Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  Maratullik’s meslak was a broad rolling estate on the lakeshore with a riding ground, a complex of workshops and servant housing, extensive gardens, self-sufficient within the outerwalls should some disaster turn the meslak into a fortress. Taguiloa followed the slave through the gates into the spacious formal gardens with their fountains and banks of bright flowers, the exquisitely manicured stretches of grass; he looked around remembering the noisy rat-ridden Quarter and knew if he was absolutely forced to choose between the two, he’d take the rat-home not this emptiness, but such a choice was most unlikely; what he was determined to ensure was a less radical choice, staying out of the slums, keeping himself and Blackthorn (if it came to that) in reasonable comfort after his legs went and his body would no longer do what his mind desired. What he had now suited him very well, the silence, meditation, comfort of his small house on the hillside, the noise and excitement of Silili nights.

  It took twenty minutes to work through the gardens and corridors to a small glassed-in garden with a gently plashing fountain in the center, falls and sprays of miniature orchids, some rare kinds Taguiloa had never seen before, one huge tree encased within the bubble, fans worked by ropes and pulleys from outside by slaves who never saw the beauty they maintained. There were wicker chairs scattered about, singly and in small clusters, but he was not tempted to sit despite the two-hour walk and his aching feet. He moved his shoulders, tightened and loosened his muscles to calm himself. There was no point getting angry at the Temueng and there were a lot of reasons he shouldn’t. He knew he had to control his irritation. He didn’t take easily to groveling, had lost the habit of it the past five years, but all that he’d won for himself in Silili meant nothing here.

  The Meslar Maratullik Left Hand Counsellor to the Emperor came into the garden with a feline grace and the silent step of a skilled hunter. He was short for a Temueng, though he was more than a head taller than Taguiloa; his face was rounder, less bony, the features more delicate than most Temuengs’. He wore a narrow robe of heavy dark gray silk, finely cut, arrogant in its simplicity. As Taguiloa bent in the prescribed deep obeisance, he went cold with the thought that perhaps there was Hina blood somewhere in the Hand’s ancestry. If that was true, he was in a doubly perilous position; he’s seen too often what happened if a Hina in an important family was born with Woda-an characteristics, how that man made himself rigidly Hina, rejecting everything that would dilute the ancient Hina culture, how that man overtly and in secret tormented any Woda-an unfortunate to fall into his hands. And how often such a man ended up in a position like the Hand’s where he had a great deal of power over the lives of others, especially those he hated so virulently. Taguiloa could trip himself up here without ever knowing precisely what he’d done to bring the mountain down on his head. Care, take care, he cautioned himself. Don’t relax till you’re out of here and maybe not even then.

  Maratullik acknowledged Taguiloa’s presence with a stiff short nod, crossed to the fountain, settled himself in one of the wicker chairs and spent some moments smoothing out the heavy silk of his robe. He lifted his head, his dark eyes as dull and flat as the silk, beckoned Taguiloa forward, stopped him with an open palm when he was close enough.

  Taguiloa bowed again, then waited in silence, eyes lowered. A game, that’s all it was, a game with bloody stakes. Yielding just enough to propitiate this Temueng that rumor made a monster, yet not enough to lose his self-respect, walking the hair-fine ridge between capitulation and catastrophe. He waited, his hands clasped behind him so they wouldn’t betray his tension.

  Maratullik was silent for a long time, perhaps testing the quality of Taguiloa’s submission, more likely taking a bit of pleasure in making him sweat. “We have heard good things of you, Hina.” The monster’s voice was a high thin tenor.

  “I am honored, saх jura Meslar,” Taguiloa murmured. He could feel sweat damping the cloth under his arms; he fought to keep his grasp on himself, telling himself the Hand expected such signs of nervousness and would he suspicious if he failed to see them. The two silences stretched on. Taguiloa’s head started to ache. There was no way he could get anything like respect from this Temueng, but making a doormat of himself would only incite the man to stomp him into the ground.

  “You have foreigners in your troupe.”

  “Yes, saх jura Meslar.” Taguiloa lifted his eyes just enough to catch glimpses of Maratullik’s hands. At the word foreigner, the fingers twitched toward closing, opening again slowly and reluctantly. At Taguiloa’s mild and noncommittal answer the fingers stiffened into claws. Taguiloa sweated some more. Trying to play safe was less than safe in this game. Should he amplify his answer or would that further antagonize the Temueng? After a few moments of harried thought, he elected to wait for the next question and see how a more extended answer affected those hands, hoping all the time that Maratullik didn’t know how thoroughly his small and delicate fingers betrayed him.

  “Why?”

  Taguiloa shifted from foot to foot, let his nervousness show a hit more, disciplined his voice to a dull monotone. “Three reasons, saх jura Meslar.” He spoke softly, slowly, choosing his words with care, his eyes flicking, careful not to look at the hands too long. “First, saх jura Meslar, when I was younger, I made tours through the Tigarezun with my master Gerontai and I have taken notice of how eagerly the countryfolk greeted exotic acts and how well they reward those that please them.” He winced inside at the pompous greed in the speech but the fingers were relaxing; he was conforming to expectation. “Second, saх jura Meslar, making a tour such as this is very costly especially in the beginning; aside from their other talents the members of the troupe excepting the children have contributed to outfitting us and will have a share in whatever we take in, the foreigners of course taking a much smaller share than the Hina.” Glance at the hands. Almost flat out. Good. But don’t overdo the boring bit. Or the geed. “Third, saх jura Meslar, though this will be of little importance to you, it carries a high weight with me, there are my own aspirations. I seek to blend tumbling, juggling and dance into something no man has seen before. The music I found to accompany this new movement was also a blend, a music from M’darjin drums, Rukka-nag daroud, Hina flute, a music that is sufficiently different to be intriguing, sufficiently familiar for the comfort of the listeners. It is an exciting music, saх jura Meslar, all who have heard it agree.” He bowed again and fell silent. Watch what you say; he’s far from stupid or he wouldn’t be where he is.

  “Tell me, about your foreigners. The women first.”

  “They are honored by your interest, saх jura Meslar.” Taguiloa cleared his throat. “I know only outlines, saх jura Meslar, I must confess it, I wasn’t interested in their life stories, only their coin and their skills. Harra Hazhani is Rukka-nag from far out in the west somewhere, you will of course know of them. She came to Silili with her father, he died and left her without protection or a place to go and a limited amount of coin so she needed a way to earn more. The customs and strictures of her people forbid her on pain of death to sell that which is a woman’s chief asset and besides she was a foreigner, only the perverse would pay for her. However she is an excellent dancer in her way and a musician of considerable talent. The other woman is called Brannish Tovah, she is Sujomann, out of the west too, from up in the far north somewhere, she says winter nights last half a year and the snow comes down until it’s high enough to drown mountains. I needed a seer who could also dance and she came well recommended. She’s bound to the wind by her god or so she said, goes where the wind blows, said she lost a husband and two children to ice and wolves, has a brindle boar hound she says is her familiar and a street child she picked up who has something to do with helping her in her rites and acts as crier to call clients so she can read for them. Like the Hazhani woman, she is forbidden by custom and her in-dwelling god to seek congress with men not her kind. Were she to be forced, she is bound by her god to castrate the man and kill herself. That tends to reduce the ardor of
any who might find her interesting. To speak truly, saх jura Meslar, I was quite pleased when I learned these things. Having women in a troupe is always a tricky thing, can lead to complications with the countryfolk if they consider themselves free to supplement their incomes on their back. The M’darjin drummer is a boy about ten or so, hard to tell with those folk. He has no father or relatives willing to claim him, though how that happened is not clear to me. I did not bother to probe for answers, I was not interested in anything but the way he played the drums. Linjijan the flute player is Hina and the second best in all Silili, the first being his great uncle Ladjinatuai who plays for Blackthorn.” He bowed and waited tensely for the Hand’s response.

  Hands still loose on his thighs, Maratullik was silent for some breaths, then he said, “Both women come from the west.”

  “So they said, saх jura Meslar.”

  The questioning went on for a short while longer, Maratullik’s hands relaxed, his voice gone remote and touched with distaste. He was no longer much interested in the answers and Taguiloa rapidly shortened them to the minimum required by courtesy. Short as they were, the Temueng interrupted the last. “You will perform here tomorrow night,” he said. “You will make the necessary arrangements with my house steward. Wait here.” He got to his feet and glided out, ignoring Taguiloa’s low bow, his attitude saying he had forgotten the matter completely, it was of that small an importance in his life. Taguiloa squeezed his hands together, froze his face into a mask, exultation bubbling in him; he struggled to keep his calm, but all he could think was, I’ve won, I’ve almost won.

  HAIR A WHITE shimmer tied at the nape of her neck, clothes a black tunic and trousers, worn sandals on her feet, Brann walked through the busy market, making her way to Sammang’s tavern, in no hurry to get there, savoring the anticipation, enjoying the exuberant vitality of the scene around her. A face came out of the crowd, two more. She strangled a cry in her throat. Cathar. Camm. Theras. Her brother. A cousin by blood. A cousin by courtesy. Faces she knew as well as her own. She began following them, trying to stay inconspicuous, afraid of losing sight of them.

  Cathar sauntered through the market, his eyes alive with pleasure in the jumbled colors and forms, stopping to bargain for fruit and herbs, a length of cloth, joking with the cousins, in no hurry, unaccompanied by any guard she could see, paying for his purchases with a metal tablet he showed the vender. She wanted desperately to talk to him, but didn’t dare approach him. After her first flush of emotion, her mind took over. What was he here for except as bait to draw her out? Otherwise, why would the Temuengs let him and the others beyond the compound walls, taking a chance they’d run? Not much of a chance with the hostages the Temuengs held, but how could they be sure? Had to be Noses about. She couldn’t see any but that meant very little in this crush. Anyway, how could she tell a Nose from the rest of the folk here? Couldn’t smell them. She choked back a hysterical giggle. Besides, what could she say to Cathar if she did go up to him? Hello, I’m your little sister. A foot taller, hair gone white, fifteen years too old, but I’m still Brann. Bramble-allthorns. No, I’m not a crazy woman. I really am your sister. Eleven years old, never mind my form. Ha! He’d believe her, like hell he would. She chewed on her lip as she eased after them, trying to think of some way she could talk with him without giving herself away to the Noses.

  Yaril tugged on her arm. She let the changechild lead her into a side street, where there was a jog in a building that gave her a bit of privacy.

  “House of assignation,” Yaril whispered. “There’s one the next street over. You put on a Hina face and go rent a room, I’ll bring Cathar to you.”

  Brann grimaced. “Yaril…”

  The changechild scratched at her head, made an impatient gesture with her other hand. “The door’s got twined serpents painted on it. You just go and knock and say you want a room for the afternoon and give the old woman three silver bits and tell her your servant will be bringing someone later and let the maid take you up. When the girl’s gone, you take your clothes off and put on the robe youll find in the room and sit down and wait.” She frowned. “Keep the Hina face. And you’d better make it a kind of wrinkled up face. Dirty old woman paying young men to service her. Just in case Cathar’s Nose decides to check you out.”

  Brann wrinkled her nose. “Tchah! What a thing.”

  “You don’t have to like it, just do it.”

  – Don’t be too long. You sure you can convince him?”

  Yaril giggled. “Cathar? You know your brother, never passed up a chance in his life. I’ll get him there, you be ready.”

  SHE WAS SITTING at a table near the window when Cathar walked into the room, curiosity bright in his gray-green eyes, his dark brown hair blown into a tangle of small soft curls. She watched him with deep affection and nearly wept with joy to see him so much himself in spite of everything that had happened. He came and looked her over, a glint of amusement and interest in his eyes. He bowed. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, she didn’t want her brother looking at her like that even if he didn’t know who she was and thought she was some rich Hina matron who got her thrills from picking up young men in the market.

  She leaned forward, started to speak.

  Yaril said hastily, “Wait.” She darted into the shadows of the bed curtains, emerged as a smear of light sweeping along the walls.

  Cathar’s eyes widened, he looked from the light to Brann, began backing toward the door, his hand reaching for the latch.

  “Cathar,” Brann whispered, “wait.”

  “You know me?” He blinked, stood frozen with shock as Brann’s face rippled and changed, to the one she woke up with on the flight from the valley. He licked his lips. “What… •’’

  Brann glanced at Yaril who was a small blond girlehild again. The changechild nodded. “No one listening right now. I’ll keep an eye out downstairs just to make sure. He had a shadow.” She flicked a hand at Cathar. “Like you suspected.” She grinned up at him. “Relax, baby, no one’s going to hurt you.” She tugged on the latch, pulled the door open and went out.

  Brann sighed. “I don’t quite know how to explain this. Cathar, sit down, will you? You make me nervous fidgeting like that.”

  He narrowed his eyes, pulled out a chair and sat across the table from her. “I know you?”

  “I’m glad it’s you not Duran, he’s so damn hardheaded he’d never believe me. I’m Brann. Your sister.”

  He leaned forward, frowning as he scanned her face. “You’re very like Mum. Now. You weren’t a few minutes back.”

  She pushed at her hair, still black, she hadn’t bothered changing that again. “And I’m a dozen years too old and I’m a long way from home. And a shapeshifter of sorts.”

  “Well.”

  “Slya woke, brother, she changed me. Did they tell you, those Temuengs, did they tell you they sent a pimush and his fifty to clean out the valley?”

  “They told me.”

  “Gingy and Shara are dead, Cathar. All the kids under eleven were killed. All the old ones too. Uncle Eornis. The Yongala. The rest…” She closed her eyes. “I’ve gone over it so often. I saw some of it, Cathar, what they did to Mum, saw Roan get killed, uncle Cynoc. They set the houses on fire too, but they didn’t burn too much, the houses I mean. I was up on Tincreal all day. You know. I found the children there. I came back and the soldiers were in the valley. I watched from Harrag’s Leap, then I went after them. Slya changed me. I told you that. And brought the children. Yaril has a brother.” She opened her eyes, tapped her breast. “She rides me. Slya. I don’t know what she’s going to do. I killed them, Cathar. The pimush and his men. The children helped. They make a poison. It kills between one breath and the next. The pimush told me what happened at Grannsha. He said no one was killed. Jaril tells me about half aren’t here, I suppose they were killed after all. Mum’s all right. Well, as all right as she can be after what happened. Her looms weren’t hurt. Tincreal blew about a week after that. Jari
l flew back to see what happened. The hills are scrambled. You could only find your way back to the Valley if you knew where it was. But they’re all right, the ones left alive. I forgot. Marran’s dead, I found him killed. On the trail. Gave him fire. Didn’t do that for the Temuengs. We think you’re bait to catch me, you and the others they let out. The children and me, we think the sribush on Croaldhu knows his men are dead. Before I got off Croaldhu, I gave the Temuengs some sorrow. I expect they guessed I had something to do with Arth Slya. Which is why you and the others have Noses on your tail. How long have they been letting Slyans out?”

  “About a month.” His voice was cool, he wasn’t committing himself to anything yet.