Maeve

by Clayton, Jo;

  Her teeth flashed white as she grinned. “No.”

  “Come, lass.” He pulled her against him. Arm in arm they walked around the cyforedd trees. “We’ll get Treforis out of bed and scare up some hot water.”

  “You’ll have to scrub my back.”

  He rubbed his hand up and down her spine, liking the feel of the supple muscle under the soggy fabric. “Mmm,” he murmured. “My pleasure.”

  Chapter IV

  The cook shop was filled with cheerful noise, Bran yelling long distance quips at her usuals. A constant stream of transients going in and coming out with plastic cups of cha and steaming meat pies clutched in fists, trailed off down the street to the noisy bars, gobbling at the pies and gulping the cha.

  The street was alive with human, humanoid, and others. Alive with color. Alive with noise. Noise, a deep pervading hum of voices interspersed with raucous music battling out from the bars. Shimmers from up the hill in tight packs escorted inconspicuously by Company police. Traders and ship crews. A few star-hoppers stopping over till the traders they traveled with finished their business and were ready to move on.

  Aleytys edged inside, flattening against the wall to avoid being trampled by a pair of ursinoids whose hair-trigger tempers and awesome size bought them a lot of tolerance.

  Three street urchins ran back and forth between the counter and the tables, ducking thumps from Bran with wide grins, collecting money, dropping off orders, exchanging cheerful insults with the men and women seated at the tables.

  Wriggling cautiously through the crowded room, Aleytys worked her body to the counter and wedged herself into a small space next to the wall.

  Bran’s brilliant black gaze flicked across her. She brought a mug of cha and waved away the half-drach piece Aleytys held but to her. “Hang on a minute, hon.” She thumped a hand on the brawny arm of a sleepy-faced, gray-haired man dreaming over the dregs in his cup. “Hey, Blink,” she bellowed, “shift your butt off that stool and let the despina sit.”

  He looked up slowly, blinked several times, then moved off silently, working his way with dreamy unconcern out of the shop.

  Shaking her head, Aleytys eased onto the stool and sipped at the hot liquid. Bran stumped off and refilled the cha pots. Then she scooped sizzling pies from the oil, dropping new ones in their places as soon as all the brown ones were in the draining rack. Then she wiped her hands on a rag and looked around, black eyes darting purposefully over the crowd. “Rabbit!” she yelled.

  One of the boys came running.

  “Take over here a minute. I need breathin’ time. Mind you, keep your hands off the rolls and don’t burn yourself on the cha pots.”

  “Sure, Ma.”

  “Don’t you ‘ma’ me, imp.”

  “Gramma?”

  “Ha!” She aimed a swipe at his head but missed by a half meter. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head or I’ll warm respect into another part of your skinny body, Rabbit.”

  He grinned at her and began filling the disposable cups with fresh cha. Shaking her head, Bran came down the counter. “No respect at all these days. When I was young …”

  “You were probably twice as nimble-tongued.”

  Bran chuckled. “Right you are, hon.” She settled her bulk onto a stool place near the wall behind the counter. “Well, girl, I’ve had a word or two with this one and that on the Street. Wouldn’t mind taking you on myself, but …” She looked uncomfortable. “The work keeps those imps off the street and away from some bad habits they might be picking up. You understand.”

  “Yes.” Aleytys sipped at her cha. “They’re lucky.”

  “Brats.” She radiated a fierce pride. “Every one of ’em. But they got a brain and a half between them. That’s not what you’re here for. Ummmm. Ulrick, the jeweler, could use a clerk. He’s a tightfisted old miser. Well, he didn’t haye no openings till I described you, so I figure part of your job’d be warming his bed. So, unless you’re really low, forget that one.”

  “How honest is he?” She thought a minute. “As a jeweler, I mean.”

  “Buyin’, he’d squeeze an obol till it yelped, but he’d give a reasonably honest appraisal if you stood fast.” Bran’s black eyes darted about warily, then she leaned closer, her voice almost inaudible as she spoke. “If you’ve got stuff to sell, he’d keep it quiet and give a honest price. But don’t tell me. Don’t tell anybody. These things get out. You could end up on Lovax’s list.”

  “I’ll remember. Anything else?”

  Bran straightened her back, grunting with effort. “Blue don’t like women much, but she might give you a go as a bouncer to put the arm on drunks and busted gamblers. She runs games on her second floor, rents rooms on the third, and lives on top of it all. It can get rough. You’d earn your pay.”

  “Can’t say that sounds very appealing.”

  “I saved the best for last. Dryknolte. You must have seen his place. Biggest and best on Star Street. He needs a hostess.” She pressed her back against the wall and stared blankly over the noisy room. “His last girl ran across some creep and ended up in a back alley with her throat cut. He hasn’t replaced her yet and his business is hurtin’.”

  Aleytys twisted the mug back and forth on the counter. “There are plenty of women on Star Street. What’s his problem?”

  “He don’t want whores. Needs a kinda special woman. He likes to think his place is refined. You’d have to make his customers feel good, listen to their problems, smile at them, make them feel like they’re fascinatin’. All you have to do is listen and smile a lot. You sit at the tables with them. They buy you drinks. Dance with you, maybe, if they have compatible forms. You don’t have to go on your back ’less you want to. If you do, the house gets its percentage. Don’t forget that.”

  “I’m not much on drinking.” She scowled at the mug, clicked her thumbnail against the side with a small clinking sound. “It doesn’t sound like much of a job. What’s the pay like?”

  “You work that out with Dryknolte.” Bran grinned at her. “Dearie, don’t worry about the drinkin’. What you get is cold cha or colored water. What they pay for, that’s something else. Don’t fuss,” she said as Aleytys scowled, “what they’re really buyin’ is your time. As to it bein’ not much of a job, you come tomorrow and tell me how easy it was. Hunh!”

  Aleytys sipped at the cha. “Maybe he won’t hire me.”

  “Never know till you try. He’s expectin’ you.”

  Aleytys jerked her head up, staring at Bran. “You took a lot for granted.”

  The old woman examined her hands. “It’s the best job. What the hell.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

  Bran’s broad face creased into a delighted grin. Don’t forget. Come by tomorrow and tell me what a snap your job is.”

  “Sure.” Aleytys pushed the mug to the far side of the counter and slipped off the stool. She pushed through the noisy crowd and exited through the dancing bead strings.

  Dryknolte’s Tavern was a big wooden-faced building with a carefully austere image. Even the sign manifested a conscious restraint. One word. Dryknolte’s. Chastely carved in wood. Illuminated by a hidden light. Aleytys looked down at her worn tunic, smoothed the plain gray fabric over her body with nervous hands. Leaning against the building, supported by her right hand, she wiped her boots against the back of her trousers. Pushing stray tendrils of hair off her face, she squared her shoulders and pushed back the door.

  She came through the narrow right-angled foyer into a shadowed high-ceiled room. Dim, secret booths lined the walls and scattered tables dotted the floor. A few groups sat, talking quietly at the tables. She hesitated a minute. Behind the bar, a big rock of a man, an image in carameled charcoal, looked up, noticed her, and beckoned.

  As she walked across the room she studied him, her nervousness increasing. His face was a strong inverted triangle, wide at the temples, narrowing over high cheekbones to a too-small chin. His nose was a second triangle jutting from t
he first, a narrow bony projection with pinched but mobile nostrils. A knife scar slashed past one eye and down across the hollow cheek to catch the end of his upper lip, pulling his mouth into a perpetual sneer. His light eyes assessed her while he polished a glass held daintily in his large hand, set it down with gentle precision and picked up another, watching her from tawny yellow eyes with a feral gleam that stiffened her spine and woke a turbulent contrariness in her. She climbed on the stool and waited for him to speak.

  “You the girl Bran told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “She tell you what the job is?”

  “Yes.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “What do you think? Will I do?”

  His eyes ran over her, inspecting her with cool insolence. “You got the looks. She said you know how to defend yourself.”

  “If I have to.”

  His thin lips split suddenly into a broad grin. “Don’t make a habit of killing my customers. Bad for business.”

  “Hunh! I got the job?”

  “You’ll do.” He nodded toward a door behind the bar. “Come round the end and go through there.” His mobile nostrils quivered as he looked over her clothing. “You can’t work in that. Erd, the Flash, will find you something to wear. Soon as you’re dressed, come back here and I’ll run through what I expect you to do.”

  “One thing. Bran said I don’t have to go on my back for you.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you. It’s not part of the job but any extra you make that way, the house gets a percentage.”

  “Bran told me.”

  Fifteen minutes later she came back, hair brushed to a red-gold curtain, wearing a translucent blue-green dress that matched her eye-color. It floated mistily about her body, concealing just enough of her to send a man’s imagination steaming. Dryknolte’s yellow eyes gleamed.

  Aleytys lifted herself onto the stool, suppressing the instinctive antagonism that he stirred in her. “I feel peculiar.”

  “You look fine.”

  She rubbed her hands together nervously. “Erd’s work. He did my hair, too, But I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Doesn’t like any women. But he knows his business.”

  “I don’t worry about other ways of being, unless they mess up my life.” She smoothed her hands nervously over her hair. “I need a glass of wine. Take it out of my pay.”

  “On the house.” He poured the wine and watched as she sipped at it.

  “Talking about pay, how much?”

  “Twenty oboloi the week.”

  She sighed and pushed the glass away from her. “I’m not hurting that bad. Sorry to take up your time.”

  As she stretched a foot toward the floor, he held up a long-fingered hand. “How much you want?”

  “More like twenty oboloi the night, payable each night.”

  “Three.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Five.” His mouth closed in a firm line, the scar-lifted lip looking more like a snarl than ever.

  “Ten and I don’t work after midnight.”

  “Five and you don’t work after midnight.”

  “Five. I don’t work after midnight. And I get an hour to myself halfway through the evening plus a place where I can sit by myself.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, the feral light flickering in his eyes. She stared back, a challenge in her own gaze. Green-blue and gold eyes crossing like swords. After a minute he nodded. “Done.”

  She relaxed and reached for the wine. “Nice place.”

  “I like it.”

  Part of the wall behind the bar was a huge mirror, reflecting the quiet room behind. As far as Aleytys could tell, she was the only female in the place. “Do your customers bring their women here?”

  His face chilled to a savage mask. “No.”

  “What about female crews?”

  “No mixing in my place.”

  “What’s that?” Aleytys pointed to a small minstrel’s harp hanging beside the mirror, almost lost amid the clutter of kick-shaws and trifles from worlds scattered across the cosmos.

  He twisted his head around, following the pointing finger. “That harp? A blackgang timbersmith off a timbership left it one drunk night a couple of years ago. He ran out of money and traded the harp for a couple jugs of sheesh-water.”

  Aleytys sipped at her wine and closed her eyes. “Shadith,” she whispered.

  The purple eyes snapped open, glowing brilliantly. “Can I play it? I damn well can! Thanks, Lee.”

  Aleytys set the glass down gently and looked up at Dryknolte. “May I see it?”

  He reached up and set the harp in front of her.

  She drew her finger through the thick dust on the sounding board. “Got a rag?”

  Carefully, dreamily, she drew the rag over the wood and strings, removing the dust accumulation of two years while Dryknolte stood watching her, a dark scowl turning his mahogany face into a horror mask. When she finished, he lifted the dirty rag between two fingers and dropped it behind the bar, then polished angrily at the smear of dust it left behind.

  Holding the harp on her lap, Aleytys finished the wine in her glass. “Well. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “You going to play that thing?”

  “Maybe. Go on.”

  “You work from noon to midnight.” At her challenging stare, he added smoothly, “With your hour off, of course.”

  She nodded and waited expectantly.

  “You move around. Table to table. Don’t spend too much time with anyone. You’re not getting paid to chat. You listen. You smile. You keep them feeling good. Keep them drinking but don’t be obvious about that. Each table has to buy at least one drink for you. That keeps you with them for about fifteen minutes. After that they either buy you another drink or you move on. Two drinks a table. No more. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  “You understand that what they pay for won’t match what you’re drinking.”

  “Bran told me. It’s just as well. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  He grunted, looking pleased, which surprised her somewhat. “Like I said, laugh at their jokes and listen to their sad stories. Don’t get pushed if the talk gets rough. Just let them know you’re not amused. Act high class. You can handle that. What’s your name?”

  She stared thoughtfully at her image in the mirror. “I don’t want to use my name here. You make up one for me.”

  He drew a long finger over her forearm. “Amber,” he said abruptly. “We’ll call you Amber.” He took up her hand and cradled it between his large, molasses-colored palms. “For your skin.”

  “Good enough.” Quietly, she freed herself. “Now. Something else. Listen to me a minute. If you like what you hear, we’ll see about adding another obol to my pay. For my singing.”

  He looked at the harp sitting in her lap. “So. Show me.”

  She closed her eyes. “Shadith, your turn.” She felt the singer expand through her body and withdrew her control, settling back contentedly, waiting to see what Shadith chose to do.

  The Singer ran her hands over the harp. “It’s well-made,” she murmured.

  Dryknolte straightened, his eyes boring into her as he noted the change in stance and inflection. Then he backed up until he was leaning against the shelves behind the bar, watching her intently all the while.

  Shadith settled the harp. With quick competence she tuned the strings, touching them gently with exploring fingers, testing them to see if the years of dusty idleness had affected their strength. When she was satisfied, she looked up, smiled at the faces turned her way, staring at her image in the mirror.

  Quietly, she began singing, working her way through one of her own songs, singing the lines first in the original language then translating them into interlingue. Her voice fell on the new silence like drops of mountain water, clear, pure, cool.

  When the Singer finished, Aleytys whispered to her, “Lovely, friend. You make me shiver with delight. Sing more.”

  Sh
adith laughed. She sang a bubbling, lilting song about a spaceman clumsy as a bear, but blessed with incredible luck so that each disaster he tumbled into turned gold in his hands. Then she laid the harp on the bar and retreated.

  Dryknolte was staring at Aleytys. “What the hell are you doing on Star Street?”

  “So I get the extra obol.”

  He brushed that aside. “Yes, of course. Who are you, woman?”

  “Nobody.” Aleytys touched the harp with exploring fingertips, taking pleasure in the silky feel of the polished wood. “Bran is right, you know. There’s more freedom on Star Street than the hill will ever know. I hate being circumscribed.”

  “You got any idea what kind of money you could make?”

  “More than I need or want.” She shrugged. “I do what I have to do. Without getting myself tied up in limitations. So. For one extra obol I sing for you once each night.”

  Dryknolte glanced at his customers. Several of the humanoids had pushed back their chairs and were coming toward the bar. Under the impact of his yellow glare they stopped and stood, shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the woman sitting quietly, harp resting near her fingers.

  Dryknolte grunted. “Time you got to work, Amber. Actor!”

  A big man with a long golden beard ambled calmly, unhurriedly over to them.

  Dryknolte leaned on one hand and flipped the other in a quick supple gesture. “Amber, this lump of hair is the Actor. A better man than he looks.” The beard split in a grin showing gleaming teeth. “He’ll take your orders, bring your drinks, and break the heads of any grabbers. He knows the business, well enough. Listen to his advice, but don’t try to seduce him.”

  “A pleasure.” Aleytys held out her hand. “Why not try to seduce him?”

  “He’s keeping too many women happy already. One more’d kill him.”

  Aleytys laughed. “Poor man.”

  The Actor bowed gracefully, his huge hand swallowing hers. “Don’t believe him. He’s just jealous.”

  Dryknolte grunted, suddenly not amused any longer. “Amber, pick out a table and get to work.”

  “Sure. Damn, my knees are shaking, and look at this.” She held out trembling hands.