Blood and Ivory-A Tapestry Read online

  I was headed back for St. John's by the rim path with that damned book heavy on my back when memory suddenly zapped me. Only one tom on campus sported a blade like the one that had killed St. John, notched for every cat he'd cut: Mang. Right then and there, I knew damn farking well where Jame had gone.

  Guess I just stopped thinking then. In fact, guess I just plain panicked b'cause the next thing I knew, I was tearing through the forest, crashing into bushes, falling over roots, swearing with all the spare breath I had at Jame, Mang, myself, the whole farking campus—in short making one hell of a racket.

  Oh, I paid for it, all right. You don't just go galloping through the central forest on finals' eve.

  First thing I heard was the distant whine of anti-gravs. Then eyes of light blinked at me b'tween the trees. B'fore I could take cover, they were on top of me and I was on the ground fighting for breath in a circle of screaming plats and roars of laughter. Just when I thought I'd start screaming myself, something grabbed me by the collar, jerked me up on my toes. The plats skidded to a stop, all their lights on me, or rather, on us, b'cause I was dangling, half strangling, from the fist of a farking giantess.

  Which figured. All Tungia women are huge, and Mama's platform racers seldom rode with anyone not of Tungia stock. Nor did they have much use for any tom, there being no Tung males, unless he was at least as big as St. John.

  "What're you doin' out so late, tomkin?" said a big, lazy voice. "Jame Talissen should keep her squire in on a night like this."

  Then my eyes cleared and I saw that it was Mama herself who had hold of me. Mad as I was at being called "tomkin," much less anyone's squire, this was one Tung I didn't mind seeing. Like I said, our Jame had the damnest friends. So I spilled the whole story to this one, but fast. When I got to the solo raid I thought Jame was making on Sid Dillon's headquarters, Mama gave a rumbling chuckle.

  "Trust little sister to go after the biggest game," she said.

  "B-but she's going to get cooled!"

  Mama cocked her head and stared at me, amused. "You got to learn 'bout Jame Talissen," she said. "Now there's one kitten with claws. But if that's Mang's blade, she may finally be takin' on too much, and if Jame don't help me cram for the English exam Tuesday morning, sure as Dillon's a one-balled tom I'll be boxed come Wednesday morning. So okay." She slapped me on the back, damn near knocking me off my feet. "We go see 'bout rescuing the hellcat . . . if she needs it."

  Someone in the darkness let off a whoop, and the plats came on with a tooth-jarring whine. Mama jerked me up b'hind her on her machine. Wasn't much standing room, b'lieve me, or any power to spare. Somehow, though, we made it without bumping ground or breaking necks to the fire-gutted gym Dillon's pack used as a rally point. The lower windows were boarded up, so we had to climb up a fire escape to the fourth level to get a good look-see inside.

  Sure enough, there was Jame, standing alone in the circle of a spotlight, with the pack all 'round her in the shadows and Dillon himself lounging in his big chair up on the balcony. The notched knife was in his hands.

  "Eh," said Mama in my ear. "That's big game, all right. Listen, tomkin, I'm gonna try something." She pulled an enormous knife out of her belt and shoved it into my hands. "You stay put," she said, and disappeared down the ladder. I used the thing's point to pry open the window.

  Dillon was laughing, gently tilting the blade back and forth so that the light blazed off of it. A soft, almost pretty face that tom had, but the laughter made something nasty of it.

  "Vicious, but not stupid," he said, still smiling at the knife. "Oh my, oh my. Your faith in my intelligence is touching, love, but vicious? You're half right, though: I didn't have anything to do with cooling St. John." Then, to the shadows below: "Mang, its your blade and your score. You want to say something?"

  The pack made room for him. He stepped out into the circle of light and grinned at Jame. I could see the four parallel scars running down his face, and the drooping eyelid. She turned to meet him, moving smooth on her feet as silk on ice, into the first patterns of the Senethar fight form.

  "Seems to me," she said in a low voice, "we've gone beyond the conference stage. Wouldn't you say so, Mang?"

  "Could be, kitten, could be. But I still want to talk."

  It was the slow drawl of a tom who has the whip hand and enjoys it. He was circling her now, thumbs hooked in his belt, head cocked sideways, still with that damn insolent grin on his ruined face.

  "Haven't seen much of you lately. If I was the suspicious sort, I might think you didn't like me anymore, but I know better than that. You been waitin' just like me, waitin' for another nice moonlit night, waitin' to be free."

  His hand stretched out, nails jagged and black, as though to stoke her face. She glided out of his reach, almost but not quite in a wind blowing move. His fingers slid through her hair as she turned. He laughed, a mean, oily, not quite sane sound.

  "I must have been right, 'cause now that you're free, here you are. How's life been treatin' you, kitten? You got any griefs? 'Cause if things aren't just right, I want to fix them. This is our night, pretty eyes."

  "It was St. John's night too, before some brave tom knifed him in the back, and Ammie's until a 'phone call caved in her world," said Jame, still turning with him, slow and easy in the patterns of the form. Her voice was steady, even pleasant, 'cept for an odd, throaty undertone getting stronger by the minute. "So many games, and it's still so long 'til dawn. Why do I get this feeling that we've barely begun?"

  " 'Cause you're smart, baby, just like I always said. This is just the start. How many in that pack you run with? Eight? Nine. One for each scar and four for the eye, and you know who goes first? Yeah, St. John's bonkers mouse. Only you won't be there to see it."

  He snapped his fingers. Something flashed down to him, to be caught with the sharp slap of steel on flesh. From the balcony, a low, hungry laugh. The blade with the notched hilt burned bright in his hand.

  All 'round them, there was a rustling in the shadows, a swaying forward as the eyes moved in. They thought they had her. They could almost taste the blood. Jame looked at Mang over the weaving point of the knife and b'gan to smile.

  "Oh brave, brave tom," she said, and her voice was a deep rumbling purr that made my very bones shake. "I was going to save you for someone else, I really was, but not now. Come dance with me, lover. This is our night."

  And she b'gan to take off her gloves.

  It occurred to me then that I'd never seen her hands without them. When the first one came off, I understood at last how she'd scarred Mang so badly. By the time the second one had hit the floor, I knew that, whatever Jame Talissen was, she wasn't quite human, and it didn't matter at all.

  They circled and circled while the pack strained forward and Dillon stared down, sharp, white teeth gleaming in the shadows, tongues licking dried lips. Death was a flicker of steel and ten long, curved fingers; a ragged leer and a half smile as thin and inhuman as the edge of any blade.

  Then he lunged, and the lights went out.

  For a second, there was silence. Then the big room turned into a madhouse. Could hear Mang shrieking "Get her! Get her!" in the dark. I jammed the point of Mama's knife under the window and wrenched it open. Wasn't thinking at all as I scrambled through and started down the wall. Window ledges are good as a ladder to a city bred tom. My heart was banging so hard I could hardly breathe. Then I was on the edge of the crowd. Something bumped 'gainst my arm and I slashed at it. It shrieked. Pushing my way toward the center of the room, I stumbled 'gainst someone else and raised the blade again in a dead panic. A hand caught my wrist in mid-air and Jame's voice hissed in my ear, "You idiot!"

  She half dragged me through the pack and straight to the only door, something only a Kennie could have managed. It was locked. Jame swore under her breath, then suddenly stopped and gave a fierce little chuckle. I heard her scratch lightly 'gainst the wood panels. It swung open at once. She shoved me through. A Tung shut it after us and went b
ack to leaning 'gainst it casual as if it were a tree trunk.

  Jame turned on me. "You idiot!" she said again, really mad. "You could have gotten us both killed!"

  That was when I saw the thin line of blood angling down her cheek just b'low the right eye to the edge of the chin.

  "Hey, I didn't cut you, did I?"

  "The way you were swinging," she said sourly, touching the red line with a fingertip, "it's a miracle you didn't decapitate me. But no, this isn't your work. The next time you pull the switch on me, don't do it in the middle of an attack, huh? It's damn distracting."

  "Wasn't the tomkin's fault," said a voice behind us, and there was Mama. "Never mind the scratch—did you score?"

  "Did you give me a chance to? Just the same, it was a pretty good try, considering that all the help was left footed. Sam, sorry I snapped at you, but these fits of heroism you've been having recently are beginning to scare the hell out of me."

  "You should talk! What kind of bonkers idea was that anyway, taking on a whole pack single-handedly? Suicidal you've been b'fore, but never stupid."

  "I know, I know," she said, looking disgusted. "I think we're all going crazy. Mang pounces St. John, I pounce a pack, and you, apparently, pounce anything that moves. Where is it all going to end?"

  "Awright," said Mama. "Next play. Want us to step in on Dillon?" Her face lit up. "Be the biggest crash since Melba fell outta bed."

  "Be spectacular, all right," Jame agreed. "Who am I to hinder great deeds? Fine time crash or not, Mang is going to want out. Keep the whole pack corked up here until the moon hits zenith, say, about three hours from now, then start the party. But make sure that he gets away."

  I yelped. She hit me in the ribs with her elbow.

  "I want to arrange for him to meet someone, and I need the extra time. How does that scan?"

  "Rocky," Mama said, frowning, "but okay. Most of the time, you know what you're doin. Just don't get singed. And hang on to that squire of yours," she added, b'ginning to grin again. "He's small, but he's prime."

  * * *

  JAME WOULDN'T TAKE the offered plat, wouldn't even let Mama send one of her people with us. She said she wanted to move fast, without the risk of cracking up on one or being held back by the other. Well, we moved all right. By then, I'd learned that the nastier things got, the quicker our kitten liked to tackle them. Just the same, by that time I'd been fed one more mystery than I could swallow. That was why, on top of a long slope with a pool of seething mist at the bottom, I caught her arm and made her stop.

  "Does this seem like the right time or place for a conference?" she demanded.

  "Right place or not, if I don't clear up some of these things now I may never get another chance. Maybe being used for target practice doesn't bother you, but me, I'm the sensitive type. I figure I've got a right to know b'fore someone gets lucky and cools me for good."

  "They wouldn't take pot shots if you didn't bounce around begging for it," she said sourly. "All right, ask, and ask fast."

  My chance at last. Samuel, I says to myself, blow this and I'll never talk to you again.

  "So okay. Tonight I've seen your hands and Rimmon has called you 'Shanir.' That's a term I've run into before. Every time I asked 'bout it though, your people mumbled something 'bout children of darkness and changed the subject fast."

  " 'Name not the thing of power,' " said Jame, probably quoting from Book of the Law, " 'lest it destroy you.' "

  "Is that what you are, a 'thing of power?' "

  "Tonight we find out. All right, this is how it goes: the norms have the muties; the Kencyrath have the Shanir, only the latter aren't something new. Just the opposite. To be one is to be of the Old Blood, to have certain traits that most Kencyr have lost, to be closer to certain forces."

  "Ah ha," I said. "Then that would mean . . .

  But that was as far as I got, b'cause at that moment part of the sky fell on us with a shriek.

  It was Miri. Her people may be light enough to lift off with an anti-grav pack, but their brains are 'bout as solid as their bones. Our pigeon had gotten her fields crossed and was flying more or less upside-down. Jame made a leap for her right leg, I for her left, and b'tween us we pulled them down. Beams realigned, Miri shot straight up in the air.

  "Firsters," she shrieked down at us. "Firsters!"

  "You and your damn tea parties," said Jame to me. "Where?" she shouted up as the Arian mutie cartwheeled out of control high 'bove us.

  "Everywhere! Everywhere!" the answer came tumbling down.

  I looked 'bout, breath snagged in my throat, and saw that she was pretty near right: we were almost surrounded. On three sides, silent figures had appeared under the trees, like twisted shadows. Mama, Rimmon, Dillon, you could take your chances with any of them. Not with a Firster. Victims of something that wasn't their fault, hunted by everyone, you could almost feel sorry for them. But not on a moonlit slope in the deep woods with the odds seven to one at best. No way.

  "The senethar," Jame said in my ear. "Let's see how much you remember." I didn't know much to remember. So far, Jame had only taught me the first six figures of the water flowing form, and I'd never used any of them 'cept in practice.

  No time to panic. Here came a Firster swinging a jagged piece of metal. I slipped out of the upward arc, caught his hand as it shot past me, and made him continue the swing up over his own shoulder. For a second he was down flat, staring up at me with eyes as pale and dead as the moon. Then he was scrambling to his feet again, making a whoofing noise. I'd forgotten that none of the first six figures are designed to take a tom out for good. So I kicked him b'tween the eyes. Jame had just finished with another two, and b'lieve me, they weren't 'bout to get up again.

  More were coming, a good dozen.

  "Too many, Samuel," I heard her say through her teeth. "Jump for it!" She was pointing down the slope toward the pool of mist.

  I turned and started to run. Didn't think my feet could keep up with me at first. And the pool. You got any idea how ungodly wide something like that looks when you've got legs the length of mine? Well, I couldn't stop, and Jame had said jump, so I did.

  Of course, I didn't make it. Not all the way, at least. My feet hit the mist and the next thing I knew I'd whopped belly down on the rim of land on the far side, with my legs thrashing 'round in what felt like a complete void. And cold? Friend, it was like the edge of outer space. Jame shot over me, diving headfirst into a rolling fall. The next second she was hauling on my jacket. A real quick kitten, that, but not very strong. I wasn't coming free half fast enough, and my legs were getting too numb with the cold to help.

  A Firster came at us down the hill at a lurching gallop. One uneven stride took him from the far rim of the pool to nearly dead center. He sank in up to the waist, then, with a squeal, dropped out of sight like someone had pulled the ground out from under him. The scream seemed to go on and on, rapidly fading away into the whiteness.

  Right then and there, I knew I wanted to get my legs out of that pool.

  "C'mon, c'mon," Jame hissed as she tugged at me. "Can't count on them all to fall in . . . "

  Bare feet pounded down the grassy incline b'hind us.

  More than that there was the sound of heavier feet crashing through the forest toward us and of shouts. If it was more Firsters, we'd had it.

  Then, just as the mist finally let go of my feet and the two of us went down in a heap, Duley staggered out of the trees above with a whoop. The rest of his pack wasn't far b'hind. Soon as I was sure that while others' grief was just b'ginning, ours had been postponed indefinitely, I turned to Jame, pointed to the mist pool, and said, "What's down there?"

  It came out in a squeak.

  She rolled over on the grass and looked at me. "You're getting hysterical, Sam."

  "St. John is dead, you turn out to be a Kennie's nightmare," I said, hearing my voice go up like a slide whistle, "my legs are frozen, and I've just seen a tom fall through what ought to be solid ground into what
certainly isn't the Under-Earth. Of course I'm hysterical! I repeat: 'What is down there?' "

  "If I tell you, will you stop screaming?"

  "YES!"

  So she told me, lying there in the long grass with the massacre of what turned out to be the last Firsters on campus going on up-slope, and me fighting the cold and the jeebies, lying b'side her. She told me that our Earth was only one in a series of overlapping threshold worlds that held together the multi-dimensional Chain of Creation. That thing down there, b'low the mist, b'low the frost, was what had destroyed the Kencyrath's home world. They called it Perimal Darkling.

  "P-p-perimal w-what?"

  "Darkling. Not that it is, exactly. Everything in it is mixed up: light and dark, heat and cold, life and death. Nasty, but fascinating . . . Anyway, the Shanir drew it to the surface so that it could be fought, but when it came it was too strong for them. The barriers fell, and everyone had to run. Where we ran to was here. What we arrived in the middle of was war. What triggered the madness that triggered the war was Perimal Darkling moving one world closer. Of course, all my people blamed the Shanir. They still do, perhaps with reason."