Zan came out of her reverie to find Efiran's amused eyes on her. Her mouth quirked slightly. "Very lovely," she told him gravely.
"There are no trees," Karivet said. "It must get hot in your City."
"We have trees," Efiran told him. "I will show you my garden. You cannot see them from this distance."
In a short while they were within the City. To Zan, the City felt less strange than the rough Orathi village carved out of the wilderness had at first, but she could see by the way the twins' eyes widened that it was peculiar and unnerving to them. Despite her familiarity with streets and shops and houses, Zan found that the City kept its unearthliness. The wide white and rose streets were uncluttered; the light traffic—an occasional ox cart, some horses, and a few pedestrians—moved smoothly. Zan saw no street vendors or bustling open-air marketplace. Everything was orderly. After a time, it began to make Zan nervous; it was too perfect. Perhaps Efiran was leading them through only the best part of town, but it made her wonder where the real people lived, the people who built the lovely stone houses, who cut the slates for the roofs, who tended the beautiful parks and gardens they passed. If the City were no more crowded than this, she could not begin to imagine why the Vemathi thought they needed such a vast tract of Orathi land, or what they really intended to do with it. The thought of a fairy-tale city like this stretching for nearly four days' travel filled her with horror.
Quite suddenly she was jolted out of her musings. Efiran had led them down a side street, and now took them up a flight of steps to the door of a fine house. "I have decided," he told them, "to ask you to rest and refresh yourselves at my home while I send a messenger to the Lord of the City. You will find it as comfortable, I am sure, as the Lord's house—and it is closer. Moreover, it is likely the Lord will not be able to see you today, as it is already past noon."
Zan felt a little uneasy and looked at Iobeh questioningly. Iobeh signed, He is pleased with himself; he is being clever. I do not think he means us harm.
"Thank you," Karivet replied. "It is kind of you."
"Not at all. It will make Hobann sick with envy."
"What?" Zan said sharply. Seeing all of their startled expressions, she felt queasy.
"I did not speak, Lady," Efiran told her, "but I was just going to say that it is my pleasure and honor to welcome you. "
Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she met his eyes squarely. "Who's Hobann?"
Efiran's face went completely expressionless. "Ye gods." Zan heard the words, though his lips didn't even twitch. She gritted her teeth together on the impossible and waited. He recovered very quickly.
"Hobann is the head of a rival merchant house. He and I both collect curiosities; it is a friendly competition of many years' standing. But please, you must be weary. I must not keep you waiting on my steps while I bore you with my ancient history." He led them inside as his Khedathi entourage took the horses around to the stable.
Inside, Zan caught her breath, and she could tell by the stubborn set of Karivet's chin that he was determined not to gape like a yokel. Efiran's house was, like the City itself, elegant and imposing. Liveried servants, soft-footed and purposeful, went about their business. The entrance, vast as a courtyard, was filled with light from the glass roof. The walls were hung with lavish tapestries between brass sconces holding thick white candles. The broad, graceful sweep of the stairway led to a balcony that ran around the hall on three sides. Beyond the alabaster balustrade Zan could see doors that led deeper into the house. The floor of the entrance court was black and white marble set in an elaborate spiral pattern. In the exact center of the court was a largerthan-life-sized bronze statue of a dignified man with the clean-edged features Zan had begun to associate with the Vemathi. Spurred on by the fierce, almost desperate determination stiffening Karivet's spine, Zan gestured toward the statue.
"The founder of your family's fortune, doubtless?" she inquired blandly.
"Indeed," Efiran agreed, a wry expression on his lips. "My great-grandfather. I like to think of him watching over his descendants. But now, permit me to present my wife, Pifadeh." She descended the broad stairway as he gestured, her entrance meticulously timed.
It was clear from the moment she appeared on the scene that Pifadeh was a consummate master of her game. Despite her delicate, fragile appearance and sweet voice, she took them in hand as firmly as any drill sergeant. As soon as the introductions and small talk were concluded, she led them off through a maze of corridors to a suite of richly furnished guest rooms. Then, murmuring that she would send someone to attend them, she went out, closing the door softly behind her.
Zan looked around at the brocaded walls and the velvetupholstered divans. Suddenly she felt she had been trapped in one of the period sitting rooms in a museum. She laughed, a little hysterically. The others watched her anxiously, until Iobeh signed—gesturing toward the furniture—Do we sit on it, sleep on it, or just admire it?
The plaintive look in her eyes sobered Zan abruptly. If this was strange to her, how much worse was it for the twins? She took them on a quick foray through the suite, discovering three bedrooms, each with its own massive four-poster bed, and a small (by comparison) tiled room with a garderobe, a sunken tub (though without running water), and a washbasin built into a wide shelf running along one wall. There was a graceful stoneware pitcher and a pot of soft, herb-scented soap beside the basin, and heavy cotton cloths in varying sizes hung on racks on the door.
When they had finished exploring their quarters, they all felt a little better and went back to the sitting room. Iobeh discovered that the tall windows looked out over an invitingly lush garden, and she leaned on the wide sill while Zan went to an ottoman and sat down. The distractions of their surroundings wore off abruptly, and Zan found her thoughts sweeping uncomfortably back to the strange things she had heard without hearing. She rested her elbows on her knees and covered her face with both hands. It was too much. It was all too much.
Karivet touched her shoulder gently. "It is clear you are troubled, 'Tsan," he began. "Does it have to do with this Hobann you mentioned? How did you come to hear of him?"
"That's just it," she said, her words muddied by her hands. "I was hearing . . . Efiran's thoughts!"
But why does that frighten her? It is like what I do.
Zan raised her head and looked at Iobeh, surprised. The girl had come away from the window and was standing beside her brother. "You hear thoughts, Iobeh?" Then Zan realized she had not been watching Iobeh's hands. She reached out desperately for her friends. "What's going on? Karivet, what's happening to me?"
Karivet's eyes went distant and his voice was flat. "You are growing into your spirit-gifts."
"Sweet Jesus," she whispered fervently. The English words sounded very strange in her ears. "But we don't have spiritgifts where I come from," she protested.
You have them now, Iobeh thought.
Zan turned toward her, forcing a smile. "I guess so. But Iobeh, how is it that you can hear thoughts?"
Not thoughts, she signed. Feelings: the speech of the heart.
"I knew you could make the speech of your heart heard, but I guess I didn't realize it went both ways." Something else that had puzzled Zan surfaced suddenly. "Why were you afraid of the horses? I thought you liked animals."
Iobeh shuddered; her hands moved very swiftly. They were obedient and tame, but inside they hated—very much. They wanted to be free, and they raged at the people who forced them not to be. Couldn't you feel it? It was horrible; I couldn't bear it.
Karivet and Zan exchanged looks, but before they could respond, the door opened. They scrambled to their feet as a young woman entered, carrying a large can of steaming, scented water. Her eyes were a peculiar, almost colorless gray, like water over stones, and her straight shoulder-length hair was a wan brown; she wore a shapeless garment of a drab color between green and gray with the badge of the House of Moirre worked in black at the shoulder. It seemed as though she were trying
to make herself inconspicuous, nondescript. It nearly worked, except for the powerful presence she brought with her into the room. Her entrance riveted Zan's attention. As though sensing the interest, the woman hesitated, then met Zan's gaze with studied blankness. When she spoke, her words were oddly sibilant.
"I will fill the bath if my ladies and lord would care to bathe?"
"Thank you," Zan responded. "Baths would be welcome." Without another word, the woman went about her task. It took her several trips, but eventually she emerged with a cloth draped over one arm. As she looked at them questioningly, Zan realized this woman expected to attend them in the bath. Zan's eyebrows rose.
"It is not our custom to be waited upon in the bath."
The woman held out the cloth to Zan, who took it. "I will lay out clean clothes for you. When you have finished your bath, ring"—she indicated an embroidered bell pull—"and I will bring fresh water." Then she went out.
The warm water felt delicious, and it took all of Zan's iron resolve to keep her from lazing about in the tub. She managed to get herself clean—even her hair—in reasonably short order, then wrapped herself in an ample towel-like cloth and slipped into her bedroom, calling to the others that she was finished. She found a garment like a caftan laid out for her, which she put on before toweling her hair dry and raking it thoroughly with the tortoiseshell comb she found on the dressing table. When she had finished, she went back into the sitting room, where she found Karivet by himself, gazing out the windows. He looked forlorn and very young.
"Where's the servant?" Zan asked quietly.
"She went away again. I'll summon her when Iobeh is done. Why? Do you need her?"
Zan shook her head. "I just wanted to be sure we were alone before I told you how special I think you are—both of you. I know this is all strange to you, but you don't let your uneasiness show. I don't know how you take everything so calmly, but I'm impressed. And I think Eikoheh would be proud of you."
His pinched expression eased into a little smile. "You're fairly good at this yourself," he remarked. "I don't know how you knew that metal man downstairs was an ancestor. I almost asked Efiran whether we had to worship at his shrine."
Just then Iobeh poked her damp head in to let them know she was finished. Karivet reached for the bell pull, but before he touched it there was a tap and the servant returned with another can of water for Karivet's bath. Zan found herself wondering whether the servants had spyholes to keep tabs on things, or whether this one was just good at her job. When she had finished filling the tub, she paused in front of Karivet and Zan.
"If there is anything else my ladies and lord require, you need only summon me." It was clearly a set phrase, and said with such lack of inflection it was almost a slap. Zan looked at the woman intently.
"Thank you," she said. "I haven't felt this clean in days. Hot water is a wonderful thing."
The woman turned away. "Not if you have to carry it."
Zan smiled at that tart comment. It was the first spontaneous thing the servant had said. "I see your point," she agreed, "and even more, I appreciate your effort."
At the first word, the woman froze. Without turning around, she said, "You do not look like a liar."
"What?" Zan exclaimed. "What do you mean, a liar?"
The woman wheeled, her strange eyes wide as she studied Zan's face. "It is what the Vemathi call my people: Utverassi—the untruthful ones. I am a shapeshifter." Then she went out.
Zan sat and dropped her face into her hands again. During this explanation, the woman had not opened her mouth once.
SIX
The silence stretched tautly for a long moment before Zan broke it. "When you mentioned shapeshifting, Karivet, I never thought it was anything but a story." It surprised Zan how normal her voice sounded. She looked up in time to see astonishment, then sudden understanding, flit across the boy's face.
"She is one, then," he said. "The world is full of wonders. The shapeshifters are half a legend among my people." He smiled crookedly. "A story to frighten children, for they do not have a good reputation. Occasionally shapeshifting is a spirit-gift, but it is rare. Iobeh and I used to try it, when we were small, but it wasn't given to us. How did you figure it out, 'Tsan? Did you hear her thoughts?"
Zan nodded, turning over the interchange in her mind. "She realized I was hearing her thoughts, and she told me. Karivet, why do the Vemathi call them Utverassi?" Verass, she knew, meant "truth"; utverassi meant, literally, "untruthful ones," liars.
As Karivet shook his head, her mind spun out further anxious questions. "Are the shapeshifters servants of the Vemathi, like the Khedathi? And do you suppose she can hear our thoughts, too?" The horror of that idea sank in. "Could Efiran have sent her to spy on us?"
The boy looked uncomfortable. "'Tsan, I don't know. Perhaps Iobeh can tell us. She can often tell whether or not someone is speaking the truth."
"I'll talk with her while you're having your bath," she told him, hiding her anxiety as well as she could until he had retreated into the bathroom. Then she allowed herself to think. What was happening to her? What was she doing in this crazy place, reading minds, for pity's sake, and talking with shapeshifters? It was strange and frightening. For Iobeh's sake, she tried to calm her jittering feelings, but she could seem to affect only the surface, not the anxious jumping in her stomach. Suddenly she felt Iobeh's hand touch her shoulder, bringing a welcome moment of calm. She met the girl's eyes and smiled.
'Tsan, what is it?
As Zan explained about the shapeshifter, Iobeh's eyes filled with wonder. When she finished, it was a long moment before Iobeh responded. I don't know whether the servant was sent to find out about us. She is full of anger; it is almost suffocating, her rage, and there is contempt—though for whom I cannot tell. What we could do is summon her. You could ask her your questions, and I will try to judge her answers by her feelings.
Something in Iobeh' s manner touched a chord in Zan. "Will it be difficult for you, Iobeh? Uncomfortable?"
The girl nodded. But it may be information we need to have, she signed. I am willing to do it.
Zan squeezed her hand. "Iobeh, you're a wonder." Before she could lose her nerve, she went to the bell pull and rang. A short time later the shapeshifter came in. Her face was inscrutable as she regarded them.
Contempt, Iobeh signed. Very strong.
The shapeshifter's gaze flickered to Iobeh uncertainly. Zan, taking courage from the momentary chink in the shapeshifter's facade, spoke. "I apologize for summoning you away from your other duties for what may seem so trivial a reason. I want to apologize to you for my earlier rudeness. I meant to ask you—before surprise made me completely forget my manners—your name, and to introduce ourselves."
"There is no need," the servant said. "I will answer to whatever you call me, my lady."
Surprise. Wariness. Resentment, Iobeh signed.
"We are unaccustomed to being waited on," Zan continued, "and would rather you called us by our names than 'my lady' or 'my lord.' I am 'Tsan, this is Iobeh, and Karivet is the third. What is your name?"
"My kind do not give our names to your kind.''
Astonishment. Anger. Affront.
"Do you mean," Zan asked carefully, "your kind as a servant, or your kind as a shapeshifter?"
"Shapeshifter," she hissed. "I am not a servant, I am a slave."
Iobeh went a little pale and pushed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. Even Zan flinched from the sudden, vicious anger that flashed across the shapeshifter's features.
Zan persevered, though she could feel the tension in the room like the heavy air before a thunderstorm. "Please forgive my ignorance. I know nothing of your people. What may we call you?"
Anger. And curiosity, perhaps.
"My lady, you may call me anything you like." The words were barbed with sarcasm.
Zan ignored the tone. "'Tsan, not 'my lady.' Must I make up a name for you? Isn't there something you'd prefer?" she persisted.
>
Bitterness, Iobeh signed, her face showing the strain.
The shapeshifter laughed. "Oh, indeed. There are many things I would prefer. I would prefer to be free."
"I would free you if it were in my power."
Rage! Iobeh signed, then reeled backward under the force of the shapeshifter's emotions.
"How dare you?" she spat, drawing herself up. She trembled with anger, and her pale eyes blazed. "How dare you offer me such a promise? It's not in your power and it never will be! Why are you tempting me? So your little friend can feed on my agony?" She glared at Zan silently for a moment; her breathing rasped as though she had been running. Zan's mute protest registered briefly in the shapeshifter's eyes, and amazement flickered in her expression before it was replaced by bitterness as she ground out, "You lie. You would never dare to free me. Your kind are all alike. You would be too afraid I would turn into a wolf and devour you."
When Zan glanced at Iobeh, the girl had both hands pressed to her cheeks. She shook her head; she was as white as cheese. Zan felt suddenly very alone. She turned back to the shapeshifter, meeting her eyes squarely. "I said it and I meant it. I do not believe in enslaving other people. And I do not think you would kill me. After all, why would you?"
The shapeshifter's smile curved cruelly. "Why not? The Vemathi say my people drink the blood of infants." Her upper lip pulled back in a feral snarl. "If that is so," she added in a chilling whisper, "I have hungered long."
Zan fought down a shiver of dread. "You're trying to frighten me," she said, suddenly convinced it was true. "In any case, even if what the Vemathi say is true, I'm not an infant. Besides, you were angry enough to do me harm a minute ago, and you didn't do anything of the kind then."
The shapeshifter was silent for a moment, her inscrutable eyes on Zan's face. "No. But then, I am bound." She held her arms out, displaying fine silver chains around each wrist, then touched another around her neck. She spun on her heel, starting for the door.
Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom Page 5