by Clayton, Jo;
“Praise the Lifefire,” he said.
“Praise the Lifefire and drink to good living.”
Nossik drank, licked his lips, put the tankard down. “You’re right, he said gravely, “it is a touch warm these days, but I still say, nothing like last year. Yooo, that was hot! I had to buy ice from the mountains to put in my henhouse just so I’d have eggs for nogs; ’thout that, they were laying ’em hardboiled.”
“Know what you mean. Where I grew up, we had a lot of days like that. I remember one time, we had this old dog. Smartest dog I ever saw. Of course, it was never so bad as you get here; desert country, lot of sand about, dry heat.”
He nodded. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity gets you down.”
“Uh huh. This dog I was talking about, he had tender feet; come midsummer he stopped moving unless he had to. He slept a lot like old dogs do and sometimes he was forgetful. One day what he forgot was that shade moves with the sun; he woke with one hellaceous thirst and all the shade on the far side of the tent. It was a little after noon and the sun was beating down and the sand was sending up heatwaves tall as houses and twisty as a born liar. Old dog started for the well trough to get him a drink, took one step, and let out a yell you could hear over the horizon. I heard the noise and stuck my head out. I was just a kid then, this high, I was supposed to be sleeping but I was sweating too much. Like I said, I heard the yelp, then some funny scratching sounds, and I looked to see what was happening. There was Old Dog, stomping on those heat waves like they were springs, bouncing along, kaboing kaboing kaboing, until he ran out of waves because it was enough cooler by the well to turn the waves into flimsy little shivers. Never hold him and he knew it. I saw he knew it because he stayed on the last big wave and went bouncing up and down up and down, higher and higher. I saw him eyeing the well with a considering look, then he went up a last time, came down slanting, and took off, sproinggg, like a chizzit with its tail on fire. He missed the water trough, though, and went splashing down the well. Took us a day and a half to get him out. He sure didn’t want to leave all that cool, but he got hungry and he couldn’t abide fish or frogs and that was all there was to eat down there.”
“You’re right there. Most dogs don’t like fish. Could be the bones, too many of ’em. There was this cousin of mine though, he had this kogla dog that really loved fish stew. Got so he wouldn’t eat anything else and he’d sit around the house whimpering and whining when there wasn’t any fish. One day Sturrik couldn’t stand it any longer; he’d got better things to do than spend all his time fishing for dogfood, so he took the kogla out and showed him the net and showed him the river and said, “You want fish stew, you catch the fish.” He was maybe a bit drunk at the time. He’s my cousin, but I have to say he can’t hold his liquor worth a shot. He dropped the net by the dog, took a couple more swallows of his homebrew, and went to sleep. Next thing he knew there was a slimy feel all over him. He woke up half covered with fish and an eel or two, one of which started crawling up his breeches which sobered him fast. He shook the eel loose and kicked it into the river—he can’t abide eels. Then he saw that kogla swimming toward the little broke-down jetty he built himself, dog’s head sort of canted back. He’s hauling in another net full of fish.
For a time there Sturrik had a good thing going. Dog couldn’t count. Long as he had all the stew he wanted, he was happy. Sturrik sold the leftover. He spent that whole six months it lasted half-drunk and happier ’n a barrel of rutting dinkos. Then the kerrash migration started. Those eels get longer than one of those Aggitj over there, with sour tempers and a mouthful of teeth that’d scare a pickpocket honest. The kogla ran into a bunch of them and had just about enough sense to get out of there with no waiting and no fussing. Lost the last three inches of his tail, too. Put him right off fish. And Sturrik never found a way to make him go back in that river.”
More stories—Pallah, Skirrik, and Aggitj as the others in the taproom joined them at the bar. Skeen drank a lot more than she’d planned on, spent a lot more of her coin trading rounds for those stories, though she gathered a lot of information about the local situation—what the going was like on the far side of the river, funny stories about the ferryman, the name of Nossik’s cousin’s Inn in Oruda and a message to take to him. News from Dum Besar (which tickled the locals until they could hardly swallow their ale). The Poet’s favorite concubine had run off, taking a lot of junk with her just to rub in the insult; Poet was steaming, Byglave was shouting, Besar was like an anthill some fool put the boot to. Aggitj in the Boot in the middle of a Yilsa war, the young blonds passing the stories from one to another, telling it in a tonal prose that had a touch of poetry to it. The Skirrik trio, gently sozzled, did a dance song very late on, at least a fragment of one; they collapsed in giggles, legs tangled or waving in the air. Skeen lifted a tankard to two legs when she saw what happened to six, joined by the grinning locals, while the Aggitj boys struggled to right the Skirrik. She finally ran out of push and realized she was about three breaths from curling up in front of the fire and spending the night there.
She went cautiously up the ramp that swung against the wall in a graceful spiral with squared corners. Her feet were a trifle uncooperative, but she held onto the rail and took her time, thinking that they were very sensible on this world preferring ramps to stairs, nothing to catch the shaky toe.
The room was colder than the ramp. Draftier. For a minute all that ale stirred at the back of her throat, but she shoved it down again. A matter of pride. Moving slowly slowly slowly she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and sat pulling off her boots. She held each one a while staring at it, then set it very carefully beside the bed. Sat a while, just breathing and swallowing, then slid out of her trousers, held them up, waved them about, giggling softly, tossed them into the dark. She did the same with her tunic, then rooted into the bed which Timka had got nice and warm, stretched out with a sigh of pleasure, and lay scratching at her stomach through the fine slippery material of her underpants.
“You’re drunk. And your feet are cold.”
“Uh huh. And I’m gon sleep. Now.” Skeen closed her eyes, yawned, began breathing slowly and steadily, using imitation sleep to tease herself into real sleep. Dimly she heard Timka going on about something, but didn’t bother paying attention. Then she heard nothing at all until Timka shook her awake after what seemed three seconds later.
“Come on. Come on. Wake up, will you.”
Skeen groaned and rolled onto her back. Her lashes were stuck together and her mouth felt like something had died and rotted there. She rubbed at her eyes, licked dry lips, forced herself up. “Wha …”
Timka started pacing fretfully about the room, alternating bursts of energy with slumps. “Min,” she said. “Min flying over. Min circling round. Getting closer. I can feel them.”
Skeen grunted, fumbled back the covers, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She didn’t feel up to coping with this right now. She sighed and blinked, looked vaguely around. “Telka?”
“No no, not till they pin us. It’s her Holavish.”
Trying to ignore the upheaval below her ribs, the throbbing of her head, Skeen pushed onto her feet. “We located yet?” She looked around for her clothing, saw her trousers and walked slowly, carefully to them, squatted beside them. “How much time if we aren’t?”
“No, not yet. I don’t know.”
Skeen reached for her trousers, grunted as she nearly overbalanced. With an exclamation of disgust, Timka darted over to her, picked up the trousers, shook them off, tossed them on the bed. Hands on hips she turned round looking for Skeen’s tunic, saw it crumpled in one corner, darted to it, shook it out too, and tossed it beside the trousers. She shoved her shoulder under Skeen’s arm, muscled her back to the bed, left her sitting while she poured some water in a basin and slopped a washrag in it. She slapped the dripping rag onto Skeen’s face, scrubbed the remnants of sleep from her eyes, then pushed the rag into Skeen’s hand. “This
is so boorring. You. The Poet. Making fools of yourselves.” She fetched a towel, tossed it to Skeen. “Get yourself dressed and do the packing while I see to the horses.” She sniffed and went out, slamming the door behind her.
“No need to yell,” Skeen muttered.
Saddlebags and pack thumping against her legs, Skeen walked out the door. A heavy fog filled the court; condensation dripped from every edge, adding to the melancholy of the pale gray light. The damp crept into every crevice, started runnels through her hair; she swiped at her face, her head throbbing; the thought of getting on a horse and galloping off made her bones ache. The clop of ironshod hooves, dark forms looming in the fog. Timka came up with the horses, her eyes huge in a pinched face, almost in a panic. “Circling in,” she whispered.
Skeen sighed, rubbed at her temple, trying to think. “No Hunger to keep them off us, hmm, confuse them. Maybe the river—any water-Min there?” She slung the bags behind the saddles, tied them down, strapped on the pack. “Or can you tell?”
Timka didn’t answer until they were leading the horses through the arch. “No,” she said. “The river is empty.”
Her mount clopping behind her, Skeen started off through the fog toward the ferry landing south of town. “Five days to Oruda,” she said. “From what I picked up last night, it’s open country, savannah.” She wiped at her face, drawing the back of her hand across her mouth, sighed, and kept her eyes on the bit of ground visible around her feet. “Might diddle them some if you swam the river to Oruda. I’ll take your clothes with me, meet you there.”
Timka was a blurred shape in the fog, her expression veiled, the color of her eyes not green but a shadowy gray. She walked along gazing at Skeen, saying nothing.
“I will meet you,” Skeen said patiently, “my word on it. Besides, I’ve got to go there. You can depend on that if you don’t trust me.”
Timka continued to gaze at her, saying nothing. The ferryhouse was a gray blur ahead, more of a stain set deep in the fog than a solid form. Then she nodded and began pulling loose the ties at wrist and neck. She tossed blouse and skirt to Skeen, shifted to a large cat-form and went bounding off into the fog.
Skeen rolled the clothing up, strapped the roll into Timka’s saddlebag, clipped a rope lead to the bridle on Timka’s mount, then started on, not altogether sure she’d see the Min again, and regretting the possible loss of her companion more keenly than she’d expected. Timka was a puzzle she was only beginning to unravel, showing interesting possibilities as travel and trouble abraded away that irritating surface.
She woke the ferryman, argued him into taking her across, then rode along a rutted road between two hedges, the faint rose flush of the morning sun directly head of her. Already the nightcool was dissipating, though the heat seemed to thicken rather than melt away the fog. She rode without hurry, feeling relieved of pressure now that Timka had gone off on her own for a little, amused at the contradiction she held within herself, missing the Min yet glad to be free of her and her problems … at least for a while. She thought about whistling, she felt so good, but she was enjoying the distant hollowness of the sounds around her—the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the jingle from the bridles, the creaking of the leather, and farther off a birdcall, the honking low of a large beast, an occasional splash. Every sound separate and entire, framed by a narrow line of silence. The aches and debilities of a morning-after melting out of her, she settled into the saddle, her body moving in easy unison with the horse until she felt adrift and unconcerned about it.
The sun floated higher and the fog began to lift. The water dripping from branches, leaves, gathered on grass blades disappeared—not so much drying up as being sucked back into the air and into whatever it was clinging to. The hedges broke apart into separate bushes, then vanished, giving way to open grasslands with trees scattered about, singly and in small groves. The horses were well-fed, rested, and inclined to run, making rough going for a while before she got them settled to a steady walk. She was early on the road and had it to herself. The ferryman had groused continually from the moment she routed him out of bed, cursing her and all her kind, not repeating himself once the entire time it took to cross the Rekkah. Entertained by his fluency and versatility, she’d handed him a silver bit instead of the three coppers that was his usual fee. It pleased her to think Timka would have been disgusted with her for the waste.
By noon she’d sweated a skin of water around her body and was back to breathing through her mouth; every time she glanced toward the river, she felt a pang of envy at the thought of Timka gliding through the cool green depths.
For a long time she rode alone. Nothing but grass and trees on a gently rolling land stretching horizon to horizon on both sides of the river, but around midafternoon she started catching glimpses of riders in loose white robes and herds of slab-sided, long legged-beasts. None of them near the road. Nothing to disturb her from this slow easy respite from danger and excitement and the need to stay alert, nothing until near sundown when her mount’s shadow jerked long and angular in front of her. A wing of large birds flew over her, curled away, came back flying lower. There was a squawking exchange over her head as they circled round and round. Annoyed by this recall of things she wanted to forget, she rode with her hand on the holster, fingers near the edge so she could rip up the flap and get the weapon out, but the danger didn’t materialize; the birds flew off, heading back toward Spalit. She didn’t relax until they were out of sight and never regained that earlier contentment.
Another crew of robed riders almost lost in the dusty haze along the southern horizon. Funor Ashon. Leave Funor alone and they’ll leave you alone, Krigli had said. Short dark man working the river, in the Spittin Split with a pair of local contacts. Small black mole at the corner of his mouth that vanished into a crease whenever he smiled or frowned or drew his mouth down in a mime of extreme disgust. And lifefire make it you don’t ever hurt a cow, he said. Unless you like pain. Safe enough to live round them if you understand the way they feel about their herds and family honor. Time you got to watch out is when a young buck is out to blood his horns and you get in his way, or he thinks you did. Say you whomp the pest, but don’t hurt him, just try discouraging him. First thing you know, his whole family is on your tail, gonna play the tens on you. You made the youngster lose face, you’re gonna be made to look ten times the fool. Got any smart in you, you’ll let them do it, too. One of them dead, nine of your family is dead with you. So if you spot a shorthorn snorting, you get the hell out of his way. Another thing to remember is every goddam Funor is related some way to every other one, so if you get a bloodfeud going, you’re damnwell gonna have to exterminate the whole damn species. Last thing—they’ve still got most of their tech, got coms that reach around the world so there’s no place you can run if you think about getting away.
Couldn’t be that bad, Skeen thought, just not practical. There’s probably some sort of blood-money arrangement to shut off the spread. Who knows what another species is going to consider practical? Leave them way alone, Krigli’s right about that.
The violet haze that presaged sundown was spreading across the sky; Skeen was tired and starting to look for a place to camp for the night. A pair of fliers came back, swooped down to land in the dust in front of her, shaking off their feathers to show themselves slim young males—very young, crotch hair barely sprouted. One stepped a bit ahead of the other. “Where is Timka?”
“She smelled trouble and took off.” Skeen raised a brow. “You two?”
“Where did she go?”
“Took off in the fog. You could find her faster’n me. I’m not looking.” She looked down her long nose at them. “I’m tired of this nonsense.” She shook the reins, clicked her tongue to urge the horse forward. He stood like he’d grown roots. She cursed under her breath because she’d forgotten what Min could do to ordinary beasts when they had time to work on them. She smiled at the boys, a tight stretching of the lips that showed her teeth and igno
red her eyes. “Funny aren’t you. Real clowns. Well, clowns, maybe Telka told you about this?” She lifted the darter. “Maybe you’re tired and ought to take a rest.”
They stepped back, moving together, identical expressions on faces that were somewhat alike, though it was a kinship of kind rather than blood. Min-fliers. Together they shifted into bird shapes and powered into the air. The horses snorted and sidled nervously as they were released from the thrall of the Min. The birds circled overhead. She heard two screeches, then felt two wet gooey splotches landing on her hair and forehead. She gasped and scraped most of the glop off her.
Still cursing, she turned the horses toward the river, climbed down the bank, and used handfuls of sand to scrub her hair and face. She stopped cursing because it was wholly inadequate. Skinning would be inadequate. After she was reasonably clean, though, slogging up the bank toward the horses, a giggle tickled the back of her throat. Godlost little twerps. If I had wings … hah! Once again she felt a pang of jealousy. It’d be marvelous to fly like that. She swung into the saddle and started on, humming a droning tune, musing over memories of soar-bubbles in assorted Pit Stops.
She began to pass camps. Individuals with dung fires. A packtrain, maybe even the one she followed into Spalit. She rode on into the dark until a voice came from a few dark figures silhouetted against a small fire. “Skeen, Skeen, come join us.” She rode closer. The Aggitj boys from the Spitting Split. She turned the horses off the road and rode to the grove where they had their camp.
“How did you four get so far ahead of me?”
“We didn’t waste time sleeping.”