Book 2 - Warlock by Glen Cook

you
speak—”
    “You are out of line, pup. No one comes into a brethren
enclave without permission of the factors.”
    He had the right of it. She had not thought. There were compacts
between the Reugge and the tradermales. She had overlooked them in
her enthusiasm.
    A stubborn something within her refused to back down, insisted
that she up the risk. “You better have these males put their
weapons aside. I do not wish to harm anyone.”
    “I have twenty rifles, pup. I count two on your
side.”
    “You are speaking to a darkwalker. I can destroy the lot
of you before one trigger can be pulled. You think about dying with
your heart ripped out, male.”
    His lips peeled back in a snarl. He was ready to call her
bluff. The set of Grauel’s shoulders said that the huntress
thought her mad to provoke the male so, that she would get them all
killed for nothing.
    Fleetingly, Marika wondered why she did provoke almost everyone
who ever challenged her.
    “We shall see.” The tradermale gestured.
    Marika felt an odd tingling, like that she experienced around
high-energy communications gear. Something electromagnetic was
being directed at her. She spotted a tradermale in the background
aiming a boxlike device her way.
    She dived down inside herself, through her loophole, snagged a
ghost, and slammed it into the guts of the box. She twisted that
ghost and compressed it into an ever more rapidly spinning ball,
all within an instant. She watched it shred wires and glass.
    She came back in time to watch the box fly apart, to hear the
technician’s startled yelp. He raised a bleeding paw to his
mouth.
    Fingers strained at triggers. The leading tradermale betrayed
extreme distress. “You see?” Marika demanded.
    “Hold it! Hold it there!” someone shouted from the
distance. Everyone turned.
    More males were running along the airstrip. In a moment Marika
realized why one seemed familiar. “Bagnel,” she said
softly. Her spirits rose. Maybe she would escape the consequences
of her own stupidity after all.
    The instant she began to see hope, she started worrying about
the consequences that would follow the report that would reach the
cloister. There would be a complaint, surely. Tradermales were said
to be militant about their rights. They had struggled for ages to
obtain them. Their organization was by-the-rules where those were
concerned.
    Marika was mildly amazed to discover she was more afraid of
Dorteka than she was of this potentially lethal confrontation.
    A few tradermale weapons sagged as they awaited those
approaching. Tension drooped with them. Grauel and Barlog relaxed,
though they did not lower their weapons.
    Bagnel rushed up, puffing. “Timbruk, what have you got
here?” He peered at Marika. “Ha! Well! And I actually
thought of you when they told me. Marika. Hello.” He
interposed himself between Marika and the male he had called
Timbruk. “Can we have a little relaxation here, meth?
Everybody. Put the weapons down. There is no call to get anyone
hurt.”
    Trimbruk protested, “Bagnel, they have
trespassed . . . ”
    “Obviously. But no harm done, was there?”
    “Harm is not the point.”
    “Yes. Yes. Well, Trimbruk, if they need shooting we can do
that later. Put the weapons down. Let me talk. I know this sister.
She saved my life in the Ponath.”
    “Saved your life? Come on. She is just a pup. She is the
one who . . . ?”
    “Yes. She is that one.”
    Trimbruk swallowed. His eyes widened. He looked spooked. He
stared at Marika till she became uncomfortable. Twice his gaze
seemed pulled toward a group of buildings at the north end of the
field. Each time he jerked it back to her with sudden ferocity.
Then he said, “Relax, brothers. Relax. Weapons on
safety.”
    Marika said, “Grauel, Barlog, stand easy. Put your weapons
on safe.”
    Grauel did not want to do it. Her every muscle was tense with a
rigidly controlled fight-flight response. But she did as she was
told, though her eyes continued