by Jo Clayton
The Woman: XII
Dinafar woke with the sun in her face. It shone through broken shutters, painting odd shapes over the bed and floor. She stretched, yawned, got out of bed and dressed in her spare clothing, wrinkled but cleaner than those she’d worn on the walk to Oras. She unbarred the door and stepped into the hall.
Coperic came through the other door as if he’d stood behind it waiting for her. “Your brother’s gone out already,” he said sourly. He nodded at the tray in his hands. “Want something to eat?”
“Gone!” She started for the stairs.
Two quick steps and he was in front of her, the tray catching her just below her small breasts. “Don’t be a fool.” Before she could protest, he took her arm, his fingers tight enough to hurt, and pushed her back into her room. He shouldered the door shut, swung her around, shifted his hand to the middle of her back and shoved her gently onto the bed He set the tray down on the table and stood watching as she wriggled off her face and bounced up. “Don’t try it,” he said quietly.
“You can’t keep me here.” She pushed her hair back from her face and glared at him.
“No?” He jerked his head at the door. “If I have to, I’ll put you behind the wall and keep you there long as you keep acting stupid.”
“Stupid!”
“You heard me.”
She stared defiance at him, rubbing at her arm. “You hurt me.”
“What do you expect when you go to putting the meie in danger?”
“I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, pushed her hands back over her hair. “I wouldn’t.”
“You were about to chase out after her yelling your head off.”
“No.” She slapped her hands down on her thighs. “I wasn’t going to do that.”
“Might as well. If she wanted you with her, you’d be with her now. Going to calm down?”
Dinafar looked around at the ugly little room. “I’m not going to spend the day here.”
“Meie thinks you can keep your mouth shut when you have to.” He eyed her coldly. “I wonder.”
She started to protest, saw the look in his eyes, caught back her words and nodded.
His mouth curved in a sour tight smile. “Good enough. You want something to eat?”
She tried smiling. “I am hungry.”
He gazed at her a moment longer, then picked up the tray and left. She moved to the door and listened to the stairs creak as he went down. When she heard the downstairs door slam, she stepped quickly into the hall and crossed to the meie’s room.
The meie’s pack and weaponbelt were on the table. The bed was unmade, the covers tossed about as if the meie had spent a restless night. Dinafar plumped the pillows and tugged at the sheets until they were tight. She smoothed the quilts up until the bed looked right to her. She started to take the weaponbelt, stood with her hand on it, feeling abandoned and useless; this was all she could do for the meie now, this and keeping her mouth shut, keeping away from the guards. Slowly, unhappily, she left the room as Coperic came up the stairs. He saw, her, raised an eyebrow, then followed her into her bedroom.
“I fixed her bed.”
“I didn’t ask.” He set the tray down on the table, fished in an apron pocket, pulled out a handful of copper coins. “When, you’re wandering about, you might like to buy yourself something.” He dropped the coins with short musical clinks beside the cha mug.
“Thanks.”
He turned to go, then stopped and leaned against the door, his deepset eyes moving over her a last time, a fugitive twinkle in them, a twitch to the ends of his mouth. She sat up straight, smiled tentatively, waited.
“Want to do some work for me?”
She shook the hair out of her eyes, her smile widening to a grin. “Sure.”
“Keep your eyes open while you’re rambling about. Count the Norim and Sleykynin you see. Listen to what the Sons of the Flame are saying, what the pilgrims are saying. Don’t ask questions. Don’t stick around too long any one place, don’t be obvious about listening. Don’t press. Just pick up what comes your way. Got that?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Anything special you want?”
He grunted. “You heard me. Meie says you’re intelligent. Anything that catches your attention. How’s your memory?”
“Good enough.”
He scratched at an eyebrow. “Got some prayer beads?”
“Huh? No. Why?”
“Local color.” He pulled out of his pocket a string of worn wooden beads. She took them and held them, as his mouth went grim. “If anyone seems to be taking too much notice of you, head right for the Temple and spend the rest of the day there. Don’t let yourself be followed back here if you can help it, but don’t let it bother you too much if you are. Just let me know and I’ll take care of anyone who sticks his nose in unasked.” He scowled at her. “You be careful, you hear. Meie’ll have my skin in small pieces if you get hurt.” He started to leave, glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t you talk to anyone, you hear?” Dinafar nodded, hiding a grin behind her hand. He snorted and walked out.
Dinafar drifted through the crowds on the main street, bought a mooncake, strolled on, crunching on the crisp sweet pastry, watching with wide eyes the colorful and varied life swarming around her. She wriggled through circling clumps of pilgrims to watch jugglers and street singers, her ears open to what people around her were saying. She looked into shops, fascinated by the marvelous array of things she could buy. The coins burned through her skirt, even through the handkerchief she’d tied around them. She itched to spend them but there was so much that she couldn’t make up her mind what to buy. Everything she saw seemed more desirable than the thing before, and there was always something more. She was enjoying herself so much she felt, occasional small bites of guilt. With the meie maybe in danger, how can I feel like this? Then she gasped as a snake charmer wound a long serpent about her painted body while her partner played an eerie tune on a flute.
As the morning passed, she began to lose some of her earlier euphoria. There was an undercurrent of uneasiness about the pilgrims that they covered by talking and laughing too loudly. She never heard this formless anxiety mentioned in any of the fragments of conversation she overheard, was not even sure that the pilgrims themselves were aware of it, but it was most evident among the chanting, ranting groups of black-clad men and women sporting a circled silver flame. She knew little about these Followers of the Flame-they had no place at all in the fisher village where she’d grown up-but she knew how scornful the meie was when she spoke of them and she saw the way the pilgrims edged around them and began to feel a cold knot in her stomach.
The Norim were thick in Oras. Already she’d counted half a dozen of the ominous black figures. The street was silent and twitchy a good five minutes each time one of them passed. When she counted her sixteenth Sleykyn, she rubbed at her stomach, feeling the coldness spreading.
She was buying a meat pie and a shaved ice drink when she saw Tesc and his family ambling toward her. She paid the vendor then ducked hastily down a side street. Coperic had said not to talk to anyone and anyway she didn’t feel like answering questions. The twins could cram more questions into a single breath than anyone could answer in fifty. She sighed and began circling back to the main street.
Sucking at the ice, chewing on the hot juicy pie, she wandered on until she came to the Plaza. She strolled around the great pile of stone, staring up at the towers. When she came to the small alley of the meie’s story, she looked down it, curiosity itching at her.
Three Sleykynin were leaning against the corral fence, watching her. Another lounged against a building near the entrance. Forcing herself to move slowly and calmly, she went back toward the main street.
She glanced back once, saw nothing, walked on, weaving herself into the crowds strolling the main streets. When she stopped to watch a troupe of acrobats performing, she felt the silence grow behind her, looked around, saw a Sleykyn watching the troupe. He was not looking at her, ver
y carefully not looking at her.
Dinafar moved on, sweat beading on her forehead, her heart in her throat. Remembering how the meie had stayed calm and waited for an opening, she walked slowly toward the Temple, winding about pilgrims, trying to keep several of them between her and the Sleykyn. Though he paid no attention to her, he was always there, always about the same distance behind her; she didn’t know what had provoked his interest, perhaps it was simply the fact that she’d bothered to look down that particular small alley, but she couldn’t waste attention on that puzzle; she had a greater worry. When she saw the gate of the Temple, she had to stop herself from running in panic toward it, but the clot of Followers there was enough to cool the heat in her blood. Imitating the meie without being aware of it, she attached herself to a large pilgrim family and slipped inside.
Standing behind one of the pillars, her prayer beads dangling from shaking fingers, she watched the Sleykyn stroll past the great gate. He couldn’t come in without leaving his weapons behind, so he wouldn’t come in. She sighed with relief, blessed Coperic, wiped the trickling sweat from her face and arms. The peace of the Temple beginning to calm her racing heart, she began wandering about, marveling at the ever-changing Maiden figures.
As the afternoon wore on, more and more pilgrims moved into the Temple. By the time the sun went down, Dinafar was wedged in between several large families, mothers hissing children to silence and respect, fathers clouting those who refused to listen. One family brought out their prayer beads and began to chant the Praises. Another family took up the chant; the murmur spread quickly through the forest of columns. For the first time Dinafar felt a deep sense of the Maiden’s presence; her fear and her anxiety forgotten, she quivered with an awe that grew into an exaltation of the spirit that lifted her momentarily out of herself.
The chant died to a murmur as the Daughter and her maidens came through the Door and mounted the Dais, a veiled grey figure flanked by silver maids; waiting in silence as the families around the columns rose and placed lit candles in holders high up on the columns. Thousands of candles. The Temple glowed with flickering golden lights as the clouds gathered overhead in the final Moongather Storm. The shadows danced as hands rose and fell. The Daughter began the Moongather chant, wheeling slowly, lifting high the silver Sword of the Maiden, the slender blade catching and throwing back the candle glow.
For Dinafar the evening dissolved in a glory that lifted her high again, made her one with the great chanting crowd until it seemed to her the Maiden stooped from the shimmer of the moons as the clouds broke apart to reveal the Gather itself swimming over them, that the Maiden Herself stooped from the Gather and brushed her cheek as the meie had done, touched her cheek in a tender blessing and a welcome.
When Dinafar came out of her daze, the families were gathering their belongings and moving off. Lightning was beginning to flicker and gusts of wind were blowing out the candles. The Moongather was complete, the moons going now into Scatter. She was suddenly cold. It was very late and Coperic was probably worried about her, the meie too-if the meie had come back. She got stiffly to her feet then touched the hand of the nearest Maiden figure. “Keep her safe,” she murmured.
A few pilgrims were settling for an all-night vigil, but the rest were pouring out of the Temple, anxious to avoid as much of the storm as they could. Dinafar hesitated. She could stay here too. She stretched and twisted, her body sore, her stomach empty. Stay until she starved. She sighed, then began working her way into the middle of the stream of departing pilgrims. She passed through the gate, hidden from the watching Sleykynin-two of them now, though the Sons and the Followers were gone-by a large fat woman herding a batch of giggling girls. With rain splashing down around them, they bustled off, Dinafar with them until she was sure the Sleykynin had missed her; she turned into a side street when she was far enough from the Temple and began working her way back to the tavern.
The alleys she traversed were dark and silent-and empty. The rain was coming down in sheets. She splashed through puddles, her sodden skirt slapping against her legs, as far as she could tell the only living thing stupid enough to be out in this.
The lantern beside the tavern’s door was dark. She pushed against the panel, holding her breath, wondering if she was locked out. The door resisted her, then swung open with a shattering creak. She shied back, then slipped inside. Coperic stepped from the taproom, a lamp in one hand, a sword in the other. She saw the lamp quiver infinitesimally though his face kept its sour scowl. “You took your good time getting back, girl.”
“I went to the Temple.”
“I see.” He, glanced past her at the door. “Bring company?”
“Don’t think so. I tried not to.”
“Wait here.” He handed her the lamp as he went past her, then vanished through the door. The warmth of the flame was welcome. She stood dripping in the foyer, suddenly very tired, her whole body aching, her head throbbing. She can’t be back, something must have happened, she’d be here if she was back, the Sleykynin spotted me, they must have caught her, they must have caught her…
Coperic came back in, wiping rain from his face. “You’re clean. No one sniffing along your trail.” He took the lamp from her. “You’re soaked, go on up and get out of those clothes. I’ll be up in a minute to hear what happened.”
“The meie…”
“Not here,” he hissed. He caught her by the shoulder and pushed her toward the taproom. “Scoot, girl.”
He knocked on her door a few moments later. Dinafar let him in and went to sit on the bed, wrapping her shivering body in the cleanest of the quilts. “What…”
“Patience, girl.” He poured a cup of hot cha and brought it to her-and she saw him like the Intii’s mother fussing over a favorite grandchild, something she’d never experienced herself, only observed. Feeling odd, she took the cup and sipped at the hot liquid, trying to discipline her impatience.
He pulled the chair around and at watching her, his forearms crossed over the back. “Early this morning some boys saw the meie taken to the Plaz by two Sleykynin.”
She dropped the cup, spilling cha over her legs. “What are…?”
He interrupted her. “Be quiet. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do but wait. And get the news back to the Biserica for her so her death won’t be useless.”
Dinafar pressed her hands over her mouth.
Coperic rubbed at his eyes, then smiled wearily. “I don’t think we should count her dead yet, child. The little meie might just surprise them and bring herself out of the trap.”
Dinafar pulled her hands down and began rubbing absently at the cha-damp quilt, rubbing and rubbing, remembering the other times, remembering the meie saying she was taught to use her wits to make up for her smallness. She lifted her head and smiled. “You’re right.” Feeling around in the folds of the quilt she found the cup and held it out. “I’m warmer than I was but some more cha would feel good.”
He filled the cup and returned to his chair. “Now, my girl, tell my why you spent so much time at the Temple.”
“A Sleykyn started to follow me…”
A bell rang, interrupting her. Coperic was up and out of the room before she could ask what was happening. The quilt still around her, she padded out of the room and stood at the head of the stairs listening to voices, muffled and unrecognizable, drifting up from below.
The Child: 12
A big woman with arms like trees came storming up to the men; she slapped at the crossbow, knocking it to the ground. Discharged by the shock, the quarrel went skittering into the brush. Ignoring the growls around her, she waddled over to Serroi and stood examining her, hands on her broad hips, elbows defiantly out. The five men shuffled about, silent and glowering, then turned and went back to the tents.
The morning light was cruel to the big old woman, lighting up every pock and blemish with pitiless clarity. Her face was webbed with thousands of small wrinkles. Deeper wrinkles rayed out from big dark
eyes, made larger and darker by uneven lines of kohl painted around them. Two loose folds of skin hung from the edges of her narrow, hooked nose, around her generous mouth, meeting in a roll of fat hanging loose under her chin. Her hair was thick and yellow-white, twisted into braids disappearing under a head cloth pinned tight to her head by a loop of coins. Long clanking earrings dangled from the elongated lobes, all that was visible of her ears, earrings of elaborately filigreed silver set with polished lumps of opal. Heavy silver rings, none too clean, sank into the solid flesh of her fingers. Around each thick wrist clanked half a dozen bangles with more coins wired to them. Coins hung around her massive neck, several chains of them, tilting out over her bosom, shifting noisily with each breath.
Shrewd eyes-shifting between brown and green in the morning light-moved from Serroi to the jamat, back to Serroi. Beaming up at the girl, those luminous eyes twinkling, her face open and welcoming, the woman said, “Mek-yi, meto.”
Much of Serroi’s apprehension melted under the impact of the old woman’s friendliness, though she held back a little, not quite trusting what she saw, wondering why the woman would be so different from the man in her reaction to Serroi’s arrival; her experience with the Noris had burned her too deeply.
“Tarim’sk ashag, meto.” Grunting with the effort, the old woman bent and waved her hand at the ground, then straightened, her face red. She took a long step closer and reached up to Serroi.
When their fingers touched, force jolted between them, knocking the old woman back, sizzling up Serroi’s arm, almost shocking her off the jamat. She tottered, grabbed a handful of the fleece on the jamat’s shoulders. Shuddering, she stared at the woman. “What happened? What was that?” She hugged her arms tight across her narrow chest, feeling the bones hard under her skin. I don’t know what to do, she thought, I want to trust her, but… She looked past the woman at the people moving about the camp, stopping to watch her. Nothing welcoming about them.
