Robert Asprin - Wings of Omen

"My niece is confused about her sex," Molin sneered. "Can a common gladiator guard the Prince better than the garrison? Or the Hell-Hounds? Or our Beysib allies?"

She shook back her long blonde curls and set a circlet of gold on her brow to hold the hair from her face. Mounted on the circlet so it rode the center of her forehead was a golden sunburst, the symbol of the god Savankala. "I am no common gladiator," she reminded him coldly, "as you well know, old weasel."

Much as she regretted ever telling him, Molin was the only man to share the secret of her dream and the rewards given to her by the chief of the Rankan pantheon. Himself. But she was very young then, only fourteen, and could be forgiven the foolish confidence. He was a Rankan priest; who better to tell about the dream and Savankala's visitation and the three wishes he granted her? Moi . had tested her; he knew the truth of her dream.

She ran her hands teasingly over her breasts, reminding him of the first of those wishes. "Did I not grow into a beauty. Uncle? Truly, Savankala has blessed me."

She saw her father frown. To him, her words were mere boastfulness. Though he disapproved, he was used to such from her. He leaned his bulk against the doorjamb. "You're going out?" he said, indicating her dress.

"It's nearly dark," she answered. "I'm goings to the temple. Then, there's a lot to leam about this city." She turned that mocking smile on Molin. "Wasn't it you. Uncle, who told me nighttime is best for prying secrets?"

"Certainly not!" he snapped indignantly. "And if you go out dressed like that you'll find nothing but trouble. Some of the elements in this town would kill just for those clothes, let alone that fancy sword or that circlet."

She went back to the open chest, produced two sheathed daggers, and thrust them through the ornamental straps on her thigh. "I won't be alone," she announced. "I'm taking Reyk."

"Who's Reyk?" Molin asked Lowan Vigeles. "One of those giants you brought with you?"

Lowan just shook his head. "Take care, child," he told his daughter. "The street is a very different kind of arena."

Chenaya lifted a hooded cloak from her chest and shut the lid. As she passed from the room, she raised on tiptoe to peck her father's cheek. She gave nothing to Molin Torch-holder but her back.

It wasn't sand beneath her boots, nor was there any crowd to cheer her on, yet it was an arena. She could feel the prey waiting, watching from the shadowed crannies and gloom-filled alleyways. She could hear the breathing, see the dull gleam of eyes in the dark places.

It was an arena, yes. But here, the foe did not rush to engage, no clamor of steel on steel to thrill the spectators. Here, the foe skulked, crouched, crawled in places it thought she couldn't see: tiny thieves with tiny hearts empty of courage, tiny cutthroats with more blade than backbone. She laughed softly to herself, jingling her purse to encourage them, taunting them as she would not a more honorable foe in the games.

They watched her, and she watched them watching. Perhaps, she thought, ;// throw back my hood and reveal my sex.... Yet she did not. There was much she had to do this night and much to leam.

The Avenue of Temples was dark and deserted. She located the Temple of the Rankan Gods easily, a grand structure that loomed above all others. Two bright flaming braziers illumined the huge doors at its entrance. However, hammer as she might with the iron ring, no one within answered. She cursed, m the capital the temples neverclosed. She slammed the ring one last time and turned away.

"Father of us all," she prayed tight-lipped as she descended the temple stairs, "speak to me as you did that night long ago." But the gods were silent as the city streets.

She paused to get her bearings, and realized the high wall on her right must be part of the Governor's compound. The park on her left, then, would be the Promise of Heaven, or so she had heard it called earlier as she rode past it to her home. There, men who could not afford a higher class of prostitute haggled for sexual favors from half-starved amateurs. She shrugged, passed the park by, following the Governor's wall until she came to another street she recognized from her day's tour, the Processional.

She stopped again, looked up at the sky, and marveled at how brightly the stars shone over this pit of a city. Though she prayed to Savankala and swore in his name, the night fascinated her. It had a taste and a feel like no other time.

She whistled a low note. A fleet shadow glided overhead, eclipsing stars in its path, and plummeted. She extended the arm on which she wore the manica, and Reyk screeched a greeting as he folded his wings and settled on her wrist. She smacked her lips by way of reply and attached a jess from her belt to his leg.

"Do you feel it, too, pet?" she whispered to the falcon. "The city? The dark? It's alive." She smacked her lips again and Reyk fluttered his wings. "Of course you do." She looked around, turning a full circle. "It seethes in a way Ranke never did. We may like it here, pet. Look there!" She pointed to a shadow that slipped furtively by on the opposite side of the street. She hailed it; it paused, regarded her, moved on. Chenaya laughed out loud as it passed into the gloom.

With Reyk to talk to, she wandered down the Processional, amazed how the few strangers she spied crept from doorway to doorway in their efforts to avoid her. She walked in the middle of the paving, letting the moonlight glint on the hilt of her sword, both a temptation and warning to would-be thieves.

A peculiar odor wafted suddenly on a new breeze. She stopped, sniffed, walked on. Salt air. She had never smelled it before; it sent a strange shiver along her spine. The sea was often in her thoughts. She dreamed of it. Her steps faltered, stopped. How far to the wharves, she wondered? She listened for the sound of surf. In the stories and tales, there was always the surf, foaming, crashing on the shore, pounding in her dreams.

She walked on, sniffing, listening.

At last, on the far side of an immense, wide avenue she spied the docks and the darkened silhouettes of ships in port. Bare masts wagged in the sky; guy lines hummed in the mild breeze that blew over the water. No crashing surf, but a gentle lapping and creaking of wooden beams made the only other sounds. New smells mingled in the air with the salt: odors of fish and wet netting, smoke from fishermen's cook fires or from curing, perhaps. She could not spot the fires if they still burned. Only a dim-lighted window here and there perforated the dark.

Chenaya moved quietly, every nerve tingling, over the Wideway and down one of the long piers. There was water beneath her now: the boards rocked ever so slightly under her tread. Above, the moon cast a silvery glaze on the tender wavelets.

She swept back her hood. The breeze, cool and fresh on her skin, caught and billowed her hair. She threw back her cloak and drew breath, filling her lungs with the briny taste.

A shadow rose unexpectedly before her. Her sword flashed out. Screeching, Reyk took to the sky as she released his jess. She fell back into a crouch, straining to see.

But the shadow was more startled than she. "Don't hurt me!" It was the voice of a child, a boy, she thought. "Please!" It raised its hands toward her, palms pressed together.

Chenaya straightened, sheathed her blade. "What the hell are you doing out here?" she demanded in a terse whisper. She had never killed a child, but had come damned close just now. "When so few others have the guts for venturing out at night?"

The little figure seemed to shrug. "Just playing," it answered hesitantly.

She smirked. "Don't lie. You're a boy, by the sound of you. Out thieving?"

The child didn't respond immediately, but turned and faced toward the sea. Chenaya realized she had come to the end of the old wharf; if the boy hadn't sprung up when he did, she might have walked off the edge.