A Gathering Of Stones dost-3

by Jo Clayton

  Brann took a towel from the table, set her foot on her knee and began wiping it dry. “That is… marvelous, Jay. One incubus off my shoulders.” She yawned. “Ahh, I’m tired.”

  “Get rid of her, we can’t waste more time on her. Bramble, Yaril keeps… trying to wake, I can feel it. She’s wearing herself out. I can’t really touch her, it’s like seeing her in a dream. A nightmare. I can’t talk to her, let her know we’re here. She won’t rest. She’s wasting herself. I’m afraid she thinks I was caught too. I said a year. I think we’ve got less than half that.”

  “Slya Bless.” She traded feet, rubbed hard at her sole, scouring off dead skin and the last of the mud stains. “I used to think Camp was so passive she wouldn’t try to get away if there was an open door in front of her, I used to think she’d stand there crying and let herself get eaten.” She laughed, an unhappy sound. “I wouldn’t mind having a little of that passivity now; I get the feeling she’s set her teeth and she’s not going to be pried off. Never mind, I’ll manage somehow.” She looked at the filthy towel. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this. Hmp, I won’t try. There’s something I thought about last night, nearly forgot it when you came ramping at me. This is a trap, right?”

  “Right. So?”

  “The Chuttar’s been going about her business as if she doesn’t give a counterfeit kaut whether we show up or not. Why? What does it mean? Maybe she knows all about us and is just waiting for us to make the first move. Why she’d do that, I don’t know, I haven’t the least notion why any of this is happening. What about it, Jay? Am I right? Are they just sitting there? Have you seen any sign of agitation? Well?”

  “1 hear you, Bramble. I think… a memory search… let me…” He looked at the inch of wine left in the glass, pushed it away, pushed his chair back and stood. Abruptly he shifted form and was a sphere of glimmering gold light that rose and floated over the table.

  Brann watched as he drifted with the wandering drafts. She emptied her own glass, looked at the jar and decided she’d had enough for the moment. She glanced at Jarilsphere again, then picked up her trousers and inspected the mud drying on the folds and the ends of the drawstrings that tied about the ankles. She reached for the towel and started to scrub at the scummy cloth.

  The lightsphere quivered, came drifting back. Jaril changed again and dropped into his chair. “Memory says the smiglar aren’t concerned about anything. They haven’t upgraded security, I mean there are no new guards human or otherwise. And they don’t leave the place except for the Chuttar and all she does is visit her clients. No one’s out looking us, at least no one connected with that doulahar.”

  Brann brushed mud off a fold of cloth. “I haven’t seen any unusual interest in us. A couple baddicks hang around, but that’s just the caudhar making sure we don’t short him on his rakeoff.” She held up the trousers, scowled at the stench from the muck that impregnated the cloth. “Tchah!” She threw the trousers to the floor, dropped the towel on them. “Jay…”

  “Yaro is in there.”

  “You said it was like a dream.”

  “Yaro is in there.”

  “All right, you’re the one that knows. How do we neuter them? Can we?”

  Jaril frowned, shook his head. “Back home, we didn’t fight them, we just ate them. Stuvtiggors, I mean. The stuv weren’t as… well, smart as this bunch and they didn’t play round with urn magic; these smiglar stink of it. So I don’t know. Except, maybe you should try Maksi again.”

  Brann nodded. She left, came back with a call-me cupped in her palm. She dropped it on the floor, knelt beside it and hammered it to dust with the heel of her mucky sandal.

  The glassy fragments vibrated wildly; miniature, hair-fine lightnings jagged over them, died away. Nothing else happened.

  Brann dropped the sandal, got to her feet and wiped her hands on her shirt. “That does it, Jay. He’s in trouble. Slya bless, everything’s twisting into, I don’t know.” She bent and brushed her knees off, straightened and gazed at the fluttering curtains. “You didn’t fight them,” she said slowly, “You ate them. You could still do that, I mean even if you’ve passed from aeta to auli?”

  “Yeh. So?”

  “The Skia Hetaira, remember? We did have Ahzurdan to shield us, but…”

  Jaril blinked at her, puzzled. Then he grinned, beat his hand on the table. “Don’t fight ‘em, eat ‘em. You and me and Yaro, we ATE Amortis. We whittled her down and sent her scatting off, scared to her toes.”

  She sat. “Quiet, Jay. We don’t want to wake Carup. Pour me some wine.” She lifted the glass, took a sip and sat watching the red change as the lamplight wavered. After a while, she shook her head, as if she were shaking out uncertainty. “We’ll keep it simple. If we’re lucky… though the way things are going, I doubt we get any breaks… maybe the Chuttar will be gone for the night, give us less to cope with. Whatever, we go in tomorrow, after midnight, when the servants and so on will be asleep. You circle overhead until I’m inside, then come down fast. That could reduce the time they have for reacting. Unless they can locate me as easily as they can you. We’ll just have to hope they can’t. Argument?”

  “None. Go on.”

  “Everything we’ve learned says the Chuttar’s personal suite is the heart of that place, so that’s where she’d most likely keep Yaro. No one goes in there but smiglar, not her clients, not the maids, no one. It’s on the third floor, the main house. There’s a smiglar guarding the roof, another at the top of the stair and a third guard stays in the suite whenever the Chuttar’s not there. Not counting the Chuttar, that leaves two other smiglar. One of them acts as relief, the other is the Chuttar’s Housemaster. Camam Callam, Carup called him. Got his nose in everything, day and night. You say he’s second to the Chuttar in power and if the two of them get together, that’s trouble for us. I think you’re right. Without Maksi to back us, all we can do is try whittling them down. Eat ‘em.” She gulped some wine, drew her hand across her mouth. “I’ll get over the wall and into the house, shouldn’t be too hard, break a pane on the glass doors that open on the terrace, turn the latch. You overfly first, let me know where the Housemaster is and the spare guards. I’ll avoid them, if possible, drain them if I have to. That’ll warn the others, won’t it?”

  “Yeh. When a bunch of aetas hit a stuv nest, they suck them up and get the hell out, fast, because the place is going to be swarming in minutes.”

  “You’ll feel it too?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Good. You stay high and keep track of me. If I make contact before I reach the stairs, you come in, take out the roof guard and if need be, the stair guard. Eat ‘em fast, Jay, I don’t want them landing on my back. If there’s no contact, if I get up those stairs with no trouble, I’ll mindyell as soon as I’m ready to take the guard there, that’s when, you come in. We’ll try hitting the stair and roof at the same time. Then it’s a dash for the bedroom. If the Chuttar’s out for the night, we hit the guard there, grab Yaro and get out before the others converge on us. If the Chuttar’s there, I’ll keep her busy while you see if you can get Yaro out of stone and mobile. Yes, yes, you told me, it’s likely to be a slow unfolding. If you can’t get her out, can you fly and carry her?”

  “I suppose. You mean leave you there?”

  “If you have to. I’ll be doing what I did with Amortis. Draw and vent. Draw down the Chuttar and use her energy to fry the other smiglar if they come at me.” She smiled at him, lifted a hand. “Once you get Yaro someplace fairly safe, if you feel like coming back, I wouldn’t mind a bit.”

  “This sounds more like a stampede than a plan. Bramble, there are at least a hundred ways we could screw up.”

  “I’d say more like a thousand.” She shrugged. “Nothing ever goes like you plan it, you should know that, Jay. If we keep moving fast enough, maybe the momentum will carry us through. It’s got to be fast. For Yaro’s sake.” She pushed the straggling gray hair off her face. “If you can think of a better way
, tell me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not even going to try.”

  Veiled and cloaked, dressed with a subdued richness, she’d absorbed taste from the Chuttar if nothing else, Carup took the bodyguard’s hand and climbed into the traveling gada; she ignored his blatant appreciation of her body, but she was pleased by it. Her dark eyes flicked to his face for a moment, then she settled back and he closed the door. He climbed to the seat beside the driver, slapped the man’s arm; the driver snapped his whip over the ears of the lead pair and the gada started north along the dusty, rutted road, heading for Pattan Haria.

  Brann watched for a while, wondering if Camp would relent and wave. She didn’t. From the moment they stepped onto the landing, Carup had refused to see her. She hadn’t said good-bye and she didn’t look back now. Her resentment had gone deep; she would have rebelled if she’d dared, but she knew too well the futility of fighting powers greater than her own. Bitter, resentful, and rich. A bad combination. She was going to make someone’s life a hell.

  Brann sighed and stepped into the longboat. “Go,” she said, and settled back as the man pushed off and began rowing her across the moat. I’ve done the best I can, she told herself, I can’t change the world by myself. Maksi tried changing a piece of it and look what happened to him.

  13

  Raining again.

  Strong winds, sleet, heavy cold.

  The next storm would probably bring snow.

  Brann huddled in the entranceway of a kotha, a house built directly on the street without the size, the grounds or the enclosing wall of a doulahar. The kotha belonged to an ancient fence who’d survived purges, investigations and other worries thought up by the Isun, not only survived those but managed to hang onto the greater part of his profits. The door at the back of the short passage was small and massive and there was a trap in the ceiling in front of it; persistent and annoying visitors got a most uncivil welcome; more than once his guards had poured burning oil on a man who wouldn’t take go away for an answer. He was even nastier to street folk who tried to sleep there, but she was safe enough if she didn’t linger too long or make a fuss.

  Jaril came trotting in; he was using the horny, water-

  shedding form he’d dreamed up that night above Kukurul. He shifted and stood shivering before her. “She’s staying home tonight. I’m not surprised. With weather like this I’d rather be inside myself. Callam smiglar is in his room, the one on the third floor; he’s busy about something, I couldn’t see what, I was too far off to do anything but place him. Be better if he was downstairs, soon’s we make a noise he’ll be over with the Chuttar. Can’t help that, though. The relief is at the back of the house in another wing doing something with the other smiglar, the one who stays in the suite when the Chuttar’s not there. That’s all right, they’re nowhere near the terrace, you can go in there without worrying about them. The stair guard and the roof guard are in their usual places.”

  “Anything I should worry about?” •

  “Callam. He and the Chuttar are wide awake and up to something. Most nights they’re resting by now if the Chuttar doesn’t have a client. Dormant. Like Yaril and me, you know. Otherwise nothing different.”

  “What do you think, should we call this off?”

  “There’ll always be something.”

  “You’re right. How’s your energy level?”

  “The cold and the wet are pulling me down. I could use a shot.”

  “And I’m more dangerous when I’m hungry. Take my hand, yell if it gets too strong.”

  Brann fed him till he started to glow and she felt a hollow pulse inside her. A Need. When he pulled free, she touched his shoulder. “If you see anything I should know about, give me a tweak, hmm?”

  “Bramble!”

  “I know, I don’t need to say it. Go on, get!”

  After he left she stripped to undershirt and loincloth, stuffed her clothing and sandals into a waterproof bag and plunged out of the passage into the rain. She ran along the street, settling to a long easy lope, her feet splatting steadily on the muddy cobbles; she was in her original body again, the old woman banished for the moment. The rain beat into her face, half-blinding her, but she wasn’t bothered by that, there wasn’t much to see. Most of the street lamps were out, either water or wind had got at them. Splat and splat. On and on, feeling good because the waiting was over, feeling good because her body was fire and iron, working like a fine timepiece, alive, alive, so alive.

  She loped past the doulahar’s gatehouse, a glassed-in lamp putting out enough light to show her where she was. She slowed, moved closer to the wall and followed it until it turned and she could no longer see the lamp. She unwound the rope from her waist, swung the end with the climbing claw several times, then threw it up. The claw caught. She tugged. It held. She walked up the wall, switched the claw over and slid down, landing up to her ankles in the sloppy mud of a flowerbed. Leaving the rope dangling, she ran for the house, jumping low hedges, plowing through more flowerbeds, swerving to avoid ornamental trees she could barely see, laughing idiotically as she ran, riding the kind of high she hadn’t felt for a century or more.

  She slapped her hands on the stone railing at the edge of the terrace, vaulted over and ran across the slick streaming tiles; her feet slapped down noisily, she was panting like a swayback mare at the end of a race, but she didn’t care, the wind was howling, the rain came swooshing down, the storm was loud enough to cover a stampede, let alone the small sounds she was making.

  When she reached the array of glass doors, she looked up into the murk and waited for any comment Jaril wanted to make. Nothing. Good enough. She swung her pack down, reached into an outside pocket and took out a *love; the back was plated with iron and the tips were curving claws. With that on her left hand, she smashed a pane, reached through, and unlatched the door.

  As soon as she was inside, she closed it again, threw the latch, and stuffed a wad of drape into the hole. It was black as a coal cellar in there, cold and silent, the sounds of the storm muffled by the thickness of the walls and the heavy draperies drawn across the doors. Working by touch, she took off the claw and dropped it on the rug, then stripped off her sopping clothes and dressed in dry things from the pack. She rubbed her feet, then her hands and head on the draperies, removing much of the wet, enough so she wouldn’t drip on the stairs and betray her position by the noise she was making. She hesitated a moment, then pushed the pack behind one of the drapes. Her hands were her best weapons, her empty hands. No point in cluttering them or weighing down her body with unnecessary paraphernalia. Move fast, move clean, she told herself, momentum’s the word.

  There was a splotch of gray on the far wall, a night-light filtering through a tightly netted doorweb. She moved cau-

  tiously across the room, stopped before the web and ran her fingers lightly over it. It was beaded, with beaded fringes, a misery to get past without enough clatter to break through the storm noise. She swore under her breath, gathered a handful of webbing and eased it aside enough so she could edge through. Keeping the fringe still, she spread the web out again until she could take her hand away without shaking the beads.

  She listened. The storm sounds were a muted background; there were the usual night noises from a large old house. Nothing more. She ghosted away from the door and plunged into a nest of interconnecting rooms; there were small nightlights scattered haphazardly about, wicks floating on aromatic oil in glass bowls shaped like half-closed tulips. Annoyed and disoriented, she slowed. Jay, you’ve got it easy, luv. Sheeh! if I just had wings I could cut all this nonsense.

  She emerged finally into an immense atrium three stories high with a graceful staircase curling around the rim like a climbing vine, its steps and rails made of white-painted wrought iron with more of the tulip bowls set on the outside edge of the steps, a shimmering loveliness in the tall dark. She listened again. Nothing. All right, she thought. Let’s get at it. She glided across the black and white tiles and
started up the stairs.

  She was wary at first, but by the time she reached the first turn she was running, her bare feet making no sound on the lacework iron steps. Up and around, up and around, first floor, second. She stopped, stared into the murk; she couldn’t see anything, but there was no point taking chances she didn’t have to. She swung over the rail, hung for a moment until she found footing on the end of the step. Hand over hand, feet feeling for holds, she moved up the outside of the stair, ignoring the abyss below her.

  The guard was restless; she could hear him kicking at the floor mat. She hung where she was and peered through a lacy panel. The staircase ended in a dark hole, made all the darker by the faint light from one of the tiny lamps. She couldn’t see the guard, not even as a blotch in that blackness, but from what she could hear, he had to be a few steps down the hallway. She shifted her grip and went on.

  When she reached the top, she rested a nioment, mind-shouted intent at Yaril, then gathered herself and pushed off, using the strength of her legs to counter the relative weakness of her arms and shoulders. She went flying over the rail, landed running. Before the guard had a chance to react, she was on him, her hands slapped against him, drawing the life from him.

  At first he went limp, then he began to dissolve; it felt like she had her hands on a sack full of hot-tailed scorpions. She increased the drain until she was taking in at her limit. The dissolution went faster, he was losing his shape, parts of him struggling to escape. He wasn’t fast enough. She took everything he had and left him as dust on the mat.

  Jaril met her at the door to the Chuttar’s suite. He was glowing and grinning, wild and strange, more alien than she’d ever seen him. He nodded at her, shaped his hands into a parabola and shot a stream of fire at the lock, melting it and a good portion of the door around it.