Read The Seascape Tattoo for Free Online Page A
Authors: Larry Niven
abandoned his scruples, balled his fist and smacked Teesha on the side of the head hard enough to snap her face back and to the left, eyes crossed, barely conscious.
He rolled up as Negron stabbed at him and stepped on his scabbard, paradoxically providing the traction Aros needed to pull Flaygod free. He drove the steel through Negronâs shirt so quickly that his little piggy eyes popped out as much from astonishment as pain.
The other brother, the one with the knife backed up, screamed, âOn him!â
And suddenly the early morning bristled with steel. Aros struggled to fight, not to trip over Teesha or run into Negron, who had collapsed to his knees and seemed to be trying to decide whether to simply die now or pull his intestines in and find a surgeon who would lie to him and take his money.
These city dwellers were slow and clumsy compared to the Aztec, but he knew from the sound of scurrying feet that Teesha and her brothers had brought enough help to seal his fate.
Kicking a barrel down the alley, he paused to gather up his breeches, slammed Flaygod back into its scabbard, and leapt for the edge of the roof above them.
One-handed (the other holding his pants), he swung himself up like one of the little monkeys in the jungles of his youth, far south of Quillia. Aros landed in a crouch.
A phalanx of patrol soldiers had been attracted by the commotion and were now headed this way. As the men in the alley below screamed in anger and pain, the crowd of soldiers decided to pursue.
Lovely.
Aros belted his pants and spun just in time to deflect a blade, clubbing a soldier down with his left. Damn it, damn it ⦠donât kill one of the queenâs men if you donât have to . Even if you were innocent, judges tended to have limited sympathy for anyone who dispatched officials.
Aros ran. Even as a boy, he had been fleetest and most agile. This was why he had survived when his mother had been captured by the priests for nonpayment of taxes, her heart wrenched from her chest on a stone altar.
Damn the priests! First theyâd taken his father, killed in a war to seek out victims for their thirsty god. Then theyâd condemned his widowed mother simply for being poor. He would gladly have perished with her, but the frantic, doomed woman had wrung a promise from his lips. Heâd sworn to stow away on a northern trade ship and try to build a life.
That had been very long ago. A lifetime ago. The small, nearly feral child named Aros had ripened over the years into a blooded warrior, a thief, a man of many lethal skills ⦠and no home. He had made the mistake of thinking that Quillia might be a place to set roots.
Taxman had had a nice ring to it. Once upon a time.
He was not running randomly through the maze of roofs. His chance to make it out of the harbor seemed smaller by the moment, but he could still go the other way, east through the desert. He had allies who could smuggle him out of the cityâ
The lip of another roof was coming up fast. Arosâs feet thumped the roof like the hands of a mad drummer, blurring ⦠and he jumped. He leapt, the wind on his face, the void opening and then closing behind him as he hit the roof and rolled.
He heard other feet landing behind himâfewer, perhaps. His tactic had thinned them out. Behind him, a man screamed in shock and fear. Aros looked back over his shoulder and saw a soldier balancing wildly on one leg on the edge of the roof, waving his arms wildlyâand then disappearing.
Ouch! Would he be blamed for whatever broken bones resulted from that? Best not to find out. Best to be certain that he wasnât captured.
Another roof edge. Almost twenty feet, Aros reckoned. Heâd never jumped that far, but he felt loose and strong, juices up, confident that he could make it. And the men behind him would almost certainly give up. Aros increased his speed, closed his mind to all doubt, and
He rolled up as Negron stabbed at him and stepped on his scabbard, paradoxically providing the traction Aros needed to pull Flaygod free. He drove the steel through Negronâs shirt so quickly that his little piggy eyes popped out as much from astonishment as pain.
The other brother, the one with the knife backed up, screamed, âOn him!â
And suddenly the early morning bristled with steel. Aros struggled to fight, not to trip over Teesha or run into Negron, who had collapsed to his knees and seemed to be trying to decide whether to simply die now or pull his intestines in and find a surgeon who would lie to him and take his money.
These city dwellers were slow and clumsy compared to the Aztec, but he knew from the sound of scurrying feet that Teesha and her brothers had brought enough help to seal his fate.
Kicking a barrel down the alley, he paused to gather up his breeches, slammed Flaygod back into its scabbard, and leapt for the edge of the roof above them.
One-handed (the other holding his pants), he swung himself up like one of the little monkeys in the jungles of his youth, far south of Quillia. Aros landed in a crouch.
A phalanx of patrol soldiers had been attracted by the commotion and were now headed this way. As the men in the alley below screamed in anger and pain, the crowd of soldiers decided to pursue.
Lovely.
Aros belted his pants and spun just in time to deflect a blade, clubbing a soldier down with his left. Damn it, damn it ⦠donât kill one of the queenâs men if you donât have to . Even if you were innocent, judges tended to have limited sympathy for anyone who dispatched officials.
Aros ran. Even as a boy, he had been fleetest and most agile. This was why he had survived when his mother had been captured by the priests for nonpayment of taxes, her heart wrenched from her chest on a stone altar.
Damn the priests! First theyâd taken his father, killed in a war to seek out victims for their thirsty god. Then theyâd condemned his widowed mother simply for being poor. He would gladly have perished with her, but the frantic, doomed woman had wrung a promise from his lips. Heâd sworn to stow away on a northern trade ship and try to build a life.
That had been very long ago. A lifetime ago. The small, nearly feral child named Aros had ripened over the years into a blooded warrior, a thief, a man of many lethal skills ⦠and no home. He had made the mistake of thinking that Quillia might be a place to set roots.
Taxman had had a nice ring to it. Once upon a time.
He was not running randomly through the maze of roofs. His chance to make it out of the harbor seemed smaller by the moment, but he could still go the other way, east through the desert. He had allies who could smuggle him out of the cityâ
The lip of another roof was coming up fast. Arosâs feet thumped the roof like the hands of a mad drummer, blurring ⦠and he jumped. He leapt, the wind on his face, the void opening and then closing behind him as he hit the roof and rolled.
He heard other feet landing behind himâfewer, perhaps. His tactic had thinned them out. Behind him, a man screamed in shock and fear. Aros looked back over his shoulder and saw a soldier balancing wildly on one leg on the edge of the roof, waving his arms wildlyâand then disappearing.
Ouch! Would he be blamed for whatever broken bones resulted from that? Best not to find out. Best to be certain that he wasnât captured.
Another roof edge. Almost twenty feet, Aros reckoned. Heâd never jumped that far, but he felt loose and strong, juices up, confident that he could make it. And the men behind him would almost certainly give up. Aros increased his speed, closed his mind to all doubt, and