by Clayton, Jo;
He stared at her from a tragic face. But he was only six and more than a little awed by her. He flushed at the attention he was getting, wriggled on his cushion, then began to eat with more enthusiasm.
“Nine,” Maggí said. “You’re financing this?”
Skeen sighed. “One thing leads to another on this damn world. You make impulsive promises and look what happens. I started with one.”
“If you find the key you want, will you be taking them through the Gate?”
“That’s a long way off in maybe-never-never. First we catch our rabbit.”
“What?”
“Ancient recipe for rabbit stew. Also ancient cliché.”
“Ah. The Ykx.” She leaned forward, looked around Skeen at Pegwai. “Scholar, you’re right to be nervous of the Kral. Some time ago the great grandfather of this Kral imported some talent from the Tanul Lumat to design and build the aqueduct. Word is he never got over his foolishness in letting such talents get away and go back to the Lumat. This Kral knows the story. Do they take girls at the Lumat?”
“Oh yes. The Skirrik insist females be considered. These girls stay in the Nests so our resident Skirrik Scholars can keep an encouraging eye on them. Reassures the parents about them, too; the girls will be well-protected there. Are you interested? There’d be no difficulty about an adult female living there as long as she can pay her way.”
“I’ve got a daughter who shows signs of wanting to be a scholar.”
Pegwai chuckled. “You and the Kral. His charming child is just learning to walk.” He sobered. “But she is a pretty thing and I should be grateful to her since she’s the reason I’m still living here. However, that’s for another time. Some children we take without requiring a dowry, if they’re unusually brilliant or gifted. Most must help support the Lumat with an initial contribution and a yearly sum whose size depends on the child and the parent and their sponsors. For a girlchild, it’s especially needful to find a sponsor among the Skirrik. If I could meet your daughter, talk with her, see how strong her desire seems to be, I might be able to provide such a sponsor. It’s not an easy life, Maggí Solitaire, your daughter will be a long way from home and friends and with strangers however kind; she will need to have a very strong calling to endure the loneliness and the rigor.”
Maggí settled back. “I thank you Scholar Dih.” She sipped at her cooling cider. “The Tanul Lumat knows where to find the Ykx?”
“Rumors and seacaptains’ tales, some more reliable than others.”
“Not much to bring you so far.”
“One of the seacaptains is a cousin of mine.”
“Trading in the Halijara? Who is he, perhaps I know him.”
“Perinpar Dih.”
“Perich?” A burst of laughter. “Yes, I know him. I was at his off-faring feast a year or two after I came when he retired to Lesket Tjin; he might be your cousin, Scholar, but he’s the grandest weaver of tales with the smallest kernels of truth I’ve ever met.” She turned to Skeen. “If you’re depending on his report, Skeen ky, you lean on a feeble reed.”
“Even feeble, it’s the only reed I’ve got, Maggí Solitaire. What else should I do with my time? Besides, this is how I earn my living on the other side, sniffing after rumor and long chances.”
Maggí’s eyes went vague. “I have heard tales … they say you sail from star to star as easily as I sail from isle to isle.”
“Not so different, no, only in the speeds involved and the distances covered.”
Maggí blinked. “Where did P’richi locate the Ykx?”
“Lake Sydo.”
“That’s Plains Min territory.” She set the cup down. “They are as huffy as the Mountain Min here in the Tail about intruders. I’ve heard nothing about Ykx in there.”
“Been there?”
“No. Too many problems, not enough profit.”
“Well, Peg can do his mapping, so that’s no loss, and I can take a look for Ykx. If they’re not there, well, I try somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Haven’t the faintest notion. I’ll look around, see what I can sniff out. There were still Ykx living south of Atsila Vana only twenty years ago. Bound to be some about somewhere.”
“Hm.” Maggí said nothing more about the Ykx, but turned to the Aggitj. As she ate, she asked questions about what was happening in Boot and Backland, catching up on things that had happened in the twenty years since she left.
“Yoncal took a second wife,” Hal said. “On the knees of Didim because after ten years she was still barren. Blanteri Tugga’s daughter. She had a daughter a month before we left.”
“Orano’s daughter was supposed to marry the Asach Bhessh. She took off leaving a letter saying she didn’t propose to be sold like a kova calf and she signed the letter Regi no Maggí. Moh and Kansin, Tohl’s sons were called Extra about then, rumor said she went off with them.” Domi lifted his cup in a salute to Maggí. “Not the first time that’s happened.”
Ders giggled. “The Fathers they all stomped hard on the story, about you, I mean, but it was too good to keep. The serfs spread it from Toe to Blade. Lots of girls took heart. Not so bad for Extras either, some of us might get real wives.”
Hart laughed. “Not you, davadva, girl Extras are a feisty lot, need a strong hand and lots of patience.”
Domi snorted. “You either, nit, if you keep talking like that.”
Maggi chuckled. “Listen to him, young Hart; if you want a docile bride, hunt among the Pallah, not young daughters who kicked away their Father’s hand. They’ll not be looking for another such.”
When the meal was over, when the servitors had collected the debris and left a fresh urn of steaming cider, Skeen settled back, smiling contentedly as Pegwai and Timka bargained with Maggí about how far she’d take them and how much it would cost them.
Maggi settled back. “Dawn, day after tomorrow. So far I’ve got two other cabin passengers.” She looked from Timka to the Boy and smiled. “Don’t have to worry about them, they’ve been on the Tail longer than I have. And I’ll have Crew keep an eye on the deckers—any of them make a funny move, he’ll go overside.” Her smile widened to a feral grin. “The things down there like two-leg meat.” She turned to the Aggitj. “Hal, the four of you look capable, but you’d better shop the Market for some arms. Passengers are expected to fight for the ship if we run into pirates or something else.” She swung back to frown at Timka. “I said if. When is more apt. Timka ky, do you have a wing form?”
“Yes. You want me to fly scout?”
“You got it. I’ll forgo your passage fee …” she raised her brows; Timka looked blandly at her; she went on smoothly, “… and add a fee of ten coppers for every day you fly. Won’t likely be more than one day in four.”
“Forgo Chulji’s passage also. Two pairs of eyes see more than one. He can fly with me, alternate with me during tight times.”
“I didn’t realize there were Min among the Skirrik.”
“Few do. Min Skirrik would like to keep it that way. I’m sure you understand why.”
“If he flies, it’ll get out.”
“We’re a long way from Istryamozhe and I’m told Tailites don’t talk much to outsiders.”
“True enough, but rumors do get around, faster than you think.”
“About Chulji.”
“My weeping coffers.” A robust laugh, a shake of her head. “Yes, Chulji’s fare is nulled.” She wriggled back from the table and got to her feet. “Skeen ky, send the coin round to the ship tomorrow morning; I’m not about to wander about after dark with that much on me.”
A timid knock at her door. At first she wasn’t sure she heard it. A scratching sound. Skeen slid out of bed, hesitated a moment, then pulled her robe about her, tied the sash as she padded across to the door.
The Boy. He looked shyly up at her, his fear hovering like a black beast behind him, the other Beast pressing against his ankles watching Skeen with an unwinking gaze from eyes like filmed-
over blueberries.
“Em,” he whispered, “may I stay the night?”
“Do the Aggitj know you’re here?”
He nodded, looked down at his small bare feet, toes curled under, “I din want to say why,” still whispering, “I tell ’m I miss Meme and want some’n to sing me sleepy.” He straightened his toes out, curled them up again. “I din want them thinking I don like ’m.”
“You can stay,” Skeen grimaced at the Beast, “if you don’t mind a pallet on the floor. I am not going to sleep with Beast there. I have my limits.”
He sniggered and darted inside, scooting past her into the probably illusory safety of her room, the Beast padding along after him, its small dexterous handfeet making no sound on the floor.
She stripped two blankets off the bed, tossed him a pillow. “Ravvayad?”
“Yah, em.” He patted the back of his neck. “Feel t’ itch here.”
“Djabo’s weepy eyes.”
“Yah, em.”
The Aggitj formed a circle about the Boy and marched with swords drawn. Timka and Chulji flew overhead, two great horned owls, eyes and ears alert. Pegwai had his staff (the Aggitj couldn’t hide their mirth the first time he did his workouts, tucking up the skirts of his robe and challenging them, counting them all four out with a speed that astonished them and Skeen, too; he was perhaps thrice the age of the oldest and his reach was a good deal shorter, but that length of springy hard wood came to life in his hands). He took point while Skeen followed behind.
It was dark, a thin mist hampered vision after a few meters. The owls flew fairly low, limiting the amount of street they could watch. Sounds had a tendency to boom out or be muffled almost to non-existence. The moon was still up and close to full so there was some light. The Aggitj had wanted to carry torches, but Skeen told them not to be idiots; torches would wipe out their nightsight, probably make trouble for the owls too, and do nothing at all to help them spot ambushers. “Just set us up as easy targets,” she said. They hadn’t far to go. Much of the Haven was built out over the water; it simplified waste disposal, but the permitted way was narrow and circuitous. It was paved haphazardly, sometimes only muddy ruts, each compound concerning itself only with the stretch of street outside its doors and only doing that minimum of street work because the Kral levied heavy fines on those who let their sections go.
Five minutes—sound of feet, brush of clothing, clinks and rattles and tense breathing, ten minutes—the fog thickened, the owls flew yet lower, their soft-edged feathers making little sound, fifteen minutes—the fog ahead of them acquired a rosy tinge from the torches along the waterfront. The Aggitj relaxed and walked faster, eyes more and more fixed on the glow ahead of them. The owls made a final circuit over the party then swept higher to avoid the danger of banging into sudden towers coming at them through the smoke-darkened fog. Skeen clicked her teeth together and moved up until she was only an arm’s length from the boy; her eyes moved constantly side to side, along the wall tops, swift dips to the deep shadows at the base. The sounds from the wharf where the ladesmen were still loading Maggi’s ship—laughter, grunts, sharp protests now and then—these came booming at them, telling them they were home free, or almost.…
A dark form exploded away from the shadow at the base of a wall, tumbling the two Aggitj aside, driving toward the Boy. Skeen leaped, used her impetus to boot the attacker in the chest and slam him aside; she felt something give under her foot, paid no attention, simply used the resistance to change direction. Behind her an Aggitj swung his sword, separated the assassin’s head from his body. Skeen caught up the Boy, wheeled and flung him at the nearest Aggitj. One of the owls plunged down, ripped at the eyes of a second attacker; a moment later an Aggitj sword punched through his chest. Pegwai’s staff came whistling out of the fog and thudded into the head of a third, the cracking of the bone loud over the heavy breathing and scuffle of feet in this eerily silent battle. Fast and furious, over in a dozen heartbeats, a cat’s cradle of crisscrossing action resolved into a knot of defenders about the Boy, Skeen and Pegwai flanking the circle, the owls dipping and soaring. And three Kalakal Chalarosh dead on the rutted way.
Skeen rubbed her hand along the butt of the darter. Wholly useless in a melee like that, the drug took too long to act—seconds when every millipart of a second might mean death to the Boy. A staff, yes; Pegwai’s was certainly effective.
Ders picked up the head of the first assassin. Even in the gloom, they could see the pointed ears, pale hair, and rattail mustaches of a Chalarosh. The Boy wriggled in Domi’s arms, ran over to Ders as soon as his feet touched ground. “Kalakal Ravvayad,” he said, “see the mark on he’s brow?”
Skeen rubbed at her chin. “More about?”
The Boy looked around, found the Beast nosing about in the shadows. He whistled a soft questioning phrase. The Beast chirked back at him but returned to his side without hesitation. “Not now.”
“But there will be more after us?”
“Yes, emmi, Ravvayad come three, seven, eleven, seventeen and twentyseven. For me, ul send the nine threes.”
Ders waggled his tongue at the head, dropped it, kicked it off into the darkness. The Boy watched it bound off; when it vanished, he said (quiet and thoughtful, as if he were talking about something he’d heard about that happened a long time ago), “I’s hiding with Tyot Marese and sister with no name when that one and three others not these any of them,” he fluttered a hand at the other two bodies, “they jump m’ deh and m’ meme and kill ’m. I seen it all.” He dropped to his knees before Hal, bent until his head touched the dirt, then scrambled to his feet. “You ’venge deh and meme, Hal ach-mina. Chayidach chi. What we say, my life is yours.”
Skeen thrust nervous fingers through her hair. “Fine. Now that that’s done, let’s go. Keep your eyes open. If the other Ravvayad are half-smart, they might think another ambush would take us off guard.”
No more trouble.
Skeen watched tensely as they moved onto the broad torch-lit wharf, but if there were more Ravvayad about they contented themselves with observing. She followed her companions on board, nodded to Maggí, but didn’t relax until they were settled in their cabins—even the Aggitj (Skeen insisted they ride cabin not decker this time). The cabins having four bunks, the Boy and the Beast slept in with Timka and Skeen, the Aggitj in another, while Pegwai and Chulji shared the third.
The other two passengers were in their cabins already; as Skeen walked past the open doors, she saw them settling in, saw them turn to stare as her companions moved past. She left Timka and the Boy playing a stone and tile game and went back up to watch the ship glide away from the wharf. However many times she saw this, it never got boring … the sails snapping up, the sudden difference in the feel of the deck under her feet, the orderly chaos around her, the excitement that rose in her own body, the excitement swirling around her. She leaned on the rail until Maggí saw her and waved her to the quarterdeck, smiled, then went back to watching intently as her crew took care of business with no need of orders from her except once when three deck passengers (Funor muffled in heavy robes) went blundering out of the deckers’ well and she sent the Mate to stuff them back.
Skeen enjoyed those first moments of breaking free, refusing to think of anything else until she’d savored them. Then she leaned on the rail and frowned at the deckers. A large number of Funor muffled in their heavy robes among the Balayar, scrubby looking Pallah males, Aggitj extras, and even a few Nagamar females gathered about a crook-legged male. The Funor were split into five distinct groups that kept as far from each other as they could. No way she could tell if they really were Funor. That worried her. And would the Kalakal depend on their Ravvayad? Or would they hire the killing done by someone else, someone Skeen wouldn’t know to watch for?
“Hal and Ders had bloody swords.”
“Ravvayad after the Boy.”
“Well, you warned me. No Chalarosh on board.”
“What about those?” Skeen nodde
d at the passenger well. “The Funor. What says they’re really Funor?”
“Not a good idea, claiming to be Funor when you’re something else. If you want to check them, have the Boy send the Beast.”
“Could cause a panic in your other passengers.”
“Not if I’m standing by the Boy when he looses the Beast. Hm. Wait till we’re in open water before you try it. I don’t want bodies reaching land. I keep my tail clean of feuds and fusses.”
The Boy stayed close to Skeen, the Beast scuttling flatly just in front of his feet. They joined Maggí at the edge of the deckers’ well; she lifted her hand, the Boy whistled the Beast down into the well. It scuttled through all the groups, nosed with special care at the shrouded Funor, and came trotting back without any sign of alarm. The Boy looked up at Skeen. “Whatever they’s, it’s not Kalakal.”
Maggí hopped from island to island along the Tail, picking up and putting off cargo, spending a day some places, a few hours in others. Losing some deckers, taking on others. The deck passengers had to fend for themselves, cold food and drink, though the ship’s cook would sell them mugs of hot grog night and morning when he wasn’t busy with his regular work, a little side business Maggí tolerated because he was the best cook on the Tail and could turn the most unpromising ingredients under the most unpromising conditions into a feast a king would relish. Also, unlike other ships Skeen had traveled on, she didn’t permit the deckers to light their own braziers. Travel along the Tail was a lot too chancy to have open and unprotected fires about. Chulji went into business with the cook, shifting to a fisheagle and bringing back fresh fish that the cook could turn into stew and sell to the passengers; after all, the Skirrik boy was on this jaunt primarily to earn money for his jet. Maggi was amused at his enterprise and collected a copper a day from him for using her facilities, taking it from his watch-fee when he was officially on duty, from his profits when he was winging out on his own.
