by Clayton, Jo;
Serroi looked back at the gaping hostler, then forgot him. She thrust her arm through the strap of her blanket roll and settled it comfortably across her back, jerked off the boy’s cap and enjoyed the free play of the breeze through her curls. She held tight to the high back of the saddle and let a bubbling joy expand through her body. In a few days—days!—no longer passages to wait through and work through—in a few days she’d be in her Golden Valley, free at last from fear, free of the Norid. She laughed her excitement, her delight, heard the meie’s answering chuckle float back to her, then settled down to ride, a little tired but deeply content.
THE WOMAN: XIV
The rats pressed against Serroi. The roaches left the wall in brief flights, whirring in a rusty cloud about her head. In the bedchamber the silence was tense, the air stiff as glass, as the Norid’s laboring voice rose and fell, forcing the demon to take shape within the pentacle. The solidifying figure writhed and moaned, fighting the call. The Norid sweated, his face twisted, his voice flat and hoarse.
Serroi pulled her head back and looked down at the writhing mass of rats pressing harder and harder against her legs and against the exit’s planks. She sucked in a deep breath, felt a flicker of amusement through the shreds of her terror. My army, she thought. Reaching out with her animal touch, she meshed with the life swarming around her and pulled the Sleykyn poison knife from its sheath. Whoever called you to me thought I’d know how to use you. I hope I’m right, Maiden bless, I’m right. Knife in her left hand, she slid back the bolts with the right until the exit from the passage was free of restraint. Again she hesitated, swallowing and swallowing, trying to overcome the fear that still plagued her. She straightened her back, seeing Tayyan’s eyes again, staring at her, accusing her. She slammed her palm against the panel and leaped into the room as the exit exploded open.
Stirred to a frenzy by her prodding, the vermin army swept past her, the rats and the roaches pattering and whirring across the room, swarming over the two in the pentacle, knocking over the smoking white candles. They attacked Lybor and Morescad, the rats biting and clawing, the roaches diving at their eyes. Lybor shrieked and tried to scrape roaches from hair and face, frantic with horror and disgust, kicked out at rats who sunk curved yellow teeth into her flesh. She dropped the sjeme, writhed out of the pentacle’s useless protection, kicking, screaming, a mass of hairy flesh, brown whirring wings. Cursing and beating at the roaches and the rats who found his boots and leather trousers more of a barrier, who nonetheless found vulnerable spots and sank their teeth into his flesh, Morescad stumbled about, his sword cutting futilely at the air as often as it bit into rodent flesh.
While this happened behind her, Serroi slowed and circled cautiously around behind the black figure of the Norid. He was so lost in his laboring conjuration that he noticed none of the uproar around him. She caught the Domnor’s attention. His cool grey eyes flickered then went flat and expressionless again as he began rocking his chair back and forth, working it toward the edge of the pentacle. Crouching painfully over him, the demon was nearly solid and beginning to turn its head about, the crimson eyes aware and angry. The thickening arms moved a few inches either way, testing solidifying muscle.
Shaking so badly she could hardly keep her fingers closed around the hilt, Serroi lifted the poison knife and stared at the narrow black back, its straining muscles clearly visible beneath the cloth. With a gasp and a breaking cry of rage and pain, she plunged the knife into the Norid’s back, slamming it under his ribs. Leaving it there with blood bubbling and boiling around the hilt, she reached across the pentacle lines, broke into sweat, moaning softly as her skin burned, dragged the Domnor out, tumbling him and his chair onto the floor. She knelt and began tugging frantically at the knots of the rope that bound his hands.
Screaming with pain, the poison working in him, wrenched disastrously from his spell casting, the Norid stumbled forward. Every muscle jerking, he took one step after another toward the pentacle. Hands flung out, eyes staring, mouth foaming, uttering gobbling, incoherent sounds, he began crumpling; dead on his feet, he fell across the pentacle’s line, slamming into the demon.
The crimson eyes swiveled down, the great fanged mouth opened, roared a hollow booming challenge that shook the room. It wrapped its arms about the Norid. There was a sudden intensifying of the stench, a confused mingling of Norid and thinning demon. A last scream. A gobbling mutter. With a loud pop, demon and Norid vanished.
With the disappearance of the Norid, the intensity of the vermin’s attack began to diminish. They started scuttling off, melting away into the passage. Lybor crouched and whined, bleeding from hundreds of ragged cuts, then went down again as the rats swarmed over her. Morescad kicked across the heap of rat bodies and ran at Serroi, his sword drawn back for the deadly lunge, his eyes streaming, his face contorted with rage.
Serroi twisted away from the Domnor, tumbling into a controlled roll, then exploded up again, kicking at the General’s wrist, connecting painfully before he could swing the sword down on her. In his anger and his contempt for a woman’s ability to fight, he’d been careless. His fingers snapped open helplessly as her foot slammed home, his sword clattering onto the floor beside the Domnor. Serroi fell back, coiled again, slammed her heel out into the General’s knee. He stumbled backward, arms flailing. As he fought for balance, she was on her feet, snatching up the sword, slashing at the Domnor’s bonds.
Morescad scowled at her as he began circling toward the end of the bed, limping a little, his breathing hoarse as he fought to control the fury that weakened and distracted him.
“Hurry it, meie,” the Domnor said softly. “He’s going for my sword.” His arms strained against the rope, muscles bulging under the layer of fat. When the General came bounding back into view, he gave a last great burst of effort and snapped the weakened rope. He rolled up onto his feet, light and alert, snapped out a demanding hand, closing his fingers around the hilt of Morescad’s sword. He kicked at the ropes still clinging weakly to his legs.
Serroi looked around, saw the sjeme rocking in the middle of the floor. She scooped it up and hurled it at Morescad as he rushed at the Domnor who was still bothered by the clinging rope. The General dodged; the sjeme flew past his head to crash on the floor behind him, releasing a stinking black fluid which flashed into a roiling cloud that rapidly thinned to nothing.
As soon as the sjeme left her hand, Serroi seized a dead rat and hurled it at Morescad’s face. Hurled another and another. Screaming with rage, he forgot the Domnor and charged her a second time. Serroi fled, throwing herself to one side to avoid the sword. She rolled and came up on her feet, flung herself aside again, escaping by a hair as Morescad began to master his temper and attacked more coolly.
“Morescad.” The Domnor’s voice was frozen steel.
The General twisted hastily around, leaped to one side so he could keep both the meie and the Domnor in sight.
The Domnor was a pudgy short man; he had a broad chest whose strength was masked by excess flesh that rounded into a soft belly like a pillow. Morescad was long and lean with clean articulated muscle; he looked regal and dangerous with his haughty face and fine body—far more a ruler than the Domnor with his round guileless face, wide smiling mouth, lazy rather beautiful eyes. Standing naked, sword held lightly by his side, Hern looked even less impressive than usual. As Serroi turned away from them, the two men began prowling around each other, swords moving gracefully, each man searching for an opening in the other’s defense.
Serroi crossed to Lybor, glancing repeatedly at the two men. The woman was curled up, knees against her breasts. There was a drying pool of blood under her head, staining her draggled golden hair. Serroi knelt beside her, lifted her head, let it fall back, nauseated by the red, raw hole gnawed into the slim throat. The rats. That last wave that washed over her. Serroi shuddered and jumped lightly to her feet. Looking about for a weapon, she found the Domnor’s ceremonial dagger and shoved it into the Sleykyn’s sheath
, reminding herself to be careful about the poison in the point. She settled herself on the curtained bed, watching the testing going on between Morescad and the Domnor.
They were moving rapidly about the room, each exchange brief and tentative. Her respect for the Domnor, which had been growing since her first glimpse of him fighting for release while the Norid went about his preparations, rose to a new high. He was cool and still not breathing hard; each movement was graceful and economical; he was smiling slightly, his green-grey eyes gleaming with confidence. Morescad was sweating and much stiffer in his movements with a wildness in his eyes that betrayed his fear. He outreached the pudgy little man facing him by several inches, he was fast and skilled and superbly fit—but he was afraid. The steel kissed, slithered, kissed and the General leaped back. Hern was on him, shurri-quick on small, high-arched feet. Touch. Slither. A sudden lunge.
Morescad stared down at the sword transfixing his body, then he toppled forward. The sword hilt struck the floor, turning him to one side so that he fell on his back to lie with mouth open in a silent scream of outrage.
Hern moved briskly to him, knelt, pried his own sword loose from the General’s death clutch. He stood, grinned his triumph at her, suddenly remembered his nakedness and flushed a dark purple. Hastily he sidled to the bed and snatched up a fleecy robe. He thrust his arms into the sleeves and slapped the ties around his waist. Settling the robe about his shoulders, he turned to face her, looking more comfortable. He jerked a thumb at Lybor. “What happened to her?”
“Rats.”
“Too bad. Waste of a damn beautiful woman.” He grinned slyly at Serroi. “Wilder’n a sicamar in heat.”
Serroi, too tired to respond to his teasing, wondered what he was getting at.
He climbed onto the bed beside her. “Relax, little meie. A viper may be beautiful but one lives more comfortably in its absence.” He swept the room with cool measuring eyes. “Quite a mess.” He grinned at her. “You know how you looked throwing those damn rats at Morescad?”
Serroi giggled. He hugged her, laughed with her until tears ran down his face. Finally sobering, they fell back on the bed to lie side by side, gulping in air until they were breathing steadily again.
The Domnor turned his head and frowned at Serroi. “What the hell’s going on?” He sat up, bouncing a little as the bed jiggled in response to his vigorous movement. “Not that.” He flicked a finger at the bodies on the floor. “That’s obvious.”
Serroi grimaced, took hold of the embroidered cover and pushed up. “Nearga-nor. They’ve got together somehow and are moving on the mijloc, using them.…” She pointed at Lybor then Morescad—“the Sons of the Light, Maiden knows what else. They already hold Sankoy.”
“What’s the Biserica doing about this?”
“I don’t know. How should I know? You better start thinking what you’re going to do. The guards out there are in on the plot, have to be or they’d have been in here long ago to investigate the noise.”
Hern grinned. “Rather thought they might be, little meie. Morescad came tramping in at a decidedly awkward moment.” He looked embarrassed, turned away, slid off the bed and padded around the end. His voice came back to her. “While I’m getting dressed, how bad is it?”
Serroi scrubbed a hand across her face, wincing as she touched the whip cut. The long strain when she drove herself back to face the Norid and her own terror, the fever-ridden hours in the darkness, the last intense battle—all these had drained her until she was dizzy. The Domnor’s question blurred in her tired mind. She clasped her hands together in her lap to quiet their shaking. “I don’t know much. The Daughter is corrupted. That I found out. There was a N-n-norit.…” She swallowed hastily. “A Norit in the Temple with her. She turned me over t-t-to him. Sleykynin brought me into the Plaz, put me in a cell in the dungeon. I g-g-got out and k-k-killed both … both Sleykyn. I think … most of the guards must be in the plot. Three-four days ago, a Tercel and his men picked me up.” A questioning sound came from behind the bed. “Oh yes, they’re dead too.” She closed her eyes, swayed back and forth, her head swimming with fatigue. The words tumbling out unconsidered, she told again the convoluted tale of her flight and her struggle back to Oras. With a driven incoherence she returned again and again to Tayyan’s death and her own panic-flight, her betrayal of love and duty. She kept enough control to avoid mentioning Coperic except as Dinafar’s uncle. When she came to the end of her story, she sat numbed and silent, then gradually became aware of warmth creeping into her icy hands. She opened her eyes to see Hern bending over her, his hands closed around hers.
“You’re worn to the bone and no wonder.” He freed her hands and took hold of her shoulders. “Rest awhile.” With a nod at the windows beyond the end of the bed, he pushed her down, stroked a hand gently down her cheek. “It’s storming out there. We won’t be interrupted here awhile yet. Guards will see to that, even if for the wrong reasons.” He smoothed short strong fingers gently over her eye-spot, smiling down at her, his green-grey eyes shining with amusement.
The bed was soft; her body went limp, her last strength draining out of her. The Domnor slid off the bed. She could hear him padding about the room, still hadn’t put his boots on, then a short moment of silence, then the sound of boot heels as he stamped his feet down in the boots. “No,” she whispered. “No time.” She pushed against the bed, tried to sit up, could not. Her head was heavy; she had no force left in her muscles. “No.” She called on her stubbornness, that tough inner core of her being that refused to give in, shoved again and managed to sit up. Hern came around the end of the bed, stood scowling at her. “You don’t take orders well, do you.”
In her boot the tajicho was beginning to burn; on her brow the eye-spot began to throb. Ignoring Hern, she looked anxiously around the large battered room; the door into the passage hung open, the opening itself was a rectangle of black against the pale gold of the wood paneling. “Maiden bless, more.…” With some difficulty she drew her leg up and rested her calf on her other knee. Thrusting her fingers into the boot’s top, she pulled out the small crystal and stared down at the fire glowing in its heart. “He’s coming here,” she muttered.
“Who’s coming?” Hern buckled on his swordbelt then disappeared around the bed without waiting for an answer. He came back. “Here.” He tossed her a soft cap and a heavy cape. She stared at the cape then up at him. He was dressed in dark simple clothing, a tunic and close-fitting trousers tucked into mid-calf boots. He snapped a finger at the cape. “You’re a bit of a thing, but I’m not that tall myself. Who’s coming?”
“Some Nor. Can’t tell who or what rank.” She stuffed the tajicho back in her boot. “Another one. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait.” He dropped his cloak on the bed and began working his way purposefully around the room, opening small cavities in the wall, pulling out trinkets and gold coins, stuffing them into a large pouch he slung over his shoulder. Serroi moved shakily to the end of the bed, stood holding onto a bedpost, breathing deeply, feeling her head begin to clear as nearing danger stimulated her, helped her throw off the lethargy induced by the letdown after intense activity. She watched him a moment longer, said, “You don’t have to come with me.”
He grinned over his shoulder. “I’ve got a feeling, little meie, me, I’ve got a feeling that the Plaz ain’t too healthy for me right now.” He came back to her and took her arm. “I need a hole to dive into if I want to be alive come morning.” With a soft clucking of his tongue, he snagged the soft hat from the bed and pulled it down over her head. “You got any preference for where we go to earth?” Snapping the cloak out, he swung it around her shoulders. “You need a keeper, child. It’s pouring out there.” He took her arm and started for the opening in the wall.
Serroi patted a yawn. “Not a keeper, a bed. And sleep, a whole passage-worth of sleep. The fisher girl’s uncle has a tavern by the wall. If you pushed me, I’d say he dabbled in a lot of small illegalities, smuggling, buy
ing stolen goods—you know.” She shrugged. “It’s a place to stay.” She felt a sudden flare of fire against her leg, something like a blow against her head. Swinging around, she stared at the door.
Floarin swept in, the Daughter and the Minarka Norit behind her. “Well, Hern,” she said.
The Domnor’s eyes moved over the three of them. He smiled tightly. “Greetings, Floarin.”
“You’re a fool, Hern. Always have been.”
“Suppose so. I should have known Lybor and Morescad didn’t have a brain between them. What now?”
“The Plaz belongs to me, Hern. No place for you to run. I wouldn’t bother keeping you alive, except that the Guard has this prejudice against a woman giving them orders. Relax, love. You’ll have a lovely comfortable life, just like mine used to be. Don’t keep fighting, this Nor’s no fool, not like that one.” She stepped aside, smiled up at the Minarka.
The Domnor unlaced his cloak and dropped it to the floor. Serroi caught his arm as his hand closed around the swordhilt. “No, Hern, not now. Let me.” She stepped in front of him, dipped down, slipped the tajicho from her boot.
The tall golden man was centered in a shimmer of power. Chanting in a sing-song polysyllabic tongue, he manipulated a loop of string through a series of increasingly complex patterns. Serroi felt the air thickening about her wrists and ankles. She caught her breath, brought her hands to heart level, opened her fingers. The tajicho burned like a miniature sun. Long thick strands of golden light issuing from the Norit’s hands looped out and around, then were sucked into the crystal. The strands stretched and stretched—spreading out in great spectral arcs springing from the Norit’s hands, curving to touch the walls, drawn in again into the tajicho. The air thrummed with the power precariously locked into the golden arcs.
