by Jo Clayton
“Can you?”
“Oh yes. Um, I should get all the sun I can.”
“Morning be enough?”
“Unless it’s raining.”
“We’ve got to go to the Temple. Hmm. We went up mid-afternoon today, I suppose that could be enough precedent. You need to be outside?”
“No. Your bed gets the morning sun, enough anyway, we can trade and if anyone comes snooping I just pull a blanket over me and pretend to be asleep.”
“Good enough.” Brann yawned. “Let’s switch blankets.” She yawned again. “Just as well we’re not going up in the morning. I need sleep.”
6
Night.
A gale wind blowing across the marshes, a dry chill wind that cut to the bone.
The Wounded Moon was down, a smear of high cloud dimmed the star-glitter and a thick fog boiled up from the marshwater.
Brann sat wrapped in blankets, staring at the faint red glow from the dying fire, waiting for Jaril to return. A great horned owl fought the wind, laboring in large sweeps toward the top of the Rock; he angled across the wind, was blown past his point of aim, clawed his way back, gained a few more feet, was blown back, dipped below the rim of the Rock into the ragged eddies around the friable sandstone, climbed again and finally found a perch on the lee side of the Sihbaraburj.
Jaril shifted to a small lemur form with dexterous hands and handfeet and a prehensile tail. Driven by all the needs that churned in him, he crawled into a weep-hole and went skittering through the maze of holes that drained the place, provided ventilation and housed the mirrors that lit the interior of the made-mountain. He shifted again to something like a plated centipede, and went scuttling at top speed through the wall tubes to the junkroom where he’d seen the little glass frog. He hadn’t been back since that first day, no point in alerting Amortis if she wasn’t aware of what she had. He tried not to wonder if the thing was still there, but his nerves were strung so taut he felt like exploding. On and on he trotted, his claws tick-ticking on the brick.
He thrust his head into the room. The gloom inside was thicker than the dust, he couldn’t see a thing. He closed his foreclaws on the edge of the hole, fought for control of the tides coursing through him. Preoccupied with his internal difficulties, for several minutes he didn’t notice an appreciable lightening in that gloom. When he looked round again, he saw a faint glow coming from the shelf where he’d seen Churrikyoo. He shifted hastily to his glowsphere form and drifted over to it.
Having rid itself of dust, the talisman was pulsing softly, as if it said: come to me, take me. Jaril hung in midair, all his senses alert. He felt for the presence of a god. Nothing. He drifted closer. Nothing. Closer. Warmth enfolded him. Welcome. The little glass frog seemed to be grinning at him. He extruded two pseudopods and lifted it from the shelf. It seemed to nestle against him as if it were coming home. He didn’t understand. He glanced at the shelf and nearly dropped the frog.
A patch of light was shifting and shaping itself into something… something… yes, a duplicate of the thing he held.
Jaril looked down. Churrikyoo nestled in the hollows of his pseudopods and he seemed to hear silent laughter from it that went vibrating through his body. He looked at the shelf. The object was dull and lifeless, covered with a coat of dust. He gave a mental shrug, slipped the frog into the pouch he’d built for it and flitted for the hole.
He shifted form and went skittering up the worm holes, a pregnant pseudocentipede. Now and then he stopped and scanned, every sense straining, searching for any sign of alarm. Nothing, except the frog chuckling inside him, nestling in a womblike warmth.
He wriggled out of a weep-hole and shifted again as he fell into the wind. Broad wings scooping, he fought the downdraft that flowed like water along the brick; there was a moment when he thought he was going to impale himself on the spearpoints of the walkway fence, but a sudden gust of wind caught him and sent him soaring upward, carrying him over the outer wall. He regained control and went slipping swiftly to the cell where Brann was waiting.
##
Brann looked up as Jaril landed with a thud, changed. “Did you?”
He patted his stomach, gave her an angelic smile. “I’d show you but…”
“Right.” She rubbed at her neck. “I’m going to get some sleep. Barge leaves at first light. Wake me, will you, luv?”
7
The barge slid smoothly, ponderously down the river, considerably faster than it came up, riding the current, not towed behind eight plodding oxen. The deck passengers were quiet as they left Havi Kudush, tired, drained, even a little depressed-because they hadn’t got what they wanted, or because they had. There were two Mutri-mabs aboard, but they huddled in blankets, as morose as the most exhausted pilgrim.
Brann and Jaril had a place near the middle of the deck where they were surrounded by pilgrims; it was a fragile shield, probably useless if Amortis came looking, but the best they could do. Brann held aloof from the rest, concern-ing herself with her invalid son. That concern wasn’t only acting; she was worried about Jaril. He’d lost all his tensions. She didn’t understand that. Some, yes. They had what they’d come to get. Keeping it was something else. Nothing was sure until the exchange was actually made. He was relaxed, drowsy, limp as a contented cat; it was as if the talisman were a drug pumping through his body, nulling out everything but itself. His dreamy lassitude became more pronounced as the days passed.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, a gasp blew across the deck.
Golden Amortis came striding across the Tark with a flutter of filmy draperies, her hair blowing in a wind imperceptible down among the mortal folk. A thousand feet of voluptuous womanflesh glowing in the golden afternoon.
Brann huddled in her robes and veil, grinding her teeth in frustration. It was obvious Amortis had missed her talisman and was coming for it; no doubt the copy it’d made of itself had melted into the light and air it had come from. Jaril slipped his hand into hers; he leaned into her side, whispered, “Don’t worry, mama.”
Don’t worry! Brann strangled on the burst of laughter she had to swallow. Not real laughter, more like hysteria. She closed her eyes and tried not to think. But she couldn’t stand not seeing what was happening, even if it was disaster coming straight for her, so she opened them again. Bending down to Jaril, she muttered, “Could you build that bridge without Yaro?” The first time they’d clashed with Amortis, Yaril and Jaril had merged into a sort of siphon linking Brann with the god; once the connection was established, Brann sucked away a good portion of the god’s substance and vented it into the clouds; they’d scared Amortis so badly she’d run like a rat with its tail on fire.
Jaril laughed, a soft contended sound like a cat purring. “Sure,” he said. “But I won’t need to.”
That tranquillity was beginning to get irritating. She straightened, tensed as Amortis changed direction and came striding toward them.
The god bent over the river, cupped her immense hands ahead of the barge. Up close her fingers were tapering columns of golden light, insubstantial as smoke but exquisitely detailed, pores and prints, a hint of nail before the tips dipped below the water-which continued undisturbed as if there were no substance to the fingers.
The barge plowed into the fingers, passed through them. Brann felt a brief frisson as she slid through one of them; it was so faint she might have imagined it.
She heard what she thought was a snort of disgust, unfroze enough to turn her head and look behind her. Amortis had straightened up. She was stalking off without even a look at the barge.
“Told you,” Jaril murmured. “It doesn’t want to be with her any more. It’s taking care of us.” He yawned, stretched out on his blanket and sank into his sleep coma.
Brann frowned down at him. If she wanted to play her role, she’d pull the other blanket over him; she chewed her lip a moment, glanced at the sun. Take a chance, she thought, let him draw in as much energy as he can, he’s going to need it, poor ba
by.
8
For three more days the barge swung through the extravagant bends of the broad Kaddaroud. Twice more Amortis came sweeping by, ignoring the river and those on it, her anger monumentally visible. The pilgrims huddled in their blankets, terrified. When she was angry, the god had a habit of striking out at anything that caught her attention. If the force of that anger rose too high in her, she struck out at random; anything could set her off, a change in the wind, a gnat on her toe, a fugitive thought too vague to describe. Anyone who got in the way of her fury was ashes on the wind. All they could do was pray she didn’t notice them.
She didn’t. After she stalked by the second time, she didn’t return.
##
The Bargemaster unloaded his passengers at the Waystop where the Kaddaroud met the Sharroud, took on a new load of pilgrims, hitched up the draft oxen and started back upriver.
The Inn Izadinamm was a huge place, capable of housing several hundred in a fair degree of comfort. This late in the season, there were scarce fifty there, three scant bargeloads come back from Kudush to wait for the riverboats that would carry them north or south to their ordinary lives.
Five days after they came to the lzadinamm, a northbound riverboat moored for the night at the Waystop landing. In the morning it left with a score of passengers, Brann and Jaril among them.
9
Waragapur, green and lovely, jewel of peace and fruitfulness.
Truceground re jagged oasis, a place of rest among stony bar-
n mountains agged enough to chew the sky.
Warmed by the firemountain Mun Gapur, steamed by hotsprings, hugged inside hundred-foot cliffs, Waragapur knew only two seasons, summer during the hottest months and spring for the rest of the year. When Brann arrived it was the edge of winter elsewhere, but there were plum trees in bloom at Waragapur, peach trees heavy with ripe fruit, almonds with sprays of delicate white flowers and ripe nuts on the same tree.
Tak WakKerrcarr came down from his Hold and stood on the landing, leaning on an ebony and ivory staff, waiting for the riverboat. He was an ancient ageless man, his origins enigmatic, his skin the color and consistency of old leather drawn tight over his bones, long shapely bones; he was an elegant old man despite being a home to an astonishing variety of insect life and despite the strength and complexity of the stink that wafted from him-apparently he bathed every five years or so. He ignored the stares and nudges of those who came to gape at him (very careful not to annoy him by coming too close or whispering or giggling), ignored the nervous agitation of the boatmen who’d never seen him but had no doubt whom they were looking at. When Brann came off the ship with the passengers stopping here, he reached with his staff, tapped her on the shoulder. “Come with me,” he said, turned and stalked off.
Brann blinked, looked after him. His voice told her who he had to be. It was a wonderful voice, a degree or two lighter than Maksim’s, with much the same range and flexibility. “Jay,” she glanced over her shoulder at the changer, frowned as she saw him curled up on the landing beside their gear, “look after things here.” She hesitated, went on. “Be careful, will you? Don’t trust that thing too much.”
Jaril nodded, gave her a drowsy smile, and got to his feet.
She didn’t want to leave him, but she hadn’t much choice. She walked slowly after Tak WakKerrcarr, chewing on her lip, disturbed by the changes in the boy; after a few steps she shook her head and tried to concentrate on WakKerrcarr. She didn’t know what he wanted with her or how much he knew about why she was here. He’d be dangerous if he took against her; Maksi wouldn’t admit it, but even he was a little afraid of the man. Tak WakKerrcarr. First among the Primes, older than time. Brann straightened her back, squared her shoulders and followed him.
WakKencarr waited for her in a water-garden at the side of the Inn, sitting beside a fountain, one fed from the hotsprings, its cascades of water leaping through its own cloud of steam. She caught a whiff of his aroma and edged cautiously around so he was downwind of her.
He pounded the butt of the staff on the earth by his feet, bent forward until his cheek was touching the tough black ebony. He gazed at her as she stood waiting for him to speak. “Take off that kujjin veil, woman. You’re no Temu press.”
With an impatient jerk, she pulled off the opaque black headcloth; she was happy to get it off, warmth poured more amply than water from that fountain. She smoothed mussed hair off her face, draped the veil over her arms. “So?”
“Got a message for you.” He straightened up, laid his staff across his bony knees. “Fireheart come to see me. Said to tell you watch your feet, but don’t worry too much, you’re her Little Nothin and she won’t let any god do you hurt.”
“God?”
“I’m not telling you what you don’t know.” He crossed his legs at the ankles, wiggled toes longer than some people’s fingers. “That bunch tryin to run you, they’re fools dancin to strings they can’t see.”
“What god?”
He got to his feet. “Said what I planned. Not goin to say more. Well, this. Tell that demon, she don’t play fair, I’ll feed her to the Mountain.” His eyes traveled down her body, up again, lingered briefly on her breasts. “When this’s over, come see me, Drinker of Souls.” A wide flashing smile, one to warm the bones. “I’ll even take a bath.” Chuckling and repeating himself, take a bath sho sho, even take a bath, hee hee, he strode out of the garden and vanished into the orchard behind.
Brann shook the veil out, whipped it over her head and adjusted it so she could see through the eyeholes-and started worrying about Slya’s offer of protection. The god wasn’t all that bright, she had a tendency to stomp around and squash anything that chanced to fall under her feet which could include those she meant to help. Nothing Braun could do about it, except stay as nimble as she could and hope she’d be deft enough to avoid any danger that might provoke Slya into storming to her rescue. She went back to the landing.
She collected Jaril and their gear and marched into the Inn. The Host came running, treating her with exaggerated deference; guests and servants stared or peeped at her from the corner of their eyes; she heard a gale of whispers rise behind her as the Host led her to the finest suite in the house and murmured of baths and dinner and wine and groveled until she wanted to hit him. Tak WakKerrcair was the reason, of course; his notice had stripped away any anonymity she might claim.
When the Host stopped hovering and left the room, she started unbuckling straps. “Serve that toe-licker right if I skipped without paying.”
Stretched out on the bed, Jaril watched Brann unpack the pouches and hang up her clothes. “What did WakKerrcarr have to say?”
She finished what she was doing, went to stand by the window, looking down into the garden where she’d talked to the sorceror. “Message from Slya,” she said. “That I’m not to worry, she’s going to watch over us.”
“Us?”
“All right, me. Same thing.”
“Not really.”
“You think I’d let her…”
“Thorns down, Bramble. Course not.”
She sighed, settled onto the windowseat. “So now we wait. Until the letter is delivered, until the smiglar get here, if they get here, until, until…”
“If they get here?” Jaril lay blinking slowly, without the energy to pretend to yawn. “Relax, Bramble. They want the thing. They’ll come.”
She made a face at him. “Seems to me we’ve changed positions, Jay. I’m the impatient one now.”
He chuckled. “Tell you what, Bramble. Go paddle around the bathhouse awhile. Should be plenty of hot water. You’ll feel better. You know you will.”
“Run away and paddle, mmm? Like a fractious infant, innun? Jay, that wasn’t a very nice thing,to say to me.”
He came up off the bed and ran to her, his sleepiness forgotten, his tranquillity wiped away. Trembling with dry sobs, he wrapped his arms about her, pushed his head against her. “I… I… I,” he stopped, dragged in
the air he needed for speaking, “I was just teasing, Bramble. I didn’t mean it like that, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
She stroked his white-gold hair. “I know, luv. I’ve tripped on my tongue a time or two myself. Just don’t do it again.”
Jaril slept much of the time; Brann wandered about the Waystop gardens until the feel of eyes constantly watching her drove her away from the Inn and into the parklike forest at the base of Mun Gapur.
An hour past midday on the third day, she took a foodbasket the Inn’s cook prepared for her and went into the forest to a place of flattish boulders beside the noisy little stream that burbled past the Inn and tumbled into the river. She spread out a blanket, filled a water jug and settled herself to enjoy a peaceful picnic lunch.
When Tak WakKerrcarr strolled from under the trees, she was sitting with her feet in the water, eating a peach. He settled himself beside her, dipped a napkin in the stream and handed it to her so she could wipe her sticky face and stickier fingers.
She glanced at him, opened her eyes wide. “You’ve parked your livestock.”
He laughed. “So I have. They’re accommodatin little critters.”
His voice sent shivers along her spine. The Grand Voice of a Sorceror Prime. A single word from Maksim could stir her to the marrow of her bones, that WakKerrcarr could do the same when she didn’t even know him… it wasn’t fair. He’d got rid of the stench too. He was tall and lean and powerfully male; she could feel his interest in her, the most effective aphrodisiac there was. “Why?” she said, more breathlessly than she intended, then reminded herself she was a grown woman with more than a little experience in these things.
