Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (28 page)

 
          
The
darkness continued, without end, without any sign of dawn, and finally Wess
slid out from beneath Quartz's arm and the blankets, silently put on her pants
and shirt, and, barefoot, crept down the stairs, past the silent tavern, and
outside. On the doorstep, she sat and pulled on her boots.

 
          
The
moon gave a faint light, enough for Wess. The street was deserted. Her heels
thudded on the cobblestones, echoing hollowly against the close abode walls.
Such a short stay in the town should not make her uneasy, but it did. She
envied Aerie her power to escape, however briefly, however dangerous the escape
might be. Wess walked down the street, keeping careful track of her path. It
would be very easy to get lost in this warren of streets and alleys, niches and
blank canyons.

 
          
The
scrape of a boot, instantly stilled, brought her out of her mental wanderings.
They wished to try to follow her? Good luck to them.

 
          
Wess
was a hunter. She tracked her prey so silently that she killed them with a
knife; in the rain forest where she lived, arrows were too uncertain. She had
crept upon a panther and stroked its smooth pelt
—
then
vanished so swiftly that she left the creature yowling in fury and
frustration, while she laughed with delight. She grinned, and quickened her
step, and her footfalls turned silent on the stone.

 
          
Her
unfamiliarity with the streets hampered her slightly. A dead end could trap
her. But she found, to her
pleasure, that
her instinct
for seeking out good trails translated into the city. Once she thought she
would have to turn back, but the high wall barring her way had a deep diagonal
fissure from the ground to its top. It gave her just enough purchase to clamber
over it. She jumped into the garden the wall enclosed, scampered across it and
up a grape arbor, and swung into the next alley.

 
          
She
ran smoothly, gladly, as her exhaustion lifted. She felt good, despite the
looming buildings and twisted dirty streets and vile odors.

 
          
She
faded into a shadowed recess where two houses abutted but did not line up.
Listening, she waited.

 
          
The
soft and nearly silent footsteps halted. Her pursuer hesitated. Grit scraped
between stone and leather as the person turned one way, then the other, and,
finally, chose the wrong turning and hurried off. Wess grinned, but she felt
respect for any hunter who could follow
her this
far.

 
          
Moving
silently through shadows, she started back toward the tavern. When she came to
a tumbledown building she remembered, she found finger- and toe-holds and
climbed to the roof of the next house. Flying was not the only talent Aerie had
that Wess envied. Being able to climb straight up an undamaged adobe wall would
be useful sometimes, too.

 
          
The
rooftop was deserted. Too cold to sleep outside, no doubt; the inhabitants of
the city went to ground at night, in warmer, unseen warrens.

 
          
The
air smelled cleaner here, so she traveled by rooftop as far as she could. But
the main passage through the Maze was too wide to leap across. From the
building that faced the Unicorn, Wess observed the tavern. She doubted that her
pursuer could have reached it first, but the possibility existed, in this
strange place. She saw no one. It was near dawn. She no longer felt exhausted,
just deliciously sleepy. She climbed down the face of die building and started
across the street.

 
          
Someone
flung open the door behind her, leaped out as she turned, and punched her in
the side of the head.

 
          
Wess
crashed to the cobblestones. The shadow stepped closer and kicked her in the
ribs. A line of pain wrapped around her chest and tightened when she tried to
breathe.

 
          
"Don't
kill her. Not yet."

 
          
"No.
I have plans for her."

 
          
Wess
recognized the voice of Bauchle Meyne, who had insulted Quartz in the tavern.
He toed her in the side.

 
          
"When
I'm done with you, bitch, you can take me to your friend." He started to
unbuckle his belt.

 
          
Wess
tried to get up. Bauchle Meyne's companion stepped toward her, to kick her
again.

 
          
His
foot swung toward her. She grabbed it and twisted. As he went down, Wess
struggled up. Bauchle Meyne, surprised, lurched toward her and grabbed her in a
bear hug, pinioning her arms so she could not reach her knife. He pressed his
face down close to hers. She felt his whisker stubble and smelled his yeasty
breath. He could not hold her and force his mouth to hers at the same time, but
he slobbered on her cheek. His pants slipped down and his penis thrust against
her thigh.

 
          
Wess
kneed him in the balls as hard as she could.

 
          
He
screamed and let her go and staggered away, holding himself, doubled up and
moaning, stumbling over his fallen breeches. Wess drew her knife and backed
against a wall, ready for another attack.

 
          
Bauchle
Meyne's accomplice rushed her. Her knife sliced quickly toward him, slashing
his arm. He flung himself backward and swore violently. Blood spurted between
his fingers.

 
          
Wess
heard the approaching footsteps a moment before he did. She pressed her free hand
hard against the wall behind her. She was afraid to shout for help. In this
place whoever answered might as easily join in attacking her.

 
          
But
the man swore again, grabbed Bauchle Meyne by the arm and dragged him away as
fast as Meyne, in his present distressed state, could go.

 
          
Wess
sagged, sliding down the wall to the ground. She knew she was still in danger,
but her legs would not hold her up anymore.

 
          
The
footsteps ceased. Wess looked up, clenching her fingers around the handle of
her knife.

 
          
"Frejojan,"
Lythande said softly, from ten paces away, "sister, you led me quite a
chase." She glanced after the two men. "And not only me,
it seems
."

 
          
"I
never fought a person before," Wess said shakily. "Not a real fight.
Only practice. No one ever got hurt." She touched the side of her head.
The shallow scrape bled freely. She thought about its stopping, and the flow
gradually ceased.

 
         
Lythande
sat on his heels beside her. "Let me see." He probed the cut gently.
"I thought it was bleeding, but it's stopped. What happened?"

           
"I don't know.   Did
you follow me? Did they?
thought
I was eluding one
person."

 
          
"I
was the only one following you," Lythande said. "They must have come
back to bother Quartz again."

 
          
"You
know about that?"

 
          
"The
whole city knows, child. Or anyway, the whole Maze. Bauchle will not soon live
it down. The worst of it is he will never understand what it is that happened,
or why."

 
          
"No
more will
I
," Wess said. She looked up at
Lythande. "How can you live here?" she cried.

 
          
Lythande
drew back, frowning. "I do not live here. But that is not really what you
are asking. We cannot speak so freely on the public street." He glanced
away, hesitated, and turned back. "Will you come with me? I haven't much time,
but I can fix your cut, and we can talk safely."

 
          
"All
right," Wess said. She sheathed her knife and pushed herself to her feet,
wincing at the sharp pain in her side. Lythande grasped her elbow, steadying
her.

 
          
"Perhaps
you've cracked a rib," he said. They started slowly down the street.

 
          
"No,"
Wess said. "It's bruised. It will hurt for a while, but it isn't
broken."

 
          
"How
do you know?"

 
          
Wess
glanced at him quizzically. "I may not be from a city, but my people
aren't completely wild. I paid attention to my lessons when I was little."

 
          
"Lessons?
Lessons in what?"

 
          
"In
knowing whether I am hurt, and what I must do if I am, in controlling the
processes of my body
—
surely your people teach
their children these things?"

 
          
"My
people don't know these things," Lythande said. "I think we have more
to talk about than I
believed,
frejqjan."

           
The Maze confused even Wess, by the
time they reached the small building where Lythande stopped. Wess was feeling
dizzy from the blow to her head, but she was confident that she was not
dangerously hurt. When Lythande opened a low door and ducked inside, Wess
followed.

 
          
Lythande
picked up a candle. The wick sparked. In the center of the dark room, a shiny
spot reflected the glow. The wick burst into flame and the spot of reflection
grew. Wess blinked. The reflection spread into a sphere, taller than Lythande,
the color and texture of deep water, blue-gray, shimmering. It balanced on its
lower curve, bulging slightly so it was not quite perfectly round.

 
          
"Follow
me,
Westerly
."

 
          
Lythande
walked toward the sphere. Its surface rippled at her approach. She stepped
into it. It closed around her, and all Wess could see was a wavering figure,
beyond the surface, and the spot of light from the candle flame.

 
          
She
touched the sphere gingerly with her fingertip. It was wet. Taking a deep
breath, she put her hand through the surface.

 
          
It
froze her fast; she could not proceed, she could not escape, she could not
move. Even her voice was captured.

 
          
After
a moment, Lythande surfaced. Her hair sparkled with drops of water, but her
clothes were dry. She stood frowning at Wess, lines of thought bracketing the
star on her forehead. Then her brow cleared and she grasped Wess's wrist.

 
          
"Don't
fight it, little sister," she said. "Don't fight me."

 
          
Against
great resistance, she drew Wess' hand from the sphere. The cuff of Wess' shirt
was cold and sodden. In only a few seconds the water had wrinkled her fingers.
The sphere freed her suddenly and she nearly fell, but Lythande caught and
supported her.

 
          
"What
happened?"

 
          
Still
holding her up, Lythande reached into the water and drew it aside like a
curtain. She urged Wess toward the division. Unwillingly, Wess took a shaky
step forward, and Lythande helped her inside. The surface closed behind them.
Lythande eased Wess down on the platform that flowed out smoothly from the
inside curve. Wess expected it to be wet, but it was resilient and smooth and
slightly warm.

 
          
"What
happened?" she asked again.

 
          
"The
sphere is a protection against other sorcerers."

 
          
"I'm
not a sorcerer."

 
          
"I
believe you telieve that. If I thought you were deceiving me, I would kill you.
But if you are not a sorcerer, it is only because you are not trained."

 
          
Wess
started to protest, but Lyhande waved her to silence.