The Forerunner Factor (2 page)

Not only did Gathar pay her for the use of the zorsals (which, he admitted once in an unusual burst of good nature after a very successful bit of trading, were very well suited to their job), but also her regular trips to his establishment gave her a familiarity with another section of Kuxortal into which she could not normally have ventured while those on duty there grew used to seeing her come and go; after a season, no one questioned her.

There were several among the Burrowers who had seen in Ferwar’s death a chance to not only move into a snug and well situated lodging, but also marked Simsa down for bedmate . . . or profit. Traders from up-river—even some of the Guild Lords—liked curiosities in women now and then. There were certain suggestions which she brushed brusquely aside. Then one day, Basher of the Hook decided to play no more with the whims of a female and strode up to establish ownership in a way he had twice before. A small crowd gathered to watch the fun. Simsa, standing straight before the entrance of her Burrow, heard the calling of small wagers back and forth.

She was so much the smaller and slighter, a child in their eyes, that the bettors found very few who would take their offered rates in her favor. Baslter drank heavily from one of the pots his followers handed him, swiped the back of his hair-furred hand across his blubber lips, and advanced as might one of the fabled Tall Ones from the inner mountains.

He was still out of reaching distance of the girl when she went into action so fleetly and with such driving force that her body appeared raised by a whirlwind, rather than through any action of her own.

As her feet lifted from the ground, her bare toes unsheathed to strike full against the man’s protruding belly, raking deeply through even the leather of his jerkin. At the same time, her body arched so that her hands struck the ground and, still raking upward with those claws, she somersaulted, rolled, and came lightly to her feet without more than a heavy intake of breath.

Baslter squalled. His hand going to the tatters of his jerkin came away red and wet. With the hook that gave him his second name he flailed out, prepared now to bury the metal in her flesh and jerk her close enough to crush the life from her with a single closing of his left fist upon her throat.

She was no longer there. As a zorsal might bait a pruhound, Simsa moved about the lumbering man. Not only did her toes unsheathe those claws which few of the Burrowers had ever seen, but her outspread fingers carried equally grim and punishing armament. She sprang, tore, was gone, before Baslter, now bellowing his rage, could even turn to face the direction in which some agile bound had taken her.

At last, streaming blood, having yielded an eye to the punishment, the man was caught by several of his fellows and towed back and away, frothing in a fury which had no sanity left in it. Simsa did not even watch his retreat, but went back into the home she had so defended, there to sit down, shaking a little and fighting within her to control, first her rage, and then the deeper-seated fear from which that rage had sprung. Zass fluttered her good wing, made small movements with the crooked one as, at last, the girl conquered herself enough to take up a cloth, wipe her claws thoroughly; then, with a wrinkled nose, toss the rag into the basket which must be taken to the dump place.

Her victory over Baslter did not inflict her with overconfidence. She was well aware that there were many ways she could be entrapped by a man subtle enough of thought, and she did not underrate her neighbors on that score. It was then that Simsa realized the true worth of Zass and began to make very sure she was with her on every night foray, and installed a perch above the door of her Burrow where the zorsal could keep sentry duty when Simsa was within.

That the creature was also wary enough to protect herself the girl became aware on the day when Zass fluttered and hopped to her with a piece of meat, red, raw, of a nature to tempt the appetite. Simsa accepted the strip, examined it closely, discovering within a bluish mark which, she had no doubt, meant poison. It was from that hour that she began to think more constructively of her own future, of what she might do to climb out of the Burrows where she must now be ever on constant alert, not only for her own safety but for that of the creature she had come to value very highly.

Life in Kuxortal was layered in castes as well as by the mound of the city itself. A Burrower might lurk on the fringe of one of the least of the markets with his or her collection of salvaged bits and pieces, but such a meager trader could not even aspire to the smallest and most primitive of stalls. Thus, most of their trading must be done either through the outlets of the Thieves’ market, where they fared very badly indeed, or by trying to sell to a stall holder.

Since the coming of the skymen, there had been a second market established down by the edges of the fire-pocked field where their ships planted. But that was far too chancy to depend upon for any settled trading, since no one ever knew when one of the ships might arrive. Also, when it did, the rush was so great that few—only the very lucky—were able to get near enough to one of the crewmen to even show his wares. They might not hope to trade for the cargoes of such ships, those were haggled over by the Guilds, but crewmen often could be coaxed into buying strange odds and ends, carrying out small ventures of their own.

Simsa had made a habit of hanging about and watching such transactions, and thus she knew that what the starmen wanted most were curious things: old finds or objects which were particular to this world, and small enough to be easily stowed in what must be very crowded and limited space on board those ships, which had never been planned for the comfort of their crews, but rather to handle cargo valuable enough to make the long star flights profitable.

The cargoes they unloaded were varied also. Sometimes, such simply rested in some warehouse to be picked up again by another starship; in fact, that was most often the case. Simsa, from what she had overheard, was very sure that much of it was Thieves’ loot from a score of worlds—to be sold where it could not be traced.

On the hour Zass had brought her the poisoned meat and she knew that perhaps she would not even last over the few days left of the season unless she made plans which could outscheme Baslter and others of his ilk (who now held her presence among them to be a personal affront), the girl turned out Ferwar’s hidden treasures to examine them closely.

The old woman had had her own hiding places and most of those she had kept secret from Simsa also. But over the months since her death, with the aid of the zorsal’s keen sight, the girl had managed to uncover a number of them.

Their burrow was one of those which had originally been a portion of a house, long buried by debris from above. Simsa had often marveled at patches of painting which still clung to the walls in one corner and had wondered what it must have been like to have lived here when Kuxortal was lower and this house might have been even a portion of a High Lord’s palace. The wall itself was of sturdy stones, set in careful pattern, yet not as solid as they looked.

Now, she pressed at points here and there and then slid out what appeared to be intact stones, but were in truth shells of such, behind which were hollows from which she garnered all the contents, to spread these gleanings out on the floor and survey them critically to judge their market values.

Some that she knew or guessed might be of great value, though only to special buyers, she had to regretfully push aside, for Ferwar had collected old writings, pieces of stone on which were carvings of broken length, a few pieces of rotting leather scrolls which she had protected as best she could. Simsa could spell out some of those words, having been lectured on their value when Ferwar was in a good mood. Only none of them made sense. Now she bundled all those together and packed them carefully into a sack. Valuable to no one else, such just might be of interest to some starman, but she knew she had little chance of finding such a buyer. However, this was her day to check on her charges. If Gathar was in a good mood, she could perhaps sell these to him at a price which might make her inwardly rage but would be more than she could raise by any effort of her own.

Placing the bag carefully to one side, she concentrated on the rest of the plunder she had uncovered. There was more hope of bargaining over this on her own.

These were the best of Ferwar’s treasures and the Old One had never told where she found them, but Simsa remembered seeing them from her earliest days, thus they had been a long time in the old woman’s possession. The girl had often wondered why the Old One had not made some bargain—perhaps directly with Zack who was known to be a runner for the Thieves’ Guild and who was as honest as any such would be (especially if first he were blood sworn as Ferwar could insist, and had in the past).

There were two pieces of jewelry, a broken chain of thick links of silver—bearing at one end a long, narrow plaque set with pale stones. The other was a thick cufflike armlet certainly forged for the wearing of some man, also silver. It had a ragged break across it which destroyed part of an intricate pattern consisting of heads of outlandish monsters, most of which gaped wide to show fangs, those being insets of a crystalline, glittering stuff.

Both pieces came, Simsa was sure, from the far past. If she sold them to the wrong hands, they would go for the metal alone to be fed into some melting pot and so be forever lost. Something within her resisted the thought of that. She draped the necklet across her knee, and as she turned the armlet around in her hands, she thought.

There was one more thing—but that was her own find and she did not want to get rid of it. Also, it had come to her almost as a gift from Ferwar, though she was not silly enough to believe in such things. When she had gathered the rocks to pile over that thin and wasted body, she had seen a glint in the earth and scooped up what seemed to be a bit of metal, sticking it hurriedly in her belt pouch to be examined later.

Now, she brought this out, laying the armlet aside. It was a ring—but not a broad band, gem set, such as she had seen commonly worn in the upper city. In its way, it was cumbersomely made and awkward to wear. Still, as she slipped it now over her thumb (for that was the only finger it would fit), she eyed it with a fond feeling of possession. The band was fashioned of a silver metal, which apparently neither age nor exposure could darken or erode. Its form, jutting well up above the round of her own dark flesh, was that of a towered building wrought with minute detail—showing even a tiny stair which led to a doorway in one of the two towers. The smaller of those towers had been used to form the setting for a white-gray opaque stone as its roof. There was a vague hint in its styling of one or two of the more imposing buildings of the upper hill. Still, Simsa decided the ring was much older and of a time when there was much danger from raiders perhaps, and such structures were meant as positions of defense.

This was her own. It was not as beautiful as the other bits of jewelry, but something within her made her stare long each time she brought it forth. Sometimes, a queer idea crossed her mind that if she were able to lift the milky jewel which formed that roof on the second tower and peer within she would see—what? Strange forms of life busy about their own concerns? No, not this to be sold, she decided quickly as she rewrapped and returned it to her pouch.

Even as she put out a hand for the bag of Ferwar’s fragments with the plan of going straightaway to Gathar’s, there was a roar. The ground under her shook slightly, small bits of broken stone and dust shifted from over her head.

A starship had planeted.

Ferwar had spoken now and again of the luck which fate might dispose, even on those as lowly and portionless as the Burrow folk. Was this her luck arriving—so that on the very day, the moment when she had made up her mind to part with that which held the greatest worth, a ship had landed to offer her the best customers? She mumbled petitions to no gods, as some of those about her might. Ferwar had at times crouched over the fire basin, tossed a handful of larweed into the coals to puff out sweet smoke while chanting a sentence or two. However, the Old One had never explained to Simsa why she did so or what ancient power she might think would stir carelessly, if at all, to bring her an answer to such petition. Simsa had no gods, and trusted in no one—save herself, and Zass—and perhaps somewhat Zass’s two offspring, who at least would answer her calls. But in herself first and most. If she were ever to achieve any rise above the Burrows, out of this constant state of having to be on guard, it would not be by the wave of any god’s hand, it would be by her own determined efforts.

She slung the bag by its cord over one shoulder where the bones were sharply apparent and hissed gently at Zass, who made her crippled half-flight down to perch on the girl’s other shoulder. Then, after a quick look right and left at the opening of the Burrow, Simsa went out. It was still day, but she had taken the usual precaution of covering her hair and blacking her white brows. Her ragged clothing was drably brown-grey against the darkness of her skin and, as she went down the zigzag path to where the river water washed, she passed very light-footed and as unseen as she could hope to be in daytime. Though she could not be sure that she would have no followers, the zorsal would warn her if any tried to overtake her.

One could not approach the landing field of the starships too closely. All the town Guild officials would be there to greet the newcomer, their guards quick to drive off any save the representatives of those who had paid trader’s tax and so wore their proper badges about their necks. Simsa could not go there as yet, but she could visit the warehouse which was her regular place of call each fifth day. No one watching her so far might guess she was planning to leave the Burrows for good.

Already, her mind was busy with what she might do if she were able to part with the contents of the bag in the manner she wished. She would do the best bargaining possible, then go straight to the Thieves’ market to dicker for clothing which did not stamp her as a Burrower. She had three bits of broken silver in her pouch, turned up on a last rake through of a side tunnel where she had been engaged in delving earlier. Those were worth something even though they were but shapeless knobs of metal, that metal was not base.