Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

She pressed her hands together in front of her face. The flow of energy came easily and no longer hurt. Bright light flooded the bathroom.

  In the darkness of the alley, Daya stumbled amongst a throng of Pengali. Lithe bodies squeezed past him into a square ahead. Floodlights cast their ghostly glow over a sea of people, dancing, moving, writhing; many with wreaths of white flowers on their heads. Heavy drum beats reverberated in his chest. Whistles, shouts, patterned skin gleaming with oil. Rain hissed down, but no one took any notice.

  Daya leaned back against the rough trunk of a tree, contemplating how he was going to cross the square without being dragged into some dance. If one more of those leering female creatures touched him with any part of her body . . . He shuddered.

  Anmi was in the guesthouse; he could feel her. Except he couldn’t go that far; there were Mirani guards at the entrance, far too many for him to overpower by himself.

  Everywhere he went the natives spoke her name Anmi, Anmi. Questions hovered in their eyes. Where was she? Why wasn’t she with him?

  Because I stuffed up.

  He had failed, and he didn’t understand why. You have no idea how to relate to people. Ennai had said that, in the fight that led to their break-up. His relationship with Ennai had been a mistake from the beginning, but living amongst the Coldi at Hedron, he had once entertained the illusion that he could be like them, that he could be normal, accepted.

  Wrong. He had never been like them. He would never be like them. His life belonged not to his parents who had cast him out, not to his uncle’s business, but to the girl, to Anmi. It was his task to protect her, to keep her safe, so she didn’t end up like Ivedra. And he had failed.

  Daya pushed forward, shivering from sweaty bodies pressed against him. The females brushed up to him, stroking him, giving him suggestive smiles. Their body odour hurt his nose.

  It’s called peppermint, Jessica told him.

  And it was the male Pengali who stank, not the females.

  She shivered with that statement: Daya’s life belonged to her? She didn’t belong to anyone, didn’t want to own anyone either.

  But you already do.

  The ghost of Daya’s scent wafted through her memories, making her shiver, making her want to run out and look for him, to complete that part of her that was missing. Something had happened that night. Pheromones, her analytical self said. An involuntary, uncontrolled response; something that made no rational sense. Like falling in love, but worse.

  She had started that sexual fight. Daya had been trying to hold back. It wasn’t that he had hurt her; she had hurt him, too.

  “Are you all right, Lady?”

  Iztho had raised himself onto one elbow; his other hand shielded his eyes against the brightness of the light. He swung his feet over the side and came into the bathroom.

  “I feel so hot.”

  He remained at the door, looking up at the light. “I never believed this when I first heard of it.”

  Jessica inclined her head, unsure how to respond to the tone of awe in his voice, unsure if she liked it, or if she liked him being here. It might be dangerous. She was dangerous to him.

  He smiled and entered the room. “Once everything has settled, your future will be bright. Once we are in Miran . . . Lady, I can see you doing very well in business. Very well indeed.” He closed her in his arms. “I’ll help you through your citizenship exams and then I’ll sponsor you to get your Trading certificate. You can work under the Andrahar licence.”

  There was a dreamy look in his eyes that brought a twinge of discomfort. Whatever happened to going home?

  He cradled her face in his hands and bent forward for a kiss, but Jessica found the prospect of that and maintaining the light at the same time too much. She called the light back before meeting his lips and when she did, she saw a pair of dark eyes.

  Do you have to look into every part of my private life?

  Daya just blinked. Light flashed over his face. A Pengali female sidled up to him. One of the servants, tailless, wearing only the shortest of short skirts. She rocked her hips, rubbing the curve of her thigh against his. He shuddered.

  Iztho’s hand slid over Jessica’s stomach. “Yes, you are right, you do feel hot. Come under the window.”

  He led her back into the bedroom. The thin cover whispered over her as she settled back on the pillow, her head on his shoulder.

  Soon Iztho was fast asleep, his heavy breathing deep and regular, but Jessica lay staring at the ceiling. Damn, she was still hot and the lingering scent of Daya’s skin would not go away.

  Pheromones. A physiological response, like a stallion smelling mares. Not a bloody thing she could do about it. At least she didn’t do the weird lip thing.

  No, they only scratched each other to bits when they had sex.

  It scared her. The man is a monster. I am a monster.

  Jessica was back with Daya in the crowded street.

  There was a bark of a voice on the other side of the square. The square emptied with amazing speed. Pengali-shaped shadows jumped onto walls, in trees, abandoning the drums.

  Four figures came into the middle of the square. A Mirani patrol, hands on their crossbows.

  Daya pressed himself against the trunk of one of the trees that lined the alley. All the natives around him sank into a silence that . . . tickled.

  Jessica prodded him. Go ahead, connect with them. He could see for himself why she couldn’t leave the Pengali.

  But Daya just stood there.

  Ahead, the barking voice spoke. “You are sheltering a dangerous criminal. Give him up, and none of you will be harmed.”

  In the shadows, a voice yelled, “Kusi.”

  Two of the soldiers raised their crossbows. Jessica didn’t know what kusi meant, but guessed it was nothing good.

  “You are showing disrespect to officers in uniform.”

  More Pengali took up the call. Kusi, kusi, kusi. It came out of the trees, the yards, the alleys surrounding the square.

  The crossbows went up, the soldiers trying to take aim, but shadows flitted through trees; leaves rustled.

  Kusi, kusi, kusi.

  The patrol leader was now speaking into his receiver, asking for backup no doubt. Daya grabbed the arm of the closest Pengali, a young male.

  “Come. You can’t win this; they’ll kill you. Get out of here.”

  Kusi, kusi, kusi.

  There was a zhing of a crossbow, a chill in the air, and the next moment, the flash of a knife. One of the soldiers dropped his crossbow, a dark stain spreading out from his chest. A lithe figure came out of the shadows.

  No, Alla!

  Another knife flew, but missed the soldiers.

  There were running footsteps and shouts. A second group of soldiers came out of an alley, having restrained a group of Pengali youths.

  The leader shouted, “Right, let’s bundle these guys up and take them to headquarters—Hey!”

  A loud crack reverberated down the street. One of the soldiers clutched his throat, making choking sounds. Another lunged for the black and white banded tail wound around the soldier’s neck, yanking it free. Two others restrained the youth.

  “Hah, don’t you know what the laws of this city say about tails? Tails for thieving and murdering?”

  The youth stared up at him, wide-eyed.

  The soldier nodded at a colleague. “Go ahead. Teach him a lesson.”

  Daya pressed himself against the tree trembling with the force of anger and fear, not knowing where it came from.

  He saw a flash of metal.

  Pain.

  Someone screamed, and the scream seemed to come from his mouth. There was a sickening thud. The square exploded in shouts.

  Daya peeked around the tree trunk.

  The youths ducked under the soldier’s arms and ran. The female retrieved her knife from the chest of the fallen soldier. As many people ran into the square as were trying to get away. People shouting, shadows flitting over walls and through tr
ees. Stones flew into the square.

  Jessica jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Wind whipped the tree in the courtyard. Over the roof of the guesthouse wing opposite, strands of light reached for the sky, flailing, calling for help. Pain radiated out from them. She drew a strand to her.

  The soldiers vanished into the street, running after the mob of Pengali, leaving behind a small figure on the ground. A Pengali youth, shivering and whimpering. Blood covered his back and ran onto the pavement. Daya took gasping breaths. Pain radiated from the youth and he had no idea why he could feel it, but he could, and the pain made him feel sick.

  Daya couldn’t not do anything, even though he had not the faintest clue what to do. In his mind, he heard the screams of a baby. She’s going to die. He was a clumsy youth again; helpless, useless. That time, he had done nothing, except run faster, but the searing air had still burned her. She still had the scar.

  He knelt next to the young Pengali male, shaking his shoulder. “Come, get up.”

  The youth rocked to and fro, panting and clutching his lifeless tail in his hands, blood running down his arms.

  “Please, get up.” Daya’s eyes blurred, seeing the skin peel away from the chubby leg of a baby only three days, but fifty thousand years old. It’s my fault. They were looking for me.

  He turned around, but the natives who had been in the alley with him had gone. Again he tugged at the youth’s arm. “Please get up and tell me where to go. I can’t carry you by myself.”

  A silent shadow jumped down from the wall behind him. He felt the presence before he could see it. The shadow crossed the distance to him in two steps and enfolded him in an offensive smell that hurt his nose. White hair hovered like ghost in the darkness. The female face at the height of his elbow was old and paper-skinned. Familiar somehow.

  Her voice sounded familiar, too, even the harsh, vowel-less words that meant nothing to him.

  Ikay.

  He pulled the youth up, smearing blood all over the front of his tunic. The boy swayed.

  Without a word, the female grabbed the youth by the feet. In this manner, they struggled down the length of the main street, keeping to shadows where moonlight wouldn’t show them so clearly, but where tree roots bulged through the pavement, pushing up the street tiles. Several times, one of them stumbled. Groups of Mirani soldiers marched past, holding their crossbows.

  Finally, the female pushed open the gate and they entered the haven that was the overgrown yard of an abandoned house. A dry fountain, cracked pavers, hedges that had grown into small trees. Daya felt like he had been here before, too.

  It was the house where Jessica had heard the truth about herself.

  The young male moaned some incoherent words.

  Daya tightened his grip on him. “Shh, we’re almost there.”

  They ran up the steps to the porch and the female pushed the door.

  At least a hundred Pengali sat on the motley collection of couches, chairs and mattresses which sprawled haphazardly across the hall.

  No one spoke. Pengali were masters in stealth and hunting. Waiting was their game.

  Daya lowered the youth’s shivering body, belly down onto a couch. Even with the female’s gentle coaxing, he would not let go of his tail. Daya undid the ties to his shorts and wriggled the blood-soaked material off his buttocks, feeling the prick of hundreds of eyes in his back. Someone brought a light.

  The black and white striped skin of his buttocks was smeared with blood. A white fragment of bone protruded from the stump that used to be his tail.

  Daya reeled.

  “Nothing I can do,” he whispered. “I can’t help, I can’t. I’m not even a healer. I don’t know what you think I am. I can’t put their tails back on. It’s impossible—” His voice spilled over; he wasn’t even sure what language he spoke.

  The female held the bowl of water. In total silence, she helped him clean and bandage the stump. Back in his youth, he had never done this for the girl. He had chosen to leave her care to others. Wash his hand of the responsibility. No wonder she cared more for these tailed people than for him.

  I was too young to understand, too disturbed.

  He saw his father, saying those words that haunted him, I have no son. The culmination of years of pain and desperation.

  Awkwardly, he took the youth’s hand.

  I did as best as I could. But it wasn’t good enough.

  Another youth rose and spoke to the assembly. His words were like darts of venom, amongst which the girl’s name stood out. Shouts echoed in the hall, fists were raised. Several people shouted, Anmi, Anmi!

  What was it about her that these people wanted?

  Ask the one they call Ikay, and you will see.

  The old female sat next to him, looking up as if she expected he would ask. Had she heard the girl’s mind-voice? He put his hands in her old, paper-skinned ones. She stroked his cheek with her tail. Then she closed her eyes.

  The web spread out from her forehead. Weaker than the girl’s, but strong enough to carry memories. There was a cave in the rocks close to the tribe’s settlement. There was a chamber with friezes carved in the stone walls.

  Daya saw; he understood why the Pengali felt for him and Anmi, why he saw these images in Ikay’s mind . . . why the soldiers were keeping Barresh under siege. Oh, the implications.

  The contact between him and Jessica fell away.

  There was silence.

  Jessica slept.

  26

  JESSICA RESTED her head on Iztho’s shoulder. Languid steam rose off the surface of the bath. Its sulphuric scent mingled with the perfume in his wet hair.

  Her heart still thudded with the afterglow of lovemaking. Lazy, relaxed, luxurious. Getting better all the time. That’s how it was meant to be: a relaxation, not a fight.

  He trailed a finger over her back; her skin broke out in delicious goosebumps.

  “What do you say? Shall we do this for the rest of our lives?”

  Jessica met his light blue gaze. She couldn’t help a twinge of unease stirring inside her. Since coming to share her room yesterday morning, he had spoken of little else—gaining Union citizenship, joining his business, travelling the universe— “I do want to learn.”

  Not really an answer at all, but yes was not an answer either. The assumptions he made based on the fact that they slept together frightened her.

  “You will learn. Whatever you want.”

  “And I want to be something, not just . . .” She understood Miran was a very patriarchal society. Iztho had said, You can be Miran’s second ever female Trader.

  Although that left too many questions yet unanswered. Like what those soldiers had wanted from Daya. Us Traders belong to a very different society, Iztho had said. He said, he said, but what should she believe?

  “You can be anything you like, my Lady. I can even see you on the council.”

  “I want to see my parents.”

  “As often as you like. I’ll make sure of that.”

  He had made this promise many times over, too. She tried to imagine him walking up to her parents’ house. No way. With his fur cloak and uniform, he didn’t fit. Even in his hippie outfit, her parents would be horrified. He was much too old for her. Now that would be very different with Daya—

  Damn Daya. Why did she think about him?

  Because I worry.

  Because, after she had lost contact with him, she had heard nothing more. Because he knew why they had a bond with the Pengali, and now he chose not to talk to her.

  Because something had happened to him?

  She turned her face to Iztho’s; their lips met in a kiss tasting of sulphuric water. For now, she was spared from having to answer his inevitable question.

  There was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

  Iztho broke the kiss. In one movement, he rose and clambered over the side of the bath.

  Jessica stiffened. “What is it?”

  He grabbed a towel, wiped himself and w
restled his arms into a tunic. “There might be news from the Exchange.” False papers or such, whatever he was arranging. Papers to get out of here, as his wife.

  He wrapped a cloth, sarong-like, around his waist. The material was tight and left little to the imagination as to what he had been doing. Had she not felt so uneasy, it would have been funny.

  Instead she felt worried. She still didn’t understand what was happening with the local authorities, if there was even such a thing. Daya hadn’t made any fuss about satisfying regulations. He’d acted as if leaving was easy.

  There was another knock.

  “Yes, I’m coming.” Hair dripping over the back of his tunic and on the floor, he hurried out of the bathroom. There was the sound of the door rolling open, and a male voice—a question asked, not in a friendly way.

  Iztho replied. They spoke Mirani, but their voices were too low for her to make out more than shards of meaning.

  “. . . haven’t seen anything . . . ran out and couldn’t find her . . .” That was Iztho’s voice.

  Damn, he was telling his own countrymen that he didn’t know where she was.

  “We received this . . . don’t know who else to give it to.”

  Jessica heaved herself out of the bath and grabbed the cloth Iztho had left on the floor. The skin on her stomach and chest glowed soft pink and as soon as she was dry, heat again flowed through her. Damn it. Would it ever stop? She wrapped a cloth around her.

  The door to the room rolled shut.

  When she entered the bedroom, Iztho stood a few paces inside the door, staring as if he’d just seen a ghost. She went up to him, but his muscles were tight and didn’t relax under her touch.

  “What is it?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “It’s those soldiers—they’re after me aren’t they?”

  “They’re meant to keep you safe.”

  Well, that was an obvious lie. He was trying to hide her from them.

  “Is there a reason we haven’t left this room for more than a day? Is anything going on outside?”

  “There’s a lot of natives in the street. There’s some sort of festival going on.” Not really an answer either.