The Forerunner Factor by Andre Norton

mended, was still not altogether lost in the air. The zorsal’s claws scraped the girl’s arm as she ran down its length, Simsa holding steady until the creature took off in a fluttering downward spiral which was far from the beautiful, exact swoops of her progeny, but which landed her near upon the struggling men below. Simsa turned and grabbed for a weapon—the extinguished lamp on the table. Pushing that, dripping its oil down her, into her broad girdle, she flung the shutter wide and followed the zorsal out.
    There was a narrow ledge, which she had earlier marked, running to the edge of the inn’s front wall. From that. it was easy enough to swing to the pavement, land with the expertise she had learned years earlier. Once she had shaken off the jar of her meeting with the cobbles, she was on her feet and running.
    There came a screech from the entanglement on the pavement. Simsa nodded to herself. As silent as any night thief, the unexpected attack of a zorsal was something which could tear worse than that cry out of him if Zass was given a fair opening to go for throat, face or eyes.
    Before the girl reached the fighters they had separated.
    One lay in a huddle on the ground, but the one who had risen to his feet was clearly the off-worlder. There were voices now—Simsa reached the two and the man turned, crouching, ready to attack just as she got out:
    “Come, star rover!” She caught at the arm which was rising to aim at her, held on while she stooped and dropped her heavy burdened sleeve for the zorsal to catch at and climb so swiftly that its claws tore well into even that stout material.
    Then with her fingers sliding down the man’s arm to close about his wrist, she jerked him towards the other end of the street.
    “We run!” she said and gave an extra pull to the wrist she held as a way of urging him on.
    He did not stop to question her and for that she was thankful as, still hand linked, they dodged into a side street, found the wide door of the inn’s ware entrance and that gave to the nudging of her shoulder. Since there were no rivermen here to leave their cargoes in the cubbies provided, she had made very sure earlier that the bar was loosened to aid in an unseen going or coming. The Burrowers’ instinct that one must always have two entrances at least to every hole had brought her to make this discovery and prepare to take advantage of it.
    Inside, she led her companion up the back stairs to the upper-roofed but unsided gallery and so through a hall and into the room. Even as she dropped the bar of that into place and was free to jerk the dripping lamp out and smack it down on the uncertainly legged table, she could hear movement, low voices, and a clatter in the street.
    The zorsal fluttered toward the now open window where Simsa, brushing past the off-worlder, was also a moment later.
    There were men below—at least three of them—gathered around one who lay groaning on the pavement. Coming with stick lamps down the street were peacemen—who never ordinarily ventured into this district at all. Simsa’s eyes narrowed almost as did Zass’ when the sun struck them. There was no reason for the Guild Watch to come—who had summoned them? The one cry the assailant had uttered could not have reached over five streets, up one wide avenue, to their usual patrol route. Even if it had, they would have taken no note since that sounded from the lower town. The Thieves’ Guild had their own watchmen—so—
    “Arfellen’s men—” He spoke in a whisper which was uttered so close to her that his breath could be felt against her cheek. She started, unaware that he could move so silently as to come up beside her without her noting.
    Lord Arfellen! So sure was she that the attacker had been one of the Thieves’ Guild that at first the name he had uttered meant nothing to her. Then she saw in the blaze of the stick torches gathered in a knot about the man still lying on the pavement (some of those