Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  In the days that followed, the days while they waited for Maggí Solitaire to show up, Skeen and the rest scrounged for coin to keep and feed themselves.

  Lipitero stayed behind in the room, bored but resigned to her confinement. She was myth made flesh and would attract far too much attention if she showed face and flight skins. Who wouldn’t want to possess a creature out of dreams? What a temptation it would be to clip a dragon’s wings and keep him always there. In a culture where slave holding was an unquestioned part of the system, no soul was safe from the slaver’s snare; the unprotected had little recourse but ducking, dodging and generally keeping out of notice. In spite of the skills and ferocity of Skeen and her Company, they wouldn’t be able to protect the Ykx from seizure if anyone outside discovered who and what she was. She spent her time carving small forms out of fragments of wood the Aggitj scavenged for her; she was meticulous, taking great pains with each stroke of the knife, putting one piece down and taking up another when she tired of the first; it wasn’t likely she’d finish any of them in time to add to the Company’s store of coin, but the work kept her from perishing of boredom.

  Skeen, Timka and the Chalarosh Boy worked together. Skeen played her flute and Timka danced, then while the Boy and the Beast worked the crowd for coin, she did some conjuring and patter to ease the pangs of giving. (Nervous Finnakese were more generous than they intended when the Boy smiled winsomely at them, exposing the twisted, grooved poison fangs, and when the Beast sniffed interestedly at their ankles.) More than once street urchins tried some fast poaching from the cash bowl, but backed off when the Beast squealed and lunged at them or the Boy hissed; Skeen’d told him he was responsible for protecting the take and he didn’t intend to let her down. When the hardboys came to collect the Bosses’ cut, intending to treat themselves to most of what was left over, even they kept their distance from Boy and Beast.

  The audience faded with practiced ease the moment they appeared, leaving Skeen to face the young thugs, four Funor shorthorns with their cowls gathered in folds about thick necks, their hair in tight brindle curls, their faces blunt, flat, doughy, the features etched into the dough as with a blunt stick, nostrils flat slits, eyes thumbed deep and dull, mouths shapeless holes. Big and ugly by birth and raising. Their timing was miserable, she’d been about to send the Boy out to collect for the performance; all that work for nothing. She had to struggle to keep a hold on her temper as she waited for the biggest to say what he’d come to say.

  Hardboy number one gargled at her in mangled Trade-Min: “Street cunk gotta pay the Hussa a cut.”

  Skeen relaxed; she’d been expecting this, but she didn’t let that show. She tucked the flute into a pocket on the cloak she’d improvised out of one of Lipitero’s robes; if she had to fight or run she needed her hands clear and she didn’t want to toss the flute where it would get trampled or stolen. “How much, how often, how many bosses have to be paid?”

  He opened his beady deep-set eyes as wide as he could. “Huh?”

  Skeen sighed. “All right, one thing at a time. How much?”

  He wrinkled his broad flat brow. The horns poking through the greasy brindle over his ears seemed to strain with the effort. “Uh. Half.”

  “Hah!” Skeen planted her hands on her hips and looked down her long nose at him, being as irritating as she could without coming flat out and calling him a lardhead. “Listen, you scrub, we might be new to these streets but that don’t mean we don’t know what’s what. One in ten. That’s the going rate and that’s what we’ll pay. One in ten. Every third day.”

  He rubbed meaty hands along his sides, worked his fingers. His herdmates behind him were getting restive and he knew if he didn’t handle this business right, he’d be hooked in the belly before the week was out and one of them would be replacing him as top kicker. “One in ten,” he blared at Skeen. “Yah, sure. Every day come sundown.” He watched her warily; when she didn’t seem about to object, he regained some of his swagger. “Collector be by. You have it or you don’ work ’n you have it right. We got ways a knowin’ the take.”

  Skeen made the cape swirl about her as she executed a magnificent mocking bow. “I hear and obey,” she chanted.

  He gazed at her with a touch of uncertainty, sensing dimly that she was making a fool of him, but the hints of rebellion in his mob had subsided and he didn’t want to mess that up by pointing out what they hadn’t noticed. He shouldered past her, made Timka skip away to avoid being trampled, but kept carefully wide of the Boy and the Beast.

  Timka watched them stomp along the street and disappear down a side alley, then she turned to narrow her eyes at Skeen. “You gave in fast.”

  Skeen dropped to a squat, rubbed her back against a rough place in the wall. “No point kicking against that bunch. We won’t be here long enough to make it worth the trouble.” She smiled as the street began filling up again, the noise level rising to what it’d been before. “Djabo gnaw their toes, those gits chased off our audience.” A yawn, a last scrape against the stone. “Ready?” She pushed onto her feet, ran her tongue over teeth and lips, inspected the flute, shook it out and began to play a plaintive tune.

  Timka grimaced, wriggled her body and shook her arms, then she began to improvise a circle dance of graceful drifts and slow leaps.

  Pegwai thought to set up as a street scribe, but while he was looking for an inkseller and the proper spot, he came across a Balayar trader who made Cida Fennakin his homeport, a distant cousin of his he’d known when he was a boy in the Spray. After a belly-burning lunch that made Pegwai momentarily nostalgic for cool nights on the sand and coals burning down over a buried porasbabash, Tilman Sang found him temporary work as tutor for the sons of another merchant with aspirations to importance; later he could boast his sons were educated by a Scholar from the Tanul Lumat and avoid mentioning how short his tenure was.

  Over wine punch that night, feet up before a crackling fire, Tilman Sang turned to Pegwai. “Too bad I couldn’t get you into one of the Funor Ashon households. I’d like to know more about how those old bulls think.”

  “Plenty of Funor outside the Keep walls. Study them.”

  “They’re different. Oh, I won’t deny there are connections, I only wish I knew how those worked, then I could avoid a lot of mistakes which could be bad for the health of me and mine. My six boys and me, we watch those outside Funor every chance we get, and nine times out of ten, we can’t make sense out of what we’re seeing.” He shook his head, frustration visible in the reddening of his round face. “It isn’t just curiosity, cousin-isl; around the Funor Ashon, ignorance can be fatal.” He settled back in his chair, took a sip of wine and stared at the stunted crawling flames. “Or close enough. I tell you, cousin-isl, none of us knows what will turn them cranky; it makes living here interesting, that I have to say. Not like in the Spray where you know how everybody breathes. Keeps you perked up if it doesn’t kill you.” He took a long swallow, then sighed. “That’s the trouble with this place, you just get to enjoying things and the crazy Funor change the rules on you. Are they that hard to get along with over on Tanzik? No? I suppose your Funor kicked their crazies out and they all landed here. Let me give you an example what can happen. Terador Mil—yes, I’ll admit no Mil ever had the sense to walk in out of the rain, but he’s not a bad sort. Fussy and ready to go overboard on rules and regulations, like to irritate the skin off anyone who has to deal with him, but honest as a Mil ever gets. So fill up your glass and let me tell this.

  Four, five years ago, old Dogbiter was the Faceman, the Bohant’s Mouth; he was the one who said hop and the whole damn city twitched like a clutch of nervous fleas. Deogabut ProCheng the Peakman, if you want the formal of it. He seemed more reasonable than most of them; if you were careful you could get a lot out of him and be fairly sure the deal would stick. He stayed on the highrope longer than I can remember another doing and most of us otherWavers knew quite well how to tickle him sweet. Day came when Terdi Mil had to go see him ab
out some trouble he was having getting in a cargo of seeds from Istryamozhe. He climbed the hill, dressed in his best go-to-meet-the-Dogbiter clothes, the horrible pink and purple mix old Dogbiter insisted on. He banged on the jakka gong and when the Greeter opened the wicket, he nearly turned round and marched back downhill. The Greeter’s badge was different—new colors, different squiggles in the sections—no one but Funor Ashon can read Funor writing. If he hadn’t been Terdi Mil, that’s what he’d’ve done, turned right round and got out of there, but he’s a hard head, him, and he settled himself down, went through all the contortions and kowtowing the Funor make us go through before they’ll talk to us, the high and noble ones anyway. The Peakman was the worst; if he was anything but Funor, I’d swear he was playing games on us, sitting somewhere watching and laughing his fool head off at the asses we were making of ourselves. Well, Mil banged his brow on the ground for the last time, then he asked to see Dogbiter, using his grand name and all his titles, just like everyone had a hundred times. Far as he could tell, up to then, everything was fine. But before he finished with last title, the Little Gate banged open, Funor swarmed out, stripped off every clout and kicked him around the ring and beat him until he was staggering, cursing him, spitting at him, using their tonks on him until the only way he knew he was alive was the pain. Until they didn’t, he was sure they were going to kill him, but they pointed him downhill and started him off with a boot on his quivering ass. Well, he’s a tough old wart and he got himself home before he passed out. Had to stay in bed nearly a month, but he got over it. Took the rest of us traders a while more to find out the Dogbiter had a stroke and that interrupted his dance long enough for him to get kicked off the rope and finally strangled; there was a lot of maneuvering until there was another dancer firmly in place and things finally settled enough so we could stick our heads up and go back to trading. One hairy time, I tell you; you never knew what was going to happen. Folk you’d known for years turned up missing and you never took notice of it because you were scared it’d happen to you if you did. Well, that’s over now, but Lifefire only knows how soon it’ll happen again—when this Faceman falls, and we won’t know it until some other poor skuk will be goat for us all.” Tilman Sang grinned at his cousin. “You figure a way to read them, Dih, and I’ll work you a nice little commission.”

  “It’s an idea, cousin. I’ll think about it.” Pegwai was bland and noncommittal, but Tilman expected as much and only meant to plant the seed, a seed he’d manured with the obligation he’d laid on Pegwai by getting him the tutoring job. One way or another Pegwai would clear the debt; that’s the way things worked among the Balayar of the Spray. Pegwai got to his feet and began the long process of taking his leave.

  The Aggitj came tramping down the stairs, arguing vigorously in Aggitchan flinging arms about, letting their bodies handle the mechanics of the descent. They quieted when they reached the long taproom; the younger three hung back while Hal walked over to Angelsin Yagan, not forgetting courtesy but not intimidated by her massive presence. Ders jigged about behind Hart (who stood stolid and disapproving, his arms folded, his eyelids drooping, the corners of his mouth tucked into the deep creases slanting from his nostrils and dropping under his jawline) and Domi (who merely looked impatient).

  “Mamam Kai, by your kindness tell us where we can find the Aggitj Slukra. We’re hunting work by day or week.”

  Angelsin leaned forward, moving her face out of shadow, her deep-set eyes dark and unreadable, her gaze uncomfortably searching. Hal kept his smile though it took more effort than he was happy about. Ders stopped whistling and moved closer to Domi, shivering now and then in a way he had when particularly nervous. Domi put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, closed it tight. Ders calmed, leaned against his taller relation and watched from slitted eyes. Domi draped his arm over the boy’s shoulder and waited for the woman to speak. He’d argued a good half hour with Hal about approaching her. She gave him chills in the belly whenever he was in the same room with her. We can live here and pay her for the privilege, he’d told Hal, but no more; we should keep as far away from her as we can manage.

  “Why?” she said. Her voice was warm and creamy, her mouth soft, smiling. “I’ll give you work if you want. There is more than enough lifting and carrying about this chek and I will pay better than anything the Slukra can find for you.”

  Hal forced a smile. Domi saw the muscles in his neck tighten and knew Hal the always-right had a flood of second thoughts. “Most kind, Mamam Kai.” His voice sounded stiff though he was trying to speak naturally. “It’s not just work, we want to greet our kind and see if kin have come this far. There’s news to pass from Boot and Backland.”

  Angelsin Yagan settled back, her broad face once more in shadow. “That is natural,” she said, the warmth gone from her voice. “But they’re a nosy lot at the Slukra. My business is none of theirs; be sure you leave me out of your news passing. My offer is withdrawn. I would wish you fair going, but if you continue to ignore the blessings of fortune, you’ll land in the slop and deserve what you get.”

  “Ah, Mamam Kai, don’t ill wish us. We don’t mean to offend, but we’re a long way from home and blood means a lot. Where will we find the Slukra?”

  She gave directions in a die-away exhausted voice and they left as quickly as they could without offending her further.

  Ders trotted ahead, waited for them to catch up and skipped backward in front of his cousins. “If that one ever had children, I bet she ate ’em raw soon as they popped out.”

  Domi scowled. “Eat you if she hears you saying things like that, flea brain.”

  “Eh, Domi, who knows Aggitchan here?” He flapped his arms in wide awkward sweeps that almost decapitated a smallish Pallah whore who jumped aside just in time and sent a gush of curses after them, then went on her way muttering unfriendly things under her breath.

  “Could be anyone, you chump. This is a trade port and a big ’un. Take the wheels off your tongue. We can’t scoot for cover this time, not till, well, you know.” He looked warily about, but no one was paying them undue attention. “Watch your mouth, cousin, or you could get us all skinned.”

  Ders dropped his arms and he pouted for a while, but his sulks never lasted very long; in a few paces his buoyancy had returned and he bounced along, whistling under his breath.

  Within the hour they had work as day laborers along the wharves with the promise of plenty of jobs ahead, as much as they wanted as long as they wanted it. Here too, Aggitj extras were preferred workers. The Aggitj in the Slukra looked wary when they mentioned where they were staying, but said little, only a veiled warning. Don’t get her mad at you. You won’t like what happens. No, that’s all. Do us a favor, forget we said anything.

  Chulji found work outside town in the ring farms, transferring from one to another, dealing with plant disease and other problems; he didn’t earn much, but got most of his meals from the farms, easing the drain on the common purse.

  Skeen took some of the coin and went prowling the taverns, listening to talk, answering questions when she was recognized as a Pass-Through, trading yarns, her own told with a purpose, an indirect way of digging out possible involuntary contributors who’d fund her return to the Stranger’s Gate. The larger streets were safe enough even in the gray hours before dawn, but alleys and indoors were something else; she stumbled into a few troubles, but fought her way clear with feet, hands and boot knife, paying for her inattention and less than alertness (all that ale that she told herself she was swallowing to oil the give and take that gave her the names she needed) with bruises, cuts, a three-day limp and an almost concussion that kept her ears ringing for another three days. But she was slowly, safely building up a list of the affluent but truly despised, intending here as in Oruda to pick a victim so wormish that he (or she, of course) was unlikely to spur fervent pursuit, a victim whose plight was more apt to evoke belly laughs and appreciative chuckles and a tendency to wish the thief well as long as it didn’t invo
lve any danger or discomfort to the wisher.

  JUST ABOUT EVERYONE WHO TALKS TO ASPIRING WRITERS SAYS SHOW, DON’T TELL; GOOD ENOUGH ADVICE, BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO LOOK ON IT AS HOLY WRIT. AS SKEEN MIGHT SAY, HAVING A RULE IS SUFFICIENT EXCUSE FOR BREAKING IT. NOW AND THEN THOUGH, THERE’S A LOVELY, COMFORTABLE DELIGHT IN CONFORMING TO TRITE OLD RULES; YOU CAN FEEL VIRTUOUS AND ENJOY THE HELL OUT OF YOURSELF AT THE SAME TIME.

  or

  HERE’S ONE OF SKEEN’S STORIES, THE ONE THAT GOT HER THE NAME SHE WANTED.

  Skeen says: Now I do not guarantee the truth of this tale. The man who told it to me was not one to confine himself to thus and so; he’d got a skinful, too, and oiled his throat so the words came sliding out like silky ribbons. Oh, it was glorious to hear and I am far from his equal, but I’ll give it to you nonetheless.

  Vitrivin the Slave Maker and the Corbi of Tinkle’s Thwart

  Vitrivin was a snatch artist, so they say, the slickest fox who ever slid a chick away under a guard’s long nose. Some slavers went roaring in, scooped up everything lively enough to walk about and went roaring out again, waiting until they were clear of chasers before they sorted out their catch. That wasn’t Vitrivin’s way. He was a cautious man. He was a careful man. He spied and spied before he went in; he would know the tongue and how folk greeted each other, he would know the proper clothes and the way to wear them. He would know where he could hide and when it was safe to come out. And when it was safe to come out, he would go into a place as a trading man and the things he would sell were tiny sweet machines that could do wonders without half trying and what he would buy was whatever things took his fancy; he bought them mostly because folk would wonder about him if he did not. The treasures he sought were not such trifles, but the folk that swirled about him, laughing and loving, buying and selling, the living treasures. From these, he made his choices and marked his choices with metal burrs smaller than a dinka seed, metal burrs with silent voices that would cry out to the meatmen who followed him and swept the marked ones in the terrible black maw of the meatwagon. He chose the most charming of young children, though not too many of these (children clogged the auction halls). He chose singers, musicians, sculptors, swordsmiths and any other artisans with special gifts, as long as they were young and healthy. Three places he went, no more, then away to his ship to wait the return of the meatwagon and the sleepers stacked inside. Oh, yes, he was a cautious man, a careful man. And tasteful. A businessman who knew his markets and never wasted a snatch.