Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

“I’ve found you, Lady. That’s all that matters. Let me take you back to the guesthouse. I’d say you could do with a good meal and a bath. I’ve spoken to the authorities. I think I have a good chance to get us out of here soon.”

  Jessica didn’t say how glad she was to hear this news. She walked in step with him, letting silent tears run down her face. When her nose started to run, Iztho passed her a cloth that smelled of fresh flowers and mountain air. “Come now, Lady. I don’t like crying women.” His voice had lost its edge, like it had done when he sang.

  The entrance hall to the guesthouse was dark. The matron had moved her table out into the courtyard under the balcony, with the stacks of concertina-folded records against the wall, as far as possible from the rain. She was writing something and squinted up from her work as the footfalls of Iztho’s boots echoed in the corridor. He spoke in keihu, remarking on the lack of light, and the matron said the servants hadn’t been able to get fresh recharges.

  Jessica thought of the line of boats carrying sacks of crackling pearls all the way from the Pengali settlement.

  With the rain, the dining tables had been moved from the courtyard to the overhang of the balcony. Patrons sat at empty tables, their silhouettes black against the rain-swept pavement. The air hummed with discontented voices.

  Iztho led her up the stairs. “The next few days are what the locals call the Bachelor days, the eclipse.”

  “Eclipse?”

  “When one sun goes behind the other. It’s a strong one this time. The Day sun completely behind the Evening sun.”

  Something clicked. “That’s why it’s so gloomy.”

  “Not really. The eclipse only lasts for the morning. The gloominess is because of the monsoon, but yes, it will be extra gloomy if it’s overcast like this during the eclipse. Most cultures on Ceren or indeed on Asto have old superstitions that relate to occultation. Most involve rebirth or cleansing or a wake. A start of new life.”

  Jessica could just about imagine what Pengali would make of that.

  “Anyway, the lady owner of this guesthouse apologises. She says it’s not usual for so many of her servants to run off. She says that usually, the promise of money keeps them here for the festival, but many of them have taken unscheduled leave.”

  The Pengali. They’re up to something. Jessica clamped her hands around herself. As if she didn’t have enough trouble already.

  “It also seems the supply of recharged pearls has dried up.”

  “I know—I heard.”

  “You . . . heard?” He frowned. “You understand keihu?”

  She shrugged. “Just a bit. That woman uses her hands and eyes a lot. It’s not all that hard to follow what she talks about.”

  “No, Lady, don’t be so indifferent about it. You have a special talent for languages. I have been pushing you as hard as I can, but I’m stunned. I have never met anyone with an aptitude for languages similar to yours. It is a very rare and useful talent indeed.”

  A hot blush crept over Jessica’s cheeks. She averted her eyes. “Words make pictures in my mind. They’re all the same in every language. When I find the pattern, I see the picture; I don’t hear the word.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile, although his face never lost that intense look. He inclined his head and gestured to the door to her room. “Will I see you at mealtime, Lady?”

  She responded with a nod, rehearsed and polite as she had seen him do, but she restrained an urge to rub her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Just about every comment by a man made her blush these days. A few steps brought her to the door of her room. There she stopped and turned around.

  “I told you before: call me Jessica.” The words had left her mouth before she could stop them, more out of habit maybe than anything. Jessica—was that her identity? Even though she had found out that Anmi was her real name?

  Anmi, Anmi.

  Daya’s voice echoed in her mind. Anmi Kirilen Dinzo. Survivor of a disaster way before written history on Earth.

  There were others, Daya said. Would they look like her, or him, tall and lank and pale?

  She scratched her arms, which came out in red stripes from nail marks. Damn, she was so itchy. There must have been something in the last meal that caused hives. Come to think of it, her last meal had been ages ago and she had consumed nothing except that vile blue drink with Daya. Good. She was allergic to it.

  Iztho stared at her. Drops of rain ran down his face and glistened in his hair like diamonds. “Go and get changed. You’ll get sick if you stand out here wet. Put on your pink dress. I would like to see it on you.”

  Jessica spent a long time in the bathroom, trying out all the jars on the shelf for something that would wash away Daya’s smell. The bottles contained powder, or tonic, or little nodules and with every container she opened, her hands trembled more. She didn’t know what she was doing. There was no way that she would just go back home and everything would be fine. Her former life no longer had a purpose. She’d live in constant fear that Daya would reveal the truth.

  And then Daya’s assumptions . . . if he truly knew so much about her, he should also know about that visit to a specialist with her mother, a thin man with glasses who had, while looking only at his papers, assured her that her blood lacked female hormones.

  I couldn’t give him any children, even if I wanted to.

  Did she want to? Of course she didn’t.

  No, that was bullshit, talked into her head by feminist teachers at school who insisted that all girls should want a career, and that family was less important. OK, so she could have all the careers in the world; she was smart enough to get into any course she wanted. But without purpose, school bored her. Daya had said that the two of them were more human than anyone else alive. The human mind was conditioned to want most what it couldn’t have, and what she wanted most was family.

  The bathroom blurred before her eyes. Some goop from a bottle ran from her hand, dripping down her leg. Jessica sank down into the water and cried.

  Anmi. Daya’s voice was clear as if he sat next to her.

  Jessica didn’t reply.

  Where are you?

  Again, she made no reply.

  I need you. I’m . . . sorry.

  Well, he needed to come up with a better apology than that. I need you. What about her?

  I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened either. I lost control.

  Lost control of your drinking, more like.

  Can I come to see you?

  No!

  Look, you need to get out of here. There’s something afoot in the city. It looks like the Mirani army are using the Bachelor festival as cover for some activity. I’m afraid they want to bust you out.

  Don’t give me any of that bullshit. I’m in safe hands.

  With that Mirani rescuer of yours?

  Iztho? A chill went through her. Stop seeing threats where there are none. I’ve been safe here.

  But you’ve seen what the Mirani did to me?

  Again, that chill of doubt. Was the snowy city that was Iztho’s home the same place where Daya had been tortured?

  But no, he was diverting attention away from the problem. She was with another man and he was jealous. Simple as that.

  Just stop bothering me.

  With that, she cut off her end of the communication. And stared.

  There was no water in the bath. The water, steaming and bubbling, arced in web-like strands from one side of the bathroom to the other. Just a second, and then the whole construction collapsed. Jessica gave a squeal and curled up in the bath. She only just managed to brace herself for the scalding of near-boiling water.

  What the fuck?

  Trembling, she clambered out of the bath and mopped up the mess with a cloth. Her body had gone berserk. Dangerous, deadly. No wonder Ivedra had been locked up all of her short life. No wonder an army was after Daya.

  What does that mean to me? That I should be locked up like the criminal I am?
>
  Stephen’s death was an accident.

  What if I, like Daya, can’t always control accidents?

  She’d watched him kill the soldier. The man had been trying to kill him just as Stephen had been trying to rape her, but that didn’t make it all right.

  In her room, the pink dress hung over a chair. She slipped it over her head and examined herself in the mirrored stone next to the door. She didn’t like the deep magenta as much as the blue, but the colour accentuated her eyes. Still, she didn’t quite look as good as she had in the dressmaker’s shop. For one she didn’t know how to roll her hair into a bun and had no make-up.

  Secondly, her guilt marred her looks. No matter how much she prettied up the outside, she was still a murderer.

  No longer an innocent girl. Face the truth, Jess: you’re a monster. You’ve always known that.

  There was a knock on the door.

  She went to open it. Iztho stood there, carrying a jug, the strap of his lute case slung over his shoulder. “I thought you might want some company, Lady.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Anything to get away from those horrible thoughts.

  He came into the room and put the carafe on the table. Familiar, like he belonged here. He felt like such a steady presence, not taken with nonsense and speculation.

  While she brought over the glasses, he unpacked the instrument. Soft tones drifted through the room. He sat down on a chair, his back to the window so his silver hair glistened in the light. He poured the drinks, his blue eyes meeting hers as he passed her the cup.

  Jessica settled on the couch, cradling her cup against her chest. Damn that blush! “If we leave from here, where are we going for this . . . training I need?”

  That was Daya asking the question. Get out of my head, you creep.

  “My home city of Miran.”

  See, there you have it. His voice sounded sarcastic.

  Shut up.

  Iztho went on, oblivious. “You will like it there. Miran is a breath of fresh air. Clean, cool and strong. We value knowledge and learning.” Iztho strummed a chord and played sweet lilting notes while he spoke.

  “Where will I stay?”

  That intense look again. “I live with my family in the noble quarter of the city. I want you to stay at my house. I hope that would not be viewed as inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” Jessica wiped furiously at her cheeks. She had to be almost glowing in the dark.

  He played a few more chords before answering. “In the Mirani nobility, there are many rules. In Trading families, there are even more. For an heir of a Trading family—the oldest son of the oldest son.” A soft melody flowed from the strings, slow and haunting. Jessica sipped from her cup, closing her eyes to listen. Suddenly, Iztho played a few angry, discordant notes. She opened her eyes, shocked, but he sat bent over the instrument and continued with the gentle song.

  The water in the river flows down

  But my heart wants to go up until

  The weight of the water crushes

  My desire to be free

  He stopped playing to empty his drink; he slammed the cup on the table.

  Jessica whispered, “Iztho?”

  His shoulders went up and down with a deep breath. He slouched over the lute, not looking at her.

  Finally, he spoke. “Trading is a hard business. There is no time to relax. The reputation of the family has to be held up. My father was a Trader, and his father before that, and so on, all the way back to the foundation of the Trader Guild.” He played a few more notes, staring at the table.

  Jessica whispered, “But you’d love to play music instead?” She picked up the carafe to refill his cup.

  “I’ve always been different. From my brothers, from my nephews . . .”

  How Jessica could relate to that. She passed him the newly-filled cup, seeing only his crystal-blue eyes. “I love your music.”

  God, her arms itched, her chest burned and the feeling now crept from her palms to the soft skin on the underside of her forearms. She scratched and scratched.

  A long-fingered hand came into her field of vision and grabbed her wrist. His deep voice rumbled, “Don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

  Damn. She yanked her hand free and continued to scratch. “I think I’ve got something—some sort of disease.” Even her voice sounded funny, all hoarse and husky.

  “No. You’re flushing.”

  “I’m—what?”

  “Flushing. Coldi women flush, too. It seems your race is related to them. It’s the first time this has happened to you?”

  She nodded. “What does it mean?”

  “It means, my Lady, that you are now a woman, ready to be married and have your first child. Your body knows it’s ready. This . . . flushing is how it responds to . . . your desires.” He cleared his throat.

  “But . . . I can’t have children.” The doctors had always said so. The hormone levels in her blood were too low and didn’t vary enough to produce a menstrual cycle . . . for a normal human . . . “Or does this mean I can?”

  “Maybe, but who will know? You will need to find a male survivor of your race to find out.”

  Double holy shit. Daya. “How often does this happen? How does it work?”

  “Coldi women can flush every ten days or so. They’re fertile for a day afterwards.”

  Ten days. If her skin flushed now, it couldn’t have done so yesterday. Phew. “Does that mean that every ten days I’ll go like this?” Jessica scratched red patches on the inside of her arms. That would be so embarrassing.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t scratch. I told you—you’ll make it worse.” He met her eyes briefly, then looked away.

  His mouth worked. “No, you don’t flush every ten days. You’ll only flush when you’re near a man you . . . feel attracted to.” He pushed himself up, putting the lute back in its case. Patches of red had appeared on his cheeks. “I’ll leave now. This isn’t right.”

  Looking at her with every step, he walked to the door.

  Jessica continued to meet his eyes. He was so gentle, so proper. She was still unsure of his motives, but he’d done a lot for her that he hadn’t needed to do, including this explanation of what was clearly an embarrassing subject for him.

  She rose. “Please stay.” Her head was throbbing. Damn, she wasn’t going to faint, was she?

  “But you’re in a scandalous state.”

  “It scares me.”

  He stared at her, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Just to play music. I’ll sit over there.” She gestured at the bed, at a safe distance from the couch.

  He hesitated. “You’re certain?”

  Jessica nodded.

  Of course “playing music” was only the beginning. He told her that women of the Coldi race could control the flush of heat and she tried very hard. But then their discussion got to family and the harder she tried to push Daya away, the more he invaded her mind and repeated over and over again,

  Come with me. You’re in danger.

  How could she be in danger with someone who cared for her while nothing required him to do this?

  Come back to me. You’re in danger.

  She shouted, “Shut the fuck up!”

  Iztho jumped up and held her to calm her down. Their eyes met. He was so close that she could see the peachy hairs on his chin. Her cheeks felt like they were lighting up like a glow-worm’s butt. She was long past the itchiness and gone to a state where every touch on her skin felt much more sensitive than normal. Her heart was pounding and to be honest, she had enough of fighting the flush. It was not going away unless she gave in to it.

  Through the watering of her eyes and huskiness of her voice, she said, “Please. Sit next to me.” To Daya, she said, That will teach you to eavesdrop on me. You don’t own me.

  Her intention was to spite Daya, but the evening turned into something luxuriously relaxing and lazy. They had a meal brought up to the room, they bathed. He washed and touched her in all he
r private places and the next step seemed only natural. He assured her many times that she could back out if the wanted.

  But, no. It was relaxed, gentle and pleasant.

  Very pleasant.

  25

  DAYA PACED across cracked and dusty pavement, lifting up broken tiles with strands of energy and smashing them against walls and floors.

  Shadows of Pengali hid in the corners of the room, or in the corridor. Sometimes they whispered. When Daya tried to talk to them, they scurried away, but always returned. Watching, observing him. Whispers of her name echoed in the empty rooms. Anmi, Anmi.

  Why did they want her?

  Ask them, and you might find out.

  There was a shout outside, and Daya ran to the door, hoping against hope to see Anmi’s tall figure. He stared into the darkness of the yard. A group of Pengali ran out the gate. Where were they going? Did they know something he didn’t? She was at the guesthouse, in bed with the Mirani Trader.

  The thought burned, ate at him. Yesterday, she had coerced him into doing what he hadn’t intended to do. It had been good, but he suffered for it; she suffered for it. And now . . .

  Jessica lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The patter of rain was only disturbed by the sound of Iztho’s breathing. He lay on his side facing the door, his hair fanned out over the mattress. Strands of it stuck to the sweaty skin on her stomach.

  Jessica peeled it off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Heat washed over her in waves. In her chest, in her cheeks and face. Her skin had stopped itching, but now glowed and throbbed as if it was some sort of aftereffect of the flushing.

  She staggered to the bathroom, where she scooped handfuls of sulphur-scented water over her naked skin. Goosebumps spread from her arms to her stomach, but underneath, she still felt hot.

  Damn that flushing. Coldi women controlled it, Iztho had said, but she wasn’t Coldi. More and more, she worried about it. Was yesterday afternoon really the first time it had happened to her? She had felt hot right from the moment she had met Daya. She sat down on the edge of the bath, rough stone on her naked buttocks.

  Stay calm.