The Forerunner Factor (6 page)

“Put out your finger!” the girl commanded, making a gesture to the zorsal. The off-worlder look at her for a long moment and then obeyed.

The creature’s long neck stretched, her pointed snout, ringed round with fangs, two of which were hollow and filled with a poison which could make a man suffer for hours, approached that finger. Then the antennae flicked down, the tip-ends just touching hand and finger for a second.

Zass turned her head on her hunched shoulders, made a guttural sound. Simsa drew a deep breath. This was a new thing between them and it had been used only two or three times before—each time proving that Zass was right in her estimation of the good or ill will of those so tested. There was still the fact that this was an off-worlder and so some strangeness in him might not register properly for the zorsal, but as far as Simsa could now see, she had very little choice anyway. She could only protect herself in so much.

“Do not tell Gathar of me, or of why you want the silver. Get large pieces, not broken bits from him, and say that you could not find me. Exchange then the takals for bits. Then bring them to—” Not to the Burrow—she had no intention of returning there ever if she could help it. But earlier, after she had put on her new clothing, she had done some scouting of the inns in the lower regions and had marked down one she had thought might serve her purpose—The Spindwaker. It sheltered river traders, but this was not the season when it would be crowded and it had a reputation for not encouraging brawling. Also, the Wifekeeper there paid her dues regularly to the Thieves’ Guild and those within its walls were safe from pilfering. Swiftly Simsa told the off-worlder of the place and how to find it.

“What do you fear?” he asked quietly when she had done.

“Fear? Enough of everyone and everything to make as sure as possible I keep breath in my body,” she told him sharply. “This world teaches one sharp lessons: learn or die. I shall expect you before the dawn gong—will that be so?”

“As close to that as I can make it,” he agreed.

Simsa slid out of the booth, scooping the zorsal up as she went. The sooner she was undercover in her proposed shelter for the night the better. Though in the streets, now dusk filled, she could depend upon the zorsal to give alarm of any who might follow either to spy or to rob.

When she leaned against the half-opened shutter of the cubby in the inn, she was torn between walking, or rather stealing forth, from her present room or waiting for the dawn gong and the off-worlder. Simsa had no liking for such risks as she believed she might be running now. She could watch the street below for a goodly length in both directions while the zorsal perched on the edge of the shutter itself, its head bent at what might appear an impossible angle, gazing with the same intentness, and, the girl knew, far better night sight.

There was an over-abundance of shadows along the way. Here in the lower town, the lamps were well apart both for reasons of economy and the desires of those both dwelling and walking here after nightfall. She had marked carefully the comings and goings of a few. But she was sure that perhaps others made far less visible journeys which she was not aware, for the zorsal had picked up at least three such.

Since there was no reason for the off-worlder to come with any great stealth, she did not allow herself to do more than catch a quick breath or two at the quivering of Zass’s extended antennae and try to judge, by the movements of those slender wands, who passed. She thought once she caught a shadow, but that was all.

In her room, she had blown out the lamp as soon as the frowsy maid had left. Then, with Zass’s small grunts as a guide, explored it with care, assessing its dimensions by feel and an odd impression of proximity which she had learned during her working with the creature now riding on her shoulder.

Though she could not in all earnestness say why she felt so uneasy, it was like a warning of trouble to come and, against any such, Simsa prepared in her own way. She had made three circuits of the small room, the first slow and tentative, the last with the sureness of one walking a well-known path. After each, she paused for some time to watch out of the window.

The off-worlder had offered what was to her a fabulous price. His eagerness without the process of bargaining made her suspect he might have given even more. But greediness itself was a threat, and one she would not bring down upon herself. She still had the jewels, too. The Old One’s treasure was a goodly inheritance indeed.

There was someone coming, walking plainly down the middle of the narrow, cobble-paved street. He came with confidence and as he passed beneath the light of the second lamp from the first corner, Simsa identified the fitted body-suit of a starman.

Only—

Zass’s antennae stiffened, the zorsal rumbled a low note of warning. As the starman came on, Simsa pushed the closer to the window, knowing well that her dark face, from which she had not rubbed the soot that overlaid her brows and lashes, could not be sighted by any watcher below.

Six paces such as his long legs would take, a little more, from the outer door of the Spindwaker’s and a shadow detached itself from another doorway diagonally across the way. With a leap like that of a throat-slashing ver-rat, the lurker was on the man she waited for, hurling feet inward in one of those maneuvers practiced by night runners, so that boots, especially made for the purpose with four heavy thicknesses of hide, would strike against the back of the intended victim’s legs, sending him forward in a helpless crack against the cobbles.

Thus, the attacker planned. Only, when he would have thudded home to complete his skillful and long practiced attack, this victim had moved with a matching speed slightly to the left. Only one of those boots struck, as at the same time, the off-worlder spun about and brought a hand chopping down.

Simsa’s hand struck out into the night air in turn without her quite realizing that she did so (unless she could not bear to so easily lose the only fortune she had ever come even promise-close to obtaining). Zass, though her flying skill had never been restored since her wing had mended, was still not altogether lost in the air. The zorsal’s claws scraped the girl’s arm as she ran down its length, Simsa holding steady until the creature took off in a fluttering downward spiral which was far from the beautiful, exact swoops of her progeny, but which landed her near upon the struggling men below. Simsa turned and grabbed for a weapon—the extinguished lamp on the table. Pushing that, dripping its oil down her, into her broad girdle, she flung the shutter wide and followed the zorsal out.

There was a narrow ledge, which she had earlier marked, running to the edge of the inn’s front wall. From that. it was easy enough to swing to the pavement, land with the expertise she had learned years earlier. Once she had shaken off the jar of her meeting with the cobbles, she was on her feet and running.

There came a screech from the entanglement on the pavement. Simsa nodded to herself. As silent as any night thief, the unexpected attack of a zorsal was something which could tear worse than that cry out of him if Zass was given a fair opening to go for throat, face or eyes.

Before the girl reached the fighters they had separated.

One lay in a huddle on the ground, but the one who had risen to his feet was clearly the off-worlder. There were voices now—Simsa reached the two and the man turned, crouching, ready to attack just as she got out:

“Come, star rover!” She caught at the arm which was rising to aim at her, held on while she stooped and dropped her heavy burdened sleeve for the zorsal to catch at and climb so swiftly that its claws tore well into even that stout material.

Then with her fingers sliding down the man’s arm to close about his wrist, she jerked him towards the other end of the street.

“We run!” she said and gave an extra pull to the wrist she held as a way of urging him on.

He did not stop to question her and for that she was thankful as, still hand linked, they dodged into a side street, found the wide door of the inn’s ware entrance and that gave to the nudging of her shoulder. Since there were no rivermen here to leave their cargoes in the cubbies provided, she had made very sure earlier that the bar was loosened to aid in an unseen going or coming. The Burrowers’ instinct that one must always have two entrances at least to every hole had brought her to make this discovery and prepare to take advantage of it.

Inside, she led her companion up the back stairs to the upper-roofed but unsided gallery and so through a hall and into the room. Even as she dropped the bar of that into place and was free to jerk the dripping lamp out and smack it down on the uncertainly legged table, she could hear movement, low voices, and a clatter in the street.

The zorsal fluttered toward the now open window where Simsa, brushing past the off-worlder, was also a moment later.

There were men below—at least three of them—gathered around one who lay groaning on the pavement. Coming with stick lamps down the street were peacemen—who never ordinarily ventured into this district at all. Simsa’s eyes narrowed almost as did Zass’ when the sun struck them. There was no reason for the Guild Watch to come—who had summoned them? The one cry the assailant had uttered could not have reached over five streets, up one wide avenue, to their usual patrol route. Even if it had, they would have taken no note since that sounded from the lower town. The Thieves’ Guild had their own watchmen—so—

“Arfellen’s men—” He spoke in a whisper which was uttered so close to her that his breath could be felt against her cheek. She started, unaware that he could move so silently as to come up beside her without her noting.

Lord Arfellen! So sure was she that the attacker had been one of the Thieves’ Guild that at first the name he had uttered meant nothing to her. Then she saw in the blaze of the stick torches gathered in a knot about the man still lying on the pavement (some of those about him had managed to get away before the arrival of the watch guard, but two were having their arms twisted expertly behind their backs, nooses drooped over their heads) that these same guards wore shoulder badges not of the Guild itself but of some lord’s personal following—

Arfellen! Without thought, Simsa whirled, her claws unsheathed, ready to tear to ribbons this fool who had brought down upon her such disaster. She heard her own guttural sound of sheer rage, not unlike that cry of Zass’s when the zorsal was about to attack. Her claw nails caught—once—and then there was a grip of iron about her thin wrist; expert in defense as she was, she could not break that grasp. He twisted her arm about and up behind her shoulders with the same ease that the guard below made sure of their prisoners. Next he would march her down the stair, join her to that sorry company and what she could expect waited beyond!

Simsa shivered and hated herself for shivering. However, instead of jerking her around and pushing her towards the door she had so lately barred, he instead pulled her closer to him. His other arm came up about her waist holding her a vise of bone of flesh strength such as she had never met before, once more then he whispered, his breath once more warm against her cheek.

“Be still!”

Completely bewildered, Simsa tried to understand. Was the starman not going to claim protection from one of the foremost and most powerful guild lords? Surely that squad below who had come so swiftly after the attack on him must have been sent for his benefit. It was well known that the off-worlders were not to be touched in Kuxortal—they were not to be considered natural prey by anyone, high or low.

Yet this one did not call down to his would-be deliverers. He was acting instead as might a man who had something to hide, or someone to fear. Slowly, Simsa relaxed a little, no longer tensing her whole body against his prisoning hold.

4

No one approached the inn door nor the doors of any of the other buildings though Simsa fully expected them to come searching for this off-worlder. Why else would the personal guard of one of the highest of the Guild Lords trail him to this lower level? She stood unresisting now in his grasp watching the men gather up the one lying on the street, forcing at least two of their other captives to carry him, or rather half drag his limp body between them, as the whole party started up slope the city above.

Zass had flown over to hang on the shutter, her antennae fully extending towards what was happening below. Now, as the guards went on their way, the off-worlder released the girl and reached out to swing the shutters to, leaving them in darkness.

“What do you do here?” Simsa broke the silence of that darkness first. She had to know what he was involved in in order to prepare for her own defense.

“What I promised—to bring you this!”

She heard a rustle in the dark, then a clinking from where the table must stand.

“Here is the reckoning between us.”

She felt her way to the table, sought the lamp. A goodly portion of its content had gone on her when she had seized it up as a possible weapon. She stank of its thick odor. Now she clicked a fire-spark and set what was left to its work. There was indeed a pouch, a fat pouch, on the table top. On the other side of the board stood the off-worlder watching her through eyes which seemed now to be the narrowest of slits.

Simsa made no move to touch the pouch. To be drawn further into this stranger’s affairs, even just to the point of selling him what he wanted, was the last thing she desired. Yet—they had made trade bargain—and no one save he, she, and the Old One (in her time) knew of the two pieces Simsa carried. She was very certain that if they did trace what she had sold Gathar back to her, they could not fix on this second sale. She would leave here before dawn, using that same back way—or even the house tops if she must. Still—she had to know.

She used her oil sticky fingers to free the wrist band of her sleeve, seek out the carvings, not looking at what she did, rather keeping a wary eye on the other. He had not moved and his hands, free and empty, hung in plain sight.