by Jo Clayton
“No. I can get gem. Go on out. I need you there.”
She nodded, wiped her hands on the cloth laid out by the house steward, threw the cloth down, went around the back end of the screen and settled herself as inconspicuously as she could beside Negomas, ignoring the flare-up of noise that only stopped at a sharp tap of the gong at Maratullik’s elbow. She picked up the beat and fit herself into the music, then helped it change into the sharp dissonances and throbbing hard beats of Taguiloa’s dance music.
Taguiloa shivered his arms, sipped at the air, closed his eyes and once again played over in his mind his first tumbling run and the dance moves immediately after; he’d be moving at speed, carried on the music, going faster and faster until he was at the edge of his ability to control his body. He tapped the small gong to let them know he was ready, shook himself again, then listened for the music that would lift him into his final dance.
* * *
JARIL CAME TROTTING back to the clump of trees where the Arth Slyans huddled in the cold soggy darkness. “We’ve eased the slave portal open. Yaril’s keeping watch on the guards, but they’ve got themselves some mulled cider and are more interested in that than what’s outside the windows. Keep quiet and move real slow. We don’t want to have to kill these guards, we don’t know when they’re going to be relieved or what would happen if the next set found them dead. Be better if the alarm doesn’t go up till the morning, better for Brann and better for you all. Follow me and keep in the shadows, I don’t want you even breathing hard, and when we get out stay hugging the wall until we’re far enough away from the guard towers it won’t matter if they see us. Got that? Good. Come on.
They followed the child through the shrubbery; the storm wind covering any noises they made, tension winding higher and higher in them all until Cathar wanted to shout and break things and knew the rest were feeling much the same. They had to cross a small open space before they reached the narrow gate set within the larger one. Jaril didn’t stop but went skimming across the gravel, his feet making almost no sound at all. Cathar watched the thin line of his folk move after the boy and winced at every crunch of their feet. He waited until the last were through then followed Garrag across the gravel, his back knotted with expectation of shouts or spears hurled at him. He was almost disappointed when nothing happened and he was through the portal and walking along the massive white wall fronting the palace grounds. Jail] brushed by him, passed back through the portal. Over his shoulder, Cathar watched the door swing shut, then saw a patch of light ooze through the wood, coalesce into the boy. Jaril ran past him, waving him on impatiently, no time to indulge curiosity now. Cathar moved his shoulders and grinned, then shifted into an easy lope to catch up with the others. Slya bless, what a pair they are. He looked at the nearly invisible mistcrane flying above them, the pale boy-form leading them. Slya bless.
A moment later Jaril led them across the avenue and along one of the stubby piers. Two sailboats were set up and ready at the far end. Working as quickly as they could, Cathar and his brother, Farra and her sister Fann got the others settled into the boats, the sails raised, the lines cast off. The water was choppy, the wind difficult and the rain didn’t help, but once they got away from the shore, that rain served to conceal them from anyone watching. Then the escape became a matter of enduring wet and cold and keeping the boats from capsizing. The mist-cranes flew with them guiding them until they were halfway across the lake, then one of them went ahead to take care of the guards at the outlet into the Palachunt.
When Cathar eased his boat into the outcurrent, the guard towers shone as brightly as usual with the huge lampions that spread their light out across the river-until there were no dark patches for smugglers or troublemakers to slip past. He chewed on his lip, but the mistcrane that guided them flew serenely on so he tried to relax and trust the children. A flicker of darkness sweeping past him, then there were two mistcranes sailing the clouds above them. No shouts from the towers, no stones catapulted at them. Slya bless, what a pair.
They circled a number of moored merchanters, tricky sailing in the dark and storm, with the river’s current both a help and a hindrance, then the cranes blurred into shimmering spheres of light hanging about the masts of a small ship moored away from the others.
When they came alongside that ship, a broad solid man, a panday with a clanking gold ornament dangling from one ear, leaned over the rail and tossed Cathar a rope. “Welcome friend,” he called down. “Tik-rat, get those nets overside.”
* * *
TACUILOA WHEELED ACROSS the matting, sprang off into a double twisting backflip, swung round and dropped onto his hands as he landed, used the slap of his hands on the mat to power him back onto his feet, then went on one knee in a low bow, the music behind him breaking as suddenly into silence.
Silence from the watchers, then a burst of applause, calls for more, more. But Taguiloa was exhausted, not even sure he could stand yet. He stayed in the bow, his arms outstretched at first then folded on his knee.
Maratullik touched the gong beside him and the applause faded to silence. He leaned forward. “A remarkable performance.” He watched as Taguiloa got heavily to his feet and bowed again from the waist, acknowledging the compliment. For him at that moment, the Meslar was little more than a paper figure, unreadable, a mask that might have anything behind it, something a smooth voice came from, saying pleasant things. “Most remarkable. My compliments, dancer. Come here, if you please.”
Taguiloa stumbled forward, exaggerating his weariness though not by much, wondering what was coming next.
“Accept this poor recompense for the pleasure you have given my young friends.” With a sweeping gesture, Maratullik brought round a heavy leather purse and held it out, smiling at the roars and applause from the benches.
Taguiloa dropped to one knee in a profound obeisance. “Godalau bless your generosity, saх jura Meslar.”
“Introduce your troupe, Hina, they too deserve our thanks.”
Was he preening himself before the sons of his peers or was he after something else. Paper figure making gestures? He was pleasing those louts if the noise was any measure of their feelings. Taguiloa stood slowly, holding the purse before him. “Linjijan. Hina, flute player, the second best in Silili, the first being his great-uncle the wondrous Ladjinatuai who plays for the dancer Blackthorn.”
Nod from the Hand. Desultory applause from the benches.
“Negomas. M’darjin and drummer.”
As before, a quiet nod from the Hand, a sprinkle of clapping from the youths.
“Harra Hazhani, Rukka-nag, dancer and daroudist.”
Nod from the Hand. He scanned her face with some care but said nothing. Whistles and shouts from the benches that quieted as soon as Maratullik touched his gong.
“Brannish Tovah. Sujomann, seer and dancer.
Again Maratullik scanned her face, saying nothing, again he stopped the noise from the meslarlings when he tired of it. “My steward tells me the rain is heavy. Rooms will be provided for you to take your night’s rest here. You may return to the Quarter come the morning.” Without waiting for a response from Taguiloa, he turned to Brann. “You will please us yet more, oh seer, if you stay to read for us.”
She lifted her head and stared at him coolly. Taguiloa held his breath. “Certainly, saO jura Meslar. If you will furnish a guard instructed to curb the enthusiasm of the overeager.” Taguiloa let his breath trickle slowly out; this response fit within the margins of proper behavior though barely so. Brann, oh Brann, oh Bramble-all-thorns, remember who this is and why you’re here.
“You suggest…”
“Nothing, Sao jura Meslar. I warn. My god is jealous of my person and prone to hasty acts.”
“Ah yes. I know something of the Sujomanni. Which of their gods is yours?”
“The Hag with no name, saх jura Meslar. She who spins the thread of fate.”
“Thus your calling. Most fitting.” He looked from bench to bench, quiet now e
xcept for some muttering, and moved his lips in a neat and mirthless smile. “We will forgo the readings, seer. This night. Perhaps another time would be more propitious.”
“Your will is mine, saх Jura Meslar.” She bowed and stood silent, waiting with the others for their dismissal.
“Would it were so, Sujomann.” He struck the gong and the steward came forward to lead them out.
WORKING SWIFTLY and with a vast good humor, the crew got the Arth Slyans stowed below deck. The flight through the palace grounds and across the lake had used up the better part of three hours and even the fittest among the escapees was cold, weary and soaked to the skin. Rubbed down and dressed in dry clothing, hoisted into hammocks, wrapped in blankets, swaying gently as the ship hoisted anchor and started downriver, all tension drained from them, warm and comfortable, most of them drifted into a deep sleep.
Cathar was too restless to sleep. He tumbled out of his hammock and made his way back on deck. The masts were bare except for a small triangle of sail; the shipmaster was taking her away from her mooring as silently and inconspicuously as he could. Trying to keep out of the way of sailors passing back and forth along the deck, uneasy about his footing, wind and rain beating against his back, Cathar groped along the rail to the bow where the Panday stood staring into the gloom. He touched the man’s arm. “Shipmaster?”
The Panday turned a stone-god face to him, a sternness in it that eased a little when he saw who it was. Even with that easing he didn’t look very welcoming, his words underlined his dislike for mudfeet wandering about his deck. “You’ll be more comfortable below. Brann’s brother. Cathar, is it? Right. Soon as, we’re around that bend ahead we’ll be racing. No place for passengers then.”
“Why isn’t Brann here?”
“Your sister has proper reasons for everything she does; leave her to them. She got you out, I’ll get you home, that’s enough. You’ll see her when she’s ready. Look, Cathar, it’s three days coming up the Palachunt and usually two days going down for a shipmaster who gives his ship the respect she deserves. Us, we’ll be racing the pigeon mail and taking chances that turn my hair white thinking of ‘em. If we can make the mouth by noon this coming day, there’s no way in this world the Temuengs can get word to the fort there in time to stop us. But, lad, one thing we don’t need is interference on, deck. You keep your folk below, you hear?”
“I hear. Why are you doing this?”
“She’s our witch as much as she’s your sister. Someday when I’m good and drunk maybe I’ll tell you the tale.”
“Witch?” Then he remembered Brann’s face changing and looked away, uneasy at the thought.
“Below with you. Now.” A strong hand closing on Cathar’s shoulder, turning him. “Get.”
BRANN STOOD at the glazed window seeing the gray curtains of the rain and the flicker of the single lamp cutting the darkness of the small room. A movement in the window mirror, the door opening. She stiffened then relaxed as Yaril •came in, small black-haired Hina urchin. He came across and leaned against her hip; neither of them spoke for a while then he began singing, his voice a burr that hardly stirred the air.
Mistcrane, mistcrane flying high
Through the gray and stormy sky,
Wounded moon sails high and white,
River races with the night.
Oh, the mistcrane’s ghostly flight
Flitting phantoms never missed
From their greedy master’s fist.
Mistcrane’s flight is finished now,
Shipman answers to his vow,
Phantoms waking from their fright,
Laughing in the face of might
As the sun soars shining bright.
Turn the key
Set us free
Blessed be we
When home we see.
Brann sighed, moved from the window. “Mistcrane’s flight might be finished but there’s a fistful of other threads to tie off. Watch while I sleep, my friend. I trust the latches on these doors about as much as I trust the walls.”
WITH A STRONG following wind augmenting the push of the current and a clear sky opening ahead of them as they left the storm behind, the little ship groaned and strained and flew.down the river, Sammang, jimm and Tik-rat watching the water as if it was a treacherous mount that would try to rub them from its back given half a chance. They raced from point to point, trusting memories from the trip upstream, taking impossible gambles and bringing them off as if Tungjii rode the bow scattering blessings before them.
They emerged with the dawn from the twisting chute through towering limestone cliffs into the broad triangle of wetlands sloping down to the coast. Sammang sent Tik-rat into the jib-boom stays to spot snags, took in sail until the ship’s speed was reduced by half, put Hairy Jimm at the wheel and kept the crew hopping as he went carefully down that treacherous stretch winding through half-drowned trees whose stale stench clung so closely to the soupy greenish-brown water that he felt as if he were eating, drinking, breathing it along with the swarms of pinhead midges blown from the trees on the heavy erratic wind.
They left the trees about mid-morning and picked up speed along the broad main channel of the delta, skimming along between stretches of saw grass and stunted brush. The air immediately seemed cleaner and many degrees cooler. Sammang sighed and moved his shoulders, rubbed his back against the foremast to get a little of the stiffness out of the muscles there. Tik-rat came off the ropes: rubbing at tired eyes, groaning and grousing but cheerful. Sammang laughed at him, then sent him below to tell the Arth Slyans they could come on deck if they wanted, get some sun and fresh air. He watched the youth go bouncing away and knew there was going to be a song about this race, one he’d enjoy but have to suppress for a while at least if he wanted to keep trading in Silili. He laced his fingers behind his head and pushed, exploding out a sigh of pleasure as he pulled against the resistance and worked his muscles. One last knot to unravel. The fort at the river’s mouth. He glanced up at the hot pallid sky thick with birds. None of them carrying mail, he was ready to swear that. A witch-summoned demon might beat them but he had strong doubts so powerful a magus could be found in time to make a difference; Temuengs tended to distrust and dispose of anyone with that much power. He yawned, nodded at Jimm and went to see if Leymas had fresh kaffeh in the pot.
TAGUILOA STARED out his window at the busy courtyard below, fingers tapping nervously on the sill. Brann was out in the market somewhere, set up for readings, keeping herself visible while Imperial guards stalked about turning the Quarter upside down as they searched for the escaped slaves. He hadn’t seen her since the troupe went wearily up the stairs a little after sunup. He didn’t want to see her. He liked her, she was easy enough to like, doing the best she could to piece together the ruins of her existence. Trouble was, he’d got so close to being set for life. A breath away from court. A breath! Easier to endure losing what he’d had no real chance of getting. But to get so close… if it didn’t happen, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d handle himself. He left the window and began pacing about the room with the barely contained energy of a caged tiger. Imperial guards stumping through the quarter; he could hear the sounds of their progress drifting in on the wind. Rumors. Jassi brought a clutch of them with his breakfast tray. The escapees were twelve identical sisters who performed unnatural acts on each other while the emperor watched, the description of those acts growing more lurid with repetition. Or they were snake men with poison fangs the Emperor kept as a weapon to scare the meslars into doing what he told him and they were stolen by the meslars who were planning to assassinate the Emperor and he knew it and that was why he was so hot to get them back. Or they were a coven of witches of talents so wild no one agreed on what they could be, turning lead into gold, whipping up an elixir that guaranteed immortality, seers who could tell the Emperor everything that was happening in every corner of the Tigarezun. Rumors. None that connected Taguiloa and the others with the escape. Tungjii took Brann’s plot and m
ade it better, bringing the rain clown on them so they were shut up in Maratullik’s house for the whole night, impossible they could have any connection with the escape. His mind told him, be easy, the Hand knows where we were, he can’t suspect us. His gut replied, that we’re so clearly out of it might be just the thing to make him suspect us. He doesn’t need proof to maul us about, all he needs is sufficient malice and a shred of suspicion. Taguiloa kicked a chair across the room, stalked after it and jerked the door open, startling a maid into dropping a pile of dirty towels. He gathered them up for her and sent her down to find him some sandwiches and a pot of tea.
“You’re nervous as the fleas on a dead dog.” Jassi set her fists on her hips after she deposited the tray on the table by the window, narrowed her eyes at him. “Negomas says last night went good, what you fussing about? This business with the slaves? Peh! Taga, that happens a half-dozen times a year. We spend a few days dodging damn guards, then they’ll catch the running fools and things’ll settle back the way they were. Hey, you know why they leaving this inn alone? Cause you here, that’s why. Grandda he even had a thought maybe he’d let you stay here free, well, that one he din keep in his head for long.” She giggled. “So you got nothin to worry about.”
He dredged up a smile, flipped a silver bit to her. “Just nerves, Jass, it’s the waiting and not knowing.”
She winked at him. “No sweat, Taga, you got it. We see a lot of ‘em here and we know.” A giggle, a side-to-side jerk of her hips, and she was gone.