A Bait of Dreams (24 page)

Together they pulled the dead man into the small room. As Gleia shouldered the two bags, she looked down at the Harrier. He was very young; she hadn't noticed how young he was before. He had a wispy blond moustache, a scattering of pimples on his nose and cheeks, a reed-thin neck. Deel pulled her knife loose, wiped it on his trousers. She looked up at Gleia. “Had to be.”

“I know. I don't have to like it.” Gleia shifted the straps to settle the bags more comfortably then took the knife Deel handed her. With a last glance at the dead boy, she followed the dancer out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Talking softly as she walked, Deel said, “Far as I can tell, there won't be any Harriers down below. The Lossal left with a bunch of them not so long ago. There's no one in the halls, not in this part of the house anyway. Feels like they're all shivering in their beds. Matter of hours before the Stareyn goes, I expect. Piece of luck for us since that keeps the old viper busy.” Her hand on Gleia's arm, the dancer pulled her along the hall and around the corner. “The stairs to the cellars are just ahead. We better not talk after this.” She stepped briskly ahead of Gleia, pulling her dark cloak tight against her body. Stopping in front of a heavy door, she swung it open enough to slip through. Gleia followed, eased the door shut behind her.

She found herself on a small square platform at the top of a steep stairway, one side against the wall, the other a precipitous drop to a floor some distance below. Gleia moved quickly to the wall side, refusing to look down again. Deel glanced at her, grinning, her teeth glistening in the uncertain light from the torch burning smokily halfway down the stairs. Fingertips of one hand brushing the wall, Deel ran down the stairs, surefooted and silent, her dancer's body balancing easily. Gleia followed more cautiously. The darkness off the side spread into a vast silent cellar under the floor of the House, dark and eerie, amplifying the slightest sounds until the whisper of her feet on the stone came back to her like the breathing of some great animal.

At the bottom of the flight Deel stopped her. “Cells just ahead,” she whispered. “Through there.” She pointed at a torchlit arch a few feet farther along the wall. “I'll go in first, distract the guard. When you see a chance, take him out.” She stripped off her cloak, handed it to Gleia, patted at her hair, moistened her lips, shook her arms, took several deep breaths. “Don't wait too long, hon.” Without staying for an answer she moved toward the arch, hesitantly at first, then with her usual swinging swagger.

Gleia hurried after her, feeling it almost like a shock to the heart when the dancer vanished through the opening. At the arch, she dropped to her knees, edged forward until she could see what was happening.

Deel was smiling at the only man in the room, a hard-faced thug with a hairy bare chest, short bowed legs encased in greasy trousers, knotty bare feet. He wore a leather apron stiff with old stains. Deel touched his bulging arm with a teasing giggle, dancing back as he grabbed for her.

He scowled at her, moved around the table where he'd been sitting, stopped in front of her. “Who you, girl? What you doin' here?”

Deel circled closer, ran her slim red-brown fingers up his arm. “I wanted to see the strongest man in Istir.” She danced around behind him, running her fingers over the massive muscles of his shoulders, reappearing on the other side of him, pulling him around so his back was to the arch. “Show me how strong you are.”

The man lunged clumsily at her, his meaty hip knocking aside the table. He was at least half-drunk. There were two empty bottles on the floor and a third rolling across the tabletop. It smashed against the stone as Deel danced away before the Ironmaster, smiling and flirting her eyes at him, narrowly avoiding his groping fingers, the slotted skirt swirling around her long slim legs, her light teasing laughter bringing the blood to his face. He lumbered after her, caught her arm, pulled her against him.

Gleia slipped the straps from her shoulder, was up and on her feet, running for him. As he held Deel helpless against him, his mouth avid on hers, Gleia drove the knife between his ribs, slamming the blade home with all her strength.

With an animal bellow he threw Deel sprawling and turned on Gleia, his animal strength as awesome as his ugliness. She fled, terrified.

Then he faltered, his face went blank, he coughed, spat blood, crumpled to the floor, falling on his face. Feeling a little sick, Gleia looked at Deel. The dancer rose slowly to her feet, walked to the Ironmaster, scrubbing and scrubbing at her mouth. She thrust her toe in his ribs. He gurgled, moved his hands slightly. Deel beckoned impatiently to Gleia. “Come on. Help me turn him over.” The dancer caught one of the man's thick wrists in both hands. “Hurry, I don't know how long we got. The keys, Gleia. We need his keys. And take your knife back.”

They labored several minutes, finally got the heavy body on its back. Gleia ran her bloody knife under the leather thong that held his key ring, cut it free, then while Deel stood watch at the arch, she ran along the line of cells.

In the third cell a dark figure lay sprawled on a rough plank bench. “Shounach?”

The figure stirred, tried to sit up, collapsed. Hands shaking, breath harsh in her throat, Gleia tried the keys until the lock finally turned over. When she slipped inside, he was trying again to sit, using the backs of his hands to push against the planks. He looked up, moved his battered mouth into a slight smile. “What took you so long?” The words were slow and blurred so badly it took her a while to understand what he was saying. He lurched heavily and was finally sitting up. She reached out.

“No!” The word was whispered but vehement. She waited, biting her lip, hugging herself, as he got slowly and painfully to his feet. In the dim light from the torches outside the cell she saw that he was naked, his body covered with cuts and bruises, his face distorted into a crude mask hardly human. He stretched out one trembling arm. “Let me lean on you, Jove. I'm a bit sore for hugging.” Again his words were indistinct, spoken slowly and with difficulty. His arm came down on her shoulders until she was supporting much of his weight. “Not too fast.”

Deel gave an exclamation of horror when they emerged. She brought the Ironmaster's chair and helped Gleia ease Shounach into it; then she stepped back and raised an eyebrow. “Juggler, you're a mess.” Gleia bit her lip, ran to the arch.

She came back with the garish bag hugged against her breasts. When he reached for it, she gasped. The inner side of his fingers and both palms were seared black, the skin charred and cracking. She looked from the bag to him, not knowing what to do.

Shounach examined his hands, grimaced. He was badly beaten, his face bruised and swollen, his back raw with lash marks that circled around his rib cage and ended in ragged purpled cuts. There were marks of the hot iron on his groin and flat stomach. His mouth moved in a painful smile. Swollen and reddened, his changeable eyes glinted green. “Companion,” he murmured. He brushed her hand with the backs of his fingers. “You are a delight. Hold the bag open in front of me. Deel?”

“What?” The dancer glanced anxiously at the arch, then back to the battered man.

“See if you can find my clothes. They should be somewhere around here.” As she swung off, he scowled, opened and closed his savaged hands, then reached into the bag.

“Fox, can't I do that for you?”

“No.” Sweating, his face twisted with pain, he pulled a small leather case from the bag and dropped it onto his thighs. He reached in again and pulled out a thick roll of bandage, then leaned back carefully, closed his eyes and said, wearily, “Put the bag down and open the case for me.”

The case opened easily when the two sides were pressed apart. Following Shounach's instruction she tipped a pale blue wafer from one of the vials and slipped it between his lips.

While he was resting, waiting for the drug to act, Deel came back with his jacket, trousers, and boots. She dumped them on the floor beside him. “Can't we hurry this? I'm having a fit every few minutes when I think of someone finding us here.” She waved a hand at the arch.

“You can leave if you want.” Gleia began smoothing a thick white liquid over Shounach's cuts, bruises, and burns. Sighing with impatience Deel began helping her. Together they covered his burns and other wounds with the pain-deadening antiseptic and began wrapping the gauze bandaging around his body, finishing with his hands, wrapping the gauze neatly over the palms and, at his whispered instructions, around each of his fingers so he could use them. When they were done, he stood, swaying a little at first, working his fingers stiffly.

He dressed as quickly as he could, more in command of himself than Gleia would have believed possible, even for him. When he'd stamped his feet into his boots, he looked around, his eyes pale gray with effort, glittering with the effects of the pain and the drug. Gleia watched, worried, then went slowly to the arch to fetch her own bag. When she returned, he was kneeling beside his bag.

He pulled out one of the blue spheres, got to his feet with a grunt of effort.

“Shounach?” She touched his arm, but he ignored her and walked away from her, stumbling a little, then stopped by the body of the Ironmaster. He dropped the ball on the man's chest, watched as it rolled down the slope of his belly and came to a stop between his legs. Gleia shivered at the expression on his face.
I hold grudges,
he said,
I hold grudges a long, long time.
She closed her fingers about his wrist, careful not to squeeze the burns. “Shounach?”

He blinked at her, awareness slowly returning to his eyes. His face was shiny with the liquid she'd spread over his bruises, his long red hair was matted, dark with blood and sweat. She chewed on her lip, then went back to the bags, slipped both straps over her shoulder.

Deel fidgeted in the archway, fastening and unfastening the clasp of her cloak. “You two ready?” she said, her voice a whisper filled with urgency. “We're really pushing our luck, hanging around like this.”

“I think so.” Gleia moved to Shounach's side, offering her shoulder as a prop.

With Deel striding ahead, Gleia and Shounach following more slowly, they went up the stairs and eased into the servants' quarters. The rough, narrow hall was deserted and dark, most of the horn lamps blown out.

A few steps past the silent empty kitchen, Shounach called softly to Deel, dragged Gleia through a door into a small, empty room. Deel followed, startled and a little annoyed. “What.…”

“Quiet.” Shounach leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Someone's coming.”

For a moment they heard nothing, then confused footsteps and deep voices as several men strolled past. The sounds faded but the Juggler continued to wait, pain and weariness showing in his face. Finally he opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall. “All clear. Let's go.”

Deel turned those glowing amber eyes on him as he settled his arm on Gleia's shoulders. “You're something else, Juggler. For a while there I thought I'd made a big mistake.” She grinned and swung out, the swagger back in her walk. Gleia saw a flicker of appreciation in Shounach's slitted eyes; she poked him in the ribs. He grunted, grinned down at her, wincing as a cut on his lip reopened. “Vixen.”

She sniffed. “Fox.”

Deel thrust her head back inside. “Come on, you idiots.”

They moved swiftly through the dark, silent house. Just inside the door to the garden Shounach stopped them again.

Deel leaned close, whispered, “Someone outside?”

“No. Those damn iron birds.” He closed his eyes a moment, pulled his arm from Gleia's shoulder, leaned against the wall, the false energy from the drug beginning to melt away. Eyes still closed, he said, “Gleia, bring my bag here and hold it open for me.”

“You all right?” As she held the bag up, she watched him anxiously.

“No.” He reached into the bag, sweat gathering on his forehead. “Silly question.” He pulled out a small rod, handed it to her, glanced over his shoulder at Deel who was fidgeting with curiosity and impatience. “Hang on a minute, dancer.”

“This is the slowest escape I ever heard of. Good thing the Lossal's busy in the Kiralydom.” She twitched her cloak higher on her shoulders.

Shounach shifted his attention to Gleia, touched one end of the rod. “Twist this a half-turn and be damn careful what else you touch.” When she'd done that, he continued. “The black spot is a sensor. If one of the iron birds shows up, point the rod at it, touch the sensor, slice the beam through the bird. Don't use it unless you have to.” He looked bleak for a moment. “I hate to see that here. I hate seeing those damn birds on this world.” He watched as Gleia twisted the cover back over the sensor. “Be careful with that. Deel, lend me a shoulder so Gleia can keep a hand free.”

“About time.”

They moved across the garden and stopped in the shadow of the wall. Deel looked up. “Hope you've got a few more tricks, Juggler. I don't think I can climb that.” She watched him expectantly, waiting for him to come up with another bit of magic, Aab's light turning her into a statue of many-textured blacks and grays too exotic for the austere and formal garden.

Gleia held the rod tight in a sweaty hand, her eyes fixed on him. “Can you do it?”

“Maybe.” He rubbed the back of his bandaged hand along her cheek. “You first.”

“No.”

“Don't argue. Help me sit. Stretch out flat once you're up. You hear?”

She nodded then eased him down until he was sitting cross-legged on the grass. Then she moved close to the wall. “Ready, Fox.”

She felt something grip her body, something like a tight second skin. It held her, lifted her. She rose slowly up the wall. When she reached the top he shifted her to the right a few inches then turned her loose. She stumbled, went to her knees. Then she stretched out flat, her body in the shadow of the crenelations. Below, Deel gasped and rose into the air. In seconds she was flat beside Gleia, temporarily speechless.