EXCERPT - The Skylark's Sacrifice

Part 3

Robin froze and craned her neck, squinting at the shadows in the many corners and gutters of the roof.

"Who's there?" she asked.

A swath of darkness detached itself from the others, and resolved into a woman. She wore skin-tight, black leather trousers with a thick dark jacket, and had a black scarf wrapped around her hair and the lower half of her face, much like Robin did.

"Who are you?" Robin asked. Her face flushed with the blood running into her head, and the knowledge that she must look pretty ridiculous tangled in the laundry line, skinny legs waving in the air like an overturned chicken. Thank the gods for her trousers. She didn't want to think about what her predicament would be like if she'd still been in that sapphire dress of months' past.

"You do not need to know just yet," the woman said, and her voice betrayed her breeding. Whoever she was, she spoke with the same calm, precise tone as the Coyote. The same lack of contractions. Klonn, definitely, despite the language she presently spoke. "I, however, know who you are."

She pulled a small square of paper from a pouch strapped to her thigh and unfolded it, holding it upside down so Robin could read it. Printed in three alphabets—Klonnish, Saskwyan, and Frankinese; though aggressively neutral as a country, she supposed there was nothing saying Frankin's individual citizens couldn't be opportunistic—there was no mistaking the meaning.

WANTED ALIVE

Saskwyan Air Patrol Officer; Female, approx. 17-20 years old. Sealie.

Suspected to be hiding among the rebels of Lylon.

Consider extremely dangerous.

Robin's fear flowed away in a rush of rage as she stared at the bounty notice. The poster was accompanied by a fairly accurate sketch of her face, and a quote for an obscene amount of money. Though her name was nowhere on it, nor was the current color of her hair, Robin knew without a doubt that this would be enough information for anyone looking to line their pockets with honey. It was all she could do to keep from screaming in frustration right there.

The woman crouched and reached forward to brush Robin's braid out of her face, presumably to get a better look at her features. Then she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

"Hold still," she instructed. She folded away the poster, stowing it once more in the pouch on her thigh, and pulled a knife from her boot.

Wild panic surged through Robin's chest, and she thrashed against the lines holding her in place. "No, nema, no!" she cried. "It said alive. I need to be alive for you to get your reward! It's a lot of money!"

The woman laughed. "Ai. Good for you I have no need for a reward, then. Now hold still before you throttle yourself."

The woman grabbed Robin's hand—the bare one—attempting to still her, and then stopped, staring at the crisscross of puffed white scar tissue lining her palm. "A pilot," she said. "But it names you Sealie. And your hair . . ." The woman reached out again and turned over a lock. "Interesting," she said, and then she lifted her knife.

"No," Robin whimpered. She squeezed her eyes shut. If this was to be her death, she didn't want to see it. Sure, she was brave—behind the controls of a glider. But now? She had no desire to watch the blade plunge toward her breast, to anticipate its bite slipping between her ribs to pierce her heart. She waited for a breathless second for the blade to slam home, but nothing happened. Carefully, she pried open one eye.

The woman in black stood there, laughing silently at her, as if Robin were a rudding puppet dancing for her amusement.

"What's so godsdamned funny?" Robin snarled.