Neither moon was up; only starlight relieved the darkness, and only distant surf the silence, that and the soft sound of hooves on earth. Tirros made no attempt to sneak up on the compound. He'd nearly used up his kaabor; he'd have to get another here, and he couldn't do that unnoticed.
And they wouldn't know here of the murder, he was sure of it. His father wouldn't have made it public; he was too protective of the family reputation for that.
Still, he was tense when the gate guard held up the lantern, opening the bullseye to see who was coming.
"Mr. Tirros!" there was surprise in the man's voice, but no pleasure. "Just a minute." Climbing down from his platform, the guard opened the gate, and Tirros rode in past him. The man paused to close it. "I'll wake a groom to tend your kaabor, sir," he added.
"No. I'll take care of it myself." Tirros swung stiffly from the saddle and led the animal to the nearby stable, leaving the gateman staring after him. Mister Tirros tending his own mount?
He didn't actually. He took off neither saddle nor bridle, and of course didn't rub the animal down. Didn't even remove the bit from its mouth, fork hay into the manger or give the beast a dipper of grain which, after three days of ill use, it sorely needed.
It was darker inside than out, but he knew the stable. He felt over another animal, found it satisfactory, found tack on pegs, put bridle, blanket, and saddle on it and the bit in its mouth. He'd want to leave quickly when he was done here. Then he left the stable and went to the house, walking softly, raised the latch as silently as he could, and entered on predator's feet.
He knew where his aunt kept her ready cash. As a child he'd sneaked silver pieces from it more than once, only three or four at a time so she'd never notice, or at least never be sure.
It was still there—a small wooden chest half full of loose silver. With a little leather drawstring purse that by its weight held gold; that was new. He didn't think to wonder why he hadn't found it there before. He put the purse in his belt pouch, then closed the chest, put it back, and slipped into the hall, feeling the weight of the gold on his belt. He'd be glad to transfer it to a saddlebag.
He knew which room had been his sister's. If she was there now, he'd begin his real revenge. And she was! Her door was slightly ajar for the breeze, and listening at it, he could hear her breathing. He slipped inside. It was her all right; it wasn't too dark to mistake the slender form. He closed the door behind him, heart thudding now, hardly able to breathe for excitement. He removed his soft boots, unbelted his pants, stripped them off, then kneeling, fumbled a vial from his belt pouch and opened it.
Hasn't moved, he told himself, but she will soon enough. She'd even made it easy for him, sleeping nude with the pillow shoved half off the bed. He put the vial on the night table, took the pillow and with sudden violence jammed it over her face, throwing his body atop hers to hold her down. She grabbed at the pillow and, stronger than he'd expected, tried to push it away, struggling violently, twisting, bucking, but he stayed atop her until, after half a minute or so, she went limp.
As quickly as he'd moved before, he put the pillow aside, grabbed her nose, and with the other hand spilled bitter powder from the vial into her open mouth, then as quickly jammed the pillow over her face again to keep her from yelling till the drug had taken effect. Again he kept her smothered for half a minute, then raised it, not wanting her dead yet, thinking half a minute enough.
She spit almost at once, a mouthful of saliva and drug, at the same instant jabbing Tirros hard in one eye with stiff fingers. He cried out, grabbing at his face with both hands, and she shoved, rolled, dumping him onto the floor, stumbled over him and ran gasping and screeching into the hall.
Tirros heard his aunt's voice call, asking what the matter was, and naked below the waist, groped for his pants, then scrambled barefoot across the bed and out the window. Tears flowed copiously from both eyes, and he ran nearly blind across the garden, stumbling into and over things, felling, scrambling, yelping at a stubbed toe, a scraped shin, heading blindly for the sound of surf until he felt sand beneath his feet, then a breaker washing over them. Turning north, he ran limping along the beach, feet slapping on wet sand, carrying his pants, the sounds of shouts from the house spurring him on.
* * *
Juliassa had realized what was happening as soon as the smothering pillow and male body had wakened her. She even knew who it was, who it had to be, though her face was covered. She'd stopped her struggles while she still had strength, hoping the pillow would be removed. And she'd known at first bitter taste what her brother had dumped in her mouth, what it had to be.
Somehow, instead of running to her aunt's room for protection, she ran out of the building and across the same garden that Tirros would cross seconds later, ran to the beach and into the water, not looking back, swimming out through and beyond a high-running surf spawned somewhere at sea by a storm. Then she turned south, parallel to the shore, swimming hard. Soon she tired though, and treading water felt an undertow, which frightened her more than her brother did now. She paused to peer at the beach, scanning, seeing no one. Nothing moved. She must be more than a quarter mile from the compound, she thought.
She could feel the drug in her, feel the hungering in her body, her terror feeding on it, exaggerating it, till she was more the effect of her fear than of the drug. If Tirros got near her now! . . . or any man! She swam toward the beach, still slanting away from the compound, and once ashore ran southward, gasping for breath, keeping to where the larger breakers had wetted and kept firm the sand. From time to time she cast a hurried glance back over her shoulder, and occasionally ran through the run-out of the surf.
The tide was coming in, the beach narrowing. Staggering with fatigue, she slowed to a walk, the terror ebbing. She came to a notch in the cliffs, littered with boulders, and scrambling up it, lay down miserable in the blackness. Her exertions had burned off the peak of the drug effect already, but it was still strong in her.
As the heat of her running dissipated, she began to shiver. She almost climbed back down to return to the house, but fought off the temptation. She'd stay where she was till the drug wore off.
Meanwhile it was Brokols she fantasized about, until at last she slipped into a sleep of exhaustion.
* * *
Tirros tired more quickly than his sister would, and soon slowed to a walk. A mile north of the compound was a stretch where the beach pinched out. He was caught between cliff and rising tide, each breaker now hissing over his feet, some wetting him to the knees. Not far ahead, waves broke against sheer rock.
He realized then that he should have gone south, but to go back now meant capture, he was sure.
Just ahead was a jumble of boulders, the largest as big as a shed. After pulling on his pants, he went to them and clambered wet and slipping onto one of the smaller. From there, finding toeholds for his bare feet, he scrambled onto the largest, where he hoped he'd be safe from the tide.
Soon he was shivering, and the rock was a hard bed. Tears began to flow. He clutched his badly scraped shin and moaned almost continually. His leg hurt, and his toe. He had no kaabor. He was hungry. And somewhere, probably in the house, the heavily loaded belt had pulled from his pants, leaving him without money or knife. Everyone was against him, even Hrum, and guards were looking for him with swords.
When his grief had spent itself, he began to seek ways out of his trouble. Perhaps, if he gave himself up to his father, begged forgiveness, offered to go to a monastery—perhaps he wouldn't be executed. But unusual for him, exercise of his imagination did not revive his spirits. The rock was too hard, the night too chill, and most of all, too many things had failed him. The surf began to break on his rock, wetting him with spray, and he wondered if the tide might reach him, the waves smash him against the cliff.
He was sure he wouldn't sleep, but after a while he did, fitfully.