by Clayton, Jo;
“Maiden bless, Dina.” Serroi listened for a moment to the rain pattering down on the treated material of the ground-sheet. The pyrnroot was killing the pain in her arm and making her sleepy. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow around sundown, we’ll reach Oras.
THE CHILD: 9
“Why?” Serroi whispered. She stared at the empty space where the Noris had been. “Why?” She ran past the feast spread out at her feet, turned helplessly around and around, arms out, pleading. “Noris, Ser Noris, don’t leave me here.” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she was talking into air, that nothing listened. Her shoulders slumped. She wiped the sweat off her face. It was oppressively hot though the morning was young. She looked down at the food, then out at the desert stretching away on all sides. No other water or food anywhere. She flung her head up. “I don’t know what you want, Ser Noris,” she cried. “Whatever it is I won’t do it.” Pressing her lips together she glared around, then stared toward the west. “And I won’t die out here either.”
Settling herself by the fine white cloth spread over the sand, she began eating, choosing only the most perishable of the dishes, a delicate custard, slivers of raw fish marinated in wine and herbs, a salad, the wine. She set aside the roast vinat, the raw fruit and cheese, the small pile of rolls. When she was finished, she threw away everything she couldn’t use and tied the rest into a compact bundle. She wrinkled her nose at the crystal pitcher nested in a hollow in the sand. “If I had anything else I could put that water in … you’re going to be hell to carry.”
She stood and slipped the brown overrobe the Nori had left her over her head, then held up the skirt and looked down at the soft slippers. “Won’t last long.” She sighed. “No matter. Now. Find water.” She closed her eyes and began turning slowly, feeling the eye-spot begin to throb as she desired water. When the tug developed, she oscillated until she was certain of her direction, opened her eyes and found that she was facing southwest. Using her toe, she drew a direction line in the sand.
One arm thrust through the knotted corners of the cloth, carrying the crystal pitcher in the other hand, she set out.
The sun crept higher. Sweat was rolling down her face and body. She trembled under the hammerblows of the heat. The earth burned her. The air burned her when she breathed it in. After about an hour she began to feel dizzy; her face was flushed and hot but she’d stopped sweating. Her feet were blistered and the blisters were beginning to crack. She dipped her sleeve into the pitcher and rubbed the wet cloth across her face. It helped a little. Squinting, she peered ahead and saw a ragged line, like a sooty scar jagging across the pale sand. A promise of shade, if nothing else.
When she stood on the rim of the wash, she looked down and sighed. Dry wash. Like everything else here, dry. Where she was the wall had broken off, slanting steeply to the bottom of the crack, ending in a pile of rubble. A little farther down, though, she could see places where the wall had scooped out sections that held pools of shadow delicious to her aching eyes. She began working her way down the crumbling side of the wash, her fingers sprouting blisters to match those on her feet. She reached the bottom exhausted, shaking, her knees folding under her. Leaning against her arm she rested a moment with closed eyes, rested despite the heat of the earth through the sleeve, then she trudged down the stony bottom of the wash to the nearest pool of shade and collapsed in the welcome darkness; the air was no cooler but the shadow gave her an illusion of coolness and her eyes relief from the sun’s assault.
Once again she dipped the end of her sleeve into the pitcher and bathed her face, pressing the damp cloth finally against her cracking lips until all the moisture was evaporated from it, then she settled back as far as she could into the hollow, intending to wait for nightfall. Travel under the beating of the sun depleted her too much. As she waited she fell into a heavy sleep, a sleep filled with nightmare and pain.
When she woke the moons were up, a scatter of slender crescents. Nijilic Thedom was rising, marking the beginning of a new passage. A new passage into a new life. If I live. Her head ached when she sat up and she was desperately thirsty. She held the pitcher up and frowned at the disappearing water in it, wishing she could think of a way to cover it. She drank deeply, drank until she could hold no more. The water seemed less likely to be lost if she had it in her body rather than in the open-mouthed pitcher. Wiggling her fingers into the bundle, she pulled out one of the fruits, ate it slowly, letting the juices trickle down her throat, flicking the seeds out into the moonlit stones on the wash’s rugged bottom. Heavy with the water she’d taken into herself, she lay back in the hollow and dozed until Thedom was directly overhead, then she drank the last of the water and left the pitcher sitting on the sandy bottom of the hollow in the wash wall. With the bundle settled as comfortably as she could manage on her back, she started climbing.
After half an hour’s struggle she stood on the rim of the wash. Thedom seemed to hover close over head, the three Companions creeping toward her; Serroi collapsed onto the stone, breathing hard, heart pounding. Leaning back on her arms she watched the moons drift past the star-flowers, more stars than she could remember seeing since the tundra. I never learned the star-patterns, she thought. But I don’t need that knowledge. She stroked fingertips across her eye-spot, smiled, then sighed as she looked down at her slippers, wiggled toes through the tears in them. “Rags.” Sighing again, she struggled to her feet and stood frowning at the moon-silvered desert. “Why?”
There was no answer in the wind as it sent sand crystals singing across the dunes, no answer in the crescents rocking across the sky. And there was no answer in her head, only that he had to have a reason for abandoning her; he always had a reason for what he did. I’ll find out. When his time comes, I’ll find out; he’ll see to that. Wincing as her stiffened body protested and her heat-wounded feet sent flashes of pain up through her legs, she began walking toward the southwest, following the pull in her eye-spot.
THE WOMAN: X
The dark blotch on the horizon grew slowly and by midday had resolved into a turreted wall with an irregular line of roofs behind it, rising like a terraced mountain to the slender domed watchtowers of the Plaz. The pilgrims were thick on the Highroad, spreading over the rocky plain on either side. The green abundance farther down the road had given way to sparse patches of dried grass poking up in the lee of rocks on the rock-littered plain that was swept by continual salty breezes from the sea, cool enough at this time of year to make sitting about uncomfortable. With Oras in sight many of the walkers scrambled down from the Highroad, leaving it to the increasing numbers of riders.
Tesc and his family were among the ones who climbed down to the plain, their fat little packbeast stepping daintily over the scattered rocks. The tarom brought out his blue and white kerchief and wiped vigorously at his face. Tucking the kerchief into his sleeve, he looked over the plain. “Not so good going,” he said cheerfully. “But more of it.” His wife and elder daughters shook their skirts in disgust as the fine brown dust settled on feet and hems and crept upward into every wrinkle.
The city rose higher and higher above the horizon while the sun slid into its final quarter. Serroi withdrew into herself, Tayyan’s face swimming before her now, so close, so terribly close, she was to the clandestine race-course and the place where the traxim had eaten her friend, her lover, her shieldmate and second self. She tried to shake off her gloom but each step toward the city was harder to take than the one before.
They reached the wall as the sun was throwing up a fan of crimson and gold in the west.
Tesc wiped at his face with the sodden filthy kerchief. “We got some friends waiting for us at the Tiyrj.” He waved a hand to the east where a large part of the foot traffic was heading, circling around the city wall and disappearing behind it. “You’re welcome to join us. Plenty of room in the tent, you know that.” He looked gravely at her, his round face troubled, his shrewd eyes narrowed with concern for her and Dinafar. “The city’s a bad plac
e for young ones these days.”
Serroi shook her head. “We’d best find our uncle.”
He stared down at the kerchief he was twisting in his big hands. “You’re a good lad, Jern. If your uncle can’t keep you, hunt me up. You’ll do that?”
“The Maiden bless you, kind tarom.” She held out a small gloved hand. “I won’t forget and am most grateful for the thought.” She looked around. Dinafar was just behind her, green-brown eyes wide and glowing. She dipped an awkward curtsey, then gave her hand to Tesc. “Maiden bless,” she murmured.
Serroi and Dinafar watched the family move off, the young ones turning to wave again and again. Serroi smiled. “You’ve made friends.” She eyed the girl thoughtfully. “Dina.…”
“No.” Dinafar’s voice was firm. She turned and headed for the embankment. “I know what you mean to say. You keep trying to shunt me off where you think I’ll be safe.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to be safe, Meie.” She stopped and bit her lip. “Jern. I want more than just being safe. I don’t know what it is. Something. Help me learn.”
“If I don’t get you killed.”
Covered with brown dust, anonymous small figures, they climbed onto the Highroad and moved slowly toward the main gates of Oras, lost among a throng of other browndusted figures trudging into the city. Only one of the thick gates was open; the crowd was narrowed to a thread as it trickled through the gate under the gaze of half a dozen cold-eyed guards. Ahead of Serroi and Dinafar a small woman was hauled roughly to one side. The kerchief she wore was jerked off her head and the guards used it to scrub hard at her face, ignoring her protests and the vehement objections of those with her. While this was going on, Serroi moved through the gate and stepped hastily into a side street, Dinafar close behind her, her eyes sparkling with glee at fooling the guards. Serroi leaned against a wall, her heart thudding in her throat, unshed tears burning in her eyes She pressed her hands against her eyes, struggling to control the tides of emotion pouring through her.
Dinafar fidgeted about for a moment then went to the end of the narrow alley and started talking to a pair of urchins squatting on the stones, pretending to sell battered plums, actually begging. Hearing the noise, Serroi pulled her hands down and stood watching the girl’s animated figure, hands flying in wide expansive gestures. She smiled at the assurance Dinafar had acquired. She’s trying to take care of me now. Sweet strong flower growing from a midden. The Biserica will be good for her—if she ever makes it there.
Dinafar crouched beside the boys, listening intently to their interrupted bursts of speech, echoing their peculiar piping cries as they called out to the passersby. Serroi looked around. The alley was small and dark, a cul-de-sac between high walls. At the far end she could see a pile of refuse and discarded lumber. Where the boys sleep, I suppose. She walked slowly back toward the main street, waited a second, then touched Dinafar’s shoulder. “We better be going.”
The girl looked up, nodded, jumped to her feet. She walked without words beside Serroi as the two of them threaded through the noisy gaping crowd filling the street. Overhead the sky was rapidly darkening and clouds were beginning to gather. Serroi looked repeatedly at the girl, wondering what was bothering her; she was unusually silent and as somber as she had been back in the fisher village. “What’s wrong, Dina?”
“Where are we going? Do you know a place were we can stay?”
Serroi rubbed at her nose. “When you’re ready, I suppose I’ll find out. We’re going to our long lost uncle, little sister.”
“But… huh?” Dinafar stared down at her. She stumbled against a man; he grinned and slid his arm around her, but moved on good naturedly when she pushed him away. “I thought … you’ve really got an uncle here?”
Serroi shook her head. “No, little one; no blood relative but a man who serves the Maiden by serving us.” She glanced up at the clouding sky. “There’s not much time. Let me do the talking when we get to his place. Hurry now.” She walked as rapidly as she could, wriggling through the crowd, pulling Dinafar along with her, ignoring both curses and the indulgent cries of happy people. She led Dinafar rapidly across the city, leaving the main street and working back through narrower and narrower streets until she reached the portside section where the wall was lined with warehouses and grimy taverns.
Close up under the wall there was a battered building, a slowly rotting structure that was standing in pools of high-smelling ooze. The drains were badly plugged around here by refuse and dead men so the nightly rains could not escape and the falling water stayed on the worn pavement, turning a milky white with threads of ocher and yellow-green as if the water itself rotted. Lines of foam edged the pools and drifted in sluggish clumps around lumps of other unidentifiable substances. A few drops of rain splattered into the sluggish fluid, raising a stench that was thick and sour-sweet and strangling. Dinafar gathered her skirt close to her and walked on the tips of her toes with a taut wariness that amused Serroi. “When we go in, keep still,” she said.
“You already said that.” Dinafar pinched her nostrils shut. “Do we have to?” she croaked.
“Yes.” Serroi moved ahead of her and pushed through the swinging door.
Inside, in the small dark foyer, the smells made a massive raid on their senses. What light there was shone red and obscured more than it revealed. Serroi crossed the foyer, Dinafar close behind, and stepped into the taproom. In the light of two lanterns they saw a number of men sitting in small groups at scattered tables, two leaning on the long bar; the smell was more wholesome or at least was overpowered by the varied liquors served here. The small wiry man behind the bar paused in the middle of drawing a mug of ale and stared at them while the hum of voices filling the room fell to silence.
The barman finished with the ale, set the mug before a one-eyed man and came to the end of the bar, scowling at them, his hands fisted against his hipbones. “Git, boy. This ain’t no flowershop.”
Serroi smiled up at him, letting her lips tremble. “Yael-mri speaks in me,” she whispered. More loudly, she said, “Uncle Coperic.” The men at the nearest tables lifted their heads and stared.
The barman set his hands flat on the stained wood, his scowl softening. “Jinnit’s kids?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“What’a doin’ here? Where y’ ma?”
“Home. She got married again two years since and is with child.”
“Stepfather kick you out?”
“Sorta.”
He turned away and yelled into the gloom. “Haqtar! Get over here.” A dull-faced man came shambling to the bar. “Hold bar a while.” He tugged irritably at the ties of his apron, jerked it over his head and thrust it at the man. “This’s no place f’r kids,” he muttered, scowling at the ugly, vicious man. “No credit,” he snapped. “Get goin before you draw drink.”
“Yah, berom.” The words stumbled out of the thick-lipped mouth, the labored voice matched the dull face. His little eyes brightened as he looked past Coperic at Serroi and Dinafar.
“Get way, fool.” Coperic caught hold of a doughy arm and twisted until the man backed off, whining with pain. “These ain’t meat f’r you.” He turned to Serroi and Dinafar. “Maiden’s tits, I give Jinnit hell on this. No place f’r kids. Come on.” He hustled them through a door behind the bar, then squeezed past and led them up a narrow wooden stair that creaked protest at every step, even under Serroi’s light weight. Climbing behind him, Serroi smiled to herself.
Coperic was one of the network of newsgatherers and silent suppliers that the Biserica maintained about the land—and he had other things he did; not even Yael-mri knew them all. A clever man. The staircase was proof enough of that, an efficient and invisible alarm. No man could climb it without giving ample warning of his approach and few would suspect that this was precisely why the steps squealed.
At the top of the staircase a long dim hall stretched back into shadow with floorboards that sank and groaned under their feet. Serroi began to feel that
Coperic was a bit too thorough in his precautions. The whole building seemed to be swaying and unsteady under her feet.
Coperic pushed open an unlocked door at the far end of the hall and waved them inside.
Dust covered every surface. Greasy plates sat on an equally greasy table. The dust itself looked as if it would smear over anything it touched. The sheets on the unmade bed were grey with long use and the quilts leaked batting through old tears and were dark with ancient sweat and greasy mottles. The stagnant air held many odors, the strongest being stale sweat and urine. She wrinkled her nose at Coperic. “Don’t you think this is carrying things too far?”
When he didn’t answer, she crossed to the window and peered out through a knothole in one of the rotting shutters. As far as she could tell, the tavern backed onto the citywall; its mossy stones were close by the window. A dead end? Frowning, she turned and scanned his bland wrinkled face. The man who’d arranged those stairs and this squalid room had to have a back door even though that seemed impossible.
“Who the hell are you?” His voice was cold. He stood with his arms folded, his deepset eyes drilling into her.
“Not what I seem.” She pulled the cap off and ran her fingers through her hair until the squashed curls stood out in a wild tangle, then stripped off the gloves and showed him her olive-green hands.
Coperic relaxed. “Maiden’s tits, meie. The whole damn army’s poking about for you.” He jerked a thumb at Dinafar. “Who’s she?”
“My business.” She shook her head. “There’s no danger in her, only to her.”
“It’s done.” He shrugged. “What do you want here?”
“Shelter. A bird.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Nearga-nor is moving on the mijloc; Sons of the Flame involved in it somehow; and there’s a plot against the Domnor, a crazy stupid … never mind, the Biserica has to know.”
