Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  With a breath of pleasure she eased into the hot water and began to wash away the grime of her long hard ride, the pleasure of the bath making up for those many hardships she’d had to endure, even for the contretemps in the taproom and whatever came of it. She wrinkled her nose at the filthy shirt and trousers thrown in a pile beside the chair, disgusted by the thought she’d have to get back in them come the morning. No mother or cousin or anyone to do for her. When she was done she stood up, dripping, the scent from the soap around her like a cloud. She snapped open one of the towels-it was almost big as a blanket-and began rubbing herself dry, a little timid about touching herself, embarrassed by the soft full breasts, the bush of pubic hair. She put a foot on the side of the tub, dried it, stepped onto the hearth tiles, dried her other foot, dropped the damp towel beside her discarded clothes and wrapped the dry one about her.

  Yaril and Jaril were sitting on the bed watching her, but in the days since the Valley she’d gotten used to their being always around. She rubbed at her head with a corner of the towel, combed her hand through short damp hair, sighed with relief as it curled about her fingers. Being bald was almost as embarrassing as the jiggle of her breasts.

  She looked at the bed, but she wasn’t sleepy. Tired, yes. Exhausted, uncertain, weepy, yes; but the bed meant nightmares when her mind was so roiled up. She walked to the window. It was still not raining and very dark, the Wounded Moon not up yet and anyway it was shrunk to a broken crescent. She leaned on the broad sill, gazing to the west where the mountains were; wondering, what her folk were doing now, how they were faring, if they’d gone back and collected the loot yet. She continued to gaze into the cloudy darkness, willing herself to see her mountain, her Tincreal.

  And-for a moment-believed it was her will that touched the peaks with light. Then the sill rocked under her elbows, the floor rocked under her feet and the faint red glow illuminating the peaks rose to a reddish boil bursting into the sky. Some minutes later a blast came like a blow against her ears; it settled into a low grinding grumble that finally died into a tension-filled silence. The red glare subsided to a low-lying seethe sandwiched between clouds and earth. Standing with her face pressed against the iron lace, her mouth gaping open in a scream that wouldn’t come, she was a hollovircast figurine, empty, no anger, not even any surprise. As if she’d expected it. And of course she had, they all had, the signs had been amply there, the children had warned the blow was coming soon. “No,” she said, saying no to the sudden thought that the Mountain had destroyed the little the Temuengs had left of Arth Slya. Guilt seized her. If she’d left the soldiers alone, alive, if she’d let them take her folk away, her mother’d be alive now, they all would.

  A tugging at her arm. She looked down. Jaril. “They could be safe, Bramble. If the Mountain blew away from the Valley. And it isn’t your fault. Like you told me once, your folk know the moods of the Mountain. I could fly there and see, be back by morning. If you want. Do you?”

  Brann barely whispered, “Yes. Please.” She turned back to the window, her eyes fixed on the soft red glow, a bit of hope mixing with her despair. Behind her she heard the door open, click shut. Then small hands caught hold of her arm. Yaril led her to the bed, tucked her in. Lying on her stomach, her face to the wall, she let herself relax as Yaril murmured soft cooing sounds at her and smoothed those small strong hands across her shoulders, down along her arms, over and over. Her shaking stopped. All at once she was desperately tired. She slept.

  A WEIGHT WAS on her, she couldn’t breathe, a hand was clamped over her mouth, a knee butting between her legs. Fear and horror and revulsion welled up in her; she began to struggle, not knowing what was happening, trying to free her mouth, trying to buck the weight off her, but he was strong and heavy and he’d got himself set before she was awake enough to fight him. He was hard and thick, pushing into her, he was grunting like an animal, hurting her, it was a dry burning as if he invaded her with a reamer, rasping at her, all she could think of was getting it out.

  Seconds passed, a few heartbeats, and she came out of her panic, lay still for one breath, another, then she moved her head so suddenly and so strongly he wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t quite free her mouth but she got flesh between her teeth and bit hard. He cursed and slapped her, then fumbled for her mouth again. She wriggled desperately under him, got her hands free, slapped them against the sides of his head, shoved it up off her, started the draw. He had a moment before the paralysis took hold but he couldn’t dislodge her.

  When he was drained, she rolled him off her and got shakily to her feet, lit the lamp from the dying fire, threw on a few more sticks of wood. Toe in his ribs, she nudged him over. The Censor. She’d humiliated him; this was how he got even. Got dead. She looked away. No anger or fear left, all she felt was dirtied. Filthy. She looked down at herself and was startled by a drop of blood falling by her foot. Her thighs were smeared with blood. Another drop fell. Hastily she stepped into the tub, scooped up a dollop of fresh soap and began washing herself, gently at first then scrubbing the washcloth harder and harder over her whole body as if she could scrub the memory of the dead man off her skin.

  By the time she finished, the bleeding had stopped. She padded to the bed, wrapped herself in a blanket and sat crosslegged in the middle of the stained sheets, staring at the door.

  About an hour later Yaril came back with a bundle of clothing. Brann blinked at them, understanding then where Yaril had gone. The changechild had seen the way she looked at the stinking shirt and trousers. Once she was safely asleep, Yaril went out and stole clean things for her.

  “You didn’t lock the door,” Brann said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Yaril looked at the dead man, shook her head, held up the clumsy key. “I did.”

  Brann opened her mouth to say something, forgot it, began to cry, the gasping body-shaking sobs of a hurt child.

  Yaril dropped the clothing and ran to her, sat on the bed beside her, murmured soft cooing words to her, patted her, soothed her, comforting her as a mother would a frightened child, gentling her into a deep healing sleep with the song of her voice, spinning sleep with that soft compelling voice.

  WHEN SHE WOKE, the sound of rain filled the room.

  While she slept, her body had healed itself; the bruises and strains were gone and the burning hurt between her thighs. She sat up. The body was gone. She got quickly out of bed and started pulling on the clean clothes Yaril had brought her.

  A knock on the door as she was tucking in her shirt tail. “Come.”

  Jaril came in looking a little wan. “I was right,” he said, not waiting for her questions. “Mountain blew east not north. The river has changed course some, got more cataracts, the track out is chewed up so badly that if you didn’t know where Arth Slya was already you’d never find it. Dance floor is cracked, part of it tilted. Some of the workshops slid into the river. Your folk are out clearing up, a few bumps and bruises but I didn’t see anyone seriously hurt. Your mother’s fine. Her looms didn’t get burnt, the fire in your house went out, the quake didn’t mess them up either, so she’s been busy. She thinks you’re dead, killed by Temuengs. Folk don’t know what to do about your father and the others. If they haven’t returned before shelters are cobbled together, some of your cousins are going to slip down and see what happened to them.”

  “Sheee, they shouldn’t…”

  “Be all right if they keep their heads down; they’ve been warned.”

  Brann brushed her hand back over her hair, rubbed at her eyes. “Thanks, Fri. That helps a lot. You look worn down.” Her mouth curled into a wry smile. “I picked up a life last night. Come and take.”

  Jaril hesitated. “You all right?”

  “Not so upset as I was. A little wiser about the way things are.” She held out her hands. As he took them, she said, “By the way, what did you and Yaril do with the body? And where is she?

  “Watching the enforcers, they’re asleep and she wants them to stay that way unt
il after we’re gone. We dumped it in the river. With a little luck it’ll be out to sea before it’s spotted.” He took his hands away, giggled. “He’ll get to Tavisteen before us. I better see how they’re treating Coier, get him saddled. You feel like eating?”

  “What’s one more dead man?”

  After he left she wandered about the room, picking up her scattered possessions, folding everything neatly, packing with the careful finickiness of the most precise of her aunts. When she was finished, she sat on the bed, gathering courage to leave the room. After a few ragged breaths, she bounced to her feet, draped the saddlebags over her arm, sucked in a deep breath. Go slow, she thought, act like you don’t give spit what anyone thinks. She touched the door’s latch and went weak in the knees. Not ready to go out. Not yet. She passed her hand over her hair, realized she’d forgotten to wind the scarf about her head, saw the creased length of material hanging over the back of the chair. She crossed to the wavery mirror. A curling mass of soft white hair all over her head, long enough now that its weight made the curls larger, looser. Strange but rather nice, suiting the shape of her. face. She thought about not wearing the scarf, it’d feel good to let the wind blow through her hair, but short as it was, the color it wasn’t, it’d cause too much comment when she was riding the highroad. She wound the strip of cloth about her head, tied it so the ends fell behind one ear. Odd, that paring down of her head to its basic contours made her eyes look huge and gemlike, her mouth softer. She looked at herself another heartbeat or two, then strode to the door, jerked it open and stepped into the empty corridor. The other travelers staying the night had already departed or were still sleeping. It was early.

  She walked slowly down the rush matting toward the stairs at the end of the corridor, her stride growing firmer, steadier. At the landing she touched the scarf to see if it was still in place, a concession to uncertainty, then started down.

  A younger version of last night’s host, so exact a copy he had to be the owner’s son, looked up as she stopped by the counter. “You wish, athin?”

  “I’d like, athno, something to eat.”

  “Certainly, athin. It is a bit early,” he went on as he flipped the hinged section of counter top and came out to escort her to the table she’d chosen the night before. “It’ll take a breath or two to prepare, but ‘tis just as well to be early this day, the diligence from Tavisteen is due to stop here soon for the fastbreaking and we’ll be busier than broody hens and wishing for more hands, trying to feed them and the escort too.” She said nothing, but he must have read something in her silence because he came around and stood beside her. “Traveling was near impossible till the Temuengs started sending patrols with the packtrains and the diligences. Now, we have eggs fried or poached, fresh baked rolls, sausages, they’re the family’s special blend and many the praises we’ve got for them, though it’s me who says it. Or a nice steak? Or we’ve some young rockquail, or some fish my middle son caught from the river this morning. For drinking, there’s ale, cider, tea or something called kaffeh a trader left with us a month ago. Some seem to like it, though I must say I think it’s an acquired taste.” He turned his head to listen to the rain coming steadily down outside. “The highroad will be awash if this keeps up, athin; for your comfort you might consider staying until the storm blows out.”

  Having waited for him to finish, she did not bother to answer his discreet attempt to wring another day’s coin out of her, but simply ordered a hot ample breakfast with a pot of tea to wash it down. His amiable chatter had put her at ease and now she was merely hungry.

  The children came in befOre she was done with the meal, soaked and waiflike one moment, dry the next. Silent and undisturbed by the stares of the fastbreakers in the slowly filling room, they threaded through the tables and came to stand beside her. Brann scowled at the stare-eyes and they looked hastily away, wary of her. Rumors, she thought, worse than midges for getting about. She sipped at the hot tea, saying nothing until she’d emptied the cup. She set it down with a small definite click, turned to Jaril. “Have you paid for our room and meals?”

  “No mistress, nor for the stable and worn.” His back to the rest of the room, Jaril grinned and winked at her.

  “See to it then; I shall be annoyed if you allow yourself to be treated like a country fool.”

  Jaril winked again, went trotting off to pay the rate Yaril had won by bargaining with the host. Brann relaxed a bit more, squeezed a last half cup from the pot and sat sipping at it, looking about the room. A number of new faces, probably they’d been in bed when she reached the Inn last night, up now to get their morning’s meal before the inundation from the diligence and the Temueng patrol. An odd mix. Alike in their wariness, not alike in other ways. A merchant with a duplicate-in-little of his opulent dress, bland ungiving face and tight little hands seated beside him, a son most likely learning the business. Several scarred, harsh-featured men in worn leathers with more cutlery hitched to their bodies than she’d seen outside of Migel’s smithy. They reminded her immediately of the Temueng invaders, different racial types, but a sameness to them that overrode the minor differences of build or skin color. Half a dozen older men seated about, mostly with their hacks to the walls, their clothing and demeanor giving little clue as to who they were or why they were on the move, the only thing she could be sure of was that they weren’t Temuengs.

  Jaril looked in through the archway, nodded. Keeping her face expressionless, Brann slid from her chair and walked without haste between the tables, feeling eyes on her all the way. In the foyer she lifted a hand to the young host, pushed through the main door and stopped under the bit of roof that kept the rain off her head. It was coming down harder than she’d expected, in gray sheets that hid everything more than a body-length away. Coier stood saddled and ready, hitched to a ring in one of the several wayposts before the Inn, sidling and unhappy, not liking the rain very much. She felt for him, reluctant herself to leave the shelter of the roof, but there was no help for it, she had to be long gone when Yaril’s sleep spinning wore off and the enforcers woke to find the Censor vanished. She stomped through the wet and pulled herself into the saddle, sitting with a squishy splat, took the reins when Jaril handed them up to her, looked at him with envy. His clothing wasn’t clothing at all, but a part of his substance and when he chose, it shed the wet better than any duck’s back. She sighed. “The trouble you two get me into.” With a gentle kick she started Coier toward the highroad, keeping him at a walk. “No doubt they all think I’m a horrible monster, riding while I make you children run in the mud.” She bent down, called to Yaril, “How long’s the spinning going to last without you there to freshen it?”

  Yaril turned her face up. The rain slid away without wetting her. She held up her hands and Brann swung her onto the saddle in front of her. “Till the diligence gets there probably. I’d say the noise of it is enough to wake them.”

  “What’ll they do?”

  “Considering what happened in the taproom, raise one holy stink and get half the Temueng army looking for us.”

  “Sheee, Yaro, we can’t handle that.”

  “Can’t fight something, then run like sheol and hope you lose it.” Yaril patted her arm. “Just have to be smarter than they are, that’s all.”

  “Not so great a start, was it.”

  AN HOUR LATER the diligence came out of the rain at her. She heard it before she saw it, its creaks, rattles, cadenced sloppy thuds, windy snorts, a snatch or two of voices, mostly bits of curses; she nudged Coier off the road, pushing up tight against the hedgerow trying to ignore the clawing thorns. The rain was coming down harder than ever and from the sound of the thing whoever was driving it expected the world to get out of his way. The large mild heads of Takhill Drays came out of the rain, their black manes plastered down over the white stripes that ran ear to nose, the leather blinder on the offside lead gleaming like the glaze of das’n vuor. Their brown hides dripped water and looked almost as black as the harness
. The feathers on their massive shapely hocks were smoothed down with rain and mud but their sturdy legs lifted and fell with the regularity of a pendulum, tick-tock, tick-took. Two first, then two more, then the two wheelers, larger than the others. A fine hitch. The driver hunched over the reins, cowl pulled so far forward she couldn’t see his face, only the large gnarled hands so deftly holding the black leather straps. He was silent, his silence making a space about him that the second man on the perch made no attempt to breach. He was a Temueng with a short bow held across his knees that he was trying to protect with his cloak, a quiver full of arrows clipped to the inside of one leg. He was cursing steadily, stopping only to wipe at his face. He saw her, looked indifferently away. She watched him with a surge of hatred that twisted her stomach into knots.

  The diligence was a long boxy vehicle creaking along on three pairs of oversize wheels that cast up broad sheets of brown water. Oiled silk curtains were drawn tight against the rain but there was some sort of lamp burning inside, probably more than one, because she saw the shadows of the passengers moving across the silk. Six high narrow windows filled with profiles and the rounds of swaying heads. She watched them and wondered what was so important it took those people out into weather like this. The last window slid past, then she saw the piles of luggage strapped behind. And felt again that helplessness that had engulfed her as she walked into the Inn, an ignorance of life down here so complete that moving into it was like stepping off Tincreal onto a low-hanging cloud.