about him had managed to get away before the arrival of the watch guard, but two were having their arms twisted expertly behind their backs, nooses drooped over their heads) that these same guards wore shoulder badges not of the Guild itself but of some lord’s personal following—
Arfellen! Without thought, Simsa whirled, her claws unsheathed, ready to tear to ribbons this fool who had brought down upon her such disaster. She heard her own guttural sound of sheer rage, not unlike that cry of Zass’s when the zorsal was about to attack. Her claw nails caught—once—and then there was a grip of iron about her thin wrist; expert in defense as she was, she could not break that grasp. He twisted her arm about and up behind her shoulders with the same ease that the guard below made sure of their prisoners. Next he would march her down the stair, join her to that sorry company and what she could expect waited beyond!
Simsa shivered and hated herself for shivering. However, instead of jerking her around and pushing her towards the door she had so lately barred, he instead pulled her closer to him. His other arm came up about her waist holding her a vise of bone of flesh strength such as she had never met before, once more then he whispered, his breath once more warm against her cheek.
“Be still!”
Completely bewildered, Simsa tried to understand. Was the starman not going to claim protection from one of the foremost and most powerful guild lords? Surely that squad below who had come so swiftly after the attack on him must have been sent for his benefit. It was well known that the off-worlders were not to be touched in Kuxortal—they were not to be considered natural prey by anyone, high or low.
Yet this one did not call down to his would-be deliverers. He was acting instead as might a man who had something to hide, or someone to fear. Slowly, Simsa relaxed a little, no longer tensing her whole body against his prisoning hold.
4
No one approached the inn door nor the doors of any of the other buildings though Simsa fully expected them to come searching for this off-worlder. Why else would the personal guard of one of the highest of the Guild Lords trail him to this lower level? She stood unresisting now in his grasp watching the men gather up the one lying on the street, forcing at least two of their other captives to carry him, or rather half drag his limp body between them, as the whole party started up slope the city above.
Zass had flown over to hang on the shutter, her antennae fully extending towards what was happening below. Now, as the guards went on their way, the off-worlder released the girl and reached out to swing the shutters to, leaving them in darkness.
“What do you do here?” Simsa broke the silence of that darkness first. She had to know what he was involved in in order to prepare for her own defense.
“What I promised—to bring you this!”
She heard a rustle in the dark, then a clinking from where the table must stand.
“Here is the reckoning between us.”
She felt her way to the table, sought the lamp. A goodly portion of its content had gone on her when she had seized it up as a possible weapon. She stank of its thick odor. Now she clicked a fire-spark and set what was left to its work. There was indeed a pouch, a fat pouch, on the table top. On the other side of the board stood the off-worlder watching her through eyes which seemed now to be the narrowest of slits.
Simsa made no move to touch the pouch. To be drawn further into this stranger’s affairs, even just to the point of selling him what he wanted, was the last thing she desired. Yet—they had made trade bargain—and no one save he, she, and the Old One (in her time) knew of the two pieces Simsa carried. She was very certain that if they did trace what she had sold Gathar back to her, they could not fix on this second sale. She would leave here before dawn, using that same back way—or
Arfellen! Without thought, Simsa whirled, her claws unsheathed, ready to tear to ribbons this fool who had brought down upon her such disaster. She heard her own guttural sound of sheer rage, not unlike that cry of Zass’s when the zorsal was about to attack. Her claw nails caught—once—and then there was a grip of iron about her thin wrist; expert in defense as she was, she could not break that grasp. He twisted her arm about and up behind her shoulders with the same ease that the guard below made sure of their prisoners. Next he would march her down the stair, join her to that sorry company and what she could expect waited beyond!
Simsa shivered and hated herself for shivering. However, instead of jerking her around and pushing her towards the door she had so lately barred, he instead pulled her closer to him. His other arm came up about her waist holding her a vise of bone of flesh strength such as she had never met before, once more then he whispered, his breath once more warm against her cheek.
“Be still!”
Completely bewildered, Simsa tried to understand. Was the starman not going to claim protection from one of the foremost and most powerful guild lords? Surely that squad below who had come so swiftly after the attack on him must have been sent for his benefit. It was well known that the off-worlders were not to be touched in Kuxortal—they were not to be considered natural prey by anyone, high or low.
Yet this one did not call down to his would-be deliverers. He was acting instead as might a man who had something to hide, or someone to fear. Slowly, Simsa relaxed a little, no longer tensing her whole body against his prisoning hold.
4
No one approached the inn door nor the doors of any of the other buildings though Simsa fully expected them to come searching for this off-worlder. Why else would the personal guard of one of the highest of the Guild Lords trail him to this lower level? She stood unresisting now in his grasp watching the men gather up the one lying on the street, forcing at least two of their other captives to carry him, or rather half drag his limp body between them, as the whole party started up slope the city above.
Zass had flown over to hang on the shutter, her antennae fully extending towards what was happening below. Now, as the guards went on their way, the off-worlder released the girl and reached out to swing the shutters to, leaving them in darkness.
“What do you do here?” Simsa broke the silence of that darkness first. She had to know what he was involved in in order to prepare for her own defense.
“What I promised—to bring you this!”
She heard a rustle in the dark, then a clinking from where the table must stand.
“Here is the reckoning between us.”
She felt her way to the table, sought the lamp. A goodly portion of its content had gone on her when she had seized it up as a possible weapon. She stank of its thick odor. Now she clicked a fire-spark and set what was left to its work. There was indeed a pouch, a fat pouch, on the table top. On the other side of the board stood the off-worlder watching her through eyes which seemed now to be the narrowest of slits.
Simsa made no move to touch the pouch. To be drawn further into this stranger’s affairs, even just to the point of selling him what he wanted, was the last thing she desired. Yet—they had made trade bargain—and no one save he, she, and the Old One (in her time) knew of the two pieces Simsa carried. She was very certain that if they did trace what she had sold Gathar back to her, they could not fix on this second sale. She would leave here before dawn, using that same back way—or
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