Skeen's Return Page 14

  She forced herself to move quickly across the Hall, down the corridor and into the kitchen. Dimly she remembered the woffit that had nosed at the door, but there was no sign of him. Possibly he was one of those stretched out in the sitting room.

  Without bothering with neatness or too much quiet, she pulled open cabinets and drawers until she found a stack of cloths, old, stained, but clean and worn soft with much usage. With the help of her boot knife, she tore several of them into long strips, folded another into a pad and made a crude bandage for her hand, pulling knots tight with her teeth and her other hand. Every moment made the pain more insistent but she ignored it as she refilled the reservoir with water from a large crock sitting in a corner away from the ovens. Dizzy, half-fainting, she leaned against a worktable and tried to think. Apparently the fight hadn’t been as noisy as she’d thought; otherwise there’d be guards pouring in by now. She looked at the hand. No way I’m going to be climbing ropes with this. Well, a bit of luck—eh, Bona Fortuna, you’re overdue this night, what about dropping in for a visit, just a look-see, well?—I can get through the gates. She thought about the slave pens and nodded. No way am I going out without finishing there. She smiled at the thought of Tod’s consternation and the pain retreated before her pleasure. Or mixed with it? Djabo, am I going to be inviting this kind of nonsense from now on? Ah ai, I need to have a long talk with Picarefy. She’s sorted me out before.… Another sort of pain, a loss like a rip down her heart. Picarefy—ah, I can’t believe … he must have tricked you somehow. She shook off the ugly thought and straightened. Get to work, Skeen. Timka is going to be throwing triple fits if I don’t get out of here fairly soon.

  Dragging down on the hanging so the rings wouldn’t rattle on the rod, Skeen pulled it clear of the iron door. She took out her cutter and sliced through the lock’s tongue; inelegant and humiliating to be so crude about such a silly lock, but she hadn’t the time or energy or dexterity now to tickle the lock open and pander to her pride in her work. She tugged the door open and stepped in.

  The pinbeams flickering about showed her shelves from floor to ceiling, a chest at the far end. She fished out a stickum from her kit, clicked it onto the wall near the door and touched it on.

  Boxes on boxes, undecorated simple forms all made of wood rubbed to a high gloss—some flat like jewelry cases, some standing higher like miniature chests—they filled many of the shelves. Bibelots, glittering, gleaming, filled with sliding glows—gold, silver, bronze, shell, crystal, grown work from the Skirriks. Several swords and some knives. Rolls of canvas, probably more wall hangings, ones he only put out for special occasions. All of it made her tingle with wanting, but most was too delicate, too complex or too heavy to take along. She moved to the chest. Another lock. She squatted beside it, knocked her wounded hand as she lowered herself. For several breaths she clutched at the chest with her good hand, cradled the other on her thighs and wept with pain, shock, dizziness.

  The worst of the shock passed off; she pulled herself together and cut through the lock. Grunting with the effort, she pushed the lid up and looked inside. She smiled. The cavity was filled with small canvas bags, tied neatly at the neck with heavy cord, the knots sealed with red wax, a sigil stamped into the wax. She sliced one open and dumped out hexagonal gold coins, the Lesket Perpao mintage that wide-ranging Balayar traders had turned into something like universal exchange counters. She gathered them up and dumped them into the lootbag. One by one she opened the bags (not trusting Tod in any way, she needed to be sure she knew exactly what she had) and dumped the gold after the first coins. When the lootbag was three-quarters filled and about at the limit of her ability to haul it around, especially now when her strength was so depleted, she shut the chest and got unsteadily to her feet. Her knees went watery and she collapsed onto the lid. Djabo’s weepy eyes! Come on, Skeen, so you’ve got a bad hand and a throat so sore suffocating would be a pleasure, you’ve been through worse. Lost a little blood, so what. She passed her good hand across her face, surprised herself with a jaw-straining yawn. Oh fuck, it’s stimtab time, you know it, woman, you just don’t want to admit it. Willpower won’t do it, that’s obvious by now. So you pay for it later. Later’s when you’ve got the time. She dug out a stimtab, glared resentfully at the small gray-brown pill, tossed it to the back of her throat and swallowed it; she sat for several breaths waiting for the pill to act, then got to her feet and began inspecting the contents of the boxes. Jewelry. Some was fairly standard, diamonds and gold, fussy stuff; that she discarded without bothering to evaluate it; its weight wasn’t worth what it’d bring on the far side, too much floating about just like it. In one large flat box she found a massive gold chain, odd dullish stones set in every third link; each of the ungemmed links was engraved with a fantastically convoluted line, many of the details too small to make out, even when she moved a pinlight close and scanned the shadows. She clicked the lid shut and tucked the box into the lootbag. The bag’s flap couldn’t be buckled down over it but she ignored that and went on searching. Another box held triangles of jet, Skirrik work; someone had killed an old male and pried loose his jet inlays. Each piece was intricately carved, low relief, semi-abstract plant forms. They felt warm, vibrant, as if the life of the old Skirrik had passed into them. She closed the lid, hesitated, but put the box into the bag. They were lovely things and she knew a buyer who’d salivate over them. Very tempting to take them and keep quiet about it, but the one rule she never broke was don’t hit on your friends; in spite of the compromises life forced on you, real friends were rare and to be cherished. And you had to live with yourself. The Skirrik hadn’t harmed her; no, they’d gone out of their way to help her; besides, she liked Chulji, he was a good kid. Bona Fortuna/Mala Fortuna, she wasn’t leaving this with Tod the Creep. Chulji could have it and do what he wanted with it. She opened one of the thicker boxes and stopped breathing for a minute. Ancient Min work, drawn silver brooches and rings set with ovals of crystallized resin that glowed blue then green then purple and released a subtle scent when she warmed it with her hand. Sweetamber. She recognized it for she’d got a tiny flawed piece of sweetamber set in a stab pin of a ring brooch as part of her pay for extracting Timka from Dum Besar and the Poet’s bed. Feeling a little lightheaded, she grinned down at the treasure in the box and made the warding circle, a tribute to Bona Fortuna and an attempt to chase away the bad vibes that sniffed about her gifts. She clicked the lid down and shoved the box into the bag. Mala takes, Bona gives—almost like it was a payment for sticking to principle and giving up thief’s right to the jet. She looked around at the unopened boxes, sighed. The bag was full and there was some question about whether she was going to be able to haul it out. It was heavy, yes, heavy was the definitive word. She sat on the chest, got her uninjured arm through the strap and heaved. With considerable effort she got the strap over her shoulder and managed to stand. She giggled; there was a pronounced list to the left. She collected the stickum, clicked it off and put it away. Forcing her bandaged hand to work, she got out the darter and held it along her thigh. Anything that came at her she’d have to deal with at a distance. Not much fight left in this poor old body.

  She glanced at the woffits and the handler as she went past. The darts would hold them for two, three hours more. Probably. Anyway, long enough for Domi to get us well away from Cida Fennakin. She pushed past the arras and cut across the Great Hall, moving as steadily and quickly as she could; already the strap was biting into her shoulder and every time the bag tapped into her hip, it jarred her whole body, starting new waves of pain out from her wounds and bruises. It offended her sense of herself to be so slapdash; ordinarily she would have closed and locked the strongroom door, drawn the curtain over it; ordinarily she would have taken time to close and rebar the refectory door, but she couldn’t spare the energy or the time; she slipped out the kitchen door and stepped into a thick swirling fog, couldn’t even see her own feet. She crossed to the wall and the door that led from the private qu
arters into the guards’ quadrangle. It was barred on this side, but it had no lock. She slid the bar out of its hooks and pushed cautiously at the door.

  For all her care, the hinges squealed; she stopped being careful, shoved the door open and ran through, counting on the fog and the darkness to conceal her; the only concession to caution she made was to stay close to the midwall where the shadow was thickest until she reached the watchtower by the slave pens; Timka had reported that the guards passed into the auction section through the tower, matched doors standing open during the day. Skeen sliced her way past both locks and stood trembling in the corner where the tower met the pen.

  She slipped the loot bag off her shoulder, worked arm and shoulder to get some feeling back in it; she was faintly sick and wholly drained; she leaned against the pen wall and wondered how she was going to get going again. She touched the bag with her toe. I should really get the hell out and not bother with fancy flourishes. That’s the sensible thing to do; those gits in there probably wouldn’t thank her for interfering. No doubt they’d be a lot worse off it they were turned loose—starve to death or freeze. Trouble was, none of that changed her determination to cut them loose and goose them out of their security chains; she was doing it for that angry hurting child that lived somewhere down in her gut, she was doing it because she wanted to kick Tod where it hurt, she was doing it because … fuck all that, she didn’t care why, she just knew it was something she had to do.

  Faint susurrous, flutter of air across her face, Ti-owl landing in front of her, shifting to Pallah. “You all right, Skeen?” Timka moved closer, sucked in a breath as she caught sight of the bandages, a small sharp sound that made Skeen wince. “I knew I should.…”

  Skeen cut her off with a quick irritable wave of her good hand. “I’m fine, Ti. Don’t fuss.” She spoke in a low mutter that made Timka lean closer so she could hear. “I made some noise coming out. You notice anything, anyone stirring?”

  “No. I heard woffits howling a while back, but things have been quiet since.”

  Skeen rubbed at her throat. “Must have been when I put their handler out.”

  Timka sniffed. “Looks like he nearly put you out.”

  “She … what am I doing arguing gender? Ti.…” She straightened, swayed, flattened her good hand against the wall to keep from falling over. “Shit, I’m weak as a five-minute cub. Ti, the wickets in the gates over there, get them open, will you? I know they’re locked, here.” She fished out the cutter, gave it to Timka, showed her how to operate it. “Bring that back here when you’re finished.”

  Timka came swimming from the fog, held out the cutter. “Open.” She shivered. “Miserable night. I’m going to put on some fur.”

  “Wait.” Skeen bent over, biting back a groan, lifted the bag. “Take this out first, put it somewhere you can keep an eye on it; better wrap Angelsin’s cloak around it. I don’t want her tied into this, she’s too close to us. I’ll be along in a minute or so.”

  “What? Let’s get out of here now, there’s nothing more we can do.”

  “Scat. I’m going to turn the slaves loose. No, don’t argue, waste of time.” Skeen started walking away along the wall, moving toward the entrance she’d unlocked at the beginning of this bungled business. She smiled as she heard Timka sputtering, then a sigh, a scrape of feet as the little Min accepted the inevitable.

  Skeen’s head swam; chills were beginning to travel along her bones. Fuckin’ woffits, filthy mouths. I should do something about this; she fumbled at her belt, leaned against the wall, closed her eyes. Got to get through this first, yes, I’ll worry about my hand soon as I have some real time to deal with it. She pushed away from the wall, tugged the door open and stepped into a broad, bare, very clean, lamplit corridor. Very little stench; that surprised her. No, no, old girl, you’re thinking of contract labor depots, there it doesn’t matter what the carks look like as long as they can stand up and move the proper fingers or other appendages. This world might be primitive, but don’t go thinking the folk here are stupid; they know healthy livestock when they see it and clip the price otherwise. Wrought iron lamps hung from black chains attached to a heavy iron grating high overhead Smell of heat, burning oil. Doors marched down both sides of the corridor, planks bound with black iron, square air holes high up in each door with their own smaller grates.

  Skeen swung along the corridor trying to ignore the various ills that elbowed about under her skin. The stim tab was working hard. She was jittery and in between the shakes got jabs of energy that unfortunately ran out of her almost immediately. Like I got a hole in my heel. Body’s leaking, that’s what it is. Yeah, for sure, got a leak somewhere. Leak in my hand, oh shit, it hurts. Forget it, Skeen; think about Tod’s face tomorrow when reports start coming at him from all over. She stopped before the last door on the right, sliced the cutter beam through the bolt and tugged it open.

  Skeen, Skeen, get your head together; she’d expected to find slaves chained hand and foot and laid out on cold bare stone. Remember, this is prime stock, meant to bring in the gold Nochsyn Tod loved to fondle. She shivered as icy cold air slipped past her.

  Seven Aggitj extras stretched out on clean straw spread on shelf cots a good meter off the floor. The floor was another grating, like animal cages she’d seen, meant to let wastes drop below. That was where the cold air came from; she could hear the muted sound of water flowing down under it, how delightfully hygienic.

  The boys were sitting up, the one on the cot nearest the door smoothed down his kilt, then passed his hands over his silvery not-hair. He blinked at her. “Who?” The word was heavily accented, almost garbled.

  Skeen felt a chill sinking that had nothing to do with the wind that slid around her. Maggí said lots of Backlanders never got near Min or otherWavers and had at most a few words of Trade-Min; Djabo’s nimble tongue, what if she couldn’t talk to him. Her jaw started quivering as much from tension as cold. “B-Bona Fortuna,” she stammered. Her lips felt stiff, hard to control. “Come to k-kiss your hand. Lifefire, Aggitj, who the hell could I be, looking like this coming this time o’ the night?” Running off my mouth like this, she added to herself and shut her teeth on the flood of comment gathering down her throat. Djabo bless, look at the boy grin, I think he’s got it, at least he’s not ear to ear ivory.

  ‘Unfriend to Tod?” Again the words were fractured by his accent, but she could understand them; that was all that counted.

  “You might say that.” She swayed. In spite of the heroic efforts of the stimtab she was beginning to fade in and out, better get done with this. “Listen,” she said, “I’m going back along this hall here and I’m going to slice open all the locks. Then I’m going out the gate, the one they maybe brought you in through.” She straightened her shoulders, tried to chase the fuzz from her head. There were things she had to say; in her mind, somehow, these slaves had turned into an omen of her own success or failure. If they won loose and stayed loose, maybe so could she and there’d be some simple happy explanation for Tibo running off with Picarefy and leaving her stranded; Djabo’s kinks, this is ridiculous—no meaning, no omen, no whatever. She forced herself out of that muddle and came close to snarling when she saw the concern on the young Aggitj’s face. “You’ll be clear, you Aggitj, once you make the local Slukra. From what I hear even the Funor don’t mess with it.” She closed her eyes, swallowed, propped herself against the jamb. “The others, tell ’em … tell ’em to keep low and get the hell out of here, don’t wait around for Funor guards to come looking for them. Y’unnerstan? Good. Good. Best way’s south along the river. North you got farms, they’ll turn in runaways there. South’s best long as you stay away from the mines.” She yawned, a jaw-cracker that sent her sagging against the jamb.

  The Aggitj nodded.

  “Um … one thing more, do me a favor, huh? Wait a tick or two before you come out. Lemme finish with the locks.” She rasped her tongue over dry lips. “’N keep back. Follow me close ’n I get nervous, might
do something, you catch?”

  “I hear you, Bona kai Fortuna.” He swept her a graceful bow.

  “Aggitj,” she muttered and started off. Because she didn’t bother opening the other doors, the job was done in a few minutes; she went out the entrance, a murmur of voices getting gradually louder behind her. She hesitated before leaving the shelter of the entranceway, but there was little to see and less to hear. Shudders passed in waves along her body while her hand was so hot she feared the bandage would start smoldering. Fuckin’ fine fever, she told herself and giggled at the alliteration.

  A shadow in the fog, coming at her. She fumbled for the darter.

  “Skeen.” A murmur soft as the pulse beating in her ears; she slumped, her knees went liquid, she cursed under her breath (which seemed to help a little). A small hand closed around her arm. She heard a soft gasp as Timka felt the heat in her.

  “You finally ready to go?” There was more than a touch of acerbity in Timka’s voice.

  “Ready. Ready.” She grimaced, forced herself to take one step, another, another. The hand left her arm and the shape beside her changed, a cat-weasel padded beside her, long and lithe and lethal. And voiceless, something she was happy about, she wasn’t interested in hearing Timka’s views on her shortcomings. She pulled the wicket open and sent Timka through ahead of her with a quick jerk of her hand.

  The cloak-wrapped lootbag was, leaning against the wall in the short area between the gates. Timka trotted on through the second wicket and waited outside in the street while Skeen knelt, slid the strap over her shoulder, then began the effort to get on her feet again. When she was up, she wiped the back of her good hand across her forehead; she thought vaguely about shooting some amvarban into her swelling hand, but Timka thrust her head back through the wicket and growled at her. She forgot about the shot and stumped out after the cat.