“Yes,” she said. “I love her too, but . . .”
Patches glared at her. “What?”
“Did she have to become a tavern dancer?”
Ghillie barged into the kitchen. “Come and see!” he panted.
There was a concerted rush into the front room. Outside the windows, the darkening square swarmed with men, both big-boned brigands and slight agents of the Creeper. The latter seemed to be trying to organize the former, with limited success. Nonetheless, the whole brimmed with raucous menace. Lights in the Skyrrman went out one by one except at the door where a slim figure stood as if on tiptoe, eagerly watching.
From somewhere several courts away came the beat of drums, approaching. More torches flared. Tumblers entered the square, and jugglers, and people on stilts. Someone breathed out fire, then choked and collapsed, unnoticed, when it recoiled on him. A gaudy party was coming on foot down the street beside the rival inn. Light glinted off plaques of gold and flame washed silver.
“Who . . . ?” Ghillie said, staring.
“That’s the Archiem of Skyrr with his retinue,” said Cleppetty, “and with him, yes, the Sirdan Men-dalis.”
“But isn’t Arribek a friend?” asked Patches, staring. “He helped, didn’t he, the last time the Five came calling?”
“That was then,” said Cleppetty grimly. “This is now. Patches, d’you know where the Talisman is?”
The Townie blinked. “I don’t, exactly, but tonight the fires burn hottest in the Temple District.”
“Then look for her there. Tell her that we need her. Go.”
Patches gulped, nodded, and backed away from the windows. Turning, she bolted toward the inn’s rear entrance, away from the firelight and the gathering tumult outside.
“This is insane,” said Ghillie. “You remember, five years ago? Arribek sen Tenzi and Harr sen Tenko came here to destroy us. Well, Harr did, anyway. The Skyrrman ended up in flames.”
“I think that someone is trying to rewrite history,” said Cleppetty.
The newcomers entered the square. Resplendent in cloth of gold, Men-dalis glowed at the heart of the crowd, seeming to illuminate the faces around him. Big men simpered and looked bashful. Small men hid in their shadows, smirking. In the Sirdan’s shadow stood the twisted figure of the Creeper like a dark incubus.
“Friends, my good friends,” fluted that radiant figure, and golden light rippled around him except where his shadow swallowed it. “How kind of you all to come, and you especially, my lord, as a representative of the Five.”
This last was addressed to the Archiem of Skyrr, who responded with a thin smile. Not for him, apparently, the seductive charms of his companion or the gaudy attire of either retinue.
“This is a fair city, an honest city,” Men-dalis proclaimed, casting abroad his beaming regard. “Where else can one look for justice? I ask only that of you, tonight. Come, will you see me vindicated? Shall not the righteous prevail? But first, some entertainment.”
He started toward the Res aB’tyrr.
Cleppetty slammed the door in his face.
Knock, knock, knock.
“You have to let me in, you know,” said that winsome voice through the keyhole. “It says so, right here in your sacred scroll.”
“What is he talking about?” hissed Ghillie.
Cleppetty shook her head. “I don’t know. The Innkeepers’ Guild has a list of rules, but only Tubain knows what they are. We’ve never had trouble before.”
“Then call him!”
She gave him a harried look. “As it stands, that would only make things worse.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“Truly. The Archiem has seen it too. The scroll bears the seal of the Five.”
Cleppetty opened the door. Men-dalis stood beaming on the step, a dingy roll of parchment in his hand, Arribek a somber presence behind him.
“My good woman,” he said, bowing. “May we enter?”
“You tell me that I have no choice, although I’ve never heard the like before. And I’m no one’s ‘good woman’ except, maybe, my husband’s.”
Sirdan and Archiem entered, the latter inclining his head to Cleppetty as he passed. “Mistress.”
“That’s my lady Abernia,” she said tartly, then flushed bright red as if she had misspoken.
Followers crowded in on their principals’ heels—brigands, spies, and courtiers, as many as the main hall would hold with more clamoring at the windows.
“Wine for us,” said Men-dalis. “Your best. Beer or ale for everyone else.”
An interminable time followed full of bustle, loud voices, and the occasional dropped tankard. Rue had never before appreciated how few servants the inn contained.
“Where are they?” Ghillie panted in answer to her question as he passed her coming up from the cellar with another keg of beer. “We had to lay them off when the customers stopped coming. Also, Cleppetty didn’t think it was safe here anymore for the youngest ones.”
“But you stayed.”
“Of course. This is my home.”
So too, presumably, was it Na’bim’s. However, the dancer glanced in and promptly left with a haughty sniff. No serving wench, she. Let them call her when they were ready.
Rue helped as best she could, although it was very confusing. Who had ordered what? Some, catching the aroma from the kitchen, also wanted to be fed. And the occupants of one table weren’t averse to tripping her as she staggered to another, which caused much laughter. She could gladly have murdered them all. The Sirdan and the Archiem sat at a table of their own with a few followers in the middle of the room, Men-dalis chattering, Arribek sardonically listening. What did the Archiem think of this scene? It seemed to Rue that the Sirdan had gotten him at a disadvantage, presumably with the scroll tucked into his golden belt. Then too, she had heard enough of Tastigon politics to know that Arribek of Skyrr and Abbotir of the Gold Court were at odds among the Five, and Men-dalis was Abbotir’s master. This, of all nights, was a dangerous time to bring up differences.
“More wine,” said a hoarse whisper beside Men-dalis to the left.
Eyes glowed from the shadows there. A crooked hand reached out. Rue fumbled for a glass on her tray. As she stretched it out, skeletal fingers gripped her wrist. Their clutch was very, very cold.
“You, girl, what are you doing here? Your lady is doomed. Your kind is . . . irrelevant. You do not belong. Go.”
Rue twisted away, dropping the glass. It shattered, bright shards on black oak. Wine as dark and thick as blood crept over the tabletop and spilled down golden robes. Men-dalis lashed out at her, a blow that she countered against her forearm, spilling more glasses in the process.
“Clumsy, stupid girl! Who are you, to defy us?”
Us?
“I mean, me. No . . .”
He stumbled, glancing not to his left but at the empty space to his right, then quickly away. Rue thought for a moment that someone sat there, a handsome boy who smiled at her.
Help him, said his lips.
Help? Him?
The door swept open. Rothan entered, followed by his wife Kithra and their servants. “We heard,” he said to Cleppetty. “We came. What d’you want us to do?”
Cleppetty smiled. “It’s good to see you again, under this roof. Do? Whatever you can.”
Serving became easier and more efficient. Kithra flitted about carrying trays whose size made Rue blink, on a palm raised above her head. There must be some trick to it. While the girl laughed and joked with customers, though, she also seemed to be waiting for something. Her smile was too bright, too brittle. Rothan kept glancing at her with a suspicious frown.
Men-dalis beckoned her to his table. “A glass of metheglyn, my dear.”
Kithra looked confused. “Of what, sir?”
“Oh, you can’t provide it?” He drew out the scroll and unrolled it, carefully, as it tended to crack and crumble at the edges. “As you see, every tavern is required to stock this . . . er . . . bevera
ge. Be so kind as to summon your innkeeper.”
“No need for that, my lord.” Cleppetty appeared at Kithra’s elbow. “In the vault,” she said to the girl. “Racked under ‘mead.’”
“Madam,” said the Archiem, “you are resourceful.”
“No. I just have an eclectic vocabulary.”
Men-dalis stared. Arribek smiled faintly. “Your round, I think, madam.”
“Then what about . . .” here the Sirdan consulted his list again . . . “bousa?”
“You mean beer, an old kind so thick that it has to be sipped through a straw if you don’t want to choke on the dregs.”
Rue noticed that she didn’t offer any. Even the Res aB’tyrr apparently had its limits.
Men-dalis affected a gentle shudder. “I thank you, no.”
Cleppetty waited a moment, then left him brooding over his scroll.
“What was the point of that exercise?” asked the Archiem.
“Oh, nothing, except . . . well, this is an official guild document, stamped by the Five. Lord Abbotir himself gave it to me, by which I assume that he vouches for its authenticity. Would you dispute that?”
“Where did he get it?”
“He didn’t say. Of what importance is that? The truth is the truth.”
“Huh,” said the Archiem.
More demands followed, some reasonable, others not. With each of the latter, Men-dalis glanced to his left at his spymaster. “Make note of that.”
“I don’t like this,” said Cleppetty as Rue paused, panting, beside her. “What is he up to? There will be a catch, somewhere, soon, that we can’t overcome.”
“Ah,” said Men-dalis, his forefinger stopping at an item. “This could refer to the last time you visited this hostelry, my lord. Now, what did you say? ‘We have been informed that an exceptional dancer is attached to this inn. Might she be induced to perform for us?’ Only you were too polite. This charter gives you the right to any performer on the premises. I mean, the right to see their act. Or did I speak true the first time?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Cleppetty burst out from the kitchen doorway, where she had overheard. “What host could promise such a thing? Artists aren’t slaves, not these days. When were these rules made, anyway?”
Men-dalis smiled sweetly. “That doesn’t matter. It says here . . .”
“Never mind!”
Na’bim burst into the kitchen in a flurry of veils, each more gossamer than the last.
“I am that famous dancer, of course. Who else is here? You, boy.” This, to Ghillie. “Get your flute. They won’t soon forget this night.”
“No,” muttered Cleppetty. “Neither will we.”
As Ghillie scrambled for his instrument, Na’bim fussed straight her crumpled costume—she must have been sitting in it for hours, waiting—and pinched her cheeks to make them glow. Without comment, Cleppetty offered her a stoup of wine. She took it and gulped it down, without thanks. Ghillie returned. A blat of music sounded, in shaky search of a tune, and the audience craned to see what was making the noise. The girl made her entrance into the main hall, hips a-sway, lips parted in an eager simper.
Rue had no knowledge of tavern dancing, but she quickly realized that this was a disaster. Na’bim climbed onto a tabletop, the better to be seen, and set about a sort of languid swooning that, one supposed, was meant to be seductive.
“Like a trout out of water,” muttered Cleppetty.
Rue allowed that the dancer had some acrobat skills. Unfortunately, these mostly led to her presenting her barely covered crotch to onlookers. These kept quiet at first, one supposed, out of sheer incredulity.
Then someone snickered. One brigand poked another in the ribs and guffawed. Hirsute faces leaned forward. To say that they leered would be a kindness. They jeered. Someone flipped a sodden bread crust at her, then another, and another. Na’bim didn’t seem to notice until one hit her in the face. Beer trickled down between her startled eyes. She sputtered, dashing it away, and seemed for the first time to emerge from her dream of adoration. All of those faces stared up at her, those cruel, laughing eyes.
“You, you beasts!”
She burst into tears. Cleppetty tried to enfold her in her arms at the kitchen door, but Na’bim angrily fought free and flounced away. The inn would not see her again, nor miss her.
Rue was suddenly sure that she had been right about the dancer’s fancy (now broken) mirror. Not her home. Never that.
The main hall rocked with laughter. Alone in its midst, Men-dalis was flustered, as if they also laughed at him. “I meant to say, a Kencyr dancer. Yes. Give us that or suffer the consequences!”
Cleppetty looked at Rue.
“Oh no,” said the cadet, aghast. “Not me.”
“As that fool of a girl said, who else is there? You aren’t the B’tyrr but you are Kencyr, and you do know how to dance, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. The Senetha. But here? Now?”
“Try.”
Rue gulped. She knew her skills to be modest at best and better suited to the cadets’ training hall. Besides, how could they please such an audience as this? What was the worst they could do, though? Throw bread crusts? Laugh? No. Burn the Res aB’tyrr to the ground, as they once had tried to do to the Skyrrman. Jame would be horribly upset if that happened. So would Rue.
“All right,” she said. “Ghillie, not the flute. Can you beat on something?”
“This is a room full of pots and pans,” said Cleppetty. “Ghillie . . .”
“Yes.” He dived into a cupboard out of which complicated clangs subsequently emerged. “Go.”
“And be damned if I’m going to strip.”
Rue took a deep breath and walked out into the hall. No one noticed her at first. Those nearest the door tried to see what was making such a clatter in the kitchen. Others were still poking each other and laughing. Men-dalis had leaned back with a satisfied smile. Arribek raised an eyebrow as Rue approached, even more so when she climbed onto the table. Rue bowed to him, then to the Sirdan, then to the audience, hoping that no one recognized the gradations in her salute. As nerves gave way to defiance, the last two gestures had bordered on the insolent.
Be calm, she told herself. Be serene.
Even the rawest novice knew that the Senetha was not danced well by anyone in a passion.
Tap, tap, tap went Ghillie’s fingertips on the bottom of a pan.
Go on, Cleppetty mouthed behind him.
What kantirs should she choose? Not wind-blowing or fire-leaping: the former took great skill; the latter, more of a specialized warm-up than scurrying about the inn all night had so far provided. Water-flowing? Not after Na’bim’s exhibition. Earth-moving, then.
Step, slide, turn, repeat. Step, slide, turn . . .
This was a novice pattern, as she well knew. First, one had to find the heart of one’s balance. For her, it fluttered between diaphragm and stomach, easily mistaken for nerves.
Tap, tap, tap went her feet in time to Ghillie’s beat. Back straight, knees bent, eyes ahead . . . Oh, but be aware of the tabletop’s limited scope. No tumbling off of it into anyone’s lap.
Men were watching her now with puzzled frowns, not sure that she was doing. So far, at least, no one had thrown anything.
Ghillie increased the tempo. Taking the hint, Rue shifted to the next kantir in the set: earth shifts, balance in motion.
Step step step turn step step step turn . . .
The trapped air of the hall pushed the hair back from her dampened brow. Her heartbeat quickened. Breathe, two, three, four, breathe, two, three, four . . .
I can lift this hall, she thought, and throw it to the ground. I know I can. I know I can . . .
Someone caught her foot.
Off balance, she fell, barely managing to roll upright again. As she tottered on the table’s edge, Men-dalis smirked up at her, withdrawing his hand.
“I meant to say, the Kencyr B’tyrr.”
Someone started to clap, slowly. Th
e room as a whole turned toward the outer door. It stood open. Framed against the fire-flecked night beyond stood a slim figure with a wry smile. Patches’ hobgoblin face bobbed up behind her, then down.
Rue jumped off the table and bowed, in full deference this time.
Jame entered the hall and sauntered between the tables to its heart. As she went, she discarded first her cap, at which her long, black hair tumbled down, and then her sodden d’hen. The reek of smoke clung to her. So did her damp white shirt, over small, proud breasts.
Singed and dripping wet, Cleppetty had said, the last time the inn had been in danger. Not this time bloody, at least. So there was hope.
Jame gripped the table and leaned forward. Arms straightened as she found her balance. One leg swung up over her head, then the other. How could anyone’s back curve in such a graceful, reverse arc? On her feet again, black hair trailing like a silken sheet, she straightened and spread her gloved hands as if to summon the entire room to her. Men sighed and leaned forward.
Then the B’tyrr began to dance.
Rue recognized the first kantirs of water-flowing but oh, so different from Na’bim’s floundering approach. This was the thing itself, as immortal as the ocean deeps, as the waters beneath the earth. How long and fluid those black-sheathed fingers seemed as they winnowed through the thick air and drew all who watched into swaying obeisance. Hands swooped, drawing up power, then casting it forth as if to net souls. The audience groaned. In they drew, and out, and in again. The tide had them, helpless in the grip of its supple strength.
Shall I reap you? Are you worthy?
Yes, oh yes.
Not yet. Watch.
The kantirs moved on. Now the watchers followed through tranquil water, now through turbulence. Down into the whirlpool. Up to the surface again, twisting, turning. A flash on the surface as of bright scales, then down again, into dark, urgently thrumming water. Power coiled within every gyration, drawing tighter and tighter. Oh, for release.
You are mine.
We are yours. Take us.
Rue found herself panting, breathless. This was tavern dancing? Trinity, no. Once or twice she had touched on something similar within the kantirs of her craft. That still heart of power. That feeling, almost, of divinity. But this also felt . . . ravenous, as if it would gladly devour whatever resisted it, and there was her lady in its grip.
By Demons Possessed Page 25