Paul Collins - Earthborn The

Well, better now than never, she thought. She took a deep breath and got up. She edged her away around the square and down an alleyway beside the Maiden Flower.

She had no plan beyond ridding the world of Bruick. That he could be easily replaced by someone just as vile hadn't entered her mind. All she knew was that her sister had died trying to bring peace to the world, while Bruick had brought nothing but misery. Well, she planned to bring some misery of her own tonight!

At least she didn't feel conspicuous as she was swept along with the tide of carousing merrymakers. It was no hard task to swirl to one side as she passed a doorway and slip inside. When the door closed behind her, she realized she was in the kitchen. The smell of cooking oil was strong, the aroma wafting from a giant stewing pot. She stepped beside it and twirled the wooden spoon, which moved sluggishly as though through thick soup.

She was suddenly reminded that she hadn't eaten for a day now.

She quickly ladled a spoonful out, blew heartily, and swallowed. The broth wasn't as bad as she had expected. She'd swallowed three more mouthfuls when a voice behind her made her start.

"There ye be, wench. Git a move on, will ye, 'fore the lord flails ye alive."

Gillian regained her composure and turned with wide-eyed innocence. "But I'm new t' th' job, master,"

she said in slang. "There's been naught instruction on me chores."

The chef closed his eyes in exasperation. "The plates, girl. Take the plates an' take 'em up yonder stairs. Ye knock first, ye hear? Else ye'll lose ye hand sure as that," he said, making a chopping motion across his wrist.

"Aye, master," Gillian whispered timidly. Her heart was pounding heavily as she was ushered past the guard at the base of the stairs. She felt the eyes of the patrons appraise her as she swept past the top stair and halted at the first door on the right.

She glanced around, then banged resoundingly on the door. A muffled voice bade her enter. She balanced the tray of steaming broth with one hand and turned the wooden knob.

She had taken only two steps inside before the tray was taken roughly from her hands and she was knocked sideways.

She crashed against the wooden paneling and bounced headlong onto the floor. The side of her face went numb and a ringing filled her ear; the rest of her was beginning to paralyze with the shock of what had hit her.

"Aye, Master Bruick. That'd be the wench," said Patrick O'Shannessey.

Despite her reeling vision she managed to scramble up into a crouch, but firm hands clamped down on her from behind. "Traitors!" she spat.

"Watch her!" Mira warned.

Hands went straight to her left buskin and withdrew her knife. It clattered across the floor to where Patrick and Mira moved from its path as though it were a striking snake.

Gillian saw a man in his late teens hitch his pants and move slowly toward her. He was the ugliest person she had ever laid eyes on. Acrucifix had been crudely tattooed on his forehead, and there was a livid scar etched across his throat. Pieces of metal hung from his cheeks, lips, nose, and ears like fishhooks. He had a sharply cut black goatee that had straggles of gray in it. His clothes were threadbare and held together by a patchwork of safety pins.

"Me Bruick," he said mockingly. "What's your name, my little pretty?"

Gillian snarled. She looked past Bruick to where Patrick and Mira stood well back. They had no

doubt guessed at her deadly intent as she scrambled to her feet. She exhaled sharply as hands like claws dug into her shoulders and her arm was twisted painfully behind her back.

"It's her, all right," Patrick said from the corner. "Gillian. Sister of Sarah."

"You're dead," Gillian said icily. "All of you. Dead."

Bruick smirked. This gesture was an invitation for the others in the room to share his pleasure. Gillian counted five, plus maybe two behind her. She noted with fleeting satisfaction that Patrick and Mira appeared worried.

"Dead?" Bruick said. "I hear your big sister is dead."

Gillian writhed against the hands that restrained her. Her knife was tantalizingly close, but it might as well have been in the next galaxy.

Bruick frowned. He reached out and pinched Gillian's chin and brought her face around to catch the candlelight. "Yeah, I do see a little of your sister in you," he said. "The eyes, mostly. And maybe the nose." He followed her gaze to the knife on the floor. " 'Course, the temper speaks for itself, don't it, Gillian? Bad-tempered little thing. Like your dead dumb sister."

Gillian shook her head free of Bruick's hand. Her now swollen cheek began to throb. "You wouldn't know a thing about her," she said. "She was always too good for your sort."

Bruick's eyes widened and a smile touched his thin lips. "Is that right? Your sister and I go back a long way, little girl. Before you were even dragged into the world."

Gillian's heart began to thump. Earlier, he had seemed to be toy-ing with her, but now his mood had suddenly changed. His pupils narrowed to points, like those of a predator.

Held totally immobile, she could hardly twist her head to one side as Bruick kneeled down and came close to her face. His breath blew in short, ragged snorts that stank.

Gillian was aware of the metallic taste of her blood as it leaked from her lacerated cheek. She figured she'd lost a tooth, too.

Bruick ran his fingertips across her face. Then, as though having lost interest, he stood up. "Of course, now I have the problem of what to do with you." He turned to the others, firing off questions. "Why did she come here? Who sent her? What shall we do with her? Is she any good to us alive?"

His men muttered various replies.

Bruick spun back to her, plainly excited. He licked saliva from his lips. "The jury can't reach a unanimous decision. The judge decrees you be placed in the dungeons till I'm good and ready."

Gillian was yanked roughly to her feet and swung about.

"Don't damage her too much," Bruick warned her captors. "She hasn't been found guilty. Yet."

She spat blood at him, but it fell short. Her arm exploded with pain as it was jerked behind her back.

Clawing hands grabbed her hair, yanking her head back and exposing her taut neck.

What Bruick did next filled her mind with a seething red mist. He laughed. She could still hear the sound of his triumph as she was dragged through the tavern and into the cellar below.

The crowd had been waiting expectantly for Welkin to emerge from the Committee room. When he closed the door behind him it was something of a letdown. Instead of the usual speech after an important Committee meeting, Welkin simply smiled thinly and headed straight to his hut.

Elab watched the door close behind Welkin. No one said anything. After a moment, Zocky got up and went outside to make the customary speech. She was good at it.

Before Elab knew it, the others had left the table and he found himself pondering his team.

There was Devan. Elab had watched him grow these past few months. He was cautious, part Asian and stubborn as a mule, and once he'd made up his mind about something, that was it. Not a likable trait in a team member, but, like Gillian, it seemed the kid was often right.

There was Lars. Now Elab could easily have done without him. Quick to anger, he was nonetheless the strongest of the team and a damn good shot with the bow. He'd accounted for eight troopers and one heavy already, nearly "ace" status by Blab's reckoning. If he could just keep Lars busy, he'd be an excellent addition to the expedition.

There was Zocky. She was a little headstrong, like Lars, but with a fierce determination to prove herself better than any man. Elab smiled. She'd be constantly at odds with Lars, and that wasn't such a bad thing.