The Glass of Dyskornis (25 page)

“You’ll kill us all, anyway, you bastard,” she said.

Gharlas’s face turned dark, and a pulse beat visibly at his temple. He strode over to her, struck her across the face. She glared at him, her limbs frozen awkwardly.

“Bastard,” she said softly.

He hit her again, so hard that I winced. Her headscarf was knocked loose; it twisted so that its trailing edge fell across her right shoulder.

What the hell is she doing? Did Volitar’s suicide send her over the edge? Or … could she be stalling Gharlas again?

I looked at Thymas. There was a fierce light, joy or fury, shining in his eyes.

She’s leaving herself trapped, and helping Thymas break Gharlas’s control. The girl has courage. It will be tougher with Thymas, but she’s had practice now, and she’s madder.

“There is more than one way to die,” Gharlas hissed at Tarani. “Volitar’s death will look easy, compared to this one, I promise you. Now,
where is that duplicate?
”

She hesitated just long enough to irritate him into lifting his hand again, then she spoke out in a hurry. “Under the workbench behind Thymas. Where the table joins the wall, there is a loose tile with a compartment behind it.”

“Show me,” he said, and grabbed her arm. She walked with him, jerkily, toward the table. As she passed me, she looked down. Again, I nodded. There was no smile in reply this time, only a grim determination.

She knelt on the floor and crawled under the worktable. Gharlas bent down to see what she was doing. Thymas gave a violent start, then grinned savagely and turned toward Gharlas, lifting his sword for a killing blow.

Either Gharlas had heard something, or he had sensed the abrupt break of his control. Before Thymas was halfway turned, Gharlas surged up from his bent-over position. His knife was in his hand, and he drove it to the hilt into the boy’s side. He released the knife to catch Thymas’s sword hand as the boy struggled to bring the sword to its target. Then Thymas’s face went blank suddenly, and he sagged to his knees. He fell over and lay still on the floor.

Gharlas held the sword and stood over me, his face growing dark with rage.

Ts this more of your doing?” he accused me. “For yourself, I could see it. But for this one—how—?”

“I am the one who did that, Gharlas,” Tarani said. As she stood up, the edge of the worktable caught her loosened headscarf and pulled it clear off. Ever since we had come into the workshop, she had been kneeling, crouching, fighting. Now she raised herself to her full height, and gathered around her the regal bearing she had worn at our first meeting. The dark head fur was startling, revealed so suddenly, and Gharlas stepped back a pace in surprise.

“My name is Tarani,” she said. Strength seemed to reverberate in the low voice. “I see now why Volitar so hated the misuse of power. You will pay for what you did to him, Gharlas!”

Seeing them face to face this way pointed up the similarities between them: their height and general slimness, the unusual head fur, the glow behind their eyes. Gharlas seemed to see it, too, for he fell back further, and his face went pale.

“You look like—your name—
Tarani?
Where have I heard it—the illusionist!” he gasped. “The dancer who can cast images!”

“Do you think only Eddartans can carry power?” she challenged. She stepped forward, following him, but aiming her steps toward Rika, which had skidded toward the furnace, and lay across another of the fuel doors in the floor.

“But you—” He stopped suddenly. He cringed—physically cringed—away from Tarani. “Great Zanek,
you’re her daughter.
I thought Volitar was trying to hide his past from his niece. But he was hiding
you
from
me.
He knew I’d see the resemblance at once.

“The old fool succeeded, too, may his tusks rot! Not until this very moment did I connect Tarani the illusionist with his phantom ‘niece.’ ”

A derisive laugh exploded from him, and was quickly choked off. “And I thought
I
had played a fine trick on Pylomel. I give Volitar credit.
I
never thought to hide the child of the High Lord’s promised wife!”

He had been backing toward the workshop door that opened directly out on the road. Thymas’s sword was in his right hand; his left hand clutched the pouch that held the Ra’ira. Tarani had moved within reaching range of Rika. Gharlas was facing the girl, now, with a shaky confidence. He spared a glance for me, but looked quickly back at Tarani.

“You will both have to die,” he said matter-of-factly. “But not today. We will settle this another time.”

He dashed out the door.

I threw myself across the floor and caught up Rika, even as Tarani was reaching for it. She struggled with me until I said, “Keeshah.” She understood, and let go.

I saw her kneel beside Thymas, as I went out the door.

*
Keeshah, how close are you?
*

*
Almost there
*

As I came outside, I saw Gharlas running around the hexagonal stone foundation of the workshop, heading down the slope. I ran after him, with too little caution. I skidded and fell in the slick grass. I grabbed the stone wall and hauled myself to my feet, slipping and swearing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of color at the left hand edge of the wall.

Gharlas—waiting for me!
I thought. I tried frantically to get my balance, but the slope was steep and uneven, and my feet kept striking it wrong. A figure ran out, away from the wall, and behind me.

There was a sharp, piercing pain in my back, just above my right shoulder blade. A knife. It pulled out, struck again.

I let myself fall and slide down the steep slope. I skidded to a halt, a few feet past the lower edge of the workshop. I pulled myself up on one knee and brought Rika around to face Gharlas.

It wasn’t Gharlas.

It was the little man who had tried to steal my money pouch the night before.

*
Rikardon?
*

*
Don’t let Gharlas get away, Keeshah
* I ordered. *
No matter what happens to me. Understand?
*

*
Yes.
*

The thief skidded to a stop a safe distance away from my sword point. He grinned at me.

“Handsome sword,” he said. “Even in the poor street lighting, I could tell it wasn’t bronze. Only one sword in the world made of rakor. Only one man who’d have it.”

He was moving back and forth in front of me, the knife ready in his hand. I kept the sword between us, fighting the weakness creeping into my bones.

If pass out, he’ll kill me. Why is this happening now, of all times? Damn you and your reward, Worfit!
In the back of my mind, I could picture Gharlas walking away, without a care in the world.
No—Keeshah will get him.

“Thought you’d be safe, hiding inside your headscarf?” the thief sneered, lunging in on my left side. I slashed at him; he ducked and retreated. “I wasn’t looking at faces,” he said, moving back and forth again. “I was watching for that sword. When I saw you with Tarani, I knew where you’d be—I only needed to wait for you.”

He moved in close on the right, and I made the sword follow him. I had to hold it with both hands, now.

He moved further right; I twisted to face him. Then, suddenly, he leaped to the left and lunged in past my guard. As though I were watching a slow-motion film, I saw the dagger drawn back in the man’s fist, ready to gut-stab me.

Something white flashed in front of the man, and he screamed. He brought his free hand up to his face, but not before I had seen the livid, bleeding wound that crossed his face diagonally, exposing bone at cheek, nose, and chin.

Lonna pulled up her dive, flew back to attack the man with claws and bloody beak. The gentle, hooting call was silent now; she uttered a piercing shriek as her claws sank into the man’s forearm. He dropped the knife.

I staggered up and followed the struggling pair. “Lonna, enough,” I said. My voice was barely a whisper, but the bird understood. She disengaged, flew upward, hovered over us, beating her wings slowly in the air.

I fell forward, driving Rika straight through the man’s midsection. I landed on the grass and rolled a few feet downhill, leaving wet red spots where I passed.

What’s happened to Gharlas?
I wondered urgently.
Where is he?

I propped myself up on my left elbow, and forced my vision to focus as I searched the downslope for his running form. I spotted him, running across the grassy field between this row of workshops and the next one. He hadn’t reached the road yet.

Coming up that road were two large-size cats, one on the heels of the other, both of them making riotous noise. I felt such a sweeping relief that I could spare the energy for a small chuckle at the confusion the sha’um must have left behind them in the congested downtown area of the city.

But the next minute, I wasn’t laughing.

Ronar was
chasing
Keeshah. Mad with rage and grief, lacking even Thymas’s insincere control, Ronar was giving free rein to his old grudge against my sha’um. He didn’t care about Gharlas. Considering how suddenly Thymas had been wounded, and how quickly he had lost consciousness, it was possible that Ronar didn’t even know about Gharlas. To Ronar’s perception, the last danger Thymas had faced might have been me. That would amplify his fury toward Keeshah.

Keeshah angled away from the road toward Gharlas, who skidded and scrambled on the hillside, trying to stop his headlong run. When Keeshah was barely thirty feet from the terrified man—three strides for the huge cat—Ronar made a tremendous leap, and landed half across Keeshah’s back. His claws caught Keeshah’s side and back, and his teeth sank into Keeshah’s tan haunch.

I felt it.

Keeshah roared with pain, dragged Ronar a few steps toward Gharlas, then couldn’t stand it any more. He threw himself over on the ground and brought his hindclaws up under Ronar’s belly. Ronar let go his hold and backed away. Keeshah leaped to his feet, and the two cats circled warily, heads down, teeth bared, neck fur flared. They grumbled and challenged, the terrible sound of their voices floating out across the city and drawing a crowd of people up the hill.

Gharlas edged around the angry sha’um, moving downhill again. I saw him go with a despairing acceptance. Keeshah’s fighting instincts had been roused by Ronar and he needed them, undistracted, to defend himself against the other sha’um.

The world started to wheel slowly through my blurry eyesight. I remembered what Gharlas had said, and I believed it. One day, it would be settled. There would be another chance.

I began to yield to the faintness; my supporting arm slipped out from under me. I lay on the ground and watched as the sha’um closed again, teeth and claws of each cat finding targets in the other animal. I heard the angry roaring dimly.

I reached out for Keeshah’s mind, gently. I didn’t want to distract him, but I needed to speak to him before I lost consciousness.

*
I
will not die,
* I told him. *
And Thymas may not be dead. For his sake, spare Ronar if you can. But oh, God, please take care of yourself. Please …
*

In the instant I was awake, I was running with Keeshah. His mind held me with him, as he slipped through the shadows of a tall orchard, then broke free into the bright daylight of a yearling lot. He ran right over the young trees; they scratched at his belly.

I didn’t try to think. I accepted Keeshah’s joyous welcome, and let myself share his strength and contentment. It was a gentle awakening. Sharing those first moments with the sha’um was a cushion from reality. At first I thought we were back in Raithskar, returning to the city from our picnic. Gradually, I sorted out what had happened. I became aware of the pain in my right shoulder, and of the stinging of Keeshah’s many wounds—along his flanks, across his back, most painfully across his chest—as he stretched his muscles in the run.

*
What happened, Keeshah?
* I asked finally. *
Is Ronar alive?
*

*
Yes.
*

*
And Thymas?
*

*
Him, too.
*

*
What about Gharlas?
*

*
Gone,
* Keeshah told me with some embarrassment. *
Sorry.
*

*
It’s not your fault. You tried. Were you hurt badly?
*

*
Could I run?
* he snorted. *
Stupid.
*

I laughed out loud, ignoring the pain in my shoulder.

“That’s a welcome sound,” Tarani said. I opened my eyes to see her kneeling at my right side, smiling gently, sadly. One side of her face was a dark bruise.

“Tarani, I’m so sorry about Volitar,” I said.

“We did our best to save him,” she said, shrugging. “If only he had told me the truth long ago!”

Say that once for me, too
, I thought.
If
only Thanasset had told me what the Ra’ira is. Or Dharak. Surely Serkajon had to tell his Lieutenant about the stone’s powers, in order to persuade him to abandon the Kingdom. If Serkajon’s boot design has been passed through all these generations, surely such an important secret …

Dharak was trying to decide whether to tell me, that first day
, I realized.
Just before Thymas burst into the room. Then he found out that Thanasset had given me Serkajon’s sword, and he assumed that Thanasset had told me everything.

Two near misses. Such near misses. Oh, well.

I brought my mind back to the present.

“Volitar did his best for you, too,” I said to Tarani. “He was a remarkable man. I wish I’d had a chance to get to know him.”

“Yes, you would have liked each other,” she said. She made a choking sound, and turned her face away.

“How long have I been unconscious?” I asked, changing the subject with little subtlety. My inner awareness told me it was morning, but I couldn’t be sure
which
morning.

“Only a day.” She faced me, composed again. “I cleaned and wrapped your wounds, but I couldn’t tell how bad they were. I—”