They ignored her, treated the whistle and her screaming like windhowl and forgot it as they built a new fire under shelter of the canvas and left the old one to drown in the rain. Well, that shows what we're worth. Sar! Bless us Three, pneumonia and catarrh and misery.
A few minutes later one of the locals came out, a smaller piece of canvas wrapped about him. Shoulders rounded, the wind at his back snatching at him, making him unsteady on his feet, he crossed the glade to the cage and settled himself on a root of the nearest tree, out of reach but close enough to hear them if they moved or spoke.
Rohant leaned down, his mouth close to Shadith's ear. "The needier, you think it'll penetrate that tarp?"
"With this wind? I don't know. To say true, I've had it less than a year, just took a few practice shots. On a calm day…" she peered at the huddled figure of the sentry, a blot barely visible in the rapidly diminishing firelight, "at about twice that distance, a needle'll go through an inch of hardwood. I never tried it on cloth, so I don't know… anyway, I doubt it would reach him from here, it's too light to carry well against a blow this strong."
His fingers beat against his thighs, he whistled an irritating two-note dirge. He was close enough for her to feel the shiver-pulses shaking him. "We wait," he said finally. "Let them get to sleep, it shouldn't take long."
Shadith smiled at.the red glint in his narrowed eyes. "Tell you what, Ro, take the cats over with you, and you and Kikun and them clear out my way and I'll operate on a couple those bars. It rains much harder you can walk right up to that d'dab and tunk him on the head before he knows what's happening.
Shadith stretched out on her stomach and felt at the bars near the ground because she couldn't see much more than black columns barely blacker and more solid than the night; they were slick with rain, slimy with debris from the slow rotting away of the outer layer of wood. She sucked on her teeth and thought about that a minute. Take it slow, Shadow old girl, or you'll be without a hand. Ahlahlah, this mud is ice.
She pushed up, laid her left leg out straight and drew the knife from the bootsheath. Holding it carefully away from her, she eased herself onto her stomach, slithered to the chosen bar and set the cutting edge against it. Wrist resting on her fist so she wouldn't tremble, she applied pressure whisper bit by whisper bit. A shake at the wrong time or a shift off the horizontal and the blade could whip back on itself and slice her hand off. Slowly, slowly, the knife sank into the wood, cutting through the bar like a hot wire through butter.
When the blade was nearly through, she let go of the hilt, sloshed onto her back and lay massaging her wrist, her arms and hands shaking. She tucked her hands into her armpits and lay with her eyes closed, the rain beating on her face, until the worst of the tension was out of her.
On her stomach again, she braced her wrist, eased the knife from the wood and stopped her hand immediately. "One," she said aloud.
She dealt with the second pole in the same way, then slid the knife into the wood again before she tried getting to her feet so she could make the second cut in each of the bars. "Two," she said. She was cold, stiff, suddenly and desperately tired, but she wasn't going to get warmer or more comfortable, so she lifted onto her knees, then pulled herself all the way up; when she felt ready, she bent down, retrieved the knife and, braced herself against the next bar over, set the edge against the wood and started the freeing cut.
"Three." She turned her head, called to Rohant, "Any interest in us?"
"None so far." She could barely hear him through the rain.
She moved cautiously to the second vertical, making sure of her footing before she shifted her weight. Again she braced herself against an intact bar and laid the knife against the wood. She closed her eyes a moment before she began this last cut, this was the dangerous one, this was the time when patience frayed and caution ran out.
Slow and slow, the knife moved through the wood, slow and slow and slower as it neared the far side. She forgot the rain, the cold, the locals, everything but the knife. The blade oozed out of the wood. She stopped it. Held it steady for a moment. Using the bracing bar as a support, she sank to her knees, eased around until she was sitting in the mud. When the knife was finally back in its sheath, she started shaking all over. She tried to say something, but her teeth were chattering too badly and she couldn't talk.
Rohant got to his feet, crossed warily to her, moving more quickly when he could see that her hands were empty. He scooped her up, took her to the place where he'd been sitting and slid to the ground, his back against the bars. "I've warmed up this patch of mud," he said, "no use wasting the heat." He held her until her shaking stopped, murmuring the liquid purring nonsense he'd used with his children.
She tilted her head, looked up at him. "It's done. Pressure's keeping the sections in place, but a kick will knock them out. Whenever you're ready." She yawned, murmured drowsily, "Cut the ropes." She yawned again. "When you're ready." She nestled against him; she didn't want to move, she didn't want him to move.
The rain hissed down, a steady soporific drone, the wind groaned and moaned through the trees, whined across the glade, boomed against the canvas of the big tent; darkness was a blanket wrapped around her head, but she was content to feel the strength and cradling gentleness of the arms wrapped around her, she didn't need to see them.
The minutes slid past. The camp settled deeper and deeper into sleep.
Rohant sighed, shifted under her. "Time to move," he murmured.
"Mmmmnnnn, not yet."
Staggering a little because his legs had gone to sleep, the Ciocan surged onto his feet, lifting Shadith as he rose. He shifted his grip on her, set her on her feet. "You don't stand up, it's mud in the face."
"Tsoukbaraim!"
"No doubt. Someday you'll have to tell me what that means."
"Whatever." She reached inside her sodden shirt, brought out the needier and thrust it at him. "Here. Take this. You might's well have it. Wind doesn't seem like it's going to calm down for a while yet. There's a clip on the butt, it'll snap onto wherever you want to put it for safekeeping. It's a present from a friend, so don't lose it."
He snorted but took the weapon without comment. A deeper darkness in the darkness of the night, his outline shifted as he ran his fingers over the needier, the reached inside his tunic and clipped it to the cloth. He lifted his head, there was still enough light coming from the second fire under the canvas to wake the phosphor in his eyes, they shone with a fugitive crimson as he smiled down at her. "So. Time is…
A low whistle came from the darkness. Shadith started, swore; she'd forgotten Kikun again. The lacertine was a blot down low against the bars, he seemed to be staring toward the guard. "Someone's come out of the tent," he said, "he's a little behind the guard now, talking to him. Hanh! Hard to be sure, but I think he's just cut the guard's throat. He's coming here now."
"Huh?,
"Listen."
She heard the chains rattling on the cage door; someone was there, working on the padlock. She reached out, tasted with her Talent. The Fanatic. Ahlahlah, looks like he lost the bidwar. That's one way to recoup, steal the prizes. Yaiii! that's bright.
As soon as the Fanatic had the door open, he'd turned a blinding flare on them, obviously not worried about trouble from Silvercreep and the men in the tent.
"Out," he shouted at them. His voice was gruff, tight, the only evidence of his tension; the full-mouth tonguedance of the local langue went mushy with the stiffness of his lips. "Don't try games. One will kill you before one sees you go to the Gospah."
Rohant cleared his throat, spat to one side. "What do you want?" His deep growl was surprisingly easy to hear through the storm noise, which was just as well since he was taking no trouble to be heard.