Footsteps sounded outside, Riesa and S'Rella returning, and Garth quickly used the blanket to dry his tears. “Go,” he said, smiling again, “go, I'm tired, you've exhausted me. But come back tomorrow when it's all over and tell me how the games went.”
Maris nodded. And S'Rella came up to her side and bent to give Garth a quick, shy kiss before they left.
They walked the half-mile back to the village slowly, talking as they went and savoring the cool wind that moved through the night. They spoke of Garth, and a little bit of Val, and S'Rella mentioned the wings—her wings—with wonder in her voice. “I'm a flyer,” she said happily. “It's really true.”
But it was not that simple.
Sena was waiting for them inside their cabin, sitting on the edge of a bed and looking impatient. She rose when they entered. “Where have you been?”
“We went to see how Garth is,” Maris answered. “Is anything wrong?”
“I don't know. We have been summoned up to the lodge house by the judges.” She gave S'Rella a meaningful look with her good eye. “All three of us, and we're late.”
They left at once. On the way, Maris told Sena what Garth had said about giving up the wings, but the old teacher did not seem pleased. “Well, we shall see about that,” she said. “I would not go flying off with them just yet.”
The flyers were not partying tonight. The main room of the lodge was sparsely populated, only a half-dozen Western flyers Maris knew vaguely sitting and drinking, and the atmosphere was anything but festive. One of them stood up when Maris and the others entered. “In the back room,” he said.
The five judges were squabbling around a circular table, but they broke off in mid-argument when the door opened. Shalli stood up. “Maris, Sena, S'Rella, do come in,” she said. “And close the door.”
They took seats around the table, and Shalli folded her hands neatly in front of her as she resumed. “We summoned you because we have a dispute, and it involves young S'Rella here, and you have a right to state your views. Garth has sent word that he will not fly tomorrow—”
“We know,” Maris broke in. “We just came from him.”
“Good,” Shalli said. “Then perhaps you understand our problem. We must decide what to do with the wings.”
S'Rella looked stricken. “They're mine,” she said. “Garth said so.”
The Landsman of Skulny was drumming his fingers on the table and frowning. “The wings are not Garth's to give,” he said loudly. “Here, child, I will ask you a question. If you are given the wings, will you promise to make a home here, and fly for Skulny?”
S'Rella did not flinch under his intense gaze, Maris noted with approval. “No,” she answered bluntly. “I couldn't. I mean, Skulny is nice, I'm sure, but—but this isn't my home. I'm going to return to Southern with the wings, to Veleth, the little island where I was born.”
The Landsman shook his head violently. “No, no, no. You may return to this Southern rock if you wish, but if you do it will be without the wings.” He looked at the other judges. “See. I gave her a chance. I insist.”
Sena thumped a fist on the table. “What is this? What is going on? S'Rella has a right to the wings, more right than anyone else. She challenged Garth and he has failed the test. How can you speak of not giving her the wings?” She looked from judge to judge furiously.
Shalli, who seemed to be the spokesman, gave an apologetic shrug. “We have a disagreement,” she said. “The question is how tomorrow's contest should be scored. Some of us feel that if Garth does not fly, S'Rella must be given the victory by forfeit. But the Landsman is of the opinion that we cannot vote on a contest in which only one flyer flies. He insists that the decision be made on the basis of the two legs already completed, and on them alone. If that is done, Garth is presently ahead six stones to five, and would retain the wings.”
“But Garth has renounced the wings!” Maris said. “He can't fly, he is too ill.”
“The law provides for that,” the Landsman said. “If a flyer is sick, his wings are given over to the Landsman and the island's other flyers to dispose of, provided he or she has no heir. We will give the wings to someone worthy of them, someone who is willing to take up residence in Skulny. I offered that chance to the girl here and you all heard her answer. It must be someone else, then.”
“We had hoped that S'Rella would consent to remain on Skulny,” Shalli said. “That would have resolved our differences.”
“No,” S'Rella repeated stubbornly, but she looked miserable.
“What you propose is a cheat,” Sena said bitterly to the Landsman.
“I am inclined to agree with that,” put in the big man from the Outer Islands. He ran his fingers through unkempt blond hair. “The only reason Garth stands ahead now is because you cast a stone for him today, even after he fell into the ocean, Landsman. That was hardly fair.”
“I judged it fair,” the Landsman said angrily.
“Garth wants S'Rella to take his wings,” Maris said. “Don't his wishes matter in this?”
“No,” the Landsman said. “The wings were never his alone. They are a trust, they belong to all the people of Skulny.” He looked around at his fellow judges, imploring. “It is not fair to give them away to this Southerner, to reduce Skulny to only two flyers without cause. Listen to me. If Garth had been well, he would have defended his wings ably against any challenge, and it never would have come to this. If he had been sick and had come to me and told me, as your own flyer law requires, then by now we would have found someone else to wear the wings, someone capable of retaining them for Skulny. It is only because Garth chose to conceal his condition that we are in this predicament. Will you punish all the folk of my island because a flyer kept a secret?”
Maris had to admit that there was some justice in the argument. The judges seemed swayed too. “What you say is true,” said the small woman from Southern. “I would be glad to see a new set of wings come south, but your claim is hard to deny.”
“S'Rella has rights too,” Sena insisted. “You must be fair to her.”
“If you give the wings to the Landsman,” Maris added, “you will be taking away her right to challenge. She is only down one stone. She has an excellent chance.”
Then S'Rella spoke up. “I didn't earn the wings,” she said uncertainly. “I was ashamed of the way I flew today. But I could win them fairly, if I had another chance. I know I could. Garth wants me to.”
Shalli sighed. “S'Rella, my dear, it isn't that simple. We can't start the whole competition over for your sake.”
“She should get the wings,” the Outer Islander grumbled. “Here, I cast tomorrow's pebble for her already. That makes it six to six. Will anyone join me?” He looked around.
“There are no pebbles here to cast,” the Landsman snapped, “and you cannot have a contest with only one flyer.” He crossed his arms and sat back, scowling.
“I fear I must vote with the Landsman,” the Southerner said, “lest I be charged with unfairly favoring a neighbor.”
That left Shalli and the woman from Eastern, both of whom looked hesitant. “Isn't there some way we can be fair to all?” Shalli said.
Maris looked at S'Rella and touched her on her arm. “Are you truly willing to fly again in contest, to try to earn the wings?”
“Yes,” S'Rella said. “I want to win them right. I want to deserve them, no matter what Val says.”
Maris nodded and turned back to the judges. “Then I have a proposition for you,” she said. “Landsman, you have two other flyers on Skulny. Do you think them able enough?”
“Yes,” he asked suspiciously. “What of it?”
“Only this—I propose that you resume the match. Keep the score as it stands, with S'Rella down one stone. But since Garth cannot fly, name a proxy for him, another of your flyers to bear wings in his place. If your proxy wins, then Skulny retains the wings and you can award them to whomever you choose. If S'Rella wins, well, then no one can dispute her right to go
south as a flyer. What do you say?”
The Landsman thought it over for a minute. “Well,” he said, “I could accept that. Jirel can fly in Garth's stead. If this girl can outfly her, then she has earned her place, though it will not make me happy.”
Shalli looked immensely relieved. “An excellent suggestion,” she said, smiling. “I knew we could count on Maris for good sense.”
“Are we agreed, then?” the Easterner said quickly.
All of the judges nodded except the Outer Islander, who shook his head again and muttered, “The girl should get the wings. The man fell into the ocean.” But he did not dissent too loudly.
Outside the lodge in the cool night air, a thin rain had begun to fall. But Sena stopped them anyway, looking troubled. “S'Rella,” she said, leaning on her cane, “are you certain this is what you want? You might lose the wings this way. Jirel is said to be a good flyer. And perhaps we could have won the judges to our side, if we had argued longer.”
“No,” S'Rella said gravely. “No, I want it this way.”
Sena looked her in the eye for a long time, and finally nodded. “Good,” she said, satisfied. “Let's get you home, then. Tomorrow there is flying to be done.”
On the third day of the competition, Maris woke before dawn, confused by the dark and the cold and aware that something was wrong. Someone was pounding on the door.
“Maris,” S'Rella said from the next bed. “Should I get it?” Maris could not see her; it was well before dawn, and none of their candles were lit.
“No,” Maris whispered. “Quiet.” She was afraid. The pounding went on and on, without letup, and Maris remembered the dead rainbirds that had been left for them and wondered who was on the other side of the door at this hour, trying so angrily to get them to open it. She climbed out of bed and padded across the room, and in the dark she managed to locate the blade she had used to pry free the birds. It was nothing, a little metal table knife, not a fighting blade at all, but it gave her confidence. Only then did she go to the door. “Who's there?” she demanded. “Who is it?”
The pounding stopped. “Raggin,” said a deep voice she did not recognize.
“Raggin? I know no Raggin. What do you want?”
“I'm from the Iron Axe,” the voice said. “You know Val? The one who's been staying with me?”
Maris felt her fears drain away, and she hurried to open the door. The man standing in the starlight was gaunt and stooped, with a hook nose and a dirty beard, but he was suddenly familiar to her: the barkeep from Val's tavern. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I was closing up, and your friend hadn't been in yet. Thought he'd just found some pretty to sleep with, but then I found him outside, lying in the back. Somebody hurt him bad.”
“Val,” S'Rella said. She rushed to the door. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“He's up in his room,” Raggin said. “I dragged him up the stairs, and it wasn't easy. But I remembered he knew people up here so I thought I better come and ask around, and they sent me here. You gonna come down? I don't know what to do for him.”
“Right away,” Maris said urgently. “S'Rella, get dressed.” She hurried to collect her own clothes and slipped into them, and shortly they were hurrying down the sea road. Maris had a lantern in one hand. The road ran along the seaside cliffs for part of its length, and a misstep in the dark could be fatal.
The tavern was dark and shuttered, the front door braced from inside with a heavy wooden beam. Raggin left them standing in front of it and vanished around back to enter by what he called his “secret way.” When he opened the door from the inside, he said, “Got to lock up good, lots of hard types around here. I got customers you wouldn't believe, flyers.”
They hardly listened. S'Rella ran up the stairs to the room she had sometimes shared with Val, and Maris came close behind. S'Rella was lighting a candle by Val's bedside when Maris caught up with her.
Flickering ruddy light filled the small room, and the shape huddled beneath the blankets moved with a small animal whimper. S'Rella set down the candle and pulled off the blankets.
Val's eyes found her, and he seemed to recognize her—his left arm clutched at her hand desperately. But when he tried to speak, the only sounds he could make were choking, pain-wracked sobs.
Maris felt sick. He had been beaten savagely about the head and shoulders, and his face was an unrecognizable mass of swelling and bruises. A gash along one cheek was still bleeding, and he had dried blood all over his shirt and jaw. His mouth was bloody too, when he opened it and tried to speak.
“Val!” S'Rella cried, weeping. She touched his brow and he shrank away from her hand, trying to say something.
Maris came closer. Val was holding S'Rella tight with his left hand, clutching at her, pulling. But his right arm just lay still along his side, and there was something wrong, blood on the sheet beneath it. The angle at which it lay was impossible, and his jacket was ripped, bloody. She knelt by the right side of the bed and touched his arm gingerly, and Val shrieked so loudly that S'Rella jumped away, terrified. It was only then that Maris saw the jagged edge of bone peeking through his skin and clothing.
Raggin was observing them from the doorway. “His arm's broke, don't touch it,” he said helpfully. “He screams when you do. You shoulda heard the noise he made when I carried him up here. I think his leg's broke too, but I'm not sure.”
Val had quieted, but his breath came in painful gasps. Maris was on her feet. “Why didn't you call a healer?” she demanded of Raggin. “Why didn't you give him something for the pain?”
Raggin drew back, shocked, as if those ideas had never occurred to him. “I got you, didn't I? Who's gonna pay a healer? He's not, that's for sure. Don't have near enough. I went through his things.”
Maris balled her fists and tried to control her fury. “You're going to go and fetch a healer right now,” she said. “And I don't care if you have to run ten miles, you're going to do it fast. If you don't, I swear I'll talk to the Landsman and have this place closed.”
“Flyers.” The barkeep spat. “Throwing your weight around, eh? Well, I'll go, but who's gonna pay this healer? That's what I want to know, and he'll want to know too.”
“Damn you,” Maris said. “I'll pay, damn you, I'll pay. He's a flyer, and if his bones don't heal right, if they aren't taken care of, he'll never fly again. Now hurry!”
Raggin gave her a last sour look and turned for the stairs. Maris went back to Val's bedside. He was making whimpering noises and trying to move, but every motion seemed to wrack him with pain.
“Can't we help him?” S'Rella said, glancing up at Maris.
“Yes,” Maris said. “This is a tavern, after all. Go downstairs and find the stock, bring up a few bottles. That should help a little with the pain, until the healer arrives.”
S'Rella nodded and started for the door. “What should I bring?” she asked. “Wine?”
“No, we need something stronger. Look for some brandy. Or—that liquor from Poweet, what do they call it?—they make it from grain and potatoes—”
S'Rella nodded and was gone. Shortly she returned with three bottles of local brandy and an unmarked flask that gave off a pungent, potent smell. “Strong stuff,” Maris said. She tasted it herself, then had S'Rella hold up Val's head while she dribbled it into his mouth. He seemed anxious to cooperate, sucking down the drink eagerly as they took turns pouring it into him.
When Raggin finally returned with a healer more than an hour later, Val had passed out. “Here's your healer,” the barkeep said. He took one look at the empty bottles on the floor and added, “You'll pay for those too, flyer.”
When the healer had set Val's arm and leg—Raggin had been right, it was broken as well, though not as badly—and splinted them, and treated his swollen face, he gave Maris a small bottle full of a dark green liquid. “This is better than brandy,” he said. “It will numb the pain and let him sleep.” He departed, leaving Maris and S'Rella alone with
Val.
“It was flyers, wasn't it?” S'Rella asked tearfully as they sat together in the smoky, candle-lit room.
“One arm and one leg broken, and the other side not touched,” Maris said angrily. “Yes, that says flyer to me. I don't think any flyer could have done this personally, but I suspect it was a flyer who had it done.” On a sudden impulse Maris moved to where Val's bloodstained, torn clothing had been piled, and rummaged through it. “Hmm. Just as I thought. His knife is gone. Maybe they took it, or maybe he just had it in his hand and dropped it.”
“I hope he cut them, whoever it was,” S'Rella said. “Do you think it was Corm? Because Val was going to take his wings tomorrow?”
“Today,” Maris said ruefully, glancing toward the window. The first blush of dawn was visible against the eastern sky. “But, no, it wasn't Corm. Not that Corm wouldn't gladly destroy Val if he could, but he'd do it legally, not like this. Corm is too proud to resort to beatings.”
“Who, then?”
Maris shook her head. “I don't know, S'Rella. Some sick person, obviously. Maybe a friend of Corm's, or a friend of Ari's. Maybe Arak or one of his friends. Val made a lot of enemies.”
“He wanted me to go with him,” S'Rella said guiltily, “but I went to see Garth instead. If I had gone with him like he wanted, this wouldn't have happened.”
“If you had gone with him,” Maris said, “you'd probably be lying there broken and bleeding as well. S'Rella, love, remember those rainbirds they left for us. They wanted to tell us something. You're a one-wing too.” She glanced out toward the dawn. “And so am I. Maybe it's time I admitted it. I'm half-a-flyer and that's all I'll ever be.” She smiled for S'Rella. “But I guess what matters is what half.”
S'Rella seemed puzzled, but Maris said, “No more talk. You still have a few hours before the competition opens, and I want you to try to get some sleep. You have to win your wings today, remember?”
“I can't,” S'Rella protested. “Not now.”
“Especially now,” Maris said. “Whoever had this done to Val would be delighted to know that it lost you your wings as well as his. Do you want that?”