Skeen's Leap Read online

  Skeen spent the narrow remnant of the day in the market, buying a few things that would be useful when she went over the wall—a large unworked hide, thick and supple, nicely tanned, several large iron nails and a wooden mallet, a few other odds and ends. She carried the leather rolled over her shoulder as she continued wandering among the tables and booths and heaps, excited by just about everything she saw around her. Everything crafted by hand. Swords, knives, mail shirts and other specimens of the smith’s art. Bows of several sorts, arrow points (heavy multi-tanged hunting arrows meant for big game or armed men to small knobs meant to bring down birds). Reels of thread. Gold and silver wire. Papers of needles, papers of pins. Swaths of lace, ribbons. Wooden objects, from simple bowls to elaborate carvings. Glass mirrors and polished bronze mirrors. Lamps of horn and parchment, of glass and silver, the metalwork as fine as she’d seen anywhere, the silver inlaid with a delicate gold tracery in marvelous intricate whorls and webbing. Leather goods, saddles, harness, gloves, hats, boots, belts. A Rooner’s dream, a whole world to be plundered, a world no one could reach but her—well, almost no one. Not that these were ruins. But Rooners are flexible, (oh yes we are, we take our artifacts where we find them). She thought about old Yeoch. Someone might finally believe him. Ah well, I can take care of that later, haul him here, maybe, and dump him, he might like to see his Sessi again. She grinned at the thought.

  She nosed out a cookshop, got some meat pies and a mug of cider. When she finished eating, she went back to the room, stretched out on the bed and settled herself to sleep until it was time to go for the woman.

  Skeen went over the wall three hours after midnight.

  Flet and her fliers had mapped the routes the werehounds took as they prowled the city streets and tied their rounds to moon positions so Skeen could judge time by glancing at the sky. She couldn’t complain about the back-up; the Min went all out for her once the bargain was struck. In spite of that her trek to the Poet’s house was harrowing at times. She could hear howls a short distance away, once a chopped-off scream as a transient stupid enough to sleep in the street died under the jaws of werehounds. Worse than saayungkas, much worse. She shivered at the thought of deadly, intelligent beasts roaming the streets only a breath away from her, the senses and ferocity of the animals whose shapes they wore, the intelligence of a man directing that ferocity. But they had their patterns and ran them with a bored precision.

  One guard on the wall, asleep in his shelter by the gate. More a porter than a guard despite his mail shirt and crossbow. His snores announced his presence a dozen meters away.

  There were iron spikes and broken glass atop the wall. The spikes had once been sharpened to knife edges, now they were dulled by rust and long neglect; the glass had eroded to abrasive dust. She set the padded grapple on the spikes with a quiet ta-thunk, went up the rope with a few scrapes of boot soles against plaster, a rain of broken plaster to the pavement which she ignored, the sounds lost in the snores of the gateguard.

  She ghosted through the garden alert for traps or prowling werebeasts but it was deserted; a wandering breeze rustled grass and leaves and rattled windows. She slipped the latch on a window and boosted herself inside, feeling as light-hearted as a kid trashing an obnoxious neighbor. It was impossible to treat this with any kind of care though she did keep telling herself not to underestimate them. He won’t be guarded, Telka said, but this was ridiculous.

  A large empty room filled with pale gray light from the waxing moon. She prowled about, flashing a pinlight over any bit of shadow that seemed interesting. She slipped several small carvings and other bibelots into her shoulder bag, then went cautiously out the door.

  After exploring a few more of the groundfloor rooms, she decided the bedrooms were upstairs somewhere and the woman was most likely in the Poet’s bed. Telka said so, and she should know. Plenty more things down here she could pick up, but she had other business tonight. She left the tempting public rooms and started up the graceful free-floating spiral ramp that led to the next floor.

  On the second floor she went more cautiously. The Poet had a family, though the Min knew little about them. So they said. Doesn’t pay to be too mistrustful … they wanted Timka out of this place, the air in the court stank of it. She’d half expected the Synarc to add that she should kill the woman if she couldn’t get her clear, but they didn’t. Just as well, be a cold day on Vatra before she killed for hire.

  She found Timka and the Poet in the third room she visited.

  Big room, big bed in the middle of it. Lots of windows, the moon filled the huge room with its deceptive pearly light, giving her a good look at the sleeping Pallah once she crossed to the bed and stood gazing down at the man, walking ankle-deep in furs tossed about with a calculated abandon.

  He was a lanky soft-looking man with a fringe of sandy hair about a freckled bald spot, a jutting nose that dominated a face with little else to recommend it, long, rather flabby arms, a pot belly that made him took like a stick doll who’d swallowed an orange. He lay curled up as tightly as he could with that pot, his back pushed against a slight figure that had to be Timka. She was darker, tauter, a flow of tangled curls spilled across her face. A close duplicate of Telka as far as Skeen could tell. The little Min lay on her back, snoring now and then, wavery squeaks that Skeen decided would get very irritating if you had to listen to them long. The snoring stopped. Timka moved her arm, made a shapeless grunting sound.

  Hastily Skeen darted her, then the Poet. She clipped pinlights to her sleeves and began searching the room, taking her time, chuckling softly with pleasure as she scooped up brooches, rings for the fingers and ears, jeweled studs, coins, fancy pots and boxes—everything else that took her fancy, including three jeweled and embroidered cloaks. She grinned with satisfaction as she came across four swords with elaborately chased blades and jeweled hilts, four matching knives and sheaths. The blades were a fine steel with the wavy mottling that spoke of long patience and many folds, the kind of swords that brought premium prices at the submarkets. She looked over these prizes, glanced at the Poet. Vanity, ah vanity, where would I be without it. She grimaced. On that cannery line, packing fish and pregnant with some grunt’s kid. Djabo bless all vanity. She pushed the blades gently back into their embroidered begemmed scabbards and set them on the bed. Different swords for different occasions, color coded to match your outfits no doubt. She sniffed as she examined the lanky body with its soft sagging flesh. You look like it tires you out to climb in bed. She looked at Timka. Obviously I’m underestimating your talents. She shrugged. The smell of sex was still strong in here, the coverlet was kicked onto the floor. Timka, little Min, I strongly doubt you want rescuing. Not my problem. Nobody asked me to pay you heed. Mmm. Better get busy, the dark won’t last forever. She checked the ring chron. Couple of hours yet. No hurry.

  Working briskly, she dressed Timka in the shirt and trousers she’d brought from Mintown. She set Timka on the floor by the bed, then began cutting up the coverlet, cursing the dullness of the ceremonial knife; she could have used her own but she felt a strong aversion to the idea and trusted her instincts. Been wrong before, but nobody laughed. She wrapped Timka and the swords in half of the coverlet, used strips of tough silk sliced from the other half to tie and gag her first, then bind the bundle together, knotting the ends to make an awkward sort of sling. She shrugged the sling onto her shoulder and started from the room, her darter in her hand, the lanyard engaged. In the doorway she hesitated, then went back to the bed. You’re skinny enough, except for that pot, but the way my luck’s been running recently.… She darted him again, resettled the Timka bundle and trotted into the corridor, intent on getting out of the place as fast and with as little fuss as she could.

  Three strides down the hall. No warning except a low growl. With it, a weight slamming into her back, knocking her skidding along the polished wood. She crashed into a wall, cushioned by the small muscular body of the Min. The sword hilts digging into her side, she brough
t the darter up and around, more by instinct than will, then sprayed the hall with darts.

  Her head cleared. She got shakily to her feet and stood blinking down at a slim, dark-haired youth sprawled naked on the floor. Tame Min, she thought, better tuck him out of sight. She shrugged out of the sling, dumped Timka on the floor, caught hold of the boy’s ankle and began to drag him toward one of the rooms she’d looked into earlier and found empty. He slipped out of her grasp, turning to smoke that oozed between her fingers, reforming into a silver-shouldered wolf.

  With a hiss of annoyance she darted him again. The wolf smoked into boy and the boy gathered himself to attack. For the third time she pumped a dart into him, thought a moment, then darted him once more just to be sure. She finished dragging him into the empty room, watched him until he started to stir, put another pair of darts into him. The shifting apparently flushed the drug from the Min system. Something I’d better remember. Handy for poisoning, I suppose. She watched a moment longer, nodded with satisfaction. They had to be minimally awake to shift, so he was out now until the stuff wore off naturally. She thought about tieing him, then laughed at herself. He’d just ooze out of whatever she used. She frowned. Timka? She went hastily back into the hallway.

  The silk bundle moved a little. Shit. These Min and their impossible bodies. She pulled open the bundle, bared one of the Min’s arms and put a pair of darts into it. That should hold you long enough, I hope I hope. She got the sling over her shoulder again, pressed up onto her feet and went on, moving quickly but a lot more warily now, her senses stretched wide, nose flaring, straining to catch a trace of a Min, musky and tart, ears straining for the click of claws on the polished wood, the pant of a hunting beast. Each shadow tightened her muscles and ratchetted her tension higher, but she came across no more guards and gradually began to relax. If there were supposed to be more guards, they’d hunted out a comfortable corner and curled up to sleep. She thought about the youth of that Min as she quickstepped through the darkness; his youth was probably the reason he stuck to his task. As it was the reason, for sure, that he hadn’t called for help. His pride, his confidence in his strength and vigor kept him silent where an older, more seasoned guard would have howled alarm as he jumped her. But then, from what she’d seen, an older, more seasoned guard wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  She maneuvered Timka through the window she’d entered by, hung her over the sill while she wriggled out herself, laid her on the grass while she pulled the window shut. That kid she’d laid out upstairs, he’d be quick to sniff out her trail so there was no point in being tricky. Shutting the window wasn’t being tricky, just prudent. Even lazy guards stirred themselves occasionally, if just to take a leak; better to leave no stray drafts about to alert them.

  Timka on her shoulder again, she loped across the garden and into the shadow of the tree where she’d left the rope dangling. Same wind. Same soothing night sounds. Same snores from the gateguard. Clumsy noisy business, hauling herself and her burden up the wall, grapple groaning under the weight. Heavy load—maybe she’d got a bit too greedy, weighed herself down—but she was in good shape and if it’d done nothing else, the run from the saayungkas had toned her leg muscles.

  She crouched on the wall, hidden by the exuberantly leafy tree. If her reading of moonangle was right, a werepack was due past her right now. She scowled at the moon, chewed on her tongue, fidgeted impatiently. She wanted to get this job finished before luck turned sour on her. Hand on Timka’s hip. Still out, thank Djabo. Skeen squatted on the folded hide and waited. And waited. And repeatedly checked moonheight. She began to sweat. If those fuckin’ weres didn’t get by here soon, they were seriously off-pattern and her plans could easily go down the toilet.

  Sound of soft yips, almost like a code, scrabbling claws, panting. She sat very still, waiting, listening. The pack trotted along, came past where she squatted, moved on without stopping or changing the rhythm of their trot. She started breathing again. She looked at her ringchron, glanced at the moon, settled herself to wait for another quarter hour to let them get well into their round. She tried not-thinking, tried being an emptiness in Skeen-shape, but found she was looking at the chron every two minutes. After a dozen minutes she decided not to wait any longer, got the sling over her shoulder, and slid down the rope.

  She shook the grapple loose, started walking away, coiling the rope as she moved. Twice she heard howling, screams, shouts, then silence as a werepack ran down someone else. She started sweating, though the sounds were muted, distant, and the streets around her were empty and silent and stayed that way as she moved into the poor section, that thin ring of slum running around the whole city, pith to the wall’s rind.

  She found the alley she’d chosen during her earlier ramblings, dug out her climbing claws and started up the side of a corner house, nimble as a squirrel in spite of the awkward burden Timka made. The claws chunked into the soft wood with satisfying solidity, came out as they were supposed to. The world where that design originated was a long way from Kildun Aalda, but good ideas traveled far and fast in her circles. Kladdin delat’luvit took her to a brawny woman twice his size, Ellagin the Smith, and watched with interest as Skeen sketched what she wanted, then explained the sketch. While they watched Ellagin work, he asked her question after question about the folk who showed her how to make and use the claws, about all the different ways they used them, and when the claws were ready, he and Ellagin watched Skeen as she used them to climb one of the sentinel conifers.

  She clawed her way onto the roof, unhappy with the noise she was making, sat a minute on the ridge pole, folding the claws into the soft leather protectors and tucking them away. Afterward she moved from ridgepole to ridgepole, gliding with great care, making sure the flimsy structures would hold the double weight. The last house was squeezed against the wall, a tall thin anemic house that seemed to shudder with her every step. She heard howling again, a short distance off, and was happy to be up here where they weren’t likely to spot her.

  She balanced Timka’s body across the ridgepole, dug into her shoulder bag and found a small round box. She took the lid off, poked at the grains inside to see if they were loose enough, then had to choke back sneezes that made her eyes water and her head feel ready to explode. Strazhha said it would drive off a starving wolf pack, Djabo grant it chases away the massit horde. Let them spot live meat, Telka said, and they’d jump ten times their height to sink their teeth in it. She set her balance, hefted the tin, careful not to spill any of the powder, put the top on again, lightly enough that it would fall off at a touch, tossed the tin up over the baffle that kept the massits on the parapet.

  It hit with a loud rattle that made her wince. She heard squalls, high-pitched, pained, comfort to her soul, a scrabbling of clawed feet on the stone as the horde went rapidly away. She unclipped the rope from her belt, took the leather cover off the grapple, swung it in a wide loop, and let the rope slide through her hands as the iron claw soared up and over the baffle. She heard it land, jerked lightly on the rope, and felt it catch. She pulled harder. The grapple came loose and flew over the edge of the wooden wall. Hastily she pulled it to her, catching it before it hit the roof. She felt the points, mourned the steel from her universe. The claw was blunted and a little sprung. She scowled at it, rubbed her hands along the wall. If it wouldn’t catch in wood, no way would it hold on the granite. Well, try again. She whirled the grapple and loosed it. Again it seemed to catch, again it came loose when she put weight on the line.

  She stood very still a moment, her hands and forehead pressed against the cold stone, her eyes shut, calming herself. Then she moved back a pace, stood balancing on the ridgepole, frowning at the wall. A moment later she lowered herself and sat pulling the rope through her hands, figuring its length against the height and width of the wall. Obviously the baffle was no good; she was going to have to get the grapple all the way over and hook it under the outside overhang of the parapet. She coiled the rope again.
It has to work. I am not going to be sitting here come the dawn. She got slowly to her feet, set herself as solidly as she could, whirled the hook round and round until the rope was singing through the air; then with all the strength and skill she had in her, she set the grapple arching up and over the wall, letting the rope flow freely, not touching it but ready to catch it if it seemed about to flop out of reach. Up and up it went. Arching over.

  A large nighthawk caught the hook in its talons, dropped with it behind the wall.

  Skeen heard a muted cheer, glanced around. Folk in the house across the narrow alley were looking out the window watching her, applauding, not about to interfere. She grinned, sketched a bow, then forgot about them as she settled the bulging sling over her shoulder and began the difficult climb.

  She dropped to the ground with a grunt of relief, stood shaking her arms. Telka waited with two horses. She started to speak, but Skeen ignored her. She slung the Timka bundle across the withers of the riderless horse, swung into the saddle, snatched the reins from Telka, and kicked the beast into a run. When Telka caught up with her a moment later, a hundred questions in her mouth that Skeen didn’t want to hear, she lied swiftly, instinctively, “Werepack. Chased me onto the roofs. Got to get under cover.”

  They rode north to fool the Pallah who’d expect them to head directly for Mintown and most likely would chase that way, wasting time. The plan they’d worked out, sitting beside the lake watching Min-dolphins play, called for them to cut across the fields to the foothills and circle south through the mountains. The Pallah wouldn’t follow them into the mountains.