Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  What did he look like, this excellent and dedicated slave maker? Like everyone and no one, a shadow man, a gray man, a man no man would notice in a crowd of two. His nose sat meekly in the middle of his face. His eyes were eye-colored, neither dull nor sharp. His mouth was neither small nor large, neither pale nor bright. His voice flowed along like stagnant water. He was a dim little shadow flitting past you, not dim enough or odd enough to catch your eye. And after he passed, one-two-a dozen-twenty vanished, swiftly, silently, forever, as if they had never existed. Mothers wept, fathers cursed, lovers searched, but the gone never returned and no trace of them could be found and the emptiness they left behind healed over like any wound. And Vitrivin laid up mountains of sweet gold, but no mountain was high enough to quench his thirst for more, so he took his ship and his meatmen and went out again and again and again, making slaves with no end to the making.

  Until he came to a Lostworld that called itself Three-legged Crow. Which is an odd thing to call a world but the Flingers who settled worlds like that, worlds away and away from the empires and the commanderies and the commensalities, away away from the traderoads and the sweeplines, those Flingers were without doubt the oddest folk a sun ever shone on.

  He crept up to TLC as was his custom, tucked himself behind one of the five moons and studied the folk below.

  Spirals were what he saw where the population was thickest on the ground, ovals where there were fewer folk, the fields spread round in webs. Folk went about in huge wheeled carts pulled by pairs of horned beasts, but a larger web joined the smaller places to the spiral centers, monorails with light slipping along them like silver sparks. The two things didn’t belong together; that sent a little chill crawling up his spine. He thought about leaving and trying elsewhere until he saw the images his spy eyes gathered for him.

  The folk of Three-legged Crow were tall and handsome, gold-skinned blonds with eyes as green as the mammoth forests tucked round the fields and villages. They took joy in making things by hand and making each thing a wonder in itself, be it such a simple thing as a waterbowl for one of the small fuzzy beasts they kept as pets. Even the elders were handsome and vigorous. And the children were elfin charmers. His mouth watered at the thought of merchandising a shipload of these Crowmese. He told himself you’re foolish old man, what can these backwoods know-nothings do against you? So he made his preparations and took his ship down. He couldn’t sneak in this time; he was too short and too different and the villages were too small for him fade into, so he was just a wandering trader looking for someone who’d buy his machines and sell him local things he could sell somewhere else. A commonplace little gray man who wouldn’t scare the spookiest child.

  He walked away from his ship with his sample cases and started into one of the spiral cities. It was as easy as that. The folk gathered around him, chattering like tuneful birds, bright and beautiful, open and friendly; he was nearly overwhelmed by the wealth of choice about him; he could have taken them all and profited from them so he marked none. Not yet, no, wait until you see more, he said to himself. Around the next corner there will be women more beautiful, there will be artisans more skilled.

  In this spiral city on the coast he found a woman who played waterpipes with a poignance that brought tears to his eye-colored eyes. He found children who danced in strange circles whose meaning hovered just beyond his understanding. He found an ivory carver and a clipclap singer and a weaver and five beautiful women ranging from one joyous creature who’d just become a woman to the mother of five children who was radiantly female in so powerful a way that it reached even him though he didn’t like women at all. He marked these and some others and took the monorail inland to a deep woodland village where he marked a pair of twins in their fifth year of life, and two woodcarvers and a viol maker and a blind herbalist who made wonderful perfumes, and three more women all very young, just emerging from their baby fat. All this he did in a single day and in the dark he took the monorail again to a steep walled cleft high in the mountains where miners and metalworkers lived. Tinkle’s Thwart it was called.

  He slept on the journey and had bad dreams, dreams of choking, of flying and falling, of endless pursuit by something he never quite saw. He woke in the gray light of dawn as the train slowed for the station at Tinkle’s Thwart. He was sweating and more tired on waking that he was when he sank into that heavy sleep. He was afraid. As he hauled his sample cases onto the station platform and programmed them to walk beside him, he wanted terribly to get back on the train and race to the coast; he wanted to leap into his ship and get away from here. He hesitated too long, the train slipped away; he thought of the heaps and heaps of gold his cargo would bring in and told himself he was a superstitious fool to take dream warnings seriously. They probably were born in something he ate; though he was careful about his food and tested everything before he ate it whenever he was in a strange place, there was always the chance something sly slipped through. Only something I ate, he said to himself. Still, there was an oddness about the way these Crowmese looked at him after they’d been round him a while; their smiles retreated to the tips of their teeth. Ah, well, I am a stranger and they’ve had few of those round here. This has happened to me before. Forget it, old man, you’re not going to be here long enough for that feeling to cause trouble.

  Tinkle’s Thwart was one of the oval settlements, a ring of houses and shops, a broad brick roadway, a central common; this was a carefully tended garden with velveteen lawns, clumps of lace trees, splashes of primary colors from the flower beds and a small noisy stream meandering through the middle of it all, singing its way over several short drops. A pleasant place just coming to life, high enough to be cold in the early morning in spite of the bright summer weather. There was a cook shop next to the platform and he ate his breakfast amid a bustle of young Thwarters going to work in the village food fields in a valley lower down; they were catching a last hot meal before the fieldwork began. He paid for his meal with a handful of local coins, then herded his sample cases out of the shop, ignoring the laughter that followed him as the Thwarters noted for the first time the hippity-hoppity progress of the cases on their dozens of short skinny legs and stubby feet.

  A tall girl danced a silent circle about him, her hair hanging loose, so pale it was almost white, the ends frizzed and shifting in the slow breeze; she was all length and awkward elasticity, but her too-visible bones had a promise of everlasting elegance. Her eyes held a touch of blue, huge bright eyes that judged him coolly and found him wanting. “Hello,” he said. “Lady, I thank you for your greeting.” He bowed.

  Her lips parted in an enigmatic smile, baring small chisel teeth and canines that dropped lower into dagger points. She said nothing but continued to stare at him for a long uncomfortable moment, then she darted away.

  He wiped the sweat off his face, promised himself he’d mark her the moment he got a chance; let her learn lessons of humility from better teachers than him. He tucked his kerchief away and stepped onto the bricks of the ringroad, heading for the first of the shops.

  He bought and sold, sold and bought, moving slowly along the curve of the oval; the sun rose and shadows shortened and children came from everywhere to dance in rings about him, the rings changing each time he returned to the brick paving. They clapped their hands and chanted magic syllables at him; it was charming and annoying. He managed to ignore them and went patiently from shop to shop. By noon he’d finished two-thirds of the circuit, had tagged a dozen Thwarters and was near perishing of hunger.

  He stepped from a silversmith’s shop and stood irresolute, looking about for the nearest eating place. A long line of children wove toward him, dancing hand in hand. They swung about him, closed the circle and chanted:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  then they danced a high energy circle about him and chanted again:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own
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  the circle whizzed about him a second time and they chanted a third time:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  and a third time the circle wheeled, but this time, as soon as the circuit was complete, they broke apart and darted away in a dozen directions like drops of split mercury, high wild silvery giggles bubbling out of them.

  One child remained at his side, a young boy, shy and lovely as a faun, his crystalline eyes the pale green frozen into pure ice. Vitrivin knew he should get on with his rounds and finish his tagging, ignoring all this nonsense. Kid games, nothing more, he told himself, forget it. His intuit alarms were throbbing but he ignored those. It was almost done, he was almost on his way back to the ship; his meatmen were out and working by now, he’d soon be gone from this spooky world. He took a step, then turned to gaze down at the boy, a forced smile stretching his lips.

  The boy watched him with grave and disconcerting interest.

  “What was all that about?” he said.

  “Oh, it’s just a game we play,” the boy said.

  “Ah, well, that’s fine. What is the purpose of the game?” he said.

  “We catching you,” the boy said.

  “Oh.” Vitrivin thought about pushing it further, but decided not to. “Where is a good place for the noon meal that’s close by so I won’t waste time?”

  “Memo Julso sells sammitches and salads. They good, um um.” The boy rubbed his belly and made a large gesture of licking his lips. He caught Vitrivin’s wrist and tugged. “Down along two steps. You buy me a bratta, huh huh?”

  “What would your mum say to that, eh, boy? You shouldn’t take things from strangers.” He spoke with heavy jocularity, a distilled essence of adults talking down to children, adults who had forgotten how to be children, adults who had forgotten childhood so completely they couldn’t remember how to be alive.

  “Memo IS ma mum,” the boy said. He grinned at Vitrivin, patted his wrist. “Come, come, one sniff will tell you I’ve said true, even if it is my mum.”

  Vitrivin let the boy pull him along into a half-walled garden that opened onto the brick roadway and looked across it at a tree-framed section of lawn and a small tumble of water.

  About halfway through his sammitch he heard bells and looked up. That skinny girl was back. She came dancing onto the grass, carrying strings of silver bells that rang when they bumped together, and dropped lightly on the center of the patch of grass, facing west, and began unthreading the bells from their carry cord. He chewed stolidly and watched with greedy interest as she set the bells about her knees.

  She lifted the largest, rang it briskly, chanted: An draa po disss tis a a a koo ayyy ye an drup o diss ti yess hem oh hem all a gay.… There was more, much more of that and winding through it the singing of the bells.

  The sound itched at him, lovely as it was. He hurried up his chewing and when he finished, wiped his lips with the napkin Memo Julso gave him and put it neatly by his plate. The boy sat off a bit, chewing on his bratta. Vitrivin beckoned him over. “Her,” he said and pointed. “Who is she?”

  “Oh, her. She is the Corbi and she’s tolling.”

  “It is a strange but charming performance,” he said, with the same heavy artifice he’d used before. He was not certain he should venture further, but a mix of fear and curiosity dissolved his prudence. “Why is the Corbi doing that?”

  “Because that’s one of the things Corbis do.”

  Before he could ask what tolling was, Memo Julso came out and called her son to her. Vitrivin’s prudence congealed again. He got to his feet, gave the Julso a ponderous bow and a clumsy compliment and before he was half finished, she was smiling and relaxed. The boy leaned against her thigh and put his hand on the hand she laid on his shoulder and then he smiled lazily at Vitrivin, his ice crystal eyes shutting to slits. With a chill in his gut though he didn’t show it, Vitrivin chirked his sample cases into a hasty shuffle and herded them out. The tolling bells and the Corbi’s chant followed him eerily as he went back to his selling rounds.

  Children came from nowhere and danced around him.

  Skooo ah nair sko ah nair

  Braay fuss bro tair

  Over and over they chanted that, over and over till they broke and ran and other children came to dance round and round him.

  Oy da tis ay glow ka nair oy da di o ti enthay.

  Pag gi day so sko a nair, ap pa tay.

  So sou tis ay

  Glow ka nair sko ah nair, day oh say

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  He continued to ignore them and moved from shop to forge to shop, his gut in a gelid knot. He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t linger either; he no longer tagged anyone, he simply wanted to get out of here and let the meatmen begin their harvest.

  Day oh say, sko ah nair—so the children sang.

  Air ka par ah Corbi-me, air ka, air ka, tris an dris—so the Corbi sang and mingled magic syllables with the tintinnabulation of her singing silver bells.

  He walked slower and slower; his feet seemed to stick to the bricks and pulling them loose took more and more of his energy. His thoughts moved slower and slower, but the chill, driving terror in his gut snapped them loose and the beast that lived within went round and round struggling to escape.

  The children danced round and round him, chanting at him.

  Somewhere behind him, the Corbi rang her bells, chanting with them.

  And he finally understood what they were saying, from the first of the circle chants; he understood what they were doing to him.

  Weave weave the binding ring,

  That the children sang.

  About him thrice, three times around.

  Slave maker, listen, slave maker hear us.

  That the Corbi sang.

  Shadow man, shadow man

  That the children sang.

  Baby eater

  I know who you are, gray man, I know why you’re here.

  I will trap you, shadow man, I will trick

  You, I will so.

  Gray man shadow man, I am binding you

  Weave weave the binding ring

  About him thrice, three times around

  I am binding you

  That the children sang.

  Come to Corbi, come, come

  That the Corbi sang.

  Come oh come, you tear making men

  His body stopped completely and stood like stone on the bricks. He felt more than saw a shadow pass overhead, heard the whine of the meatwagon. He knew then what the Corbi tolled because the meatmen weren’t due until he left and signaled them. The beast within shouted in fury and frustration, trapped inside stony flesh where no one and nothing could hear him.

  The whine groaned down to a subsonic growl. The bells rang louder, the rhythms more jangled, the sound reaching deep and deep, stirring things in him he didn’t want stirred up; he fought but the music was far stronger than him, he was meshed in a web from which he couldn’t break loose. Other voices joined the chant, mature voices, deep and rich. Over these he heard a dull steady shuffle.

  The chanting came closer. The bells rang louder. The Corbi danced around where he could see her. Her face and her eyes glowed with a wild and burning light. The beast within that was the real him quivered with a terror like that his victims must have felt, something he’d never expected to know. He was a careful man, he was a cautious man, he was too good at his work. He had fooled a thousand tracers, ten thousand guards; he’d dipped in and out of worlds no other slave maker managed to penetrate and left no proof behind that he’d ever been there; empires had mobilized to catch him and he’d laughed at them. Yet here, now, a lanky half-grown child had trapped him, prepubescent babies had bound him fast. Had done it as easily as if he were a brain-burned phlux head. Children! He would have ground his teeth together if he could have moved his jaw. The beast within raged at the Corbi and she smiled back, glowing with triumph,
arms, hands, body moving effortlessly through the sacred dance.

  His meatmen tramped around where he could see them. They wore purple paper chains wound about and about them and bowed under the imagined weight of these ephemeral bindings; their jaws bulged as they strained against that weight while the gentle breeze sent paper edges scraping lightly against their arms.

  Slave maker, the Corbi sang at him. Slave maker shadow man, the children sang at him. They knew. They all knew. From the seaside spiral to this tiny mountain village, they’d touched and tasted him; when he thought he was fooling them, they were laughing at him for he was the fool.