A Bait of Dreams

by Clayton, Jo;

  Deel sniffed at the fish stew, lifted the pot from the coals and replaced it with a kettle filled with water. She heard footsteps, swung around, relaxed and smiled. “You’re looking better.”

  “I’ll live.” Gleia raised her brows at the kettle and the other things piled in a ragged heap by the fire. “You’ve been busy. The locker in the cabin?”

  “Uh-huh. How’s the Juggler?”

  “His fever’s gone. He’s still asleep.” She glanced over her shoulder at the patches of the boat visible through the suckerlings. “I don’t know.…”

  Deel dipped stew into a metal plate. “Here. Eat some of this. Takes a full belly to make the world sit right.” She held the plate out, nodded as Gleia dropped beside the fire and sat looking dubiously at what she held. “Only fish stew.” She brushed aside a rag, lifted several small tins and found a second plate. “Once I got the boat tucked away, I poked around a bit. Found that.” She rested the plate on her knee while she waved the dripping ladle at a ragged net hanging to dry on the lower branches of a gnarled bydarrakh. “And the rest of this junk.” She grinned. “I made enough noise. You and the Juggler—you didn’t wiggle a finger.” She filled her plate and settled back, tucking her legs under her. “There’s a spoon by your knee. Toss it, will you?” She caught it, dug into the stew. “Not bad, considering what I had to work with.”

  The breeze stirred the foliage over their heads, stripping a last few raindrops from the leaves, spattering them with scattered touches of icewater. Though the frosty nip had lingered longer than usual for this time of year, the air was slowly warming as Horli climbed higher with blue Hesh like a wart poking from her side. Bad storms and cold mornings already, Deel thought. Likely a hard freeze coming up. She laid her spoon down and gazed pensively at the barrow section of glassy green water she could see sliding past at the bottom of the slope. An early winter—and a bitter one if the signs don’t lie. I can’t keep drifting like this. She scratched at her nose. How do I get myself into these things? A wintering place. Not Istir. Her lips twitched and she swallowed a gurgle of laughter. Definitely not Istir. What’s left? Jokinhiir? Gahhhh—not for me, not with Hankir Kan drooling over me. She blinked, startled out of her reverie as Gleia’s spoon clattered loudly enough on her plate to scatter into flight several small brown birds scratching through the rubble not far from them.

  “Why did you stop here? And tuck the boat away like you did?” Gleia’s forefinger was tracing the brands on her cheek, something she had a habit of doing when she was disturbed. She pulled her hand down, stared at it a moment, then got to her feet and turned her back on Deel. “You think someone could be following us from Istir?”

  “After the Juggler blew away half the city? Not likely.” Arm resting on one raised knee, hand dangling, Deel watched the shifting patterns of steam on the kettle’s sides. “Once it got light enough I could see around me, first thing I saw was the Mouth of the Chute. I wasn’t about to sail past the watch tower there in a stolen Handboat. Not in daylight anyway.” The coals began hissing as the water boiled and steam blew out the kettle’s spout. Deel grabbed at the handle, snatched her hand away, pulled her sleeve down over her fingers and lifted the kettle from the fire. “And not even at night unless it’s raining and blowing hard enough to keep the Hands there more interested in their fire than what’s happening on the River.” She set the kettle down, twitched the lid off and dumped in a handful of cha leaves. The lid back in place, she jiggled the kettle, sloshing the water about for a moment, then put it aside to let the leaves settle out.

  Deel settled herself more comfortably and watched with some amusement as the nervous brown woman moved restlessly about, glancing at Hesh and Horli as the double sun rose above the treetops, glancing repeatedly at the boat, stopping by one tree to rub her fingers along its bark and sniff at them, touching a brittle bydarrack leaf, pulling it between thumb and forefinger. She snapped the leaf away and marched back to the fire, her cafta hem jerking about her ankles, collecting leaf fragments and bits of grass. Deel poured cha in a mug and held it out to her.

  Gleia shook herself as if she was trying to shed some of her urgency. She dropped onto a patch of grass, facing Deel, took the mug and wrapped both hands around it. “Watchtower?” The corner of her mouth jerked into a very brief half-smile, a dimple danced in her unmarred cheek. “Start with the basics.”

  “Know what a Hand is?”

  Gleia sipped at the cha, considering the question. “You don’t mean the thing that grows on the end of an arm?”

  Deel chuckled. “Right.” She pushed onto her knees and scraped a rough oval of ground clear of debris, then she straightened, looked around vaguely. “When I got to Istir a couple of winters back, Gengid—my boss, the creep—made me hustle for drinks when I wouldn’t whore for him. I was broke and new in the place and I didn’t know Merd yet, so.…” She frowned, looked about again, caught up her spoon, wiped it on the grass, reversed it, fitting the bowl into the curve of her palm. “Hand. Comes from Svingeh’s Hands, because they put the touch on anyone trying to get past Jokinhiir without paying toll. Well, I sat at a lot of tables listening to a lot of Rivermen, Hands mostly, slobbering on about their problems. I heard a lot more than I wanted to know about Jokinhiir and how the Svingeh runs things.” She bent over the cleared spot and used the spoon’s handle to scrape a line in the dirt, ending with several swooping curves. “The River.” She continued drawing until she had a crude map of the Istrin plain to the west and the hinterlands to the east. The Plain was a blunt wedge driving into the mountains. From the point of that wedge she scratched two lines parallel to the River. “The Chute.” She jabbed the handle at a spot near the lower opening. “We’re here.” She looked up. “You sure you want to go on? Once we get in the Chute, we’re in Hand territory with nowhere to go but Jokinhiir.” She tapped the map at the top of the Chute. “There. That’s Jokinhiir.” Muscles beginning to cramp, she wriggled around until she was sitting with her legs crossed in front of her. “Well?”

  “No choice,” Gleia said curtly. “Reasons I can’t talk about until I talk with Shounach.”

  “Mmmph. Like I said, Hands are the Svingeh’s enforcers. Lot of trade travels the River.” She flicked her fingers at the wiggling line, then gathered in the lands beyond the Chute with a quick curving gesture. “Knives and tools from Kesstave, cloth from the weavers of Maytol, horses bred in Ooakalin on the Plains, you get the idea. Anything that passes Jokinhiir, the Svingeh takes his cut. Nothing—no pack trains, no free-boats—nothing goes through the Chute either way without paying toll. Hands see to that. Hankir Kan told me once what they do to smugglers.” Deel shuddered. “His way of getting me into bed. Hankir Kan. The Big Fist.” She tried to smile. “Makes my skin crawl.” A nervous laugh. Hands combing through her hair, passing over the back of her head. She nodded at the boat. “You know what we did? We stole the head Hand’s boat. I should’ve known it, he tried hard enough to get me on it. We stole Hankir Kan’s boat and now we’re sailing it right back to him.” She scrubbed her palms hard along her thighs, trying to wipe away the memory of his groping fingers. “I’d really rather keep away from Jokinhiir.”

  Gleia started tracing her brands again. After an uneasy silence, she murmured, “I wonder.…” She looked around, her brows drawn together. “Describe him.”

  Deel scanned the still, brown face then sighed and settled back on her heels. “He’s a little worm. I could set my chin on his head if I was so inclined, which I’m damn sure not. Looks fat. Isn’t. It’s mostly muscle. Personal experience, he tried using it on me till Merd tied him in knots one time. Black eyes. Straight black hair. Full of himself. A strut like he owns the earth. Scar from here to here.” Starting at her hairline just above the cheekbone, she ran her finger across her cheek, grazing the end of her mouth, slanting across her chin. “Wide and deep as a bit of binding twine.” She leaned forward again, watched Gleia’s unresponsive face, “know him?”

  “Not me.” Gleia shoved
at hair falling across her eyes. “Maybe Shounach. Ask him. I’m just along for the ride.” She sat watching the water glide past. “We’re here till dark—no, until the storm breaks. If there’s a storm tonight.”

  “It’s the season.”

  Gleia nodded absently. Lost in thought, she got to her feet, drifted down the bank and across the arching limb. Deel heard the soft splat as she jumped onto the boat, the scraping of her sandals as she crossed to the cabin. Then there were other sounds rising above the resonant susurrus of the River—fragmented laughter, shouts, the snorting of horses, a steady scraping.

  Deel glanced around the clearing. Where she was anyone coming up the River could see her. She ran to the bydarrakh, scrambled up it and settled herself in a limb crotch, her back against the knobby trunk, concealed from the River by a thin screen of stiff dark-green leaves. A barge slid into view, drawn by eight massive dapple-grays, their creamy feathers rippling, their heads bobbing up and down as they plodded steadily along the tow-path cut into the opposite bank of the River. On the deck of the long barge men were scattered about, talking or gambling in small groups, some asleep among their barrels and bales. Isolated at one end, a group of players laughed together, worked on costumes, exercised, a vibrant splash of color against the duller hues of the merchants and their wares. “Hah,” Deel breathed. “I forgot. Jota Fair at Jokinhiir.” She scratched thoughtfully at her upper lip, feeling a rise of excitement and just a little awe. Juggler’s luck, she thought. Kan used to bitch about the fair. About using his men to handle drunks and prod a bunch of slippery merchants into paying the tollage. He’ll be calling them in from the towers, if he hasn’t already. She settled against the trunk with a sigh of relief, smiling drowsily at the antics of the players until the barge passed out of sight.

  Hesh and Horli were almost clear of the treetops when she slid back down the bydarrack. She brushed away shreds of bark, thinking she should get some sleep. She glanced toward the boat, shook her head, twisted at the waist, winced at the protest of sore muscles. Stringing wordless sounds into an airy melody, she started working the knots from her body. After a short series of stretches and bends had raised a sheen of sweat on her skin, she began dancing about the clearing, her worries forgotten in the demanding joy of movement.

  Finally, the shadows growing shorter and the heat thickening about her, she hunted out a sheltered spot where she curled up on thick, sweet-smelling grass and went to sleep.

  The air quivered under the hammering of the double sun when she woke. She sat up slowly, licked dry lips. About the middle of high heat. Why couldn’t I sleep through? Rubbing at her throbbing temples she got to her feet and stumbled toward the River, her eyes closed to slits in a futile effort to shut out the glare that seemed to stab through the deepest shadow.

  Collecting the bucket on her way she stopped at the River’s edge, then waded carefully into the water, testing each step before she committed herself. River bottoms had a way of acquiring sudden holes and a night of fighting the River’s current had taught her respect for its power. She worked her way to an eddy moving in slow circles between two huge roots, dunked the bucket into the water and upended it over herself, gasping with pleasure as the cool water splashed onto her head and ran down her body.

  Bucket filled to the brim in one hand, splashing dollops of water onto her legs and feet, Deel ran along the arch of the limb and dropped onto the boat; it rocked under her, the suckerlings swaying languidly in the steamy heat as it pressed against them and they pressed back. The deck was drowned in violet shadow, the thick foliage of the ancient Horan protecting it from Hesh’s claws. The cabin’s door was propped open to let a little air creep through to those inside. Deel set the bucket down and crossed to the door.

  The Juggler was still sleeping. Gleia sat with her back against the side wall, her face shiny with sweat, her eyes glassy with fatigue. She looked around as she heard Deel, tried—not too hard—to smile, lifted a hand in a limp, half-hearted greeting.

  “How’s he?” Deel settled herself in the doorway, dabbing at trickles of sweat on her face and neck with the hem of her sleeve.

  “The same. No fever. He just keeps sleeping.”

  “It’s an oven down here. Come up on deck with me.”

  Gleia frowned, gave a slight shake of her head.

  Deel caught her arm. “Don’t be an idiot. Does he look like he needs you?” Smiling with satisfaction when Gleia yielded, Deel pushed her out, then moved past her to the bucket in the bow. She scraped up a dipperful of water, swallowed some of it and emptied the rest over her head. “Ah, that’s good.” She filled the dipper again and handed it to Gleia. “How’d you meet him?”

  Gleia drank greedily then settled herself beside the bucket. With the dipper resting on one knee, she stared past Deel at the River, narrowing her eyes against the glare. The River was molten metal in the blinding light of this end-of-summer high heat. “I was living with the seaborn,” she began, then her voice trailed off. She was smiling a little, as if at some gentle memory.

  Deel stretched out beside her, her knees raised, her cafta pooling in folds across her pelvis. She was restless and bored, unaccustomed to so much inactivity. Getting Gleia to talk about herself was a game she could play to make the hours pass. She lifted her brows, lifted her head a little. “Seaborn?”

  Gleia dipped her sleeve into the water, mopped at her face. After a moment she began absently tracing the letters burned into her skin. “When I was working to lift my bond, I thought it would be marvelous to have someone take care of me, to get whatever I needed without having to fight for it.” She lifted the dipper and drank slowly, then rested her head against the railing, her eyes closed. “Temokeuu-my-father taught me—many things—gave me a comfortable home, affection, even interesting work. I had friends and freedom and anything I wanted. And after two winters of this I was starting to climb the walls. I left—with my father’s blessing. He understood me very well. I left, got picked up by some people scrounging for slave labor who’d picked up Shounach before they came on me, we escaped, split up, got together again and ended up in Istir.”

  Deel closed her fingers about Gleia’s ankle, shook it. “Slavers? Why? How did you get away? What happened?”

  Gleia yawned. “It’s too hot for anything that complicated.”

  Deel wrinkled her nose, sighed loudly. “What else have we got to do?” As the silence continued, she patted a yawn while she watched a few puffy white clouds float out from behind the horan’s crown and drift across the sky’s glassy, blue-violet dome. She laced her fingers behind her head, chewed on her lip, a restless itch crawling about inside her skin that kept her fidgeting, jiggling her feet, moving her buttocks in small nudges back and forth across the planks. “Told you I was island-born,” she said when she was unable to endure the silence any longer. Hoping to tease more out of Gleia, she dug into her own past, something she usually avoided like a bad case of sun-itch. “A stretch of islands a long, long way south of here. The Daraghays. You think this is hot, you should be on one of the Daraghays at midsummer. Families were scattered along the islands but my people lived on Burung, the big island. It had a small mountain range with caves in the biggest mountains. When it got too hot outside, everyone—from all the islands, not just Burung—everyone packed up food, clothes, and household goods and moved into those caves. We’d sleep days and at night we’d eat and drink and dance on the sands. When the fall storms started, the people moved back to their homes, but we had a giant feast before they left and drank up all the shua wine we had left, married off all the new couples, said good-bye to some we wouldn’t see again for maybe two years-standard when the next summer would be on us. We got some wild storms in winter but no snow.” She rolled onto her side, fixed her eyes on Gleia, willing her to speak.

  Gleia looked away but yielded finally to the pressure of Deel’s steady gaze. “I don’t know where I was born or who my people were.” Her mouth worked as if she tasted something unpleasant; she dra
nk, emptying the dipper and dropping it back in the bucket. “I sometimes have this nightmare. It starts out with a lot of noise and ugly faces, some kind of raid, I think. A woman screaming. I never see her face clearly, it’s always blurred. My mother? I don’t know. There’s a man struggling and yelling as other men hold him down. I don’t see his face. My father? Don’t know. He’s killed. I’m somewhere in that room, hidden I think. It’s confused and bloody and I’m terrified.” She stared down at hands clenched into fists, forced them open and rested shaking fingers on her thighs. “My first real memories, I’m on my own in Carhenas, about five-standard I think, running with a gang of street kids. A lot of us died that winter.” She shivered. “I don’t know why I’m alive, except I fought like an animal to survive. The next years—I can remember begging, digging through garbage piles to beat the scavengers to bits of bone and half-rotten fruit. I was hungry all the time, I was always too hot or too cold, I couldn’t trust anyone much, though there was one girl … until she died. The gang … I was the littlest, the skinniest, and in a lot of ways the smartest, so they boosted me into windows in rich men’s houses, windows they couldn’t wiggle through. Sometimes I hunted up another window and let the boys in, sometimes I just took whatever I could carry and passed it out to them. Locks … there was a shaky old derelict who lived in one of the falling-down houses, Abbrah our gang leader said he was his brother, anyway he taught me about locks. I had a few scares.…” She grimaced, her fingers moving over the letter branded on her cheek. “Guards caught me inside a merchant’s warehouse one night. I was branded and bonded … sold.…” Her voice trailed off, her hand dropped into her lap and she sat brooding over the old memories.