Cantra slid into the shadow of a lorry and considered the action.
Watching, it came to her that the big soldiers were operating under a handicap. They seemed to be trying to capture, while Jela was basically pursuing kill-and-maim.
Right.
She brought her gun up, checked the charge, and considered her options.
She'd about settled on the back of the guy nearest her position, when a shadow moved across her vision and she looked up, frowning . . .
Atop the storage shed was another soldier, stretched long and secret across the flat roof, a rifle against his shoulder.
So much for the capture idea. Jela's playmates had just been keeping him busy until the rifleman got into position.
It was a risky shot with a hand gun. Though even if she missed, her shot would serve as a warning.
For whatever that was worth.
At alley level, Jela's three opponents suddenly let out simultaneous roars and rushed him.
On the roof, the rifleman took his sighting.
Cantra brought her gun up, acquired her target—fired.
The secret shooter jerked, the rifle releasing its round into the blameless conveyer.
In the alley, the fight was a confusion of movement and shape. She glimpsed Jela, dancing like a lunatic, one knife gone, the sleeve of his pretty trader's shirt hanging in bloody ribbons.
There was no possibility of a clear shot, and no doubt but that things were going bad for her co-pilot, built to take punishment or not.
The time had come to take a more personal interest.
Gun in one hand, knife in the other, howling, Cantra charged.
A soldier looked up at her noisy approach, an expression of stark disbelief on his tattooed face, and a battle knife roughly as long as she was in his hand.
Leaving Jela to his mates, he swung to face her, grinning.
Fine.
She stretched her legs, bent nearly double, aiming to get
inside
that long reach, where she could do some damage and his absurdly long blade would be a handicap.
He grabbed for her, she dodged, saw the blade, flung an arm up.
The gun deflected the thrust, and flew out of her hand. Her arm fell, numb, to her side, but she was inside now—inside his guard, and she jumped, using the momentum to drive the knife up between the rib—
Her legs were in a vise; she was upside down, the knife lost, and she was spinning, her hair whipping across her eyes. She knew with utter clarity that in another frenzied heartbeat her brains would be running down the side of the shed—
The spinning stopped.
Her legs were released and she fell, remembering at the last instant to get her arms out and break the fall.
She was panting. There was no other sound in the alley—wrong. A groan.
She rolled to her feet, turned, saw her late opponent standing as if frozen, his eyes fixed on something . . . else.
Across the alley, Jela's two admirers were likewise frozen in mid-combat, and Jela himself was climbing warily, and none-too-steadily, to his feet.
"Both of you!" snapped a high, feminine voice. "Come here! Quickly!"
Slowly, Cantra turned, squinted—and there at the edge of the conveyer unit stood a lady in the grey robes of a philosopher, her red hair blazing in the murk like a torch.
"Well." That was Jela arriving at her side. He began a bow, bloody hand outstretched, staggered—Cantra grabbed his arm and yanked him upright.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said hoarsely to the lady.
"You're quite welcome," she replied coolly. "Attend me, now. At the far end of this alley you will find a red-haired man holding a cab for you. Go with him. I'll finish dealing here."
Cantra glanced at the three huge, frozen figures, thought about the dart gun in her inside pocket—
"Do
not
kill them," the lady snapped. "Just
go
!"
"Go it is," Jela said placatingly.
He turned in the indicated direction, feet tangling, and Cantra got a supporting arm around him.
"Take it easy," she said.
"No time," he muttered. "I'll be ready in a few—your board, Pilot."
She set a steady, if not precisely brisk, pace, half holding Jela up—no small weight, that, despite his size. He kept the pace, though he seemed not exactly connected, which got her worrying about how much blood he'd already lost and what she'd do if he went down.
Worry and stagger aside, they made the end of the alley without disaster, and he seemed a little more alert by the time she pushed him up against a wall and had a long look out into the street.
All clear on the straight, and on the right, to the left—
Stood a slender man in formal black tunic and pants, one elegantly slippered foot braced on the floor of an open cab. He was holding a watch in his hand, and smiling at her.
"I see that all proceeds according to plan," he said merrily, and stepped away from the cab, sweeping a flawless bow of welcome. "Please. Your carriage awaits you, Pilots."
She glanced at her co-pilot, saw his eyes full open in a face paler than she liked.
"Well?" she asked.
He sighed and appeared to do some quick math.
"Not well," he growled after a heartbeat. "But I think we'd better take the kind ser's offer."
"All right, then." She eased back and he stood away from the wall, moving with something like his accustomed certainty.
Good enough.
She strolled out to the cab, and bowed to the red-haired man.
"My co-pilot and I are grateful," she murmured, and stood back to let Jela get in first, then went after him.
Behind her, the door began to descend. The red-haired man ducked inside, slipping onto the half-bench facing them, his back to the forward screens.
"Pilots," he murmured, as the cab hurtled into motion. "I beg you acquit me of poor manners, if I am short of conversation this next while. I am called to aid my lady. There is a field kit under your seat." He closed his eyes and settled his back against the opaque plas shielding.
Cantra blinked and rummaged under the bench, locating the field kit and pulling it onto her lap.
"Do you know who these people are?" she asked, as she sorted out dressings and lotions.
"No," Jela said tiredly, holding his arm out so she could get at the worst of the blood. "I don't know who they are, but I know what they are."
"What's that, then?" Cantra asked, breaking out an antiseptic swab.
"They're
sheriekas
."
THE ARM WAS PATCHED as good as she could make it, which wasn't near as good as it needed.
She said as much to Jela, now apparently recovered from the woozies, but he only shrugged and asked her to cut off the remains of the bloody sleeve.
That done, the kit repacked and returned to its spot beneath the seat, she joined him in staring at the cab's on-board map.
"Don't seem to be working," she said after a moment, and heard him sigh.
"That it doesn't."
She considered their rescuer, slumped, to all appearances unconscious, on the jump-seat.
He was a pretty little man, his bright red hair artfully cut and arranged in loose ringlets. He wore it long and carelessly caught over one shoulder with a twist of jeweled wire. The tunic's long sleeves were cross-laced with black ribbons, and the elegant slippers were heavily embroidered with black silk.
He looked, Cantra thought, like a high-caste member of a High House on one of the Inmost worlds—a supposition borne out by his accent, bearing, and bow. His face was a shade too pale for proper high-caste, but she thought that might be an effect of whatever induced state he was presently in. Awake, she thought he'd be as golden-skinned as any pure-blood or deliberate copy.
"You're sure this guy is
sheriekas
?" she asked Jela.
"Yes," he answered shortly, his attention still on the non-functional map.
"Hm," she said, eyeing him. "How're you doing mostwise?"
He looked up from the map, black eyes speculative.
"I'm up for some action, if you are."
"Fine," Cantra said firmly. "Then there's no reason to stick around until the ser finishes his nap."
She reached into her vest, slipped a length of smartwire from the inside pocket, and shifted around on the bench to face the hatch.
"Get ready to jump," she said over her shoulder. "The door likely won't go up all the way, and it might be something of a tumble, but we should be out of here—"
The red-haired man on the jump-seat took a sudden deep breath, straightened, and opened his eyes. They were, Cantra saw, a deep and vivid blue, initially focused on something on the far side of the next sector, sharpening quickly on matters closer to hand.
"That's done then," he murmured, and his voice was light and cultured. He sent a glance to Jela.
"Indeed, sir," he said, as if they had been engaged in cordial conversation. "It is my very great pleasure to correct you. Neither I nor my lady are
sheriekas
."
Jela snorted. "Tell me you've never destroyed a star system."
The little man smiled with gentle reproach. "But I am not such a fool, dear sir. Of course I have destroyed star systems. I hope you won't think me boastful if I admit to being uniquely equipped for such work. Much as you, yourself, are uniquely equipped for fighting. Will you tell me, M. Jela, whose mandate is to protect life, that you have never killed?"
Jela smiled—one of his real ones, Cantra saw.
"No," he said softly. "I'm not such a fool."
The little man inclined his head, acknowledging the point. "Well answered, sir. We stand on terms." He turned his eyes to Cantra.
"Lady," he murmured. She held up a hand.
"Hate to disappoint you," she said, watching his eyes, "but I'm no lady, just a Rimmer pilot."
A flicker of amusement showed in the eyes, nothing else.
"Lady," he repeated, courteously. "Please allow me to be at your feet—your most humble and willing servant in all things. Your well-being is more important to me than my life. There is no need to resort to such things as pick-locks while you are in my care."
She considered him, admiring the way he blended irony with sincerity. Whoever had the training of this one had drilled him well.
Unless of course he was the genuine article, in which case she wasn't wholly certain that she wouldn't rather have fallen into the so-called care of Jela's
sheriekas
.
"If my well-being means so much to you," she said, bringing the Rim accent up so hard it rang against the ear. "Open the door and let us out."
"In time," he said, lifting a slim forefinger. A ring covered the finger from knuckle to first joint— an oval black stone in a black setting, carved with—
"In time," their host-or-captor said again. "I would be careless indeed of your well-being, not to say that of the most excellent Jela, if I released you now, with enemies on the watch and information yet to be shared."
She sighed, and slipped the smartwire back into the inside pocket. "You got a name?"
He inclined his head. "Indeed, Lady, I have a name. It is Rool Tiazan."
"And you can blow up star systems," she pursued, since Jela wasn't saying anything.
"I can destroy star systems," Rool Tiazan corrected gently. "Yes."
"Right—destroy," she said, amiably. "And you ain't
sheriekas
."
"Also correct."
"If you're not
sheriekas
," Jela said, finally joining the fun, "what are you?"
"Excellent." He placed one elegant hand flat against his chest. "I, my lady, and all those like unto us, are
sheriekas
-made, M. Jela. We were created on purpose that we should do their bidding and hasten the day when eternity belongs only to
sheriekas
; the lesser-born and the flawed merely distasteful memories to be forgot as quickly as might be."
"If you're
sheriekas
-made, in order to do the bidding of your makers—" Jela began and Rool Tiazan held up his hand, the carved black stone glinting.
"Forgive me, M. Jela," he murmured, and his pretty, ageless face was no longer smiling. "You—and also you, Lady—are surely aware that choice exists. We no longer choose to perform these certain tasks on behalf of those who caused us to be as we are. We are alive, and life is sweet. There is no place nor plan for us in the eternity toward which we were bade to labor."
He moved his hand in a snap, as if throwing dice across a cosmic cloth.
"We of the
dramliz
cast our lot in with those who are also alive, and who find life sweet."
"That's a fine-sounding statement," Jela said calmly, "and you deliver it well. But I don't believe it."
"Alas." Rool Tiazan tipped his head to one side. "I sympathize with your wariness, M. Jela—indeed, I applaud it. However, I would ask you to consider these things—that my lady and I have preserved your lives, and now assist you to evade those who wish you ill."
Jela held out his hand, palm up. "The first is probably true," he said, and turned his palm down. "For the second, we have only your word, which I'm afraid is insufficient."
"You do not trust me, in a word," Rool Tiazan murmured. "May I know why?"
"You do," Jela said, mildly, "destroy star systems, as and when ordered by the
sheriekas
."
"The correct verb is 'did.' I have absented myself from the work for some number of years. However, I understand you to say that there is no ground upon which we might meet in trust because I have done terrible things during the course of my training and my duty. Do I have this correctly, M. Jela? I would not wish to misunderstand you."
"You have it correctly," Jela said.
"Ah." He turned his head, and Cantra felt the dark blue gaze hit her like a blow.
"Lady—a question, if you will."
She held up a hand. "Why bother? Can't you just grab what you want out of my mind?"
He smiled—genuinely amused, as far as she could read him.
"Legend proceeds us, I see. Unfortunately, legend is both accurate and misleading. Under certain conditions, I can indeed siphon information from the minds of others. It is not difficult, it does no harm to those so read, and may provide some good for myself and my lady. However." He raised his jeweled forefinger.