by Clayton, Jo;
Telka led Skeen through a maze of gnarly corridors, moving so swiftly Skeen had no chance of ever finding her way through them again, then settled her in the arched exit of a tunnel, facing a court smaller and more intimate than the ones she’d passed through last night. The half-roof was almost complete, though there was a hole in the center large enough to let a condor through. The floor was paved with an elaborate mosaic made from bits of different kinds and colors of stones, incorporating differing surface textures that changed color and design with the changing angles of the sun. All around the court were other arches, the mouths of other passages. Trusting lot, Skeen thought. Bolt holes in case someone in the Synarc turns nasty. This place is a rat run, gives me strangulation of the brain.
“Sit here, Skeen Pass-through. And please, again, don’t speak until I speak to you.”
Skeen nodded, crossed her legs and settled herself as comfortably as she could. She felt herded in. Can’t hurt to listen, she told herself. And repeated it several times as she waited for something, anything, to happen.
Shadowy figures moved into the arches and sat in what they meant to be intimidating silence, watching her. Screw you, she thought, as long as you pay me, I don’t care how snotty you want to be.
Telka appeared in the arch and settled gracefully on the cushion waiting for her. Half a breath later a big golden male appeared beside her, so broad he filled the arch to bursting. When all the arches had occupants, Telka held out a hand. The big male was holding a short baton with bulging ends. He spun it so the larger end smacked into her palm. “Skeen Pass-through,” she said, the neutral controlled tones back. “I Z’naluvit, have summoned the Synarc that we might inquire of you in what circumstances you will do a thing for us. I have a sister who knows our minds and hearts more fully than is comfortable to us because she languishes in the hands of the Pallah Nemin, a slave. Our hope ere this has been that the Nemin does not know who he has. Our hope has been that our sister has not so lost herself in her degradation that she has told her master secrets of the Min. I will name the Speakers of the Synarc. Think of what you desire from us, say you will act for us.” She waved her free hand at the arch on Skeen’s immediate left. “Flet. P’takluvit.”
Speaker for those who wear wings and hunt from the sky. Uh huh.
A little woman, smaller even than Telka, fine-boned and fragile, with little flesh between those delicate bones and the shimmergilt skin stretched over them—what Skeen could see of it. Flet wore a loose robe made from cloth like canvas whose angular folds concealed everything about her but long nervous hands, a stretch of arm, and her taut and haughty face. Wide dark pupils, the iris a shining gold rim. Her eyes were fixed on Skeen with the shallow intentness of a predator on its prey. When Telka named her, the golden woman bowed her head, then went back to staring.
“Nerric P’shishulavit.”
Speaker for warriors/hunters.
A dark lithe man; hair, short and curly like the wool of a black sheep, covered his head, chest, arms, grew down over the back of his hands. He wore his fleece like a shirt. On his lower half he wore tight-fitting leather breeches that creaked when he moved. Bare feet, square and powerful—Skeen could see the bottom of one; it had thick gray pads like a big cat’s. He reminded her a lot of the Cat-man Rijen, but wasn’t him. She suppressed a smile, Nerric didn’t manifest much humor. None of them did, so full of themselves and their importance. He’d be horrified at what she was thinking; she was amused by how vividly she remembered that naked man strutting away from her. Nerric shifted restlessly on his cushion making it obvious he was there under duress. The gaze he turned briefly but repeatedly on Skeen made the bird woman’s almost friendly by contrast.
“Strazhha V’duluvit.”
Speaker for herds and herders. Uh huh. Who herds you.
A large, not-quite-fat woman with eyes round as copper pennies and about the color of new-minted copper, a blunt wide nose and a mouth of the width called generous by flatterers, her thin lips a pale pale pink. Horn knobs, pointed, slightly curved, about as long as the first joint of Skeen’s forefinger, poking out through coarse hair that matched the color of her eyes. She wore a robe like Flet’s but wore it carelessly, the hood pushed back, hands resting bare on bare broad knees, large hands to match the rest of her, shapely and well-cared-for. She watched Skeen with a detached amusement that was little kinder than the more overtly hostile gazes, made Skeen feel as if she was back on the line at the fish house. She’d spent some of the most miserable days of her teen years in a youth labor pool, swept off the streets with hundreds of others by a labor pressgang. Under that woman’s measuring gaze she felt like a sub-standard fish fillet.
“Z’la. Chovluvit and V’klav.”
Speaker for men, uh huh. Warchief, oh yes, no need to translate that one.
Massive muscles. So massive he looked fat. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin, laced loosely across a chest that might have been carved from pale teak. His arms were bigger around than her thighs, his legs threatened to burst out of homespun trousers dyed a dark russet. He had a stiff mane of sunbleached coarse blond hair considerably longer than Skeen’s. He watched her from mild, coolly curious yellow eyes. She’d never met anyone who exuded so much raw male power, such calm acceptance of himself, though she’d met quite a few men (Tibo that baster was one, damn his pointy ears) who didn’t come close to matching his physical presence but were as comfortable as Z’la in their maleness, their knowledge of who and what they were, who weren’t threatened by anyone, male or female, no matter how powerful. He saw her watching him, looking him over, and grinned at her. Hunh. This one might actually have a sense of humor. He returned her gaze, eyes moving over breasts and hips, then he was done with her, dismissing her as uninteresting. She was both amused and appalled by her reaction. Anger and despair at being rejected by a hunk of muscle who wasn’t her type anyway. Well, hell with you too, hunk.
Telka touched her lips, her heart. “Telka. Z’naluvit.” Right. Speaker for women. The way you share the middle with the hunk it looks like you two run this show. Sitting next to that mountain of muscle Telka should have been diminished to nothing, a nullity, a blackhole pinhead-sized. But it wasn’t so. She cut as large a space for herself as he did, dominating by the force of personality and will.
“Sussaa. Kirushaluvit.”
Speaker for earth, for rooted things and those who tend them.
Sussaa, a secret man, huddled in robes stiffer and more encompassing than Flet’s. His hands were intermittently visible as he played with a string of worry beads, the sunlight shimmering along the muted olive, ocher, and pale umber of his delicately scaled skin. The beads clacked rhythmically through unnaturally long unnaturally thin fingers, more of them than the five the others exhibited; Skeen couldn’t tell just how many fingers he had but got the impression of a flickering like spiderlegs. The cowl of his robe was pulled too far forward for her to see anything of his face, but she thought (from the angle of the folds) that he was looking down at the beads, not at her. Always rather liked snakes, even poisonous ones. Very polite creatures—leave them alone and they reciprocated. Tibo made a lot of jokes about them the time she had that baby constrictor wandering through Picarefy’s corridors, said it meant she was oversexed. Hah! Old Lionface over there wouldn’t agree with you. Maybe I ought to haul you back here, you little worm, and feed you to him. He looks like he doesn’t mind tough meat. Long as it’s fresh. Huh, you’d give one hell of a bellyache—you’re good at that, damn you, damn you, damn you.
“Kladdin Delat’luvit.” Speaker for artisans.
A little hairy gnome of a man who was far more interested in the chunk of wood he was carving on than he was in what was happening here. Artisans. Interesting. That’s a lovely little knife he’s got there. Local work? Traded for? Wonder if whoever made that makes swords. Always some dimwit willing to pay high for a hand-crafted sword. She looked back at Z’la. He lifted a lip in a sort of smile, baring a pair of hefty fangs. He wouldn�
��t bother with swords. Not with those teeth.
Mmm. This place was grown here, I’m sure of that. Old Snakehands or his granddaddy did it, no doubt. All right, what do I ask for? Anything I can pick up getting this sister out? Hunh. That I don’t ask for; that’s my business, not theirs. I need information. Yeah, but not for payment. Gold? No way. Too heavy. Can’t carry enough to make it worth while and it’d be kinda hard to outrun a saayungka pack hugging a hundredweight to my meager bosom. Gem stones or jewelry. Jewelry’s best. Good old jewelry, artifact and gemstones combined, best price for the weight. And I get paid before I start. This bunch I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw the hunk.
YOU’RE RAMBLING THROUGH A DAMN FANTASY, SO RELAX AND ENJOY IT.
or
GETTING IN AND OUT OF DUM BESAR.
She walked along the dusty road, strolling through a warm golden morning, leading a neat little jennet, a genuine beast, one that wouldn’t shed its skin and turn into a hostile Min. This beast was expendable as was everything it carried, part of her disguise as an Aggitj extra earning her living as a wandering peddler. Sussaa had overcome his distaste sufficiently to supervise the bleaching and dyeing of her hair until it was the color of moonsilver. She was wearing loose leather trousers that came to midleg, her own boots, a loose white shirt like those the chalapeer had been wearing, a long narrow vest ending at mid thigh, closed in the front with more lacing. She was moving away from a grove south of the city. Telka was perched somewhere in there with Skeen’s backpack and the pouch of jewelry she refused to hand over before she got hold of her sister. No doubt she suspected Skeen would go in one gate and out another, scampering for the Gate, leaving the Min without their jewelry and their woman. I stay bought, she told them, but they wouldn’t listen.
Sister. There was something they weren’t saying about that. Skirrik or not, Timka was Telka’s equal at shifting. No one had actually said so, in fact no one she talked with said much at all about Timka, that was interesting in itself; talk or not she got the strong impression Timka was Telka’s equal in just about everything but ambition. So how come she was a slave? How come she was still a slave? Skeen couldn’t imagine Telka enduring that state for a day, let alone a couple of years. Maybe Timka just got bored with all that stomach burning about lost land and took off. Djabo’s hairy tail, it’s not my problem. What she does after I fetch her out is up to her.
She started whistling as she walked along, sauntering contentedly toward the city. She couldn’t sing worth a shit, but she could whistle. Little bird, Tibo that baster called her in one of his more drunken moments. Little—when she was a head and a half taller than him—ah well, it was nice to be cuddled and pampered a little. She was enjoying herself today, well-fed and well-rested, keyed up for the danger ahead but not imminent, her body humming like that sweet ship Tibo that baster choused her out of.
She always felt good when she was physically active. The long flights between worlds left her itchy and irritable and off her stride. One of the reasons she took up with partners. Sex was an exercise that didn’t necessarily need much space and used up a lot of energy and continued to be interesting after a lot of repetition. She liked her men wiry and little with lots of stamina, jutting buttocks, knobby knees, small feet, small hands. And an intangible something else. Could call it imagination, if you wanted to be kind, slipperiness and a total lack of morals if you wanted to be snarky. Getting off with Picarefy, worms eat his poky arse. Five years with him, five years! May his liver rise up and choke him, may all his teeth fall out and boils afflict his butt. My taste in men is appalling. Death wish, that’s what it is. She grimaced and went back to whistling, grimaced again when she heard what she was whistling and remembered where she learned that song. Tibo you little baster, why do I miss you so much, why does it still hurt like hell.…
She reached the Land Gate of Dum Besar around mid-afternoon. Tired, covered with dust, nothing about her to attract attention, even the fact that she was female concealed by the clothes she wore, she eased past the heat-dazed guards without being noticed. Eased past a Skirrik too, on guard at the Gate to sniff out uppish Min. Squatting beside the Gate on his powerful hinder legs, compound eyes glittering in the long light of the descending sun, green and brown chitin polished and waxed, set with patterns of jet, that semiprecious stone highly prized by the seventh Wave males. Feathery antennas—white—the color marking him as adolescent and virgin, still earning the jet for his marriage price, his senses at their keenest. He paid her no attention as far as she could tell, too busy grooming his antennas with the spurs at the back of his fore-wrists.
Skeen grinned and strolled into the littered streets, the jennet ambling lazily behind; she wrinkled her nose at the stench, signs were the Pallah had forgotten whatever they knew about sewers. The streets were narrow and twisty, houses several stories high, built oddly upside down so that the upper stories extended beyond the lower in a series of steps, the top stories so close a child could hop from one window to another, something she saw several times. Beggars crouched in corners, beside stairs, anywhere they could find a bit of shelter, displaying their injuries and deformities, shaking their begging clackers in a continual clamor that only ceased when someone dropped coins in a begging bowl, or a shop owner paid his cadre of beggars for their silence and their services keeping off others of their kind.
She found the hostel Telka told her about, close to one of the riverside walls, a small dingy place with a smell to it Skeen recognized instantly, a den similar to those she hung about in after she escaped from the labor pool. Kind recognized kind. She relaxed in one way and tightened in another, knowing from long experience just how little she could trust her kind.
She stabled the jennet and dumped her saddlebags and her packs in the room the clerk directed her to; he gave her a key for it and she locked the door behind her with no faith at all in the efficacy of that lock. If she lost her key, she could whistle the thing open. Whistle? A sigh might be enough.
Having dusted herself off, she went downstairs, hesitated a moment as she walked through the tavern. Dark and smelly, just what she liked, but there was no time for that now, not until she looked over the ground.
She left the hostel and began roving through the streets, ambling with apparent aimlessness toward the quarter where the wealthier folk lived, taking in the increase in house size and the size of the plots those houses occupied. Hard-eyed loiterers grew thicker on the scene, walking the tops of the walls, sitting in casual knots on benches outside the elaborate gates, eyeing her with increasing disfavor as the crowds in the streets thinned out and the garden walls grew higher and more imposing, the air fresher, the day quieter as it passed into the night. She slouched along, relaxed and unconcerned, with the invincible gawk of a sightseer determined to stick her nose everywhere. She located the house of Klikay the Poet (youngest and reputed to be the most useless of the brothers of the Byglave, the man and family who with a play of modesty told the Casach of Dum Besar how to govern the city and the domain). No one pays much attention to the Poet, Telka said. They don’t guard him with any care because no one with the slightest pretense of a working mind would waste their time trying to kill or kidnap him.
There was a wall. Shabby. The plaster, insipid frescoes, covering the red brick was cracking and flaking away. She wrinkled her nose at the clumsy ugly scenes in dull pastel colors. No great loss if it all came off. Maybe he was a good poet, but his taste in art was gruesome. Probably spikes or broken glass on the top of that wall; she couldn’t tell from where she stood, but it didn’t matter. She could climb that wall easily enough using one of several trees growing out over it; from the look of the thing she wouldn’t have to worry about leaving marks for guards to notice. Flet had sent one of her followers on several high flights over the city to give Skeen some idea about how the house was arranged, but once she was inside she was on her own. No Min except Timka had been inside that structure so the layout was anyone’s guess. She didn’t like going in
blind but, Djabo’s twitchy nose, no fancy traps in this jerkwater place. No sniffer alarms, no sorting ears or any of the thousand other things she’d had to neutralize or outwit before. She strolled on, scolding herself for her tendency to think she could walk in and out as if she was calling on the man. Carelessness like that could do her in faster than a fancy trap. You don’t know this stinking world, woman. You don’t know where the pitfalls are or what they are. Shapechangers, hah! What else is this place going to spring on you? Wizards shaking death rattles in your face? Witches yammering in the night? Tickled by the absurdities her imagination threw up, she walked along chuckling to herself, moving back into more plebeian realms, working her way next to the wall, walking along it, checking out possible escape routes.
The gates were closed at sunset, watched by Skirrik and squads of local guards. Herds of hungry massits were loosed on the parapet to discourage anyone stupid enough to try climbing over the wall; they’d strip this fool to the bone in less than a breath and a half. Telka said they had a special hatred of Min and a mass mind so powerful it overwhelmed the subtle control the Min exercised on most beasts. Thanks to Strazhha the V’duluvit she had something she thought might deal with that little problem, but she wasn’t looking forward to using it.
Up close to the wall, the houses were elbow to elbow, narrow, hardly a room wide, each house jammed with people, with those who lived all the time in the city, with transients from all over, traders, tramp artisans, farmers, peasants, younger sons looking for adventure or work (which one depended on their family’s wealth and status or lack of it). She started moving toward the market, passing through more visitors—rivermen off the boats that sailed up and down the Rekkah and the smaller Rioti, land traders with their stolid stumpy beasts, hordes of gawkers come to stare, come to buy or sell, come to complain about something, come as pilgrims to pay homage at the temple that was the tallest structure inside the walls. Lines of Blackrobes winding through the buyers and sellers in the market, solemn-faced children censing them and every one around with a pungent incense.