With what?"
"My stiletto," he said.
"I don't see any stiletto." She looked him up and down.
"You're not supposed to. Look, I've got to go. If I get too far behind them-"
"Take it easy," she said, trying to soothe him. "I've got something I have to show you."
"You don't seem to understand," he said insistently. "I've no way to track them. I won't know where they touch land and-"
"Don't worry about it. You won't lose them."
"How do you know?"
"Because we'll run them down in a little while. Let them relax and think they've escaped." Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "I promise you we'll catch them."
"Well ..." He spared another glance for Pip. Maybe in a little while the flying snake would be ready to take to the air. That could make a significant difference in any fight to come. "If you're sure ..."
She nodded once, appearing as competent as she was beautiful. Lodge manager, he thought. She ought to know what she was talking about. He could trust her for a few minutes, anyway.
"What's so important to show me?" he asked.
"Come with me." Her tone was still soaked with anger. She led him back into the lodge, across the porch and back into the dining room. Several members of her staff were treating one of the women who had been dining when the lights had gone out and the guns had gone off. Her husband and companions were hovering anxiously over her; and she was panting heavily, holding one hand to her chest.
"Heart condition," Lauren explained tersely.
Flinx looked around. Tables and chairs were still overturned, but there was no other indication that a desperate fight had been fought in the room. Paralysis beams did not damage inanimate objects. The man he had slain had been moved by lodge personnel. He was glad of that.
Lauren led him toward the kitchen. Lying next to the doorway were the pair of furry shapes he had noticed when he had first entered the room. Up close, he could see their round faces, twisted in agony. The short stubby legs were curled tightly beneath the fuzzy bodies. Their fur was a rust red except for yellow circles around the eyes, which were shut tight. Permanently.
"Sennar and Soba." Lauren spoke while gazing at the dead animals with a mixture of fury and hurt. "They're wervils-or were," she added bitterly. "I raised them from kittens. Found them abandoned in the woods. They liked to sleep here by the kitchen. Everybody liked to feed them. They must have moved at the wrong time. In the dark, one of those"-she used a word Flinx didn't recognize, which was unusual in itself-"must have mistaken them for you. They were firing at anything that moved, I've been told." She paused a moment, then added, "You must have the luck of a pregnant Yax'm. They hit just about everything in the room except you."
"I was down on the floor," Flinx explained. "I only stand up when I have to."
"Yes, as that one found out." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the main hall. Flinx could see attendants wrapping a body in lodge sheets. He was a little startled to see how big his oppone
nt had actually been. In the dark, though, it's only the size of your knife that matters.
"They didn't have to do this," the manager was murmuring, staring at the dead animals. "They didn't have to be so damned indiscriminate. Four years I've coddled those two. Four years. "They never showed anything but love to anyone who ever went near them." Flinx waited quietly.
After a while, she gestured for him to follow her. They walked out into the main hall, down a side corridor, and entered a storeroom. Lauren unlocked a transparent wall case and removed a large, complex-looking rifle and a couple of small, wheel-shaped plastic containers. She snapped one of them into the large slot set in the underside of the rifle. The weapon seemed too bulky for her, but she swung it easily across her back and set her right arm through the support strap. She added a pistol to her service belt, then led him back out into the corridor.
"I've never seen a gun like that before." Flinx indicated the rifle. "What do you hunt with it?"
"It's not for hunting," she told him. "Fishing gear. Each of those clips"-and she gestured at the wheel-shapes she had handed over to Flinx-"holds about a thousand darts. Each dart carries a few milliliters of an extremely potent neurotoxm. Prick your finger on one end ..." She shrugged meaningfully.
"The darts are loaded into the clips at the factory in Drallar, and then the clips are sealed. You can't get a dart out unless you fire it through this." She patted the butt of the rifle, then turned a corner. They were back in the main hallway.
"You use a gun to kill fish?"
She smiled across at him. Not much of a smile but a first, he thought. "You've never been up to The-Blue-That-Blinded before, have you?"
For Love of Mother-Not Page 12
