“Leave Tokela alone, little brother.” Anahli took hold of Kuli’s shoulder and pulled him back. “He’s trying to figure out what we must do.”
Tokela put flattened palms to the edge and leaned out over the roiling water. Here and there flashes of colour emerged—the last of this run of fishKin writhing and surging upwards, climbing their ladder of stone and splash. The sight blurred before his eyes, accompanied by the clashing echo of River’s violence, thrumming through his skull… N’da, through his blood, like a second, spastic heartbeat.
She sounded… odd. Something was wrong below.
A hand latched onto his knife-harness, jolting Tokela back here. “Pay attention, Otter!”
“I am, believe me.” It was wry. He turned to Akumeh, overly mindful of the concerned grip, of Anahli’s keen lookout, of Kuli’s acceptance and Laocha’s puzzlement and Madoc’s relentless, critical gaze. “It has to be in the netting itself. I’ll go down.”
“Hunh. Pay attention,” Akumeh repeated, with a shake of his hand. Then it softened, ran down to linger at Tokela’s nape. “River is running higher than usual this breadth of Hoop, so heed Her well.”
As if he’d any choice. Tokela slid his chin towards the ahlóssa. “Mind them well, ai?”
“A’io,” Akumeh said, and Anahli affirmed it with her own tilt of chin.
Tokela took the few steps to the edge and dove.
He knew this fall well, gauged his descent carefully. Still, he expected his hands to make some sort of contact with bottom silt and stone. River indeed ran high thisnow. At least the currents buffeting him were familiar. They met and matched the noise behind his eyes, as if they made flirting talk, back and forth.
Tokela had to kick down against the current to find bottom, open his eyes to take his bearings, and… and he relished it. Coppery foam swirled about him, smoothing his skin, lit with bright flits of fishKin and light streams. Several of the former bumped against him, blind with an intensity that threatened to reach out, take him, too.
Did River speak to all her creatures so, in the spawn and near the end? Fill their Spirits and blind their eyes so nothing remained, in the end, but Her?
Tokela snarled against the swirling water, an uncompromising biddance: Not in thisnow. Be still thisnow.
She obeyed.
Somehow, he realised, They had always obeyed.
The breath rushed from him in a burst of bubbles, reaction swift as a blow against his ribs. They? Always. Obeyed? What?
He breached the surface like a gasping water horse, paddled there in shock for several heartbeats.
“All right?” Akumeh called down.
Tokela peered up from mists and foam and saw his playmate taking a wrap on the traces, just in case. Four other sets of wide eyes peered down—even Madoc, trying his best to seem disinterested.
Tokela made a knocking motion with his fist—an affirmative—then took Wind into his lungs and dove deeper. His teeth bared, resolute, and he forced his heart to clarity, listening to River with open eyes and wide-spread fingers.
He found the weir. It wasn’t where it should be. A new-broken outthrust of stone had trapped the weir in an underwater slide—as well as the large catch of fishKin that would die for no good reason unless Tokela freed them.
It took several tries, and several upwards breaches to take air, but he managed to coax most of the debris away. Milt and mud, gravel and the smaller of the stones—none of those overlarge, and the tumbling water assisting him, carrying away what he cleared. Several hand signals enlisted Akumeh’s strong arms on the traces to help shift a few stubborn stones. A tilt here, a tug at the line for Akumeh to pull, a push during those pulls. All of it showered silt over the netted fishKin.
Yet still, the weir wouldn’t come loose. Wind growing stale in his lungs, Tokela twisted and reached, felt the trapped fishKin flutter against his forearms, felt the nettings against his fingers… but he could only go so far. His hands had broadened since last Hoop’s spawning. They wouldn’t fit.
Finally he broke the surface, motioning for the climbing rope. Anahli already had it secured to a tree with a neat horsetalker knot akin to the ones used upon River. She tossed it down and, grabbing hold, Tokela made his way upwards. Akumeh grabbed Tokela’s knife harness and hauled him the rest of the way atop the bluff.
“Did you free it?” Kuli asked.
“Quiet, ahlóssa,” Akumeh chided, putting an arm about Tokela. “Even Otters must be allowed to catch their breath after a long dive.”
Panting, Tokela scrubbed the wet locks from his face and let Akumeh support him. It was rather nice.
It was also a distinct pleasure to see Madoc puffing up like a mad watercock. But not as fierce as the knowledge they were all, in this heartbeat, deferring to him. It cleared his thoughts; freed the talk that oft would tangle in his throat.
“The weir’s still trapped somehow,” Tokela sat up. “The rocks pinning it are all gone, yet it won’t come free. I can’t reach any farther to find the cause; my hands are too big. Madoc, yours too. Laocha, I know you swim very well. Was Kuli boasting overmuch, or does he truly swim better than you?”
Kuli was starting to grin; it was Madoc, this time, who flipped a smack to the back of the cinnabar head.
“Ai, he does,” Laocha admitted. “He might be a’Šaákfo, but River carries him as Her own.”
“My hands are small,” Anahli said, holding one up, splayed in the mist. Tokela laid his against hers as measure—he’d not realised it, she was slim as he, but taller, made of all muscle and sinew—but her hands indeed were narrow, with short palms and long fingers. She laced those fingers with his, eyeing him. “I swim as well as Kuli, better perhaps.”
“Aww,” Kuli began to whinge. Tokela gave him a stern look.
“Enough,” Anahli told her brother. “It’s decided.”
Akumeh rose, offering Tokela an arm up. “Madoc, you’ll see to the lines with me. Laocha, Kuli, we’ll need your sharp eyes to watch out for Tokela and Anahli.”
Anahli started for the edge.
Tokela halted her. “You’ll climb down. You don’t know this fall as I do.”
She started to protest, instead smiled, lifted her chin, and straddled the rope.
THE WEIR was heavy. And the falls tried to toss and spin her like a feather upon Wind.
Glad her assessment of her swimming ability hadn’t been any idle boast, Anahli followed Tokela, watching the tilt of his head, hands, and the direction of the indigo eyes a-gleam in the murk. Twice more they surfaced, exchanging signalled directions and gathering enough of Wind’s breath to keep them, then went deeper, circling the trapped weir. Tokela snatched at the ropes and then Anahli as a strong current buffeted them sideways. Anahli climbed his arm, grabbed the ropes and hung on.
They crawled hand over hand towards the weir, Anahli creeping into place where Tokela motioned. Once they got past the initial drop of the fall, the lull of pressure and current was astounding: the water drifting in an almost-lazy spiral just above the weir. Anahli reached in, past the wriggling fishKin and farther, to the tangle of line and webbing that disappeared into silt and stones. She pushed back, motioned to Tokela. He jerked his head, and she followed him up and over the weir, surfaced behind the falls. A mist-filled alcove lay there—an amazing place, both shelter and council. The falls’ roar was only slightly muted; nevertheless, the alcove seemed quiet.
“I felt it!” she panted. Her voice echoed huge in the small space, bouncing off water and stone. “The back of the weir’s stove in. The line’s all tangled with the netting, and there’s more debris holding it there.”
“Can you free it?”
“It’s very tight. Even an ahlóssa would have trouble.”
Tokela’s brows squinched into a frown; he blew and thought for several heartbeats. “What if Akumeh takes up on the lines to pull it upward? I can hold it steady or sway it back and forth as you need. Use your feet to signal me—a tap that tells me which way to lean, and a k
ick to stop me.” He grinned. “You should enjoy the latter.”
She snorted, flinging the wet hair from her eyes. “Madoc might enjoy it more, the brat.”
His brows squinched tighter; it bothered him. But obviously not that much as he thought it over. His lip twitched, then gave into a full-blown smile. “You know, I think he would.”
“And you’re reasonably pretty when you smile. You should do it more.” And ai, but half the fun was watching him blink, like landed fishKin.
“Only reasonably?” he finally answered, and smiled even broader. “Wait here. Catch your breath. I’ll signal Akumeh, then we’ll dive again.”
“DO YOU see them?” Madoc had to ask twice; the first didn’t come out loud enough to be heard.
Laocha shook her head.
“Me, neither,” Kuli added, frowning. “They’ve been down a long time.”
“We should do something.” Madoc turned to Akumeh.
Akumeh plainly disagreed. “There are shadows behind the fall.”
Madoc tried to look past the watery curtain, but saw nothing. He shouldn’t be this concerned. He told himself it was about Anahli, not Tokela.
Laocha had no reason to hide any worries. “But Akumeh, what if—!”
“Both of you, be still.” Akumeh ordered. “I said there are shadows behind the fall, two of them. Tokela mentioned a small lee place there. Likely they’re taking a breath.”
Madoc frowned and stared at the falls. He still couldn’t see anything. With a gusty sigh, he kept dogged hold on his part of the traces and hoped with all his heart Akumeh was right.
He was. Not two heartbeats later, a dark head parted the falls and Tokela leapt through, coming against the banks to tread water and peer upwards. Madoc sagged against the ropes in relief, and was abruptly furious with himself.
With quick hand signals, Tokela detailed what was to be done: keep a steady haul on the ropes so they could squeeze in and free the weir. Madoc wished he was down there instead of Anahli. He knew these falls better than any horsetalker.
Akumeh signalled understanding, and with a pumped fist of acknowledgement, Tokela dove once more beneath the surface.
“Keep your eyes upon the fall; if there’s trouble, sing out,” Akumeh told Laocha and Kuli, then turned to Madoc. “You know what we must do. Take the near trace. Pull until your gut says quit, and then keep pulling.”
Madoc obeyed, taking the trace. Following Akumeh’s lead, he wrapped the waxy-rough hemp about his palms, realised those palms were sweating. Madoc gritted his teeth.
All right, then. Perhaps when this was done, he should forgive Tokela after all.
“FORGIVE ME! Oh, good Rivermaster, forgive my clumsiness!” The scrawny Matwau aimed again for his precarious seat on the stool beside the wide board. He’d missed the first time, nearly upending not only the board, but the small circle laid with carved wooden discs. “But I know… I know, y’ see.”
Old Munro sighed. The yakhling seated across from Našobok snarled a question, rising in threat. Našobok held up a staying hand, then leaned against the board and growled at the Matwau, “What can you possibly know that is worth interrupting my game?”
No need to advertise that he was looking for anything, much less information. Našobok came here seldom. It was just one more port with houses dug temporarily into the banks, held up with spit and shit and straw—until the next flood, of course, when they’d move, wait it out, then come back and try again. But he knew Kaaven—the yakhling—fairly well, had willingly agreed to a game and a drink and an exchange of news, keeping his ears open to everything about him.
The Matwau laid a finger against one side of his nose, trying to look canny. But the finger trembled, ruining any illusions save that of too much drink, or dreaming dust, or any of myriad escapist vices that crowded into portside villages the farther downRiver one travelled.
Not that Našobok blamed any of them. Life was hard; harder still when you’d no place or People to call your own. Everyone had to belong somewhere, somehow. Even outliers. Even outLanders.
“It’s your people, aye? You little people. They’re looking for your kind. You should take care, Rivermaster. Go back home.”
“River-chieftain,” Munro growled.
Našobok agreed. One didn’t master River; one prayed She carried her People gentle.
“Wha’ever,” the Matwau said. “There’s slavers hereabouts. I know the sgralka Rivermas… well, you… takes ’em down as you can.”
As he could, was right. A drop in a very large cauldron, the slavers Našobok had sent to River as sacrifice. He could spend his whole life and never get them all.
The Matwau edged closer, whispered in Rivertalk, “Randan said ye was headed this way. Said t’ find ye.”
Munro slid his eyes to Našobok. Randan was one of many names for an acquaintance who lived in the estuaries.
“Said t’ tell ye. Warn ye. The Chepiś are buying sgralka slaves.”
At this, Munro sat up. Even the dryLander’s eyes widened between the folds of his headwrap.
“Chepiś don’t buy slaves,” Našobok replied, slow.
“They do now.”
Našobok frowned, then shrugged at Kaaven. “You and Munro finish the game.” He rose and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders. “Come on, Matwau. Let’s walk.”
“NOT JUST any slaves. They’re looking for ones of a certain age, of a certain build.” Našobok’s voice dropped, barely a breath against the candle in his hold. “Ones who have Power.”
It was then he spread out the parchment upon his chart board. And…
Munro’s breath sucked in. “It’s him.”
The parchment crumpled easily in Našobok’s fist. Lurching up, he paced back and forth across the dim hold. “Palatan told me. Or good as, not that he says much of anything about these things, but he knew Chepiś had interfered with Tokela. All those rumours, and Tokela’s dam stirring them like well-seasoned stew for reasons I can’t understand, but there’s no way I believed that Chepiś sired him. You can’t breed lionKin with wabadeh.”
“Maybe they can.”
“I find it more likely the misbegotten outLanders Shaped him. Somehow.”
“And now they want what they Shaped,” growled Munro.
“I have to go back. Warn him. Warn Palatan of what’s coming… if they come that far… scorch me, but Galenu knows these Chepiś! What if he’s… in on it somehow? What if he’s offering a hearth just to turn Tokela over to his… friends.” A snarl. “River’ll have him if that’s what he’s done!”
Munro looked up from the crumpled sketch, face sorrowful as one of Sarinak’s mastiffs, but determined. Support. “Shall we wait here for you?”
“N’da. Keep to the running. We’ve still trade to do, even if we go no farther than the estuaries. As to Galenu… I might just ram his trade down his throat.”
“If he lives so long,” Munro said, as Našobok leapt up the stair and into dark’s arms.
21 - Shaper
Tokela dove back down to the weir and gave the ropes a tug, waited. Slowly at first, the fibres began to stretch and quiver, streams of tiny bubbles floating upwards from the sodden hemp. He gave another tug—wait there for now—then kicked his way through the waterfall to retrieve a waiting Anahli. He held her gaze for a heartbeat. She smiled and tilted her head.
“Let’s go, then.”
They both dove this time, below the worst of the upper current. The deep undertow swirled, crosscurrents heading more towards the rocks than away. Tokela murmured a silent orison against the roof of his closed mouth, imploring River for whatever help She could give. Anahli grabbed hold of the weir, waiting. Tokela planted both feet hard against the bottom stones, tilting his face down so the roiling upper current wouldn’t force up his nose. Then he wove hard fingers into the weir netting, gripped the staves and hauled with all his strength.
River, thisnow, gave them kindness; once the weir swayed forwards, even slight, the undertow curled ben
eath it and lifted it even more. Quick as the otterKin Akumeh had deemed Tokela, Anahli darted between rocks and weir, knife flashing in one hand.
THE ROPE went taut, shedding water and creaking, then went lax.
“I think it’s coming free!” Akumeh gave a fierce, triumphant whistle, then ordered, “Again! One last haul!”
Madoc gave one more fierce heave on the rope, felt shoulders strain and sinews cry mercy, pulled even harder…
And the rope broke.
The recoil flung Akumeh against the tree and sent Madoc sailing backwards. Kuli and Laocha both screamed.
The frayed rope end undulated upwards in a gust of misted Wind, then disappeared over the cliff.
THE WEIR lurched upwards, then sideways, then heaved itself against the rock wall. Tokela was yanked forwards, his shout of denial escaping in bubbles and foam. With a fierce twist and heave, he regained his footing, shoving his feet harder against the rocks, and hauled backwards against water and weir. Thighs straining, feet slipping; his shoulders and arms burned and snagged. His impulse was to gulp more Wind, but River burned his nostrils and he choked, just in time clutched the breath in his throat and let it burn.
The weir repaid Tokela in like force. It launched forwards, slamming into his torso, sending him in a strange and slow-motion sprawl against the bottom. What air remained was forced from him as the jagged bottom stones stabbed and tore at his spine, the weir raked his torso, pinning him down. Crimson began to edge his sight. Lungs burning, he fought, beat against it, kicked…
Mine, River hissed. Mine.
The weir lurched loose. Tokela exploded upward; but the weir smashed against his face and sent him back down. He rolled on the bottom, an underwater motion, deliberate and gravid, like one of turtleKin on ša’s back. Calm… so calm, even the seizing of his chest didn’t touch, couldn’t touch him…
N’da. There was something else. Someone else.
Blood Indigo Page 38