Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  “Not this summer.” He looked around at the garden but couldn’t see much. The crescent moon was low in the west and the starlight dimmed by fog rolling in. He couldn’t see any smoldering glows, turned to the children. “Fire?”

  “All out. We made sure.”

  “If you’re wrong and I burn to death, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

  “We know,” they said in chorus. “We know.”

  EARLY IN THAT long summer in Silili, Jaril went with Taguiloa to the Shaggil horsefair on the Mainland.

  Loud, hot, dusty, filled with the shrill challenges of resty stallions, the higher bleating whinnies of colts and fillies, the snap of auctioneer’s chant, the wham-tap of closing rods, the smell of urine, sweat, hay dust, clay dust, horse and man, cheap wine and hot sauce, boiling noodles and vinegar, cinnamon, musk, frangipani, sandalwood, cumin, hot iron, leather, oils. Islands of decorum about Jamar Lords. Islands of chaos about wrestlers, tumblers, jugglers of the more common sort, sword swallowers, fire-eaters, sleight-of-hand men doing tricks to fool children, shell and pea men fooling adults, gamblers of all degree. Hina farmers there with their whole families, the infants riding mother and father in back-cradles, the older children clinging close, somewhat intimidated by the crowd. Foreigners there for the famous Shaggil mares whose speed and stamina passed into any strain they were bred to. Speculators there on the hope they alone could dig out the merits in colts neglected enough to keep their price low. Courtesans there for good-looking easy mounts to show themselves off in wider realms than the streets of Silili. Temung horse-beliks there to buy war mounts and Takhill Drays to pull supply wagons and siege engines.

  Taguiloa strolled through the heat, noise and dust, enjoying it all, enjoying most of all the knowledge he could buy any handful of those about them with the gold in his moneybelt. He stopped a moment by a clutch of tumblers, watching them with a master’s eye, sighing at the lack of imagination in the rigidly traditional runs and flips. They performed the patterns with ease and even grace, and they gathered applause and coin for their efforts, but he’d done that well when he was twelve.

  Jaril wouldn’t let him linger but tugged on his sleeve and led him from one shed to another, pointing out a bay cob they should get to pull the travel wagon, a lanky gray gelding that would do for Harra who admitted she was out of practice but had once been rather a good rider. The changechild wouldn’t let Taga stop to haggle for the beasts, but urged him on until they were out at the fringes where weanlings and yearlings were offered for sale. He stopped outside a small enclosure with a single colt inside.

  Taguiloa looked at the wild-eyed demon tethered to a post, looked down at Jaril. “Even I know you don’t ride a horse less than two. Especially that one.”

  “Yaril and me, we’ll fix that later, the age, I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wait here and don’t look much interested in any of these.” He waved at the enclosures around them. “I’m not and suck your own eggs, imp.”

  Trailing laughter, Jaril shimmered into a pale amorphous glow, tenuous in that dusty air as a fragment of dream. It drifted in a slow circle above the corrals, flashing through the colts and fillies in them, finishing the survey with the beast in the nearest enclosure. It melted through his yellow-mud coat and seemed to nestle down inside the colt. That made Taga itchy, reminding him of antfeet walking across his brain, skittering about under his skin. He reached inside his shirt and scratched at his ribs, looked about for anything that might offer relief from the beating of the sun. He was sweating rivers, his heavy black shirt was streaky with sweat mud, powdered with pale dust, the moneybelt a furnace against his belly. Nothing close, not a shed about. These were the scrubs of the Fair, interesting only to the marginal speculators and a few farmers, without the money to buy a mature beast, but with land and fodder enough to justify raising a weanling. He pulled his sleeve across his face, grimaced at the slimy feel, the heavy silk being no use as a swab. When he let his arm fall, Jaril was standing beside him.

  “We want him,” the changechild said, and pointed to the dun colt moving irritably at his tether, jerking his head up and down, blotched with sweat, caught in an unremitting temper tantrum.

  “Why?” The colt was a hand or two taller than the yearlings about them, with a snaky neck, an ugly, boney head, ragged ears that he kept laid back even when he stood fairly quiet, a wicked plotting eye. Whoever brought that one to the Fair had more hope than good sense. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Sure,” Jaril said. “Tough, smart and kill anyone tries to steal him. And fast.” He reached up, tugged at Taguiloa’s sleeve. “Come on. Once the breeder knows we really want him, he’ll try to screw up the price. He expects to make enough to pay for the colt’s feed, selling him for tiger meat to some Temueng collector. Don’t believe anything he tries to tell you about the dun’s breeding. The mare was too old for bearing and on her way to the butcher when she got out at the wrong time and got crossed by a maneater they had to track down and kill. Took them almost six months to trap him. Colt’s been mistreated from the day he was foaled and even if he wanted to behave he wasn’t let. Offer the breeder three silver and settle for a half-gold, no more. Don’t act like you know it all, that’s what breeders like him love to see. He’ll peel your hide and draw your back teeth before you notice. Just say you want the colt and will pay a silver for him, let the breeder rant all he wants, then say it again.” He gave Taguiloa a minatory glance, then a cheeky grin and trotted away, his small sandaled feet kicking up new gouts of dust

  Annoyed and amused, Taguiloa followed him, knowing Jaril was getting back at him for the times he’d ordered the changechild about. He was a tiny Hina boy today with bowl-cut black hair and dark gold skin, except for his eyes indistinguishable from any of a thousand homeless urchins infesting the streets of Silili, dressed in dusty cotton trousers and a wrapabout shirt that hung open over a narrow torso and fluttered when there was any breeze. He rounded a haystack and stopped beside three men squatting about a small fire drinking large bowls of acid black tea. He waited for Taguiloa, then nodded at a fox-faced man, lean and wiry, with a small hard pot belly that strained the worn fabric of his shirt.

  Taguiloa came up to him. “Salim,” he said, “you own the dun colt tethered by himself, back there a ways?”

  “I have a fine dun yearling, Salim. Indeed, one whose blood lines trace back on both sides to the great mare Kashantuea and her finest stud the Moonleaper. Alas, the times are hard, Saom, that a man must be forced to part with his heart’s delight.”

  “Bloodlines, ah. Then you’ve turned up the man-eater’s origins?”

  A flicker of sour disgust, then admiration. “That a sothron islander should know so much! Oh knowing one, come, let us gaze on the noble lines, the matchless spirit of this pearl among horses. A pearl without price as such a wise one as you are must see at a single glance.”

  “I know nothing of horseflesh,” Taguiloa said, glad enough to take Jaril’s advice. “One silver for your dun.”

  “One silver?” The breeder’s face went red and his eyes bulged. “One silver for such speed and endurance. Of course, a jest at my expense. Ha-Ha. Twenty gold.”

  “I noticed the spirit. He was doing his best to eat the plank in front of him. No doubt he’d prefer man-flesh like his sire. Two silvers, though I’m a fool to say it.”

  “Never! Though I starve and my children starve and my house fall down. Fifteen gold.”

  “Eating your house too, is he? Think what you’ll save on repairs by getting rid of him. Three silver and that’s my limit.”

  “His mother was Hooves-that-sing, renowned through the world. Twelve gold, only twelve gold, though it hurts my heart to say it.”

  “No doubt it was because of her great age that she died in the birthing.” Taguiloa wiped at his face and looked at his hand. “I’m hot and tired, my wife waits with a bath and tea, let us finish this. Three silver for the beast and five copper for his rope and halter. M
y boy can find a new fancy if he has to. Well?”

  “You’re jesting again, noble skim, such a miserable sum…”

  “So be it. Come,” he wheeled and started off, knowing jaril was coming reluctantly to his feet and pouting with disappointment. Might work, might not, he didn’t really care, he didn’t want anything to do with that piece of malevolence in the corral.

  The breeder let him get three strides away, then called out, “Wait. Oh noble Sen, why didn’t you say you bought for this divine child, this god among boys? That my heart’s delight should find a home with such a young lion, ah that tempts me, yes, I can give my prize into such hands, though if you could bring yourself, noble Satim, a half-gold…” He sighed as Taguiloa took another step away. “You are a hard man, noble Satim. Agreed then, three silver and a copper hand. You pay the tag fee?”

  Satisfied with his bargaining, Taguiloa nevertheless glanced first at Jaril, got his nod, then waved a hand in airy agreement.

  They stopped at the pavilion of records, paid the transfer fee and the small bribes necessary to get the clerks to record the sale and hand over the tin ear tag, a larger bribe to get a tagger to set the tag in the dun colt’s ear.

  As soon as he identified the proper beast, the breeder’s job was done but he lingered, relishing the dismay on the face of the tagman when he heard the yearling scream, saw him lash out with each hoof in turn, saw his wild wicked eye, his long yellow teeth. The tagman started to refuse and retreat, but Taguiloa got a good grip on his arm. “The boy’ll get him calmed down. Watch.”

  Jaril, climbed the rails and stood balanced on the top one, looking down at the the dun who went crazy trying to get at him. Somewhere deep in his soul the breeder found a limit and opened his mouth to protest, shut it when Taguiloa laughed at him and repeated, “Watch.”

  The boy found the moment he wanted and launched himself from the rail, twisting somehow in mid-air so he came down astride the colt. The yearling squealed with rage, gathered himself…

  And snorted mildly, did a few fancy steps, then stood quite still, twisting his limber neck around so he could nose gently at Jaril’s knee. Again the breeder started to shout a warning, again he held-his peace as the dun swung his head back round and stared at him. Breeder stared at beast, beast at breeder and the man looked away first, convinced the beast was snickering at him. Fuming, he stalked off, aware he’d been fooled into selling a valuable beast for almost nothing.

  After they bought the bay cob and the gray gelding, they left the Fair, Taguiloa on the gelding, leading the cob, Jaril riding the yearling. They left the three horses with a widow who had a shed and pasture she rented. In the days that followed Jaril and Yaril flew across frequently to train and grow the dun from a yearling to a lean fit three-year-old. Those same days Taguiloa planned the performances and rehearsed his troupe.

  THEY WALKED OUT of Silili, Taguiloa, Brann, Harra, Negomas, Linjijan, Jaril as Hina boy and Yaril as brindle hound. Taguiloa and Linjijan put their shoulders to the man-yokes of a tilt cart that carried their props, costumes, camping gear, food, and a miscellany of other useful objects. Brann and Harra slipped straps over their shoulders and added their weight to the task of towing that clumsy vehicle. Jaril ran ahead of them with Negomas, both boys chattering excitedly about what they expected to happen, a sharing of ignorance and pleasurable speculation. Yaril trotted about, her nose to the ground, enjoying the smells of the morning.

  They left the last huts of the indigent behind before the sun was fully up, negotiated the waste, cursing ruts and briars, then rocked onto a country lane where the going was a bit easier. There was dew on the grass and low bushes, the morning was cool and bright, the smell of damp earth and soft wet grass almost strong enough to overcome the pungency of cow dung and dog droppings. They hauled the cart through long crisp shadows cast by fruit trees, nut trees, spice trees and an occasional cedar or sea-pine. All the bearing trees were heavy with ripe fruit or nuts or pods of spice. As the heat of the sun increased and licked up the dew, it also woke the heavy sweet perfume of the fruits and spices, the tang of the cedars. Bees and wasps hummed about, nibbling at late peaches and apricots, nectarines and apples, cherries and pears. The air was filled with their noises, with bird song, with the whisper of needles and leaves-and with the squeals, groans and rattles from the cart as it lurched in and out of ruts, one of the not so small irritations of being Hina or foreign in a Temueng-ruled world. If they could have used the paved Imperial Way, they’d have cut in half the effort and time it took to reach the causeway between Selt and Utar, but bored Temueng guards harassed even the wealthiest of Hina merchants using that road; what they’d do to a band of players didn’t bear thinking about.

  FIVE HOURS AFTER they left Taguiloa’s house, they came out of a lane onto the rocky cliffs where a few skinny long-legged pigs rooted among the grass and weeds, trotting sure-footed on the edge of cliffs rotten and precipitous. Jaril eyed them warily, looked up at his soaring sister who had long since decided that she preferred wings to feet, made a face at her then shimmered into a tall fierce boar-hound and went back to trot beside the sweating straining adults; the small wild pigs were the only nonworking livestock on the island and had tempers worse than hungover Tern ueng tax-collectors.

  The causeway towers were visible ahead, a barrier that had to be passed no matter how unpleasant or malicious the guards were; they needed to get their credeens there, the metal tags they had to have to show in every village or to any Temueng who stopped and required them. Taguiloa had travel permits for all of them, but the credeens were more important. It meant more bribes, it meant enduring whatever the guards wanted to do to them. These Temuengs were the scrapings of the army, left here while the better soldiers were off fighting the Emperor’s wars of conquest. Taguiloa saw them every time he looked up, saw them watching the clumsy progress of the tilt cart, talking together; the closer he got, the worse they looked. He began to worry for the women’s sake. The guards had to let them by eventually, but they knew and he knew that nothing they did to him or Brann or Harra or Linjijan or the children would bring them any punishment. His stomach churning, he kept his eyes down, his shoulders bent, hoping to ride out whatever happened, knowing he had no choice but to accept their tormenting. Resistance would only make things worse.

  THE EMPUSH TURNED the papers over and over, inspecting every mark and seal on them, asking the same stupid questions again and again, jabbing a meaty forefinger into Taguiloa’s chest, hitting the same spot each time until Taga had to grit his teeth to keep from wincing. Only two of his four-command were visible, the others probably even drunker than their fellows and asleep inside the tower.

  Brann endured the comments and catcalls, the ugly handling, though she was strongly tempted to suck a little of the life out of the Temuengs; might be doing the world a big favor if she drained them dry. She watched Harm and Taguiloa both stoically enduring their hazing and kept a precarious hold on her temper, but when the guards left their tormenting of the women and began leading Negomas and jaril toward the tower, she’d had enough. She went after them, covering the ground with long tiger strides. Harra bit her lip, then started whistling a strident tune that brought a large dust-devil whirling up the dirt lane and onto the Way where it slapped into the empush, distracting him so he wouldn’t see what was happening. Brann slapped her hand against a guard’s neck. He dropped as if she’d knocked him on the head. A breath later and the second guard followed him. Shooing the boys ahead of her, green eyes flashing scorn, she stalked back to Taguiloa and the empush.

  Before he could object or question her, she caught hold of his hand and held it for a long long moment. By the time she released him, his face had gone slack, his eyes glazed. “Give us our credeens,” she said crisply.

  Moving dreamily, the empush fumbled in his pouch and drew out a handful of the metal tags. She counted the proper number and tipped the rest into his hand. “Put these away.” She waited until he pulled the drawstring tight. “Gi
ve me the travel papers. Good. You’re going to forget all this, aren’t you. Answer me. Good. Now you can go into the tower with your drunken men and get some sleep. When you wake, you’ll remember having some fun with a troupe of players, but letting them go on their way after a while. The usual thing. You hear? Good. Never mind the men on the ground. They’ll wake when they’re ready. Go into the tower and crawl into bed. That’s right.” She watched tensely as he turned and stumbled into the tower, stepping over his men without seeing them.

  Taguiloa raised a brow. “They dead?”

  “Just very tired. Take them a couple days to get back to their usual nastiness.”

  “Thought you wanted out with no trouble.”

  “Comes a time, Taga, comes a time.” She gave him the travel permits and passed the credeens around.

  “As long as he really forgets.” Taguiloa ducked under the shafts and got himself settled once more against the yoke. Linjijan looked mildly at him, then away again; he’d ignored most of what had gone before, looking at the guards with such calm surprise when they poked at him that they left off in disgust.

  Brann drew her hand across her sweaty, dirty face, grimaced at the streaks of mud on her palm. “It’s worked before. In Tavisteen, well, you wouldn’t know about that. Let’s get moving. I feel naked standing around like this.”

  THEY WERE STOPPED at the Utar end of the causeway, but that empush was only interested in his bribe and let them pass without much difficulty. He had a sour spiteful look, but his men were out of sight, perhaps even out of call and he wasn’t going to start trouble, not on Utar with his commander a sneeze away.

  They curved around the edge of the terraced mountain that took up the greater part of Utar, keeping to the broad Way on the lowest level where the haughty Temueng lordlings wouldn’t have to look at them, passed a third empushad of guards, and were finally freed of hindrances, rumbling along the causeway that linked Utar to the mainland.