Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (33 page)

 
          
 
She stared in turn at the Fox Lady. Then her
mouth twisted as she screamed:

 
          
 
"Shoot! Kill those foxes—!"

 
          
 
Saranna saw guns swing in on their targets.
Not one of the waiting animals moved from its place in line. Nor did any of the
armored men make a gesture of defense. They would all be killed! Her fear was
like a sudden ice-cold knife thrust through her. Still she could not now have
broken the hold which linked her with the Fox Lady, even if panic fully
possessed her.

 
          
 
And she must not let that happen, she must
not! There was a reason for this gathering of the garden inhabitants and in
this moment Saranna bowed her will, stifled her alarm, tried to become in turn
part of whatever they would do.

 
          
 
In the same instant she made that decision,
she experienced something else. It was as if some inner strength which was
hers, but which she had never known before she possessed, was being drawn out
of her. She could actually feel that energy draining from her body, through
that hand linkage. This force was what the Fox Lady must have.

 
          
 
For the first time the Fox Lady herself spoke.
Her words were
strange,
they seemed to echo eerily in
one's head in the way the gong sound had echoed earlier. Three times she
repeated that series of sounds.

 
          
 
"Shoot!" Honora's face contorted.
"Shoot, I tell you!”

 
          
 
Then Saranna witnessed the unbelievable. Those
guns did come up, center on the terrace, and—

 
          
 
The weapons dissolved! There were no guns in
the hands of the invaders. There were only sticks. Then the sticks twisted,
turned,
became
living ropes of scaled flesh. The men
cried out, threw the living horrors from them. Those behind edged away, their
faces expressing their panic and horror.

 
          
 
"No," Honora caught at the sleeve of
the nearest. "Don't believe what you see. She can make you think anything
is true. Look there—it’s a gun—a gun!" She pointed wildly to the weapon he
had thrown away in terror.

 
          
 
She spoke the truth. Now a shotgun did lie
upon the path. But the man eyed it as if it were still a snake. He jerked free
of Honora's grasp with an oath, continued to back away.

 
          
 
"Out—" he called to the others.
"Let's get out of here!"

 
          
 
They stampeded back through the broken brush.
Honora stood there alone. But she did not retreat. All color left from her
face. She wore a mask of ugly fury, as alien, and far more dreadful, than the
furred visage the Fox Lady turned upon the intruders.

 
          
 
"You—witch!" Honora no longer
screamed, her voice was low, ragged, with the intensity of her rage. "You
heathen witch! I know your tricks.
Just as you played them
with that old fool, the Captain.
You cannot play them with me— ever! And
they—" she gestured behind her to where the men had disappeared,
"when they have a chance to think, they will realize the truth. Then no
trick of yours will save you— any of you!" Her gaze swept along the line
of Bannerman and foxes, Damaris, the lady, and Saranna.

 
          
 
She began to smile, and that smile was as
dreadful as her grimace had earlier been.

 
          
 
"All here—all of you!
Which is my good fortune, not yours.
You—" she
pointed at Damaris "—with you out of my way I shall have Tiensin.
You—" she came next to the Fox Lady "you and your tricks have had
their day. Now, you heathen witch, you shall have an accident—a fatal one!
You—" she had reached Saranna, and her lips curved venomously "—you
would dip into my father's pockets, and, most of all, want to—" Her mouth
tightened as if even in this hour she could not bring herself to say plainly
what was the core of the hate which blazed in her eyes.

 
          
 
"I am not tricked, nor shall I be by any
of your mind witchery." She spoke again to the Fox Lady. "I know that
I hold this, and I shall use it." She held out the hand which had been
hidden in the folds of her skirt.

 
          
 
Saranna saw the sun glint on the barrel of the
small gun— a round, fat barrel. Honora held a derringer. She was raising her
hand—about to aim at one of them. Which one?

 
          
 
The white foxes moved. They leaped forward
together, as if they had been trained for just such an attack. The fangs of one
fastened on Honora's wide upper sleeve, the other dashed, growling, to her
left.

 
          
 
She screamed. But the fox on her right had
achieved its purpose. The beast had loosened her grip on the derringer, and it
spun away, to land beside the discarded shotgun on the path. Honora shrunk
back. Now the foxes circled her, growling and snapping. They were herding her
on toward the terrace as sheep dogs would handle a straying member of the flock
they were set to guard.

 
          
 
Beating with her hands against the air, her
breath coming in whistling gasps, Honora stumbled forward.

 
          
 
"No, no, no!" Fear and rage fought
together on her face. She had no beauty now as she was forced by the leaping,
snapping foxes onto the edge of the terrace. Yet, in spite of all, her anger
was greater than her fear. And she fixed her gaze in a defiant stare on the Fox
Lady.

 
          
 
As Honora came to a halt directly before her
enemy, the foxes settled a little behind her, sitting up motionless again. Even
the beat of the drum had stopped.

 
          
 
It was Honora who broke the silence, her voice
hoarse:

 
          
 
"You have not won! They will regain their
wits, and they will not be the easier on you because you tricked them."

 
          
 
"That is so," the Fox Lady answered
her with majestic calm.

 
          
 
"Then—you had better listen to me."
Honora made brushing motions along the outward swell of her skirt, as if
ridding herself of the effects of her momentary panic. "I want you gone! I
will even make you the same offer Captain Whaley made to the rest—passage back
to your own country."

 
          
 
"You are generous—" the Fox Lady
returned, a remote tone in her voice. "Before you expend your breath in
promises, remember that the swiftest of horses cannot overtake a word once
spoken."

 
          
 
"I want you gone, you and your
tricks!" Honora's tone lost some of its control.

 
          
 
"That we have always known,"
conceded the Fox Lady. "This I say to you now: Before you beat a dog,
learn his master—or his mistress's name."

 
          
 
"You know I can do as I wish—"
Honora's hand shook a little. As if she were aware of this betrayal, she
whipped her fingers hiding once again in the folds of her skirt. "I shall
send the men again—better armed—"

 
          
 
"So it is written—"

 
          
 
"You cannot escape a second time—"

 
          
 
"Perhaps not.
Yet there is something which still must be done."

 
          
 
The Fox Lady's hand turned in Saranna's,
seeking freedom. And the girl relinquished her grip upon those slender fingers
with their gemmed nail guards. Damaris must have broken linkage at the same
time, for, Saranna, glancing side-wise, saw the lady reach out and take from
the younger girl the round of metal which she had so carefully held.

 
          
 
With this in her two hands, the Fox Lady
lifted it to the level of her sharp pointed muzzle, stared straight into the
polished surface as if it
were
a proper mirror and she
would make sure of the correctness of her toilet. Then she stepped forward
until she was within touching distance of Honora.

 
          
 
Reversing the mirror, she held it out and a
little down, so it was now directly before Honora's own face.

 
          
 
"Look upon yourself, woman," the Fox
Lady ordered. "Look and see what is to be seen in you!"

 
          
 
Honora's eyes centered upon the strange
mirror. Slowly her face changed, anger receded, fear grew—such an agony of fear
as Saranna would have believed no human countenance could ever frame. Then
Honora
screamed,
a cry of both terror and despair. Her
hands flew up to hide her face. She swayed back and forth, as if she no longer
had strength or will enough to keep on her feet.

 
          
 
"Go!" ordered the Fox Lady. "
Go,
rally those barbarians you would turn upon us. Go, seek
in every mirror you can find for what you once thought you were, what others
saw in you, those who knew you not as your heart has made you. Go!"

 
          
 
Honora tottered as she turned, then she
staggered away, her hands still half-covering her face. She blundered against
bushes, gave another scream, broke through the opening between the battered
shrubs once again where her crew of raiders had entered.

 
          
 
They could hear her rough passage, and the two
white foxes ran a little ways after her, came trotting back, whining like dogs
who scented danger, and waited for orders to be on guard.

 
          
 
"They will come again; she was speaking
the truth," said the Fox Lady. "Because of their fear, these evil
ones will be doubly angry this time."

 
          
 
"But you can—" began Damaris.

 
          
 
Slowly the Fox Lady shook her head. "Not
so, younger sister. Once can I call upon the eye-magic and hold the minds of
barbarians so. But my strength of purpose is now exhausted. Even if you lend to
me again your wills, even then I cannot summon such as give us safety. I have
attacked with all I have—" She looked from Damaris to Saranna.
"Younger sister, the wands of I Ching speak ever the truth. If we would
come to fortune out of this trouble, then yours must be the effort. What help
can you summon?"

 
          
 
"Help?" repeated Saranna.
"But—there is no one. The servants—they will do nothing except what Honora
orders and—"

 
          
 
"Mr. Fowke!" Damaris interrupted.
"He would come— he would!"

 
          
 
"Even if we could get a mesage to
him—would we have time?" Saranna rubbed her fingertips over the heavy gold
embroidery of her borrowed robe. Gerrad Fowke believed that she had gone with
Rufus. But her very presence, if she might be able to reach him, would be proof
enough of the falsehood of that. Somehow, at that moment, she was sure of his
help—though how to summon it—

 
          
 
"We must go!" Damaris ran to her,
caught her hand. "We have to, Saranna!"

 
          
 
The older girl glanced from the determination
written on Damaris' face to the alien features of the Fox Lady. She could read
there no expression in the beast's sharp muzzle and eyes. Yet there was a sense
of approval somehow carried to her.

 
          
 
Saranna laughed, shakily, twitching the rich
robe. "This is not made for running along the highway—"