Skeen's Leap

by Clayton, Jo;

  Angelsin Yagan settled back, her broad face once more in shadow. “That is natural,” she said, the warmth gone from her voice. “But they’re a nosy lot at the Slukra. My business is none of theirs; be sure you leave me out of your news passing. My offer is withdrawn. I would wish you fair going, but if you continue to ignore the blessings of fortune, you’ll land in the slop and deserve what you get.”

  “Ah, Mamam Kai, don’t ill wish us. We don’t mean to offend, but we’re a long way from home and blood means a lot. Where will we find the Slukra?”

  She gave directions in a die-away exhausted voice and they left as quickly as they could without offending her further.

  Ders trotted ahead, waited for them to catch up and skipped backward in front of his cousins. “If that one ever had children, I bet she ate ’em raw soon as they popped out.”

  Domi scowled. “Eat you if she hears you saying things like that, flea brain.”

  “Eh, Domi, who knows Aggitchan here?” He flapped his arms in wide awkward sweeps that almost decapitated a smallish Pallah whore who jumped aside just in time and sent a gush of curses after them, then went on her way muttering unfriendly things under her breath.

  “Could be anyone, you chump. This is a trade port and a big ’un. Take the wheels off your tongue. We can’t scoot for cover this time, not till, well, you know.” He looked warily about, but no one was paying them undue attention. “Watch your mouth, cousin, or you could get us all skinned.”

  Ders dropped his arms and he pouted for a while, but his sulks never lasted very long; in a few paces his buoyancy had returned and he bounced along, whistling under his breath.

  Within the hour they had work as day laborers along the wharves with the promise of plenty of jobs ahead, as much as they wanted as long as they wanted it. Here too, Aggitj extras were preferred workers. The Aggitj in the Slukra looked wary when they mentioned where they were staying, but said little, only a veiled warning. Don’t get her mad at you. You won’t like what happens. No, that’s all. Do us a favor, forget we said anything.

  Chulji found work outside town in the ring farms, transferring from one to another, dealing with plant disease and other problems; he didn’t earn much, but got most of his meals from the farms, easing the drain on the common purse.

  Skeen took some of the coin and went prowling the taverns, listening to talk, answering questions when she was recognized as a Pass-Through, trading yarns, her own told with a purpose, an indirect way of digging out possible involuntary contributors who’d fund her return to the Stranger’s Gate. The larger streets were safe enough even in the gray hours before dawn, but alleys and indoors were something else; she stumbled into a few troubles, but fought her way clear with feet, hands and boot knife, paying for her inattention and less than alertness (all that ale that she told herself she was swallowing to oil the give and take that gave her the names she needed) with bruises, cuts, a three-day limp and an almost concussion that kept her ears ringing for another three days. But she was slowly, safely building up a list of the affluent but truly despised, intending here as in Oruda to pick a victim so wormish that he (or she, of course) was unlikely to spur fervent pursuit, a victim whose plight was more apt to evoke belly laughs and appreciative chuckles and a tendency to wish the thief well as long as it didn’t involve any danger or discomfort to the wisher.

  JUST ABOUT EVERYONE WHO TALKS TO ASPIRING WRITERS SAYS SHOW, DON’T TELL; GOOD ENOUGH ADVICE, BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO LOOK ON IT AS HOLY WRIT. AS SKEEN MIGHT SAY, HAVING A RULE IS SUFFICIENT EXCUSE FOR BREAKING IT. NOW AND THEN THOUGH, THERE’S A LOVELY, COMFORTABLE DELIGHT IN CONFORMING TO TRITE OLD RULES; YOU CAN FEEL VIRTUOUS AND ENJOY THE HELL OUT OF YOURSELF AT THE SAME TIME.

  or

  HERE’S ONE OF SKEEN’S STORIES, THE ONE THAT GOT HER THE NAME SHE WANTED.

  Skeen says: Now I do not guarantee the truth of this tale. The man who told it to me was not one to confine himself to thus and so; he’d got a skinful, too, and oiled his throat so the words came sliding out like silky ribbons. Oh, it was glorious to hear and I am far from his equal, but I’ll give it to you nonetheless.

  Vitrivin the Slave Maker and the Corbi of Tinkle’s Thwart

  Vitrivin was a snatch artist, so they say, the slickest fox who ever slid a chick away under a guard’s long nose. Some slavers went roaring in, scooped up everything lively enough to walk about and went roaring out again, waiting until they were clear of chasers before they sorted out their catch. That wasn’t Vitrivin’s way. He was a cautious man. He was a careful man. He spied and spied before he went in; he would know the tongue and how folk greeted each other, he would know the proper clothes and the way to wear them. He would know where he could hide and when it was safe to come out. And when it was safe to come out, he would go into a place as a trading man and the things he would sell were tiny sweet machines that could do wonders without half trying and what he would buy was whatever things took his fancy; he bought them mostly because folk would wonder about him if he did not. The treasures he sought were not such trifles, but the folk that swirled about him, laughing and loving, buying and selling, the living treasures. From these, he made his choices and marked his choices with metal burrs smaller than a dinka seed, metal burrs with silent voices that would cry out to the meatmen who followed him and swept the marked ones in the terrible black maw of the meatwagon. He chose the most charming of young children, though not too many of these (children clogged the auction halls). He chose singers, musicians, sculptors, swordsmiths and any other artisans with special gifts, as long as they were young and healthy. Three places he went, no more, then away to his ship to wait the return of the meatwagon and the sleepers stacked inside. Oh, yes, he was a cautious man, a careful man. And tasteful. A businessman who knew his markets and never wasted a snatch.

  What did he look like, this excellent and dedicated slave maker? Like everyone and no one, a shadow man, a gray man, a man no man would notice in a crowd of two. His nose sat meekly in the middle of his face. His eyes were eye-colored, neither dull nor sharp. His mouth was neither small nor large, neither pale nor bright. His voice flowed along like stagnant water. He was a dim little shadow flitting past you, not dim enough or odd enough to catch your eye. And after he passed, one-two-a dozen-twenty vanished, swiftly, silently, forever, as if they had never existed. Mothers wept, fathers cursed, lovers searched, but the gone never returned and no trace of them could be found and the emptiness they left behind healed over like any wound. And Vitrivin laid up mountains of sweet gold, but no mountain was high enough to quench his thirst for more, so he took his ship and his meatmen and went out again and again and again, making slaves with no end to the making.

  Until he came to a Lostworld that called itself Three-legged Crow. Which is an odd thing to call a world but the Flingers who settled worlds like that, worlds away and away from the empires and the commanderies and the commensalities, away away from the traderoads and the sweeplines, those Flingers were without doubt the oddest folk a sun ever shone on.

  He crept up to TLC as was his custom, tucked himself behind one of the five moons and studied the folk below.

  Spirals were what he saw where the population was thickest on the ground, ovals where there were fewer folk, the fields spread round in webs. Folk went about in huge wheeled carts pulled by pairs of horned beasts, but a larger web joined the smaller places to the spiral centers, monorails with light slipping along them like silver sparks. The two things didn’t belong together; that sent a little chill crawling up his spine. He thought about leaving and trying elsewhere until he saw the images his spy eyes gathered for him.

  The folk of Three-legged Crow were tall and handsome, gold-skinned blonds with eyes as green as the mammoth forests tucked round the fields and villages. They took joy in making things by hand and making each thing a wonder in itself, be it such a simple thing as a waterbowl for one of the small fuzzy beasts they kept as pets. Even the elders were handsome and vigorous. And the children were elfin ch
armers. His mouth watered at the thought of merchandising a shipload of these Crowmese. He told himself you’re foolish old man, what can these backwoods know-nothings do against you? So he made his preparations and took his ship down. He couldn’t sneak in this time; he was too short and too different and the villages were too small for him fade into, so he was just a wandering trader looking for someone who’d buy his machines and sell him local things he could sell somewhere else. A commonplace little gray man who wouldn’t scare the spookiest child.

  He walked away from his ship with his sample cases and started into one of the spiral cities. It was as easy as that. The folk gathered around him, chattering like tuneful birds, bright and beautiful, open and friendly; he was nearly overwhelmed by the wealth of choice about him; he could have taken them all and profited from them so he marked none. Not yet, no, wait until you see more, he said to himself. Around the next corner there will be women more beautiful, there will be artisans more skilled.

  In this spiral city on the coast he found a woman who played waterpipes with a poignance that brought tears to his eye-colored eyes. He found children who danced in strange circles whose meaning hovered just beyond his understanding. He found an ivory carver and a clipclap singer and a weaver and five beautiful women ranging from one joyous creature who’d just become a woman to the mother of five children who was radiantly female in so powerful a way that it reached even him though he didn’t like women at all. He marked these and some others and took the monorail inland to a deep woodland village where he marked a pair of twins in their fifth year of life, and two woodcarvers and a viol maker and a blind herbalist who made wonderful perfumes, and three more women all very young, just emerging from their baby fat. All this he did in a single day and in the dark he took the monorail again to a steep walled cleft high in the mountains where miners and metalworkers lived. Tinkle’s Thwart it was called.

  He slept on the journey and had bad dreams, dreams of choking, of flying and falling, of endless pursuit by something he never quite saw. He woke in the gray light of dawn as the train slowed for the station at Tinkle’s Thwart. He was sweating and more tired on waking that he was when he sank into that heavy sleep. He was afraid. As he hauled his sample cases onto the station platform and programmed them to walk beside him, he wanted terribly to get back on the train and race to the coast; he wanted to leap into his ship and get away from here. He hesitated too long, the train slipped away; he thought of the heaps and heaps of gold his cargo would bring in and told himself he was a superstitious fool to take dream warnings seriously. They probably were born in something he ate; though he was careful about his food and tested everything before he ate it whenever he was in a strange place, there was always the chance something sly slipped through. Only something I ate, he said to himself. Still, there was an oddness about the way these Crowmese looked at him after they’d been round him a while; their smiles retreated to the tips of their teeth. Ah, well, I am a stranger and they’ve had few of those round here. This has happened to me before. Forget it, old man, you’re not going to be here long enough for that feeling to cause trouble.

  Tinkle’s Thwart was one of the oval settlements, a ring of houses and shops, a broad brick roadway, a central common; this was a carefully tended garden with velveteen lawns, clumps of lace trees, splashes of primary colors from the flower beds and a small noisy stream meandering through the middle of it all, singing its way over several short drops. A pleasant place just coming to life, high enough to be cold in the early morning in spite of the bright summer weather. There was a cook shop next to the platform and he ate his breakfast amid a bustle of young Thwarters going to work in the village food fields in a valley lower down; they were catching a last hot meal before the fieldwork began. He paid for his meal with a handful of local coins, then herded his sample cases out of the shop, ignoring the laughter that followed him as the Thwarters noted for the first time the hippity-hoppity progress of the cases on their dozens of short skinny legs and stubby feet.

  A tall girl danced a silent circle about him, her hair hanging loose, so pale it was almost white, the ends frizzed and shifting in the slow breeze; she was all length and awkward elasticity, but her too-visible bones had a promise of everlasting elegance. Her eyes held a touch of blue, huge bright eyes that judged him coolly and found him wanting. “Hello,” he said. “Lady, I thank you for your greeting.” He bowed.

  Her lips parted in an enigmatic smile, baring small chisel teeth and canines that dropped lower into dagger points. She said nothing but continued to stare at him for a long uncomfortable moment, then she darted away.

  He wiped the sweat off his face, promised himself he’d mark her the moment he got a chance; let her learn lessons of humility from better teachers than him. He tucked his kerchief away and stepped onto the bricks of the ringroad, heading for the first of the shops.

  He bought and sold, sold and bought, moving slowly along the curve of the oval; the sun rose and shadows shortened and children came from everywhere to dance in rings about him, the rings changing each time he returned to the brick paving. They clapped their hands and chanted magic syllables at him; it was charming and annoying. He managed to ignore them and went patiently from shop to shop. By noon he’d finished two-thirds of the circuit, had tagged a dozen Thwarters and was near perishing of hunger.

  He stepped from a silversmith’s shop and stood irresolute, looking about for the nearest eating place. A long line of children wove toward him, dancing hand in hand. They swung about him, closed the circle and chanted:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  then they danced a high energy circle about him and chanted again:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  the circle whizzed about him a second time and they chanted a third time:

  Fai nay, fai nay, kik lon doan

  Prauto, prauto, tris eh own

  and a third time the circle wheeled, but this time, as soon as the circuit was complete, they broke apart and darted away in a dozen directions like drops of split mercury, high wild silvery giggles bubbling out of them.

  One child remained at his side, a young boy, shy and lovely as a faun, his crystalline eyes the pale green frozen into pure ice. Vitrivin knew he should get on with his rounds and finish his tagging, ignoring all this nonsense. Kid games, nothing more, he told himself, forget it. His intuit alarms were throbbing but he ignored those. It was almost done, he was almost on his way back to the ship; his meatmen were out and working by now, he’d soon be gone from this spooky world. He took a step, then turned to gaze down at the boy, a forced smile stretching his lips.

  The boy watched him with grave and disconcerting interest.

  “What was all that about?” he said.

  “Oh, it’s just a game we play,” the boy said.

  “Ah, well, that’s fine. What is the purpose of the game?” he said.

  “We catching you,” the boy said.

  “Oh.” Vitrivin thought about pushing it further, but decided not to. “Where is a good place for the noon meal that’s close by so I won’t waste time?”

  “Memo Julso sells sammitches and salads. They good, um um.” The boy rubbed his belly and made a large gesture of licking his lips. He caught Vitrivin’s wrist and tugged. “Down along two steps. You buy me a bratta, huh huh?”

  “What would your mum say to that, eh, boy? You shouldn’t take things from strangers.” He spoke with heavy jocularity, a distilled essence of adults talking down to children, adults who had forgotten how to be children, adults who had forgotten childhood so completely they couldn’t remember how to be alive.

  “Memo IS ma mum,” the boy said. He grinned at Vitrivin, patted his wrist. “Come, come, one sniff will tell you I’ve said true, even if it is my mum.”

  Vitrivin let the boy pull him along into a half-walled garden that opened onto the brick roadway and looked across it at a tree-
framed section of lawn and a small tumble of water.

  About halfway through his sammitch he heard bells and looked up. That skinny girl was back. She came dancing onto the grass, carrying strings of silver bells that rang when they bumped together, and dropped lightly on the center of the patch of grass, facing west, and began unthreading the bells from their carry cord. He chewed stolidly and watched with greedy interest as she set the bells about her knees.

  She lifted the largest, rang it briskly, chanted: An draa po disss tis a a a koo ayyy ye an drup o diss ti yess hem oh hem all a gay.… There was more, much more of that and winding through it the singing of the bells.

  The sound itched at him, lovely as it was. He hurried up his chewing and when he finished, wiped his lips with the napkin Memo Julso gave him and put it neatly by his plate. The boy sat off a bit, chewing on his bratta. Vitrivin beckoned him over. “Her,” he said and pointed. “Who is she?”

  “Oh, her. She is the Corbi and she’s tolling.”

  “It is a strange but charming performance,” he said, with the same heavy artifice he’d used before. He was not certain he should venture further, but a mix of fear and curiosity dissolved his prudence. “Why is the Corbi doing that?”

  “Because that’s one of the things Corbis do.”

  Before he could ask what tolling was, Memo Julso came out and called her son to her. Vitrivin’s prudence congealed again. He got to his feet, gave the Julso a ponderous bow and a clumsy compliment and before he was half finished, she was smiling and relaxed. The boy leaned against her thigh and put his hand on the hand she laid on his shoulder and then he smiled lazily at Vitrivin, his ice crystal eyes shutting to slits. With a chill in his gut though he didn’t show it, Vitrivin chirked his sample cases into a hasty shuffle and herded them out. The tolling bells and the Corbi’s chant followed him eerily as he went back to his selling rounds.