A glass bottle, smashed across the edge of a countertop, could provide knives enough to cut a throat.
She had but stepped within with Khembold close behind when the insectile Number Two rose from the enveloping chair in the sitting room and said with impatience, “Well, has he made his call?”
Khembold did not answer immediately but gave Méarana a shove in the small of the back, sending her fully into the sitting room. He followed, carefully closing the door. “He did, and his get assured him that all was well.”
“That should keep him until Gidula has what he wants. The Old One will find some technical difficulty to prevent a second call, and after that they’ll be in the tubes.”
Number Two stood between her and the glass bottle. She might not have realized Méarana’s intended use of it, but the harper knew she could not go through Two to seize the bottle. Every plan is complicated by the presence of the enemy.
These rooms might be her coffin. She faced Khembold. “You forget that I am in the gift of Ravn Olafsdottr. I do not take orders from you, any more than you take orders from a mere magpie.” This with a jerk of her head toward Number Two.
“Oh,” said that worthy from behind her scrolling goggles. “I think I will enjoy this.”
Khembold took Méarana by the arm and pulled her aside. “Gidula gave me the task,” he told Two. “I need no help.” Then, to Méarana, “Ravn Olafsdottr has played her role, and has exited stage down.” He laughed. “I will be glad when the pretense is over. The harvest promises much bounty.”
Number Two made a gesture of impatience. “Get on with it. We’ve no more use for it.”
“Ah,” said Méarana in a catlike voice she had heard her mother use. “But Khembold might have one more use.” She reached out and touched his arm.
The Shadow grinned and winked at Number Two. “It may be right.”
“It may simply want you close enough to use those toad-stickers it wears up its sleeve.”
Khembold’s smile broadened. “I don’t think it’s foolish enough to try that.”
Méarana did not think herself that foolish, either. She had seen Ravn at exercise catch knives thrown at her and did not suppose Khembold any less talented.
Taking the initiative, she unfastened her blouse and let it slide down, revealing that her bare arms bore no arms. “What need have I for blades when Gidula has given me his word?”
Khembold shrugged. “Gidula is not here to break it.” He studied her. “The blouse was a good start, but you’ve promised more than that.”
Méarana unfastened her pants and kicked them off. She wore ankle boots but left them on. Khembold Darling licked his lips.
“Get on with it,” said Number Two. “And watch out for stupid kicks.”
“You heard her,” Méarana murmured.
“Don’t fret, Six-eyes,” the Shadow snapped. “Gidula said to wait until the call had been finished, but he never put an upper bound on it. Go away. I don’t need you for this.”
“Oh, but I was looking forward to the pain,” the magpie said.
“I promise to hurt it for you.” He took Méarana’s arm and shoved her into the bedroom.
“It’s not the same when someone else does it,” Two complained as she followed.
“Then you can have it when I’m done,” the Shadow told the magpie. “There’s no need to destroy the goods right off, is there? We can maximize utility. See how long it lasts.”
Number Two snorted. “That’s what the little whore is counting on.”
“It thinks it wants to delay things, but soon enough it will wish matters had ended more quickly.” Khembold chuckled and turned to Méarana, who had lain out on the bed. His lip curled as he placed his weapons belt beyond Méarana’s reach. “Do you really think your body will buy me off?”
Méarana smiled sadly. “No, but it might buy me two more minutes.”
Number Two could not contain a burst of laughter. Khembold turned red and climbed atop the harper, and smacked her open palmed across the face. He was not wearing a shenmat, and there were useful flaps in his clothing that he could open. He paused and took himself in hand.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Oh. So am I,” the harper assured him. She stretched her arms above her head and caressed the strings of her harp.
The door to the apartment chimed.
Number Two scowled. “I left orders,” she said.
“Then it may be important,” said Khembold. “Go check. Don’t worry. I’ll leave enough for you to hurt.”
The magpie hissed impatiently and returned to the sitting room. She checked the door’s security scanner. “It’s that wandering philosopher!” she said.
In the bedroom, Khembold frowned and turned his head.
Méarana’s mother had taught her a proverb once: She who would lose her life, the same shall save it. And it meant that when all was at hazard, the timid would die. Only by risking everything with a wild disregard can one save anything.
But while the disregard must be wild, it must never be witless, she had warned. And then she would teach little Méarana some trick of the trade.
And so the signal from the door had left her momentarily alone with the Shadow.
And the Shadow had turned his head.
And the Shadow had exhaled.
All these things she sensed as in retarded motion, as if she floated in the room above herself. It was a configuration that would not last.
Méarana Harper pulled the loosened cord from her harp and with a single, cross-handed motion wrapped it around the neck of Khembold Darling, pulling on both ends with all her strength. Khembold gagged and the metal strings bit into his flesh. She had waited for the exhale before acting, and a man deprived of breath thinks of little else but drawing one.
But Khembold was a Shadow and Shadows do not die easily, whereas harpers might perish as swiftly as butterflies. His arms were free and he punched Méarana in the face, but the harper took the blow and hung on. To lose hold of the garotte would mean her immediate death—though she might count even that a victory and be glad.
Her chances were small, but in a stand-up fight she would have none at all. Her strength might fail. Khembold might batter her unconscious. Number Two might rush back at any moment.
But there was always the door-chime to give her hope.
The philosopher rang several times and shook his begging bowl before the Eye. Two sighed in exasperation. The common folk accounted it bad luck to spurn a chit’hoka’s begging bowl. And while she considered it of no matter whatsoever, she had no desire to attract attention. Not all the magpies on staff were trustworthy.
She opened the door, aiming her money-rod at the receptor in the bowl, and had just opened her mouth to chase him away when the sounds of stuggle erupted from the bedroom. Her first thought was that Khembold Darling was having all the fun. “Go away,” she told the philosopher before the second thought struck her. And that was that the robed man held a very unphilosophical dazer.
“Quiet now, a cushla,” he said in the Gaelactic.
Her paraperception sensed motion in the room behind her, and her third thought was that Khembold was rushing to her assistance. “A Hound,” she cried in warning.
But it was Domino Tight whose hand-spike severed her spine, and she fell to the floor before a fourth thought could even form.
At the same time, Ravn Olafsdottr, in the bedroom, threw off the second cloak and leaped upon Khembold’s back. She pulled his head back and, pressing a gun to his temple, fired a small-caliber pellet into his brain.