She hurried toward the wine merchants’ stalls, as though by speeding this part of their necessary preparation she could speed their departure. She was heartily sick of Northshore; tired of the babble and bellow of its people, the muddy taste of its food, and the stink of its workers, glad as she had never been glad before of her dark skin, which prevented the Tears of Viranel from invading her body, dead or alive. Tears wouldn’t work on black folk. Something about the light not getting through. It didn’t matter why they wouldn’t work. The fact was enough to be thankful for.
‘Thanks be to the Jabr dur Noor,’ she murmured to herself in the ritual prayer of the Noors. ‘Thanks be that I am black.’ Thus assured of the attention of the All-Seeing, she lifted a merchant’s purse as he pressed through the market throng, slipping it into her trouser leg. At the wine merchant’s she bargained well. Between what she bought out of the merchant’s purse and what she slipped into her wide pockets without paying for, the price would be acceptable, even to Porabji. There was fresh puncon for sale, but Medoor did not bother running to the old man with word of it. When they returned to camp, she simply emptied her capacious trouser legs, placing russet fruit after russet fruit onto the meal wagon tailgate, grinning as she did so until Porabji, who had begun by scowling at her, had to grin in return.
‘You’ll be caught one of these days, girl,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’ll be caught and brought up before the Tower charged with theft.’
‘What’ll they do, let the fliers eat me?’ She grinned. Criminals were dosed with Tears and given to the fliers for food, at least white ones were, or so it was rumored.
Porabji shook his head. ‘They’ll burn you, girl. That’s what they do to us Noors. If the fliers can’t eat someone, they’ll burn him and scatter his ashes on the River.’
Medoor sobered somewhat, if only for a time. She had witnessed a burning once. It was not an end that appealed to her. She promised herself for the hundredth time to be more careful. Still, stealing was the one thing she did really well, and it was hard to give up one’s only talent. She went toward the campfire in a mood of mixed self-congratulation and caution. One more night among the stinking heathen of this town, then three towns more, then home, to the tents of … well. Home. That was enough.
When the Noor had been fed, Medoor was free to amuse herself until roll call. There was never any question where she would go or what she would do with her free time. She had had only one passion since she had first seen the River. Boats. Boats spoke to Medoor. Their planks oozed with mysterious travel, far destinations. Their crews had been all-the-way-around. They had seen everything, been every – where. Sometimes the owners would let her come aboard. More than once she’d gone aboard at some lecher’s invitation and had to show her knife and whip to get off again, but no owner was going to bring the curse of the Melancholics down on himself. He might hint a little, or make an outright proposition, but he wouldn’t try rape. At least, Medoor thought with some satisfaction, none had yet. It had been the danger her mother had most feared for a Noor daughter, here among the heathen. Medoor had had to promise utmost prudence before she had obtained permission to join the Melancholics.
For some days now, there had been one particular boat at the Chantry docks that interested Medoor, and it was certain the troubled man who was owner of the Gift of Potipur wouldn’t bother her. Though he seemed to like to talk to her, he hadn’t once looked at her with that particular expression men sometimes got. It was almost as though he didn’t know she was a woman at all, and this was part of the fascination. Most boatmen were garrulous sorts, full of tales and exaggerations, but the crew of the Gift was of a different kind. Quiet. Almost secretive. Not fearful, she thought, but with a kind of separation about them, as though they knew something the rest of the world didn’t. Thrasne himelf had a habit of standing on the deck, staring southward over the River at one particular spot, as though there should be something there he could see.
‘Thrasne owner,’ she called, making her way up the plank.
‘Medoor Babji,’ came the call in return. He was below, where she often found him, supervising the repair of the ship’s planks stove in by some great floating tree on the wide River. She poked her head down, attracted by the strange smell from below. Most of the crew was there, caulking the new planks with frag sap. The hot pungency of the caulk took her breath away, and she wondered how they could bear to work in the close heat of the hold. She went back to the deck, pausing for a time to admire the great winged figure that poised at the bow of the vessel, a giant flame-bird, perhaps, or a winged angel. Tired of this, she leaned against the rail, watching the water. There, after a time, Thrasne joined her.
‘ Another day or two,’ he said, wiping his hands on a scrap of waste. ‘We’ll be done with it.’
‘ How can you breathe down there?’
‘Oh, after an hour or two, you get drunk with it. When everyone starts giggling and stumbling, then’s time to call a halt for the day. They’ll be coming up soon.’ He nodded at her, a friendly expression. ‘Medoor Babji,’ he mused. ‘What does your name mean? It must mean something.’
‘It does mean something,’ she retorted. ‘As much as yours does.’
‘Thrasne?’ He thought about this for a moment. ‘It was my grandfather’s name. It was the name of the place he came from, inland, where they had a farm. So, what does your name mean?’
‘The Noor have a secret language of naming. We usually don’t share our secret names with Northshoremen.’
‘Oh.’
He said it flatly, accepting rejection, and she immediately sought to make amends.
‘I just meant it wasn’t customary. All our names are two words, and the two words put together have another meaning. Like in our home tribe, there’s a man named Jikool Pesit. Jikool means “stones,”, and Pesit means “nighttime,” “dark.” Stones in the dark are something you fall over, so that name would mean “Stumbler” in the Northshore language.’
He turned an interested face, so she went on. ‘I have a good friend whose name is Temin Suteed. Temin means “a key,” and Suteed is “golden” – ah, like sunlight. If you lock up gold with a key, that means “treasure,” so that’s her name. Treasure…
‘My grandfather’s name was M’noor Jeroomly. M’noor is from the same word as our tribal name. Noor. Noor means “a speaking people.” And m’noor means “ spoken.” Jeroomly means “promising,” so the two together mean ‘ ‘oath,” and that was his name.’
‘How about Taj Noteen?’ asked Thrasne, who had met the troupe leader.
She laughed. ‘In Northshore he would be called Strutter.’
Thrasne shook his head, not understanding.
‘It comes from the words for cock and feather, that is, plume, and the plumed birds always strut, you know.’
‘But you won’t tell me what your name means.’
She flushed. ‘Perhaps someday.’ Actually, Medoor Babji still had her baby name, and it meant something like ‘dearest little one.’ She did not want Thrasne to know that. Yet.
He let it go, staring out across the River, upon his face that expression of concern and yearning that had so interested Medoor.
‘What’s out there?’ she asked, taking the plunge. ‘You’re always looking out there.’
‘There!’ He was startled, stuttered a reply. ‘Oh, someone – someone from the crew, is all. Someone we had to leave on an island when we came in for repairs. We’re to pick … her up when we’re solid again, and it’s been longer than we planned. We thought it would be before festival.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t comment further. With some men she might have teased, but not with Thrasne. Whatever bothered him, it was no light thing. And whoever he had left behind, it had been no common crew member. ‘Well, we may see you down River, then. Our leader says we’ll visit three more towns before turning north.’
‘Possibly.’ He wasn’t interested. She could tell. His lack of interest was irritating enough t
o gamble on. ‘Thrasne?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Who is she, really?’
His silence made her think she had overstepped, but after a time he turned toward her, not looking at her, heaving one hip onto the rail so he could sit half facing her.
‘Did you ever dream of anyone, Medoor Babji?’
She had climbed onto the rail and teetered there now, trying to make sense of his question. ‘Of anyone? I guess so. Mostly people I know, I suppose.’
‘Did you ever dream of someone you didn’t know? Over and over again?’
She shook her head. This conversation was not going as she had thought it might. Nonetheless, it was interesting. ‘No, Thrasne owner. I never have.’
‘I used to. When I was only a boy. A woman. Always the same woman. I called her Suspirra. A dream woman. The most beautiful woman in the world. I made a little carving of her. I still have it.’ He was silent again, then, and she thought he had talked all he would. Just as she was about to get down from the rail and bid him a polite farewell, he began again.
‘When I was near grown, I found a woman’s body in the River. It had been blighted. You know what that is?’
She nodded. She had never seen it, but she had a general idea.
‘It was the woman I’d dreamed of. Line for line. Every feature. Face. Eyes. Feet. Everything. I brought her out of the River and kept her, Medoor Babji. Kept her for many years. And then one day I met the daughter of that woman. Found her, I guess you’d say. Truly, her daughter. The daughter she had borne long ago, before she had drowned. And the daughter was alive and the same, line for line. And she came onto the Gift of Potipur. It was before Conjunction, winter, when I found her. And that was more than a year, now.’
‘And it was that woman you had to leave on the island?’
‘That woman, yes.’
‘Why? Is someone after her?’
He looked her in the eyes for the first time. ‘Can I trust you not to go talking about this business, Babji? It could be my life. And hers.’
‘Laughers?’ She held her breath. This was the stuff of nightmare and romance. Laughers and dream woman.
Seeing his discomfort, she changed the subject. ‘It’s nice you found your dream woman, Thrasne. Things like that don’t often happen.’
‘I don’t know what’s happened,’ he said in a kind of quiet sadness. ‘Her body lives on the Gift. But her spirit – it isn’t here yet, Babji. So, I’m patient about it.’
He went on then, for some time, talking. He told her everything he knew of Pamra Don, everything he had ever thought, even some of the things he had hoped, though he did not realize that. Far off along the shore she heard the sound of ‘Noor count’ shrilling over the water.
‘I must go, Thrasne owner,’ she whispered, interrupting him. ‘My leader will whip me with my own whip if I am not in place very soon.’ Though he would not if he knew who she was, she thought. Still, it was important he not know.
‘Ah,’ he said, his unfocused gaze coming to rest on her and gradually clearing to reveal the girl perched there before him, dark smooth skin gleaming like the surface of the River. Her hair fell in a heavy fringe all the way to her knees, twisty strands of fifty or so hairs, each of which hung together, never tangling, like lengths of shiny black twine beneath a beaded headband, all gold and blue in the evening light. The scales of her fishskin vest gleamed also, laced tight over the long, full-sleeved shirt she wore tucked into pamet trousers died blue with mulluk shell. Her dark hand rested upon the rail, inches from his own, and he took it, turned it over to examine the pink brown of her palm, scarred and calloused from the whip. Her eyes were dark, and her pink lips parted in complaint.
‘Come now, owner. I must go.’
‘Go, Babji. I didn’t mean to keep you. It’s just – I had not really seen you until now.’
She ran down the plank and along the shore, wondering at the expression on his face. A kindly, surprised alertness, like a child finding something interesting and unexpected. Well. What to make of that? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Still, she was not sorry to hear him calling after her.
‘Return again, Babji. Talk has done me good. Perhaps your people would like a ride to the next towns west?’
13
When the Gift of Potipur left the Chantry docks, Babji’s troop of Melancholies was aboard, paying nothing for the transport and living on their own provisions. Thrasne had come to trust them, and, wisely, had seen their presence as a kind of camouflage. The Gift put on sail and headed out into the River, cutting across the tidal current toward the west end of Strinder’s Isle, hidden in the southern mists.
Two days later, decks crowded with the curious Noor, Thrasne lowered a boat with two men to row ashore at the west end of the island, shot them a line, and tied fast to a great tree that leaned above the flood. It was twenty-two days after Conjunction.
Pamra had camped on the tiny beach for most of that time. She came aboard with Lila, hardly noticing the dark faces of the crowded passengers, not seeing at all the concern on Thrasne’s face. Her eyes were deep set in a haggard face, and her hair was tangled as though she had not combed it in days. She was no less beautiful than ever, but it was a terrible, anguished beauty.
‘Are you all right?’ he begged, appalled. ‘You look as though you’ve been ill.’
‘I should have seen there were no older males,’ she told him earnestly. ‘I should have seen how worn away he was.’
‘Pamra?’
‘I was so sure it was cruel. So sure. Sometimes things are cruel and can be changed. Sometimes we only make them worse. Sentimentalizing. Pretending. So tied up in my own ideas. I couldn’t see what was in front of me.’
‘Pamra! Who are you talking about?’
She shook her head, handed Lila to him, made her way on board to her old refuge in the owner-house, glancing over her shoulder as she went, scarcely noticing the curious group of Melancholics at the rail, the young girl who was pressing close to her with open curiosity on her face. Passengers. Well, sometimes the Riverboats did carry deck passengers.
She did not really need to look behind her to know that Neff still followed her, as he had since the night after the fires. The smoke had risen in the village, and he had come. Stodder hadn’t seen him. Pamra had. He had been with her since, face alight with curiosity and wonder, flowers in his hand, a recusant ghost.
And he was not alone. The pillar of golden dust beside him was her mother. And the accusative formless shadow was Delia. Three.
‘Pamra, love. Are you all right?’ Thrasne asked, following her into the house.
She let him hold her, even held him in return, aware at some subconscious level of the need in him, perceiving feeling in him she had never recognized, not even in herself until it was over, depending upon his kindness not to bother her with whatever it was.
‘I’ll be all right, Thrasne. I’ll be all right.’ She stepped away from him, shutting him out. She had to be all right. There was something Neff wanted to do, something she owed him. Him and her mother, and Delia.
When she was very quiet, she could hear their voices.
14
The Ascertainers maintained a domiciliary compound with dining hall, exercise yard, and dormitory, some above the ground, some below for winter occupancy. All was gray, splintery, very old. They kept it neat but could not keep it clean. The dust was too ancient, too deep in the cracks. When Ilze was given a broom to sweep it away, he knew he swept only the top layer of something that had been there for longer than he could imagine. Lifetimes. Some of the boards in the walls were newer than others. Some of the beams a lighter color. He saw it being replaced, piece by piece, over the centuries, never changing, always renewed. Why had they needed a place like this that long ago? Why did they need it now?
His Superior was in the compound, as well as some dozens of others, all with the same dazed look of incomprehension that Ilze knew he wore. There was no prohibition against talking tog
ether, but they seemed reluctant to do it, as though someone might be listening. As though anything said by anyone might lead to more questions. Even conjecture seemed dangerous. Only with his own Superior did he whisper his questions, await her answers.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, gritting his teeth, trying to reach her with his voice as he had been unable to reach the fliers. ‘I thought if we got to the Chancery, we were safe! I haven’t seen any humans at all except the guards and someone in a veil and some half-wit carrying buckets. Why were those foul poultry allowed to misuse me so? I don’t understand any of this. Help me understand it.’
‘Shh, shh. Ilze. Be thankful you are alive. I am thankful I am alive. You were not the only one mistreated, so hush. Think. You will need to think.’
‘Think of what? I’ve done nothing but think since I’ve been here, and I’ve been here forever. I need some answers.’
‘I meant for you to think strategically. Listen to me. We came here, to the Chancery. We demanded to see the Protector. Instead, we were sent to the Accusatory and sometime later were there questioned by the Servants of Abricor. But there were human Accusers watching, Ilze. Behind the veil you may be sure was a human Accuser.’ Her mouth twisted bitterly at these words, as though she needed to spit. ‘And the Servants of Abricor didn’t take us away. We stayed here.’
Her hand on his arm stopped his quick, angry words.
‘We stayed here, Ilze. And we’re alive.’
He was forced to consider the implications of this. ‘You think … you think it was some kind of agreement?’
‘I listen to my mind, Ilze, for hints of conspiracy or ignorance or trouble. What words were said here? I can imagine what the Talker said, the one who came for us, the one you forced to bring us here. He demanded that you and I be bound securely and given to them. And then Lees Obol, the Protector of Man, would have said, “No, no, my friends, my treaty mates, but these are humans. Humans are not sent to the Talons. Humans must be examined here. By us.” And then the Talkers would have blustered and demanded. What would they have said?’
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