Shadow Dance Page 2

  3. Run, Hide, Seek, Find

  25th of Nima, Continued

  I should have guessed what that smile meant.

  Ten hours later, I was sitting on a bench on Lagrossa Avenue.

  The streghtlimmer was walking along on his stilts, lighting the gas lamps that lined the boardwalk. The wooden thunk...thunk-thunk...thunk of his unnaturally long strides echoed off the cocrete fronts of the warehouses across the street. He was nearly finished, and the light of the gas flame bathed everything in a weird, greenish cast, all of it made even more sickly by the mist rising between the ancient trees in the park at my back.

  I could just barely make out the captain in the shadows of the alley across from me. He was supposed to be a drunk sleeping off a bender, but all I could see of him was a large, dark lump huddled by the wall of the Fousten's Wools warehouse. At least, I assumed the lump was Arramy. Perhaps it really was a drunk. Maybe I was really as alone as I felt —

  A man sat down next to me as suddenly as if he had materialized from the fog.

  I froze, my heart leaping into a full-on gallop. I started to glance at him when his frantic whisper stopped me cold: "Don't look at me! They aren't far behind. When I leave, head the other way down Lagrossa for two blocks and turn right on Pazhstreght. There's a metal sign on the wall of the Moonflower Motel. Look behind the second M." He paused and scooted to the edge of his seat as if he were about to leave, but then stayed just long enough to murmur, "I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Your father was a good friend. Best of luck, my dear."

  And then he was gone, a short, stocky figure hurrying off down the boardwalk.

  No binder. Maybe it would be behind the sign?

  I took a breath and then another, forcing myself to think. I was going to have to move to an unforeseen location, which meant this had just become exactly the sort of mess Arramy had predicted it would. I glanced at the drunk in the alley but couldn't tell if he was looking at me or not. NaVarre was supposed to be up on the roofline with a handful of his men. I just had to hope that they would all be able to follow me, since there was no time to find out.

  I got up and began walking, heading off down Lagrossa. I wanted to scream, to pelt away like a frightened rabbit and hide in the nearest bolt hole, those words repeating in my head, they aren't far behind, they aren't far behind, they aren't far behind...

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a large, blessedly familiar figure come out of the alley – Arramy, making swift progress for a drunk person, keeping even with me on the other side of the street as I followed the perimeter of Inderkynde Park.

  They aren't far behind; they aren't far behind...

  My blasted knees were shaking.

  I passed a side street – one block down, one to go. All I had to do was this one last thing. Then I could go back to the Island. Help the Doctor translate for her patients and work on case records for the Director. Read about Roghuari Emperors... Eat llinfa...

  Heavy footsteps sounded behind me just before I reached Pazhstreght, and rational thought fled. I broke into a mad run, my boot heels clacking on the boardwalk as I sprinted the rest of the way around the tall, wood-shingled building on the corner.

  Golden lamplight, cheroot smoke, and bawdy music poured out into the night through a set of swinging doors a few yards down the boardwalk, and there, on the side of the building just a few paces beyond the door, was a big gaslit metal sign: Moonflower Motel.

  But instead of going straight to the sign, I darted through those swinging doors.

  A few men at the bar glanced in my direction, but most of the patrons of the Moonflower were too engrossed in card games and ogling the dancing girls on the stage to notice that someone had barged in, lunged sideways, and pinned herself to the wall immediately to the right of the entrance.

  I held perfectly still as someone came around the corner outside, moving quickly, their tread loud on the wood of the boardwalk. A short spate of what sounded like gunfire erupted somewhere farther away. I closed my eyes tight, listening hard over the sound of my own pulse and the noise of the saloon. It might be Arramy. It's probably Arramy... those are just holiday poppers... I'm being an idiot...

  Whoever it was, they jogged right on by, and I almost started breathing again.

  Then the footsteps slowed, turned, and came back. And stopped.

  Oh, please let it be Arramy...

  I shrank into the corner, trying to become one with the plaster as a bulky man in a long black oilcloth coat pushed slowly through the swinging door next to me.

  Not Arramy. Definitely not Arramy.

  He didn't see me. I was right there, less than a foot away, but he never glanced in my direction, scanning the crowd ahead of him instead as he took a few steps toward the bar. Looking for someone.

  Me. He had to be looking for me.

  I didn't wait to be found. As soon as there was enough room, I eased myself back around the doorframe and pushed the door open, careful not to let it clap shut behind me.

  I hadn't even taken two steps forward when a thick arm wrapped around my waist from behind, a calloused hand clamped over my mouth, and a low, rough voice breathed hot in my ear, "Oooooh... Bossman never said you were fine. Might just have me some fun after all."

  Screaming behind his hand, I thrashed my head, but it did nothing. With a grunt, the Coventry man turned and shoved me up against the wall, hard, using his weight to pin me there. I couldn't shove him off, couldn't get my hands loose to scratch at him, couldn't kick. I tried to bite, but he just chuckled and clamped his fat fingers around my throat, squeezing until the only sound I could make was a humiliating gurgle.

  "Hush now, none of that. You'll have Larros out here. He's not so nice as me. Now come on little birdy, I just want a taste," he crooned, nuzzling at my hair and nipping at my ear, groping along the front of my cloak with his free hand, searching for the clasp.

  I looked wildly around, but there was no one else in the street. Not NaVarre, not his men. What had happened? Where was Arramy? Dead? Or... What if he was Coventry after all? Was that why he wasn't coming? With a sob I made another attempt to free my hands as the Coventry man gave up on my cloak and began yanking at my skirts, but the more I fought, the more insistently he squeezed. The world began going dark, shadows closing in, my vision narrowing to the lumpy, unshaven chin of the man choking the life out of me. I couldn't draw breath. Pain knifed through my head, racing down my spine and into my chest, surging and throbbing in red-gold lights behind my eyes.

  From a lengthening distance I heard a deep, raspy snarl.

  Then suddenly I was falling. The Coventry man had let go, his hands clutching at his own throat, his feet flailing several inches off the ground. I caught the gleam of Arramy's silvery head in the light of the gas lamps just before my legs buckled. Then I was on my knees, coughing, my lungs dragging at the air while Arramy hauled the agent away from me, his left arm locked tight around the agent's neck, his right hand forcing the man's head sideways. A second later there was a gritty crunch of separating vertebrae, and the Coventry man stopped struggling.

  The next instant, the Moonflower doors came flying open, and the agent who had followed me into the motel let out a loud curse, drew a bullnose pistol, and aimed it at Arramy, firing both barrels.

  Arramy was still holding the dead man's corpse, and he lifted it, using it as a shield before shoving it at the man in the black coat. The agent swore again, tossed his empty gun and dodged to the side, drawing a pair of knives.

  The corpse of the dead agent landed next to me with a thud, sightless eyes staring up from a lax face, two gaping holes torn through his chest. Gagging, I scrabbled backwards to the wall.

  Only a few paces away, Arramy was fending off the Coventry agent with his bare hands. It didn't seem to matter. He moved with the focused precision of a trained fighter, sidestepping the swipe of a dagger blade, evading a jab, staying just out of range.

  Neither of them was paying any attention to me.
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  Still coughing, I turned and crawled toward the sign, cringing at the whistle of blades slicing through the air behind me, more than half expecting to be skewered at any second. Grinding my teeth, I reached the M in Motel, sat beneath it, and peered upward. Rust had eaten a hole in the metal sheeting along the bottom, revealing a sizeable space between the front of the sign and the wall. A space wide enough to hide something. I pushed my hand through the hole, feeling about while praying that this was what the man on the bench had meant.

  There was a grunt of pain from Arramy and the Coventry man let out a mean laugh. The laugh ended in the sound of one of them taking a vicious punch, and then a string of swearing.

  I kept searching, straining upward. Suddenly, my fingers found something smooth with corners and a string, fixed somehow to the inside surface of the sign itself. I tore it free and tugged it down through the hole, ignoring the pain as the rusty edge gouged into my skin and left a bloody welt along my forearm.

  All this for what looked very much like a pen-box wrapped in waxed cotton-paper. I shoved it into the pocket of my skirt, then surged to my feet.

  At that moment, the Coventry man took a stab at Arramy again. He caught sight of me over Arramy's shoulder as he did, and that momentary distraction was all Arramy needed. He spun, grabbed the Coventry man's striking hand, and yanked the man's arm down while bringing his own knee up.

  The agent's arm snapped at the elbow, the joint bending the wrong way, and the knife clattered out into the street. With a harsh scream the man made one last, furious attempt to defend himself with his other knife, but his swing was wild and sloppy. Arramy caught that fist too, twisted the man's wrist, and hauled him forward. There was a flash of steel and the slight ring of metal on studded leather, and then the Coventry man was leaning on Arramy, his own blade through his neck.

  Eyes wide, the agent raised his broken arm, fumbling weakly for a hold on Arramy's vest as if trying to hold himself up. Arramy gave him a shove instead. With a guttural cough, he fell backward, landing on the boardwalk. For several endless seconds he writhed, his back arching slowly, his blood running along the planks beneath him as his mouth gaped for air.

  There was no emotion in Arramy's face. He stood over the dying agent, watching until the man lay still. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked at me.

  My heart stopped.

  Arramy's eyes dropped to the corpse of the man who had choked me, and then he was moving, crossing the space between us in three long strides. Gaze intense, he reached out and caught my chin in his hand, wordlessly demanding that I let him look at my throat.

  Stunned, I tilted my head back into his other palm, only to be flooded by the memory of fingers closing rough around my face. I pulled away with a shudder. "I'm fine," I got out, then winced. Talking hurt. A lot.

  Arramy let me go immediately and took a step back, a muscle flickering in his jaw. "Can you walk?"

  I nodded. Carefully. There wasn't anything wrong with the rest of me.

  "We need to move," he said quietly. "I missed one of them."

  I gaped up at him, finally realizing he no longer had his pistols or any of the knives he had started out with. How many others had there been?

  No other prompt was necessary. He turned and started forward, I fell in next to him, and then we were running for the corner of the next street in the hope that NaVarre would meet us there with transportation.

  A hay lorry rattled to a halt in front of us just as we got there. The man on the driving bench could have been anyone, his frame nondescript in a bulky longcoat, a floppy hat obscuring the features not hidden by a full beard, but it was the vehicle we were looking for, not the driver. I didn't even hesitate. I climbed into the back of the truck bed, picked up the tarpaulin on the floor, and sat down, unfolding the thing while Arramy climbed up after me.

  Farmer NaVarre released the flywheel, the engine ground into gear in a stinking cloud of exhaust, and the lorry started rolling.

  Arramy grimaced as he scooted into position next to me, easing his left leg out straight in front of him. We didn't talk. We covered ourselves with hay as quickly as we could and pulled the tarp over us like a big, oiled-canvas blanket. Then we lay there, side by side, silent in the stifling darkness beneath the tarp as NaVarre guided the horseless down one street then another, smuggling us out of the city like contraband cargo.

  How had this become my life?

  ~~~

  Streghtlimmer: (straight.lim.er) a person who walks down the city streets on stilts at dusk, lighting the gas supply in the gas lamps.

  4. It Wasn't for Nothing

  25th of Nima

  The entire ceiling was covered in delicate swirls of leafy vines worked in the plaster by an artistic hand. I hadn't noticed it the night before, and I wondered idly how much it must have cost.

  I sat on the dressing-table stool, my head tilted back, and held obediently still while NaVarre's housekeeper, Mrs. Burre, examined my throat with cool fingers. She reminded me very much of Dr. Longalli – taller and thinner, with white streaks in her hair, but she had that same no-nonsense clinical approach that said she had learned her skills in the border wars.

  "Well, you'll have to take it easy for the next few weeks." She straightened and gave me an appraising glance. "But it isn't the worst case I've ever seen. No broken bones or torn ligaments, thank goodness. Today and tomorrow we'll apply a cool compress to help with that stiffness in your neck. We can use a liniment of caskarin oil to keep any swelling down, and white willow for the pain. You should refrain from talking for several days if you can. And no hot baths till tomorrow. Other than that, you're a very lucky girl."

  I stared at her. Through her. Seeing a lumpy, unshaven chin instead of Mrs. Burre's angular features...The slope of a thick shoulder blotting out everything... Then the gleam of lamplight on silvery hair...

  Lucky.

  I blinked and looked down at my hands.

  Mrs. Burre regarded me for a beat longer, almost as if she wanted to say something more, but then turned and took her leave. A moment later a maid came in with the items Mrs. Burre had mentioned. She set about wrapping caskarin-soaked gauze around my neck and bandaging the welt on my arm, then she brushed my hair and braided it and helped me into a set of silk pajamas.

  I tried to make her understand without words that it wasn't necessary and that she could go, but she only smiled and kept trying, so I gave in and let her help me, hoping it would get her to leave faster, while cringing at the thought of facing NaVarre in lacy nightclothes.

  She was finally satisfied that I had everything I needed, gathered up my skirt and blouse, gave me another cheerful smile, and left.

  I let out my breath when the door finally closed behind her.

  Then I got up, reached into the potted plant beside the dressing table, pulled the pen-box out from under the greenery where I had hidden it, and went hunting for a robe.

  I was looking at the bellpull panel, debating over ringing for the maid again so she could tell me where NaVarre's study happened to be, when someone tapped on the door.

  Panic instantly shot through my veins.

  As if the Coventry would knock first.

  I pulled a face at my own nerves, then had to make myself cross the room to the door, my mouth gone chalk-dry.

  NaVarre was leaning casually against the jamb, and he gave me a lopsided little grin when I slid the panel open a crack and peeked out at him. "Just thought I'd drop by and check on you," he whispered.

  I opened the door all the way.

  NaVarre's grin slipped, his attention caught on the gauze at my throat. "How are you feeling?"

  I raised an eyebrow. I wanted to ask where he and his men had been when Arramy was facing all those Coventry agents by himself, but that would have taken too much effort and a lot of scratchy words, so I settled for holding up the pen-box.

  His smile didn't fade that time.

  I expected him to take the pen-box from me, but instead he straig
htened and held out his arm. "Shall we? The captain is in my study, and I really don't want to keep him waiting. He starts taking things apart when he gets bored."

  That made me grin a little, but I only went because NaVarre had hold of my elbow and didn't seem to notice my reluctance.

  Navarre was one thing. I really wasn't ready to face Arramy at all, even if I had been fully clothed and not wearing a frilly little nightgown and robe. The captain knew exactly what had happened. He had seen how small and helpless I was, witnessed that man groping all over me while I couldn't make him stop... Worse, Arramy was the only reason I was alive. Again. That deserved my gratitude at the very least, and I was grateful, but I was also fervently hoping the captain had already gone to bed so my thanks could wait until morning, after some sleep and a decent cup of tea.

  ~~~

  Hope proved futile. Arramy was indeed in the study. More precisely, he was sitting behind NaVarre's desk when we arrived.

  If he had dismantled anything, it wasn't immediately obvious, although he put down NaVarre's mechanical paperweight as we came in. His eyes found mine and he went still, jaw muscles ticking. Then he stood, abdicating NaVarre's swivel chair in favor of leaning on the front edge of the desk.

  He had bathed. His hair was still damp, and stuck up in a tousled, spiky ridge along the top of his head, which subtly emphasized the long angles of his cheekbones and the lean lines of his face. The effect was disconcerting. He would almost have been what some might call handsome, if it weren't for that impassive, chilly glare.

  My thanks died in silence, buried by uncertainty. But there was nothing for it now. Running away would only make me look weaker. Wishing I had just stayed in my room, I firmed my chin, gathered my satin robe tighter and trailed after NaVarre.

  Like the rest of the manor, the study was lavishly decorated. The walls were a deep emerald green, with rich copperwood wainscoting. Bookcases lined two walls, a massive fireplace dominated the third, and floor-to-ceiling windows the fourth. With the curtains drawn and the only light coming from the fire in the grate, it would probably have been quite a cozy room under different circumstances, and with less fearsome company.