lots of free wine from the kov that might or might not materialize. The worshipers of the circle around Beng Dikkane, patron saint of all ale drinkers in Paz, were not going to soil their lips with wine, free or not. So the liquid refreshment flowed and, inevitably with people of small brain capacity and inferior character, the drunks staggered about.
With the last upflung rays of red and green scoring the darkening sky the twin suns sank, Zim and Genodras settling down for the night. And, to relieve them on their eternal vigil over the face of Kregen, the fourth moon floated into the evening sky, resplendent with light. She of the Veils shone down in fuzzy pinks and golds, lighting the whole world in her own special and mysterious way.
Silda — off duty she was firmly going to be Silda and not Lyss — always felt comforted when She of the Veils drifted serenely in the night sky. She knew that many of her special friends felt that way, too.
Now the four hulking lads, two sets of twins, whose names were Ob, Dwa, So and Ley Dohirti, must have been imbibing very freely very early. Otherwise not a one of them in his right mind would have offered to insult a Jikai Vuvushi. They each carried a heavy wooden cudgel, as was the right of any free man of Vallia.
With the four clumsy farm lads, and undoubtedly the cause of the trouble, Nath the Sly urged them on. He was short, slightly built, squinted, carried a knife and was a very devil in determining to have his own back on the whole world for not providing him with a powerful fighting man’s body that would attract the girls. He was a stylor at the farm, and ink smudges stained behind his ears and along his fingers. He squinted up at Silda, leering.
“A prime one this, lads! Ready for the plucking.”
Nath the Sly had heard those words used in a mummer’s play only three days ago, the actors prancing in a canvas booth, and he considered them apt to the situation and himself as an educated man for quoting poetry.
“A real right beauty,” said Ob Dohirti, and hiccoughed.
His twin, Dwa, spluttered out: “I’ll fight you for the first—”
“Plenty there for us all,” cut in Nath the Sly, anxious to avoid internecine warfare. “Grab her now!”
Silda did not know if these louts had chosen their spot with cunning skill or if the fortune of Coggog the Unmentionable had blessed them. She did know that as she swiveled to face one pair of twins, her hand going for her rapier hilt, the other pair rushed in from the back.
Used to snaring recalcitrant animals on the farm, the Dohirti twins used a twisted rope with great skill. Silda felt the strands lap about her, tangling her arm.
“Keep her quiet!” yelped Nath the Sly.
The spot in question, either chosen by these five cramphs or by the chance of Coggog’s favor, gave the opportunity for the twins to drag Silda into the black mouth of an alley penned between sheer brick walls. Burn marks, like distorted clouds, showed in the moon’s light on the brickwork. Windows were boarded up. Silda knew the place all right, for it was a structure selected by Alloran to be demolished to make way for his building extension program.
She kicked and got a black boot into a gut, and then thrashed aside with the other, and missed a vital spot, and then she thought it was time to start screaming.
Nath the Sly took out his knife, held it by the blade, and clouted Silda over the head.
At once she slumped, her body went slack, and she fell all asprawl with the rope into the blackness of the alley.
Chapter five
Of Lon’s Fine Feathers
Silda toppled forward into blackness and slid herself forward over worn cobbles. A single tap from a knife hilt wielded by a scrawny runt like this specimen wasn’t going to knock her out. Her head donged a trifle, as though the famous bells of Beng Kishi tolled muffled.
Her onward movement stripped the tangling rope away from her arm.
This situation was very familiar indeed from her years of
With the last upflung rays of red and green scoring the darkening sky the twin suns sank, Zim and Genodras settling down for the night. And, to relieve them on their eternal vigil over the face of Kregen, the fourth moon floated into the evening sky, resplendent with light. She of the Veils shone down in fuzzy pinks and golds, lighting the whole world in her own special and mysterious way.
Silda — off duty she was firmly going to be Silda and not Lyss — always felt comforted when She of the Veils drifted serenely in the night sky. She knew that many of her special friends felt that way, too.
Now the four hulking lads, two sets of twins, whose names were Ob, Dwa, So and Ley Dohirti, must have been imbibing very freely very early. Otherwise not a one of them in his right mind would have offered to insult a Jikai Vuvushi. They each carried a heavy wooden cudgel, as was the right of any free man of Vallia.
With the four clumsy farm lads, and undoubtedly the cause of the trouble, Nath the Sly urged them on. He was short, slightly built, squinted, carried a knife and was a very devil in determining to have his own back on the whole world for not providing him with a powerful fighting man’s body that would attract the girls. He was a stylor at the farm, and ink smudges stained behind his ears and along his fingers. He squinted up at Silda, leering.
“A prime one this, lads! Ready for the plucking.”
Nath the Sly had heard those words used in a mummer’s play only three days ago, the actors prancing in a canvas booth, and he considered them apt to the situation and himself as an educated man for quoting poetry.
“A real right beauty,” said Ob Dohirti, and hiccoughed.
His twin, Dwa, spluttered out: “I’ll fight you for the first—”
“Plenty there for us all,” cut in Nath the Sly, anxious to avoid internecine warfare. “Grab her now!”
Silda did not know if these louts had chosen their spot with cunning skill or if the fortune of Coggog the Unmentionable had blessed them. She did know that as she swiveled to face one pair of twins, her hand going for her rapier hilt, the other pair rushed in from the back.
Used to snaring recalcitrant animals on the farm, the Dohirti twins used a twisted rope with great skill. Silda felt the strands lap about her, tangling her arm.
“Keep her quiet!” yelped Nath the Sly.
The spot in question, either chosen by these five cramphs or by the chance of Coggog’s favor, gave the opportunity for the twins to drag Silda into the black mouth of an alley penned between sheer brick walls. Burn marks, like distorted clouds, showed in the moon’s light on the brickwork. Windows were boarded up. Silda knew the place all right, for it was a structure selected by Alloran to be demolished to make way for his building extension program.
She kicked and got a black boot into a gut, and then thrashed aside with the other, and missed a vital spot, and then she thought it was time to start screaming.
Nath the Sly took out his knife, held it by the blade, and clouted Silda over the head.
At once she slumped, her body went slack, and she fell all asprawl with the rope into the blackness of the alley.
Chapter five
Of Lon’s Fine Feathers
Silda toppled forward into blackness and slid herself forward over worn cobbles. A single tap from a knife hilt wielded by a scrawny runt like this specimen wasn’t going to knock her out. Her head donged a trifle, as though the famous bells of Beng Kishi tolled muffled.
Her onward movement stripped the tangling rope away from her arm.
This situation was very familiar indeed from her years of
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