Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  “Candid?”

  He raised both brows, said nothing.

  “You know quite well what you’re getting into, Shipmaster.”

  The child-he was growing more certain it was a girl-slid off the bed and walked with eerie silence across the usually noisy floorboards, touched a pale finger to the wick of the stubby candle sitting on the unsteady table that was the room’s only other piece of furniture. The wick caught fire, spread a warm yellow glow over Brann and Sammang, touched the hills and hollows of the lumpy bed. She went back to where she’d been and sat gazing intently at him for a long uneasy moment, sharp images of the candle flame dancing upside down in her strange eyes.-Tell him,” she said. “He’s hooked, he might as well know the whole, maybe he could come up with better ideas than we can; he knows this city and the Temuengs. You can trust him with just about anything he isn’t trying to sell you.”

  He scowled at the girl, snorted at her impudent grin, turned to the woman. “Have you heard of Arth Slya?” she said. Her voice broke on the last words; she cleared her throat, waited for his answer.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “It was my home.”

  “Was?” He leaned forward, suddenly very interested: if Arth Slya was gone, the Slya wares hidden in his hold had suddenly jumped in value, jumped a lot.

  “Temuengs came, a pimush and fifty men. Tried to take my people away, killed…” Once again her voice broke; hastily she turned her head away until she had control again. In a muffled voice she said, “Killed the littlest and the oldest, marched the others off… off for slaves… on the emperor’s orders… the pimush told me… slaves for the emperor… He called him old lardarse… the pimush did… he’s dead… his men, dead… I killed… the children and I killed them… my folk are home again, the ones left… trying to put things… things together again.” Her shoulders heaved, she breathed quickly for a space, then lifted her head and spoke more crisply, her mask back in place. “Slya woke and Tincreal breathed fire, scrambled the land so Arth Slya is shut away. As long as the Temuengs hold Croaldhu I doubt you’ll hear much of Arth Slya.”

  He tugged at his earlobe, narrowed his eyes. “You’re going after the emperor?”

  “No. Well, not exactly. This is the year of the Grannsha Fair.”

  “I know, Slya-born, I came for it and caught my tail in this rat-trap.”

  “There were Slya folk at the fair. The pimush told me they were taken to Andurya Durat where they were going to be installed in a special compound the Emperor old lardarse…” She laughed; it was not a comfortable sound. “He built for them. Slaves, Shipmaster. My father and two of my brothers, my kin and kind. I will not leave them slaves.” She spoke with a stony determination that made him happy he was neither Temueng nor slaver. He nodded, approving her sentiment, it was what he’d have done in similar circumstances, which Buatorrang and the Preemalau grant would never happen; he wasn’t so sure he wanted to involve himself and the Girl in this, but it might be worth the gamble; where she was now, she was like to rot before he could pry her loose. There was a lot the woman wasn’t telling him, but he didn’t think this was quite the moment to bring that up. “My greatest difficulty,” she said, “is I haven’t been out of Arth Slya before and know very little about the world down here.”

  “You’re not doing so bad, Saiir.” He smiled. “And you knew enough to come here instead of Grannsha.”

  “Ignorance is not the same as stupidity, shipmaster.”

  “And you want to go to Utar-Selt. Slipping in the back door.”

  “I have to be careful, I’m all there is.”

  “It’s not very likely you can do anything but get yourself killed.”

  She shook her head, looked stubborn. “I’ve taught

  Temuengs here they aren’t masters of the world,”

  “You have that. How do you keep from being caught?

  Can’t be two women on this island look like you.” I know a trick or two. How much will this cost?”

  He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Fifty gold for passage, you and the children. In advance.”

  “Done.” The urchin grin again; it charmed him but not enough for him to reduce the price though he was rather disappointed that she hadn’t bothered to haggle. “It’ll take a few days to steal that much.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Temueng strongboxes,” she said defiantly. “They owe me, more than they could ever pay though I beggared the lot of them. And don’t worry, Shipmaster, I won’t get caught or tangle you in Temueng nets. Now, the rest of it. What papers do you need? What signatures, what seals, who do you have to bribe, how much gold will it take and how soon do you need it?”

  FOUR DAYS LATER. Tavisteen gone quiet. No more dead.

  No alarums out for an impudent thief, though he listened for them and had his crew listening when they weren’t getting the Girl ready to sail.

  The room up under the roof. Late afternoon light streaming in, heavy with dust motes, a salt breeze blowing hot and hard through the windows, tugging at the papers Brann dropped on the table.

  “Look them over, Shipmaster. I think they’re right, but you’ll know better than I if they’ll pass.”

  THAT HE COULD read a number of scripts was one of the several reasons the children had for choosing him; they’d walked his mind in dream, learning the language of his islands, learning much of what he knew about the ports he visited and more about his character. He was a man of strong loyalties who kept his crew together, cared for them, gave them money to live on though that meant his limited resources vanished more quickly, a man whose love for his ship was as fierce as her love for her folk and fire-hearted Tincreal, a man of many gifts who could read water, air, sky and landshapes as if they were words scribed in a book, hard when he needed to be hard, with a center of tenderness he let very few see, a brown, square man with a large-featured square face. Sitting by the window with the sun giving a sweat sheen to his tight-gained skin, he was a creature of living stone, a sea-god carved from red-brown jasper with eyes of polished topaz. He affected her in ways she didn’t understand, did things to that adult body she’d so suddenly acquired that she didn’t want to understand; this terrified her, even sickened her because she could not forget no matter how she tried the Temueng Censor grunting on top of her, reaming into her; she dreamed that time again and again, the children having to wake her because her cries might betray that night’s hiding place. She watched the man and wanted him to touch her, her breasts felt sore and tight, there was a burning sweetness between her thighs. She forced her mind away from her intrusive body and tried to concentrate on the papers and what the man would say of them.

  SA MANG FELT HER restlessness, looked up. “Where are the children?”

  “Around. Never mind them. How soon can we leave?”

  He shook his head. “You are an innocent. Wait a minute.” He began going through the papers again, holding them up to the light, wondering by what magic she’d come up with them. Not a flaw in them, at least none he could find. When he was finished, he squared the pile, flattened a hand on it. “How much noise did you make getting these?”

  “None. The Temuengs who signed and stamped them were, well, call it sleepwalking. They won’t remember anything of what happened.”

  “Handy little trick. Mmmh.” He tapped his forefinger on the pile of paper. “Can’t go anywhere without these, but it’s only a start, O disturber of Temueng peace and mine; even with gold to ease their suspicions, well have to be careful to touch the right men and move fast before the wrong men start talking to each other.”

  “How much gold?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned out the window, brought back a heavy bag, which she set on the table in front of him. Before he could say anything, she had twisted away. She brought in a second bag, dumped it, and was out again, pulling in a third. With quick nervous movements, she went away from him to sit on the bed; today she seemed very aware of him as a man. Her response woke his own, he eyed her
with interest, wondering what bedding a witch would be like. She looked hastily away. Skittish creature. Well, Sammo, that’s for later.

  He unwound the wire from the neck of the first bag, began setting out the coins, brows raising as he broached the other bags and the piles multiplied, ten each, in rows of ten, ten rows of ten, a thousand gold, a full thousand heavy hexagonals, soft enough to mark with his thumbnail. Even without weighing and trying them, he was sure they weren’t mixed with base metal, something you had to watch for here in Tavisteen the tricky. When he finished he sat frowning at the mellow gold glimmer. And I thought to discourage her by asking a ridiculous price for her passage. He looked up. “This much high assay gold will be missed.”

  She shook her head. “Not soon; these are from the Tekora’s private stash, dust and cobwebs over the lockboxes.”

  With a laugh and a shake of his head he began putting the coins back in the sacks. “You wouldn’t consider signing on with me as bursar? I do like the idea of paying off the Tekora’s men with the Tekora’s gold.” He set two of the sacks on the paper pile, held out the third. “Here. You hang onto this, you might need it.”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t want it. When can we leave?”

  He dropped the sack on the table, frowned. “Tide’s right round mid-morning tomorrow, but I’d rather put off leaving another day, have to provision the Girl, top off the water barrels. Don’t want to look hurried either, set noses twitching.” He drummed, his fingers on the table top, lips moving as he conned the tides. “Why not midday three days on?”

  She blooded a moment, nodded.

  “Can you and the children get on board without anyone seeing you?” When she laughed at that, he went on, “A Temueng pilot will be coming along. He’s to get us past the forts and fireships, good enough, but he’ll stick his nose into every corner before he lets us leave. Can you handle that?”

  “I think so. You can really be ready to sail that quickly?”

  “I could sail yesterday.” His voice was angry, violent. “If it weren’t for those lapalaulau-cursed sharks.”

  She slid off the bed, started for the door, turned back. “I forgot to ask. How long from here to Utar-Selt?”

  “Say we get good winds and we aren’t jumped, ten, twelve days. The Girl’s a clever flyer.”

  “That long…”

  “You want a shorter route, it’s only five days to the mouth of the Garrunt, but don’t ask me to take the Girl anywhere near the Fens.”

  “Which I understand are a maze of mud and stink and hostile swampfolk. No thanks. The Marish was bad enough. Seems to me the long way round is the shortest route, all things considered.”

  He got up and walked over to her, touched the side of her face, dropped his hand on her shoulder. “Need you go right now?”

  She stopped breathing, green eyes suddenly frightened; she moved away, would not look at him.

  “I only ask,” he said mildly. He didn’t try to move closer.

  She let out a long shaky breath. “How old do you think I am, Sammang Schimli?”

  He raised a brow. “Shall I flatter or speak the truth?”

  “Truth.”

  “Mmm, mid-twenties, maybe a bit more.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “A lovely age, Brann, old enough to have salt in the mix, young enough to enjoy the game.”

  She set her shoulders against the door, her agitation visibly increasing. It puzzled him, disturbed him, made him wonder if she was whole in the head. If not, what a waste.

  ‘I wouldn’t… wouldn’t know.” She flattened her hands against the door, then burst out, “I’m eleven, I know what I look like, I know it’s hard to believe, but inside here, I’m eleven years old. The children changed me, grew me older, I went to sleep a girl and woke a woman. Like this.” She swept a hand along her body, dared to look at him a moment. “How could a child do what I have to do?”

  “Eleven?” He frowned at her, uncertain.

  She nodded, shyly, abruptly. “You… you do disturb me, Shipmaster…” She rushed on, “But I’m not ready for what you offer.”

  Abruptly he believed her, saw the child there, marveled that he hadn’t understood it before. When her urchin’s grin’ flashed out, when she relaxed and let her mask drop, she was little sister, mischievous child-if he didn’t look at her body. He backed off. Nice child, good child, bright and warm and loving. He discovered that he liked her a lot and wanted to help her all he could. “Too bad,” he said. “But we’re still friends?”

  She blushed, nodded. “If it were otherwise…” She fumbled the door open and ran out.

  He followed her, watched her slow as she went down the stairs until she was the cool witch he’d first seen. Shaking his head, he shut the door, went back to the table to tuck the papers in a leather pouch. The children. Spooky little bits. Those eyes. Preemalau’s bouncing tits. Changed her. He shivered at the thought, momentarily chilled in spite of the heat. Eleven. What a thing to do to her. To me. He slid a hand down one of the bags of gold, the corners of the hexagonal pieces hard against his palm, then stripped its tie off and began stowing the coins about his person. The other two bags he shoved in the pouch on top of the papers. No more Arth Slya wares. For a good while, anyway. And I’m the only one in Tavisteen who knows that. He chuckled, patted the bulging pouch, began humming a lively tune. Too soon to be passing out bribes, might as well nose out some more of the Slya wares; she’d passed the gold on, didn’t care what he did with it as long as he got her out. When she’s a few years older, what a woman she’ll be. Taking on the whole damn Tenaueng empire. And getting away with it, yes, he’d wager even the Girl she got away with it. Should’ve had Hairy Jimm hanging around below. This much gold was honey to the tongue for the thugs hanging about. He bent, transferred the boot knife to his sleeve. Still humming, he left the room, locked the door behind him, went lightly down the stairs, the song’s traditional refrain ousted from his head by a more seductive one, the siren song of the trader’s game where profit was more the measure of skill than anything important in itself. No more Slya ware, his mind sang to him, no more no more, and when the word gets out, when that word gets out, the price goes up up up… You’re a lucky man, Sammang Schimli, though you’d have traded places with a legless octopus a week ago. Slya ware, Slya ware, rare it is and growing rarer, no one knows gonna be no more…

  THE TEMUENG ENFORCERS went like locusts through his goods, but the smuggled treasures were deep in the bundles of hides and fleeces. His crew went after the lapalaulau castrate and put things together again, stowing the bales and casks properly so the Girl was ready to go. When the sun was directly overhead and the lice were off the ship, when the Girl was tugging at her mooring, eager as Sammang was to be gone, he stood at her rail, wind whipping his hair into his eyes and mouth as he waited for the pilot. He watched the skinny Tern ueng (his pockets heavy with Brann’s gently thieved gold) leave the sour-faced harbor master, clamber into a dinghy, sit stiff and somber while the master’s men rowed him out to the Girl. Sammang wondered briefly where Brann and the children were, then walked forward to help the pilot over the rail.

  He showed the Temueng about the ship, fuming as the man poked and pried into her cracks and crannies, even into the crew’s quarters, opening their seabags, sticking his long crooked nose where it had no business being. The crew resented it furiously, but were too happy to be getting back to sea to show their anger. They watched with sly amusement as the Temueng (they named him in whispers Slimeslug) went picking through. Sammang’s quarters with the same prissy thoroughness; they passed the open door again and again, savoring Sammang’s disgust. He held his tongue with difficulty, beckoned Hairy jimm in to take a chair on deck for the pilot. And he lingered a moment after the pilot followed Jimm out to grin at a large sea chest the Temueng hadn’t seemed to notice and salute.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS HE could, he left the pilot sitting with his signal flags across his knees, lowering the level in a sack of red
darra wine. Brann was sitting on his bed, flanked by the not-children. There was a shimmer about her, a snapping energy. “We’ve pulled the hook, the pilot’s getting drunk on deck; we’re just about loose, young Brann, but hold your breath until we’re past the fireships.” He dropped his eyes to the full breasts swaying with the movement of the ship beneath the heavy white silk of her shirt, sighed as he saw the nipples harden.

  She smiled. “Eleven,” she said. “Though I’m getting older by the minute.”

  “Yeah. Aren’t we all.”

  The blond boy had his head in her lap, the girl was curled up tight against her, both were deeply, limply asleep. With their eyes closed, they seemed more like real children. “They’ve been working hard the past few nights,” she said. “They’re worn out.”

  Worn out. That too was something he’d just as soon not have explained. “Not much point in hiding down here once we put the pilot off. You can trust my men, they’re a good bunch.” He frowned. “No… no, you wait here until I have a talk with them which I will do once we pour that gilded gelding into his dinghy. You get seasick?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been on a boat before.”

  “Buatorrang’s fist, woman. Ship. Not boat, ship.” He fished under the bed, found a canvas bucket. “Spew in this if the need takes you.” He looked at the sleeping children. “Them too.” He started out the door, turned. “I won’t leave you shut up longer’n I have to. Um, my crew, they’re not delicate flowers, don’t mind the way they talk.”

  “Stop fussing, Shipmaster. I have got a little sense, or haven’t you noticed?”