Skeen's Return (25 page)

Maggí watched the brief shudder of a pennant, sighed when it went limp. “I'd better get on it, then. Have the bows ready.” She cursed softly, Houms made soft agreeing sounds. “I particularly didn't want to draw Family notice this time,” she muttered. “Particularly not this run.” She straightened her shoulders, gave him a tight smile. “Try not to shoot anyone before I get back.”

The calm hung about. Air began turning foul, smoky, bitter with the stink of human and animal wastes; tempers grew frayed, even the Aggitj turned sour. Timka expected Skeen to grow more tetchy and difficult, but she didn't. She drank and sat around tavern fires exchanging wild stories with whoever'd listen, ended each night taking one or more of her companions back to her room with her. She was relaxed and amiable and showed it in her walk; she had learned a new balance, her stump was healing nicely, without complications, she could dress herself without needing help. Timka watched this, amazed.

Two days of calm. Three. Four. Five. High roostertail clouds began gathering above the haze. The air stirred, there was a faint hope the wind would return, the city began emerging from its lethargy. Six days. Seven. The clouds lowered, darkened, the haze began to smell of rain. Crews on the ships got busy again, checking the rigging, working with more energy at the unending maintainance that ocean-goers required.

Timka dozed on the ridgepole above the window of Skeen's room; she didn't quite know why she was there. Habit, she supposed. She dropped through the doze into sleep until a series of odd sounds broke through to her. She woke, blinking, looked dazedly about, then down.

Robed Chalarosh were lowering Skeen from the window. She was trussed in a webbing of rope, arms and ankles pinioned. Not dead, unconscious, or they wouldn't take such trouble with her.

Timka squeezed the ridgepole with her talons, not sure what she should do. Get Maggí? Pegwai? The Aggitj? Or call the city guard? Two more Chalarosh slid down the doubled ropes, collected them, lifted Skeen over the shoulder of the largest and started off at a quick trot. Follow them. Yes. That's best. For now. She sidled back from the eaves until she was near one of the many chimneys, then powered herself into flight. She climbed as high as she could and still see the streets through the soupy air.

The Chalarosh abductors stopped beside a two-wheeled cart, dumped Skeen roughly over the tailgate and climbed in after her. The driver flicked the reins on the rump of the stolid vo and the beast started off, the cart creaking along at a slow walk. They wound through the waterfront streets until they were out among the hovels that grew like mushrooms around the edge of the city. Then they started up into the hills, following a woodcutter's road. Timka flew after them though she was more and more unsure that she'd made a wise choice; if they were coming all this way to avoid the attention of the guards, wouldn't it have been better to get those guards after them in the first place? The problem was Skeen. She was in no position to defend herself and Timka had a strong notion that the Chalarosh would have killed her at the first threat to them. Well, there was no turning back now, she was committed to following them; if they showed signs of … signs of … she almost giggled though an owl has few facilities for giggling … murderous intent, she'd have to take a hand, no—not a hand—a paw well armed with claws.

The cart turned off the road (well, more like off the ruts, it wasn't much of a road), circled north then south about a pair of knolls covered with grass, old stumps, and some flourishing brush; it dipped into a dusty hollow with a miniscule stream and an abandoned charcoal burner's hut. The hut had a new roof, bundles of twigs roped in place atop the crumbling sod and wattle walls. Timka flew to the top branches of a mossy ancient, one of a thick, cluttered stand of trees that began three hillocks behind the hut.

Two out of the eight Chalarosh got down from the cart and waited while the others muscled Skeen down to them; they carried her into the hut and stayed in there with her, apparently taking the place of the two new ones who came from the hut and climbed into the cart. The driver slapped the vo into motion, turned the cart and started back for Sikuro. Torn between her desire to rescue Skeen and her need to know where the cart was going, Timka dithered in the tree, opening and closing her talons, doing a nervous dance on the branch. She hooted softly, took off and swept a circle high over the cart, gliding through wisps of fog, shaking the fog out of her head. It took them more than an hour to get out here. I could catch them before they got too far into Sikuro. If I can work things right. Not a good idea to hurry, get careless, I could get Skeen killed. Or me. Borrow some of Skeen's fussiness, Ti, a bit of foresight never hurt, nor a little patience. She watched the Chalarosh bumping along in the cart, now and then exchanging a few words; they've got the world by the tail, so they think. Let them think it, they'll find out. I hope. She swung back over the hollow, inspected the hovel. No windows, lots of holes, but they can't see much out of those. I could land off a bit, but what's an owl or two out here. Her soft feathers muting the sound of her passage through the air, she slanted down, landed close to the hut, got herself properly balanced, then shifted.

Ti-cat crept along the wall, belly to the ground, nearly invisible as her camouflage blended with the browns and grays of soil and sod. Near the door she flattened herself and listened. Sketchy indistinct sounds as someone moved about, creaks and scuffs. A few words in guttural Chala. She didn't understand these, didn't much care what the men were saying. As far as she could tell, there were only two guards inside. She didn't understand why they were doing this; they had Skeen, what was the point of keeping her? An intriguing puzzle, but she didn't bother fiddling with it. That was for later, once this thing was done. She gave herself half an hour of patience, hoping she wouldn't have to charge inside and chance them slitting Skeen's throat before she could reach them. The dust was gray with ancient ash; it had an acrid tickling odor as small riffs of wind lifted it, flung it against her muzzle. There was an electricity in the damp air, the hair along her spine stood stiffly up; if she moved it would be in a haze of crackles and tiny worms of blue white static. Storm coming. Lifefire grant it marks the end of the calm.

Finally she heard what she was hoping for, feet moving toward the rough hole that served as a door. One of the Chalarosh pushed the sacking aside and stepped out. Timka lay very still, waiting to see if he'd turn toward her. She was on his left, chances were strong he'd turn to his right; he was holding a waterskin, chances were very good he'd turn right, the stream was over there. He threw the skin down, hitched up his robes. As he began to urinate against the wall, she came silently onto her feet, gathered herself and leaped.

She killed him swiftly, silently and left him lying in the dust.

The Chalarosh inside heard some of the small sounds she couldn't avoid. He called out, got no answer, called again, irritation in his voice. When he still got no answer, he whipped the sacking aside and charged out. He saw Ti-cat an instant before she struck, managed to twist aside, got his knife half drawn as she bounced off the wall and was on him again. She raked his knife arm with her hind claws, took off his face with her foreclaws. She leaped off him, scratched at the coarse earth to wipe off most of the blood, then went padding toward the sacking.

She listened a moment, then shouldered the sacking aside and went in; for a moment she stood blinking, half in half out, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She made a soft spitting sound as she saw two bound figures, not one. They'd got Pegwai before they went after Skeen. Busy little gits, aren't they. Satisfied there were no more Chalarosh, she shifted and hurried to Skeen's side. The Pass-Through was still out and seemed likely to stay that way for some time, but her pulse was strong, her breathing natural.

“Timka!” Pegwai's voice had an urgency that brought her quickly to his side. “Go after them,” he said, one word tumbling on top of the next, “They're going for the Aggitj. They want to trade us for the Boy.”

“I hear you.” She tugged at the ropes about his ankles. “Knife, I need.…” She jumped to her feet and ran out. The guard she'd defaced was still clinging to life and groping weakly. She wrenched the knife from his hand, slashed it across his throat, then ran back inside. She cut Pegwai's hands free, dropped the knife beside him. “Take care of Skeen. When I get a minute, I'll send transport for you.”

In the short time she'd been on the ground the winds had strengthened and the clouds thickened; the threatening storm was no longer threatening but on them. She switched from owl to sea eagle and fought her way north after wasting several minutes trying to find a stratum of contrary flow; battered, tossed about like a rotted leaf, she struggled toward Sikuro, flying a lot faster than the vo, but far slower than she wanted. Unless she missed them when she passed through the fringes of a cloud, they were already in Sikuro. Though the gusts of wind and rain were dangerous, she dipped almost to roof level so she could find her way in the confusing maze of the Quarter.

A too-familiar cart was tied up outside the tavern where the Aggitj were staying.

Timka dived for the second-floor window of the Aggitj's room. She clipped her wings tight, plummeted through, snapped them out and shrieked a warning as the door ghosted open and the Chalarosh came sweeping in.

The Aggitj tumbled out of their quilts, caught up their weapons before they were fully awake and were immediately in a silent but vicious battle.

Scuttling to get from under trampling feet, Timka managed to reach a free corner of the room where she shifted to cat-weasel. Before she could start peeling the attackers off the Aggitj, a Chalarosh landed on her back, got a sinewy arm about her neck and began squeezing; his other hand drove into her side, probing for her life organ. A flash of wonder, why not a knife? and she was struggling frantically. This was worse than the time Angelsin had her; the way he was positioned (by luck or planning) she couldn't get at him; her limbs were too stiff, too awkwardly placed, the loose tough cloth of his sleeves baffled her claws; her brain was burning, her lungs were on fire, she could feel life slipping from her grasp. Grasp. Hands. Need hands. Need—need—need—in her desperation she did what she thought was impossible; the seed planted days before by Domi's question ripened to fruition. Her paws swelled into broad strong hands, her neck shortened, thickened and resisted the pressure on it more effectively. Using a skill she'd never learned, a skill that came into her mind and body from Skeen's memories, she drove her thumbs into the nerve plexus of his elbow. When the crushing hold loosened, she twisted around, got hold of his little finger and snapped it. As he screamed and sought harder to dig his hand into her body, she got her hind paws on the floor and pushed off, breaking free to switch ends and clap both hands hard over his ears; using another move that flashed across her mind's eye, she drove a handspear into his throat.

Leaving him crumpled on the floor, she leaped onto the back of a Chalarosh attacking Hal, jerked his chin up until his neck snapped, bounded away. Movement was a little awkward in this hybrid shape, but that wasn't much of a problem. She didn't have to run any races and the powerful hands combined with the skills transferred from Skeen were a deadly addition to her natural strengths.

The fight was fierce, but short. Movement stopped. The noise died except for the scrape of harsh breathing. Hart spoke, the single word shocking as it broke the silence. “Light.” He went into the hallway outside the room, came back with a lamp. He took the chimney off and lit the lamps in the room. Timka shifted from hybrid to Pallah, sighed with pleasure as she resumed the more familiar form. She was astonished by what had happened but not ready yet to think about it.

The floor was littered with Chalarosh bodies. Timka started counting them. One. Three. What? A slim white form among the robes. She dropped to her knees beside the Aggitj boy, lifted his head, turned it. Domi. Very gently she laid his head down and felt for his pulse. There was none; she didn't expect to find any, not with the loose boneless way his neck moved. Hands trembling, she got to her feet. Hal came to stand at her side, clutching a ragged gouge in one arm.

“Domi?” The word cracked in the middle. “Domiiii!” It was a wild shriek. Ders flung past her and threw himself down beside the body. He lifted its head, shook it, wailing in unrestrained grief. He wrestled the body around and lifted it into his lap like a mother holding a sleeping child, rocked back and forth, sobbing and babbling in Aggitchan. Looking grim, Hart reclaimed his knife, and began moving from Chalarosh to Chalarosh. Not all of them were dead; he dispatched them with a quick neat pass of the knife. One. Three. Five. The sixth was conscious enough to spit his corrosive poison at Hart who twisted aside and jerked up a fold of man's robe to block the flight of the spittle; he jerked more of the robe up, wrapped it around his fist, shoved it in the Chalarosh's face and drove his knife up under the man's ribs. He wiped the knife on the robe, got to his feet and stood watching Hal trying to quiet Ders. He cleared his throat. “Ti, that all of them? Six.”

She rubbed her arms. “No.” She shivered. “No, there were eight of them. Ahhh.…” She closed her eyes, did a rapid report of what she'd learned, why she'd coming winging in just in time to wake them. “Pegwai is waiting out there. I expect Skeen's still under.” She looked over her shoulder at the window. “If you could get that cart and the vo.…” She permitted herself a small tight smile at the feral grin on his square face and gave him directions for reaching the hut. “It's a bad night out there; I imagine they'll head straight back, they think they've still got Skeen and Pegwai to bargain with, you were just insurance.” She crossed to the window, grimaced at the solid curtain of rain, that was going to be a misery flying through. She shifted and backed off so she could get a running start. Behind her Hart was bending over Ders, shaking him, talking to him in a low voice, a flow of Aggitchan that interrupted the boy's sobs and brought him to his feet. Without & word he dashed out the door. Hal and Hart rushed after him. Timka looked around at the carnage, clicked her beak and shifted back to Pallah. She pulled the door shut, dropped the latch bar into its hooks. Better to keep the curious outside. From what Maggí had said the Families tolerated private feuds as long as they were kept private. You didn't do it in the street and you got rid of the garbage. She shifted, took a run and wafted to the windowsill; she balanced there a moment, got herself ready, then launched herself into the turbulence of the storm. After some hard labor and treacherous dips, she climbed into the clouds above the rain and began racing for the hut.