Skeen's Leap

by Clayton, Jo;

  A scrape and a chuckle broke into her musing. Pegwai had swung back around and was gazing at his linked hands, enjoying some private vision.

  “Funny?”

  “I was visualizing Kerakevaladam floundering in a juicy mudhole. He’s one you might tap to the cheers and encouragement of most in Oruda. Renegade Chalarosh. Calls himself a spice merchant; rumor is he controls the flow of tersk which is a particularly nasty addictive drug. One of these days some father or sister or whatever is going to put a knife in him. And there’s the slaver Duppra Mallat. Nagamar. She trades in slaves, runs whorehouses in every fair-sized city on the Plain, stocks them with her own merchandise, mostly women and children. Those two are the richest, the most despicable, and, my dear Skeen, the most dangerous pair in Oruda. Kevaladam keeps samchaks, nasty little vermin, poisonous, miserable dispositions, attack any thing that moves, go after your ankles, drop on your head from the rafters. Nagamar are rather good with the poisons also, and Mallat has a stable of guards with noses so sharp they could track a moth on its mating flight.” He frowned, looked anxious, as if he already regretted mentioning either of them.

  Skeen got to her feet. “I’ve a lot of thinking to do before I go hunting. Time I was heading for the landing and my ride across the Lake.”

  Pegwai nodded and walked beside her as she started into the trees. “A year ago one of my students thought up a project; she’s going out Seeking in a year or so. Methodical little thing. Skirrik, so she’s very good at translating three dimensions into two, chart-making, I mean. For practice, she made a complete scale map of South Oruda, the drawing alone is beautiful work, but she went a lot further and named every major structure in the city. I’ll have a copy made for you. You can pick it up tomorrow.” He grinned at her, a nervous twitch of his full lips that left his eyes unhappy. “I’ll look it over tonight and mark some other possibilities for you. Oruda has a healthy clutch of folk needing a moral lesson or two.”

  He was still uneasy; she could hear it in his voice, see it in the set of his body. Though he’d object strenuously to the characterization, he was very much an innocent, sheltered most of his life in a way Skeen knew she couldn’t comprehend. Tibo was like that too, what he told her about himself, it was like a fable in a child’s book; she couldn’t believe in it. Tibo … no. Pegwai had convinced himself that he was acting in a good cause, but everything he’d been taught warred with that feeble conviction. Sheltered. Yes. Her own first memories were of her uncle, her mother’s brother, who took her and her sister in when their parents were killed, memories that still surfaced as nightmares when she was under stress, memories of pain and fear and sick rage. No shelter for her. Pegwai had a solid thereness to him that told her a lot about his family; there was love back then and acceptance. And he had a place here in the Tanul Lumat which he wasn’t really afraid of losing no matter what he said. No, he wasn’t afraid. It was that web of beliefs and truths he learned in that warm and happy family. Thou shalt not steal. All right to lie and trick and flatter money from pockets not your own, but not all right to reach in your hand and take. Well, she’d never been against such teachings; in fact she quite approved of them when her own possessions were involved. She recognized the inconsistency in her attitudes and was amused by the capacity in her for righteous indignation when someone did to her what she’d made a habit of doing to others.

  Though she didn’t share them, she liked Pegwai for his scruples, liked him all the more because he didn’t bray about them or try pushing them on her. She liked the way he struggled with an alien viewpoint and gave it its due. There were some who’d say he was struggling to corrupt himself, that he was being tempted from the path of righteousness by the Evil One, cloaked as usual in the lust-rotted filth of female flesh. She knew that Voice. She had it recorded in the bones her uncle had broken, in the scars on her back and buttocks, heard that Voice in her uncle’s mouth when he shut her in a room with him, preached that Sermon to her, ranted to her about her sins—her evil nature, her corrupt flesh—ranted at her, then buggered her, then beat her for seducing him. Everything that happened between them, it was her fault, always her fault. Her uncle told her it was her fault. Her aunt told her she was a liar and filth and beat her, too. But the worst thing, the worst thing in her whole life, the very worst day came when she was nine, the day her uncle took her into the center of the city to register her for trade school, the worst day came when she caught a glimpse of her uncle standing beside her in a long mirror, no, not a mirror, it was a plate glass window with blackness behind it that made an imaging glass that was too accurate for her comfort. They stood by a streetlight waiting for a robocab to take them back to the grim suburb where her uncle clung to the rags of respectability. By that light she saw herself beside her uncle, saw too a likeness that struck deep into her, turning her deathly ill, though she had to conceal the sickness behind the bland baby mask she’d learned to paste over pain almost before she learned to talk, when she saw that his face and his body were stamped into her bones and into her flesh and she’d never be rid of him, not as long as she dared look into a mirror. Nine years old and visited with a doom like no other doom she knew. She fled two months later after killing him and chopping his face into hamburger, but it was another ten years before she managed to reclaim her body as her own and not a wretched surrogate of her wretched uncle.

  Langgo’s boat was snubbed to the landing, two robed forms sitting silent in the bow. He handed her down, disclaimed any long wait, pushed off and sent the boat skimming across the lake.

  Timka was curled up in the bed, snoring a little, that squeaking whistle she made sometimes. Skeen didn’t bother tiptoeing about; once the little Min relaxed and let herself sleep, a mountain could fall on her and she’d not bother waking. She dropped onto the bench at the foot of the bed and pulled her boots off. She stretched her legs out, wiggled her toes, flexed her arches, sighed with the pleasure of free movements. Pegwai, Pegwai, Djabo chew your ears for you, you stirred up things I’ve worked to forget. She stretched, groaned, got to her feet. She’d ordered hot water this morning, ready at sundown in the bathing room. Get a move on, woman, your bath is getting cold.

  She stripped off tunic and trousers, shook them clean and hung them on wall hooks, then slid into the robe she’d bought in the market that morning. A last glance at Timka—she hadn’t stirred—and Skeen went padding out.

  Along the hall, down a dark ramp, in a narrow door. Cans of cold water, cans of hot water steaming up the small windows. Glazed windows courtesy of the Tanul Lumat. Underfoot, well-scrubbed planks set with small gaps between them to vent overflow from the tub. That tub was round, metal hoops binding plank sides set at an angle to the base; it was scrubbed clean and smelled faintly antiseptic. Several oil lamps in wall brackets smelled of pine and cast a soft amber glow over the room. Those, too, she’d paid for; the only luxuries that came free were song and talk and even those had to be supported by passing the bottle round.

  She hung the robe on a hook, stepped out of her underpants and shirt and tossed them into the tub. I am going to have to get some spares made before these rot off me. She began pouring the cans into the tub, hot first, cold to adjust, more hot, until the tub was full enough. She stepped in, danced a little from the heat, then lowered herself gradually until she was sitting with the nape of her neck hooked over the edge, water lapping over her breasts. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the warmth seeping into her bones and the prospect of being clean again, hair to heels. After a short while, though, she sat up, scooped soft soap from a bowl and began scrubbing off several days’ accumulation of sweat and grime. This bath was costing her more than a week’s room and board and worth every copper. She rubbed soap into her hair until her scalp stung, then dunked herself under the water, shook her head about, came sputtering up to dump dipper after dipper full of water over her head until she was dizzy with it, laughing and filled with energy and soaked to her back teeth. She dipped more hot water into the tub until it
was steaming again, then she settled back, head over the edge, the water up to her shoulders now, her arms floating under water crossed loosely over her ribs, her mind drifting with the slow currents of heat that grazed her body each time she moved. She was getting involved with this world in a way she’d been careful to avoid other times. Diving in to raid some ruins, sliding around patrols, ignoring natives if any, in and out smooth and slick, her only contacts would be hirelings who did the more delicate work her androids couldn’t handle. Nothing like here. Damn this place, it was seductive, this impossible crazy world. She smiled drowsily as she thought of Pegwai though she had a suspicion the strong attraction she felt was not reciprocated. The targets he’d offered her were both of them not Balayar; probably none of the others he was selecting for her would be Balayar. The waves here in Oruda seemed to mix amicably enough on the streets, in the markets, in taverns like this, but from what she’d seen so far the permanent residents of the city lived in small enclaves that fit into each other like the pieces of a picture puzzle—Pallah living with other Pallah, Nagamar with other Nagamar, Chalarosh with Chalarosh, and so on. Except for a few comments dropped by the hostler and Pegwai, she knew little about the way the Orudish governed themselves, a free city with a council, generally ignoring both Pallah and Funor Ashon attempts to claim them, she didn’t care to learn more—except about the local cops, if any. How good they were and what they were authorized to do. Probably they operated by knocking a cutpurse or two on the head and if he died, too bad; no one asked questions about corpses. A system probably well-abused, but weren’t they all, and you just walked tippy-toe around the gunmen, took them out first if you had to. The system was the system, whatever system it was and for folk like her, no system was much good. Or maybe those with goods to protect hired their own cops. Better ask Pegwai tomorrow. She moved her hands, rubbed her neck along the tub rim, yawned. She thought about the Aggitj boys and wondered briefly where they were. Wouldn’t mind another bit of friction with them, wouldn’t mind hahaha, if it wouldn’t be starting something I don’t want to go on with.… Tibo Tibo Tibo. Why? She cried a little, sniffled, stirred herself to splash some cooling water onto her face. The back of her neck was starting to hurt. Reluctantly she sat up, wriggled her shoulders, pulled herself out of the water.

  She stood dripping, stretching, yawning, rinsed herself off with the last of the lukewarm water in the hot cans, stepped out onto the planks and began rubbing herself dry. She felt good. All over good. Work ahead, a definite goal, the means to achieve it. She was clean and relaxed and ready for a large and tasty meal, then some singing and stories. And sex if she could manage it. She hung the towel up, started to reach for the robe. Shit, washing to do still. She groped in the soapy water, found her underthings and began scrubbing them between her fisted hands. I am definitely definitely definitely going to have to get some spares.

  Timka was sitting on the bed staring at the glass in the small window. She didn’t turn until Skeen was draping her underpants over a wall peg and shaking out the shirt. “Did you get what you needed?”

  Skeen slid the shoulder straps of the undershirt over a pair of hooks, twitched the front loose from the back. “Hm. Got a start at it. We’re going to be here a few more days. Any smell of Min poking about?”

  “No.”

  “Supped yet?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to go down again.”

  “Well, I’m hungry enough to chew a leg off a horse.” She poked through her pack and found her comb, dragged it through her wet hair. Djabo bless, it was growing out fast, the bleaching turned it into straw that tangled at a breath. “After I eat, I’m going to be wandering about, picking up what I can. You want to come along?”

  “No.” A short silence, then Timka spoke again, reluctantly amplifying her answer. “The Poet will have spies here. The less I’m seen, the safer we both will be.”

  “I suppose so, but it sounds boring as.…” Skeen tossed the robe onto the bench and began pulling on tunic and trousers; the chafing wouldn’t be too bad for a few hours. “You sure you don’t want to come along? What’s life worth if you don’t take a few chances?”

  “I might fly a little if I feel like it. Later.”

  Shaking her head, Skeen left the room. I’d be banging my head on the wall before an hour passed. Well, we can’t all be itchy and bless Djabo it’s so.

  ORDEAL BY POISON BREATH.

  or

  AFTER FIVE DAYS’ NOSING ABOUT, SKEEN IS FINALLY ON THE JOB.

  The reed structure was big enough to house an army if that army didn’t mind wet feet and bug swarms. Two-story wormcastings pressed up against each other, others penetrating these and each other, twists and turns and rooms common to two or three or four of the castings, the center marked by twin towers rising twice the height of the rest. According to Pegwai, that was where she’d find Duppra Mallat and where she found Mallat, she’d find Mallat’s gold. Plays with it every night before she goes to bed, he said.

  The house was built on the edge of the Nagamar enclave near the southernmost reach of the lake where lake water had been drawn off into a hollow within a ring of grassy hillocks to form a shallow lagoon. A number of footbridges zagged irregularly from the hillocks to the platform the house sat on. No cover on the hillocks except a few lacy low-crowned trees. No cover on the walkways either, though the shallow water was thick with reeds and lilies; long sinuous mostly unseen things swam there—hints of motion, oily slides, opaline mucus staining the water, a vee from a wedge-shaped head. Not a wading pool. A number of large raptors swung in wide loops over house and lagoon, dropping down at intervals onto the perches installed for them on the tops of the towers.

  No one knew how many lived inside the complex or exactly how it was arranged, but Pegwai made his peace with his conscience and threw himself into the planning with a zest that appalled Skeen; she had all she could do to keep him from tagging along when she went in. He got her some sketches of similar queenhouses built in a number of marsh settlements. That made her nervous because there was no way he’d be careful to keep himself clean, he didn’t have that kind of mind. If Mallat had a way into the Lumat.…

  Timka with her, silently disapproving, Skeen left the tavern quarter and went to a cozy little hollow surounded by prickly brush. She stripped and gave her old clothing to the Min who, still silent, went gliding away to conceal the things beside the lake. She was waiting now in the lake, swimming nervously back and forth, keeping watch on the shore though it wasn’t likely she could do anything to help if Skeen got into trouble.

  Skeen whipped up a frothy mixture of oil and vinegar and assorted spices, the most pungent she could lay hands on, added a raw egg for body, then slathered it over her body, into her ears, between her toes and fingers, into armpits and pubic hair. When she was basted to her satisfaction and disgust, she pulled on the clothes she’d bought for the occasion. Everything from the skin out was new—fine leather gloves, boots that laced to her knees, loose shirt, knee-breeches, the black silk stocking with the holes cut in it she was going to use for a mask, the cloth lootbag. Before she left the hollow, she scattered ignebebet powder copiously about, making sure not to breath it in. Her nose wasn’t as sensitive as a Virgin Guard’s, but the ignebebet would ream it out and stun her sense of smell, something she’d rather not have happen. She carried away the pot with the odorous mixture, spread more of the ignebebet, throwing it into the night breeze and letting it float away as she took a rambling looping path toward the lake shore. She threw pot and powder into the water, then started her prowl for the Duppra’s house, the bag carefully slung onto her back to keep the shells from crushing. She couldn’t take the darter, it was far too distinctive. Might as well sign her name on the front door, Skeen the Pass-Through, your friendly neighborhood thief. With the para-jellies for the darter, glass floats and wax and her tool kit, she contrived some neat little gas bombs. With Pegwai’s help she’d tried some of that gas on a Nagamar scholar’s pet waterlizard. Worked
fast and produced no ill effects except the lizard was uproariously drunk and staggered about the room eeping and chasing its own tail. Be a nice touch if Duppra and her guards woke higher than the guardian raptors.

  She lay on a hillock inspecting the house. There was no way to avoid those jagways and whatever traps they concealed, no way to tell which was the least dangerous, so she left it to chance. A little amateur divining with four coppers pointed to the jagway closest to the lake and she worried no more about it. The raptors soared over the house in wide slow circles, crossing and recrossing the waning crescent of the moon. Time slid past. One settled. Then another. And another. Finally they were all down. Too many years since Duppra Mallat faced any sort of threat in her own house, she’d grown complacent and let her defenses go slack.

  Skeen moved quietly up the jagway, the soft-soled boots making no sound. Moving swiftly, touching down only the balls of her feet, she kept as close to the edge as she could manage, balancing as if she walked a highwire, running along it with the speed and sureness Tibo had trained into her.

  Her cutter bit through the bar that pinned the door shut; she slipped the cutter into a pocket of the cloth workbelt that held her shirt tight to her waist, pulled out a pinlight and snagged it onto her sleeve, then pushed at the door. It opened with a heavy silence. The darkness inside was full of rustles and whispers and thick with lizard stink, sharp and musty and clinging to everything. She stood without moving until her eyes adjusted, then began gliding toward the center of the structure where the towers were. After a few turns the gloom lightened. A strip of fungus growing along the ceiling gave off a faint blue-white glow, enough light to show her that this corridor was empty. She saw nothing, no one, but the rustles grew louder. The stench of the lizard spray grew stronger. They’re in the walls, she thought, and didn’t like it at all.