Janus
Andre Norton
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
“ONE OF THE ALL-TIME MASTERS”
—Peter Straub
How far away was the river? Naill tried to place landmarks about him. And then he heard the hounds again—faint, to be sure, but with an exultant note in their cry. They had picked up the fugitives’ trail, knew the scent was fresh. He hoped they were still leashed.
Ashla huddled down, her eyes wide and wild as she watched his every move. But she no longer tried to scream. If he could only bring Illylle memory to the surface of her mind again!
“Illylle!” Naill did not try to touch her, made no move toward the shaking girl. “You are Illylle of the Iftin,” he said slowly.
Her head shook from side to side, denying that.
“You are Illylle—I am Ayyar,” he continued doggedly. “They hunt us—we must go—to the forest—to Iftcan.”
She made a small choking sound and her tongue swept across her lips. Then she lunged past him, to the side of the pool, hanging over the water and staring down at her reflection there. From mirror to man she glanced up, down, up. Apparently she was satisfying herself that there was a resemblance between what she saw in the water and Naill.
“I—am—not—” She choked again, her wailing appeal breaking through her hostility.
“You are Illylle,” he responded. “You have been ill, with the fever, and you have had ill dreams.”
“This is a dream!” She caught him up.
Naill shook his head. “This is real. That”—he waved a hand southward—”is the dream. Now—listen!”
The baying reached their ears.
“Hounds!” She identified that sound correctly, glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. “But why?”
“Because we are of the Iftin, of the forest. We must go!”
Baen Books by Andre Norton
Time Traders
Time Traders II
Warlock
Janus
Judgment on Janus
ONE
THE STUFF OF DREAMS
Here even the sun was cold. Its light hurt the eyes as it glittered on the square, sullen blocks of the Dipple. Naill Renfro leaned his forehead against the chill surface of the window, trying not to think—not to remember—to beat down those frightening waves of rage and frustration that brought a choking sensation into his throat these past few days, a stone heaviness to his chest.
This was the Dipple on the planet of Korwar—the last refuge, or rather prison, for the planetless flotsam of a space war. Forced from their home worlds by battle plans none of them had had a voice in framing, they had been herded here years ago. Then, when that war was over, they discovered there was no return. The homes they could remember were gone—either blasted into uninhabitable cinders through direct action, or signed away at conference tables so that other settlers now had “sole rights” there. The Dipple was a place to rot, another kind of death for those planted arbitrarily within its walls. A whole generation of spiritless children was growing up in it, to which this was the only known way of life.
But for those who could remember . . .
Naill closed his eyes. Limited space, curved walls, the endless throb of vibrating engines driving a Free Trader along uncharted “roads” of space, exciting glimpses of strange worlds, weird creatures, new peoples—some alien of mind and body, some resembling the small boy who lurked in the background, drinking in avidly all the wonders of a trade meeting . . . these he could remember. Then confusion—fear, which formed a cold lump in a small stomach, a sour taste in throat and mouth—lying in the cramped berth space of an escape boat with warm arms about him—the shock of the thrust-away from the ship that had always been his home—the period of drift while a mechanical signal broadcast their plight—the coming of the cruiser to pick them up as the only survivors. Afterwards—the Dipple—for years and years and years—always the Dipple!
But there had been hope that the war would end soon, that when he was big enough, old enough, strong enough, he could sign on a Free Trader, or that they would somehow find credit deposits owed to Duan Renfro and buy passage back to Mehetia. Wild dreams both those hopes had been. The dull, dusty years had wasted them, shown them to be flimsy shadows. There was only the Dipple, and that would go on forever—from it there was no escape. Or, if there was for him, not for her—now.
Naill wanted to cover his ears as well as close his eyes. He could shut out the grayness of the Dipple; he could not shut out now that weary little plaint, half croon, half moan, sounding monotonously from the bed against the far wall. He swung away from the window and came to stand at the side of the bed, forcing himself to look at the woman who lay there.
She—she was nothing but a frail wraith of skin and bones, not Malani.
Naill wanted to beat his fists against the gray wall, to cry out his hurt and rage—yes, and fear—as might a small child. It was choking him. If he could only gather her up, run away from this place of unending harsh light, cold grayness. It had killed Malani, as much as Duan Renfro’s death. The ugliness and the hopelessness of the Dipple had withered her.
But instead of giving way to the storm within him, Naill knelt beside the bed, caught those restless, ever-weaving hands in his own, bringing their chill flesh against his thin cheeks.
“Malani—” He called her name softly, hoping against all hope that this time she would respond, know him. Or was it far more kind not to draw her back? Draw her back—Naill sucked in his breath—there was a way for Malani to escape! If he were just sure, overwhelmingly sure that no other road existed . . .
Gently he put down her hands, pulled the covering up about her shoulders. Once sure . . . He nodded sharply, though Malani could not see that gesture of sudden decision. Then he went swiftly to the door. Three strides down the corridor and he was rapping on another door.
“Oh—it’s you, boy!” The impatient frown on the woman’s broad face smoothed. “She’s worse?”
“I don’t know. She won’t eat, and the medico . . .”
The woman’s lips shaped a word she did not say. “He’s said she ain’t got a chance?”
“Yes.”
“For once he’s right. She don’t want any chance—you gotta face that, boy.”
What else had he been doing for the past weeks! Naill’s hands were fists against his sides as he fought down a hot response to that roughly kind truth.
“Yes,” he returned flatly. “I want to know—how soon . . . ?”
The woman swept back a loose lock of hair, her eyes grew suddenly bright and hard, locking fast to his in an unasked question. Her tongue showed between her lips, moistened them.
“All right.” She closed the door of her own quarters firmly behind her. “All right,” she repeated as if assuring herself in some way.
But when she stood beside Malani, she was concerned, her hands careful, even tender. Then she once more drew up the covers, looked to Naill.
“Two days—maybe a little more. If you do it—where’s the credits coming from?”
“I’ll get them!”
“She—she wouldn’t want it that way, boy.”
“She’ll have it!” He caught up his over-tunic. “You’ll stay until I come back?”
The woman nodded. “Stowar is the best. He deals fair—never cuts . . .”
“I know!” Naill’s impatience made that answer almost explosive.
He hurried down the corridor, the four flights of stairs, out into the open. It was close to midday, there were few here. Those who had been lucky enough to find casual labor for the day were long since gone; the others were in the communal dining hall for the noon meal. But there were still those who had business in certain rooms, furtive business.
Korwar was, except for the Dipple, a pleasure planet. Its native population lived by serving the great and the wealthy of half a hundred solar systems. And in addition to the usual luxuries and pleasures, there were the fashionable vices, forbidden joys fed by smuggled and outlawed merchandise. A man could, if he were able to raise the necessary credits, buy into the Thieves’ Guild and become a member of one of those supply lines. But there was also a fringe of small dealers who grabbed at the crumbs the Thieves’ captains did not bother to touch.
They lived dangerously and they were recruited from the hopelessly reckless—from the Dipple dregs, such as Stowar. What he sold were pleasures of a kind. Pleasure—or a way of easy dying for a beaten and helpless woman.
Naill faced the pale boy lounging beside a certain doorway, met squarely the narrow eyes in that ratlike face. He said only a name: “Stowar.”