hesitantly.
She nodded,
lowering her cane as she started past him. She paused. “Come to my shop sometime,
in the Citron Alley. Ask for the mask maker anyone can tell you where it is.”
He nodded
too; remembered, and said quickly, “Uh—sure. Maybe I will.” He watched her go.
And then he
moved uptown. Into the Maze, where the building fronts were painted with
lights, in strings and whorls and rainbowed pinwheels; where the colors, the
shapes, the costumes that peered from windows or moved on bodies along the
street never repeated twice; where the flash of signs and the cries of
hucksters promised heaven and hell and every gradation of degradation in
between. Finding a half-quiet street corner under fluttering flowered banners,
he stood and played for hours to a jingling harmony provided by the coins of
passersby—not as many as he had hoped, but better than the nothing he had
started with.
At last the
fragrance of a hundred separate spices and herbs pulled him away, to spend a
few of his coins filling his empty stomach with a feast of strange delights.
Afterward he shed his slicker for a shirt of red silk, chains of glass and
copper beads; the shopkeeper took the rest of his money. But as he started back
through the evening alleys to his corner, to try to earn keep for the night, he
sang a silent prayer of thanks to the Lady for the gift of his music that She
had sent with him into Carbuncle. With his music he could survive, while he
learned the rules of his new life Four off worlders in spacer coveralls without
insignia, who had walked the alley behind him, closed around him abruptly and
dragged him into the dark crack between two buildings.
“What do
you want—?” He twisted his head, freed his mouth from a hand that reeked of
machine lubricant. Blinking frantically in the dim light, he saw the three
others, not sure he really saw white teeth bared in the grin of a closing hunt,
but sure of the gunmetal gleam of something deadly held by one, and the
restraining cuffs, more hands reaching out for him as the crushing grip
tightened across his throat.
He threw
back his head and felt it impact in the face of the man behind him, heard a
grunt of pain, then used his elbow and his heavy boots. The man fell back,
cursing unintelligibly; and
Sparks
stumbled free, opened his mouth to shout for help.
But the
shadow with the gunmetal gleam used his weapon first. The shout went out of
Sparks
in a gasp as black
lightning struck him. He fell forward on his face, a string-cut puppet,
helpless to keep his head from cracking on the pavement. But there was no pain,
only dull impact, and the dry rattle of a thousand synapse lines gone dead in a
body that could not respond. A band of steel was tightening around his throat,
he heard the ugly sound of his own strangling.
A foot
rolled him. The shadow men closed over him, looking down; he saw their smiles
clearly this time, as they saw the terror on his face.
“How much
did you hit him with, lard fingers Looks like he’s choking.”
“Let him
choke, the wormy little bastard. Brain damage won’t hurt his price off world
The man he had hit in the face wiped blood from a split lip.
“Yeah, he’s
a pretty one, ain’t he? Not just mine fodder, nosiree. We’ll get a load for him
on Tsieh-pun.” Laughter; a boot settled on his stomach, pressed. “Keep
breathing, pretty boy. That’s the way.”
One of them
knelt, locked his useless hands with the metal cuffs. The man with the bloody
face dropped down beside him, pulled something from a pocket, flicked a switch
at its base. A narrow blade of light flamed, the length of the man’s hand;
fingers of his other hand probed
Sparks
’s
mouth, found his tongue. “Last words, pretty boy?”
Help me!
But his scream was silent.
5
“Gods, I
hate this duty!” Police Inspector Geia Jerusha PalaThion jerked the end of her
scarlet cape free of the patrol craft door seal The car trembled lightly,
hovering on repellers in the
She nodded,
lowering her cane as she started past him. She paused. “Come to my shop sometime,
in the Citron Alley. Ask for the mask maker anyone can tell you where it is.”
He nodded
too; remembered, and said quickly, “Uh—sure. Maybe I will.” He watched her go.
And then he
moved uptown. Into the Maze, where the building fronts were painted with
lights, in strings and whorls and rainbowed pinwheels; where the colors, the
shapes, the costumes that peered from windows or moved on bodies along the
street never repeated twice; where the flash of signs and the cries of
hucksters promised heaven and hell and every gradation of degradation in
between. Finding a half-quiet street corner under fluttering flowered banners,
he stood and played for hours to a jingling harmony provided by the coins of
passersby—not as many as he had hoped, but better than the nothing he had
started with.
At last the
fragrance of a hundred separate spices and herbs pulled him away, to spend a
few of his coins filling his empty stomach with a feast of strange delights.
Afterward he shed his slicker for a shirt of red silk, chains of glass and
copper beads; the shopkeeper took the rest of his money. But as he started back
through the evening alleys to his corner, to try to earn keep for the night, he
sang a silent prayer of thanks to the Lady for the gift of his music that She
had sent with him into Carbuncle. With his music he could survive, while he
learned the rules of his new life Four off worlders in spacer coveralls without
insignia, who had walked the alley behind him, closed around him abruptly and
dragged him into the dark crack between two buildings.
“What do
you want—?” He twisted his head, freed his mouth from a hand that reeked of
machine lubricant. Blinking frantically in the dim light, he saw the three
others, not sure he really saw white teeth bared in the grin of a closing hunt,
but sure of the gunmetal gleam of something deadly held by one, and the
restraining cuffs, more hands reaching out for him as the crushing grip
tightened across his throat.
He threw
back his head and felt it impact in the face of the man behind him, heard a
grunt of pain, then used his elbow and his heavy boots. The man fell back,
cursing unintelligibly; and
Sparks
stumbled free, opened his mouth to shout for help.
But the
shadow with the gunmetal gleam used his weapon first. The shout went out of
Sparks
in a gasp as black
lightning struck him. He fell forward on his face, a string-cut puppet,
helpless to keep his head from cracking on the pavement. But there was no pain,
only dull impact, and the dry rattle of a thousand synapse lines gone dead in a
body that could not respond. A band of steel was tightening around his throat,
he heard the ugly sound of his own strangling.
A foot
rolled him. The shadow men closed over him, looking down; he saw their smiles
clearly this time, as they saw the terror on his face.
“How much
did you hit him with, lard fingers Looks like he’s choking.”
“Let him
choke, the wormy little bastard. Brain damage won’t hurt his price off world
The man he had hit in the face wiped blood from a split lip.
“Yeah, he’s
a pretty one, ain’t he? Not just mine fodder, nosiree. We’ll get a load for him
on Tsieh-pun.” Laughter; a boot settled on his stomach, pressed. “Keep
breathing, pretty boy. That’s the way.”
One of them
knelt, locked his useless hands with the metal cuffs. The man with the bloody
face dropped down beside him, pulled something from a pocket, flicked a switch
at its base. A narrow blade of light flamed, the length of the man’s hand;
fingers of his other hand probed
Sparks
’s
mouth, found his tongue. “Last words, pretty boy?”
Help me!
But his scream was silent.
5
“Gods, I
hate this duty!” Police Inspector Geia Jerusha PalaThion jerked the end of her
scarlet cape free of the patrol craft door seal The car trembled lightly,
hovering on repellers in the
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