A Bait of Dreams

by Clayton, Jo;

  Deel sighed. Flattening her hands on the rug, stifling a groan as the stiffened muscles of her arms and back protested and scabbing wounds cracked, she pushed herself onto her knees, eased back until she was sitting on her heels. “I’m no smuggler.” She croaked, her throat burning as she tried to speak, the sounds she could make as painful to her ears as to her throat. “I’m a dancer, you know that,” she managed.

  “Why is Kan so hot after you?”

  Deel looked away from the elaborate eyeholes turned on her. With that veil hiding the woman’s face, talking to her was like trying to talk to a hole in the ground. “I turned him down too often and too hard,” she whispered, her voice breaking and vanishing as she struggled with the words. She closed her eyes a moment, forced them open again when sleep threatened to drown her. It was hard to think, hard to know what she should say. She swallowed, then pressed a hand against her neck. The saone Chay poured some more wine in the cup and held it out. Deel gulped down several mouthfuls, relaxed a bit as warmth spread through her, chasing away—for the moment, at least—some of the soreness in her throat. She clutched at the cup, wondering just how much silence she owed Gleia and the Juggler and and how much explanation she owed the Sayoneh for rescuing her from Kan. It was a hard choice and she didn’t feel like trying to sort out the rights and wrongs. Still, Seren was waiting with growing impatience for an answer. “He got me on that boat,” Deel whispered. “When he got amorous, I was sick all over him.”

  Chay giggled and several others, anonymous among the clustering veils, chuckled with appreciation. Deel smiled a little, warmed by this bit of sister-sharing as she was warmed by the wine she was sipping. “He beat me.” Sympathy flowed from the blue veils—it was eerie, those veils staring at her. “No faces,” she said, her eyes blurring and watering as she turned her head from one set of fanciful eyeholes to the next.

  Seren moved her hand in another of her angular gestures. Deel blinked. The hand was brown, square, small for her size but conspicuously competent. “Your hands are like hers,” Deel said, pleased with herself for seeing this likeness between Seren and Gleia. That small hand made her feel comfortable and secure.

  “Her? Who?”

  Jolted a little out of her drifting rumination, Deel stared at the veil, started to shake her head, but stopped that when she nearly fell over. “You wouldn’t know her. A brown fox, secret. Secret. No face. Don’t need a veil. Turn it off.”

  Seren snorted. “You’re drunk. Dancer.”

  “Uh-huh.” Deel smiled dreamily at the purple-red film staining the bottom of the mug.

  “Pay attention.” The saone’s voice was sharp, annoyed. “How did you get away from Hankir Kan?”

  “Threw up all over him.”

  “You said that.”

  “Said that. He said clean up. Fetch water. Went to fetch it.” She lifted a hand, swooped it out and down in an unsteady arc. “Whoop. Over the side.” She giggled. “Stupid. Him. Letting me drop that damn bucket in the River.” She sighed. “Wasn’t thinking, me, just did it. Boat went crazy. I went over. He come after.”

  “I see. Did the Hand take you out of Istir?”

  “Don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Friends in it. Not your business.”

  “Mmm. Well, we’ll leave that till later when you’re sober again. Dancer.”

  “Huh?”

  “Listen if you can. We’re going to Jokinhiir to join our sisters at the Jota fair. You’d better come with us; you’re not in any shape to set off by yourself.”

  “Jokinhiir.” Deel touched her tongue to her lips as she considered this. “She’s going to Jokinhiir if she gets away.” She scrubbed her hand across her face. “Him too.” Thought of the Juggler warmed her blood. She coughed, swallowed. “Kan will be in Jokinhiir.”

  “You don’t have to see him.”

  Deel shivered, suddenly cold, suddenly awake again, all her aches and general exhaustion flooding over her. “Go with you.” She shivered again. “Poison,” she said, not fully aware she was speaking aloud. “I’m poison. Alahar first, then.…” She stopped, blinked. “Kan will have your skin for this and don’t think he won’t find out.” She swayed, jerked herself upright again.

  Chay caught her arm, supporting her. “Seren, that’s enough.”

  With the small saone helping her, Deel stretched out on the fleecy rug, on her stomach again so the fleece wouldn’t get into the wounds. She heard the slither of Chay’s robes and a murmuring exchange with another saone, then she twitched as gentle fingers spread a cool lotion over the bruises, scrapes and cuts, wiping away the pain. “Sayoneh, the delivered,” Chay murmured as she worked. “The broken, the beaten, the rebels, they find refuge with us.” The voice began to fade in and out. “Pass through … stay … you can stay … want stay … wider, warmer home … place to be … belong.…” Deel heard nothing more, drowning deep deep in sleep.

  The next four days were a floating shapeless dream as Shounach’s drugs helped her endure the endless riding and the pain that otherwise would have immobilized her. They rode double all night through storm and frost and all day except for the few hours of high heat when they dipped into the forest to avoid the hammering of the suns, Gleia pressed against Shounach’s back, holding tight to him, separated from him only when he stopped to switch horses, having ridden the one they were on into exhaustion. When they came to watchtowers, they herded the Watchman and his servants into the holding cell each tower was equipped with. The guards usually there had been pulled away to police the Fair, only one man being left behind to hold the tower, soured and made careless by having to miss the Fair and spend Fairtime sitting out in the middle of nowhere.

  They left the fourth tower early in the evening. Gleia relaxed against Shounach’s back, gratefully free of drugs for the first time, her body having toughened enough to support the effort of the ride; she was beginning to respond automatically to the horse’s motion, was beginning almost to enjoy the ride, though the rain was beating down on her and the growing cold was eating through the heavier clothing she’d liberated from a watchman’s wardrobe. The storm cleared away sometime after midnight and the clouds blew apart, unveiling crescent Aab and a great swirling sweep of stars. Gleia sucked in the frosty air, snuggled against the warmth of Shounach’s lean body and felt content, even happy.

  In the dark hours just before dawn, Shounach pulled the last of the stolen horses to a stop. “The Roost,” he said.

  Clutching at him, she leaned out and looked around him. The tower was a black cylinder cutting into the starfield, twice the girth and twice the height of the other watchtowers. Though there were a few sparks of red near the base where torches burned at guardposts, the rest of the tower was quiet and dark, those inside apparently all still asleep. Shounach tapped her hands. When she loosed her grip, he slid to the ground and reached up for her.

  Gleia eased her head above the step and wrinkled her nose as her eyes confirmed what her ears had told her. A corseleted guard paced steadily back and forth in front of an elaborately carved door, a regrettably alert sentry far different from the two men supposed to be watching the tower’s entry, both of them drunk and intent on the leaping bones and the piles of coins in front of them. Up here on the top floor of the tower, Kan’s own roost within the Roost, everything was different. She watched the guard pace then looked around the wide open space in front of the door. It was bare of cover and lit by at least a dozen shell and pewter lamps; the only shadows visible were those multiple shifting shapes pooling around the feet of the pacing guard.

  She crept carefully back down the steps to the floor below, tensing at each accidental sound. She pushed open the door to the unused room where he’d left her. The lamps in the corridor were burning low, it would be dawn too soon and at dawn the tower would turn into a trap. Her sandals creaking on the stone, she paced back and forth over the gritty flags, circling around the broken, three-legged chair that was the only furniture in
the room, too restless and worried to sit or even stand at the window.

  Shounach came back after what seemed an eternity though the darkness outside was as thick and still as ever with no sign of the approaching dawn. She whirled when she heard a noise at the door, relaxed when she saw him, lifted a brow at his burden—a large metal tray with a pewter pitcher sitting in the middle, a ragged hunk of bread on one side and an equally ragged lump of cheese on the other. He set the tray in the window embrasure and shook out the wad of cloth he’d carried pinched between arm and ribs, a servant girl’s shift, cleaner than most she’d seen in the other towers.

  “What’s that for?” She glanced from the shift to his face. “I almost hate to ask.”

  “You. I want you to distract the guard for me. He won’t be suspicious. No sane person would invade this tower.”

  Gleia chuckled. “Sane? Neither of us qualifies.”

  He held out the shift. “Get into this.”

  Scowling, she shook her head. “Look at me. Smell me. I smell more horse than woman.”

  “You don’t have to seduce him. Use your tongue, Vixen.”

  “What? Oh.” Ignoring his sudden grin, she reached around the shift and snapped a finger against the shoulderbag riding his hip. “Use the light-blade on him. It’d be quicker and quieter.”

  “Can’t. Not enough charge left to light a match.” At her puzzled look, he shook his head. “Never mind. It’s used up for the moment, that’s all. You can do this, Vixen.”

  “But I won’t like it.”

  Laughing he moved to the window and stood gazing across the chasm at the dark bulk of the Svingeh’s Keep sitting high above the sleeping Fair. Shivering as the damp chill pervading the desolate little room touched her skin, she stripped off the tunic and trousers and smoothed the shift down over her body, regretting already the warmth she’d discarded; the sleazy material of the shift provided little protection against the cold. She joined Shounach at the window, rubbing briskly at the cold-bumps on her arms. The starlight glittered on patches of frost that shone white against the black of the stony earth far below. “Winter in a few months,” she said. “Have you thought.…”

  “Time for that later, Vixen.” He lifted the tray and carried it to the door.

  She took it from him and stood back to let him open the door for her. “I’m an idiot to do this. You be sure you’re close behind me.”

  Shounach smiled down at her, drew fingertips gently along her cheek, lingering over the brands. “See if you can get him to turn his back to the stairs.”

  “Talk about your one-idea minds.” Shaking her head, she went out, walking slowly, intent on keeping the unstable pitcher from tipping over and dousing her with the beer it held.

  “What you doin’ here, girl?”

  Her head down, her eyes on the rocking pitcher, she ignored the guard’s snapped question and moved several more steps toward Kan’s door. With a muttered curse he rushed at her, grabbed at her arm and jerked her around. The pitcher rocked precariously but didn’t quite tip over. She held her breath until it settled, then stood with her eyes lowered, refusing to look at the guard, trying to present him with a picture of sullen stupidity. “Orders,” she muttered. “Tol’ me, bring this here.”

  “He’s sleeping.” The guard kept his voice low though there seemed little chance that many sounds would penetrate that massive door or the equally massive walls. “He don’t want no food now. Get your butt down those stairs before I kick it down.”

  She stood stubbornly silent.

  Breath hissed between his teeth. His fingers closed painfully on her arm; he jerked her around, sending her into a stumbling run toward the stairs, the tray wrenched from her hands. It bounced on the floor with an appalling clatter, the pitcher rolling away in a lopsided arc, spilling beer in a frothy stream across the flags.

  Then the guard was folding down to lie with his face in a puddle of sour beer, Shounach standing over him. He grinned at Gleia who stood rubbing at her bruised arm and scowling down at her beer-soaked sandals. “About time,” she said.

  “You know you did good, Vixen.” He crossed to the door, lifted the latch and shoved. “Barred inside.” Eyes narrowed, body taut, he concentrated a moment then shoved at the door again, smiling as it swung ponderously open, silent on oiled hinges. He beckoned Gleia to him, sniffed as she came up beside him. “Horse and beer are not a pretty mix.”

  “You should be as close to it as I am.” She moved past him into a huge dark room with scattered divans, their piles of silken pillows gleaming liquidly in the faint light from a single lamp. She started across the room, expecting to hear Shounach following behind; near the middle she turned, raised her eyebrows as she saw him back outside, stooping beside the unconscious guard. He dragged the man inside, went back for the pitcher and tray, swung the door shut and dropped the bar into its slots. “No use getting anyone excited.”

  Kan’s breathing filled the bedroom beyond, a steady rasping not quite a snore. Starlight and the meager gleam from Aab’s shrunken crescent came grayly through the window hole cut in the thick outer wall, through the double panes of its glass, just enough light to darken the shadows and fuzz the outlines of the room’s furniture. Her sandals whispered over layered furs as she crossed to the wide bed where Kan sprawled alone among scattered pillows, quilts twisted around him until he looked like a dark moth emerging from a tattered cocoon. He lay on his stomach, his face turned toward her, drooping open, quivering with each noisy breath. She glanced up at Shounach. “The sleep of the just,” she said acidly, not bothering to lower her voice.

  His eyes darkening with amusement, his teeth gleaming in the ghost-light, he touched her shoulder, then bent over Kan, startling her by slapping his open hand against the man’s neck.

  Kan grunted, tried to fight out of the quilts, collapsed onto his back; he stared glassily up at them, a dark disc clinging leech-like to his neck. Shounach watched him a few minutes, eyes narrowed, measuring the changes in his face, then he retrieved the disc, slipped it back in his pocket. “Hand,” he said sharply; he slapped him, his hand cracking against the plump cheek. “Hand, tell me your name.”

  “Hankir Kan ycon y-sannh.” His voice was thick and slow; a line of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you carry Ranga Eyes into Istir?”

  Kan’s eyes opened wide; for a moment a flicker of awareness brightened in them, then his face went slack again. He said nothing.

  Shounach frowned, then nodded. “Right. Did you carry Ranga Eyes into Istir?”

  In a dull, blurred voice, Kan said, “I did carry Ranga Eyes into Istir.”

  “Where did you get the Eyes?”

  Gleia moved closer until she was pressed against Shounach’s side, his arm shifting to rest on her shoulder as he waited with more patience than she could muster for the answer to this question.

  “The Svingeh.”

  Suppressing an exclamation of disgust at the let-down, Gleia pulled away from Shounach and began wandering about the room. With more understanding of the limitations of the drug, Shounach continued his questions. “Where does the Svingeh get the Eyes?”

  “Hell-bitches.”

  Two of the walls were covered by large tapestries, their colors swallowed by the cold light, the woven images fading into blotches of gray and white. She wandered over to one of them, ran exploring fingers along its surface.

  “Explain Hell-bitches.”

  “Sayoneh. Trail women.”

  Gleia pulled the tapestry out from the wall, raised her brows when she saw the small alcove it concealed.

  “Where do they get the Eyes?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Gathering the tapestry into folds to let the meager light filter past her, she peered into the alcove. With a soft exclamation she dropped the tapestry and groped across the small space to the two bags piled in a back corner, her bag and Deel’s. She took one in each hand and pushed back out into the main room.

  “
Where is their settlement?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who does know?”

  “No one. They keep it secret.”

  Gleia stripped off the beer-stained shift, glad to be rid of it. She dug into her bag, found one of her caftas and pulled it on; it was wrinkled and damp but she felt more like herself.

  “When do the Sayoneh bring the Eyes to Jokinhiir?”

  “Ten days before the Jota Fair.”

  “They’ve already delivered the year’s shipment?”

  “Yes.”

  Gleia hauled the two bags across the room and stopped beside the bed. She touched Deel’s bag, considered interrupting Shounach to ask about Deel, decided that she could wait a little longer.

  “What do the Sayoneh buy with the Eyes?”

  “Protection.”

  “Protection?”

  “Come and go, buy and sell, Svingeh keep hands off, make everyone else keep hands off.”

  “When the Sayoneh leave the Fair, do they go off together?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes they leave in separate groups, go in different directions?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Gleia looked down at the man’s slack face, then up at Shounach. She rubbed slowly at her arms. Kan was sweating copiously, little ripples of twitches running repeatedly across the flaccid muscles of his face as if in some deep part of his mind he fought this invasion of his private thoughts. Gleia chewed on her lip, feeling uncomfortable at the probing, feeling also a degree of satisfaction at seeing him struggle helplessly as he must have made Deel struggle.

  “What direction do they take when they leave together?”

  “South along Skull-crusher.”

  “What is Skull-crusher?”

  “River.”

  “What river?”

  “Cuts between Roost and Svingeh’s Keep.”

  “In the chasm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone tried following them?”

  “Not far.”

  “Why?”