by Jo Clayton
Brann smiled. “Pity the poor thief who breaks in here.” She left the window, prodded at the bed. “Better than the rack in that other place. My bones ache thinking about it. Uuuh, I’m tired. Too tired to eat. I think I’ll skip supper and spend an hour or so in the bathhouse. Yaro, Jay, I’d appreciate it if one of you gave the mattress a runthrough before you bank your fires, make sure we’ve got no vermin sharing the room with us. I can’t answer for my temper if I wake itching.”
Unlike Hina Baths, the House was divided, one side for women, the other for men and the division was rigidly maintained. The attendant on the women’s side (a female wrestler who looked more than capable of thumping anyone, male or female, who tried to make trouble) didn’t quite know what to make of Brann; she wasn’t accustomed to persons claiming to be females who wore what she considered male attire. Half annoyed, half amused, too tired to argue, Brann snorted with disgust, stripped off her shirt and trousers. Demonstrably female, she strolled inside.
The water was steamy, herb scented, filled with small bubbles as it splashed into a sunken pool made of worn stones, gray with touches of amber and russet and chalky blue. Nubbly white towels were piled on a wicker table near the door into the chamber, there were hooks set into the wall for the patron’s clothing, a shallow saucer of soap and a dish of scented oil sat beside the pool beneath a rail of smooth white porcelain, scrubbing cloths were draped over the rail. Brann hung up her shirt and trousers, dropped her underclothing beside the towels, tugged, off her boots and put them on a boot-stand beside the table. Stretching, yawning, the heat seeping into muscle and bone, she ambled to the pool and slid into water hot enough to make her bite on her lip and shudder with pleasure when she was immersed. She clung to the rail for a moment, then began swimming about, brushing through the uncurling leaves of the dried herbs the attendant had dropped into the water as she opened the taps that let it flow from the hot cistern. She ducked her head under, shook it, feeling the half-inch of new hair move against her skull. Surfacing, she pulled herself onto the edge of the pool and began soaping her legs, taking pleasure in her body for the first time in years; she’d lived a deliberately muffled life up on her mountain, centering her pleasures in her work and the landscape around her; a longtime lover could have learned too much about her, there was no one she trusted that much, no one she wanted enough to chance his revulsion when he learned what she was; even a short-timer would have made too many complications. Now, she was a skinful of energy, tingling with want, and she didn’t quite know what to do about it. Cultures change in a hundred years; the changes might not be large but they were enough to tangle her feet if she didn’t move with care. Laughing uncertainly as her nipples tautened and a dagger of pleasurable need stabbed up from her groin, she pulled a scrub cloth across her breasts, watched the scented lather slide over them, then flung the cloth away and plunged into the pool, submerging, sputtering up out of the water splashing herself vigorously to rinse away the remnants of the soap. Later, as she stood rubbing herself dry, she began running through her plans for the next day. It was time she began looking about for a ship to take her south. Better not try for Cheonea from here, better to change ships… she knew little about the powers of the limits of sorcery, she hadn’t a guess about how Setsimaksimin had found her… she was reasonably sure he was her enemy, she’d made enough others in her lifetime, though most of them had to be dead by now, besides there was the boy and the packet with its plea for her help… so she didn’t know if he could locate her again, but breaking one’s backtrail was an elementary tactic when pursued by man or some less deadly predator. Hmm. She’d always had a thing for ship captains… she grinned, toweled her head… maybe she could find herself another like Sammang or Chandro…
The night was warm and pleasant, the garden between the bathhouse and the Inn was full of drifting perfume and small paper lanterns dangling on long strings; they swayed in the soft airs and made shadows dance everywhere. On the far side of the vinetrellice that protected the privacy of bathers moving to and from the Inn she could hear unobtrusive cittern music and voices from the late diners eating out under the sky, enjoying the pleasant weather and the fine food Kheren Zanc’s cook was famous for. She thought of going round and ordering a meal (more to enjoy the ambiance than because she was hungry) but did nothing about the thought, too tired to dredge up the energy needed to change direction. She drifted into the Inn, climbed two flights of stairs and tapped at the door to her room.
Not a sound. She waited. Nothing happened. She tried the latch, made a soft annoyed sound when the door opened.
The children were both in bed, sunk in their peculiar lethargy. As Brann stepped inside, one pale head lifted, dropped again. She relaxed. Trust Jaril to leave a fraction of himself alert so he wouldn’t have to crawl out of bed and let her in. She stopped by the bed and ruffled his hair, but he didn’t react, having sunk completely into stupor; she smiled. looked about for the key. It was on the bed table, gleaming darkly in the light coming through the unshuttered window. She locked the door, stripped and crawled into bed. A yawn, a wriggle, and she plunged fathoms deep in sleep.
A noise outside woke her from a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep. She pulled a quilt off the bed, wrapped it around her and got to the window in time to see a dark head and shoulders thrust out from the top of the wall, close enough she could almost touch them. Beyond the wall she heard shouts and dogs baying. Without stopping to think, she leaned out, caught the fugitive’s at-tendon with a sharp hiss.
The head jerked up.
“In here,” she whispered. She saw him hesitate, but he had little choice. The hounds were breathing down his neck. She moved away from the window, jumped back another step as he came plunging through and whipped onto his feet, knife in hand, eyes glittering through the slits in his knitted mask. “Don’t be silly,”
she said, no longer whispering. “Close the shutters or get away from the window and let me do it.”
He sidled along the wall, keeping as far from her as he could. After a quick glance out the window, she eased the shutters to, careful to make as little noise as she could, pulled the bar over and tucked it gently into its hooks. That done, she set her back against the shutters and stood watching him.
He was over by the door; he tried the latch. “The key.”
She hitched up the quilt which was trying to untuck itself and slide off her. “On the table.” A nod toward the bed. “Go if you want. You could probably break loose. Or you can stay here until the chase passes on. Your choice.”
“Why?” A thread of sound, angry and dangerous.
“Why not. Say I don’t like seeing things hunted.”
He lowered the knife, leaned against the door and thought about it, a small wiry figure, with black trousers and black sweater, black gloves, black busks on his feet and a knitted hood that covered his whole head except for the eyeslits. The dim light coming through diamond holes in the shutters touched his eyes as he moved away from the door, pale eyes, blue or hazel, unusual in Jade Halimm; he stared at her several seconds, glanced at the sleeping children. “Who are you?”
“Did I ask you that?’
“They aren’t breathing.” He waved the knife at the children.
“Nor did I make comments about your person.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then he dragged off the mask and stood grinning at her. “Drinker of Souls,” he said, satisfaction and certainty in his voice. “You knew my grandfather.” He was a handsome youth, sixteen seventeen twenty at most, straight thick hair, heavy brows, flattish nose and a wide thinlipped mouth that could move from a grin to a grimace at the flash of a thought. Mixed blood. Hina stature, Hina nose and tilted almond Hina eyes (though they should have been dark brown to be truly Hina), the dark blond hair that appeared sometimes when Hina mixed with Croaldhese, his mouth and chin were certainly Croaldhese. He had the accent of a born Halimmer, that quick slide of sound impossible to acquire unless you lisped your first words in Jalimmi
k.
He slipped the knife up his sleeve and went to sit on the bed. “My mother’s father was called Aituatea. You might remember him.” He waited a moment giving her a chance to comment; when she said nothing, he went on. “You’re a family legend. You and them.” A wave of his hand at the two blond heads.
“Hmm. This seems to be the month of old acquaintances.”
“What?”
“Wouldn’t mean anything to you. Yaril, Jaril, wake up.” The covers stirred, two sleepy children sat up blinking. “Forget it, kids, the lad knows all about you. ‘ She turned back to the young thief. “How serious were they, those folk chasing you?”
He scratched at his jaw. “I’m still here, not running for the nearest hole. Those Dreeps know all the holes I do, and they’ll be going down them hunting blood. Not just them.” He thought a moment, apparently decided there was no point being coy about his target. “High-merchant Jizo Gozit, it was his House I got into, he’s a vindictive man and he’s got more pull than a giant squid; by now the king’s Noses are in the hunt.”
“I see. They’ll be searching this place before long. We could shove you under the bed or hide you in it… no, I’ve got a better idea… maybe… you think they know it’s you they’re hunting?”
“Doubt it. I usually keep well away from that quarter. The hounds have my scent, though; if the Dreeps bring their dogs…”
‘Jun, let him take your place. Mastiff, I think, hmm? Any dogs stick their noses in the door, you take their minds off our friend here.”
Jaril patted a yawn, slid out of the bed, a slim naked youth. For a moment he stood looking at the thief out of bright crystal eyes, then he was a mastiff standing high as the boy’s waist, muscle rippling on muscle, droopy mouth stretched into a grin that exposed an intimidating set of teeth. He went trotting around the room, came back to the rug at the foot of the bed, scratched at it until he was satisfied, turned around once and settled onto it, head down, ready to sleep until he was needed.
“Get into the bed beside Yaril,” Brann said. “You’ll be Jaril. Kheren will tell them I came in with two children, a boy and a girl, you’re older and taller and not so fair, but that shouldn’t matter.”
The mastiff lifted his head, whined softly.
“Move it, friend.” Brann whipped the quilt off, swept it over the bed and dived under the covers beside him. She felt his tension as he lay sandwiched between her and Yaril. “Relax,” she muttered.
A long sigh, a wriggle that edged him away from her, then his breathing went slow and steady, craftily counterfeiting slumber. A handsome youth, but he didn’t arouse anything in her except impatience. Getting old, she thought, Slya Bless, a few hours ago I was hot to trot, as the saying goes, contemplating the seduction of some sea captain. She sighed. What do I do if the same nothing appears when I find someone more to my taste, ayy yaaah, dead from the neck down? May it never happen. I was something like half dead up there. Mmh. Would have been all dead, if the children had been an hour or so later. She scowled at the unseen ceiling. Didn’t even try to fight… The memory made her sick. Didn’t even try to get the knife out, heal the wound. They surprised me, but that’s no excuse. Hadn’t thought about it before but that must have been what I was doing the past fifty years, getting ready to die and when it happened… Shuh! I can’t die. Not with the kids depending on me. I’ve got to do something about that. I don’t know what. After this is over and there’s time… maybe if I went back to Tincreal and roused Slya…
She lay still and did a few mind tricks to keep her body relaxed, then tried to figure out why she’d taken on this young thief with no questions asked. It startled her now that she had time to take a look at what she’d done. She thought about what she’d told him, I don’t like to see things hunted. True enough, especially after the past six days (twinge in her stomach, quickly suppressed). I suppose he’s my redeeming act, my sop, my
… oh forget it, Brann, you’re maundering. Aituatea’s grandson, hmm, he’s got the proper heritage for his profession all right. What’s going on here? First Harm’s great grandsoevers, now Aituatea’s. Things come in threes, uh huh, and if there’s a third intrusion from my past…
She heard the voices in the hall and the tramp of booted feat near her door. She heard the clank of the key as it turned in the lock. She stifled an urge to turn and look at the boy, forced her breathing to slow, her body to relax again.
The door crashed open, banging against the wall. Light from the hallway and the lanterns the Dreeps carried glared into the room, slid off the leather and metal they wore. Jaril came onto his feet and stood ears back, head down, growling deep in his throat. As if startled from sleep but no less dangerous, Brann surged up, knife ready in one hand, snatching at the quilt with the other, holding it in front of her. “Shift ass out of here,” she spat at them, “or I turn him loose and carve into stew meat what he leaves.”
“Calm, calm, fenna meh.” Kheren Zanc pushed past the lead Dreep. “There’s no harm done. The guards are searching for a thief who got over the wall near your room. They need to be sure he’s not hiding in here. It’s for your safety, fenna meh.”
She looked them over with insolent thoroughness, then she wrapped the quilt around her and tucked in the end. “Let them look if they’re fools enough to think some idiot thief could get past Smiler there.” She dropped onto the bed, knife resting lightly on her quilt-covered thigh. “I’ll have the hide off anyone who wakes the children.” She patted the blanket beside her, whistled the mastiff onto the bed. Jaril, newly christened Smiler, leaped over the footboard and stretched out with his hindquarters draped over the young thief’s legs. Yaril and the erstaz Jaril slept heavily while three Dreeps prowled the room, looking under the bed and into the wardrobe. One of them prodded his pike through the blanket near the foot of the bed but retreated before a sizzling glare when he showed signs of wanting to jerk the covers off in case the thief was masquerading as a twig-sized wrinkle.
Kheren bowed with heavy dignity. “Your Graciousness.” He shooed the Dreeps out of the room and locked the door after them.
With a wavery sigh Braun set the knife back on the bedtable, ran shaking fingers through the duckfeather curls fluffing about her head. She grinned at Jaril as he shifted back to boy and sat cross-legged on the bed. “Give them a minute more, then see what they’re doing.”
Jaril nodded. He slid off the bed, blurred into a gold shimmersphere and oozed out through the door. The young thief sat up, raised his brows. “Nice trick, wish I could do it.”
“He’ll warn us if the Dreeps start this way. What got you in this mess?”
“Bad luck and stupidity.”
She laughed. “That’s a broad streak of honesty there, better watch it, um… I’ll call you Tua after your grandfather. Tua, my friend, it’ll be an hour or two before you can move on, pass a little of it telling me your troubles. I might be some help. I’m inclined to be, for your grandfather’s sake. Or out of boredom. Or from general dislike of Dreeps. ‘Fake your pick and tell your tale.”
He rubbed his hands together, slowly, his light eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Why not.”
“Hmm. I expect there’s not much point in shamming it. Here’s how it was. About a week ago an hour or two before dawn, I was… mmm… drifting along Way-gang street, do you know Halinun, ah!-he slapped his cheek, clicked his tongue, “I forgot who you are, you’ve been walking the ways here since before my mother was even born, where was I, yes, Waygang Street on the Hill end where the highclass Assignation Houses are, I’d been tickling a maid in one of those Houses,” he shrugged, “you get the idea. I was seeing if I could fox the patrols and get inside without being nailed. I thought old Tungjii was perching on my shoulder when I made it as easy as breathing. Ten, eleven patrons were sleeping over, I went through their gear and teased open the locks on the abdits, you know, the lockholes in the walls where they generally put their purses and the best jewelry. What with one thing and another, it was
a good haul for an hour’s work. What I didn’t know was one of those patrons was a sorceror. He had this bad dream-smoke habit, he’d stopped over in Jade Halimm to indulge it and was using the House as a safe bed for his binge. The room had that sour stink you don’t forget once you’ve smelled it so I knew the man wasn’t going to wake on me, the House could’ve burned down and he wouldn’t wake. I got his purse, shuh, it was heavy. I almost didn’t bother with the abdit, but I was stupid and I got greedy and I found this crystal egg in a jeweled case, and I took it. Wasn’t anything else in the abdit. Another thing, that stinking smoke made my nose itch and clog up, so I blew it. I used my fingers and wiped them on one of the sheets. Baaad mistake. Well, I didn’t know it then. I finished up and slid out and it was easy as breathing again. I cached the gold, you don’t want to walk in on… um… I think I won’t say the name… someone with gold in your boot, he’d have it out before you opened your mouth to say what. I sold the rings and that egg to someone, got about what I expected, maybe a quarter what the stuff was worth. He passed the egg on less than three hours after he got it. I found that out later. Me, soon as I was rid of the dangerous stuff, I went… um… someplace and crawled into bed, I was tired. Everything was fine, far as I knew. Stayed fine all the time I was sleeping. I woke hungry and went to get something to eat. I was in the middle of a bowl of noodles when my insides started twitching. Didn’t hurt, not then, just felt peculiar. I stopped eating. The twitches stopped. It was that cookshop down by Sailor’s Gamehouse. I decided Shem who ran it got into some bad oil, so I went into Sailor’s figuring I could afford his cook for once. I got about halfway through some plum chicken when the twitches started again. This time I ignored them and finished the chicken, it cost too much to waste. The twitching went away. I though, Oh. I went out. It was getting dark. There was a girl I knew. She’s a dancer mostly, she has her courtesan’s license so she doesn’t have to go with anyone she doesn’t like. I thought about going to see her. I even started walking toward the piers, she worked on a boat, I got a couple steps on the way when the worst pain I ever felt hit me. It was like redhot pincers stabbing into my liver and twisting. And a word exploded in my head. It was a minute before I could sort myself out enough to know what the word was. Come. I heard it again. Come. I didn’t know what was happening to me. Come. Everyone thought I was having fits. Come. The pain went away a little. The voice got quieter. Come. I came. That’s when I found out the man I stole the egg from was a sorceror. He wanted the egg back. He wanted it back so bad, he told me what he did to me to get me there was a catlick to what would happen to me if I didn’t bring it to him. I told him I’d already got rid of it, sold it to a fence and I didn’t have any way of knowing what he did with it. He thought about that, then he asked me who the fence was. I didn’t want to tell him but a couple twinges later I decided that… um… someone wasn’t a man I felt like dying for. I told him who the fence was and where to find him. He made me come kneel at his feet, then he did something I don’t know what and there was this tiger-man in the middle of the room. He talked to the tiger-man, I don’t know what he said, it was some sort of magic gabble I suppose. The tigerman disappeared pop like he was a candleflame blown out. He came back the same way but this time he had the fence with him. The fence didn’t want to say what he did with the egg. The tigerman played with him a little. So he dug in his memory, didn’t have to dig far but he made a long dance out of it, and came up with the name of the highmerchant Jizo Gozit. The sorceror told him if he said a word about this to anyone he’d start rotting slowly, his parts would fall off and his fingers and his toes and his tongue would rot in his mouth and his eyes would rot in his head and to show he meant it he rotted off the fence’s little finger, we could see the flesh melt and fall away from the bones. Then the sorceror told him to go home and he went. The tigerman went away. There was just me left. I don’t know why he didn’t send the tigerman after the egg, I’ve got an idea, though, something I came up with later. Maybe it’s like this, he was going to start on his binge, but he didn’t want anyone getting at him when he wasn’t up to protecting himself so he put his two souls into that egg and locked it up and here I come along and go off with it. And he didn’t send the tiger-man for it or do any fishing about for it because he didn’t want to give away where his souls were and he for sure wasn’t about to let any demon get that close to them. He gave me five days to get it back, or I’d start hurting a lot. That was four days ago. So you know what I was doing. Those highmerchants, most thieves don’t even try their houses, I mean even the best we got in Jade Halimm don’t bother with that quarter. I was lucky to stay loose enough to reach the wall ahead of the Dreeps and their hounds.” He slid off the bed and went to the window, lifted the bar and eased the righthand shutter open about an inch so he could see the sky. “Looks to me like I’ve got a couple hours of dark left. Maybe if I went right back, they wouldn’t be expecting me and might’ve let down their guard some. My hood, it’s in the bed somewhere, ask the changer if she’ll fish it out, then I’m for the wall and Jizo’s House and you’re rid of me.”