Peter Dickinson - The Ropemaker

The man shouted with pain and let go of the knife. It looped upward and fell. Almost before it hit the ground Alnor had twisted again, on his right foot this time, with his left foot scything round to strike the man in the back of the knee, toppling him to the ground, where he lay groaning. Alnor turned away.

“Are you all right?” he asked Tilja. “Did he hurt you?”

“My shoulder’s sore,” she said shakily. “I . . . I think I’m all right. Thank you. . . . I had some fodder.”

“I’ve got it,” said Tahl. He sounded much more excited than Alnor, who had now turned back to the man.

“Keep away,” he said, prodding him in the neck with his toe. “That’s what I’ll break next time.”

“Meena noticed him following you,” explained Tahl as they went back together.

“Can you do that?”

“Kick-fight? My da died before he could teach me. And by then Alnor . . .”

“Oh yes. You told me at the Gathering.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” said Meena. “Alnor, why don’t you teach him kick-fighting? He ought to know how. And seeing how things are going, it might come in handy if he could do it too.”

Alnor frowned. His face went blank for a moment, just as Meena’s did whenever she went into her other memory-room, something he did very seldom, as if hating to be reminded of the helplessness his blindness had cursed him with. He nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll do that from now on. And from now on, Tilja, you’d better keep close to us all the time.”

Soon they were moving through an Empire in turmoil. Half the way stations were deserted, and those that functioned demanded triple or quadruple fees. Robbers and looters were everywhere.

Nor were those the only dangers. Now that the Watchers were gone, magicians who had been practicing in secret began to do so openly, and not all of these were benign. At one way station the story came of a well-armed convoy that had been traveling without a hired magician to protect it. Two great scaly creatures had attacked it and had wantonly slaughtered, but not eaten, man, woman and child, gurgling with pleasure as they did so.

For a while the four from the Valley joined one of the armed convoys that were now operating on the Grand Trunk Road. It moved more slowly than they had been doing on their own, but the road had become a dangerous place, despite Tilja’s powers and the near invisibility that Faheel had given them. They saw one or two weird beasts in the distance; and at two rest camps they found, hanging from improvised gallows near the entrance, the bodies of thieves who had been caught sneaking around in the dark; and the hired magician traveling with the convoy claimed to have earned his wage twice over, warding off unseen enemies.

The convoy tended to stop for the night at least one way station sooner than the four might have done on their own, giving the boys a chance to get on with the kick-fighting lessons before they were tired with travel. It was typical of Tahl that he didn’t mind being watched making a fool of himself, as a beginner; but, surprisingly, Alnor didn’t try to make him look one. Perhaps, Tilja thought, kick-fighting was too serious for that. Anyway, the lessons went far more easily than she’d hoped.

“Notice how much better they’re getting on together now?” said Meena one evening while she and Tilja were sitting watching a practice bout. “Funny how they weren’t making out as just friends, the way you and I are. And it wasn’t all Alnor’s fault, either. But teacher and pupil, that’s something they’re comfortable with.

“And pretty to look at, isn’t it, now Tahl’s getting the hang of it? Alnor, specially, of course. I daresay that’s what won him his championships, it wasn’t just winning the fights, it was how he did it. Look at him now, just standing ready for Tahl to have a go at him, graceful as a cat.”

“No wonder you’re keen on him,” said Tilja.

It was the first time she’d brought the subject up, but Meena laughed, without even a trace of a blush. Then she sighed.

“It’s not going to last, you know, Til,” she said. “D’you blame us for making the most of it while we’ve got it?”

“Of course not. I think it’s lovely for you.”

“We’ve got to get home, mind. In time for the winter, latest. But I shan’t say no to taking a few days longer over it than we’d’ve done traveling on our own.”

Meena’s wish was not to be granted. Only a few nights later the convoy was given horrible reason to doubt the boasted powers of its hired magician. They had halted at a way station where the warden was a jolly little man who, most unusually, came fussing around in the dusk chatting to his customers and asking whether they had all they wanted. Like everyone else he might have passed the four from the Valley unnoticed, if Tahl hadn’t spoken to him. Then he picked up that Meena and Alnor had something going on between them, and teased them about it. Meena gave as good as she got, but Alnor was still simmering with rage when they lay down to sleep.

Tilja woke in the middle of the night, already knowing what had woken her, the same quiet tension that she had felt when Silena had brought her beast to that other way station on the journey south, looking for Axtrig. Again she didn’t at once sit up, but lay where she was, listening to the unnatural silence, not a snore, not a stir, not even a breath from any of the hundred or so sleepers. She knew that something powerful had come into the courtyard, since neither the wards around the way station nor the convoy’s magician had been effective against it.

Carefully she raised her head. There was no moon, but the stars were bright overhead, and a few dim lamps ringed the courtyard. At first she could see and hear nothing, but then, a little way off, a dark hummock rose, straightened and became the shape of a man. He, or it, moved closer. Tilja eased her arm free of her rug, ready to stretch out and touch the thing as it passed— better, she guessed, to take it by surprise than rise and confront it—but it stopped just before it reached her, and turned away. It moved its arms and a pale glow came out of its spread hands, showing Meena asleep, with her rug pulled half over her face. With the extra light Tilja could see that the thing was a man. Though his back was toward her she recognized him from his shape. It was the warden of the way station. He knelt, twitched the rug aside and bent over Meena.

Tilja jerked up, flung herself forward and grabbed at his ankle. But he had heard her coming. Quick as a cur in a dogfight he twisted round, hissing. His face was black, a beast face, blunt snouted and scaly, with rubbery lips and needle-like fangs. His mouth dripped blood. The light went out. His hand grasped her by the hair and dragged her toward him. She reached up and caught him by the wrist.

She was ready for the sudden numbness, and the rush of energy, into her and away. It was different from the time when she had laid her hands on Dorn’s bare back in the dormitory at Goloroth. That had been a whole complex tangle of powers surging through her. This was a single blast, strong but simple, there for an instant, and gone.

The hissing stopped and the beast-man stood rigid, but only for a moment or two before he snarled in purely human fury and started to shake her to and fro by her hair. She screamed with the pain of it, and then the other three woke and together they grappled him to the ground.

The rest of the courtyard was awake by the time she had staggered to her feet. The guards lit torches at their brazier. By their light the travelers caught five more of the creatures, a woman and four children. The warden had changed back into his human shape at Tilja’s touch, but these others had beast faces. They wailed like pigs as they were hunted and caught, and wept black tears. When the guards led them away and ran them through with their swords they died, or seemed to.