Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  “I won’t say it again, but I will do it. That’s another reason I don’t want you and the others anywhere about.”

  “I believe you, don’t say more, what if someone is listening.” Sound of door opening, feet crossing the tiles, voice louder, window shutters slamming open. Taguiloa shrank farther into shadow, but the Panday saw nothing but the darkness of the yews and the moonlit grass beyond. He dragged the shutters to and went to stand behind the woman, so close to the window Taga could hear him breathing. “Where’s the boy?”

  “Keeping watch.”

  “Ah.” Feet on tiles, wicker protesting loudly as a heavy weight dropped onto the silk cushions. The Panday sitting beside the woman. “I could leave Jimm to take care of the Girl and go north with you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sammo. I’d have to spend more time worrying about you than getting on with the business. The children will take care of me. There’s no way the Temuengs can harm them. Strike at them and they fade and are something else, somewhere else.”

  “Not you.”

  “While they live, I live.”

  He grunted, then laughed. “Don’t think I want to go deeper into that.”

  Laughter from the woman. A long comfortable silence. Taguiloa felt the amity and warmth moving between them, filling the silence, was angry and sad at once that such a communion was beyond him. Even as he felt this, the woman repelled him and the things they said frightened him. He thought of leaving, decided he’d wait for Csermanoa and see what happened then.

  As if it took a cue from him, a child’s voice broke the silence. “)aril says Csermanoa’s coming.”

  Taga listened, heard nothing for a few breaths, then the crunch of feet on the gravel path, then Csoa’s voice ordering the guards to take up their posts. Taga smiled to himself. Csoa the Sharp making sure they weren’t close enough to hear what was said in the pavilion, yet where they could come running if he needed them fast. Heavy footsteps as he came on alone, protesting planks as he climbed the stairs to the pavilion’s door, faint squeal of hinges.

  “Well, Sammang?”

  “Precariously, Saiim.” He spoke Hina with very little accent.

  “Ah.” Creak of wicker as the rotund little merchant settled himself across the room from the man and woman. “Didn’t expect you till the end of summer.”

  The Panday chuckled. “The gods dispose, Sadm.” A short silence. “This isn’t business. I’m calling in a couple favors. Business we’ll discuss tomorrow.” Another short silence. “Sorry about your uncle.”

  “An old man full of years.” Wariness in the merchant’s voice. Taguiloa grinned into the darkness, seeing the film sliding over Csoa’s eyes, the stiff smile stretched his lips. For him, favors meant coin and he never parted with coin until he got as much as he could for it.

  “My friend needs a place to stay hid and needs tutoring in Hina and Temueng ways.”

  “She speak Hina?”

  The woman broke in with a rapid question to the Shipmaster, wanting to know what was being said. She listened and told him she’d be speaking Hina the next day, the children would give it to her.

  “She will,” the Panday said, finality in his voice.

  Loud creaks from across the room, the wicker complaining as Csoa’s shifting weight stressed it. Taguiloa imagined the fat man leaning forward to stare at the woman, his narrow black eyes sliding over her as if she were a sack of rice he thought of buying. “Stay hid?”

  “That’s the other favor. Don’t ask.”

  “Ah.” The wicker creaked again, Csermanoa settling back. “Dombro won’t gossip, he knows better. Grum wouldn’t talk to his mother if he had one. Who else saw her?”

  • “My crew, but they won’t talk, not about her. We came the back ways, no one credible saw her.”

  “You had that hair covered? Good. Old woman’s hair with a young woman’s face catches the eye. Can she read and write? Her own gabble, I mean. Yes? Good. She’s got the idea. Shouldn’t be too hard to give her a fair sense of Hina script if she’s willing to work at it.” Silence. Taguiloa imagined the merchant running shuttered eyes over the woman again. “Is she prepared to earn her keep?” An angry exclamation from the Shipmaster. “Not while she’s here,” Csermanoa added hastily. “I ask so I’ll knovi, what to teach her.”

  Switching into rapid Panay, almost too rapid for Taguiloa to follow, the man reported to the woman what he and Csermanoa had been saying.

  “Samna, I’m not going to he earning my way, you know that. He’s fishing, it’s nonsense. I’ll survive,” she added grimly. “Leave how I do it to me.”

  Taga smiled. As I thought, he told himself. A tough one Csoa can go milk a rock and get more than she’ll give him.

  “You don’t want the imperial guard waiting for you.” Sammang speaking angrily. Careless, Taguiloa thought. I’m sure Csoa knows some Panay, and the word imperial is a bad slip, has to tell him more than they want him to know.

  “Who knows to wait?”

  “You think the Temuengs in… where you come from don’t send messages every day to Durat?”

  “So?”

  “They’re not stupid. By now they know you’ve escaped them, and they’ll have an idea where you’re going. They will be waiting for you. You’ve got to be sly and cunning, you’ve got to know the ground.”

  “All right, all right, I hear you. I admit you’re right. Get on with the bargaining. I’m sleepy.”

  Be careful, Taguiloa thought, Csoa may owe you favors, but you’re not Hina, remember that and beware, how he treats the woman depends on how much he still needs you. Don’t let him know the Temuengs will hunt her down and stomp everyone connected with her. He made a note to himself to stay as far away from her as he could manage.

  Switching to high Hina, the Shipmaster said, “Sao Csermanoa, will you provide shelter and tutoring for the freewoman and her child companions?”

  Taguiloa wished he could see the merchant’s face. That was a most formal request, phrased in the elegant high Hina more suitable for use with one from the few Old Families left after the Temueng clearances in the bloody aftermath of their invasion. He nodded with appreciation. A touch. A real touch. Shrewd though he was, Csermanoa would bite.

  In the same high tongue, with the same formality, Csermano answered the Shipmaster. “I say to you, O Sammang Schimli, shelter will be provided and tutoring for the freewoman and her child companions.” Slipping into less formal language, he went on, “You said companions. I only see one child. Silent little thing.”

  “Her twin watches outside.”

  “A bit young.”

  “But very competent.”

  Competent? Taguiloa thought. Haven’t found me… he jumped and almost betrayed himself as a small hand touched his arm, a soft laugh sounded in his ear. He looked down, saw the boy’s face as a pale oval in the shadow, then it dissolved into the golden light that had touched him not so long ago, then the light was gone; there was a faint rustle to his left as if something small was pattering away. No wonder the woman wasn’t worried. Witch with demon familiars. He shivered and renewed his vow to keep away from her, shivered again when he realized the boy would tell her about him as soon as Csermanoa left. He fidgeted. He wanted to get out of there now, he knew enough to play with, but he couldn’t chance the guards. They’d be just bored enough to catch the slightest sound and mean enough to enjoy stomping him.

  “Favor for favor,” the merchant said.

  “Name it and I’ll think about it.”

  – Tomorrow, Shipmaster.” Wicker creaked. “You said business tomorrow.”

  “Sen, would you promise blind?” Sounds of the Panday shifting his feet, softer noises of the woman standing beside him. “Thanks for listening. I’ll make other arrangements.”

  “Sit, sit.” Csermanoa spoke hastily, a querulous note in his voice. “There’s no question of swearing blind. Certainly not. We’ll talk about that tomorrow.” Grunts, more creaking, a few thuds. Csermanoa standing. “The w
oman may stay, of course she may, servants will be provided, food, the tutoring you ask. All I ask is discretion.” Heavy steps on the tiles, crossing to the door. “Come to the ghostwatch, Shipmaster, before you leave.” Sound of door opening, closing. Heavy feet stumping down the steps. Csoa calling to his guards, walking off with them.

  Taguiloa stayed where he was until he heard the gate clunk shut. He straightened, turned to follow Csoa out. Then he heard the Panday and the witch start talking, hesitated, squatted once more, cursing his stupidity but unable to break away.

  “Our witch.” Caressing sound in the man’s voice. “You’re set. He won’t bother you. Maybe ask questions. Mmmh. Certainly questions. You’re all right as long as you’re suspicious, Bramble, but soon as you relax, you talk too much. You talked too much to me.”

  “What harm would you do me?”

  “Bed you, child.”

  “I keep telling you…” She sighed impatiently. “It wasn’t a child’s body you loved. I don’t know what I am any more, only that I’m not Arth Slya’s Brann waiting for her eleventh birthday so she could make her Choice. Sammo, I was going to be a potter like my father. He made a teapot and drinking bowls for an old man’s birthday. Uncle Eornis. My birthday was his too, he was going to make a hundred this year… the oldest among us…

  Her voice broke. After a moment she cleared her throat and went on. “That he was killed two weeks before his hundred… funny, that seems worse…” She seemed to be speaking to herself. Taguiloa was caught up in them, his imagination responding to the emotion in the soft voice, emotion that was all the more powerful because of the quiet restraint that kept the words so slow and easy. “I saw a Ternueng take my baby sister by the heels and dash her brains out against the Oak, I saw them fire my home and walk away with my mother, my uncles, aunts and cousins, I didn’t cry, Sammo, all that time I didn’t cry. And now I weep for an old man at the end of his life. Look at me, isn’t it funny?”

  “Brann…”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sammo, I’m not falling apart. Like aunt Frin always said, complaining is good for the soul. A purgation of sorts.”

  Silence. The man began walking about, stopping and walking, stopping and walking, no regular rhythm to his pacing. Pulled two ways, Taguiloa thought, wants to stay, wants to go.

  “Three months,” the Panday said, his voice stone hard with determination. “Enough time for you to learn how to go on and work out a way into Audurya Durat, then make your way there. In three months I’ll be tied up at the wharves of Durat waiting for you.”

  “No!”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “The Girl. What if something happens to her?”

  “Thought about that. Plenty of inlets near the mouth of the Palachunt. Jimm can wait there with the Girl; your gold will buy a ship I don’t have to care about, all it needs is a bottom sound enough to get us back down the river. And the children flying guard.” He chuckled. “Now argue with that, Bramble-all-thorns.”

  “Dear friend, what about the crew? Who’re you going to take with you into that rattrap? Tik-rat? Staro the stub?”

  “Better to ask who I can persuade to stay behind and if I’m going to have to part Jimm’s hair with his war club to make him wait with the Girl.” He cleared his throat. “You’re part of the crew now, Bramble. You’re our witch.”

  Soft gasping, snuffling sounds. The witch weeping. Taguiloa scowled into the darkness, his pulses shouting danger at him, danger to stay so close to a woman who could spin such webs. He started to creep out of the shadows, froze as he heard the door slam, feet running down the steps. Then the Shipmaster slowed to a deliberate walk. The gate creaked open, bumped shut. Taguiloa stood, still in half-shadow, and worked the cramps out of his body. Behind him he heard the soft murmur of voices-the children and the woman. He closed his ears to them, started cautiously for the gate, staying in the shadow of the plantings, moving with the silent hunting glide that had served him so well other times.

  A faint giggle by his side. He looked down. The blond boy, trotting beside him. Taga ignored him and went ghosting on until he reached the wall.

  The boy caught hold of his arm. “Wait,” he breathed. A slight tug, then a large horned owl was powering up from him. It sailed over the wall, circled twice and came slanting back. Feathers soft as milkweed fluff brushed at his arm, then the boy was standing beside him. “No one out there, not even a servant.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s late. Only a couple hours till dawn.”

  – “You know what I mean.”

  The boy grinned at him, danced back a few steps, turned and ran into the darkness. Taguiloa stared after him then turned to the gate. With a silent prayer to Tungjii, he lifted the latch and walked through.

  THE KULA PRIEST came from the house and paced round and round the pyre with its festoons of silk flowers and painted paper chains and the paper wealth soaked in sweet oils to make a perfumed and painted fire. He waved his incense sticks and the sickly sweet perfume drifted on the breeze to Taguiloa. If funerals had not provided a steady income and a place to show his work, he’d have missed them all; the smell of the roasting meat, the sight of the earthsoul and skysoul oozing out of the coffin surrounded by that smell which the incense never quite covered twisted his stomach and made the inside of his bones itch.

  The fire was crackling briskly as the Kula finished the final tensing round. He stepped back and chanted, binding the sparks into a web of light so there was no danger of the House or the Watchers catching fire.

  Taguiloa sensed a presence and looked down. The blond boy was standing beside him, watching the show with amused interest. There was a companionable feel to the situation that made him want to relax and grin at the boy, ruffle his hair the way he hated to have done to him when he was a boy. He’d stopped being afraid of this maybe-demon, this changechild; he smiled at the boy and went back to watching the fire burn.

  The shimmer that was the skysoul wriggled free and darted skyward like a meteor shooting up instead of down. The earth soul, a bent little man looking much as old uncle had looked in life, hovered near the pyre as if it didn’t have the strength to leave the meat that had housed it. After a while, though, it seemed to shrug its meager shoulders and begin a heavy drift upwards riding the streamers of smoke. The death was clean, the old man had nothing to complain of, there was no violence against the meat to hold the earthsoul down, a clear testament to the way Csermanoa performed his family duties.

  As the fire began to die down, the party grew livelier. The servants came bustling about, replacing the plundered food trays, setting out new basins of steaming spiced wine, drawing the lamps down and replacing the candles in them; the joygirls were circling through the guests, teasing and laughing, cajoling sweets from the men, whispering in their ears. It was clearly time for the players to leave. He looked down. The child was gone. He watched a moment more, then edged around the walls of the summer court and went into the paper pavilion. Yarm had the gear packed and was curled up, dozing, beside it. He shook the boy awake, caught up his own pack and left Csermanoa’s compound by the servant’s entrance, the sleepy doorkeeper coming awake enough to hold out his hand for a tip. Feeling generous, ignoring Yarm’s scowl, Taguiloa dropped a dozen coppers in the palm; the broad beaming grin he got in return seemed worth the price.

  As they wound through the irregular narrow streets, Yarm kept looking back, something Taguiloa didn’t notice until they were about halfway to the players’ quarter and the house and garden he’d inherited from Gerontai. He endured Yarm’s fidgeting for a while, then looked back himself, half-suspecting what he’d see.

  The small blond boy was strolling casually along behind them, making no effort to conceal himself. He stopped when he saw them watching him, waved a hand and sauntered into an alley between two tenements. Taguiloa tapped Yarm on the shoulder. “Forget it,” he said. “That’s nothing to trouble us.”

  “Who’s he? What’s he want?” Petulance
and jealousy in the boy’s voice.

  Taguiloa frowned at him, started walking again without answering him. Yarm had a limber body, a quick mind when he wanted to use it, a good ear for rhythm; he also had a difficult nature he made no attempt to change. He was intensely, almost irrationally possessive. Taguiloa’s continued aloofness still intimidated him a little, but the effect of it was wearing off. He had to go. There were complications to getting rid of him, notably his cousin the thug-master Fist, but he had to go.

  An owl dipped low overhead, hooted softly and went slanting up, riding the onshore wind freshening about them in the thickening dark just before dawn. Taguiloa shivered, then laughed at himself. The boy was teasing him, that was all. And following him home. He glanced up at the owl, walked on. Nothing he could do about it. Besides, a hundred people knew where he lived, that was not one of his secrets.

  THE DAYS SLID one into the next until a week was gone. The boy appeared now and again when Taguiloa was performing, watching him with such genial interest that he found himself relaxing and accepting his presence with equanimity and curiosity. He didn’t try to talk to the boy, only nodded to him and smiled now and then.

  Yarm began making jealous scenes about the boy, barely confining them to the walls of the house, making life there such a misery that Taguiloa began staying away as much as he could, even neglecting practice, something he’d never done before. He was coldly furious at Yarm, but he needed him for performances already booked, a wedding, two funerals, a guild dinner, and the first-pressing festival. And there was always Fist who started dropping in on Taguiloa now and then, mentioning casually how delighted the family was that Yarm had found such a considerate master. It was enough to make a man stomp into the Temple and kick old Tungjii on hisser fat butt.

  TAGUILOA THREW the sticks and they landed eskimemeloa, the wave of change, a sign of the third triad, a good high point. He smiled with satisfaction. Maybe a sign that his luck was changing. Djeracim the pharmacist grunted, gathered the sticks and threw them, snarled with disgust and emptied his winebowl. Neko-karan. Only one step from nothing, the maelstrom. Grunting with the effort. Lagermukaea the Fat scooped up the sticks, held them a moment lost in his huge hand. “That kid of yours, Tap, he’s whispering nasty things about you in Pupa’s ear. Muck-worm don’t waste any time running to the Temueng Nose to dump his dirt. You ought to pop the kid in a sack and drop him in the bay.” He opened his hand, looked surprised to see the thin brown stalks on his broad palm. Clicking tongue against teeth, he cast them, hummed a snatch of a dirge as they split into two signs. Rebhsembulan, the honeybee, and mina-tuatuan, the reviving rain. He grunted. Even added, they didn’t count enough to beat the eski-memeloa. He grinned a moment later, began flipping the coppers one by one to Taguiloa who caught them and tossed them up again, keeping more and more in the air until he finally missed one and dropped the bunch. Laughing, he opened his pouch and dropped the coins inside along with Dji’s, leaving out enough to buy another jug of wine. “That I would,” he said. “Tie him in a sack. If someone would sack Fist and feed him to a shark.” He pushed the coins into a squat triangle. “Let me know if someone none of us likes is looking for an apprentice, maybe I can push Yarm off on him. Or her.” He curled his tongue and whistled up another jug.