And the words she was uttering sounded
like -- like , not the same as -- the language of Cathay.
Don Miguel was as well-acquainted with the costumes, customs and languages
of the major civilisations of history as any Licentiate of similar
experience, and better than most. He could make himself understood in
Attic Greek and Quechua, Phoenician and Latin, Persian and Aramaic. He
could also recognise the characteristic vowel-consonant clusters of many
other tongues which he did not speak fluently. And what the girl was
hissing at her attackers did not fit any language he could call to mind.
The most obvious and most logical explanation for her presence was
that she must be a legitimate visitor to Londres -- perhaps a member of
the Cathayan ambassador's train. Under the influence of a brainstorm,
or having taken some foreign drug or potent liquor, she might have lost
her senses and run off . . .
But in that case you'd expect her to be a mere dancing-girl or geisha. You
wouldn't expect her to be capable of throwing burly workmen aside as
though they were straw-filled dummies.
It simply didn't figure!
In his worried concentration, he had taken another couple of paces
in the girl's direction, and the second was one too many. Suddenly,
without warning, she screamed and hurled herself at him.
He reacted barely in time. She was not merely a wrestler, he discovered
to his dismay. She was a killing fighter, fantastic though that was
in view of her sex. Her first move had been to launch a crippling kick
at his crotch, and the best he could manage was to twist aside so that
her toe struck his thigh instead. Even so, the force of the kick caused
him to lose his footing. He had to go down on one knee, fending her off
from below, and she seized his right arm at wrist and elbow and gave it
such a violent wrench he thought she might dislocate the joint. Pivoting
frantically on his pinioned arm and knee, he swept his other leg through
a half-circle and knocked her feet from under her. She was unbelievably
strong for her build, but she was light, and that was something she
could do nothing about.
Losing her grip on his arm, she tumbled sideways, rolled free, and came
back at him with a lightning-fast leap, head aimed for a butt in his
belly. In his turn he rolled, hoping with a distant corner of his mind
that street-dirt was not going to foul his cloak and breeches too badly
for him to return to the palace, and with joined legs flung her slamming
over his head to measure her length behind him. Recovering faster than
he could, she wheeled around and tried to sink her teeth into his thigh
as he scrambled to prevent her rising again. Clumsily he fell on her,
and pinned her wrists and one leg to the ground in an improvised but
serviceable hold which exploited his superior weight. Then, by main force,
he started to bring her wrists together.
She said nothing, but set her jaw grimly and stared up at him, straining
to dislodge his grip. During that long moment Don Miguel found time to
hope prayerfully that there were no Licentiates or Probationers in the
crowd around who might recognise him behind his half-mask. If there
was anything more undignified that a member of the Society could do
than wrestle with a woman in the middle of Empire Circle, he couldn't
imagine it.
All right, there was no alternative, however much it went against his
principles. Woman or no, he was going to have to hurt her. He shifted
his fingers on her wrists and stabbed down at the ganglia.
The shock went all the way through her. She forgot about resistance for
long enough to let him seize both wrists in one hand and cramp them
together, still applying the agonising pressure. With the hand thus
released he sought the carotid arteries in her neck and scientifically
began to strangle her.
In fifteen seconds she was limp. He gave her a little longer to ensure
that she would not recover too quickly, and then sat wearily on his
like -- like , not the same as -- the language of Cathay.
Don Miguel was as well-acquainted with the costumes, customs and languages
of the major civilisations of history as any Licentiate of similar
experience, and better than most. He could make himself understood in
Attic Greek and Quechua, Phoenician and Latin, Persian and Aramaic. He
could also recognise the characteristic vowel-consonant clusters of many
other tongues which he did not speak fluently. And what the girl was
hissing at her attackers did not fit any language he could call to mind.
The most obvious and most logical explanation for her presence was
that she must be a legitimate visitor to Londres -- perhaps a member of
the Cathayan ambassador's train. Under the influence of a brainstorm,
or having taken some foreign drug or potent liquor, she might have lost
her senses and run off . . .
But in that case you'd expect her to be a mere dancing-girl or geisha. You
wouldn't expect her to be capable of throwing burly workmen aside as
though they were straw-filled dummies.
It simply didn't figure!
In his worried concentration, he had taken another couple of paces
in the girl's direction, and the second was one too many. Suddenly,
without warning, she screamed and hurled herself at him.
He reacted barely in time. She was not merely a wrestler, he discovered
to his dismay. She was a killing fighter, fantastic though that was
in view of her sex. Her first move had been to launch a crippling kick
at his crotch, and the best he could manage was to twist aside so that
her toe struck his thigh instead. Even so, the force of the kick caused
him to lose his footing. He had to go down on one knee, fending her off
from below, and she seized his right arm at wrist and elbow and gave it
such a violent wrench he thought she might dislocate the joint. Pivoting
frantically on his pinioned arm and knee, he swept his other leg through
a half-circle and knocked her feet from under her. She was unbelievably
strong for her build, but she was light, and that was something she
could do nothing about.
Losing her grip on his arm, she tumbled sideways, rolled free, and came
back at him with a lightning-fast leap, head aimed for a butt in his
belly. In his turn he rolled, hoping with a distant corner of his mind
that street-dirt was not going to foul his cloak and breeches too badly
for him to return to the palace, and with joined legs flung her slamming
over his head to measure her length behind him. Recovering faster than
he could, she wheeled around and tried to sink her teeth into his thigh
as he scrambled to prevent her rising again. Clumsily he fell on her,
and pinned her wrists and one leg to the ground in an improvised but
serviceable hold which exploited his superior weight. Then, by main force,
he started to bring her wrists together.
She said nothing, but set her jaw grimly and stared up at him, straining
to dislodge his grip. During that long moment Don Miguel found time to
hope prayerfully that there were no Licentiates or Probationers in the
crowd around who might recognise him behind his half-mask. If there
was anything more undignified that a member of the Society could do
than wrestle with a woman in the middle of Empire Circle, he couldn't
imagine it.
All right, there was no alternative, however much it went against his
principles. Woman or no, he was going to have to hurt her. He shifted
his fingers on her wrists and stabbed down at the ganglia.
The shock went all the way through her. She forgot about resistance for
long enough to let him seize both wrists in one hand and cramp them
together, still applying the agonising pressure. With the hand thus
released he sought the carotid arteries in her neck and scientifically
began to strangle her.
In fifteen seconds she was limp. He gave her a little longer to ensure
that she would not recover too quickly, and then sat wearily on his
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