by Jo Clayton
“Mmm. Got a hole in my pocket.”
“There’s one or two might be willing to rent a pitch for half the take.”
“Too late for today. I’m thinking about belly and bed. Anyone round looking for a strong back and careful hands?”
“Hirin’s finished with by noon.”
Daniel sucked his teeth, wrinkled his nose. “Looks like my luck quit by noon.” He thought a minute. “Any pawnshops around? I’ve got a couple of things I could pop in a pinch.” He scratched at his stubble. “It’s pinching.’
“Grausha Kuronee in the Rakell Quarter. She an ugly old bitch,” he cackled, “don’t you tell her A said it. But she give you a fair deal.” He coughed and spat into a small noisome jar he pulled from his pocket; when he was finished, he recorked it and tucked it away. Daniel Akamarino had difficulty keeping his mouth from dropping open. Settsiwhatsisname had a strangle grip on this country for sure; he began to understand why the place was so clean. And why young Kori talked the way she did. “Tell you what,” the beggar said, “play another couple of tunes. A’ll split the coin and A’ll whistle you up a brat oo’ll run you over to Kuronee’s place.”
“Deal.” He took out the recorder, got himself settled and started on one of his liveliest airs.
Daniel Akamarino tossed the boy one of the handful of coppers he’d harvested, watched him run off, then turned to examine the shop. It was a dingy, narrow place, no window, its door set deep into the wall with an ancient sign creaking on a pole jutting out over the recess. The paint was worn off the weathered rectangle except for a few scales of sunfaded color, but the design was carved into the wood and could be traced with a little effort. A bag net with three fish. He patted a few of his pockets, frowned and wandered away.
A few streets on he came to a small greenspace swarming with children. He wandered between the games and appropriated a back corner beside a young willow. After slipping out of his vest, he sat and began exploring the zippered pockets. The vest was made from the skin of Heverdee Nightcrawlers, the more that leather was handled, the better it looked and the longer it lasted; on top of that, it was a matter of pride to those who wore such vests never to get them cleaned, so Daniel hadn’t had much incentive to dump his pockets except when he tried to find something he needed and had to fumble for it through other things that had no discernible reason for being in that pocket. He found a lot of lint and small odd objects that had no trade value but slowed his search. He sat turning them over in his fingers and smiling at the memories they evoked. It wasn’t an impressive collection, but he came up with two possibilities. A hexagonal medal, soft gold, a monster stamped into one side, a squiggle that might have been writing on the other. He frowned at it for several moments before he set it aside; he couldn’t remember where he’d picked it up and that bothered him. A ring with a starstone in it, heavy, silver, he’d worn it on his thumb a while when he was living on Abalone and thumbrings were a part of fitting in; since he didn’t really like things on his hands, he slipped it into a pocket the day he left and forgot about it until now. He put everything back but the lint and dug that into the soil under the willow roots, then leaned against the limber trunk and sat watching the children running and shouting, swinging on knotted ropes tied to a tall post-and-lintel frame, climbing over a confection of tilted poles, crossbars and nets, playing ring games and rope games and ball games, the sort of games that seemed somehow universal, he’d met them before cross species (adapted for varying numbers and sorts of limbs), cross cultures (varying degrees of competition and cooperation in the mix), ten thousand light-years apart. He smiled at them, thought about playing a little music for himself, but no, he was too comfortable as he was. The day was warm, the Owlyn Valers had fed him well at noon so he wasn’t hungry yet, he had a few coppers in his pocket and the possibility of getting more and he felt like relaxing and letting time blow past without counting the minutes.
When the sun dropped low enough to sit on the wall and the children cleared away, heading for home and supper, Daniel Akamarino got to his feet, shook himself into an approximation of alertness and went strolling back to Kuronee’s Place. He spent the next half hour haggling over the ring and the medal, enjoying the process as much as the old woman did; by the time he concluded the deal he was grinning at her and had seduced the ghost of a twinkle from eyes like ancient fried eggs; he got from her the name of a tavern whose host had a reputation for knocking thieves in the head and not caring all that much if he knocked the brains right out. He rented a cubbyhole with a lock on it and a bed that had seen hard usage. Not all that clean, but better than he’d expected for the price. He ate a supper of fish stew and crusty bread, washed it down with thick dark homebrew, then went out to watch the night come over the water.
The evening was mild, the air lazy and filled with dark rich smells, one more day’s end in a mellow slightly overripe season. Mara’s Dowry his folk called this last spurt of warmth before winter. Season of golden melancholy. I wonder what they call it here and why. He sat on an oaken bitt watching the tide come in, his pleasant tristesse an elegant last course to the plain good meal warming his belly. A three-quarter moon rose, a large bite out of the upper right quadrant. The Wounded Moon, that’s what they called it. He watched it drift through horsetail clouds and wondered what its stories were. Who shot the moon and why? Who was so hungry he swallowed that huge bite?
Something glittered in the dark water out beyond the ships. Dolphins leaping? A school of flying fish? Not flying fish. No. He got slowly to his feet and stood staring. A woman swam out there. A woman thirty meters long with white glass fingers and a fish’s tail. Shimmering, translucent, eerily beautiful, throbbing with power.
“Sweet thing.” The voice was husky, caressing. Daniel Akamarino turned. A dumpy figure stood beside him, a wineskin tucked under one arm; at first, because of the bald head with a fringe of flyaway black hair and the ugly-puppy face, he thought it was a little fat man, then he saw the large but shapely breasts bursting from the worn black shirt, the mischievous grin, the sun colored eyes that danced with laughter. ‘Godalau,” the ambiguous person said, “bless her saucy tail.” Heesh poured a dollop of wine into the bay, handed the skin to Daniel who did the same. Laughter like falling water drifted back to them. With a flirt of her applauded tail, the Godalau submerged and was gone. When Daniel looked round again, the odd little creature had melted into the night like the Godalau had into the sea, the only evidence heesh had ever been there was the wineskin Dan still held.
He settled back on the bitt, squirted himself a mouthful of the tart white wine. Good wine, a little dryer than he usually liked, but liquid sunshine nonetheless. He drank some more. Gift of the gods. He chortled at the thought. Potent white wine. He drank again. Sorcerors as social engineers. Giant mermaids swimming in the surf. Hermaphroditic demigods popping from the dark. I’m drunk, he thought and drank again and grinned at a glitter out beyond the bay. And I’ll be drunker soon. Why not.
The Wounded Moon slid past zenith, a fog stirred over the waters and the breeze turned chill. Daniel Akamarino shivered, fumbled the stopper back in the nozzle and slung the skin over his shoulder. He stood a moment looking out over the water, gave a two fingered salute to whatever gods were hanging about, then started strolling for the tavern where his room was.
The fog thickened rapidly as he moved into the crooked lanes that ran uphill from the wharves. He fought to throw off the wine. Damn fool, you going to spend the night in a doorway if you don’t watch it. He leaned against a wall a minute, the stone was wet and slimy under his hand and heavy cold drops of condensed fog dropped from the eaves onto his head and shoulders. He did a little deep breathing, thumped his head, started on.
A few turns more, as he left the warehouses and reached the taverns clustered like seadrift about them, the lanes widened a little; the fog there separated into clumps and walking was easier. He turned a corner, stopped.
A girl was struggling with two men. They were la
ughing, drunkenly amorous. The taller had a hand twisted in her hair while he held one of her writhing arms, the other was pushing his short burly body against her, crushing her against the wall while he fumbled at her clothing. Daniel sucked at his teeth a moment, then ran silently forward. A swift hard slap to the head of the skinny man-he squeaked and folded down. A kick to the tail of the squat man-he wheeled and roared; bullet head lowered, he charged at Daniel. Daniel danced aside and with a quick hop slapped the flat of his foot against the man’s buttocks and shoved, driving him into a sprawl face down on the fog-damped paving stones.
The girl caught at Daniel Akamarino’s ann. “Come.”
He looked down, smiled. “Kori.” He let her pull him into a side lane, ran with her around half a dozen corners until they left the shouts and cursing far behind. He slowed to a walk, waited until she was walking beside him. “Blessed young idiot.” He scowled at her. “What do you think you’re doing down here this time of night?”
“I have to meet someone.” She tilted her head, gave him a quick smile. “Not you, Daniel. Someone else.”
“Mmf. Couldn’t you find a better time and place to meet your boyfriend, whatever?”
“Hah!” The sound dripped scorn. “No such thing. When the day comes, I’ll marry someone in Owlyn. This is something else. I don’t want to talk about it here.”
“Mysteries, eh?”
“Come with me. Trd says you’re mixed up in this some way, that you’re here because of it. You might as well know what’s happening and why.”
“Tell you this, Kori, you’re not going anywhere without me. I still think you should go back to your folks and wait till daylight to meet your friend.”
“I can’t.”
“Hmm. Let’s go then.”
The Blue Searnaid was near the end of the watersecLion, a rambling structure sitting like a loosely coiled worm atop a small hill. This late, it was mostly dark, though a torch smoldered in its cage over the taproom door, a spot of dim red in a patch of thicker fog. Daniel Akamarino dropped his hand on Kori’s shoulder. “Wait out here,” he whispered.
“No.” Her voice was soft but fierce. “It’s not safe.”
“You weren’t worried about that before. Look, I’m not going to take you in there.”
“It’s not drunks I’m worried about, it’s HIM.”
“Oh.” He thought about that a moment. “Political?”
“What?”
“Hmm.” He stepped away from her and scanned her. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
“I couldn’t come dressed in my Owlyn clothes.” Indignation roughened her voice. “I borrowed this off one of the maids in the hostel.” A quick grin. “She doesn’t know it.”
“Kuh,” disgust in his voice, “after that mauling you got, you look like you’re an underage whore. I’m not sure I like being a dirty old man with a taste for veal.” When she giggled, he tapped her nose with a forefinger. “Enough from you, snip. Tell me the rules around here. The tavernkeepers let men take streetgirls into their rooms?”
“How should I know that? I’ve seen men taking girls in there, what they did with them…” She shrugged.
In the fireplace at the far end of the long room fingerlength tongues of flame licked lazily at a few sticks of wood; three lamps hung along a ceiling beam, their wicks turned low. There were men at several of the scattered tables, talking in mutters; they looked up briefly and away again as Daniel led Kori through the murk to a table in the darkest corner. A slatternly girl not much older than Kori came across to them. Her face was made up garishly, but the cosmetics were cracking and smeared and under the paint she was sullen and weary. Daniel ordered two mugs of homebrew, dug out three of his hoard of coppers. The girl scooped them into a pocket of her stained apron and went off with a dragging step.
“So. Where’s this friend of yours?”
“Probably asleep. Tre says she’s here, but I’m a day earlier than I arranged. I thought I could ask someone where her room was.” She considered a minute. “Maybe you better do the talking. Ask about a white-haired woman with two children. “
“You know her name?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if she’s using it.”
“Hmm. I see. Kori…”
“No. Don’t talk about it, not now.”
The serving girl shambled back with two mugs of dark ale, plunked them down. Daniel dug out another copper. “You’ve got a woman staying here, white hair, two kids.”
More sullen than ever, she looked from him to Kori. Her mouth dragged down into an ugly sneer.
Daniel set the coin on the table. “Take it or leave it.”
Without a change of expression, she brushed the coin off the table. “On the right going up, first room, head of the stairs.”
Shock and sadness in her eyes, Kori watched the girl drag off. “She…” Her hands groped for answers that weren’t there. “Daniel…”
He frowned; she was a child, sheltered, innocent, but truth was truth however unpalatable. “You’ve never seen a convenience close up before?”
“Convee…”
His hand clamped on her arm. “Quietly,” he whispered. “This isn’t your ground, Kori, you play by local rules.”
“Convenience?”
“She’s for hire like the rooms here. What did you think?”
“Any of those men…”
“Any of them, or all.” He smiled at her. “I thought you were being a little glib back there, talking about whores and what they did.”
“It’s not like Ruba.”
“Who’s Ruba?” He kept his voice low and soothing, trying to ease away the sick horror in her eyes. “Tell me about her.”
Kori laced her fingers together and rubbed one thumb over the other. “Ruba, our whore. She’s a Phrasi woman. She came to Owlyn oh before I was born. Some of the men built her a house. It’s away from the other houses and it’s a little like the Priest House. She lives there by herself. The men visit her. The women don’t like her much, but they don’t make her miserable or anything. They even talk to her sometimes. They let her help with the sugaring. Things like that. The only bad thing is they won’t let her keep her babies. They take them away from her. I’ve watched her since before I was old enough for the Lot. She’s happy, Daniel, she really is. She’s not like that girl.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Thirty-five, forty, something like that.”
“That’s part of the difference, another part’s how your people treat her. Forget the girl. There are hundreds like her, Kori. There’s nothing you can do for her except hope she survives like Ruba did. It’s better than being on the street. She won’t get hurt here. Well, not crippled or killed. And she’ll most likely have enough to eat.’’
‘
“The look on her eyes,” Kori shivered, tried a sip at the ale, wrinkled her nose and pushed it away. “This is awful stuff.” She watched Daniel drink, waited impatiently till he lowered his mug. “Where you come from, Daniel, are there girls like that?”
“I wish I could say no. We’ve got laws against it and we punish folk who break those laws. When we catch them. But there’s always someone willing to take a chance when they want something they’re not supposed to have.”
“What do you do to the ones you catch?”
“We’ve got uh machines and uh medicines and mmf I suppose you’d call them sorcerors who change their heads so they won’t do it again.” He took a long pull at the ale, wiped his mouth. “We’d better go wake up your friend, you have to get those clothes back to the maid before she crawls out of bed.” He stood, held out his hand. When she was on her feet, he looked her over again. “It would be a kind thing if you left the girl a silver or two, you’ve pretty well ruined her going home clothes.”
She closed her mouth tight and flounced away, heading for the stairs. He grinned and ambled along behind her.
Suddenly uncertain, she tapped at the door, not half loud enough to wake any
one sleeping. She started to tap again, but it swung open before her knuckles reached the panel. A young boy stood in the narrow dark rectangle between door and jamb, fair and frail with odd shimmery eyes.
“Brann,” Kori murmured. She reached under her hair and pulled a thong over her head, held it out, a triangle of bronze swinging at the bottom of the loop. “I’m the one who sent for her.”
The door opened wider. A dark form appeared behind the boy. “Come.” A woman’s voice, a rough warm contralto.
“Show me,” Kori whispered. “First, show me the other half.”
Snatch of laughter. A hand came out of the dark, a triangle of bronze resting on the palm. Kori snatched the bronze bit, examined it, turned it over, ran her thumb along the edge, then dropped both parts of the medal into her blouse. “If you’ll move back, please?” she said to the boy.
He frowned. “Him?”
“He’s in it.”
“Jay, let her in. Ahzurdan is fidgeting about the wards.”
With a small angry sound, the boy moved aside.
Daniel followed Kori inside. A lanky blond girlchild was setting an old lamp on the shelf at the head of a lumpy tottery bed. Just lit, the lamp’s chimney was clouded, a smear of carbon blacked the bottom curve. The shutters were closed and the smell of rancid lamp oil and ancient sweat was strong in the crowded room. A tallish woman with short curly white hair backed up to give them space, lowered herself on the end of the bed. The boy Jay dropped on the crumpled quilt beside her; the girl who was obviously his sister settled herself beside him. Arms crossed, a tall man in a long black robe leaned against the wall and scowled at everyone impartially. His eyes met Daniel’s. Instant hate, instantly reciprocated. Daniel Akamarino the easygoing slide-away-from-a-fight man stared at the other and wanted to kick his face in, wanted to beat the other into bloody meat. The woman Kori had called Brann smiled. “As you can see, the amenities are limited. Sit or stand as you please. There’s a chair, I don’t’trust the left hind leg, so be careful.” When Kori started to speak, she held up her hand. “Stay quiet for a moment. Ahzurdan, the wards.”