by Clayton, Jo;
They left the Bayside Stroll and moved into Chalatown, threading through narrow alleys at first then into streets that grew wider and quieter, moving toward a shimmering white wall lit at frequent intervals with torches set in the walls of guard hutches built of the same white stone. They took her through gates of iron lace (solid iron leaves folded back against the stone inside the walls) along a winding gravel path through lush greenery. Enough moonlight oozed through the clouds to show her wide stretching lawns, flower bed, fountains, clusters of giant reeds, spreading lacy trees. All this opulence was supposed to impress her with the owner’s importance; what it did was wake a deep and bitter antagonism, a feeling budded in her childhood, blooming full out in her later years. It was a weakness she had to fight, too easy to let rage blind her to opportunity. Cool it, old woman, forget all that. What you’ve got to do is listen and give nothing away. Especially the last. Watch your tongue, don’t let him jab you into saying too much. You’re not ten any longer, not by a good many years.
Her escort took her through a high pointed arch in the center of a cascade of other arches into a tiled area with trees in huge ceramic tubs, flowering vines dripping from hanging baskets, a fountain to increase the sense of interpenetration, outside into inside and the reverse. The klazits walked with a huddled-together nervousness across the shining immaculate tiles, glaring at Skeen as her boot heels clattered with careless noise. Hundreds of small glass and bronze lamps cast a soft glow over the inspace and faint shirting shadows danced around them. Lots of glass about, lots of fine golden bronze with a patina of age and constant polishing. White marble everywhere. The floor an endlessly repeating geometric design in white, blue, green, and flashes of scarlet, tapestry panels large enough to carpet a stadium hanging free on rods, softly swaying walls. The Abar led her on a careful dance through this dangle of carpets, taking her finally into a much smaller inspace with stone walls and doors that shut, sparkling glass windows letting in the diffuse gray light of the shrouded moon, an open skylight above a small round fountain that played water music over a ceramic leaf-form, pale green with darker green lines traced over the surface. Two out of the scatter of lamps were lit, islands of brightness in the shadows, one at the far end of the long narrow space, the other by the man sitting in the room’s only chair, a backless thing with arm rests and bowed legs.
The Doferethapanad. Skeen hadn’t seen him before; though her interrogators and the Cadda Kana had used his name more than once, he kept his face out of the business. He wore a crisp white robe, had a full head of grayblue hair and heavy brows. Long rattail grayblue mustaches hanging from the corners of a broad, full-lipped mouth. A heavy vertical line between his brows and deep lines carved from large nostrils to the corners of that mouth. His skin had the pinkish pampered look of one who never had to face a harsh wind or too much sun, who was lotioned and massaged, who bathed in perfumed water and slept between silk. Skeen gazed into eyes like opaque brown marbles and decided to ignore the polish. Polite, old woman, that’s for you now, no tricks. Keep your mouth shut and your wits sharp.
The Abar went onto his knees and banged his forehead on a cushion at the Doferethapanad’s feet. Skeen watched this performance with detached interest. Neither the Doferethapanad nor the Abar seemed to expect her to follow his example, so she stood with hands clasped behind her, feet a little apart, ready to jump if things got sticky.
After a brief set of questions and answers, the Doferethapanad waved the Abar away. He took his silent klazits to one of the glassed-in arches, pushed at a bronze handplate, held the door open while his men filed out, followed them and stationed himself close to the door, out of earshot but able to see everything in the room.
The Doferethapanad beckoned her closer, with a fluid gesture of his hand indicated that she should kneel on the cushion. Skeen sank onto her knees, arranged herself as comfortably as she could and waited for the man to tell her what this was about. He inspected her in silence for some minutes, his long fingers tapping gently at the chair arm.
“This one you see is Massacharamar Machat, the Doferethapanad of Atsila Vana. You are the female being of ambiguous provenance, Skeen of noplace as it were. It has occurred to this one and others that you are newly come to Mistommerk, a green and perhaps dangerous Pass-Through, that you are traveling to places you alone know of for reasons you alone know. This one does not ask if such is the truth, this one would rather not know. There are many things this one would rather not know, because knowing would mean acting and acting could possibly bring either humiliation or danger to the Chalarosh of Atsila Vana and beyond them to this one who sits before you. Not an eventuality to be contemplated with pleasure. Who you are and what you are means nothing to Atsila Vana or the Doferethapanad, unless your actions make it necessary that this one investigate those things, those actions. Which would be most uncomfortable for you and your companions, Skeen of noplace. The Doferethapanad need not elaborate on this theme, this one is sure you understand what is not said. The Doferethapanad does not wish to bestir himself and will not do so unless there is a clear and unavoidable threat to Atsila Vana. No, say nothing. You have not been brought here to speak, but to listen. Your silence is the only thing that will keep your head on your shoulders. Everything the Doferethapanad shall say from this point is speculation, dreams. Were it to be confirmed even in the smallest degree, it would be necessary for the Doferethapanad to act. Such action would be noisy and bloody and most distressing. No. Not a word. Not a sound. Not a smile or a frown or a grimace. The Doferethapanad is certain you understand his necessity.” He looked down at his long narrow hands, then past her at the water running over the lobes of the twisted leaf fountain. “The Doferethapanad has already had to act precipitously and remove one who was a favorite cousin but who proved regrettably indiscreet in the messages he carried and the actions he permitted and regrettably unintelligent in his ambitions. It seems a staple of life that every great family must have at least one member of transcendent stupidity. The Doferethapanad requests Skeen of noplace to rise from the cushion and look into the alcove by the lamp then return to her present position. This one hopes it is not necessary to remind her of the need to remain silent and inscrutable.”
Skeen got to her feet, careful to make as little sound as possible, to keep her face in a lifeless mask. Her nerves tingled—there was enormous danger in this room, but it hovered at a distance, held off as long as she danced the Doferethapanad’s figures without a mistake. She walked to the end of the room and looked into the alcove.
The guide Machimim lay in a pool of congealing blood, a look of intense surprise on his face. Hm. You thought you were making points, but you only managed to embarrass your relatives.
She walked back to the cushion, knelt, and waited.
The Doferethapanad let a flicker of approval show, then went back to watching the water play over the shiny glazes of the fountain. “Naturally the Doferethapanad would not listen to the babbling of a fool gone mad from drinking tainted gregra galat. It is to be hoped, Skeen of noplace, that you did not drink from that tainted cruse.” He paused a long moment, his eyes moving over her carefully impassive face; he returned his gaze to the dripping water. “The situation between the desert Chalarosh and the settled fanners here on the coast is most complex. Complex and difficult, but at the moment there is a truce of sorts that is profitable to both sides. The difficulties of maintaining that truce are considerable. One of them, perhaps the most serious, is that none of the desert clans can or will speak for any of the others. You will understand that is their greatest strength and also their greatest weakness. There is no way to throw them into confusion by lopping off the head of their common ruler. They have no common ruler. Vet there is also no way for the clans to combine and present a serious threat to the settled Chalarosh. They have recognized the value of Atsila Vana and do not concern themselves with the foreigners living there, at least they have not so concerned themselves during the past century. That could change. The chan
ge could mean great trouble to all settled Chalarosh and worse to the foreign enclaves. Rumors have reached into Atsila Vana that such a change is possible, that several clans are on the verge of alliance. Things must be done to counter this danger. This one speaks of such things because this one wishes Skeen of noplace to understand the delicacy of the Doferethapanad’s position. There must be no occurrence that would rouse the desert Chalarosh to anger and hasten that alliance. This one is going to pose an absurd impossible event as an example of an occurrence that would be such a spark. It is understood this is only an example and has no relation to reality. If somehow a child from a desert clan involved in a feud were to slip into Atsila Vana and be discovered here, the desert would reverberate with the news. A very special child—the Heart and last of his clan. To protect the child from the feud would rouse all the clans to fury. To hand over this very special child with abject apologies would fill the clans with contempt and greed; they would see the treasures of Atsila Vana as theirs for the taking because they would despise those meant to protect the city. The precarious peace would end. If such a disaster should happen in reality, as of course this is only speculation, those responsible would be put to death in as painful and lingering a fashion as the Doferethapanad could devise. He would not hand over the child. No. He would raise a pile high as the gate towers and impale the child on it for all to see. Then he would close the gates of Atsila Vana and prepare for a century of war. There would be for him one shaky chance of avoiding such an outcome. If the special child passes through Atsila Vana with no one of importance knowing of his presence in time to lay hands on him, if such a child leaves Atsila Vana within hours of his arrival, there would be a minimum of embarrassment and the disaster would be dissipated into an unpleasantness that would pass as the child had passed. If some Aggitj boys too soon out of Boot and Backland to understand the realities of life have laid their folk under such deadly threat, if a cousin of the Doferethapanad drank from a tainted bottle and dreamed mad dreams of power, then out of that madness, ignorance and stupidity, battle, murder and sudden death would flow … an unending stream of blood. If, however, a Pass-Through from noplace did such a thing, a Pass-Through with no kin to pay the blood responsibility, then perhaps, ah yes, perhaps a way might be contrived to put the onus on her head alone. A Pass-Through without kin or kind in this world to be harmed. A Pass-Through obeys her imperatives and travels on with no lingering or hesitation. A Pass-Through couldn’t be expected to know of the Ravvayad, the assassins whose bite is death and whose spite is endless. If such a Pass-Through had taken the child and sailed with him hidden from all eyes, then the Doferethapanad could proclaim with fervor the patent innocence of all the several parts of Atsila Vana. Were that Pass-Through to take this on her shoulders, she must be content with the virtue of the act; payment would compromise too much. If she has friends in Atsila Vana, perhaps their safety and continued well-being would be something she might consider sufficient payment for her efforts. And more, she would be righting the wrong she had connived in and saving a city from the results that must flow from the acts of those for whom she is responsible. Such an ethical being would not have to be told that should she refuse so necessary a recompense, then she and all her companions will be stripped and beaten, then taken into the desert and left to the whims of the desert clans. The Doferethapanad is certain that the Pass-Through understands the virtue of haste and will be gone from these shores before another day dawns.”
“And then he told the Abar to hustle me back here and collect the watchers and they should all go back to their beds and forget the whole thing as it was a madman’s dream not worth talking about.” Skeen sighed. “I know. Once you happened on the Boy there was no way you could leave him there. Doesn’t stop me wishing you’d spent your time like the klazits asleep under a watertrough. Listen carefully. In about three breaths I’m going to go see Peg and Timmy. Keep your fingers crossed they’ve turned up at least one ship heading out before dawn.” She untied the sack from her belt, tossed it to Hal. “See that my things and what Pegwai left are packed and bring them with you. Hal, you settle with the Host. Don’t let him charge you more than twice what we agreed in exchange for lost time. Domi, you and Ders make sure the Boy is well hidden. You don’t have to worry about searches—every klazit or spy will be looking hard somewhere else. Hm. There’s enough for you to carry, makes hiring a handcart reasonable. Yes, do that. It’ll be easier on the boy and that’ll leave most of you with your hands loose just in case. Stay casual, make jokes if you can; look drunk if you can do that without exaggerating. Go straight to the wharves and sit out at the end by the silk merchant’s warehouse, so I’ll know where to find you. That’s all I can think of. What about you all? Any questions. Suggestions? You see something I forgot? No? Good.” She got to her feet, smoothed her hair down. “Once we get out past the seawalls I’m going to sleep for a week.”
Pegwai and Timka were in the garden with the High Mother. Chulji was crouching in the background, tactfully silent. A sheet had been stretched between two trees and Pegwai was showing the images from the Gather. When Skeen came in, he was explaining a detail of the lighting system. Wanasi left her standing among the neuters while she went to speak quietly to the High Mother.
A flurry of orders from Demmirrmar. The neuters fluttered off, collecting the sheet, clearing away the bottles and plates, diving into bushes, weaving about the High Mother’s private garden, making sure it was clear of sleepers, listeners, any one or thing that might disturb the privacy of the conference getting set up. A pair of neuters came in with a steaming teapot and trays of small sandwiches, strips of cheese, and small tart fruits.
When they were alone under the soft glow of candlelamps, the High Mother filled cups for her guests then settled back with a clacking of her mouth parts and sucked at the straw in her drinking globe. She waited until Skeen had gulped down her tea, refilled her cup. “So. What have those young idiots been up to?”
“You don’t really want to know.” Skeen cradled the cup between her palms enjoying the heat that passed into her and took a little weariness away. “But I suppose you have to so you can protect yourself. I strongly advise an impenetrable facade of ignorance.” Once again she sketched the events of the night. “So you see, if our departure was urgent before, it’s imperative now.”
“Yes. You are fortunate to find the Chalarosh divided, with tension high, Seeker. Were things a bit more at ease, the Doferathapanad would have gathered in the lot of you and handed you over to the Kalakal.” She sucked at the straw, stared out over Skeen’s head. “High tide comes in a little over two hours; the night is almost done.” She let out a powerful whistling sound that rapidly rose out of Skeen’s hearing range.
Wanasi came in a rush, liveliness and brightness like a cloak about her in spite of the late hour. Her carapace was a pale violet shading to cerulean in the shadows; she was sleek and pretty and perky with coltish grace in the flicker of her six segmented legs. She brought a handful of papers with small neat glyphs printed on them, presented these to Demmirrmar with a song phrase that was filled with her pleasure in having completed her task to her satisfaction well within the time given.
Demmirrmar sang a thank-blessing back to her and waited until she left to glance through the sheets. “Three leaving with tide’s turn. All Balayar.” Her lambent eyes twinkled, she made the bowing sway that was the Skirrik equivalent of laughter. “Tipesh Sco, bound for Mai Semang on Lesket Tjin. Tenglan Mil, bound for Untangka on Ekso Beren. Pipin Kers, bound for Matamashak on Bretel Heran.” She flipped through the papers again. “All have cabin space free and have indicated a willingness to carry you all. Not so many who can afford cabin passage want to leave Atsila Vana,” she told Skeen, “odd as you might find that.”
Skeen turned to Pegwai. “Any preference, anyone you know among those?”
Pegwai twisted his face into a scowl. “Not Mil. Neither of us would be happy with a Dih on his ship. The other two I don’t know.”
Demmirrmar arched her neck. “Your name was mentioned, Scholar. Mil said nothing of any unwillingness.”
“Tenglan Mil would dice his granny for stew if the price was right.”
“Peg, those destinations. All in the Spray?”
“Yes.”
“Which is the largest busiest most important of the ports?”
“No question. Mai Samang.”
“Then we’ll take Sco’s Ship. I don’t like the thought of a clutch of Ravvayad sniffing along an unbroken trail. We’ll change ships in Mai Samang and change again later.”
NASTY NEW ENEMIES. THE FIRST FALSE DESTINATION PUT BEHIND HER, SKEEN STARTS SLOGGING ON AGAIN. AS USUAL THERE’S A LOT OF BORING GROUND TO GET ACROSS (IN THIS CASE A LOT OF BORING OCEAN) WHERE NOTHING MUCH HAPPENS BEYOND THE QUESTERS GETTING ON EACH OTHERS’ NERVES. SO—CONSIDER THE OCEAN CROSSED. AND TWO DAMP MONTHS CROSSED OFF. NOW OUR QUESTERS ARE VEGETATING IN A CITY CALLED kulchikan, THE MAIN CITY ON AN ISLAND CALLED the sting, ONE OF THE LARGER ISLANDS TRAILING OFF THE END OF A LONG THIN CURVE OF LAND CALLED the tail.
“I never thought to have so eminent a visitor. Like plucking a butter rose off a dungheap, an unexpected pleasure.” The dark saturnine face turned from Pegwai to Skeen and she didn’t need to be a mindreader to get the message in that dull brown gaze: How I’d love the pleasure of taming you, woman; I am Kral of Kulchikan, everything you see is mine to take if I want. Be glad I’m not a man to break the laws I’ve made; it means you’re safe for the moment, but give me the slightest reason, a hairline of an excuse, and we’ll see how long you’ll resist me. “You must be careful walking the streets in Kulchikan, Seeker. We do our best, but this is a lawless place.”