But it was too late. And then, because she wasn’t looking at him, she couldn’t move away from him fast enough to prevent his putting his arms around her.
“We’ll find her,” he was saying softly. “I promise.” Marit looked up at him. He was going to kiss her.
Xar’s voice was in Marit’s head. You slept with him. You bore his child. He loves you still. This was perfect. What Xar wanted. She would lull Haplo into feeling secure around her; then she would disable him, capture him. She closed her eyes. Haplo’s lips touched hers.
Marit shivered all over and suddenly shrank back, pulled away.
“You’d better go get your Sartan friend out of the tree.” Her voice was sharp as the knife clutched tightly in her hand. “I’ll keep watch. Here, you’ll need this.”
Marit handed him the knife, left him, not looking back. She was shaking all over, tremors tightening her arms and the muscles of her thighs, and she walked blindly, hating him, hating herself.
Reaching the top of the ridge, she leaned against a huge boulder, waited for the shaking to cease. She permitted herself one swift glance behind to ascertain what Haplo was doing. He had not followed her. He had gone off, the dog trotting along at his heels, to try to extricate Alfred from the treetop. Good, Marit told herself. The trembling was under control. She quelled her inner turmoil, forced herself to scan the area carefully, closely, searching for telltale signs of an enemy.
She felt calm enough to talk to Xar.
But she didn’t get the chance.
35
Alfred dangled helplessly from the top of the tree; a sturdy limb running up the back of his frock coat supported him like a second—and in Alfred’s case firmer—backbone. The Sartan’s legs and arms waved feebly; there was no way he could get himself down.
The dog paced beneath, mouth open in a tongue-lolling grin, as if it had treed a cat. Haplo, arriving on the scene, stared upward.
“How the devil did you manage that?”
Alfred spread his hands. “I... I really haven’t any idea.” Twisting his head, he struggled to peer over his shoulder. “If ... if it didn’t sound too strange, I’d say the tree caught me as I went flying past. Unfortunately, it now appears reluctant to let me go.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that back seam on your coat ripping?” Haplo called.
Alfred shifted his weight experimentally, began to sway back and forth. The dog, cocking its head, was fascinated.
“It’s a very well-made coat,” Alfred returned with an apologetic smile. “The dressmaker to Her Majesty, Queen Anne, fashioned the first one for me. I became quite fond of it and so I’ve... well... I’ve made them myself from the same pattern ever since.”
“You made it.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Using your rune-magic?”
“I’ve become rather good at tailoring,” Alfred answered defensively.
“Raising people from the dead and tailoring,” Haplo muttered. “Just what I need.”
The sigla on his body continued to glow faintly, but now they had begun to itch and bum. The danger, whatever it was, was drawing nearer. He peered up at the ridge. He couldn’t see Marit, but then he shouldn’t be able to see her. He guessed she had hidden herself in the shadow of a large rock.
“I don’t remember the damn tree being this tall,” Hugh the Hand remarked, craning his neck to see. “You could stand on my shoulders and we still wouldn’t be able to reach him. If he’d unbutton his coat and free his arms from the sleeves, he’d drop down.”
Alfred was considerably alarmed at the suggestion. “I don’t think that would work, Sir Hugh. I’m not very adept at things of that sort.”
“He’s right there,” Haplo agreed grimly. “Knowing Alfred, he’d end up hanging himself.”
“Can’t you”—Hugh the Hand glanced at Haplo’s blue-glowing skin—“magic him down?”
“Using the magic drains my strength, just as running or jumping drains yours. I’d rather conserve it for important things like surviving, not little things tike getting Sartan out of trees.” Haplo tucked the dagger into his belt, walked over to the base of the tree. “I’ll climb up there and cut him loose. You stay down here and be ready to catch him.”
Hugh the Hand shook his head, but couldn’t suggest any other option. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he slid it safely into his pocket and took up a position directly underneath the dangling Alfred. Haplo climbed the tree, tested the limb holding the Sartan before crawling out on it. He had been afraid, by the look of it, that the branch wouldn’t hold his weight. But it was stronger than he’d supposed. It bore his weight—and Alfred’s—easily.
“Caught him as he went flying past,” Haplo repeated in disgust. Still, he’d seen stranger things. Most of them involving Alfred.
“It’s... it’s an awfully long fall,” Alfred protested in a trembling voice. “I could use my magic...”
“Using your magic’s what got you here in the first place,” Haplo interrupted, crawling gingerly out onto the limb, flattening himself in order to distribute his weight evenly.
The branch sagged. Alfred gasped in terror, waved his arms, and kicked his feet. The limb creaked ominously.
“Hold still!” Haplo ordered in irritation. “You’ll bring us both down!” He slid his dagger between the coat and the branch, began to cut through the seam.
“What... what do you mean—my magic got me into this?” Alfred asked, closing his eyes tightly.
“That wind didn’t pick up any of the rest of us and try to impale us on a mountain. Just you. And the mountain didn’t start to collapse until you began to sing those damn runes of yours.”
“But why?”
“Like I said, you tell me,” Haplo grunted.
He was about halfway through, cutting slowly, hoping to let Alfred down as easily as possible, when he heard a low whistle. The sound went through him like a bolt of hot iron, burning him, piercing him.
“What an odd-sounding bird,” said Alfred.
“It’s not a bird. It’s Marit. Our signal for danger.” Haplo gave the knife a jerk, slit the coat seam in one long, jagged tear. Alfred had time for one wild yell; then he was plummeting through the air. Hugh the Hand stood stolidly, feet planted firmly, body braced. He caught Alfred, broke the Sartan’s fall, but the two went over together in a heap. Haplo, from his vantage point in the tree, looked to the ridge. Marit detached herself from the boulder long enough to point to her left. She gave another low whistle and added a series of three cat-like howls.
Tiger-men.
Marit raised her hands, spread all ten fingers wide, then repeated this gesture twice.
Haplo swore softly. A hunting pack, at least twenty of the fierce beasts, who were not really men at all, but were known as such because they walked upright on two strong hind legs and used their front paws, complete with prehensile thumbs, like hands.[36]
They could, therefore, use weapons, and were skilled with one known as a cat’s paw, intended to cripple rather than kill. A disk-shaped piece of wood with five sharp stone “claws” attached, the cat’s paw was either thrown or flung from a sling. Its magic was weak against Patryn magic, but effective. No matter what part of a sigla-covered body it struck, the cat’s paw inserted its claws through the small breaks in the tattoos, bit deep into muscle, and clung there tenaciously. Often hurled at the legs of a victim, the cat’s paw tearing into a calf muscle or thigh felled the prey with deadly efficiency. Tiger-men prefer their meat fresh.
Haplo cast a fleeting glance behind him at the ruined mountain, knew before he looked that it was useless. No hope of crawling back into that cave. He scanned the horizon, then noticed that Marit was waving to him, urging him to hurry.
36
Tiger-men are taller than most humans, with thick fur pelts and long tails. They can run on back legs or drop down on all fours, are capable of leaping incredible distances, and are as much at home in trees as on the ground. They are adept at using weapons, but prefer killing with fang and claw, dragging down their prey and sinking their teeth into the neck, ripping out the throat. They know rune-magic, using it primarily to enhance their weapons. They kill for sport as well as food.