Sasharia en Garde, Page 2
Sherwood Smith
His using my Gramma’s last name was reassuring. “My mother sent you?”
An explosion whacked our ears as Dougie decided it was time to play some trash metal for the entire West Coast of North America.
“Just to sign some papers,” the guy said—or I thought he said, not being very practiced at lip-reading.
“Why didn’t Mom call me?”
He looked puzzled, cupping his hand to his ear.
Now what to do? Take him somewhere else, obviously, but not while I was practically naked. I couldn’t just leave him. Dougie was quite capable of grilling him with nosy questions, and I didn’t want this suit thinking Dougie had any right to the answers.
So I jerked my thumb toward the inside door and led the way over Dougie’s legs back down the hall to Leslie’s room. I hoped she wouldn’t mind for five minutes.
I stayed long enough to see him perch carefully on the single chair, and dashed to my own room. I picked up my cell, speed-dialed Mom—to get her answering machine. So I thrashed into some clothes, choosing my most comfortable jeans and my Got Books? T-shirt. I braided my six braids into one big one, shoved my feet into my sandals, tried Mom again and got the machine. I waited for the beep. “Mom, call me? You sent some lawyer, or was that Roger?”
There. That took care of it. Right? I frowned at the doorknob as if it had become the Great Doorknob of Power, but two hours of sleep prevented me from getting any vibes about what I’d forgotten.
So I turned around, surveying my room. About the only furniture I owned was my water bed, my one indulgence, because it reminded me of my hammock when I was a kid on board a ship with Dad and Mom. But in Los Angeles, hammocks caused too many questions, and I had learned to compromise with things that raised no questions. Water beds raised no questions.
Everything else was garage-sale rejects, or survival stuff like clothing. I had gotten into the habit of always choosing things for practicality and invisibility.
There was another equally strong habit, being ready to jettison everything and run. I set my cell on my bed and reached into my closet for the gear bag I’d mentioned before, which contained my few important items. It went with me to work every day. Figuring a lawyer might need to look at my legal stuff, I hitched the bag over my shoulder, then eased the door open.
The walls reverberated with Dougie’s thrash noise, jarring my teeth and bones. I whizzed across to Leslie’s room and threw open the door, braced for action . . . to find the lawyer guy sitting where I’d left him, his briefcase on his knees, his brown eyes tilted up toward me in question.
“Okay.” I shut the door. “What’ve ya got?” The screeching noise diminished to the mindless thud, thud, thud of elementary percussives.
The young man opened the briefcase and sorted through his papers.
“Several items of import,” he murmured, the thump of the distant synthesizer drums and the hiss and rattle of his papers muffling his voice.
Import. Did he have an accent? Hispanic, maybe?
“Here.”
He held out a sheaf in one hand and a pen in his other, his manner earnest—maybe nervous. Like he wanted to get this done and get out. Who could blame him, with that noise pounding our brains?
“Can you give me a quick overview on what this stuff is?” I was thirsty, hungry and functioning on under two hours of sleep.
“Yes.” He stood and obligingly turned so that the papers were not upside down. “Here.” He held them under my nose.
I bent to peer at the print. Just as I registered what appeared to be an old rental agreement, five fingers closed hard on my arm. My muscles tightened to whip off a forearm block, light flashed—
—and my body turned inside out, my bones snapped like rubber bands, my head exploded—
Then it all reversed.
Though it had been many years since I’d been wrenched between worlds, I knew instantly what had happened: I’d been thrust through a World Gate.
I dropped with a splat onto a tiled floor, gasping for breath. The lawyer plopped next to me, the briefcase spilling papers all over. He groaned as he struggled to sit up. As I tried to recover my wind-scattered wits, I stared at the papers. They were flyers for local sales, a couple of rental signs and—
“You’re a fake.” I glared at the guy, who ran a shaky hand through his hair, which had jarred loose from the ponytail. Then, as a few more wits moseyed back, “Of course you’re a fake. What could be more unmagical than a lawyer?” Hadn’t Mom said a young man had come to her? About your age. “Well, this is totally craptastic. I can’t believe I fell for that.”
The guy grimaced, rubbing his temples. He looked confused and upset, and a lot younger than I’d first thought. He probably wasn’t much more than twenty. “I feel sick.”
“Good,” I snarled. “I’m so glad your rotten spell gave you the world’s worst smackdown.”
“Gate . . . very edge of its reach.”
I sighed, disgusted with myself. I’d been braced for the old guys, or if not them, some sinister geezer like Saruman—one glance and I would have slammed the door in his face. But a young, cute guy with puppy-dog brown eyes wearing a tie and a L.A. liberal ponytail, toting a briefcase and talking about legal papers had completely suckered me.
Stupid! I wanted to stomp and yell, but I didn’t have enough energy for that, so I settled for a snarky question. “I take it you’re one of Canary Merindar’s goons?”
We were still speaking English, though his translation spell would probably wear off soon. He winced again, frowned, mouthed the word goon, and flushed. “I am not!”
“Only Merindar,” I said with false cordiality, “would be slimy and disgusting enough to force me against my will, without my permission, without warning, through that blasted World Gate.”
He gulped in air and scrambled to his feet, leaving the briefcase lying on the magic-transfer Destination tiles. “Emergency. They were right behind us.” He pointed at the tiles. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”
“Home.” I sat where I was. “Now.”
The ex-lawyer tugged impatiently at the tie. “How can men wear these things in your world? I feel like I am strangling. No, you are not understanding. If I take you back, Canardan Merindar’s mages will get you. They had a tracer out, and after we performed the ten-year spell your father asked us—”
“So why are you any better? Anyway, I don’t believe that about my father. Those two old guys brought up his name, too. Going for the ol’ sentimentality, pretend you’re from my dad? No chance, Lance.”
“Lance?” He looked around, as if weapons had sprouted somewhere in the little chamber. The English spell seemed to be fading.
“The point is, I don’t recall anyone asking my permission to bring me here.” I hugged my bag to me.
By now my other senses were waking up, and the smell of the air coming in the high windows, the sight of stone walls, even the rich colors—so much more vivid than those in L.A.—all made my throat hurt and my eyes sting.
I don’t do sorrow well. It makes me surly.
“I—” He flapped a hand, shook his head, and opened the single door. “I believe I had better let you talk to Elva.” He was now speaking in Khani, the language of my childhood, which I had not used for years.
And, like I said before, I had not forgotten a word.
He lurched dizzily through the door, throwing the tie in one direction and the suit jacket in another, leaving me staring through the doorway at a young woman about my age pacing impatiently. As the guy launched clothes right and left, the female stopped, gaping from him to me.
“You found her?” she asked in Khani. “Oh, well done, Devli.” Another fast, puzzled glance. “Ah, which one is she?”
“The daughter. Grown up.” The kid—Devli—vanished behind a folding screen painted with a highly stylized series of raptors in flight against a starry sky. Grunts and rips from behind the screen indicated he was getting rid of the last of his Earth clothes as fast as he coul
d.
I shifted my attention back to the female, who had to be Elva. She wore a homemade shirt and trousers, her brown hair wrapped up on her head. Her dark eyes, so much like the guy’s, quirked in puzzlement as she studied me.
“Send. Me. Back.” I tried hard to sound polite. “Please.”
“Why?” Devli shouted from behind the screen. “When we tracked you down, it was to discover you were not living as a queen and princess should—”
Anger burned through me. “And when I was last here,” I interrupted, “the would-be queen and princess were running for their lives, grateful for stale bread, and eating it with one eye to the door that might come crashing in. How is that any better? My waitress life might not be prestigious, but it didn’t include any weapons or death threats.”
Elva flexed her hands. “But—”
“And I am not a princess,” I added, more quietly. “Sounds to me like Canary is still king. My father is dead, near as I can tell.”
Elva said on a hopeful note, “But we have not determined that your father is dead.”
“Either a person is dead or is not dead,” I retorted. All these years of wondering, and there still was no answer.
“Or is missing—”
Voices shouted from somewhere outside. Elva whirled around.
I scrambled up, still woozy from the world transfer, and staggered out of the Destination chamber into a big room. I was obviously in a castle. Moss-splotched stone walls, arrow-slit windows down one side with age-darkened, rotting tapestries between them, and two very dusty, spider-webbed huge tables testified to a place abandoned for an appreciable length of time.
“Devli.” Elva dashed across the room toward the farther table. “I hear trouble.”
“Coming!” Devli squawked, amid increased sounds of frenzied dressing.
She turned back to me. “You need more seemly clothing.”
“These are seemly where I come from. And if you send me back, they’ll continue to be seemly.”
She frowned. “Did I misspeak? You attract attention dressed thus, and it were better if—”
She halted at the ring of iron-shod boot heels outside the main door.
Devli hopped out a second later, trying to fix the ties of a greenweave shoe. Elva reached the table. She picked up a rapier and a saber and tossed the latter to Devli, who let go of his shoe just in time to catch the weapon with both hands.
“Hey,” he protested. “That almost knocked me in the head.”
“No loss,” Elva cracked, and I knew then they were brother and sister. “Now pick up those outlandish other-world clothes, lest you want to signal to every villain within a day’s ride where you were.”
As she nagged, she picked up the tie and the coat and tossed them to him. He bundled them with the other things into a kind of knapsack, which he slung round behind him. “Table,” he said to her.
Together they sprang to the closer table and shoved it against the wooden door about two seconds before the latch rattled. A muffled curse prefaced thumping and kicking.
My two hours of sleep left me struggling to catch up. “Wait—”
“This way.” Elva used her sword to flick up the single tapestry on the inner wall.
Her gesture sent up billows of dust. She sneezed.
“Why should I follow you?” I demanded.
Devli said, “It’s either us or King Canardan. I am afraid there is no choice left.”
Canary? I’d already made one big mistake. I did not want to risk another. I crowded behind Elva and Devli into the narrow passageway previously hidden behind the tapestry.
An ancient magical glowglobe, dim enough to shed faint light, revealed a narrow, moldy corridor.
Elva had pressed against the wall, and when I passed, she closed in behind me. Except for our breathing and footsteps we were silent as we dashed down the passage, which abruptly jolted right. Another ancient glowglobe revealed a steep, cramped spiral stairway.
We shuffled down into darkness. All three of us trailed fingers against the slimy wall to guide us as there was no handrail. Ech. I was glad of my sandals. The stair mold was even worse than the walls.
Devli thumped into a solid door just before we heard a distant wham! from the upstairs room we’d left a minute ago. Devli yanked the iron-reinforced door open. Sudden light blinded us when we galumphed through a stone archway into a courtyard.
Elva pushed past me and led the way, sword up, looking around quickly. “Come on—” she began, motioning toward what seemed to be a stable from the smell emanating from the open door.
A stream of guys in brown battle tunics blasted through another stone archway in the wall adjacent to ours. A few waved rapier-sabers, and several wielded heavy straight swords. These had to be Canary’s henchminions.
Devli scrambled in front of me, taking up position beside his sister. The men fanned out, moving in slowly. A few gave me puzzled looks.
Someone barked out a short command. The henchminions raised their swords, some upright, others holding the points outward. A couple waved their swords vaguely. Both those swords looked awfully tarnished.
Devli and Elva valiantly tried to drive the warriors back, but they were outnumbered and not well trained. Neither were the henchminions. From the caution with which they circled in, trying to get past Elva’s and Devli’s frantic sword swinging, it was clear the orders were to “take” and not “kill” or we’d have been sliced and diced.
Still, the siblings retreated. I also retreated, my bag clutched tightly to me. I was trying to think past my brain fog—and coming up with nothing because I had no idea where we were, or who anyone was. I had no weapons, no sleep, and worst of all, no caffeine to boot the brain.
Just then a cry from across the courtyard caused the leader of the patrol to yell, “Out here!”
Great. Reinforcements.
The henchminions grinned, several relaxing, the rest brandishing weapons expectantly. Their leader said to Devli and Elva, “Put your weapons down.”
“Not likely,” drawled a voice from the archway behind us.
I whirled around. A tall guy sauntered into the courtyard, sword in one hand, long knife in the other. Neither weapon looked tarnished.
Devli sighed, shutting his eyes briefly. “The pirate.”
“Pirate? Pirate?” I repeated, trying not to bleat. “Pirates I read about. I never wanted to meet any—”
No one was paying me the least heed. Elva and Devli gripped their weapons with renewed determination, though they didn’t seem to know where to attack first.
“Come along,” the pirate invited the henchminions, waving his knife to and fro as he passed me by with no more than a glance. “Come on, men! Here’s your chance for glory!”
Canary’s goons sprang to the attack.
The pirate wore a fringed black bandana, a gold hoop in one ear, a crimson woolen vest over a billowy shirt like those worn by the siblings, only the pirate’s shirt had been dyed robin’s-egg blue. The vest was both sashed (lime green) and belted. Full black trousers, high blackweave riding boots. I wondered, despite the danger and my headache and everything else, is there, like, a pirate code, where they have to dress like that? I kinda thought pirates, you know, didn’t do rules.
Despite his severe lack of fashion sense, the pirate’s fighting style left the siblings in the dust. He broke the front patrol line, leaving Elva and Devli to deal with the outer two warriors. Then, as the newcomers spread slowly out, stepping warily, he glanced back once.
“That her?” A brief head-to-toe from light-colored eyes, set well apart.
“Yes,” Elva gasped, wiping her brow on her sleeve.
“Useless, eh?” the pirate commented, not missing a beat as he disarmed two of the brown guys.
“We only had weapons for us—” Devli began. A knife, hitherto hidden in the boot top of the patrol leader, thunked into his arm. “Oooh,” Devli finished, staggering back.
Elva sprang to her brother’s aid.
“The invitation didn’t include swords.” Anger smacked away the last of the brain fog.
I slung my bag behind my shoulder and picked up a rapier dropped by one of the guys the pirate had wounded. I hopped over the guy, who lay groaning, rocking back and forth with a hand at his bleeding shoulder. These rapier-sabers were heavier than the fencing saber back on Earth, but far lighter than the clumsy straight swords.
Straight swords can break a rapier—if they connect. Rapiers are fast. Especially if one knows how to use them.
Ah, there was another. I picked it up as well, and as three men charged at me, whirled both blades around experimentally. Yep, heavier, but good reach and a nice snap to the steel.
Fencing for sport has strict rules. My father had explained to me when I was a child that dueling was also hemmed by rules, but warfare wasn’t, a piece of advice that my mother and I had minded when seeking extra training in martial arts. Which also has rules. Different ones, though.
So I used the two blades, the dust on the old flagstones, roundhouse kicks and a fallen cloak, pinking all three in under a minute. It was apparent their training was at best rudimentary—counting on numbers—whereas I was hungry, angry, unpadded, and oh yeah, had been competing on fencing teams for the past ten years. Fencing—and winning trophies. Only my fear of publicity had kept me from doing anything professional with it.
And so I ended up fighting next to the pirate as the rest of the attackers came at us, this time with no hesitation. The pirate flicked a smile in my direction and whacked an attacker over to me.
I returned the compliment a moment or two later by tripping one, who lunged at Captain Color-Challenged, took a slice across one arm and a pink in the other arm, and retired from the lists. I didn’t kill anyone—I was far too squeamish for that—but noticed that the pirate only wounded as well, taking them with practiced precision out of the fight, but not out of life.
I was breathing hard and sweat ran down into my eyes when the news clue-sticked me that there were no more attackers. They sat or lay, most groaning, some bemused. There were fewer than I’d first seen. A bunch of ’em had prudently found business elsewhere.
