Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  Feeling better about everything Sammang went back on deck and stood by the rail watching Hairy Jimm maneuver the Girl among the ships crowding the estuary. The pilot was paying little attention to what was happening about him. His title had a,Temueng twist to it; he wasn’t there to guide them through the harbor’s natural snags but to ease them past the far more deadly man-made obstacles. The day was brilliant with a brisk headwind, and tide and river current together were enough to carry the Girl bare-poled out to the stone pincers at the mouth of the bay. Stays singing about him, the salt smell growing stronger than the stench of estuary mud and city sewage, the shimmering blue water blown into sharp ridges, white foam dancing along them, Sammang relished everything about the day, the colors and sounds, the mix of smells, the exploding array of possibilities ahead of him.

  The pilot shoved onto his feet as the ship came up to the two great towers looming over the narrow mouth of the estuary, settled himself and began whipping his signal flags about. When specks of bright color bloomed and swung atop the South tower, he made a last pass, then rolled up his flags, sheathed them, and dumped himself back in the chair, ignoring the crew who took every chance they found to walk up, stare at him and stroll away again. Hairy Jimm kept a minatory eye on them and the heckling didn’t go beyond staring; he’d made it quite clear early on that anyone who laid a hand on the pilot would go overboard there and then. More than one of the crew had deep grudges against the Temuengs and the parade could have disiritegyated into a shivaree with a dead Temueng at the end of it. When they began crowding too close and staying too long, Sammang nudged Hairy Jimma and the big brown bear lumbered forward and stopped the parade.

  The ship slid without incident between the towers, began to lose way as the channel widened abruptly and the flow spread out. Hairy Jimm sent Tik-rat and Turrope to raise the jib and ordered the ship into a tack so the wind wouldn’t push them into the Teeth of the Gate. The Girl was a two-masted merchariter with standing lugsails, a configuration that could have been clumsy and often was, but she was Sammang’s dream and he’d watched her rise from bare bones under the hands of his great uncle Kenyara; more than that, he’d built with his own hands model after model, had sat with Kenyara and argued and trimmed the models and made her come to life as much by will as by the work of his hands and the gold he brought back to the Pandaysarradup, the wood he’d searched out and brought back, the fittings he’d gathered from most of the ports he touched in his travels; the eyes on her bow he’d carved and painted himself. She could sail closer to the wind than most her size, could squat down and ride storm waves as well as any petrel. She was an extension of himself and he loved her far more than he would ever love man or woman, loved her with a passion and a delight that would have embarrassed him into stammering if he had to talk about it. Seeing her dulled and dying and quiet at the mooring had been the worst of many bad times during the months of stagnation in Tavisteen. Now he felt her come to life under his feet and hands; he stood smoothing his hand along her rail in a contented secret caress. Young Brann, I owe you. Whatever you want, you and your… He cleared his throat with a sound half a laugh, half a groan. The children scared him and he had no hesitation admitting that to himself. Brann was pleasanter to the mind-child, woman, fighter, with a passion, caring; stubbornness that reminded him very much of a younger Sammang. He thought fondly of a few of his own childhood exploits, as he watched the fireships swinging at anchor, the last line to pass, then they were free. He took a deep breath. The air filled the lungs better out here. He looked at the slouched Temueng half asleep and reeking of the wine they’d fed him. Or it would soon as they got that off the Girl’s deck.

  They put the pilot and his minions overside in the trailing dinghy, set and trimmed the sails and left the fireboats in their wake. Sammang stood sniffing at the wind, gave a short shout of freedom and celebration, grinned as he caught the cheerfully obscene salutes from Dereech and his shadow Aksi.

  He moved to the wheel, cuped his hands about his mouth, bellowed, “Tik-rat, Turrope, Aski, Leymas, Dereech, Gaoez, Staro, Rudar, Zaj, gather round.”

  When they were around him, squatting on the gently heaving deck, Sammang clasped his hands behind his head, grinned at them, still riding high with the effects of breaking the Girl loose and incidentally sneaking past the Temueng clutches the woman they were turning the island upside down to find. “We got a passenger,” he said. He stretched, straining his muscles till his joints popped. “The woman the Temuengs were hunting. One who kicked those sharks where it hurt. We don’t mind that, do we.” He grinned into their grins, grimaced as the wind blew hair into his teeth. Rotting in Tavisteen, he’d let his hair grow long, too despondent to get it cut. “We owe her,” he said. “Still be watching moss grow up the walls without her help. Witch,” he said. “Nice kid but no man’s meat. Not mine, not yours. Ever see what happens if a Silili priest holds onto a rocket too long after its lit? Uh-huh. So keep your hands to yourselves. This old fart talking to you, he wouldn’t like to see what comes down if one of you got her into a snit.”

  “Hanh.” Hairy Jimm rubbed a meaty hand across his beard. “I heerd a thing or two about that nakki that makes me leery of her. What keeps her hands off us?”

  “Relax, Jimm. She’s a good kid. Treat her like a little sister.” He thought a minute. “Not so little.” He looked round at the crew. “That’s it.”

  They went off to busy themselves with the endless tasks that kept a ship healthy, but Hairy Jimm fidgeted where he was. “Turrope’s boor was telling him the Fen pirates are taking everything that moves, be you Temu be you Panay, whatever. How you want to handle that?”

  “A good wind and no proa’s going to catch the Girl.”

  “Turrope’s hoor has got a busy ear, she say the Djelaan have found them a weatherman.”

  Sammang laughed. “If he sticks his head up, I’ll sic the witch on him.” He sobered. “She’s paying us for a quick passage, Jimm. Cutting south would add at least five days. Give your totoom a thump for me and whistle us a steady blow.” He rubbed thumb and forefinger over the finger-pieces of the heavy gold pendant in his left ear, the first thing he’d ransomed with Brann’s gold, tracking down the buyer and leaning on him till he sold. “I’ll talk to her, see what she says.” He watched Jimm walk away, watched him try the tension of backstays, eye the sails for weak spots, look for any problems he’d missed in port, things that would only show when she was moving. With a nod to Uasuf, silent at the wheel, Sammang went to stand in the bow, hands clasped behind him, staring out across the empty blue. Empty now, but how long would it stay that way? For a few breaths he stopped worrying and simply relished the way the Girl was taking the waves and the wind; she was a trier, his sweet Girl, even with her hull fouled with weed and barnacles, she danced over the waves. Preemalau be gentle and send no storms, she had to be careened and cleaned, gone over for dry rot and wood worm, every bit of cordage checked and replaced if necessary. He knew as well as Hairy Jimm how fragile she was right now. He unclasped his hands, touched her stays, feeling the hum in them, touched her wood feeling the life in it, loving her for her beauty and her gallant heart, afraid for her, cursing the Djelaan pirates, cursing all weathermen, cursing the Temuengs who were too busy with conquest to keep their own coasts clean. He watched the dolphins dance in the bow waves a while longer then went below to see how Brann was faring and talk to her about Jimm’s disclosures.

  “How soon until we’re in Djelaan waters?” she said.

  “Four days,” he said.

  “Too far,” she said, “Wear the children out for what could be nothing.”

  “You don’t far-see?” he said.

  “The Temuengs call me witch,” she said, “their mistake. Don’t you make the same one. I have certain abilities, but they’re useful only in touching-distance.”

  “Then we should turn south in two days, go wide around the Djelaan corals,” he said.

  “How many days would that add?”

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nbsp; “Four, probably five.”

  “Too long,” she said. “I’d be a shade by then and the children would be hungry.”

  “Then we sail on luck and hope,” he said, “and fight if we have to.”

  “There’s nothing else?”

  “No.”

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS passed bright and clear, with spanking winds that propelled the ship across the glittering blue as if she were greased. Sammang watched Brann move about the ship, taking pains to keep out of the way of anyone who was working. She respected skill and found the sailors fascinating. Both things showed. The crew saw both, were flattered and fascinated in their turn and the children helped with that by staying below where their strangeness wouldn’t keep reminding the men of corpses in dark alleys and corpses floating in the bay. Young Tik-rat was wary of her for an hour or two, but he succumbed to her charm after she’d followed him about awhile as he played his pipe to help the work go easier; he spent the hour after that teaching her worksongs. Leymas was the next she won. He taught her a handful of knots then set her to making grommets; she was neat-fingered and used to working with her hands and delighted when he praised her efforts. Sammang continued to watch when he had a moment free, amused by her ease with them as if they were older brothers or male cousins, as if she willed them to forget her ripe body, damping ruthlessly any hint of sexuality. One by one his crew fell to her charm and began treating her as a small sister they were rather fond of, fonder as the second day faded into the third. By then he couldn’t move about the deck without finding her huddled with one of the men, her strong clever hands weaving knots, her head cocked to one side, listening with skeptical delight to the extravagant tale he was spinning for her. Even Hairy Jimm told her lies and let her take the wheel so she could feel the life of the ship while he showed her how to read the Black Lady, the swinging lodestone needle, and put that together with the smell of the wind and the look of the sea to keep the ship rushing along the proper course.

  She had relaxed abruptly and utterly all her own wariness and pretenses and was the child of the gentle place where she’d been reared. He saw in her the naive and trusting boy he’d been when he found his island growing too small for him and he’d smuggled himself on board one of the trading ships that stopped at Perando in the Pandaysarradup. He’d been confident in his abilities and eager to see the great world beyond, never hurt deliberately and with malice, trust never betrayed, friendly as a puppy. It took a lot of trampling and treachery to knock most of that out of him. He saw the same kind of trust in her and he sighed for the pain coming to her, but knew he couldn’t shield her from that pain-and if he could he wouldn’t. To survive, she had to learn. Even the Temuengs hadn’t taught her to be afraid of others; here, surrounded by people who were not threatening, who responded to her friendliness with good will and friendliness of their own, she’d let her guard down. Not a good habit to get into. Still he couldn’t condemn it totally as foolishness, it had done her good with the men. And, he had to admit to himself, with him.

  The fifth day slid easily into the sixth; no Djelaan yet, but the rising of the sun showed him clouds blowing about a low dark smear north and west of the Girl. The southernmost of a spray of uninhabited coral atolls, most of them with little soil and no water, good only to shelter pirate proas while the Djelaan waited to ambush ships that ventured past. He scowled at it. Was it empty of life except for birds and a few small rodents or were a dozen proas pulled up on one of its crumbly beaches with a weatherman set to cast his spells?

  Brann came to the bow and stood beside him. “Is that Selt?”

  “No.”

  “Thought it was a bit soon. Djelaanr

  “If they’re coming, that’s where they’ll come from.” She chewed her lip a moment. “I can’t judge distances at sea”

  “Well come even with the island about mid-afternoon, be about a half-day’s sail south of it.”

  “And you’d like to know if you can relax or should get ready to fight.”

  “Right.”

  “And the trip is a little more than half over?”

  “Wind keeps up and pirates keep away, we should be in Silili say about sundown five days on.”

  “Mmm. Children lying dormant, they haven’t used as much energy as they’d ordinarily do.” She looked around at the crew, then straightened her shoulders, stiffened her spine. “Jaril will fly over the islands and Yaril will tell us what he sees. You’d better warn Nam and the others; it’s sort of startling the first time you see one of the children changing.”

  Sammang wasn’t sure what was going to happen but suspected it would be spectacular and remind him and his crew forcibly she wasn’t little sister to all the world. He patted her hand. “They won’t faint, Bramble.”

  She looked up at him, startled, then half-smiled and shook her head. “Well… I’d better fetch them up.” She left him and moved with brisk assurance along the deck.

  He went back to stand by Hairy Jimm who had taken the wheel awhile because he was nearly as fond of the Girl as Sammang and loved the feel of her under his hands. “Our witch is getting set to scare the shit out of us.”

  “Hanh.” Jimm took a hand off the wheel, scratched at his beard. “Hey, she our witch, Sammo. Ehh Stubb,” he boomed. “On your feet.”

  The dozing helmsman started, came to his feet, looked dazedly about. “Huh?” Then he came awake a bit more and strolled yawning over to them.

  “Grab hold.” As soon as Staro the Stub had the wheel, Jimm moved away. “Our witch gon be showing her stuff and I want a close eye on it.”

  By the time Brann came up on deck with Yaril and Jaril, the news had spread through the crew. Even those supposed to be sleeping settled themselves inconspicuously about the deck doing small bits of busywork. Sammang looked around, amused. The way Hairy Jimm said our witch, with the air of a new father contemplating his offspring, made him want to laugh until he realized he felt much the same way.

  She came up to Sammang and Hairy Jim. “What’s the most common large bird that flies out this far?”

  “Albatross. Why?”

  She turned to the boy. “You know that one?”

  Jaril grinned at her and suddenly the grin was gone, the boy was gone, there was a shimmer of gold and a large white bird with black wingtips was pulling powerfully at the air and rising in a tight spiral above the ship; a heartbeat later it was speeding toward the island.

  YARIL SRRS WITH her back against the mast, her eyes shut, her high young voice sounding over the wind and water sounds, the creaking of mast and timber.

  First island. Nothing from high up, going closer, some birds objecting, no beaches, no sort of anchorage. Going on to the next.

  Silence. The listeners wait without fuss, quietly working, not talking.

  Second island. More trees. Don’t see any sign of surface water. Definitely deserted, quiet enough to hear a rat scratch.

  Silence. Sammang gazes at Brann wondering what she is thinking.

  Third island. This one’s the lucky dip. A dozen proas drawn up by a stream cutting through a bit of beach, apparently water’s the main attraction. Maybe a hundred Djelaan, war party, clubs, spears, throwing sticks, long knives, war axes. A clutch of them cheering on a tattooed man who’s throwing a fit. Ah, the fit’s over. Look at them scoot. Anyone want to wager the tattooed gent wasn’t telling them about this fine fat ship passing by? Get a move on, folks, you got trouble rolling at you.

  THEY RACED WEST and south, carrying as much sail as the rigging would stand, the Girl groaning and shuddering, fighting the drag of the weed on her hull. In spite of that she sang splendidly through the water. She popped rigging and staggered now and then, but the crew replaced and improvised and held her together as much by will as skill. Sammang was all over the deck, adding his strength where it was needed, eyes busy searching for breaks. He heard laughter and saw Brann beside him, her gyeen eyes snapping with sheer delight in the excitement swirling about her. For a breath or two he gwzed at her
and was very nearly the boy who’d run to the wider world confidently expecting marvels. Then he went back to nursing his Girl.

  The wind dropped between one breath and the next. The Girl shivered and lost way, the drag of the weed braking her with shocking suddenness. Sammang cursed, stood looking helplessly about. The crew exchanged glances, dropped where they were to squat waiting, hands busy splicing line, one man whittling a new block to replace one that had split.

  Brann touched Sammang’s arm. “Jaril says the proas are about an hour behind us.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve. Traveling in two groups, the tattooed man-that has to be the weatherman, Jaril thinks so and I agree-he’s hanging behind with a couple boats to guard him. The other nine are riding a mage wind at us, really flying, Jaril says.”

  “How many men in each boat?”

  “Nine or ten.”

  “Eighty maybe ninety, not counting the bodyguards.” He scowled at the limp sails. “A wind, even a breath…”

  “Jaril’s thought of that. He’s been trying to get at the weatherman but he keeps bouncing off some kind of ward, whether he comes at the proa out of the sky or under water. Only thing he can think of is a pod of mid-sized whales he spotted a little way back. When he broke off talking, he was going to find them. He plans to drive them at the proas. Spell or no spell, a half dozen irritated whales are going to swamp that boat. He figures a weatherman will drown as fast as any other breather. And once he’s gone, you should have your wind. Thing is, though, he doesn’t know quite how long it’s going to take, so you should be ready for a fight.”

  Sammang nodded, touched her arm. “Our witch,” he said, felt rather than heard a murmur of agreement from the crew. “You’ll fight with us?”

  “In my way.” She grimaced, looked around at the circle of grave faces, raised her voice so all could hear. “Listen, brothers, when it starts, don’t touch me. I am Drinker of Souls and deadlier than a viper, I don’t want accidents, I prefer to choose where I drink.”