by Jo Clayton
Olambaro held the door open, waved them in, then stood waiting while two silent grinning men brought in the packs from the beasts and deposited them on the floor by a low table. As they left he walked round the table, stepping carefully among the scattered pillows, seated himself on a plump red silk cushion and waited till the others had seated themselves. Not-looking at Hern and Serroi with fenekeli politeness, he said, “Beginning to think you weren’t coming, cousin.”
“O-eh, a bit of this and that happening at the Hold.”
“Yah, so l’il Ando said. To anybody’d listen. Full of funny stories he was, a couple ears looked pleased to hear ’em, strangers, mean looking, you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “Long as they don’t be ductors, I figure I keep hands off. L’il Ando got hisself one damn good drunk outta it.” A knock on the door cut off what he was saying. “Who?”
“Silkar, Cap’n.” Even muffled by the door the voice was harsh and unhuman.
“Come.” Olambaro’s eyes slid momentarily to Hern and Serroi, his teeth flashing in a broad grin then vanished immediately into a dignified gravity.
Serroi had to struggle not to stare at the man who came in. She’d grown accustomed to her own muted olive shade, but this one was scaled like a viper and green as the new leaves of spring. He wore a linked belt of beaten bronze with a needle-pointed bronze knife clipped to it, a short leather kilt and a heavy bronze medallion on a chain about his neck. Carrying a fat-bellied jug of wine, his long slender fingers hooked through the handles of four cups, he stepped around the pillows with a predator’s lightness to set his burden on the table before Olambaro. When he straightened, he stared a long moment at Serroi, his glowing golden eyes moving from her face to her hands and back, then he left the room with the same silent glide.
The corners of his mouth twitching, Olambaro popped out the cork and poured wine in the cups. “The harvest, I hear, is beyond praise this year.” He passed the cups to his guests, then sipped at the wine so they’d feel free to drink.
“True, yes true,” Hekatoro murmured. He took a gulp of the wine then sat holding the cup at heart level. “Though the weather be some strange. I hope your passage down river did not prove too strenuous.” He drank again, his dark eyes twinkling. There was mischief even in the back of his neck and his brows were prancing up and down in time with his breathing. The Cousins were gently teasing their guests and at the same time gently sparring with each other.
Serroi looked down at her hands. Her skin gleamed in the soft glow from the fine porcelain lamps bracketed about the walls: the glow also woke shimmers of green and red and blue from the cushion covers, kindled gleams in the hand-rubbed hardwood of the wall panels. In the comfortable warmth—in several senses—of that room Serroi was beginning to recover from the profound upheaval of mind and spirit brought on by the events in the street. It wasn’t particularly pleasant to serve as conduit for such a terrible force. Her lips twitched. A force that disposed of attackers by transforming them into rooted vegetation. Effective but drastic, she thought, reached across and rested her hand on Hern’s thigh. His eyes smiling at her, he covered her hand with his.
“One trusts the river is free of snags and vermin.”
“Storm scours have disturbed the channels more than usual and there are always vermin.” Olambaro tapped a thumbnail against the side of his cup making it ring like a porcelain windbell. “A healer is a useful thing to have on board.”
His brows compressed into a brambly line, Hekatoro snorted. “L’il Ando. Next time I send him looking, I sew his mouth shut.”
“Should storm later this night. More wine?”
“Good Southron this.” Hekatoro pushed the cup across the table with the tips of his fingers. “Might be you have a barrel or two for trade?”
“Might be.” Olambaro filled both cups, brushed at his fiercely coiling moustache. “Millvad making more knives at that magic forge of his?”
“One or two. But this can wait a breath more. Got room for passengers to Low Yallor?”
“Could be, ah, could be. Working passengers.”
“No.”
“No?” For the first time Olambaro looked full into Serroi’s face, his black eyes snapping with interest and curiosity. L’il Ando must’ve achieved real eloquence, she thought.
“If there happens to be need, the healing is free,” she said quietly. “I will not be compelled.”
“Ah!” Olambaro grinned at Hekatoro whose face contorted into a rueful grimace. The old fenekel spread his hands in disgust at this willful breach of the usages of bargaining. Olambaro looked from Hern to Serroi, back to Hern. “Two,” he said. He examined Hern with the same lively curiosity, scratched at his broad flat nose. “Two. Food. Sleeping space. Deck space taken from cargo. Hmmm. Sleykynin hunting ’em. Hmmm. Two and two.” He made a play of moving his lips and ticking whispered items off on his fingers.
“Two and two?” Hekatoro frowned.
“Got two already riding down river.” He rubbed his thumb across the tips of three fingers. “Working passengers, these, meien, standing guard and killing vermin should the need arise.”
“Meien.” Serroi leaned forward eagerly. “Who?” Hern’s hand tightened over hers. Impatiently she pulled free. “How are they called?”
Olambaro shrugged. “They didn’t say.”
“Where are they now?” As Olambaro hesitated, she said, “I’m of the Biserica myself, man, I’m no enemy of theirs.”
“O-eh, I know you now.” He slapped the table making the wine cups jump, gave a shout of laughter. “O-eh, l’il meie, four years gone in Dander market. Shieldmate twice you length and you standing ward while Marnhidda Vos she ground small the profits of Cadandar Merchants. You changed you calling since.” He stroked a finger along his moustache, raised a bristling brow. “And found yourself some new enemies it seems.” He eyed her a moment longer then jerked his head up and down in a decisive nod. “Yah. Healing free of charge, passage free of charge, you and you friend there. Mind you, should we be set on, I’ll expect you both to mind my generosity. Hah! Now. You want to know about meien. They watch my boat for me, keep the vermin off.” He grinned. “Always sticky fingers and snoopers hanging around my Moonsprite.” Slipping two fingers into a sleeve pocket, he fished about then brought out a ceramic disc—on a crimson ground, a black circle with three curved lines inside, the fenekeli sign for moonsprite. “My flag’s raised, lantern’s lit and hanging on the mainmast. Out the front and to the right. Not hard to find.” He rested his gnarled hands flat on either side of the disc. “We leave in two days.”
“I have to talk to them. Maiden bless, Captain.” She got to her feet. “Maiden bless, Hekatoro friend.”
Hern came after her. He pulled the door shut and caught hold of her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You lit up like … like the green at Primavar.”
She loooked at the hand on her arm. “Let me go.”
He took his hand away. As she stood rubbing at the sore spots that would be bruises later, he gazed helplessly at her. She could feel a tightly controlled anger working in him. “A man I could fight,” he said suddenly, “this.…”
“Don’t be a fool, Dom.”
“Fool. Your fool. Want to see me caper?”
Pain, anger, jealousy, need—they struggled in him and battered at her until they became too much for her to bear. She stretched her hand to him but before she could touch him, he jerked away. “Healer,” he whispered, his mouth working as if the word had a foul taste. They stood frozen a moment, his shoulders jammed against the wall, her hands half-raised, reaching for him.
She sighed and lowered her hands.
“I thought things had changed between us,” he said. “That there was more than … that we were friends as well as lovers. Lovers! Damn you, Serroi. As soon as they come, you leave me, run to them eagerly. Eagerly, Serroi. If you could have seen your face.…” He closed his eyes, sucked in a brea
th, let it explode out. “Forget it.” He swung around, pulled the door open and stepped through it, slammed it in her face as she started after him.
“Ah-zhag,” she breathed. She reached for the latch, pulled her hand back. “Not the time. Not the place.” Shaking her head she moved quickly along the hall and started down the stairs. “Why do people have to be so damn difficult? Nothing’s simple, nothing’s ever simple.” Her booted feet clicked on the stair tiles, the small sound cutting through the muted roar coming from the taproom below. “Always making mistakes. Me. I’m always wrong about something. So easy to make mistakes. Hurt and get hurt. Hunh!” She eased the door open, winced at the noise; stepped out into the smoke and smell. Hern, she thought, Ser Noris. Both of them. Touchy as a girl in the throes of her first crush. Who’d have thought it? Hern! With all the women he’s had. Maiden bless, what does he think I am? Perhaps because she was small enough to be a child and because the light was too dim to show her other peculiarities, no one bothered her as she crossed the room. She pushed through the swinging door and stepped into the street. The fog-laden air was cool on her face, then cold. Possessive bastard. Wants to own me. No, that’s not right, no, maybe a touch right. Old habits die hard. His defenses melted with the fat. Yes, that’s right, the fat was a defense, yes that too, poor Hern, a crab without his shell. Ai-ye, Maiden help its, I’m as bad, no shell for him no shell for me. How we going to spend a tenday—more—cooped up on a small boat? Pulling the hood up over her head and clutching it together under her chin to keep the brisk wind from blowing it off again, she crossed the street, her bootsoles slipping on the worn cobbles. He’s certainly old enough to know how to deal with his weaknessess. I hope he is. Don’t be stupid, Serroi, of course he is. You threw him off balance a moment. He’s intelligent, you know that. You’re belittling him again. Woman, act your age. You’re as bad as him.
A number of broad-beamed riverboats were snugged against the stone wharves, rocking with the wind that whipped the nameflags about and plastered Serroi’s heavy linen robe against her back. It cut through the cloth as if nothing were there and made her think wistfully of the heavy wool cloak the Sleykynin had taken from her on the far side of the plateau. The winter that was bypassing Valley and mijloc was putting its foot down here. It was a bit far south for snow, but unless she was much mistaken, there’d be frost on the ground by morning. She shivered and walked faster.
The wide-bellied boats were much alike, deliberately so, it seemed to her, to confuse the Shinki ductors. She watched the flags as she walked along; color was hard to make out, some of the patterns impossible to discern. Then she laughed. Olambaro’s flag was twice the size of the others and stiffened with wooden battens at top and bottom so it wouldn’t twist or droop. A storm lantern hung from the mainmast but the boat seemed deserted. She knew it couldn’t be, no one but a fool would leave a fire lit aboard a wooden boat with a strong wind blowing. She walked around some boxes piled on the wharf and saw two figures sitting on the end of the dock, legs dangling over the side. She made no effort to walk quietly, she knew they heard her in spite of the noise of the river and the keening of the wind. She detoured around a solitary bale and found herself looking down at inky fog-wreathed water. She let the hood blow back and slid her hands up inside her sleeves, hugged her arms tight against her ribs. “Vapro. Nurii.”
Vapro swung her legs, smiled up at her. “Serroi.”
Nurii leaned out to look past Vapro. “Sit down and talk to us.”
Serroi eased herself down beside Vapro. “You got the Call-in?”
Vapro: “Uh-huh. Finally.”
Nurii: “Gila and Jankatt. They went on North after they left us.”
Serroi: “How’s Marnhidda Vos?”
Vapro: “Mad. Ward had another year to run, you know.”
Nurii: “Yah. Says we’re the only ones she trusts not to steal her back teeth and now this. She wants her money’s worth.”
Vapro: “Yah. Says she paid for a full ward and a full ward is what she’s going to get. If our wars are over come spring, we damn well better shove ass out her way or she’ll show us what war really is.”
Serroi: “She hasn’t changed.”
Nurii: “Not a hair.”
Vapro dropped a hand on Serroi’s shoulder, squeezed lightly, took her hand away. “Chak-may stopped in Govaritil on her way north to the Sharr. Told us about Tayyan. Zhag’s curse on all Nor.”
They wanted to ask her what she was doing so far from the Valley, what she was doing in healer’s white not meien leather, Serroi knew that and knew also that they would not. Agemates and friends, willing to take what she could give and let the rest go. “Southport’s closed,” she said. “Kry thick as sandfleas and twice as mean. And don’t try getting through Skup. I ran into a mess there and made it worse.”
Vapro snorted. “I take it Oras is a bad idea too.”
“Last we heard, Floarin’s collecting an army there.” She kicked her feet, watching the heavy cloth pouch out. “Try the passes south of Sankoy. The Creasta Shurin are still free and willing to help.”
Vapro frowned. “It’s Decadra passage already. The passes should be closed till spring.”
Serroi shook her head. “The Nearga-nor have cancelled winter. The Valley will be turning on a spit by now, the mijloc not much better.” Her mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. “No snow.”
“Oh zhag, and I hate the heat.” Nurii sighed. “Sitting around and toasting slowly.”
“Not much sitting around with Yael-mri running things.” Vapro sighed. “Ah for the halcyon days when all we had to look out for was Marnhidda Vos.”
“I’m on quest,” Serroi said.
“Thought you might be. Ser Noris making a nuisance of himself?”
“Yah. Dom Hern’s along with me. I tell you so you can forget it.”
“Forgotten already.”
“Right.”
“Maiden bless the both of you.”
“But you’ll tell us the tale when we’re old and grey, won’t you?” Vapro chuckled. “Something to pass the long hours.”
Nurii pinched her nose. “Or conjure ghosts by the Gorduufest fires.”
Serroi laughed. “When we’re old and grey,” she said.
A bedroom on the third floor of the tavern. Serroi stands with arms crossed, shoulders pressed against the door. Hern is looking out the unglazed window at the fog dripping from the eaves.
“Talk to me,” Serroi said, breaking into the painful silence.
“Why?”
“Afraid?”
“Bored.”
“Liar.”
“You got something to say, say it.”
“You don’t trust me enough to listen.”
“Give me one reason why I should.”
“Poor little man, got his feelings hurt.”
He crossed the room with two long strides, reached for her to shove her away from the door.
“No!” She caught hold of his arm with both hands, held on when he tried to pull free. “Fight this out here. Now.”
He swept his arm in a short vicious arc, whipping her away from him, breaking her hold and sending her tottering back until she came up against the bed.
“Run away then,” she shouted. “Run, little man.”
He swung round to glare at her.
“I’m not your mother, Hern. Look at me. I’m not Lobori or Floarin. Look at me. I’m stupid sometimes about people, but I don’t lie, I’m honest, give me that.”
“Honest?” His stiff face softened. “Better a little tactful hypocrisy.” He opened hands clenched into fists. “Dammit, Serroi.”
“Yah. I know.”
He leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest. “No guarantees?”
“No. Take it as it comes.” She sank down on the bed, held out her hand. “Always friends. Nothing changes that. The other.…” She shrugged.
“Back to that, eh, Serroi?” He took her hand, turned it over, brushed his lips across her
palm.
“Dammit, Hern.”
“Yah, I know.”
CHAPTER XIII:
THE MIJLOC (AT THE BISERICA)
Tuli and Rane descended into heat. Tuli’s eyes blurred and smarted. It was hard to see. Her lungs burned. It was difficult to breathe. The macain whined with every step as heat from the near-molten earth and rock struck up through their fibrous pads. There were no small lives rustling through the brush. There was no brush, only a few bits of twisted charred wood sitting in the ash of its one-time foliage. A wind blew down behind them, marginally cooler and denser air from the mountains creeping downhill into the oven blast. Now and then she glanced at Rane from the corners of watering blurring eyes. How can anyone, anything, endure to live here?
The morning passed with a stingy reluctance as they wound down the mountain and across the stretch of wasteland before the North Wall. When they finally reached it, they found the Great Gate standing open a crack, wide enough for a single rider to pass through. Rane pulled her macai to a complaining stop, cupped her hands about her mouth and shouted her name into the burning rustling silence. Without waiting for any answer, she rode through the gap. Bemused, Tuli followed her, wondering more and more if there was anything at all left alive in the Biserica Valley.
Rane let her catch up, her dark green eyes amused. “Only a little more,” she said, her voice hoarse but cheerful.
Tuli grunted, unwilling to say what she was thinking.
A moment later they broke through a shimmer of heat haze into coolness.
Tuli straightened her back, stared at the bewildering confusion of large structures ahead, rising behind a moderately high wall with corbel-supported walkways extending out from the top. Windows winked cheerfully at her. She blinked. The only other building she’d seen with so much glass in the windows was the Plaz in Oras. She turned to Rane. “Glass?”