by Clayton, Jo;
“We need your help,” Telka said. She was riding half a length ahead of Skeen, her narrow back swaying easily with the motion of the horse.
Skeen thought about catching up so she could watch the little Min’s face, but she was bored with these games and taking herself out of them as much as she could (or would have if her curiosity hadn’t pricked her into responding). “Why me?”
“The Pallah don’t know you.”
“So?”
“They won’t be laying traps for you.”
“What about the trackers and those—what did you call them—Chalapeer brats?”
“Oh, they won’t bother with me gone. They’ll blame it all on me and make lives hard for Min a while. Without you there, they won’t suspect outside help.” Silence for several horselengths. Telka’s back swayed as before; not many features to a back, what there were obscured by the thick flow of fine black hair twisted into flyaway helices and the bunchy white blouse. “Turn the Skirrik loose in Dum Besar, nosing out those not-placed, those without masters to speak for them. It’ll die down in a day or so when the Casach discover they’re getting nowhere.”
All very nice, Skeen thought. “What am I supposed to do?” she said aloud.
“I have a sister. A twin. The Pallah have her. I was trying to get to her when the Chalapeer nits found me.”
The hooves of their mounts, iron shod, struck bell sounds from the stone, those sounds echoing hollowly from the ravine walls. The moonlight was bright enough to show her a landscape of many grays, of texture and line, with an eerie compelling beauty. And something else. A flicker of movement along the top of the left-hand wall. She tried for more than a glimpse of the thing, giving half an ear to Telka. “She is a slave,” Telka said, using that neutral monotone that seemed to leach the life out of her words; with Skeen’s attention distracted to the ravine wall, a lot of those words were lost on the wind; when she tried to listen, she had to forget about the shadow up above. “… the Poet’s concubine,” Telka said, “until he tires of her, then.…” Cat, Skeen thought, a black hunter. “… because you can get into Dum Besar without alerting the Skirrik and through them the Casach, Dum Besar’s ruling council keeps a strict watch on the gates.” Skeen unsnapped the holster and engaged the lanyard; the cat was getting bolder. “… and bring her out to me, I am sick at the thought of her there, slave, used by him.” The hairs stirred on the back of Skeen’s neck; the thing’s watching me, hating me. “Think about it, please,” Telka said.
They rounded a bulge in the left wall. The ravine opened into a long narrow valley between the mountains.
A black mountain cat came bounding down the slope and stood in the center of a rutted road, tail jerking back and forth, a great dark creature with glowing pale eyes, mouth gaping in a silent snarl. Skeen had the darter out and ready, but Telka rode between them.
“No, Rijen.” The Min’s voice was sharp, commanding.
Skeen waited, darter held out of sight by her thigh.
The big cat took a step to one side, glared past Telka at Skeen.
“This one is Pass-through, not Pallah,” Telka said, anger breaking her calm and shrilling her voice. She stood in the stirrups, fury in her body like the fury in her voice. “Are you challenging me, Holavish? I am Odats m’kuz. I am Z’naluvit. What are you?”
Tail jerking, the beast sank into a crouch, snarled, the angry sound increasing almost to a roar.
Skeen glanced from cat to Min, but didn’t move to dart the beast; Telka seemed very much in control. She relaxed enough to puzzle over the titles the Min had claimed. Odats m’kuz. Min(female) with seven skins. Huh? Holavish. Runner in the high places. She thought about that some more. Appropriate as it was to that snarling cat, there was something more, word-fringes that suggested one(male) who walked alone, throwing off the constraints of community life, one(male) committed to the old ways. Z’naluvit. Speaker for Min(female, plural). Can you pick ’em, eh Skeen, hah! can you pick ’em! She blinked. Talking to a beast. Huh. Don’t be parochial, woman. It’s listening, Djabo bless.
Telka sank down into the saddle as the cat’s tail stopped twitching and drooped into a dejected arc. Submission. He didn’t quite roll onto his back and wave his paws in the air, but there was that feel about him. He pushed back out of his crouch and dissolved into a cat-shaped shimmer. Half a breath later he was a naked man, dark and glowering.
Skeen gasped. “Which is impossible,” she whispered.
Unconcerned about his nudity, the Min male took a step to one side, looked Skeen over with no softening of his scowl, then stalked off down the road. Handsome creature. Grinning, she watched his buttock muscles shift and clench; he had a rank maleness that made her stomach flutter. She giggled under her breath. From the expression on his face he wouldn’t touch her with a ten-meter claw. Which was all right with her; for contact sports she preferred them little and agile and intelligent. Like Tibo that baster. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying the view. She watched the Min disappear into the shadow under the trees. Formidable as you look, you handsome hunk, I’d bet my stash on Tibo, come to a fight between you.
Telka waited until he was out of sight, then clicked her tongue, urging her mount into a quick walk. She didn’t attempt to explain any of that, she didn’t look back, just started on and left Skeen to follow if she wished.
They rode along a dirt road through huge old trees, past glades where tree growth had been inhibited somehow. These garden plots were in various stages of growth, each glade planted with a single crop—pod plants, tuber vines, melons, a grain plant, leaf vegetables, fruiting bushes. No weeds, the sets planted semé, each plant the same distance from all those around it. Got the ground trained, looks like.
The trees ended abruptly, without that trickle-off most forests seemed to have. Fenced pastures surrounded by a new kind of plant, one she hadn’t come across before, a mix between vine and bush twisted together to make open-work barriers. Large ruminants grazing in some of those fields, long, skinny, limber neck, twisted horns. Small ruminants in others, chunky, fine crimped hair shining softly in the moonlight. The fields grew progressively smaller, an arm of a long thin lake jutted dark and glittery past them. They rode straight ahead, passing thrice above lake water and narrow canals, the ironshod hooves ringing on the hard wood of the bridges. The road turned to follow the curve of the lake, heading toward a pair of giant conifers rising like watchtowers beside the open arch into a courtyard of a twisting humping structure that curved around the end of the lake, half a kilometer end to end. It was very late, long after midnight, but there were red-gold glows scattered the length of that dark mass. A number of cowled figures came through the arch and stood waiting, silent and hostile; Skeen wondered wearily just what she was getting herself into.
Telka dismounted, tossed the reins to the shadow form that came to meet her. “Get rid of these, the Chalapeer will be hunting them.” She walked away, leaving Skeen to dismount and follow her as she chose.
IMAGES: a roundish court (nothing was built on the square in this place and those rounds were irregular, knotty and more than vaguely organic) with half-roofs built out here and there from a noduled wall. Fire in the middle of the flagging, burning in an oval basin made of fieldstone, a huge inverted funnel of some pulpy material suspended over it to catch the smoke and guide it away. Faces, eyes following Skeen. Male and female, young and old. An animal touch to all of them. All shapes and shadings, even some parti-colored like the patches on a calico cat. Eyes shining red, reflecting the fire. The dark angry scowl of the Cat-man, Rijen. No one slept, not even the children. No one said anything, though she heard soft hisses and the scrape of claws on stone.
Skeen followed Telka across the court, then through another court with the same central fire and funnel, the same mix of faces, the same silence and hostility. A dozen arches led off from this second court and through them she saw more Min, shadows in the glow from the open fires. This a house or a cattle run? and don’t they know about
roofs? Must get cold as a Chanker Hell come winter. And what do they do when it rains? or snows? Well, easy enough to see the point of half-roofs and open air sleeping if they’re all shapechangers, werebeasts. Djabo’s ivory overbite, I have to be dead back in those ruins and dreaming, that’s more likely than this.
Telka pushed back a heavy curtain and stepped into the corridor beyond. Skeen paused to inspect the curtain. Thin strips of leather woven in a herringbone pattern. Two layers of leather with a soft white substance like dandelion fluff sandwiched between them. Ties dangling along the edge, staples on the wall. For windy days, no doubt. With the lead weights crimped along the bottom it was heavy enough to hang in place without flapping as long as the air was fairly quiet. Deft fingers fashioned this. She patted the curtain with pleasure, then followed Telka into a hole that was as knobby and twisted as if it were the inside of a root.
At intervals along the gnarly hall, below patches of glow globes, oval areas of wood were smoothed flat and embellished with stylized animal carvings, low relief, boxy abstractions imbued with the essence of the beast. Her trained eye recognized at least three different artists. Beautiful work. Her fingers itched, every acquisitive nerve in her body vibrated. Djabo gnaw their pointy heads for cutting such lovelies into the wood of the wall. One could hope, though, that more portable examples of Min work existed, waiting for her to get her hands on them. Talk about uniques!
A few more crooked turns, more than a few narrow escapes from tripping over gnarls, knobs, and rough spots or banging her head on ceiling dips, and she was sure of one other thing. The Min didn’t build this place; they grew the damn thing, then made a few swipes at civilizing it.
Every third patch of glow globes there was another of the leather curtain-doors. Behind some Skeen heard voices, from behind one, a snore. Others hid silence.
Telka led her into a side branch, then into another, then into a third, this last one barely wide enough for her shoulders and low enough that she had to stoop or bash her head; one thing sure, she wasn’t being taken to any grand guestroom. No carvings at all in this hole, even the glowglobes were scarce. Lucky I don’t suffer from claustrophobia.
Telka stopped by one of leather curtains, swept it aside, and motioned to Skeen to go in.
Skeen wasn’t overly enthusiastic about turning her back on the little Min, but she didn’t hesitate—to hesitate would offer insult and make an enemy out of someone neutral and possibly a source of the Min work Skeen needed to buy her way off Kildun Aalda. She walked quickly through the doorway, crossed the room, and swung round to face Telka.
The little Min didn’t leave the doorway. “You must be very tired,” she said. “Sleep as long as you like and when you wake, pull the bell cord by the bed, there, that embroidered strip, good, that’s right. Pull that and one of the firamayin will bring you something to eat. I have to ask; don’t try finding your way about before I come for you, it wouldn’t be safe.” She made a throw-away gesture with her left hand. “I’m sure you understand.” She pointed to a side wall where there was another of the woven leather curtains, this one with a flimsier look. “Water in there, void holes, a bathing basin. Are you hungry?”
“My stomach thinks my throat is cut.”
Telka looked doubtfully at her then produced a brief pained smile. “None of the waves have had trouble eating our food—even the Skirrik who are the strangest. I will send a firamay with something. It will have to be cold food, I’m afraid. Will you drink cider or do you prefer something hot? That I can arrange.”
“Cider will do.”
“One other thing I must ask, though it is a discourtesy to a guest. Please do not speak to the firamay. She would find it very disturbing and I do not wish more difficulty spread before me. I hope you understand. My sister, my twin sister, is a slave, degraded nightly by that filthy Pallah who owns her. I cannot rest until she is free again.”
“No talking. Fine with me.”
“Sleep well, Skeen Pass-through. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.” Telka stepped back, letting the door-curtain fall in place. A moment later Skeen heard the soft patter of her feet leaving.
“Djabo’s loving toes, what a world.” She looked around her. There were several glow globes set in clusters on the walls. “So we sleep with the light on.” No corners, like everything else she’d seen so far. A squarish room like an ice cube with the corners melted off. A brick bed; even that wasn’t square but a long oval, built over a firehole, nothing burning there this warm night. On top of the bricks was a thick quilted pad, on top of the pad, layer on layer of fleeces, on the fleeces two quilts made from some silky material that gave back rich glows where the globes’ light touched the folds. She shook out the top quilt, inspected it with a sigh of appreciation. Birdshape, probably mythical, thunderbolts in one talon, a branch with green leaves in the other. All hand work, tiny even stiches; she coveted it mightily though it was old and faded, patched in two spots. Djabo bless, she told herself, I’ve got to come back when I haven’t got this load on my mind.
She went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, filled a ceramic mug she found there, then stretched out on the bed waiting for the food to arrive.
SKEEN IS HIRED WITH SOME CONSIDERABLE CEREMONY. I’M IMPRESSED, OH YES, WHEN DO YOU BRING ON THE ACROBATS?
Morning. Early. Light coming through an irregular opening above the broad end of the bed, a diffuse creamy glow through a skin scraped until it was translucent, then allowed to dry and harden on a frame. She could hear voices, laughter, the braying and blatting of beasts. Wonder if those are citizens or food? And how do they keep it straight? Skeen grinned, then she stretched and yawned, feeling rested and filled with renewed energy. The firamay, a bovine little creature, had brought her a tray filled with cold meats, cheeses, slices of a sweet yellow fruit in a tart sauce, crusty rolls, and a large goblet of cider. To think of hiprots paste in the same breath was blasphemy.
She wriggled between the quilts, enjoying the soft give of the fleeces under her. She was clean again, head to toe, and she’d have clean underwear, really clean this time, having washed undershirt and pants along with herself and hung them up to dry while she slept. She luxuriated a moment longer in that pleasure, then swung off the bed before it went stale on her.
She exercised vigorously for a while to work the knots out of her muscles, then padded into the washroom where she’d hung up her clothing.
She frowned at the skirt and blouse hung where her tunic and trousers had been. Came in while I was sleeping, maybe that cider was drugged, shit, I’m really past it if some idiot serving maid can creep in here and do all this without waking me. She went poking about, found her tunic and trousers neatly folded on shelves, her boots next to them. The boots had been cleaned and rubbed to a finer gloss than they’d seen in years.
She jerked the blouse and skirt off their pegs and threw them into the other room. Not fuckin’ likely! I don’t care if you have twenty fits, I’m not wearing that junk. She stomped back to the washbasin, pulled out the tap handles, and began splashing hot water over her face. Hot water had surprised her last night, but the taste, a faint hint of sulphur, explained its presence. Now she scrubbed at her eyes, splashed water along her arms and shook it off again, shaking off with it most of her anger at Telka’s attempt to manipulate her. She was willing to hire out her services, but not her … well, call it soul; she’d stopped selling that a long time ago and wasn’t about to start again. If they couldn’t take her the way she was, too damn bad; there were other ways of getting hold of sellables, especially now she had a useful language and enough information to go on with. She dressed, stamped her feet into her boots, checked her hideout knife and the other bits she had tucked in hidden pockets. All there. She straightened Idiot! and strode into the other room.
Her backpack was in a heap by one end of the bed, close enough to where she’d dropped it, but not how she’d dropped it, the folds were different. She had a special small gift, the ability to reco
gnize patterns once glimpsed, and the ability to extrapolate from these memories to recognize similarities in other patterns. She went through the pack. Everything was still there. Some neat-fingered busybody had searched it, though. She didn’t much like that, but she wasn’t surprised; it was something she’d do herself given the opportunity. She clicked her tongue, dropped the pack, dug into the fleeces and found her darter. That, at least, no one had touched but her. She fished out the belt, swung it around her waist, and snapped the latch shut. After another moment’s thought, she went into the washroom, dumped the old water in the darter’s reservoir and refilled it at the cold tap. She strolled into the bedroom, sneered at the blouse and skirt, then yanked on the bell pull and settled back to wait for her breakfast.
Telka was annoyed when she saw what Skeen was wearing. Her heavy brows clamped down, her full lips compressed to a thin line—for an instant only—then her face cleared. She ignored the clothing tossed in a bunch on the floor. “The Synarc will see you.”
Skeen fumed quietly. She’d lived in underclasses and among outcasts all her life and it took very little to wake resentment and rebellion in her. She sat without moving.
With barely restrained impatience Telka said, “Skeen Pass-through. Coming so far with me was a kind of promise. Do you renounce it? Do you treat Min like all the rest of your kind?”
“Not my kind,” Skeen said firmly, “you’ve never seen my kind.”
Telka’s instant frown came back, instantly disappearing. She was a politician all right, knew when to push and when to leave off. The ones Skeen had come against before seemed born with the knack, even those chugging along at half-load. Which Telka definitely wasn’t. Skeen wrestled her resentment down, got to her feet with a wide smile (I can play pol as well as you, see?). “Don’t mind me. Does things to my temper, being closed in like this.”
