by Clayton, Jo;
The main entrance was open, the door pushed back against the wall; it was built from massive planks crossed and recrossed by iron bands and had an equally massive lock. Skeen glanced at it as she followed the Funor boy inside and suppressed a smile. You’d need a picklock the size of a crowbar.
The room spread the length of the building, dim and shadowy, lit by the early morning sunlight trickling through parchment covering the windows. A small fire burned on one of the hearths but did little to cut the gloom. The Funor boy trotted across the room to the end of the slab of wood set on sections of pile salvaged from the river, a long wide bar with a polish on it that drew light into the depths of the wood. A thronelike chair was built on a low dais at the end of that bar, a huge Funor woman sitting silent in it. Not fat, just big. If she stood, she’d probably be somewhere around two and a half meters tall. Large bones, solid muscle wrapped around them. Coarse reddish hair twisted into a braid that hung forward over one shoulder, the tassel at the end pooled on her broad thigh. Ivorine horns rose like half crescents poking through the frizzled bands of hair drawn back past her ears. Her face was a pale blur, her mouth a slightly darker blur, her eyes velvety shadows with an occasional gleam in the depths. A powerful hieratic figure. Skeen felt an atavistic chill along her spine as she stood in front of the woman and waited for her to acknowledge their presence.
Their juvenile guide flopped onto his knees in front of her, reached over and laid his grimy hand on the toe of her shoe. “Angelsin Yagan,” he said, “These folk want a place to light where the host is sorta honest and the ale doon’t ream out their throats.”
A rumbling chuckle. A deep rich voice. “Quoting, Hopflea?”
“Yah, mam.”
Shadow eyes glimmered at Skeen. “How long?”
“Say a fortn’t. If we need longer, we’ll talk then.” Skeen took out the third copper, flipped it to the boy. “If we can agree on price.”
The hawk tapped at the window frame. Skeen swung it open and let Chulji flutter in. When he’d shifted from hawk to Skirrik, she said, “You’ll be bunking in here with Timka, Lipitero and me. Took all my silver to hire two rooms. What about the guards?”
Chulji scratched around until he was squatting comfortably on a hooked rug, a long oval put together from soft rags in muted earth colors. “The Funor boy climbed a wall and stretched himself out on a roof so he could watch the squad tramp past. Weird how that street cleared out in front of them. You remember how busy it was, hardly room to breathe? Well, when the guards came in view, wall to wall it was empty like it’d been sluiced clean. Folk didn’t look scared exactly, more kind of cautious. They faded into doors and alleys soon’s they heard that drum. Skeen, seems to me it’s dumb for guards to announce themselves like that. Anyone they figured on catching would duck when they heard the first tunk. I mean, that’s what happened, wasn’t it? Why the drum?”
“If I was guessing, I’d say they leave the drum quiet when they’re serious about catching someone specific. Other times, well, it’s a winnower. The ones who duck are homefolk, the ones who don’t are outsiders and fair game. Like we’d have been except for Hopflea. The Funor boy. What’d he do when he came off the roof?”
“He had a few words with some folk, an old woman and two kids about his size. Then he scooted back down the alley to you. I figured there was no problem with him, so I stayed up in case the guards turned round. They didn’t. They went straight to a wharf about a half a kilometer on and collected some men in chains and marched off with them. I was flying high enough so I could keep an eye on you all; that’s how I knew where to come.” He grinned at Timka who sat on a low stool, her back against the wall. “And once I was close enough, all I had to do was feel around and find the right window that way.”
Skeen laughed, shook her head. “Min, hunh.”
Timka gave her a slow smile. “Sometimes it’s useful; nothing’s ever a complete loss.”
“I wouldn’t bet a snipped-off fingernail on that. Seriously, Chul, did you touch any other Min while you were feeling about?”
“Well, there was the Crew and the Patjen, but they were easy enough to screen out, being all lumped together like they were. No mistaking them.” His mouthparts clicked together, his antennas twitched. “I’m not sure … I wasn’t really trying for anyone but Timka … I think maybe I skimmed past some others … two, three … I’m not sure … did they brush me too? If there were really Min there …? I don’t know, I couldn’t even guess.”
Skeen rubbed at the back of her neck. “And if you go hunting them to make sure, they’ll be sure about you. Hmm. Keep your feelers out … sorry, you’re right, Ti, no need to tell you that. Hunh, Ti, what would you do if your face froze like that? Chul, you be thinking what you could do to earn some legitimate coin, we’re going to meet in here after the noon feed to talk that over some. Maggí Solitaire won’t be here for another three weeks. We came downriver a lot faster than I expected, so we’re going to need some eating money. I’m down to a handful of coppers and some lint.”
In the days that followed, the days while they waited for Maggí Solitaire to show up, Skeen and the rest scrounged for coin to keep and feed themselves.
Lipitero stayed behind in the room, bored but resigned to her confinement. She was myth made flesh and would attract far too much attention if she showed face and flight skins. Who wouldn’t want to possess a creature out of dreams? What a temptation it would be to clip a dragon’s wings and keep him always there. In a culture where slave holding was an unquestioned part of the system, no soul was safe from the slaver’s snare; the unprotected had little recourse but ducking, dodging and generally keeping out of notice. In spite of the skills and ferocity of Skeen and her Company, they wouldn’t be able to protect the Ykx from seizure if anyone outside discovered who and what she was. She spent her time carving small forms out of fragments of wood the Aggitj scavenged for her; she was meticulous, taking great pains with each stroke of the knife, putting one piece down and taking up another when she tired of the first; it wasn’t likely she’d finish any of them in time to add to the Company’s store of coin, but the work kept her from perishing of boredom.
Skeen, Timka and the Chalarosh Boy worked together. Skeen played her flute and Timka danced, then while the Boy and the Beast worked the crowd for coin, she did some conjuring and patter to ease the pangs of giving. (Nervous Finnakese were more generous than they intended when the Boy smiled winsomely at them, exposing the twisted, grooved poison fangs, and when the Beast sniffed interestedly at their ankles.) More than once street urchins tried some fast poaching from the cash bowl, but backed off when the Beast squealed and lunged at them or the Boy hissed; Skeen’d told him he was responsible for protecting the take and he didn’t intend to let her down. When the hardboys came to collect the Bosses’ cut, intending to treat themselves to most of what was left over, even they kept their distance from Boy and Beast.
The audience faded with practiced ease the moment they appeared, leaving Skeen to face the young thugs, four Funor shorthorns with their cowls gathered in folds about thick necks, their hair in tight brindle curls, their faces blunt, flat, doughy, the features etched into the dough as with a blunt stick, nostrils flat slits, eyes thumbed deep and dull, mouths shapeless holes. Big and ugly by birth and raising. Their timing was miserable, she’d been about to send the Boy out to collect for the performance; all that work for nothing. She had to struggle to keep a hold on her temper as she waited for the biggest to say what he’d come to say.
Hardboy number one gargled at her in mangled Trade-Min: “Street cunk gotta pay the Hussa a cut.”
Skeen relaxed; she’d been expecting this, but she didn’t let that show. She tucked the flute into a pocket on the cloak she’d improvised out of one of Lipitero’s robes; if she had to fight or run she needed her hands clear and she didn’t want to toss the flute where it would get trampled or stolen. “How much, how often, how many bosses have to be paid?”
He opened his
beady deep-set eyes as wide as he could. “Huh?”
Skeen sighed. “All right, one thing at a time. How much?”
He wrinkled his broad flat brow. The horns poking through the greasy brindle over his ears seemed to strain with the effort. “Uh. Half.”
“Hah!” Skeen planted her hands on her hips and looked down her long nose at him, being as irritating as she could without coming flat out and calling him a lardhead. “Listen, you scrub, we might be new to these streets but that don’t mean we don’t know what’s what. One in ten. That’s the going rate and that’s what we’ll pay. One in ten. Every third day.”
He rubbed meaty hands along his sides, worked his fingers. His herdmates behind him were getting restive and he knew if he didn’t handle this business right, he’d be hooked in the belly before the week was out and one of them would be replacing him as top kicker. “One in ten,” he blared at Skeen. “Yah, sure. Every day come sundown.” He watched her warily; when she didn’t seem about to object, he regained some of his swagger. “Collector be by. You have it or you don’ work ’n you have it right. We got ways a knowin’ the take.”
Skeen made the cape swirl about her as she executed a magnificent mocking bow. “I hear and obey,” she chanted.
He gazed at her with a touch of uncertainty, sensing dimly that she was making a fool of him, but the hints of rebellion in his mob had subsided and he didn’t want to mess that up by pointing out what they hadn’t noticed. He shouldered past her, made Timka skip away to avoid being trampled, but kept carefully wide of the Boy and the Beast.
Timka watched them stomp along the street and disappear down a side alley, then she turned to narrow her eyes at Skeen. “You gave in fast.”
Skeen dropped to a squat, rubbed her back against a rough place in the wall. “No point kicking against that bunch. We won’t be here long enough to make it worth the trouble.” She smiled as the street began filling up again, the noise level rising to what it’d been before. “Djabo gnaw their toes, those gits chased off our audience.” A yawn, a last scrape against the stone. “Ready?” She pushed onto her feet, ran her tongue over teeth and lips, inspected the flute, shook it out and began to play a plaintive tune.
Timka grimaced, wriggled her body and shook her arms, then she began to improvise a circle dance of graceful drifts and slow leaps.
Pegwai thought to set up as a street scribe, but while he was looking for an inkseller and the proper spot, he came across a Balayar trader who made Cida Fennakin his homeport, a distant cousin of his he’d known when he was a boy in the Spray. After a belly-burning lunch that made Pegwai momentarily nostalgic for cool nights on the sand and coals burning down over a buried porasbabash, Tilman Sang found him temporary work as tutor for the sons of another merchant with aspirations to importance; later he could boast his sons were educated by a Scholar from the Tanul Lumat and avoid mentioning how short his tenure was.
Over wine punch that night, feet up before a crackling fire, Tilman Sang turned to Pegwai. “Too bad I couldn’t get you into one of the Funor Ashon households. I’d like to know more about how those old bulls think.”
“Plenty of Funor outside the Keep walls. Study them.”
“They’re different. Oh, I won’t deny there are connections, I only wish I knew how those worked, then I could avoid a lot of mistakes which could be bad for the health of me and mine. My six boys and me, we watch those outside Funor every chance we get, and nine times out of ten, we can’t make sense out of what we’re seeing.” He shook his head, frustration visible in the reddening of his round face. “It isn’t just curiosity, cousin-isl; around the Funor Ashon, ignorance can be fatal.” He settled back in his chair, took a sip of wine and stared at the stunted crawling flames. “Or close enough. I tell you, cousin-isl, none of us knows what will turn them cranky; it makes living here interesting, that I have to say. Not like in the Spray where you know how everybody breathes. Keeps you perked up if it doesn’t kill you.” He took a long swallow, then sighed. “That’s the trouble with this place, you just get to enjoying things and the crazy Funor change the rules on you. Are they that hard to get along with over on Tanzik? No? I suppose your Funor kicked their crazies out and they all landed here. Let me give you an example what can happen. Terador Mil—yes, I’ll admit no Mil ever had the sense to walk in out of the rain, but he’s not a bad sort. Fussy and ready to go overboard on rules and regulations, like to irritate the skin off anyone who has to deal with him, but honest as a Mil ever gets. So fill up your glass and let me tell this.
Four, five years ago, old Dogbiter was the Faceman, the Bohant’s Mouth; he was the one who said hop and the whole damn city twitched like a clutch of nervous fleas. Deogabut ProCheng the Peakman, if you want the formal of it. He seemed more reasonable than most of them; if you were careful you could get a lot out of him and be fairly sure the deal would stick. He stayed on the highrope longer than I can remember another doing and most of us otherWavers knew quite well how to tickle him sweet. Day came when Terdi Mil had to go see him about some trouble he was having getting in a cargo of seeds from Istryamozhe. He climbed the hill, dressed in his best go-to-meet-the-Dogbiter clothes, the horrible pink and purple mix old Dogbiter insisted on. He banged on the jakka gong and when the Greeter opened the wicket, he nearly turned round and marched back downhill. The Greeter’s badge was different—new colors, different squiggles in the sections—no one but Funor Ashon can read Funor writing. If he hadn’t been Terdi Mil, that’s what he’d’ve done, turned right round and got out of there, but he’s a hard head, him, and he settled himself down, went through all the contortions and kowtowing the Funor make us go through before they’ll talk to us, the high and noble ones anyway. The Peakman was the worst; if he was anything but Funor, I’d swear he was playing games on us, sitting somewhere watching and laughing his fool head off at the asses we were making of ourselves. Well, Mil banged his brow on the ground for the last time, then he asked to see Dogbiter, using his grand name and all his titles, just like everyone had a hundred times. Far as he could tell, up to then, everything was fine. But before he finished with last title, the Little Gate banged open, Funor swarmed out, stripped off every clout and kicked him around the ring and beat him until he was staggering, cursing him, spitting at him, using their tonks on him until the only way he knew he was alive was the pain. Until they didn’t, he was sure they were going to kill him, but they pointed him downhill and started him off with a boot on his quivering ass. Well, he’s a tough old wart and he got himself home before he passed out. Had to stay in bed nearly a month, but he got over it. Took the rest of us traders a while more to find out the Dogbiter had a stroke and that interrupted his dance long enough for him to get kicked off the rope and finally strangled; there was a lot of maneuvering until there was another dancer firmly in place and things finally settled enough so we could stick our heads up and go back to trading. One hairy time, I tell you; you never knew what was going to happen. Folk you’d known for years turned up missing and you never took notice of it because you were scared it’d happen to you if you did. Well, that’s over now, but Lifefire only knows how soon it’ll happen again—when this Faceman falls, and we won’t know it until some other poor skuk will be goat for us all.” Tilman Sang grinned at his cousin. “You figure a way to read them, Dih, and I’ll work you a nice little commission.”
“It’s an idea, cousin. I’ll think about it.” Pegwai was bland and noncommittal, but Tilman expected as much and only meant to plant the seed, a seed he’d manured with the obligation he’d laid on Pegwai by getting him the tutoring job. One way or another Pegwai would clear the debt; that’s the way things worked among the Balayar of the Spray. Pegwai got to his feet and began the long process of taking his leave.
The Aggitj came tramping down the stairs, arguing vigorously in Aggitchan flinging arms about, letting their bodies handle the mechanics of the descent. They quieted when they reached the long taproom; the younger three hung back while Hal walked over to An
gelsin Yagan, not forgetting courtesy but not intimidated by her massive presence. Ders jigged about behind Hart (who stood stolid and disapproving, his arms folded, his eyelids drooping, the corners of his mouth tucked into the deep creases slanting from his nostrils and dropping under his jawline) and Domi (who merely looked impatient).
“Mamam Kai, by your kindness tell us where we can find the Aggitj Slukra. We’re hunting work by day or week.”
Angelsin leaned forward, moving her face out of shadow, her deep-set eyes dark and unreadable, her gaze uncomfortably searching. Hal kept his smile though it took more effort than he was happy about. Ders stopped whistling and moved closer to Domi, shivering now and then in a way he had when particularly nervous. Domi put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, closed it tight. Ders calmed, leaned against his taller relation and watched from slitted eyes. Domi draped his arm over the boy’s shoulder and waited for the woman to speak. He’d argued a good half hour with Hal about approaching her. She gave him chills in the belly whenever he was in the same room with her. We can live here and pay her for the privilege, he’d told Hal, but no more; we should keep as far away from her as we can manage.
“Why?” she said. Her voice was warm and creamy, her mouth soft, smiling. “I’ll give you work if you want. There is more than enough lifting and carrying about this chek and I will pay better than anything the Slukra can find for you.”
Hal forced a smile. Domi saw the muscles in his neck tighten and knew Hal the always-right had a flood of second thoughts. “Most kind, Mamam Kai.” His voice sounded stiff though he was trying to speak naturally. “It’s not just work, we want to greet our kind and see if kin have come this far. There’s news to pass from Boot and Backland.”
