by Jo Clayton
She moved closer to a small family, mother and father and three children, trying to seem a part of it as she moved past the glaring eyes of Plaz guards wearing black armbands with the circled flame embroidered conspicuously on them, moved through the gate and down the tree-shaded walkway to the Temple itself, letting the peace inside the walls lighten her despair and soothe away the disturbance stirred up by the demonstration outside.
Old but still unfinished, the Temple was a forest of pillars, each with its unique carving of the Maiden. Every year or so a new column was added, the figure a gift of another sculptor and patron or group of patrons-wood and stone, ceramic and mosaic, every medium but cold metal. Everywhere she looked, Serroi could see images of the Maiden, stern or tender, laughing and light of limb, or formally gracious. Each artist had carved or shaped his or her own vision of the great Her. Somewhere within the forest of columns-a thousand at the last count-a pilgrim could find that image of Her that matched his or her inner vision. Serroi had come here half a hundred times during her ward; even now in her preoccupation she reacted to the beauty and mystery of the place. Since the columns were not roofed in but supported a delicate lattice of stone, the morning sun painted lacy shadows on the muted tessera of the mosaic floor. The noises of the street were closed out by the massive walls; once she moved into the columns they ceased to exist for her.
There were already many pilgrims here, telling their prayer beads or sitting in quiet contemplation of the Maiden. A few were wandering among the columns searching through the hundreds of images for the one that spoke to them. The street crowd had ignored the small boy; here, in the shadows and the silence, the pilgrims took even less notice of her. She moved quietly toward the central court, disturbed by the evil she carried with her, the jarring she felt between her inner turmoil and the holiness of this place.
She stepped out of the shadow onto the court’s mosaic floor. The fountain in the center of the court sang soft music to her. At the far end of the large open space were the Door and the Dais where the Daughter would enact the rite of the Moongather, her chant echoed by the thousands of pilgrims filling the court and all the space within the forest of columns. She hesitated a moment by the coping of the fountain; she had only to cross, turn to her right at the far side and follow the sanctuary’s wall until she came to a small plain door-until she was there, until she pulled the bell cord, she was safe in her disguise. The small lump of the tajicho was warm against her skin inside her boot, reassuring her as it warned her of hostile search. She looked up, touched the hand of one of the maiden figures in the fountain; it seemed to her that the fingers warmed to hers a moment. Then she shook her head, ruefully acknowledging her desperate need for reassurance.
She walked quickly across the court. The silence was thick and tense. She moved down the side of the simple rectangular building that housed the Daughter and her acolytes. At the small door, she raised her hand, touched the bell-pull. It was carved from a large piece of amber into the shape of a slender, graceful hand. To sound the bell she had to take the hand in hers and tug. The amber fingers felt warm and welcoming in hers. Her heart thudding, her breathing ragged, she tugged and heard the muted sound of a bell ringing inside.
The door slammed open. She shrank away as she stared up into the face of a Plaz guard, a big scarred man in carefully smoothed tabard and clean leathers. He scowled down at her. “What you want, boy?”
Serroi swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and croaked, “Message.” Her tongue flicked along dry lips. “Message for the Daughter,” she said.
“Give. I see she gets it.” He held out his left hand. Some brawl in the past had taken the little finger and the top joint off the fourth.
Fighting down a fear that was making her sick to her stomach, Serroi shook her head. “Mouth message,” she said huskily. “Say to the Daughter this: She who milks the wind and sows the dragon’s teeth has words for the Daughter.”
The guard, grunted and leaned forward to peer skeptically at her with slightly nearsighted eyes. “Stay here.” He slammed the door in her face. She sank onto the pavement and tried to stop the shaking of her knees. With a trembling hand she wiped sweat from her face.
It’s Moongather, she thought. Except for the trouble Tayyan and I brought on our order, that guard would be a meie; though with the fuss the Sons are stirring up about us, maybe not, maybe it’s not all my fault. Still, probably nothing to worry about. The Daughter has to be guarded. At least he wasn’t wearing an armband. There must be some guards who aren’t involved in this plot. She rubbed at her nose. Doesn’t matter. I’m a boy, a Mouth, not the meie they’re all looking for.
The door jerked open. The guard beckoned. “Come on, boy,” he growled.
She followed him inside. There was a small dark foyer that smelled strongly of wax and polish, than a hallway lit by oil lamps, scented oil, a sweet fragrance that reminded her of spring on a mountainside. The guard stumped ahead of her. His attitude began to bother her. He didn’t seem to give a damn where he was, seemed deaf to the tranquility he shattered with each heavy step.
“In here, boy.” He pulled back a curtain and motioned her through an archway, then clumped off as she stepped into the bare room where peace touched her fear like a benediction.
The room was a little longer than it was wide. Tapestries on the walls were dark blue with scattered white dots and line figures. After a moment she saw that these represented star groupings; the dots were stars, the white figures the legend images. At the far end of the room two chairs were pulled up facing each other. As she hesitated the tapestry by the chairs split, and a veiled figure stepped inside the room. The slender graceful figure wore a long grey robe and over it a translucent grey veil so fine it seemed to float on the still air. The woman sat, beckoned to Serroi.
Heart pounding again, she crossed the room and stopped beside the empty chair. A graceful hand came under the veil; with a fluid gesture it invited her to sit and speak.
Serroi edged around the chair and sat, her toes dangling a handspan from the floor, feeling uneasy and becoming a bit angry at this treatment. The woman in the veil folded her hands in her lap and waited. Serroi bit her lip, then lifted her head to stare a challenge at the veil. “You are the Daughter?”
The hidden head inclined in a graceful assent.
Serroi waited, saying nothing.
“The Maiden’s eyes are like mountain tarns, green and brown at once and filled with a wisdom beyond man’s comprehension.” The veiled woman’s voice was warm, almost as deep as a man’s.
Serroi relaxed; she knew that voice. She pulled off her gloves, held out her hands.
“The little meie!” The Daughter’s veiled head turned from hands to face. “You said you have a message?”
Relief like euphoria swept through Serroi; she could lay her burden in this woman’s hands, rid herself of the awful responsibility she carried; she leaned forward, spoke eagerly. “I beg you, doman Anas. Believe what I tell you now.”
“Speak, meie. I will hear you.” The coolness in the deep voice warned Serroi she’d better be convincing. The words tumbling from her lips, she recounted the events preceding her flight from Oras, finishing, “Please, doman Anas. Believe me and get me to the Domnor so I can warn him.”
The Daughter lifted her hands, clapped twice, “Oh I do believe you, little meie.” A low rippling laugh. “I do indeed.” She stood.
Serroi heard a rattle behind her. She whipped up and around.
A Sleykyn came through the arch at the far end of the audience chamber.
She wheeled.
A second Sleykyn stood just behind the veiled figure.
“Why, Daughter?” There was anguish in Serroi’s voice. “Why?”
“Don’t fight, little meie.” The Daughter’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “The Sleykyn will have the meat off your bones. And you don’t have much to lose, do you.”
The tapestry parted again and a Norit walked through.
Serroi’s eyes widened as she recognized the Minarka she’d seen on the Highroad. His russet hair was pulled back from his face and tied behind his head with a narrow black ribbon whose ends he’d pulled forward to hang fluttering on his chest. His eyes were copper mirrors, cool and measuring, giving nothing away. He let his hand drop on the woman’s shoulder and stood staring intently at Serroi. After a moment of this, he frowned. “Something is protecting her.”
The Daughter lifted a slim white hand and rested it on his; her casually possessive air sickened Serroi. “She hasn’t been searched. You heard what she said?”
“Of course. One wonders how many have heard her little tale.” His eyes ran over Serroi again. “Still, she makes little difference. The thing is almost done. When this business is finished, I’d like to explore her anomalies. Tuck her away in the Plaz dungeons and forget her till then.” His hand closed on her shoulder with bruising force. She leaned her veiled head back against him, breathing hard enough so that the puffs of air from her lips blew the grey veil about. “You can play with her then, my sicamar.” His words held a hint of amusement, but his face was without expression. He squeezed the woman’s shoulder again, then stepped back behind the tapestries.
Serroi swallowed, swallowed again, finding what she’d just seen almost impossible to believe. The Daughter-she who should be closest to the Maiden, strongest, wisest, sanest. “Why?”
“Why not?” The Daughter’s voice was filled with contempt. She would neither justify her actions nor bother to debate one who had no power to threaten her. Serroi began to shiver. A Nor’s toy. Again. Maiden bless, again. The Daughter watched in a hot silence, her breathing fast and hard, as the Sleykyn took Serroi’s arm and led her away.
Not again. Not again. Not again. No more betraying. Not another Tayyan. No more animals done to death with my help. Hold out. Say nothing. Don’t betray Dinafar or Coperic. Say nothing. Not a sound. If I can. Make them kill me.
Say nothing. Over and over the words pounded through her head in time to the sound of her feet as the Sleykynin marched her through the arch and along the back way from the Temple to the Plaz, one on each side of her, holding her arms delicately in their gloved hands, hands that could rip the skin from her if they closed hard, A few ragged urchins saw them, faded away before them. She hoped Coperic would learn she’d been taken and be warned. Be ready to leave at the slightest hint of trouble. Hear and be warned, my friend. I’ve sworn to say nothing, but such swearings have been betrayed before.
They took her in through the small door in the Plaz wall that had admitted the Norid and his escort that other night. One Sleykyn opened the secret door, the other shoved her inside and followed close behind. He took her arm again, delicately again, and took her along the dark musty corridor whose blackness rapidly became complete as they left the entrance behind. Then light flared behind them. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that the second Sleykyn followed with a small torch.
They marched past the meeting room, then began winding downward through the rat-hole in the walls, emerging finally into a vast sub-basement, torch-lit and well furnished with the tools of torment, rack and screw, whipping posts and burning irons and all the other aids to reaming what truth the torturer wanted to hear from the reluctant bodies of his victims.
The Child: 11
The creature staggered around, head swaying at the end of a long skinny neck, honking unhappily. It stumbled toward her, wincing, as cracked pads came down on bits of rock. Giggling, dizzy with relief, Serroi raced down the slope and stopped in front of the beast, gazing up into its mild silly face. “Jamat,” she said. It ducked its head and nudged at her shoulder. She scratched between small round ears and slipped her fingers under the worn patched halter it was wearing. Fluttering from the tether ring under its chin, a bit of frayed rope slapped at her stomach.
She caught the rope and turned the beast. Walking along beside it she thought, it must have been scared by something, broke away, then ran off in a panic and got itself lost. She put her hand on its side, feeling the trembling, the labored breathing. Poor thing, it’s weak with hunger and thirst. She glanced at the sun, then started leading the jamat forward. No choice now, got to find water.
Half the morning passed before she reached the spring. She had to use the animal control she’d learned in the Tower to keep the jamat moving. Again and again it tried to kneel and let itself die; again and again, she prodded it back on its feet, got it moving, though it honked mournfully and blew slime bubbles in her face. She was shaking with exhaustion when the jamat lifted its head, twitched the rope out of her hand and broke into a shambling trot. It smells water. She sighed and pushed the damp hair off her face, then began trudging after it-and found it blissfully sucking up water from a bubbling pool in a deep hollow. There was plenty of brush, dried grass, even some late flowers. She sat on the damp earth beside the pool, grateful for the rest and the touch of coolness. After a moment she stretched out and drank. Then she drove the jamat back so it wouldn’t founder. As it browsed contentedly at the thorny brush around the pool, she killed and skinned two of the rodents that poked their noses up to see what was happening. She ate hungrily then buried the skin, entrails and bones.
The sun burned down. She moved to the spring and rolled into the water. Dripping and picking up grit on her knees, she crawled into a clump of bushes. The earth was covered with a layer of short dry grass and half-rotted leaves, a softer bed than she’d had for days.
She woke late in the afternoon and found the jamat kneeling close to her, its long neck drawn back, its head tucked behind the upthrust of its hipbone. Chuckling, she crawled out of her hollow, stood and stretched. Without disturbing the snoring beast, she raided nests for eggs and killed a fat lizard. After eating, she drank deeply, then stripped off her robe and let herself slip into the pool. With handfuls of sand she scrubbed herself clean, body and hair, until she tingled all over, then she began on her tattered robes. When she was finished, she pulled the robes around her and crawled back into the shade.
She woke again after the sun was down and toed the jamat awake. It rocked alertly to its feet and turned its head in a half-circle, a look of mild astonishment on its silly face. It stretched out its long neck and sniffed at her hair, her face. She pulled the bony head down against her chest and scratched behind round yellow ears until she was bored with that and shoved the head away. She moved along the barrel body, looking carefully at legs and ribs. Not a tremble left. Food, water, rest, these had restored it.
She chuckled, grabbed a handful of the thick curly hair that covered its body and drew herself up onto its back, kicking and wriggling about until she was up and astride. The jamat honked its disapproval and immediately went down on its knees, front end first, nearly precipitating her over its head, then dropping its hind end, jerking her backward. She blinked, resettled herself, then snorted her disgust. Using her animal control skills, she goosed it back on its feet, clutching desperately at the corkscrew fleeces to keep herself from being rocked off. She kicked her heels into its sides and hung on as it moved off at a slow jog that sent her insides rolling.
For the first hour, riding was a struggle. After that she settled into the proper rhythm and relaxed enough to consider her direction. You’re Pehiiri raised, if I’m right about where I am. Probably ran away from a mouscar-one not too far away, a day or two at most. She rubbed at her nose, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting people after so many years alone with the Noris. Seven years. Ah well… She closed her eyes and desired humankind, then turned the jamat’s head in the direction of the developing tug.
Her spirits began to bubble up; the feel of warm life under her eased her loneliness. For the moment she was happy. As the jamat rocked along, she watched the earth flowing past and reveled in the speed of its passage, giggling occasionally as she pictured her own short legs scissoring like mad to cover the same ground. She leaned forward until her cheek was turned against the jamat’s shoulder. Overhead the mo
ons danced their slow pavanne while she drowsed, warm and comfortable, the jamat humping and swaying under her, the multiple moon shadows dancing over the barren earth. A while longer and she wound her fingers in the fleeces, let herself drift off to sleep.
Shortly before dawn the jamat honked loudly and repeatedly. Serroi started awake, nearly falling off. Righting herself, she rubbed at her eyes and looked around.
She was out of the desolation into an area of scattered brush and patches of thick dry grass. The jamat’s pace quickened. She bounced up and down, struggling to settle herself; after biting her tongue, she clenched her teeth together and simply hung on. The jamat topped a low rise then ran full tilt down the slope toward a cluster of long, low tents. Before she could do more than take in the scattered sights, the jamat was rubbing noses with others of his kind clustered in a rope corral. She straightened; tense and a little afraid, she tried to evaluate the situation.
Pehiiri came out of the tents and stood a little way off, staring at her. Five grim-faced pehiiri separated from the others and came toward her, one of the men yelling and shaking his fist at her. She cringed as the man grabbed at her leg and growled a command. Pehiirit wasn’t one of the languages she’d studied; she shook her head, spread out her hands to show him she didn’t understand what he was saying.
Those actions sent the blood into his face; roaring with fury, he started to jerk her off the jamat’s back. The beast roared, twisted his skinny neck around and snapped long yellow teeth close to the man’s arm. He leaped back. As Serroi watched helplessly, a second man raised a crossbow and aimed it at her; she sucked in a deep breath, looked frantically about for a place to jump as finger tightened on the trigger.
