Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (32 page)

 
          
"How
are you going to find him? How are you going to free him? We don't even know
how we're going to free Satan! Suppose he needs help?" Aerie's voice rose
in anger.

 
          
"Suppose
we need help?"

 
          
Aerie
turned her back on Wess and stared blankly out into the parade. She even
shrugged off Quartz's comforting hug.

 
          
Then
there was no more time for arguing. Six archers tramped through the gate. A
cart followed. It was a flatbed, curtained all around, and pulled by two large
skewbald horses, one with a wild blue eye. Six more archers followed. A mutter
of confusion rippled over the crowd, and then cries of "The secret! Show
us the secret!"

 
          
The
postillion jerked the draft horses to a standstill before the prince. Bauchle
Meyne climbed stiffly off the platform and onto the cart.

 
          
"My
lord!" he cried. "I present you
—
a
myth of our world!" He yanked on a string and the curtains fell away.

 
          
On
the platform, Satan stood rigid and withdrawn, staring forward, his head high.
Aerie moaned and Wess tensed, wanting to leap over the glowing ropes and lay
about with her knife, in full view of the crowd, whatever the consequences. She
cursed herself for being so weak and stupid this morning. If she had had the
will to attack, she could have ripped out Bauchle Meyne's guts.

 
          
They
had not broken Satan. They would kill him before they could strip him of his
pride. But they had stripped him naked, and shackled him. And they had hurt
him. Streaks of silver-gray cut across the black fur on his shoulders. They had
beaten him. Wess clenched her fingers around the handle of her knife.

 
          
Bauchle
Meyne picked up a long pole. He was not fool enough to get within reach of
Satan's talons.

 
          
"Show
yourself
!" he cried.

 
          
Satan
did not speak the trade-language, but Bauchle Meyne made himself well enough
understood with the end of the pole. Satan stared at him without moving until
the young man stopped poking at him, and, with some vague awareness of his
captive's dignity, backed up a step. Satan looked around him, his large eyes
reflecting the light like a cat's. He faced the prince. The heavy chains
clanked and rattled as he moved.

 
          
He
raised his arms. He opened his hands, and his fingers unfolded.

 
          
He
spread his great black wings.

 
          
The
prince looked on with silent satisfaction as the crowd roared with surprise and
astonishment.

 
          
"Inside,"
Bauchle Meyne said, "when I release him, he will fly."

 
          
One
of the horses, brushed by Satan's wingtip, snorted and reared. The cart lurched
forward. The postillion yanked the horse's mouth to a bloody froth and Bauchle
Meyne lost his balance and stumbled to the ground. His face showed pain and Wess
was glad. Satan barely shifted. The muscles tensed and slid in his back as he
balanced himself with his wings.

 
          
Aerie
made a high, keening sound, almost beyond the limits of human hearing. But
Satan heard. He did not flinch; unlike the troll he did not turn. But he heard.
In the bright white wizard's-light, the short fur on the back of his shoulders
rose, and he shivered. He folded his wing-fingers back along his arms. The webbing
trembled and gleamed.

 
          
The
postillion kicked his horse and the cart lumbered forward. For the crowd
outside, the show was over.

 
          
The
prince stepped down from the platform and, walking side by side with Bauchle
Meyne and followed by his
retinue,
proceeded into the
carnival tent.

 
          
The
four friends stood close together as the crowd moved past them. Wess was
thinking,
They're
going to let him fly, inside. He'll
be free . . . She looked at Aerie. "Can you land on top of the tent? And
take off again?"

 
          
Aerie
looked at the steep canvas slope. "Easily," she said.

 
          
The
area behind the tent was lit by torches, not wizard-light. Wess stood leaning
against the grounds' wall, watching the bustle and chaos of the troupe, listening
to the applause and laughter of the crowd. The show had been going on a long
time now; most of the people who had not got inside had left. A couple of
carnival workers kept a bored watch on the perimeter of the barrier, but Wess
knew she could slip past any time she pleased.

 
          
It
was Aerie she worried about. Once the plan started, she would be very
vulnerable. The night was clear and the waxing moon bright and high. When she
landed on top of the tent she would be well within range of arrows. Satan would
be in even more danger. It was up to Wess and Quartz and Chan to create enough
chaos so the archers would be too distracted to shoot either of the flyers.

 
          
Wess'was rather looking forward to it.

 
          
She
slipped under the rope when no one was looking and strolled through the shadows
as if she belonged with the troupe. Satan's cart stood at the performers'
entrance, but Wess did not go near her friend now.
Taking no
notice of her, the children on their ponies trotted by.
In the
torchlight the children looked thin and tired and very young, the ponies thin
and tired and old. Wess slid behind the rank of animal cages. The carnival did,
after all, have a salamander, but a piteous poor and hungry-looking one, barely
the size of a large dog. Wess broke the lock on its cage. She had only her
knife to pry with; she did the blade no good. She broke the locks on the cages
of the other animals, the half-grown wolf, the pygmy elephant, but did not yet
free them. Finally she reached the troll.

 
          
"Frejojan,"
she whispered. "I'm behind you."

 
          
"I
hear you, frejojan." The troll came to the back of his cage. He bowed to
her. "I regret my unkempt condition, frejojan; when they captured me I had
nothing, not even a brush." His golden gray-flecked hair was badly
matted. He put his hand through the bars and Wess shook it.

 
          
"I'm
Wess," she said.

 
          
"Aristarchus,"
he said. "You speak with the same accent as Satan
—
you've come for him?"

 
          
She
nodded. "I'm going to break the lock on your cage," she said. "I
have to be closer to the tent when they take him in to make him fly. It would
be better if at first they didn't notice anything was going wrong. . ."

 
          
Aristarchus
nodded. "I won't escape till you've begun. Can I be of help?"

 
          
Wess
glanced along the row of cages. "Could you
—
would it put you in danger to free the animals?" He was old; she did not
know if he could move quickly enough.

 
          
He
chuckled. "All of us animals have become rather good friends," he
said.
"Though the salamander is rather snappish."

 
          
Wess
wedged her knife into the padlock and wrenched it open. Aristarchus snatched it
off the door and flung it into the straw. He smiled, abashed, at Wess.

 
          
"I
find my own temper rather short in these poor days."

 
          
Wess
reached through the bars and gripped his hand again. Near the tent, the
skewbald horses wheeled Satan's cart around. Bauchle Meyne yelled nervous orders.
Aristarchus glanced toward Satan.

 
          
"It's
good you've come," he said. "I persuaded him to cooperate, at least
for a while, but he does not find it easy. Once he made them angry enough to
forget his value."

 
          
Wess
nodded, remembering the whip scars.

 
          
The
cart rolled forward; the archers followed.

 
          
"I
have to hurry," Wess said.

 
          
"Good
fortune go
with you."

 
          
She
moved as close to the tent as she could. But she could not see inside; she had
to imagine what was happening, by the tone of the crowd. The postillion drove
the horses around the ring. They stopped. Someone crawled under the cart and
unfastened the shackles from below, out of reach of Satan's claws. And then
—

 
          
She
heard the sigh, the involuntary gasp of wonder as Satan spread his wings, and
flew.

 
          
Above
her, Aerie's shadow cut the air. Wess pulled off her cloak and waved it,
signaling. Aerie dived for the tent, swooped, and landed.

 
          
Wess
drew her knife and started sawing at a guy-rope. She had been careful enough of
the edge so it slided through fairly quickly. As she hurried to the next line,
she heard the tone of the crowd gradually changing, as people began to notice
something amiss. Quartz and Chan were doing their work, too. Wess chopped at
the second rope. As the tent began to collapse, she heard tearing canvas above
where Aerie ripped through the roof with her talons. Wess sliced through a
third rope, a fourth. The breeze flapped the sagging fabric against itself. The
canvas cracked and howled like a sail. Wess heard Bauchle Meyne screaming,
"The ropes! Get the ropes, the ropes are breakingl"

 
          
The
tent fell from three directions. Inside, people began to shout, then to scream,
and they tried to flee. A few spilled out into the parade-ground,
then
a mob fought through the narrow opening. The shriek of
frightened horses pierced the crowd-noise, and the scramble turned to panic.
The skewbald horses burst through the crush, scattering people right and left,
Satan's empty cart lurching and bumping along behind. More terrified people
streamed out after them. All the guards from the palace fought against them,
struggling to get inside to their prince.

 
          
Wess
turned to rejoin Quartz and Chan, and froze in horror. In the.shadows behind
the tent, Bauchle Meyne snatched up an abandoned bow, ignored the chaos, and
aimed a steel-tipped arrow into the sky. Wess sprinted toward him, crashed into
him, and shouldered him off-balance. The bowstring twanged and the arrow
fishtailed up, falling back, spent, to bury itself in the limp canvas.

 
          
Bauchle
Meyne sprang up, his high complexion scarlet with fury.

 
          
"You,
you little bitch!" He lunged for her, grabbed her, and backhanded her
across the face. "You've ruined me for spite!"

 
          
The
blow knocked her to the ground. This time Bauchle Meyne did not laugh at her.
Half-blinded, Wess scrambled away from him. She heard his boots pound closer
and he kicked her in the same place in the ribs. She heard the bone crack. She
dragged at her knife but its edge, roughened by the abuse she had given it,
hung up on the rim of the scabbard. She could barely see and barely breathe. She
struggled with the knife and Bauchle Meyne kicked her again.

 
          
"You
can't get away this time, bitch!" He let Wess get to her hands and knees.
"Just try to run!" He stepped toward her.

 
          
Wess
flung herself at his legs, moved beyond pain by fury. He cried out as he fell.
The one thing he could never expect from her was attack. Wess lurched to her
feet. She ripped her knife from its scabbard as Bauchle Meyne lunged at her.
She plunged it into him, into his belly, up, into his heart.

 
          
She
knew how to kill, but she had never killed a human being. She had been drenched
by her prey's blood, but never the blood of her own species. She had watched
creatures die by her hand, but never a creature who knew what death meant.