A Gathering Of Stones dost-3

by Jo Clayton

  “The critters? Backs off people I don’t want to talk to. Besides, I like ‘em. You got some time to spare, heh?”

  “Seems so,” She frowned as something occurred to her. “Heard from Maks?”

  “Not to speak of,” he murmured; he took her hand, moved his thumb across her palm. “Why?”

  “I’m worried about him.” She looked down at the hand caressing hers; his skin was a smooth olive, baby fine, there was almost no flesh between it and the slender hand bones.

  “There’s reason to be.” He set her hand on her thigh and began stroking the curve of her neck, his long fingers playing in her hair. “And reason not to be. Maks is formidable when the occasion requires it.”

  She leaned into his hand, her eyes drooping half-shut, her breath slowing and deepening. “What are you talking about? Tell me.”

  “There’s things I can’t say.”

  “You can’t?”

  “When the gods are at play, a wise man keeps his head down. Or it gets bit off.”

  She pulled away from him, jumped to her feet. “Great advice, Tik-tok, I’m sure I’ll follow it.”

  “It don’t count when it’s your strings they’re pullin.” He rose with the liquid grace of a man a fraction of his great age, clasped his hands behind his back. “All you can do is dance fast and try keeping your feet.” He smiled at her, his yellow eyes glowing. “You’re formidable yourself, Drinker of Souls.”

  “Does he need help? Can you tell me that?”

  “He’s doing well enough; don’t worry your head, Brann. You’re fond of him.” He raised his brows. “More than fond, I think.”

  “For my sins.”

  He moved closer, wary and focused, predator stalking skittish prey, and set his hands on her shoulders, close to her neck, his long thumbs tucked up under her jaw. “For my sins, I want you.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “No. Not beyond maintaining the Truce.” He moved his thumbs delicately up and down her neck, just brushing the skin. “Must I buy?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  “You plan to take?”

  He curved his hand along her cheek. “I wouldn’t dare. Besides, the sweetest fruit is that which comes freely to the hand. I’m not a rutting teener, Bramble-all-thorns. I can wait. If not now, then later.”

  Brann laughed, turned her head, brushed her lips across the palm of his hand. “Rutting ancient. Let it be now.”

  “And later?”

  “I lay no mortgages on tomorrow.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to dream.”

  “If you remember that reality is often disappointing.”

  “One can always adjust the dream. Come see my house.”

  “You mean your bed?”

  “That too. Though I’ve never made a practice of confining myself to a bed. Shows a dearth of imagination.”

  Someone was shaking her; she groped around, touched Talc’s shoulder. He mumbled something indecipherable, snuggled closer against her. The shaking started again. “Wha…”

  “Shute!” Sound of water running. Cold wet slap.

  Brann jerked up, clawed the wet cloth from her face and flung it away. “What do you think you’re doing!”

  “Bramble, they’re here. You have to get back.”

  “Jay?”

  “Pull yourself together, Bramble. The smiglar. They’re here. They didn’t wait for a riverboat to bring them. They want you now.”

  Brann felt the bed shift as Tak lifted onto his elbow; she shivered with pleasure as his strong slender fingers smoothed along her spine. “Go back,” he told Jaril. “I’ll bring her in a few minutes.”

  Jaril snarled at him, hostile, angry; he was close to losing control.

  Brann could feel the tides pulsing in him. She caught hold of his hands, held them tightly. “Jay, listen. Listen, luv. You’ve got to be calm. You’re giving them an edge. Listen. Go down and watch them. I’ll be there as fast as I can, I’ve got to get dressed. Do you hear me?”

  Jaril shuddered, then slowly stabilized. With a last glare at Tak, he shifted to glowsphere and darted away.

  Brann sighed. “I have to see him home somehow. Tak…”

  “Mmmh?” His hands were on her breasts, his tongue in her ear.

  She relaxed against him for a moment, then pulled away. “No more time, Tik-tok.” She slid off the bed, stood a minute running her fingers through her tangled hair.

  “You’ll come here after?” He lay back on the pillows, his fingers laced behind his head, his eyes caressing her.

  She padded over to the basin, poured some water in it and began washing herself. Will I come back? I don’t know. Once we ransom Yaril… there’s Maks, I have to find out about him… She began working the knots out of her long white hair. After a moment she chuckled. “First seacaptains, now sorcerors. I wonder if that means my taste in men is improving or worsening.”

  “Don’t ask me, m’ dear. You can see I’d be biased.” Brush in hand, she set her fists on her hips and contem-

  plated him. “What I see, hate! You wash up lovely, old man.”

  “I like you too, old woman. You coming back?”

  “I want to. Tak…”

  “Mm?”

  “This isn’t a condition, it’s just a favor I’m asking.”

  He sat up. “Such diffidence, Thornlet. Ask, ask, I promise I won’t let thoughts of past orgies influence me.” He chuckled, slid off the bed and strode to the window. As she began pulling on her heavy widow’s robes, he chirrupped and chirred, calling his little critters to come back and crawl on him.

  “The children have to be sent home. As far as I know, Slya is the only one can do that. Would you talk to her for us? They need their own kind, Tik-tok.”

  He opened the door to a closet, took out his ancient greasy leathers. “You realize how much more vulnerable you’d be without them?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to your friends, Thornlet. Slya is very fond of you, more than you know, I think.” He took out his staff, leaned it against the windowsill.

  “They’ll either die or go rogue before much longer, Tiktok, what use are they then?”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I’m painfully sure of that.”

  “I’ll talk with the Fireheart, I can’t promise anything.”

  “I know. She goes her own way and Tungjii help us all.” She folded the veil over her arm. “It’s time.”

  “Come back.”

  “When I can.”

  “Maks?”

  “I’ve got to see about him. Do you understand? He’s a dear man.”

  “I think I’m jealous.”

  “Why? You know where Maksim’s fancies lie.”

  “Sex is a delight, love’s a treasure.”

  “Aphorisms, old man?”

  “Distilled experience, old woman.”

  “You’ve had a lot of that, eh?”

  “But never enough. Take my hand.”

  12

  The Chuttar Palami Kumindri sat in the largest armchair in the suite’s salon with a velvet wrapped bundle in her lap, Cammam Call= behind her, arms crossed, lively as a rock.

  Palami Kumindri raised an elegant brow as Brann walked from the bedroom followed by Tak WakKerrcarr. “Are you interfering in this, WakKerrcarr?”

  “Only to see the Truce is kept.” He moved to the suite’s main door, stood leaning on his staff, his face blank.

  The Chuttar looked skeptical but didn’t question what he said; she turned to Brann. “You wrote you had the ransom.”

  “We do. You have our friend?”

  Palami Kumindri unfolded the black velvet, exposing the fractured crystal. “As you see.”

  “Give her to me.”

  “Give me the talisman.”

  “I’ll let you see it.” She went to the window, swung the shutters wide. “Jay, come in.”

  The great homed owl dropped like a missile through the un
glazed window; he spread his talons, snapped his wings out and landed on the braided rug. As soon as he touched down, he changed and was a slender handsome youth. Eyes fixed on the Yaril crystal, he reached inside his shirt and brought out the little glass frog. “Churrikyoo,” he said.

  “Bring it here.”

  “Give my sister to the Drinker of Souls first.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Tak WakKerrcarr’s Truce. I would rather not face his anger.” She shrugged. “Why not. Come here, woman.” She indicated the crystal without touching it. “Take it.”

  As soon as Brann touched the crystal, she knew that it was Yaril and that the changer was still alive. “Give her the talisman, Jay.”

  Jaril flung Churrikyoo at Palami Kumindri and rushed to Brann’s side; he took the crystal from her and fed sunfire into it until it throbbed with light; he crooned at it in a high keening that rose beyond Brann’s hearing threshold. The pulsing grew fiercer, the edges of the stone melted into light and air. Silently but so suddenly Brann later swore she heard a pop!, the stone was gone and a glowsphere floated in front of Jaril. It darted at him, merged with him. He changed and there were two spheres dashing about the room in a wild dance of joy and celebration.

  Brann laughed and spread her arms. A moment later she was hugging two slender forms, one a pale gold boy, the other a moonsilver girl.

  And then darkness swallowed her. Swallowed them all. Swallowed Brann, Yaril, Jaril-and Tak WakKerrcarr. She heard Tak WakKerrcarr scream with rage.

  She heard Palami Kumindri laugh.

  And then there was nothing.

  II: Korimenei/Danny Blue

  After her long journey, Korimenei has finally caught up with the Rushgaramuv and is waiting for a chance to steal Frunzacoache from the shaman. After that she can race south along the Mountains to the Cheonene peninsula and at last-at long, long last-can release her brother from the spell and put the Talisman in his hands.

  1

  Korimenei lay on her stomach at the edge of the cliff, her chin resting on her crossed forearms; she watched the rites and revelry below and felt exhausted; the autumnal fertility celebrations had been going on all day and all night for a week now. It’s enough to put one off sex, beer and food for years, she thought. Maybe forever. It was boring. And it was frustrating. Until the Rushgaramuv settled and started sleeping at night, there was no way she could get at the shaman.

  She watched until sunset, sighed when she saw the bonfires and torches lit once more, new white sand strewn about the dance floor. How they can, she thought. She wriggled back from the cliff edge, got to her feet, and brushed the grit off her front. She shivered. The wind had teeth in it. Any day now those fattening clouds were going to drop a load of snow on her; she was surprised it’d held off this long. She pulled the blanket tighter about her and went trudging back to the camp, thinking she hadn’t been warm in days.

  Nine days ago, before the Rushgaramuv reached the wintering grounds with their diminished herds, she’d come up here on the mountain and found a hollow in a nest of boulders. She’d caulked the holes between the stones with mud and leaves to shut out the icy drafts and stretched her tent canvas over the top, covered that with more mud and twigs and sods she’d cut from patches of tough mountain grass. A man could walk by a bodylength away and not suspect what he was passing.

  Ailiki had killed and dressed some squirrels for her and nosed out some tubers. Korimenei smiled as she saw the neat little carcasses laid out on a platter of overlapping leaves. The first time she’d seen the mahsar dressing meat, she’d gaped like a fool, unable to believe what her eyes were showing her-Ailiki using a small sharp knife, its hilt molded to fit her hand, the blade a sliver of steel shaped like a crescent moon. Where Ailiki got it, how she knew how to use it…

  Korimenei looked down at the squirrel carcasses, shook her head and went to gather wood to cook them.

  2

  A persistent tickle woke her, something brushing again and again against her face. Shining like a ghost in the darkness, Ailiki scampered away as Korimenei sat up. The air was so cold it was knives in her lungs; the silence was spectral. She could hear her heart beating; Ailiki moved a foot and she could hear the faint scratch of the mahsar’s claws in the dirt. “What is it, Aili?”

  The mahsar flicked her tail and pushed past the piece of canvas used as an inadequate seal to the shelter, a door of sorts; Korimenei hastily crafted a tiny will-o, set it up against the roof canvas so she could see what she was doing. Not relishing the thought of going outside, she pulled on her bootliners, boots, gloves, a sweater and her coat, wrapped a scarf about her neck and head and crawled reluctantly after Ailiki.

  The wind had quit. Snow fell like feathers. There was already half an inch on the ground. “I suppose this means the festival is over,” she said aloud.

  Ailiki clattered her teeth and lolloped off, looking over her shoulder now and then to see if Korimenei was following her.

  When they reached the cliff edge, Korimenei dropped onto her knees and looked down. The canyon was as dark and silent as the slopes behind her. “How many hours till dawn?”

  Ailiki drew three scratches in the snow, contemplated them a moment, then added a fourth, half the length of the others.

  “Three and a half. Good. That’s time enough. Aili, I’m going to start down, you fetch the fake, will you?”

  3

  Following the glimmering Ailiki, Korimenei groped through the scattered corrals and barns, then past the line of long-houses, making her way to the small sod but off by itself where the Rushgaramuv shaman had gone to sing over his sacred fires, where he’d slept the past several nights, dreamwalking for the clan. She’d watched several women bring him his meals there, wives or female kin, she supposed. None of them went inside. The Siradar and his Elders made a ceremonial visit to the but on the first day of the rites; his headwife and the clan matrons went the next day. Now that the rites were finished… Gods! maybe he’d already moved back, it was snowing, the longhouses would be a lot warmer…

  The snow fell thick and silent, soft as down against her skin until it melted, turning in an instant chill and harsh, leaching the warmth out of her. She followed Ailiki past the dance floor to the giant oak where the but was; it was very much like the dance ground in Owlyn Vale where she’d pranced the seasons in and out with her cousins under the guidance of the Chained God’s priest and AuntNurse Polatea, though the Valer’s celebrations were a lot more decorous than those she’d just witnessed. She frowned. Like all the other children she’d been sent to bed at sundown, maybe the decorum vanished with them. She shook her head. This wasn’t the time for such things. Hold hard, woman, she told herself. Stray thoughts mean straying emanations, you don’t want the old man waking.

  She crept closer to the but and listened at the leather flap that closed off the low, square entrance hole. Snores. He was inside, all right, and very much asleep from the sound of it. She leaned against the sods and did a cautious bodyread of the man inside.

  He was drugged out of his mind; a herd of boghans could stomp across him and he wouldn’t notice.

  “Liki,” she murmured, “brighten up a bit, mmh9”

  She lifted the flap and followed the mahsar inside. The air was hot and soupy with a mix of herbs and sweat and ancient urine; there was a small peat fire in a brazier putting out more smoke than heat; half that smoke was incense and the other half came from the remnants of the dried herbs that sent the shaman into his stupor. He was curled up on a pile of greasy leathers, snoring. He had some Talent, she’d smelled that on him from the cliff, but not much. Even if he woke, and found her here, he was no threat.

  In spite of that, she was wary as she crawled over to him, shields up and as much I’m-not-here as she could smear over herself. Her precautions would’ve been pathetic if she’d been moving on Maksim, or even on the Shahntien, but it was good enough for this man.

  He wore his torbaoz on a thong about his neck, an oiled le
ather pouch the length of her forearm. She touched it, pulled her hand back when his snore broke in the middle. She touched it again. He seemed uneasy, but he didn’t wake. Right, she thought, if I’m going to do it, better do it fast.

  She memorized the knot, got it untied. After spreading the neck of the torbaoz, she dipped two fingers into the mess inside, felt the cool nubbiness of the silver chain. She got a finger hooked through it and began drawing it and what it held out of the pouch. The snores went on, more sputter to them now; there was a restlessness in the old man’s sleep that warned her she’d better hurry. He groaned but still didn’t wake as she freed Frunzacoache from a dried bat wing and some stalks of an anonymous plant; the exhaustion from six nights’ rituals were like chains on him.

  She hung Frunzacoache around her neck, slipping it down inside her shirt to rest like a warm hand between her breasts, surprised at the temperature because the talisman was silver and crystal, neither of them welcoming to naked flesh. She took the copy she and Ailiki had made and eased it into the torbaoz, pushing it well down among the rest of the ritual objects. When she was satisfied with its set, she pulled the cords tight and worked the ends into as close a match to the original knot as she could manage. Waving Ailiki before her, she crawled from the hut.

  The cold outside stunned her. A wind was rising, blowing snow into her face. Her elbows and her knees were like iced-over hinges; they’d break if she bent them. Ailiki came back to her, nuzzled her, sent a surge of fire through her that woke Frunzacoache from its passivity. The talisman spread warmth along her body, heated her joints enough to help her creak onto her feet. Walking eased her yet more. She followed Ailiki’s spriteglow through the blowing snow, stumbling past longhouses still dark and sodden with sleep, past corrals filled with white humps where sheep and oxen, geykers and boghan lay, down the treeless flats to the mouth of the canyon.

  The climb to her camp was easier than she expected. The wind was at her back instead of blowing in her face, Ailiki shone like a small yellow sun so she could see where to put her feet and Frunzacoache radiated warmth through her body. She had little time for thinking as she struggled up the treacherous slopes, only enough to wonder at the bonding between her and the talisman; as soon as it settled against her it was as if it had always been there.