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his upper lip, wipes away the beads of sweat clinging there. He follows her
eyes to the macain, to the gamblers. He smiles.
She looks at the sun, twisting her head over her shoulder, squinting against
the white glare. It is halfway through its de-clining arc. She looks away,
blinking to rid herself of the black-tailed spots that swim in liquid arcs
before her eyes.
Soon, she thinks, and even as she thinks this she hears a shout of triumph
from the blanket. A Sleykyn is backing away scowling, another is
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kneeling, unbuckling his greaves. The kneeling Sleykyn stands slowly,
very slowly, his eyes fixed on her. His leather tunic hangs to mid-thigh. He
lifts the bottom and she thinks he is about to strip but he does not, only
grabs hold of himself and starts walking toward her, his eyes wide and staring
like a half-tame macai with a saddle on his back for the first time. He
hangs limp at first though the gentle friction of his hands begins to
stiffen-him as he walks toward her. Surprised and not surprised, she sees that
he is afraid of her, he doesn't want to touch her. He struts toward her,
leering at her, but he feels nothing of that, that is for the others behind
him. He would have given almost any-thing to be one of the first out, to have
to wait for the others, to move insulated from her peril in their slippery
spendings.
He stops in front of her, lets his tunic drop. The pale pink tip of his tongue
darts about his mouth, there is sweat collect-ing on his brow, his eyes
glaring past her. With quick jerky movements he stoops, thrusts two fingers
into the neck of her tunic, drags her onto her feet. He reaches behind his
neck, pulls out the short dagger he keeps there, spins her around, slashes her
wrists free, shoves her onto her face and leaps back as if she is suddenly
doubly dangerous, a viper cocked to strike. "Get up," he snarls; in spite of
his efforts, his voice shakes.
She gets up without saying anything. She has said nothing the whole time,
not since the Sleykynin surrounded them and took them prisoner. She knows
they will not hear her, that her voice will act on them like nettles. She
turns slowly once she is on her feet, wiping her abraded palms on her tunic.
He is grinning at her, there is no humor, not even any enjoyment in that
stretching of his lips or in his staring eyes. "Strip," he growls. She pulls
the neck thongs loose, jerks the neck open-ing wider then turns the sleeveless
leather tunic quickly over her head. Behind her she hears Hern's quick intake
of breath, feels his shame, feels his suffering as his too-active
imagina-tion paints images for him he can't endure.
Suddenly, like a burst of light in her head, she knows how deeply she cares
for him, a caring of many complexities, even now she couldn't call it
love or passion or anything so simple. She drops the tunic and fumbles with
the lacings of her divided skirt. For Hern's sake as much as her own, she has
to stop this. The Sleykyn is watching avidly, not trying to hurry her, as
she begins easing the skirt down over her nips. He is fon-dling himself again,
having trouble gaining and maintaining an erection. She lets the leather
skirt fall and steps out of it, reaching as she does so in to the
Sleykyn macain. He is a ra-ther beautiful boy with long-lashed dark
eyes and a touch of rose on his cheeks and delicately chiseled lips.
He can't be more than eighteen or nineteen at most. She drops back on her
boulder though the hot stone is uncomfortable against her bare buttocks. She
can almost hear the meat sizzle. She bends over and puts her hand on her boot.
The next happenings are faster than thought; her plans made, she doesn't have
to think. She twists her mindblade deep into the macain, driving them into a
squealing scream-ing frenzy, setting them at the Sleykynin sitting in
their un-dertunics, unprotected, unaware, eyes focused on the tableau in front
of them. Claws and teeth tearing unarmored
flesh, feet stomping soft, unshelled bodies, the attack is too sudden and the
five are dead almost before they know they are hurt.
As she drives the mindblade into the macain, she flicks the hideout from its
bootsheath, flips it over, catches the point and sends it wheeling at the
Sleykyn boy.
He drops flat, fast enough to dive below the knife. Her throw misses.
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