Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  Feast to feast, rumor running before them, they progress along the Spray. But even pleasant things must end. They reach the end of the Spray, the island group Lisshin Tula and one of its Bretels, Tiya Muka. This is a middle-sized island inside a crazy maze of waterways around Bers that are little more than dots of rock, though some of them soar more than two hundred meters from the agitated surface of the Tenga Bourhh. It is a smuggler’s haven whose splendid harbor is inaccessible to ships without a local pilot to guide them through the confusion of the Bers and none get a pilot without being “known.” Maggí knows and is “known” and slides into port and a friendly welcome from Hannahar Tech who is the self-appointed Headman of the eclectic collection of Wavers living on Tiya Muka.

  Skeen strolled out of the bathhouse rubbing vigorously at her hair, a heavy toweling robe tied about her, flapping about her long legs as she climbed through the blooming har trees, savoring their delicate rather astringent scent and the crunch of coarse sand underfoot. She came out atop a steep slope of broken rock above a secluded inlet, a part of the harbor where no houses were built by edict of Hannahar Tech who jealously protected his favorite vistas. She settled on a boulder windworn smooth. No wind this day, just a silken soft flow of air up from water so saturated with color the blueness was an assault on her eyes. She gave a last rub at her head, dropped the towel beside her, shook her spiky hair out from her head, sighed with pleassure. I could get to like this. The placid scene stretching out before her brought memories of the time when she was a skinny desperate teener, recently escaped from the fish cannery and trying to claw her way off a world that would kill her if she didn’t because she wasn’t going to be caught again. Ever. She listened to the water lapping in a slow steady rhythm against the barnacled rocks below her. If I didn’t have to stay here forever. A little lapping water goes a long way. She closed her eyes, leaned against the twisted, rock-hard dead tree behind her, remembering that other time, that other vast green park with its ornamental water and ornamental beasts, so violent a contrast with everything she’d known she was in a state of churning rage the whole time she was there; it was a lacerating memory in one way, pleasurable in another; that park and the monstrous house that sat in the middle of it marked her first real triumph, the place where she managed to get her life into her own hands. Bona Fortuna and some fancy footwork got her over the wall, her hard-won skills and a massive dose of patience eased her into the house. She broke into the house brain and stumbled onto information about the High Hipe who owned the house that bought her a small ancient ship and a pilot to fly it for her; he was supposed to dispose of her when she was far enough from Tors, but she worked a deal with him too and got her first lessons in ship handling and navigation. It was years later that she acquired Picarefy.… She uncoiled, heeled a rock down the slope, starting a small slide that didn’t quite reach the water. Fuckin’ stupid world! How much longer, how much longer, how can I stand the waiting, the fuckin’ stinkin’ endless slog getting nowhere? She looked round for the towel. It was time, more than time to be getting back to the Inn, more than time to start goosing Maggí into finding them transport out of here.

  A flutter of wings behind her. She jumped away, turning as she came down. “Djabo! Chul, don’t do that. You’ll give me a heart attack or something.”

  Chulji worked his mouthparts in a Skirrik grin. “Wanted to talk to you.”

  “Walk with me then.” She scooped up the towel and draped it over her shoulder. “I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

  The path was too narrow at first to let them walk together. Skeen went along it toward the town, almost loping in her drive to get on her way again.

  “Eh, Skeen, slow down will you? How can I talk if you gallop like that?”

  “Sorry. What is it, Chul? Thing is, I’m a bit fidgety today.”

  “I noticed.” He scrambled down beside her and walked along for several paces without saying anything. Finally he clattered his pincers and pulled his top pair of shoulders up near his earholes. “Skeen, I’ve been thinking.”

  She looked down at him, and smothered a grin; he was so earnest, so very young. “A good habit to get into,” she said gravely.

  “T’spp, t’spp, no need to be sarcastic. What I want to say, from here on I’d be baggage, so I’m going to stay with Maggí. She needs me and she’s promised to get a discount for me at some jet mines she knows. It’s a good job and everyone’s friendly. So what do you think?”

  “Jet. That reminds me, meet me on the Kiskar after supper tonight. I’ve got something I want you to have. You know you couldn’t find a better place. Don’t be an idiot, Chul.”

  “What I want to say, I didn’t want to look like I was scuttling out on you.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t see it that way, Chul. Maggí needs you, she’s made enemies helping us; it’s only right you stay with her and help protect her from their malice. It’ll take a load off my mind, believe me. Though you shouldn’t tell her that, just look after her, hmmm?” She felt his shoulder swell under her hand, saw the pride and relief in his ugly-sweet bug face, and had to fight the urge to pat his shoulder as an unexpected gush of maternal sentimentality flooded through her. Fortunately that didn’t last more than an instant and was gone before she embarrassed both of them. “Get along now and tell her you accept. And don’t forget, meet me on the ship after supper.”

  Skeen opened the box and set it on the table close to the stickum so the bits of jet shone richly black against the cream velvet lining.

  Chulji took up the pieces one by one, examined them with reverence and care, saying nothing until he’d looked over each piece, his antennas shivering the whole time.

  “The slave dealer had those, Nochsyon Tod. I thought perhaps you might know where they belonged. I didn’t feel like leaving them with him.” Skeen started to gesture with her stump, made an impatient sound and changed to her left hand. “Whatever, they’re yours, I’d have given them to you before, but, well, things happened and I got distracted.”

  Chulji set the final triangle of jet into the hollow in the velvet. “This is old, Skeen, it’s from the first days here. Someone must have broken into a grave shrine. That,” he touched a delicate tracery with the tip of his dactyl, “that’s the Ur-nest sigil. One of the first nests organized after the Passing. He who earned this jet, he wasn’t hatched there but in one of the branchings, the symbology is so old, I can’t read it, it’d take a scholar. Ah! Skeen, I can’t take this, it wouldn’t be …” he made a complicated skritching sound, sections of which went beyond the range of her hearing, “um … there’s no way I can translate that, except I couldn’t … um … take the responsibility for it.” He clicked the lid shut. “If you don’t mind, you could give this to Pegwai to give to Scholar Dissarahnet at the Tanul Lumat She’ll know how to take care of it.” His antennas went rigid, his squeaky voice deepened suddenly. “And she’ll do something about Tod and the Lifefire cursed thief who desecrated our dead.”

  Skeen suppressed a twinge and was rather happy the Min Skirrik boy knew nothing about her other-side profession. “Too bad; I thought you might be able to use those bits to earn yourself some points with your folk.”

  Chulji giggled, a bubbly squeaking that made Skeen’s teeth ache. “Might do, ah yes, might. You tell Pegwai to tell Dissarahnet I was the one told you what to do. Aunt Scholar will see the family gets the news.”

  The Aggitj and the Boy surrounded Skeen as she climbed from the ship’s boat onto the wharf belonging to Tech’s Inn. “We heard Chulji is taking a job with Maggí Solitaire.” Hal stepped aside, then matched his steps to hers as she started up the winding track to the Inn that sprawled across the flat above. “That he’s not going on with us.”

  “Yes.” She thought of explaining but a look at Hal’s serious face prompted a question instead. “Why?”

  “We’ve been thinking.”

  Skeen waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, just climbed beside her, staring
at the ground. “Yes?” she prompted.

  “We’ve been thinking this is a good place for us to stop too. We’ve been thinking us going on with you isn’t going to be much help. You’re better off, you and Timka, if you kind of sneak in, her sister can’t be looking everywhere all the time.” He stopped. They’d reached the flat and the Inn’s veranda was just ahead. “And there are things we got to do.”

  Skeen looked sharply at him; his face was grave and troubled, but only, as far as she could tell, because he didn’t know what she was going to say. “Well, come in and have a last drink with me,” she said; she touched his arm, smiled. “Remember what I told you when we started this thing. No strings on me, none on you.”

  Inside, she found a table close to the fire but far enough from the other patrons to provide a measure of privacy. After the Balayar girl finished giggling with the Aggitj and brought them stoups of Tech’s homebrew, Skeen looked round at the unsmiling faces. “Lighten up, friends, it isn’t the end of the world.” She drank, drew the back of her hand across her mouth. “So. Things to do. Mind telling me?”

  Ders leaned forward eagerly, but subsided when the Boy touched his arm and murmured to him, speaking so softly Skeen couldn’t hear him; whatever it was, it quieted Ders. Hal gave the Boy an approving nod, planted his elbows on the table. “We talked it over,” he said, “a lot.” The other Aggitj muttered agreement; the Boy grinned, showing his poison fangs. “We decided we’re going to Rood Meol. We’re going hunting, Skeen. We’re going to seech out the Kalakal’s Heart and kill him, then we’re going after Ravvayad and after that if we’re still around, we’re slipping into the Backland, the Boy, us and any Sualasual still around, and we’re going to kill our uncle if we can, and his Rossam and the soldi he keeps around because the other ashanku and him are always fighting and we’re going to take his Hold, make it ours. That’s it.” He straightened his back, grinned at her, lifted his tankard in an informal toast to the end of it all. The others lifted theirs and drank with him.

  Skeen smiled, joined the toast and drank with them. This was suicide, she knew it; she thought briefly about trying to argue them out of their plans, but what could she do? Take them with her? That was just as dangerous, maybe more, what with Telka and the Holavish. Besides, it wasn’t her job to take care of them. Hal and Hart were old enough to know what they were doing; Ders wasn’t, Ders probably never would be, but they’d take care of him while they could. “Keep your heads down,” she said. “Bona Fortuna smile on you.” How much they’ve changed, she thought, the dew’s rubbed off. Well, I never fixated before on ignorance as innocence however charming, and this is not the time to start that idiocy. Bona Fortuna indeed, though I’m afraid you’ll know the Mala better.

  He came in smiling and genial, a small man covered with honey-amber fur that darkened in a mask about his eyes and over his dainty pointed ears. He looked round at them from the blue foil eyes of a high-bred cat. “Maggí Soiltaire.”

  “Usoq.”

  He pricked his ears at Skeen. “Torska.”

  “Sujipyo.”

  “I know you, I think. Harmony Pit? Ship Picarefy?”

  “You got me.” She frowned, then her face cleared. “I’d just come in with an Oud-tua load. You bought a pot and some skeeders off me direct and helped me,” she smiled at pleasant memories and gave him a speculative look, “celebrate.”

  “Yes.” His whiskers twitched and the blue eyes narrowed to sleepy slits. He bowed to Pegwai. “Scholar.” After Pegwai returned his greeting, he said, “You’ll be wanting the Lumat. Ah, we can do that, Pouliloulou and me. My ship, a sweet thing, though not over large. The one thing she lacks is canvas, that sweet silken canvas the Lumat weavers make and is so hard, so hard to come by.” With another twinkle and twitch he bowed to the robed, cowled Lipitero. “Ma dama, rumors of your coming have run before you, I swoon with awe in your magical presence.” He rolled his eyes, put his hand over his heart, swayed and turned briskly to Timka. “Timka Essora, there’s more than me praying you can curb your pestilent sister. She’s spurred the Stammarka Nagamar into shutting their waters to everyone—even me who am the mildest and most harmless of travelers. Have you any idea what that means? And how many snots are out there on the Tenga Bourhh snooping into things that’re none of their business? Hah! Even Atsila Vana’s got guard ships out. Ah, the bribes it takes to slip the least thing by them. I don’t dare have a Min on board, they’ve pressed the Skirrik into warding for them. They want no Min anywhere near them. Lifefire bless and reward you, Essora, if you will take that sister of yours to the far side and get her out of our hair.”

  “Well, Usoq, I see the years haven’t changed you. Your tongue still flaps at both ends.” Maggí’s dry tones brought him round, woke a broad grin on his round face.

  “Nor you, Maggí Solitaire. You were a wonderful woman then and a warm armful now. Ah, Maggí, if only you knew how I dreamed of you on the few cold nights we have.” He widened his eyes in an exaggerated, soulful gaze and heaved a prolonged sigh.

  “Oh, sit down, will you.” Maggí tapped the gong and three serving girls brought in a huge bowl of steaming punch that filled the room with hot lemony sweetness. They set it on a bed of coals prepared in one corner of the room; two of them ladled punch into tankards for those around the long table, while the third trimmed the candles and made sure all of them were burning properly. The windows were open and the night was cool enough to make the hot drink welcome.

  Usoq pulled a chair up to the end of the table, drank a long draft from his tankard and sighed with pleasure. “Tech’s Mix is always superb.”

  “My friends want to reach Oruda as quickly and with as little fuss as possible.”

  “One wonders when you were so noisy coming along the Spray. Ah, well, no doubt you had your reasons and it’s none of my business. See, Maggí Solitaire, I say it for you.” He pushed the tankard aside, brought out a stained, much folded map and spread it on the table. “Come round,” he said. “I’ll make more sense if you see what I’m talking about. Maggí, fetch that candelabra with you, this is getting hard to read; I suppose I ought to get the Lumat to give me another.” He shot a sly glance at Pegwai. “Eh, Scholar, if you look careful, you’ll see a maze of corrections; your mapmakers need to do a resurvey of the coast along there.” He smoothed a plump square hand over the map.

  “Since you’re in a hurry and the Funor Ashon cranky about letting travelers through their lands, I doubt you’ll want me to land you here.” He put a stubby forefinger on the deep inlet south of the Skirrik mountains and west of the Stammarka Morass. “Consider, though. You can acquire some horses, haha. Don’t ask me about that, Skeen, you have your little ways of doing what you have to do. There’s a fairly well-used track along here at the edge of the foothills, a boundary of sorts between the Funor on the Plain and the dwellers in the mountains. Min and outcasts. Once you get here,” he stabbed the finger at a small black dot on the river, “You wouldn’t have to wait long for a ship going upriver to the Lakes. A day or two at most.”

  Skeen and Pegwai exchanged glances; Pegwai shook his head. “The Funor have working com-links.”

  “That’s out, then. The Funor don’t like us, Usoq; for our health we’d better keep our heads down around them.”

  “Hm.” He raised his brows as he twisted round and looked from blank face to blanker. He sighed and traced the long looping line of the Rekkah, up from the Nagamar watertown past Istryamozhe, through the mountains and across the Funor Plain, tapped his finger on the dot that represented Oruda. “This is how you came. Right? Ah, yes. Everyone uses that way, coming and going. It’s the safest way, slow going upriver but you’re sure to get there. Funor wouldn’t bother you on the river. You want? No? Last resort? Right. You’re waiting for me to cross my hands and declaim behold the miracle; behold, my friends, miracles come expensive. Ah, yes. Ah, yes. A hundred gold each, banked with Tech before we start.”

  Maggí snorted. “Dream on, little man; before I
let them pay that, I’d take them up the Rekkah myself. Work your tricks however you want, but not on me or my friends.”

  “Now, Maggí Solitaire, is that playing the game? I ask you, will you come between a man and his profit? Shame, Maggí, shame.” He spread his hands, hunched up his shoulders. “Like I told you, life’s got difficult lately. My expenses, Maggí, you wouldn’t believe how they’ve exploded on me. If I do this thing the way your friends want, I could lose my sweeting, my joy, my Pouliloulou which is my all in all and my living besides.” He shivered all over, the fur in his mask stood up as if someone had shot electricity through his face. “I have to cover myself, you understand that. You must. What if someone asked you to do something that most likely would scuttle Goum Kiskar, eh? All right, all right, say three hundred with a suit of Lumat sails.”

  “Say one hundred gold and a suit of Lumat sails. And that’s worth more than your first offer, Usoq old friend. You know the price of Lumat canvas.” Maggí turned to Pegwai. “If you can provide them for this pirate, my friend? I know how long I had to wait and the contortions I had to go through to get mine. But I also know it was worth everything I had to do to get my name on the list.”

  Pegwai shook his head. “List I can’t manage. One suit for a single-master—if that’s your Pouliloulou moored beside the Goum Kiskar—yes, I can call in some favors. Yamakalelbiseh is a friend, he’s headman of the Chala weavers.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, stared out the window across the room for several breaths before he spoke again. “You’ll want surety for the sails. Not knowing how much my word can be trusted. Hm. I am willing to do this: I will write an undertaking on the funds of Sibetsig Dih for the cost of a suit of Lumat sails for a single-masted coaster, good for six months after this night, the first call day being two months hence.” He dropped his hand, smiled tightly at Usoq. “Thus, if I fail, you’ll get your price anyway. If I produce the sail contract, I’ll have plenty of time to cancel the undertaking.”