The Gandalara Cycle I (63 page)

When I looked at Tarani, I could see the illusion she cast for herself - the pale-haired, rounded body of Rassa. I could see Tarani through it, as though the image of Rassa were only a transparent hologram, but I was sure that everyone else who looked directly at Tarani, would see only Rassa. I assumed that I would pass for Yoman.

We had met those two people at the Refreshment House of Iribos, after explaining what we needed to the person Vasklar had named. I had been astonished to learn that our Iribos contact and Vasklar were both involved in providing an escape route for Eddartan slaves. It was strictly in violation of the no interference rules of the Fa'aldu, but I had commended their courage.

Yoman and Rassa weren't slaves, but craftsmen - clothing designers, specifically. They were “free” to work for pay, as long as they turned over a high percentage of their profit to the Lord who owned the property on which their shop was located.

It appealed strongly to Tarani that they tired of their life in Eddarta, and decided to escape from it, much as Volitar had escaped years ago. How they had known whom to contact in Iribos was mystery but arrangements had been made for them to be "registered" with a caravan leaving the following day. Pylomel had informants everywhere, it seemed, who were on the lookout for unattached people who might be wanted in Eddarta. Such informants undoubtedly had been responsible for Zefra's identification in Dyskornis:

We had found it necessary to reveal Tarani's skill at illusion. After our contact recovered from the shock, the two Eddartans had been brought to us. They represented an opportunity to enter Eddarta without question. Tarani and I would have a place to stay, and real identities to conceal us.

Yoman, who was as tall as I, middle-aged, with a touch of softness around his stomach, had assured me that their short absence could be explained easily as a trip to visit an ill relative, should anyone inquire. He had given us that, and other, information in response to our questions, and he had volunteered little else.

Rassa, his daughter, had said nothing at all. She was a physical type that Tarani could imitate easily. As tall as Tarani, she had the same smooth brow and delicate planes at cheek and jaw. It was obvious that the two women shared some genes. But where Tarani's headfur was black and silky, Rassa's was thick and golden. Body curves at breast and hip were more pronounced in Rassa, and she walked with an unconscious sensuality that wasn't damaged at all by her haunting beauty.

Yoman and Rassa had become our key to Eddarta, and we had sent Lonna to Thymas with instructions to look for us at Yoman's tailor shop when he reached Eddarta. But I was uneasy as we walked within Tarani's illusion. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that the merchant had been holding something back, that he had been running from Eddarta for a reason more specific than weariness of his lifestyle.

I didn't want to be recognized as Rikardon. But I was halfway expecting some hassle when I was recognized as Yoman.

That danger didn't materialize, much to my relief. A couple of people said hello, but in the crowded streets, with folks hurrying to get home before dark, there wasn't time to do much more than wave and smile. By the time we located Yoman's shop, staggered through the doors and closed them behind us, I was a bundle of exposed nerves.

"Who is it? Who is there?" The quavering voice came from a man at the top of a flight of stairs that ended just to our right. He was silhouetted against a small window which let in some light from the street lamps below. He was a small man, and looked frail. He was wearing only a pair of trousers, tied with drawstrings at waist and ankles, and I could see the outline of his ribs.

I squeezed Tarani's hand. "He can't see us. Can you give me Yoman's voice?" I whispered. She returned the pressure, and I cleared my throat loudly.

"Who am I? Yoman, that's who! Now who are you, in my shop this time of night?"

"Yoman?" the voice whined. "Yoman, it is Bress, your good friend! Wait, I'll get a lamp. .

Bress. Yoman mentioned him - another fabric merchant.

"Bress!" I bellowed. "I need no lamp to see what is going on here! I am gone a few days, and you move in to take over my shop!" I started up the stairs, stomping heavily. The skinny old man whimpered with fright.

"No, I moved in here to
protect
your shop, Yoman! I didn't know where you had gone - someone else might have -"

I was near the top of the stairs, drawing Tarani up right behind me. The old man was holding a lamp base and struggling with a scissor-shaped sparker.

"No one else needed to," I yelled, causing the little guy to drop the bronze platform onto the hallway table. The fall jarred the glass chimney, which had been set aside, off balance; it toppled, rolled off the table, and made a nerve- jangling noise as it shattered. Bress jumped two feet into the air and completely lost his nerve.

"Please, Yoman, I meant no harm. You went away and left no word, you know how small my shop is, we have been friends, and I didn't want them to think it was abandoned -”

"Out!" I said. I grabbed one thin arm and propelled the man toward the stairs, turning Tarani behind me to keep her hidden. “And he thankful you still have your head. Rassa and I have traveled a long, hard way this day. Anything you moved
in
, you can move
out
tomorrow.”

The little man dived halfway down the stairs, clutched at the railing to save himself, and stumbled the rest of the way. At the door, he paused to look up. I could barely see him.

"Rassa is with you'?" he said in surprise “But I thought surely.....” I took the first step down, and he hurriedly opened the door. "No matter, Yoman, it's none of my affair. But - I do mean this, my friend - I
am
glad you have come to your senses. All we heard were rumors remember." He ducked out the door.

I wonder what he meant by that?
I thought; as I turned back to Tarani - just in time to see her start to fall.

"Tarani!
" I whispered, as I caught her under her arms and tried, clumsily, to disentangle her from the backpack. She was limp against my chest, a dead weight that was almost too much for me to handle.

The illusions did it,
I told myself.
On top of all that physical exertion, the psychic strain was too much. Why the hell didn't she tell me? Damn it, if she's pushed herself too far . . .

I finally freed the backpack and dropped it to the floor. She had slipped down until she was nearly on her knees, and I was badly off balance. I was beginning to worry that I'd topple over backward and drag us both down the stairs, when she moved a little and clutched at my waist. I helped her as she pulled herself to her feet.

"Sorry," she murmured, still half-dazed, “I'll be all right soon -”

"A good night's sleep won't hurt you any," I said gruffly, as I lifted her in my arms. "Let's see if we can find Rassa's bedroom."

Cradled against my chest, Tarani's weight was manageable. It was relief, not fear of dropping her that made my arms hold her so tightly.

I knelt down and laid her on the fluffy pallet in the smaller of the two bedrooms.

She propped herself on one elbow as I sat down beside her. There were two windows in this room, open to the night. The faint starlight, and stray beams from street lamps, gave us enough light to see each other. Her face, always delicate, looked fragile in the gray light.

"Why didn't you warn me that the illusions of Yoman and Rassa would cost you so dearly?"

"I didn't know," she said. "I've never tried to sustain an illusion for such a long period of time."

"Or for someone else?" I asked.

"Yes, that was a factor, too."

"You could have told me, when you felt the strain," I said, trying not to sound like I was accusing her.

"In Dyskornis, you said we had to be able to depend on one another, Rikardon. I had said I could hold the illusion; had to see it through."

She only did what I'd have done, myself,
I admitted.
Except that I couldn't have done it at all. Which is why she is here, isn't it? She's right - I can't preach teamwork and t tell one of the players not to do her part.

"I can't argue with that," I said, and started to get up. Her free hand caught my arm and I paused, kneeling very close to her

"Rikardon, your caring.., it touches me deeply."

I felt the world shifting and changing around me.

The image of Tarani and Thymas together had burned itself in my memory, and I saw it again now, but with a different perspective. Then, and on the following nights, the remembered scene had seemed confirmation of Tarani's continuing affection for Thymas, and I had kept myself a scrupulous distance from the girl, especially in my thoughts as we rode together.

But there was no mistaking the invitation in her voice and posture, and another scene rose vividly in memory - the evening we had talked in Dyskornis and, in the most cautious of language, admitted the attraction we felt for one another. The scene in Stomestad was driven out of my memory. Tarani was with me, here and now, and emotions too powerful to be called "affection" were at work in both of us.

I leaned across the few inches which separated us, and kissed her. I meant it as a message of reassurance and of closeness. But in the next moment we were clinging tightly to one another, swept up in passion and physical need. The abruptness and intensity of those feelings disturbed me, and I pulled myself away from her.

She didn't say anything, but her dark eyes were glowing and that reflective way that sometimes had, and her chest rose and fell in quick, sharp breaths.

"It's been a rough trip," I said, taking deep, deliberate breaths, "and we both need some rest. Sleep well, Tarani.

I saw her thinking about it, wondering whether to press the issue. To my relief, she let it pass. She opened the light, woven blanket and shook it out over herself. As she lay back, she said, in a soft, carefully neutral voice: "Goodnight, Rikardon.”

I was tired, too. By rights, I should have snuggled into Yoman's bed and slept the night through. Instead, I escaped into the streets of Eddarta.

Here, again, I had a reasonable excuse. I knew little about Eddartan customs, and there's no better way to get information than to buy a few rounds of drinks in a friendly bar. I had planned to go out for a while, anyway, if only to make some discreet inquiries about Gharlas, and his standing among the Lords. I figured to be safe with my own face. It was my sword which identified me to the rogueworld, and Rika was safe with Thymas. In any case, Eddarta's rogueworld was pretty tame - the
organized
thieves lived on the hill.

But the true reason I left was because of Tarani.

In Gandalara, where there was no venereal disease, and birth control was a matter of a woman saying no when her inner awareness warned her she was fertile, intimacy between a consenting couple was considered to be their own business.

If Tarani had been an ordinary Gandalaran woman, I wouldn't have hesitated. If I had just met her, I wouldn't have hesitated.

But I knew Tarani's extraordinary history, and our relationship had an uncertain history of its own.

We had met in Thagorn, when Tarani identified me as the target for a pair of killers traveling with her show. I had felt, and she had later admitted, a sense of recognition in that first meeting. In light of our later adventures, I attributed it to a sort of premonition of our joining forces against Gharlas.

Tarani's involvement in the assassination attempt had come through her association with Molik, the leader of Chizan's rogueworld. At sixteen, still a virgin, she had offered him a deal - her body, and her illusions, in exchange for the capital to create her traveling show.

At eighteen, free of Molik's attentions but not of his memory, she had taken refuge from his unwholesome need of her - a need she felt she had created - in Thymas's devotion.

At twenty, only a few weeks ago, she had finally found peace. Given the opportunity to destroy Molik, she had learned that only her guilt tied her to him. When her anger turned to pity, she was truly free.

But that was the only thing she had gained, these past few weeks. She had given up the show she had gone through hell to get. She had relinquished the security of her promised marriage to Thymas. She had found her "uncle," only to watch him die, and then discover that he was the father she had never known.

I had seen Tarani regal and strong, the very air around her throbbing with power. I had seen her young and helpless, suffering from my own thoughtless words. She had endured grueling physical demands with the stoic acceptance of a trained soldier. She had survived an emotional crisis that no twenty-year-old girl should be expected to face, and she had come through it sane, hurt but healing. I felt such admiration for her, such tenderness. Her strength of character awed me. Her vulnerability was a warm glow that nestled, trusting, in my thoughts and feelings.

Markasset, with the overriding passion of the young, saw Tarani's response as an indication of her need for emotional comfort. Ricardo, a man still subject to physical need but with a lifetime of wisdom to control it, wanted to give us both time to
understand
the source and destiny of those intense feelings.

I went from bar to bar, pretending to drink a lot of faen. Even while part of my mind was analyzing the information I gleaned from conversation and eavesdropping, I felt my thoughts circling profitlessly around the problem of Tarani.

I weighed responsibility against desire. I tried to decide whether her need was for me, or for anyone – for intimacy or for assurance that there was more of value in Tarani than her beauty and admitted sexual experience.

In the end, only one thought came to me clearly, as I finished off what would be my final mug of faen:

I’m in love with Tarani. God help us both I don't want to hurt her.

It was nearly midnight when I returned to Yoman's shop the door creaked, the stairs groaned. I paused beside Rassa’s one bedroom door and listened, hoping with one last desperate, pass-the-buck impulse that I hadn't wakened Tarani.