Read Online The Forerunner Factor by Andre Norton - Free Book Online
Authors: Andre Norton
Ads: Link
you—or—what is more important—does he know of me?”
She was not sure he would tell her. He was frowning now, wrapping the carvings in the same piece of cloth she had used, putting them with care into his belt pouch. He did not answer, but rather went once more, with a tread so quick and easy that in spite of his spacer’s boots he made no sound crossing the room, to peer out a crack between the shutter and the casing.
“The lamp—” He made an impatient gesture and she guessed what he wanted, blew out the flame, then heard the squeak of the shutter as he must have pulled it farther open. Zass complained with a growl and Simsa joined the off-worlder in time to take the weight of the zorsal back on her shoulder.
There was nothing below. No one moved. They might be looking down upon the street of a deserted city. Simsa, bred to the Burrows and the alarms of the fringe places, understood the threat which hung as a part of that very silence.
“Lord Arfellen—” she whispered.
He made a swift movement, held his hand hard across her mouth. His answer came in the thinnest thread of a whisper. She wouldn’t have believed he could have spoken so softly and yet have the words reach her with such clarity.
“Listen well—Arfellen’s men followed me to spy. Is there any way out of here? He may have loosed more than just the guard to dog me—”
How much would her help be worth, that question flashed first into her mind, only to be followed by the sense of her own danger. If the Guild Lord’s men hunted this off-worlder, an alien whom all the customs of Kuxortal protected, then how much more they would profit in taking her for whose very skin they would not have to answer to anyone? They could crush her dry in one of their question rooms and learn all she knew—yet try to wring more out of her. Only if the off-worlder was safe—for now—could she also hope to have time to work out her own method of escape from his troubles.
There was only one place—the Burrows. No one of the upper city came seeking there. There were far too many runways and passages, too many hiding holes. Those from the upper city had long ago given up hope of flushing any who fled there, depending indeed on the clannishness of the Burrowers themselves, who resented any newcomers and would set up and deliver up to the authorities an upper-town fugitive.
Only if one struck a bargain with a Burrower—one of enough weight of arm to defend himself and his prey—could any fugitive hope for refuge—then only for a short time.
Simsa’s thought spun back and forth in a whirl. There was one way she could take the off-worlder back to the very den she had hoped to have seen the last of. It would cause talk, yes—but she could do it openly and none would stand between her and a dubious, fleeting safety. First—the money.
She pulled out of the off-worlder’s loose hold to catch up the bag of broken bits, stuff it deep into her sleeve and fasten the wrist button. Then her hands went to the tight wrapping about her head. She pulled off the many strands of that, shook free her thick mat of silver hair, then smeared the band pieces across her eyebrows and lashes to remove some of the protective coloring. She was not to be Shadow now, but play a very different role.
“There is a way,” she said softly as she scrubbed away her disguise. “We have some play-women in the Burrows. None have ever brought back a ship man. Though some of the lesser river traders—when they are drunk enough—will come for their pleasure. Take this,” she groped her way to the bed she had hoped to lie soft on and never had a chance to even try, and snatched up its upper cover pushing it on him where he stood—a darkened blotch between her and the open window, the lights from below giving her that much guidance now. “Put it about you as a cloak. Now—if you can stand being thought a Burrow woman’s pleasure buyer!”
He was following her, though she was not sure
She was not sure he would tell her. He was frowning now, wrapping the carvings in the same piece of cloth she had used, putting them with care into his belt pouch. He did not answer, but rather went once more, with a tread so quick and easy that in spite of his spacer’s boots he made no sound crossing the room, to peer out a crack between the shutter and the casing.
“The lamp—” He made an impatient gesture and she guessed what he wanted, blew out the flame, then heard the squeak of the shutter as he must have pulled it farther open. Zass complained with a growl and Simsa joined the off-worlder in time to take the weight of the zorsal back on her shoulder.
There was nothing below. No one moved. They might be looking down upon the street of a deserted city. Simsa, bred to the Burrows and the alarms of the fringe places, understood the threat which hung as a part of that very silence.
“Lord Arfellen—” she whispered.
He made a swift movement, held his hand hard across her mouth. His answer came in the thinnest thread of a whisper. She wouldn’t have believed he could have spoken so softly and yet have the words reach her with such clarity.
“Listen well—Arfellen’s men followed me to spy. Is there any way out of here? He may have loosed more than just the guard to dog me—”
How much would her help be worth, that question flashed first into her mind, only to be followed by the sense of her own danger. If the Guild Lord’s men hunted this off-worlder, an alien whom all the customs of Kuxortal protected, then how much more they would profit in taking her for whose very skin they would not have to answer to anyone? They could crush her dry in one of their question rooms and learn all she knew—yet try to wring more out of her. Only if the off-worlder was safe—for now—could she also hope to have time to work out her own method of escape from his troubles.
There was only one place—the Burrows. No one of the upper city came seeking there. There were far too many runways and passages, too many hiding holes. Those from the upper city had long ago given up hope of flushing any who fled there, depending indeed on the clannishness of the Burrowers themselves, who resented any newcomers and would set up and deliver up to the authorities an upper-town fugitive.
Only if one struck a bargain with a Burrower—one of enough weight of arm to defend himself and his prey—could any fugitive hope for refuge—then only for a short time.
Simsa’s thought spun back and forth in a whirl. There was one way she could take the off-worlder back to the very den she had hoped to have seen the last of. It would cause talk, yes—but she could do it openly and none would stand between her and a dubious, fleeting safety. First—the money.
She pulled out of the off-worlder’s loose hold to catch up the bag of broken bits, stuff it deep into her sleeve and fasten the wrist button. Then her hands went to the tight wrapping about her head. She pulled off the many strands of that, shook free her thick mat of silver hair, then smeared the band pieces across her eyebrows and lashes to remove some of the protective coloring. She was not to be Shadow now, but play a very different role.
“There is a way,” she said softly as she scrubbed away her disguise. “We have some play-women in the Burrows. None have ever brought back a ship man. Though some of the lesser river traders—when they are drunk enough—will come for their pleasure. Take this,” she groped her way to the bed she had hoped to lie soft on and never had a chance to even try, and snatched up its upper cover pushing it on him where he stood—a darkened blotch between her and the open window, the lights from below giving her that much guidance now. “Put it about you as a cloak. Now—if you can stand being thought a Burrow woman’s pleasure buyer!”
He was following her, though she was not sure
Similar Books
