by Jo Clayton
TACUILOA SAT on the pier in a heavy fog, listening to the sound of the buoys clanging, to the distant shouts from the Woda Living boats, to the thousand other noises of the early morning. He’d always liked foggy days, enjoyed the times when he was immersed in the sounds of life, yet wholly alone in the small white room the fog built around him.
The blond boy came into that room and sat beside him, his short legs dangling over the pier’s edge. Water condensed on his skin and in his hair, ran down his nose and wet the collar of his jacket.
“Why are you following me about?” Taguiloa spoke lazily, not overly interested in the answer.
“Curiosity.”
“About why I was outside the pavilion listening?”
“That? Oh no. I already know what you were doing
. there and why. I wanted to know more about you.”
“Why?”
“My companion needs to reach Andurya Durat. I thought you might be the right one to take her.”
“Me? Nol” After a moment’s silence, he said, “She’s a witch. Worse, she’s a foreigner. Worse than that, she’s going hunting for Temuengs.”
“So? You like Temuengs?”
“Hahl I like living.”
“What about gold?”
“Not enough to die for it.”
“You want to go to Durat and play for the emperor. Brann could provide the gold.”
“My master reached his eighties by being a prudent man.”
“He took a chance on a boy who tried to rob him, took him in, taught him, made him his heir. Was he wrong?”
“Stay out of my head.” There was no force to his voice, he was too accustomed to the boy now, he couldn’t work up any fear of the changechild, no matter how strange he acted. “Look, Jaril, I’m not saying I don’t understand her feelings, if my folks were slaves Understand me, it’s the rest of my life you’re talking about.”
“Brann knows that. All she wants is a quiet way into the city so she can get there without the guard waiting for her. If she didn’t care who knew she was coming she could hire a barge and a team of Dapples and float in comfort up the canal.”
“A foreigner?”
“She could buy a Temueng to take her. Enough gold buys anything.”
“Csermanoa’s gold?”
“Certainly not, we’re not going to make trouble for our Sammang and his men; think rather of the Tekora’s vaults. Who can stop Yaril and me from getting in where we want?”
“Why me?”
Jaril snickered, slanted a crystal glance at him. “You presented yourself.” Darkened by the fog his eyes glistened with good humor. “And who would look for vengeance riding in a player’s wagon?”
“Your companion offers to pay the bribes and the outfitting?”
“And expenses along the way. What you make, that’s yours to share out with the others in the troupe.”
“She is generous.”
“How easy to be generous with Temueng gold.”
“Given the Temuengs don’t know.”
“Who would think of serpents with pockets in their hide?”
Taga chuckled. “Not me, friend.”
“You won’t take Yarm?”
“One more funeral and I’m done with him.”
“He’s got a cousin with a nasty temper.”
“He has a lot of cousins, most of them with nasty tempers.”
“Only one of them about to lesson you with padded clubs that won’t break the skin, only bones.”
“Tungjii’s gut! I suppose you were a fly on the wall.”
“Be one monstrous fly, but you’ve got the idea.”
“Why tell me?”
“We like you. Offer. Whether or not you accept my companion’s gold, Yaril and I, we’ll keep an eye on Fist and warn you when he’s set to act.”
“Accept. Seshtrango send him hives and flatulence and inflict Yarm on him the rest of his life.”
Jaril giggled, then dug in the pocket of his jacket and dropped a handful of gold beside Taguiloa. “Brann wants to move out of Csermanoa’s house. He’s hanging around a bit too much, asking questions she doesn’t want to answer, and the maids spy on her. Makes her nervous. Could you find her a place to stay?” He stacked the coins into a neat pile. “That should be enough. Someplace she can stay quiet and safe?”
“There’s no place safe from gossip.”
“Even if she seems Hina? At least outside the house?”
“She can do that?”
“We can do that.”
“Mmm. I can think of a couple places might do. Give me two days, meet me at my house.”
“I hear.” The boy got to his feet with the sinuous supple grace of a cat, vanished into the fog with a wave of a hand.
Taguiloa sat staring at the black water rocking under his feet, wondering what he’d got himself into.
HE FOLLOWED THE MUSIC and laughter through the pleasure garden to the beach house built out over the water-water-dark stones and wind-sculpted cedars, clipped and trained seagrape vines. Salt flowers in reds and oranges and a scattered shouting pink. A willow or two to add a note of elegance. A bright cool morning with the sun just hot enough to fall pleasantly on the skin. Flute song winding through the wash of the sea, the spicy whisper of the cedars, the rustle of the willows. Ladji, he thought, then lifted his head and stopped as another instrument began to play, a jubilant, very clear, rather metallic flurry of notes dancing around the thread of the flute song.
He walked into the house.
Tari Blackthorn was reclining on a low divan amid piles of pillows watching two girls dancing. A small ancient man with a few wisps of hair on mottled skin stretched tight over his skull knelt at the edge of the straw matting and danced fingers like spider legs over the holes of his flute. Beside him a small dark-haired woman sat on a broad orange cushion, an instrument like a distorted and enlarged gittern on her lap. Her hair was dressed in innumerable small braids, some of them stiffened into graceful loops about her head. Elaborate gold earrings, wide hoops with filigreed discs hanging from them. Large blue eyes, the blue so dark it was almost black. Small pointed face, dark olive skin. A nose that had a tendency to hook. A wide mobile mouth, smiling now as she watched the girls dance. Short stubby fingers moved with swift sureness over the strings, the ivory plectrum gleaming against her dark skin.
Tari looked up as he came in, smiled and nodded at a pile of cushions near her feet. He dropped on them, leaned against the divan and watched the girls. They were very young, ten or eleven, sold by their parents into the night world when they were old enough so their adult features could be guessed at. He’d escaped being impressed into the world of the joyhouses by craftiness learned in a hard school, by the nimble body, coordination and speed Tungjii had gifted him with, and by a lot of luck. He watched the dancers with a cool judicial eye, his tastes running to older women. The plumper one wasn’t going to make a dancer, she was a juicy creature with a bold eye; she had the proper moves, but there was no life to her dancing, none of the edge and fire Tail Blackthorn got into her dances. The other girl was thin and under-developed, coltish and a bit clumsy but there was a hint that she might have some of the gift that made Blackthorn the premier dancer of Silili before she was nineteen and kept her there for the next fifteen years.
Taga twisted his head around and saw her watching him. A slow smile touched the corners of her mouth. She seldom let her face move in any way that would encourage wrinkles, part of the discipline she enforced over nearly every aspect of her life. He was a part of that tiny area where she let herself feel and possibly be hurt, that little area of danger that gave her the magic she put into her dancing. Her smile was at most a slight lifting of her face, a gleam in her eyes, but he’d warmed to it since he’d celebrated his seventeenth birthday in her bed. Eight years ago. She was at her zenith now while he was still rising. She’d stay where she was for a few years and manage a graceful glide into her retirement unless she made enemies. Here too she walked the
ragged and crumbly edge between acceptance and obloquy, walked it with calculation and care, knowing a misstep could destroy her. Like every player she had only her wits, her skill, and the tenuous protection of custom and reputation to restrain the merchants and the officials who ran Silili (always subject to the whims of the Temuengs) and ordered the lives of all who lived there.
Tali touched the ceramic chimes. The double clink was not loud, but it cut through the music. The dancers stopped and bowed, then stood waiting for her to speak, the plump one a little nervous but enough in command of herself to slide her eyes at Taguiloa, the thin one seeing no one and nothing but Blackthorn. Tari lifted a hand. “You saw, what do you say?”
“The hungry one.”
Tail nodded. “When you have that hunger, its easy to see it in others. If I were five years younger, I might want to kick her feet from under her.” She turned to the two girls. “Deniza,” she told the thin one, “see my bataj about buying you out. Rasbai, your gifts lie elsewhere, I am not the proper teacher for you. May I suggest… mmm… Atalai?” She dismissed them firmly, ignoring both Rasbai’s scowl and Deniza’s sudden glow. “Your student has shut his mouth. What’d you do to that little snake?”
He watched the two girls walk out with their silent chaperone and said nothing until they had time to get beyond hearing, then turned to stare cooly at the foreign woman. “Me?” he said, “I did nothing.”
Her eyes opened a bit wider, the toes of her right foot nudged at the nape of his neck, tickled through the hair by his right ear. “This is Blackthorn, little love. Maybe you forget?” She dug at him with the nail of her big toe. “Harm? Would I ask in front of her if I didn’t trust her? Fishbrain.”
He swung round, caught hold of her ankle, danced his fingers along the henna’d sole of her foot. “Even a fishbrain knows Blackthorn.” He let her pull her ankle free. “It’s the truth. I did him nothing. He’s happy contemplating my future broken bones.”
“What?”
“Fist and a handful of his thugs are getting set to thump me some.”
“You’re very cheerful considering.”
“Considering I’ve got some protection Fist and Yarm don’t know about. I’m shucking Yarm the end of the week, going on tour soon as I can get it together. I’ve got a patron of sorts, who’s financing me and providing that protection I mentioned.”
“You’re finally going to do it? The dances?”
“Uh-huh. I need a flute player.” He scowled at the mat. “Funeral tomorrow. The last appearance I’ve got for a while. Yarm’s out the next day. I’m not looking forward to that.”
“I told you he was a bad idea.
“That you did, but I had no ears then.”
“And nothing between them either.”
He caught hold of a toe, pinched it lightly. “Flute player.”
A sharp intake of breath, a moment’s silence. Tari lay back with her eyes shut. He frowned at her but before he could say anything, she spoke. “Ladji.”
The ancient flute player got easily to his feet, came across the open airy room and dropped to his knees near the head of the divan. “Sew,” he said tranquilly. He held his flute lightly across his thighs.
“You have a student, your sister’s grandson I think it is. You know him, you know Taga. What do you think?” She opened her eyes. “It’s a gamble, and the hillwolves are getting bold.” She glanced at Taguiloa, lifted the corner of her mouth a fraction. “Rumor is once the Jamara lords and the jamaraks are left behind, it’s a dance with death.” Delicate lift of a delicate brow, slow and smooth, a question to Taguiloa. “You’re not given to taking those kinds of chances, little love.”
“It’s the hillwolves that better watch themselves.” He hesitated, wondering exactly what he wanted to say, how much he wanted to tell. This was Blackthorn who read him better than he did himself “My patron is a friendly witch with demon familiars.” He turned so he was facing the foreign woman. “That is not for repeating.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
The old man spoke. “Taga, when would you like to talk with Linjijan? And where?”
Blackthorn’s toe nudged at Taguiloa’s head again. “Will here do?”
“Since you offer.” He rubbed his head gently against her foot. “This afternoon? I’ve got to start shaking the mix.”
“Ladji’’
The old man looked past her at the wall. “Linjijan went out with his brothers this morning. After fish. He’ll be returning with the sun. But he’ll need sleep.” He turned muddy amber eyes on Blackthorn and smiled, the wrinkles lifting and spreading. “And you, saOr, prefer the afternoon.”
“True, my eldest love.” She made the deep gurgle that was her sort of laugh. “raga. Dance for me, you. I’ve earned some entertaining, don’t you think?”
He turned his head and kissed the smooth instep, then jumped to his feet. He kicked off his sandals and walked barefoot onto the woven straw mat, rubbed his hands down his sides, lifted a brow to Ladjinatuai, then began snapping his fingers, hunting for the rhythm that felt right for the mood he was in and the way his body felt. He looked over his shoulder at the foreign woman. “Play for me,” he said. “With Ladji, if you will.”
Ladjinatuai lifted his flute and began improvising music to the changing rhythms of Taga’s fingers.
A few beats later, a soft laugh, and the lively metallic complex tones of stringed instrument came in, picking up the beat, playing fantasies around it, making a sound he’d never heard before.
He let the music work in him a while longer.
When he was ready, he began the first tumbling run, moving faster and faster, gathering the energy of the music into his blood and bone, ending the run with a double flip, landing, reversing direction without losing the impulse driving him, dropping, curling onto his shoulders, slowly unfolding his body until he was a spear pointed at the roof, breaking suddenly, the music breaking with him, a long swoop of the flute, a glittering cascade from the strings, his body flexed, rose and fell, wheeled and caracoled, improvised around the traditions of the female dancers, the male mimes and tumblers; he felt every move, all the pain and effort, yet at the same time he was flying, riding the sound.
Until a tiny shake, a hairline miscalculation, and he lost it, the music went on but his improvisation faltered. With a gasping laugh he sank onto his knees, then sat back on his heels, hands on thighs, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, into his eyes and mouth. He heard Blackthorn’s gurgling laughter, the patter of her hands, but only at a distance; more important to him this moment was the music that wove on and on, the foreign woman and the old flute player working out their own magic until they achieved resolution and silence.
He swung on his knees to face the woman. “Who are you?”
“My name is Harra Hazhani.”
“From the west?”
“A long way from, dancer.”
“Why?”
“Chance, curiosity, who knows. I came with my father.”
“Your father?”
“Dead.” She plucked a discord from the strings. “An aneurism neither of us knew he had.”
“Your people?”
“You wouldn’t know them.” She shrugged. “What does it matter?” Then, producing a soft buzzing sound from the instrument by pulling her hand gently along the strings, she stared past him. “I’m a long way from my mountains, dancer. The wind blew me here and dropped me. The day will come when I catch another and blow on. Rukka-nag. My people. You see, it means nothing to you and why should it?” She had a strong accent that was not unpleasant, especially in her honey-spice voice. As she spoke she made almost a song of the words, using the pads of her fingers to coax a muted music from the strings. Abruptly she lifted her hands from the instrument and laughed. “More prosaically, Sad Taguiloa, when my father dropped dead, Saiiri Blackthorn took pity on me and gave me houseroom until I could find the kind of work I was willing to do.” She took up the plectrum and plucked a questio
ning tune. “And have I, O man who makes music with his body? Have I?”
“Do you dance?”
“The dances of my people. And never so well as Blackthorn does hers.”
“Show me.” He moved off the mat to make way for her, seating himself once again at Tafi’s feet.
Han-a Hazhani looked at him gravely, considering him, then she set her instrument aside and got gracefully to her feet. She wore black leather boots with high heels; a long skirt with a lot of material in it that swung about her ankles, a bright blue with crudely colorful embroidery in a band a handspan above the hem; a long-sleeved loose white blouse and a short tight vest laced up the front that seemed designed to emphasize high full breasts and a tiny waist. The blouse was gathered at wrists and neck by drawstrings tied in neat bows. She reached into a pocket in the skirt and pulled out a number of thin gold hoops, slid them over her hands so they clashed on her wrists when she lifted her arms over her head and began clapping out a strongly accented rhythm. Still clapping she began to whistle, a sound with a driving energy as crude to his ears as the colors and patterns in the embroidery on her clothing was to his eyes. She whistled just long enough for Ladjinatuai to pick up the tune, though the mode of her music was not that of his flute.
