Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  The Boy grinned. Hal nodded gravely. Domi lifted his glass, his eyes laughing. “And you don’t need to worry, we’ll be careful who we choose, no sinister strange robed figures or animal acts whose beasts are more than they seem,” he said, laughter moving from eyes to voice.

  The four days passed with little change in the activities of Maggí or the company of questers. There were no attacks by stray Min or fanatic Chalarosh. The Boy reveled in the little luxury of having his own shows and he graciously allowed the Aggitj, Rannah and any of the deck passengers who happened to be hanging around to watch with him as the acrobats, conjurers, or puppeteers performed. Maggí stopped to watch too whenever she was onboard the Goum Kiskar, but most of the time she was onshore, dickering with merchants, especially those who had fully tanned fur pelts trapped during the winterdeep on the high peaks. Because of Skeen’s gold, she could afford to tie up more of her working capital in these furs than she usually did and she was in an ebullient mood most days.

  Skeen flung herself onshore as if released from prison. She didn’t grudge Timka or the Aggitj the gold to pay their way, no, she ladled it out with a generous hand. But with a crackling intensity in her voice, a sharp abrasive edge to her words, she told them to keep away from her, play their own games and leave her to hers. Lipitero had done her best, producing a tiny burred beeper that Timka tried to hook onto the back of the eddersil tunic; Skeen discovered it immediately, as if even here in a world where such things weren’t supposed to exist, her nervous system was so sensitized to electronic snooping she felt the burr like the princess felt the pea. She pulled off the burr, ground it under her heel and said some bitter unforgivable things to Timka and Lipitero before she left the ship.

  After she acquired a room in a midlevel tavern near the wharves, she wandered aimlessly about, drifting from market to market, tavern to tavern. Grimly determined, Timka-owl flew overhead, following her that way, anxiously examining her walk as she left each of the taverns, wondering if she was going to stumble onto the downslide she’d begun in Fennakin, but Skeen didn’t stay long in the taverns. She seemed to be on an orientation ramble, finding out which places she liked, which she’d rather avoid. She began to acquire company, male and female, until she was in the middle of a small clot of folk who strolled along laughing, exchanging toppers, shouting ribald comments to acquaintances they passed, enjoying themselves in a loud but comfortable way, under no pressure to perform for each other. It might have been interesting if Timka had been one of them, but flying overhead she found the whole thing intensely boring. And it went on and on, past sundown, past midnight. Skeen finally went home with one of the men, her step still steady, her hilarity subdued. Timka perched on the roof of the tavern, wondering how far she should go to insure Skeen’s safety; should she slip down and see what was happening in the room? Everything in her resisted that. On the other hand, Skeen was more vulnerable than she’d ordinarily be, her ability to defend herself radically diminished by the loss of her dominant hand. She’ll kill me dead if she catches me snooping like that, Lifefire! I’d kill me dead. Timka stayed up on the ridgepole and dozed until dawn. Stretched to the limit of flesh and spirit, she told herself Skeen wasn’t likely to be out and away for some hours; she flew off to her own room to snatch some sleep.

  Still the dreams came—daymares now—stealing from her the rest she needed; she didn’t try to fight them. They led her deeper and deeper into Skeen’s life, teaching her why Skeen had grown so restive and hostile. It wasn’t so much the loss of the hand and the pain that went with the amputation as an accumulation of irritations from the whole of the trek. Skeen didn’t deal well with people, at least not in long stretches; she needed solitude like most folk needed air to breathe. She hated being responsible for other lives, she shucked that responsibility as soon as she could with a skill acquired from much experience; her problem with the Company, us, that’s different, there’s no way she can ease herself free of us, not till we reach the Gate. Really, not even then. There’s Lipitero and me on the other side as well as this; she knew that and it grated on her, exacerbating the small irritations that living in such close quarters was bound to produce. She was easiest around Chulji since the Min Skirrik boy spent the least time with her. She needed a lot more time than four days free of them all to flush out her system; where before Timka had dreaded the time in port, now she welcomed it. She found herself almost hoping that the wind would abandon them, forcing Maggí once again to spend a month tied up here. It seemed a secure enough place, stray Min weren’t likely to attack, the Boy was safe onboard the Goum Kiskar, Lifefire help any Chalarosh stupid enough to try anything there.

  I thought I was a solitary being, I thought I kept myself apart and preferred life that way, I thought it gave me power to be secret and sly and share nothing and take nothing but those things that kept my body comfortable. Now, looking into the mirror of a true solitary, she understood how greatly she had misread herself. Looking back at those years in Dum Besar, she saw that though she hadn’t let herself recognize it, she’d been happy; looking back at the Poet, she found a deep fondness for him—and a degree of respect—that she hadn’t at all expected. There were a lot of Pallah she’d like to kick in the butt, the ignorant bigoted bastards who’d gone out of their way to make her life a misery; yet there were a lot more who’d treated her well enough, they couldn’t help doing stupid irritating things because they understood nothing about her. Even so, there were good hearts under the bumbling. She’d seethed with resentment at the time, but a lot of those times were almost funny now. And she didn’t want to see them slaughtered. And she didn’t want to see her own people slaughtered either, caught up in a futile, vicious war. Telka and the Holavish were driving toward that, willing to risk all Min to rid the world of the Pallah, the warhawks among the Pallah landholders displayed an equal fervor for wiping out the Min. Each of these forces had to be defeated. She was beginning to have a glimmer of how that might be done, a vague notion involving Carema and her web of friends, the Poet and his along with the unspoken and generally overlooked good will that existed between Pallah and Mountain Min along the border between them after years of barter and the commonplace exchanges of emergency aid when children or livestock were in trouble. She went back and back to that idea, refusing each time to associate herself with it. I’ll work it out and write it down and see it gets to Carema. She can take over from there. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I’ll do. Work it out, write it out.

  Every morning the wind blew south, every evening the wind blew north. The days were bright and clear, with a gentle nip in the air. The hills around the city were laced with reds and oranges, golds and brilliant browns, the water in the Gullet danced to the wind, sparkling blue like broken glass. The ships coming and going showed off the fine details of their rigging even when they were far enough off they might have been toys. The markets were lush with fruits and nuts, with cheeses and ropes of sausage, with wools and hanks of fibers raw and dyed, with bottles of all shapes, with jugs and barrels heavy with homebrew and cordials, booths and pavement heaped and overflowing with the good things the Sikuro valley produced. Musicians played; acrobats leaped and whirled; dancers swayed, leaped, tantalized; puppeteers played their dolls; beggars whined and displayed their sores (though beggars here had a ruddy health that even their dramatic skills couldn’t quite hide). Day was swallowed by day, each the same, a pleasant, comfortable, comforting sameness.

  Maggí finished her cargo and spent the early half of the fourth day getting it stowed. Cabin and deck passengers were coming aboard all day, checked against the Mate’s list before they were allowed up. The Aggitj loitered on the wharf for a while, but they weren’t allowed to work and got bored. They drifed back into the city to spend the last of the money Skeen had given them. Pegwai had vanished among the Balayar on the first day and hadn’t been visible since. He came dragging onboard a little after noon, looking a dozen pounds heavier and so tired he barely managed to move his feet. Mag
gí tried teasing him, but he declined her openings, telling her his brain had been asleep since morning and he wouldn’t be a worthy opponent for her wit for at least another three days. He went into his cabin and collapsed on one of the bunks. Chulji played on the quarterdeck with Rannah and the Boy.

  Midway through the afternoon, clouds began thickening overhead. The wind blew strongly out of the north with no sign of dropping. In its usual pattern, it turned erratic about this time of day and finally sighed to nothing before rising again in the south, the sundown wind that blew ships back up the Neck on their way to the Halijara. Clouds bumped and boiled and turned black and ominous, while jags of lightning walked through the gloom. The heavy air smelled cold and burnt. Flurries of huge cold raindrops came slapping down. Maggí cursed and got her ship snugged to the wharf with extra lines, then hustled her passengers onshore for the duration of the storm (Lipitero, Chulji, and the Boy excepted). The city provided snug hostels for these little emergencies. She routed Pegwai out of his blankets, and sent him to find Timka. “Tell her to stay where she is. And Skeen. No one’s going anywhere until this storm clears out.”

  The clouds blew off by morning and the wind dropped to nothing, dainty puffs that barely dimpled the surface of the broad lake. Maggí took a look round, recognized conditions and didn’t bother swearing. One day, a dozen, Lifefire solo knew how long the calm would last. She slapped the rail, turned to the Mate who was standing beside her looking morose. “Tell the crew they can draw against their shares if they want, but remind them we don’t know how long this tikkush will last. I want a five-man guard aboard all times, especially watch out for Chalarosh, stop any that try to come aboard. Crew couldn’t stop a guard double pair, but should that happen, send a runner for me fast if I’m not here. They’ll be after our flying friend, should that happen.”

  Houms grunted. “Saw Yiatch’s brat yesterday. Counting the load, I think. You’d better see the Guard Capo. If there’s going to be Haamitti in the water, I want to issue crossbows to the crew.”

  Maggí watched the brief shudder of a pennant, sighed when it went limp. “I’d better get on it, then. Have the bows ready.” She cursed softly, Houms made soft agreeing sounds. “I particularly didn’t want to draw Family notice this time,” she muttered. “Particularly not this run.” She straightened her shoulders, gave him a tight smile. “Try not to shoot anyone before I get back.”

  The calm hung about. Air began turning foul, smoky, bitter with the stink of human and animal wastes; tempers grew frayed, even the Aggitj turned sour. Timka expected Skeen to grow more tetchy and difficult, but she didn’t. She drank and sat around tavern fires exchanging wild stories with whoever’d listen, ended each night taking one or more of her companions back to her room with her. She was relaxed and amiable and showed it in her walk; she had learned a new balance, her stump was healing nicely, without complications, she could dress herself without needing help. Timka watched this, amazed.

  Two days of calm. Three. Four. Five. High roostertail clouds began gathering above the haze. The air stirred, there was a faint hope the wind would return, the city began emerging from its lethargy. Six days. Seven. The clouds lowered, darkened, the haze began to smell of rain. Crews on the ships got busy again, checking the rigging, working with more energy at the unending maintainance that ocean-goers required.

  Timka dozed on the ridgepole above the window of Skeen’s room; she didn’t quite know why she was there. Habit, she supposed. She dropped through the doze into sleep until a series of odd sounds broke through to her. She woke, blinking, looked dazedly about, then down.

  Robed Chalarosh were lowering Skeen from the window. She was trussed in a webbing of rope, arms and ankles pinioned. Not dead, unconscious, or they wouldn’t take such trouble with her.

  Timka squeezed the ridgepole with her talons, not sure what she should do. Get Maggí? Pegwai? The Aggitj? Or call the city guard? Two more Chalarosh slid down the doubled ropes, collected them, lifted Skeen over the shoulder of the largest and started off at a quick trot. Follow them. Yes. That’s best. For now. She sidled back from the eaves until she was near one of the many chimneys, then powered herself into flight. She climbed as high as she could and still see the streets through the soupy air.

  The Chalarosh abductors stopped beside a two-wheeled cart, dumped Skeen roughly over the tailgate and climbed in after her. The driver flicked the reins on the rump of the stolid vo and the beast started off, the cart creaking along at a slow walk. They wound through the waterfront streets until they were out among the hovels that grew like mushrooms around the edge of the city. Then they started up into the hills, following a woodcutter’s road. Timka flew after them though she was more and more unsure that she’d made a wise choice; if they were coming all this way to avoid the attention of the guards, wouldn’t it have been better to get those guards after them in the first place? The problem was Skeen. She was in no position to defend herself and Timka had a strong notion that the Chalarosh would have killed her at the first threat to them. Well, there was no turning back now, she was committed to following them; if they showed signs of … signs of … she almost giggled though an owl has few facilities for giggling … murderous intent, she’d have to take a hand, no—not a hand—a paw well armed with claws.

  The cart turned off the road (well, more like off the ruts, it wasn’t much of a road), circled north then south about a pair of knolls covered with grass, old stumps, and some flourishing brush; it dipped into a dusty hollow with a miniscule stream and an abandoned charcoal burner’s hut. The hut had a new roof, bundles of twigs roped in place atop the crumbling sod and wattle walls. Timka flew to the top branches of a mossy ancient, one of a thick, cluttered stand of trees that began three hillocks behind the hut.

  Two out of the eight Chalarosh got down from the cart and waited while the others muscled Skeen down to them; they carried her into the hut and stayed in there with her, apparently taking the place of the two new ones who came from the hut and climbed into the cart. The driver slapped the vo into motion, turned the cart and started back for Sikuro. Torn between her desire to rescue Skeen and her need to know where the cart was going, Timka dithered in the tree, opening and closing her talons, doing a nervous dance on the branch. She hooted softly, took off and swept a circle high over the cart, gliding through wisps of fog, shaking the fog out of her head. It took them more than an hour to get out here. I could catch them before they got too far into Sikuro. If I can work things right. Not a good idea to hurry, get careless, I could get Skeen killed. Or me. Borrow some of Skeen’s fussiness, Ti, a bit of foresight never hurt, nor a little patience. She watched the Chalarosh bumping along in the cart, now and then exchanging a few words; they’ve got the world by the tail, so they think. Let them think it, they’ll find out. I hope. She swung back over the hollow, inspected the hovel. No windows, lots of holes, but they can’t see much out of those. I could land off a bit, but what’s an owl or two out here. Her soft feathers muting the sound of her passage through the air, she slanted down, landed close to the hut, got herself properly balanced, then shifted.

  Ti-cat crept along the wall, belly to the ground, nearly invisible as her camouflage blended with the browns and grays of soil and sod. Near the door she flattened herself and listened. Sketchy indistinct sounds as someone moved about, creaks and scuffs. A few words in guttural Chala. She didn’t understand these, didn’t much care what the men were saying. As far as she could tell, there were only two guards inside. She didn’t understand why they were doing this; they had Skeen, what was the point of keeping her? An intriguing puzzle, but she didn’t bother fiddling with it. That was for later, once this thing was done. She gave herself half an hour of patience, hoping she wouldn’t have to charge inside and chance them slitting Skeen’s throat before she could reach them. The dust was gray with ancient ash; it had an acrid tickling odor as small riffs of wind lifted it, flung it against her muzzle. There was an electricity in the damp air, the hair along her spine
stood stiffly up; if she moved it would be in a haze of crackles and tiny worms of blue white static. Storm coming. Lifefire grant it marks the end of the calm.

  Finally she heard what she was hoping for, feet moving toward the rough hole that served as a door. One of the Chalarosh pushed the sacking aside and stepped out. Timka lay very still, waiting to see if he’d turn toward her. She was on his left, chances were strong he’d turn to his right; he was holding a waterskin, chances were very good he’d turn right, the stream was over there. He threw the skin down, hitched up his robes. As he began to urinate against the wall, she came silently onto her feet, gathered herself and leaped.

  She killed him swiftly, silently and left him lying in the dust.

  The Chalarosh inside heard some of the small sounds she couldn’t avoid. He called out, got no answer, called again, irritation in his voice. When he still got no answer, he whipped the sacking aside and charged out. He saw Ti-cat an instant before she struck, managed to twist aside, got his knife half drawn as she bounced off the wall and was on him again. She raked his knife arm with her hind claws, took off his face with her foreclaws. She leaped off him, scratched at the coarse earth to wipe off most of the blood, then went padding toward the sacking.

  She listened a moment, then shouldered the sacking aside and went in; for a moment she stood blinking, half in half out, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She made a soft spitting sound as she saw two bound figures, not one. They’d got Pegwai before they went after Skeen. Busy little gits, aren’t they. Satisfied there were no more Chalarosh, she shifted and hurried to Skeen’s side. The Pass-Through was still out and seemed likely to stay that way for some time, but her pulse was strong, her breathing natural.