by Clayton, Jo;
The street was almost as empty as the taproom; a few bits of paper and dead leaves, a scatter of feathers and some mattress flocking scudded along the cobbles, moving south to north; she leaned against the door-jamb where she could watch the street and Angelsin both by turning her head a bit. “I’ve never seen the place so dead,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the whine of the wind, “What’s happening?” She watched Hopflea come running along the street, head turning continually, his small body shouting excitement and apprehension; any unexpected noise and he’d be off down a sidestreet so fast he left his shadow behind. He was hugging a heavy pouch to his ribs. When he got close enough she could see a smear of drying slime on one sleeve. Goodbye, boy Min, she thought. I’d say we don’t have to worry about you any more. Hopflea ducked into the alley alongside the chek and Skeen moved back inside, settled herself at her table. “What’s happening?” she repeated, the snap of command in her voice.
“It’s the eve of a season-change Moondark,” Angelsin said, resentment harshening her vowels and biting at the consonants; Skeen almost expected the words to squeal as they slipped between those broad chisel teeth. “The first Moondark of the Dying Quarter. The Pallah are on the hilltops outside the city.” The Funor woman started to relax, as if she was grateful to have something to take her mind off her own problems. “Each Pallah clan has its own hill; they stack wood higher than a house and crown the pile with the bones they save from the flesh and fish and fowl they eat between fires. They wind paper chains about the wood and stuff paper charms in the cracks between the layers.” She curled her lips in a faintly contemptuous smile. “They’re clever with those five stiff fingers, useful sometimes. I’ve hired Pallah dancers now and then and they’ve made paper birds and beasts for me for some extra coin to decorate the private dining rooms upstairs. They’ll be spending the night out there, the Fennakin Pallah, drinking some foul concoction they call possel, dipped so hot from the possling kettles, you’d think their gullets were lined with copper. Capering the night away and coming back so draggletail they’re no use for a fortn’t after.” She moved heavily in the chair; Skeen decided her bones were bothering her more and more and she couldn’t find any comfortable position no matter how she shifted. “The Balayar now, they like their comforts too much to spend a cold night getting bit by chiggers; they’ve been cooking for a week now, all of them—man, woman, child. They’ve hired a warehouse up in North Cusp and packed everyone in it to eat and drink and do whatever else it is they do to celebrate the end of the storm season; that’s what this Moondark means to them. You won’t get a smell of them for at least three days. Too bad your friend is tied up here. He’s missing an orgy of eating and tupping. The Aggitj? Who knows what the Aggitj are doing. Who cares. The Chalarosh—they’re probably in some cellar somewhere torturing something.” She spat. Skeen suppressed a shiver; Angelsin had a hate so big for the Chalarosh she didn’t bother to hide it, knowing there was no way she could avoid showing what she felt. The Funor woman turned her glare on Skeen. If she saved her ultimate hate for the Chalarosh, she had a lot left over for an interfering Pass-Through. Remind me, Skeen told herself, I should never ever pass through here again.
Hopflea was in the chek somewhere, but he hadn’t showed his face in the taproom. Skeen went back to standing in the doorway. The street was empty. She sighed, and wondered if they were going to have trouble with the local Min. Domi strolled by, talking with Ders; they threw her a wave and went on with their untroubled patrol. She looked-up. Chulji must be downriver again. She rubbed her back against the doorjamb, listening to the snores of the sleeper by the fire, the soft voices of Hal and Hart as they tossed the bones and moved the stones about.
She strolled to the bar, hitched herself onto the slab and sat gazing thoughtfully at Angelsin, ignoring her angry hiss. “Pallah, Balayar, Chalarosh, Aggitj,” she murmured. “What about Funor Ashon? How do Funor celebrate the Moondark?” She raised both brows. “Well, Adj Yagan, are you supposed to be somewhere tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No.”
SECRETS. SOME ARE WORTH A LIFE, SOME ARE SILLY, SOME ARE BOTH. THIS ONE TILMAN SANG WOULD HAVE PAID A LOT FOR; IT WOULD HAVE CLEARED UP HIS CONFUSION IF HE COULD HAVE SEEN THE FOOL BEHIND THE FACE OF THE FACEMAN. IF HE COULD HAVE KNOWN THAT THE HIDDEN FUNOR FEMALES HELD THE REAL POWER, NOT THOSE GLITTERING SWAGGERING MALES HE SAW WIELDING THAT POWER. HERE’S WHAT ANGELSIN YAGAN WOULD NOT TELL SKEEN: EVERY SEVEN YEARS (AND, TOUCHED BY MALA FORTUNA’S NOT SO BAD HAND, THE COMPANY HAD LANDED IN CIDA FENNAKIN ON A SEVENTH YEAR) THE FIRST MOONDARK OF THE YEAR’S LAST QUARTER MARKED THE TIME OF TAPPING. EVERY FEMALE FUNOR ABOVE PUBERTY RETREATED INTO PREPARED ROOMS AT THE CALL OF THE HORN, JOINING HER SISTERS IN RITES THAT INITIATED THE GIRLS WHO’D REACHED THE PROPER AGE INTO WOMANHOOD AND PERFORMING OTHER ACTS THAT SOLIDIFIED IN THEM THE SENSE OF THEIR POWER. WHAT THOSE ACTS WERE ONLY A FEMALE FUNOR KNEW AND EVEN THE OUTCASTS NEVER TOLD; IT WAS A MYSTERY, IT REMAINS ONE IN ALL THE DEEP OLD TERRIBLE SENSE. A DAY AND A HALF AFTER THEY RETREAT BEHIND LOCKED DOORS THE FEMALES BURST FORTH INTO THE HALLS OF THE UPHILL KEEPS, SHOUTING THAT DEEP HOOMING CRY THAT FREEZES EVERY MALE IN EVERY HOUSE. THE YOUNGEST AND THE ELDEST LEAD THE WOMEN, THE YOUNGEST HOLDING THE SIMMRAEL STAFF THAT WOULD TAP THE NEW GREAT FOOL INTO BEING, THE ELDEST WHISPERING TO HER, DIRECTING THE CHOICE OF THE FOOL. THE MALE THE ROD TAPPED WOULD BE THE SECOND MOST POWERFUL FUNOR IN CIDA FENNAKIN; HE WOULD BE THE COMMON PROPERTY OF ALL ADULT FEMALES, SERVING THEM IN EVERY WAY THEY REQUIRED, YET HE WOULD HAVE AUTHORITY OVER ALL MALES AND FEMALES BUT THE BOHANT, THE FIRST AMONG WOMEN, THE LAWGIVER, AND ONLY SHE COULD COUNTERMAND ANY OF HIS ORDERS. THE GREAT FOOL WAS THE FACEMAN, THE FORM THROUGH WHICH THE BOHANT SPOKE TO THE OUTSIDERS IN THE CUSPS OF LOWPORT AND THE TRADERS FROM EVERYWHERE. HE MIGHT SERVE THE WHOLE SEVEN YEARS OR HE MIGHT SUCCUMB TO A FOLLY REAL RATHER THAN CEREMONIAL (THE FOLLY OF THINKING THE POWER HE WIELDED WAS HIS OWN, NOT SOMETHING BORROWED FROM THE WOMEN THAT HE WOULD HAVE TO SURRENDER TO THEM AT THE END OF HIS TERM). MORE THAN ONCE THE WOMEN HAD TO UNMAKE WHAT THEY HAD MADE AND CHOOSE A SECOND FOOL TO FINISH THE SEVEN OUT.
ANGELSIN YAGAN WAS DUE IN A HOUSE UPHILL THIS VERY NIGHT, DUE TO ANSWER THE CALL OF THE ELDEST OF HER HOUSE OR BE CAST OUT. DEATH WAS THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE EXCUSE FOR ABSENCE FROM THE RITES AND EVEN THAT WAYS SHAKY; IF THE DEATH WAS JUDGED SUICIDE, THE BODY WAS EXPELLED FROM THE COMMUNION AND IF THE WOMAN WAS REBORN AT ALL, IT WAS AS A LOW-CASTE MALE, NOT A FATE TO BE DESIRED. ANGELSIN MUST NOT ALLOW SKEEN AND COMPANY TO HOLD HER AWAY FROM HER HOUSE, NOR WOULD PRIDE OR THE OATHS SHE SWORE AT HER OWN PUBERTY ALLOW HER TO EXPLAIN ALL THIS TO SKEEN. HER BRAIN IS TEEMING WITH SCHEMES FOR HER ESCAPE; SHE IS GOING TO HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN WEAKENING HERSELF, PERHAPS FATALLY, DOWN HERE IN SOUTH CUSP OR DESTROYING HERSELF UPHILL. OF COURSE, SHE HAS NO REAL CHOICE; SHE WILL BEND HER PRIDE A LITTLE, COMPLAIN OF THE PAIN IN HER KNEES AND ASK SKEEN TO LET HER RETREAT INTO HER OFFICE WHERE HOPFLEA CAN PUT FOMENTATIONS ON THEM AND EASE THE ACHE A LITTLE. SHE IS REASONABLY SURE SKEEN WILL PERMIT THIS THOUGH SHE IS EQUALLY SURE SKEEN WILL KEEP A SHARP EYE ON HER. SHE IS HOPING FOR A DEGREE OF OVERCONFIDENCE, SHE IS HOPING THAT THE AGGITJ WILL BE LEFT OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, SHE IS HOPING THAT HOPFLEA HAS MANAGED TO GET HOLD OF A NAGAMAR DAGGER DART AND HIDDEN IT ON THE STEAM TABLE WHERE HE COOKS THE TOWELS. ONE TINY SCRATCH FROM THE POISONED TIP OF THAT TINY DAGGER AND GOODBY SKEEN. ANGELSIN SITS AND STARES OUT THE DOOR AT THE EMPTY STREET AND RUNS HER PLAN OVER AND OVER IN HER MIND, SEEKING FOR EVERY POINT OF WEAKNESS SHE CAN VISUALIZE.
“Maybe you could convince me to let you go.”
Angelsin stared at her a long minute, then looked away, saying nothing.
“If you want to be like that.” Skeen slid off the bar and went back to her seat at the table. She fished in her belt pouch, pulled out the bit of wood she’d cadged off Lipitero and began working on it with her boot knife. As the hours passed, the quiet inside and out intensified and with it, Skeen’s uneasiness. The sleepers by the fire woke, looked around, w
ent out. Angelsin stopped fidgeting; she was stone now, not even her eyes moved.
Midafternoon. Domi came sauntering in with a hot meat pie in each hand; he gave Skeen one of them and settled beside her to eat his. “Chulji dropped down,” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost seemed he hadn’t spoken, that the movement of his mouth was due to his chewing. “Maggí’s ship is about an hour away downriver.”
Skeen forced herself to keep chewing steadily. It was a while before she could trust herself to speak. “He is sure it’s her?” She kept her voice as soft as his. “An hour?”
“He talked to her. Less than that now.”
Skeen swallowed, closed her eyes. For a moment she felt events rushing out of control and panic urging her to do something, anything, to release the tension that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a bite of the pie, chewed with careful stolidity and swallowed the mouthful before she tried to speak. “Did he tell her about this mess we’re in? Give her the chance to back away?”
Domi wrapped both hands about the remnant of his pie, mischief sparking in his eyes, his whole body laughing at her.
She glared at him, wanting to throttle him, which he guessed and which amused him even more.
“She sent you a message,” he murmured. “She said, ‘Don’t be an idiot, Skeen. Do what you have to, then get on board.’”
“Ah.”
“And she says she’s sorry she’s a day late, but the wind turned contrary and she couldn’t start up the Slot till this morning.”
Skeen rubbed her hand across her mouth. “Less than an hour.” She frowned down at the ring chron, then looked round at Angelsin. The Funor woman was watching them; she had to know something important was happening. Maybe it was a good thing those Funor rites were going to absorb most of her attention. Still, I have to hold the lid on till after dark, or do I? She ran her hands through her hair, shook herself as if that would settle the uncertainty in her mind. “Um … less than an hour, yes … Domi, fetch Ders and the Boy, then you go upstairs and wake everyone and see our gear gets packed.” She looked over her shoulder at Hal and Hart, who’d stopped their game to watch her. “Um … we’d better stay here on guard, the three of us, until you get things ready … um … have a word with Chulji, tell him to warn us the moment the ship is tied up so we can clear out of here fast. Ti and me, we’ll find a place to lie up until we can go after Tod’s gold. We’ll take that boat you and Ti decided on and follow after.”
“Will do, Skeen ka, but I’ll wait with you.” Laughter in his eyes again, he said, “You need someone to sail the boat.”
“I’ve done a bit of that now and then here and there.”
“Here and there. Oh, sure you have, Skeen ka. How many of those boats went by wind alone?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve got a point, my friend. Um … not Ders too, he’s a lovely boy but … um … fidgety.”
“And I’d rather have him safe away from here. Yes. And you’ll have to sit on Hal a bit. He’ll want to be the one, he’ll never admit I’m better than him with boats.”
“I hear. Stop by Hal and give them the news. And be careful, Domi; I’ve seen too many folk get killed a hair before they’re safe. They relax too soon.”
“Yes.” He got to his feet, set the pie end on the table. A glance at Angelsin, a shudder, then he said, “She scares the stiffening out of my bones; I won’t feel good again until we’re out of the reach of her horns.”
Shadow crept toward the door. Angelsin began shifting position again, grunting, opening and shutting her hands. At first Skeen thought it was jumpiness like her own nervous fidgets, but as the show went on she began to wonder whether it was pain or plot. Though the grunts and grimaces got on her nerves, she ignored them and continued chipping at her block of wood.
After a half hour of this with no reaction from Skeen, Angelsin gave up. “Pass-Through,” she called out, a whine of pain in her voice, “I need to retire into my office to apply fomentations to my knees. If you’d call Hopflea to me, I think he must be in the kitchen.”
Skeen swung around, beckoned to Hal. When he reached her, she said, “Take a look outside and see if Chulji’s somewhere about. If he is, I’d like to talk to him.”
Hal nodded and marched out. Hart sat at the table fingering the gamepieces, his eyes shifting from Angelsin to Skeen.
Angelsin clutched at the chair arms, her breath coming in hoarse pants as she fought to retain control of the rage in her. She’d slashed her pride raw to maneuver Skeen into what could have developed into a trap with a little luck. Now it seemed that scarifying exercise was useless.
Skeen sat with her hands clasped in front of her, watching the shift of Angelsin’s features, wondering how far she could push the Funor before the situation turned irretrievable. Not much farther, from the look of her. Yes, yes, calm down, woman, Djabo! “Give me a minute, Adj Yagan. A little patience and,” she watched the door but slipped quick glances at Angelsin who had slid into a steady-state simmer, “we can ease apart, both sides still whole.” She kept talking in that vein, her voice quiet, soothing, but not so soothing Angelsin could mistake care for condescension.
Hal came back with Chulji-Skirrik tick-tocking along behind him.
Skeen leaned forward, whispered, “It’s getting late. Where’s the ship?”
Chulji clicked his mouthparts; his antennas shivered. “My mistake, Skeen. I forgot about the current in the river. She took longer than I thought to make the distance. She’s tying up now.”
Skeen sighed, gripped the edge of the table, fighting against the effect of the sudden rush of relief. She pushed the chair back and stood up. “Hal, get the others down here; make sure they’ve cleaned out the rooms, we don’t want to leave anything behind.” She glanced at Angelsin, then at the door. “I’ll keep the lid on until you’re all out. Take Hart up with you. Chul, flit over to the ship, tell our friend we’re on our way.”
Angelsin was panting again, her face working. She wanted to throw Skeen onto the floor and dance on her bones. Yes, she wanted to hook those horns into her flesh and worry them about; Skeen didn’t have to mindread to know all that. She waited, tense and wary, to see what the Funor would do. If she had to, she’d lay Angelsin out right there, but she’d prefer to keep the precarious peace intact; this wasn’t her homeplace but she had no wish to bring down a power struggle on it.
Angelsin sucked in a long breath, snorted it out as she gripped the chair arms harder, the muscles defining themselves in her arms when she put pressure on her hands. She grunted onto her feet and got down from the chair. Ignoring Skeen she circled to the door at the end of the bar and pulled a bulky key from her pocket.
Skeen moved closer, stopped just beyond the reach of the massive arms that had given Timka such a bad time. As Angelsin pulled the key from the lock and started to push the door open, Skeen said softly, “Move slow, my friend. Try shutting that door in my face and I’ll put you out so fast and hard you won’t move for a sennight.”
Angelsin stiffened; her broadfingers twitched, her slimfinger coiled into a knot. Saying nothing, she pushed the door wide and walked with difficulty toward her masterchair. She grasped the arms, muscled herself up and around, dropped heavily onto the seat. Skeen pulled the door shut, moved a few steps into the room.
“Call Hopflea,” she said. “I want him where I can see him.”
Angelsin smoothed her hands over her thighs. “You’ll have to fetch him.”
“No, I don’t think so. You have a way to reach him from here; don’t try to tell me you don’t.”
“What you think doesn’t change what is. Do what you will, I can’t call him.” She blinked slowly, stubby white lashes glinting. “Send the barman.”
Skeen frowned at her. Sounds logical, but I’d have to go out and leave you here alone; I don’t think so. She moved closer, circled round the chair, looking it over as minutely as she could while staying beyond the woman’s reach. She came round again, scanned Angelsin’s face. The Funo
r had decided to be stubborn about this minor point. Well, so be it. One last thing. “How soon do you have to leave to be in time to make your duty uphill?”
Angelsin pressed her lips together. Her hands opened and closed, opened and closed. Nothing she could do about the situation as long as Skeen kept away from her; the ache in her bones that slowed her to a crawl denied her that satisfaction.
“Look, Adj Yagan,” Skeen tried to cram all the reasonableness she could into her voice, “I’m going out of my way for you. It’s a long, long story why—so don’t ask. Tell me. Sundown, moonrise, midnight, what?”
A sharp jerk of the big head, the ivorine horns jabbing, then Angelsin sighed, snapped out a single word. “Midnight.”
Skeen risked a glance at her ring chron; sixth hour from noon. If she put a single dart into the woman, Angelsin would wake with at least an hour clear. “See you never,” she murmured and touched the trigger sensor.
She slipped from the office, pulled the door shut, locked it with the key she’d taken from Angelsin’s pocket. Domi and Timka were waiting for her “They are cleared out?”
