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they spat at her could be multiplying them as if she saw them with a fly's
multifaceted gaze. Might not be there, all illusion, delusion, part of Nagamar
magic. She threw more of the pressurized globes, stopping only when the
stillness about her convinced her, vision or not, the lizards were out of it.
She moved carefully through the bodies, cursing because she had to use the
globes, the crashes as they broke like thunder in her ears.
The Nagamar behind the heavy reed doors swept peacefully on; the corridors
stayed empty.
She reached a corner where a different light spilled round the bend, a
flickering red-gold, playing over floor tiles and woven reeds. On her knees
she eased closer, listened. No sound, but a feeling of tension, an intangible
almost nothing that brought the hairs erect along her spine. She felt in the
bag and cursed her drugged recklessness, only three globes left. She held one
cuddled in her hand, gathered herself, threw herself around the corner,
keeping low, almost on her belly, flung the globe at the tiles in front of the
two guards as they started for her, curled onto her feet and stood waiting,
knife ready.
They ran into the cloud of gas, took another two steps, faces gone slack,
bodies driven by will and impetus, then crumpled to the floor, spears
clattering beside them.
She reached for another egg, changed her mind, let it click back against its
mate. Using strips cut off their kilts and their leather gear, she bound the
guards' hands and feet and gagged them, then she hauled them into a corner and
left them facing the walls. As she straightened, the bodies swelled and seemed
to be trying to change into large lizards; for a moment she was fooled, jumped
back gasping, swaying, stumbling into a strong current of air that flooded
over her, flushing away some of the confusion in her head. The guards were
Nagamar again, unconscious, tied, laid like logs against the wall. She looked
up. She was under one of the towers and it was funneling air and moonlight
down to her, a yawning emptiness overhead. Made sense. No point in having
woozy unreliable guards. The air felt marvelous on her skin. She thought of
taking the plugs out, then thought it would be really stupid to be caught by
her own gas. Head not working too well, woman. Get a move on, will you, the
night won't last forever.
She turned to the massive door the armed females (the Duppra's notorious
virgin guards) were protecting. The first wooden door she'd seen here, a
massive slab of light colored wood with an intricate glyph carved in it. A
torch burned at the left of the door, turning the glyph into a twisty, snaky
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thing that oozed menace at her. She nibbed at her eyes. Damn lizard spit. With
slow care, using hands and ears as well as eyes, she examined that door,
remembering what Pegwai said. You don't steal from Duppra Mallat and you don't
try cheating her. Cheats paid her back with an arm or a leg or both depending
on how much they owed her; thieves she ate whole. She'd got a taste for exotic
flesh and had roasted her share of every species in Oruda during the five
years it had taken to establish herself in Oruda. That was over three decades
ago, but the stories still went the rounds, with the speculation that some of
her more succulent slaves left the pens for the stewpots of Mallat House.
The door was too solid to yield under the small pressure she could apply with
her fingertips and the hinges were on the inside. No latch visible. The other
door was hinged on the left, probably have to do both sides anyway if there's
a bar. More than one bar, yes. If the rumors are true and she keeps her hoard
in there. Djabo grant they're true or I've wasted a lot of time tonight. She
slid the cutter down the slit between door and jamb, starting with the right
side. Acrid stench from the charred wood. She pushed at the door. It gave a
little but wouldn't open. At least one bar. She moved swiftly to the other
side, started the cutter at shoulder height and brought it to her waist,
pushed again. This time the door swung open with a heavy silence. She listened
a moment, then slipped inside.
A number of lamps burned about the room, horn and alabaster, providing a dim
and tranquil light, faintly orange, very restful on the eyes, but tricky,
making you think you saw a lot more than you actually did. Faint lizard stink,
not enough to bother. Skeen pulled the door shut.
Steady even breathing from the big bed. Djabo, that thing's huge. Longer than
it was broad and broad enough to bed Skeen, Pegwai, the four Aggitj boys, a
girl for each of them, leaving space for Timka, Telka, and Z'la. Tall, too,
the top was higher than her head; she might be able to hook fingers over it if
she stretched. Elaborately carved sides, four mighty posts like piles holding
up a wharf, also carved in deep relief. A glistery canopy draping in graceful
curves between the posts. The breathing suggested Mallat was in her bed, but
there was no way Skeen could tell without climbing up and looking.
Another heavy breather, lower and closer. An ancient Nagamar female, hair a
dirty off-white in this faint light, sleeping on a pallet spread over a huge
chest with sides carved as elaborately as the bed. A quilt pulled up to her
shoulders. A small pile of carved wooden adornments on a table beside the
chest beads, bracelets, earrings that looked massive enough to drag her ear
lobes down to her waist. Shaman for sure. Skeen looked covetously at the
adornments, sighed, and took out one of the grenades. She sucked air through
the nose plugs, not clogged yet. Good. She took careful aim and broke the
globe against one of the bedposts, threw the last one against the chest near
the sleeping shaman's head. The shattering of the first globe jerked the
shaman out of sleep just in time for her to get a good lungful from the
second.
Skeen stepped beside the comatose shaman and began climbing the nearest
bedpost then swung atop the footboard. She clutched at the post and stared
down at the bulk in the nest of silken coverlets. She felt a flash of
satisfaction, then grinned at herself. Taking all this too seriously, woman,
stop gloating and get busy. She slashed strips from the coverlet and bound the
huge woman's wrists and ankles. No wonder her chair bearers had crooked legs,
she must be a ton of muscle on the hoof. Skeen stuffed some of the coverlet
into her mouth and bound it in place. I hope you're not a mouth-breather, dead [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]