Jo Clayton: Moongather

The bed was soft; her body went limp, her last strength draining out of her. The Domnor slid off the bed. She could hear him padding about the room, still hadn’t put his boots on, then a short moment of silence, then the sound of boot heels as he stamped his feet down in the boots. “No,” she whispered. “No time.” She pushed against the bed, tried to sit up, could not. Her head was heavy; she had no force left in her muscles. “No.” She called on her stubbornness, that tough inner core of her being that refused to give in, shoved again and managed to sit up. Hern came around the end of the bed, stood scowling at her. “You don’t take orders well, do you.”

In her boot the tajicho was beginning to burn; on her brow the eye-spot began to throb. Ignoring Hern, she looked anxiously around the large battered room; the door into the passage hung open, the opening itself was a rectangle of black against the pale gold of the wood paneling. “Maiden bless, more…” With some difficulty she drew her leg up and rested her calf on her other knee. Thrusting her fingers into the boot’s top, she pulled out the small crystal and stared down at the fire glowing in its heart. “He’s coming here,” she muttered.

“Who’s coming?” Hern buckled, on his swordbelt then disappeared around the bed without waiting for an answer. He came back. “Here.” He tossed her a soft cap and a heavy cape. She stared at the cape then up at him. He was dressed in dark simple clothing, a tunic and close-fitting trousers tucked into mid-calf boots. He snapped a finger at the cape. “You’re a bit of a thing, but I’m not that tall myself. Who’s coming?”

“Some Nor. Can’t tell who or what rank.” She stuffed the tajicho back in her boot. “Another one. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait.” He dropped his cloak on the bed and began working his way purposefully around the room, opening small cavities in the wall, pulling out trinkets and gold coins, stuffing them into a large pouch he slung over his shoulder. Serroi moved shakily to the end of the bed, stood holding onto a bedpost, breathing deeply, feeling her head begin to clear as nearing danger stimulated her, helped her throw off the lethargy induced by the letdown after intense activity. She watched him a moment longer, said, “You don’t have to come with me.”

He grinned over his shoulder. “I’ve got a feeling, little meie, me, I’ve got a feeling that the Plaz ain’t too healthy for me right now.” He came back to her and took her arm. “I need a hole to dive into if I want to be alive come morning.” With a soft clucking of his tongue, he snagged the soft hat from the bed and pulled it down over her head. “You got any preference for where we go to earth?” Snapping the cloak out, he swung it around her shoulders. “You need a keeper, child. It’s pouring out there.” He took her arm and started for the opening in the wall.

Serroi patted a yawn. “Not a keeper, a bed. And sleep, a whole passage-worth of sleep. The fisher girl’s uncle has a tavern by the wall. If you pushed me, I’d say he dabbled in a lot of small illegalities, smuggling, buying stolen goods-you know.” She shrugged. “It’s a place to stay.” She felt a sudden flare of fire against her leg, something like a blow against her head. Swinging around, she stared at the door.

Floarin swept in, the Daughter and the Minarka Norit behind her. “Well, Hern,” she said.

The Domnor’s eyes moved over the three of them. He smiled tightly. “Greetings, Floarin.”

“You’re a fool, Hern. Always have been.”

“Suppose so. I should have known Lybor and Morescad didn’t have a brain between them. What now?”

“The Plaz belongs to me, Hern. No place for you to run. I wouldn’t bother keeping you alive, except that the Guard has this prejudice against a woman giving them orders. Relax, love. You’ll have a lovely comfortable life, just like mine used to be. Don’t keep fighting, this Nor’s no fool, not like that one.” She stepped aside, smiled up at the Minarka.

The Domnor unlaced his cloak and dropped it to the floor. Serroi caught his arm as his hand closed around the swordhilt. “No, Hern, not now. Let me.” She stepped in front of him, dipped down, slipped the tajicho from her boot.

The tall golden man was centered in a shimmer of power. Chanting in a sing-song polysyllabic tongue, he manipulated a loop of string through a series of increasingly complex patterns. Serroi felt the air thickening about her wrists and ankles. She caught her breath, brought her hands to heart level, opened her fingers. The tajicho burned like a miniature sun. Long thick strands of golden light issuing from the Norit’s hands looped out and around, then were sucked into the crystal. The strands stretched and stretched, spreading out in great spectral arcs springing from the Norit’s hands, curving to touch the walls, drawn in again into the tajicho. The air thrummed with the power precariously locked into the golden arcs.

With a sudden brazen twang the golden lines broke, snapped back, coiling round and round the Norit until he was helpless in a cocoon of light.

Serroi shoved the tajicho into her boot, slapped at the Domnor’s arm then dived into the passage, Floarin’s raging yells following her. As soon as Hern was through the opening, she tugged the panel shut and slapped the bolts in place. “Keep close,” she hissed and started off into the darkness. Behind her she could hear hoarse shrieks and thuds as someone began pounding at the exit. Hern laughed. She spared a moment to wonder what he was thinking and to be grateful for his quick unquestioning compliance with her commands.

They plunged down and around until Serroi’s legs ached. Down and around, then through the maze of passages on the ground level. The darkness grayed. The still air stirred, blew into her face. Flickering candles lit the last section of this rat hole. She pulled up suddenly as her eye-spot began to throb. Hern slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. “What…” He caught her shoulder and pulled her up.

“Man ahead,” she whispered. “Sleykyn, I think.”

“One?” His mouth was close to her ear; she could feel the warmth of his breath against her flesh; she was, abruptly, very aware of him.

“Yes.” She was trembling in a way that had little to do with the danger ahead and he knew it. He laughed, a soundless amusement she felt in quick puffs of air caressing her cheek. He caught her chin, turned her face to him, kissed her slowly, sensuously, until she sagged against him. Then her sturdy practicality reasserted itself. She wrenched her head away. “Fool,” she breathed. “Of all the times to…”

He laughed again, still soundlessly, his chest moving against her breasts. “My turn, little meie. Wait here while I take care of the thing plugging our exit.” He swung his cloak from his shoulders, dropped it over her and was gone before she freed herself.

She leaned against the wall, her nipples tight and sore. I can’t believe this, she thought. Maiden bless, what an idiotic thing to happen. She rubbed at her breasts but found no relief. AndIcalled him a fool.

“ Meie .” She started, stared at the figure silhouetted against a faint glimmering coming around the corner, relaxing as she recognized the short broad outline. “Come,” he said, his voice sounding too loud to her.

“Already?”

“Careless, half-asleep. No problem. Sleykynin are damned bad guards. Been one of my men, I’d have him flogged.” He touched her cheek. “About over. That bed’s waiting. Ready?” When she nodded, he lifted a hand and moved his fingertips across her eye-spot with a gentleness that startled her. “Any more ahead of us?”