A Bait of Dreams

by Clayton, Jo;

  The catman narrowed his eyes, then with that grimace so like and unlike a snarl that he used in the place of a smile, he took the half disc and put it in his mouth.

  “Grass bless you, brother, for your trust.” For nearly a half hour Shounach labored over the catman who was drowsy and limp but marginally conscious. Gleia brought water, set it to boil, helped Shounach clean the dirty festering wounds on the tough wiry body, wounds from teeth, claws, whip and chains, the Forest thorns. He saw her hands trembling and began talking quietly, his words meant both to warn and soothe. “You want to go back and loose the rest of them. It’s too late for that. The Fair is over. What slaves aren’t already dead are in the holds of barges going on to the next entertainment. Istir, perhaps, or farther inland. And the arena will open next Fair with more slaves. They’re a prime draw for a certain sort of man. And woman, Vixen. Ask your friend here about the women who come to the fights. And there’s the Svingeh. He and his sons patronize and protect the pits. One of them is there most days, counting the house and smelling the blood. There’s nothing anyone can do except the Chanohaya themselves and that’s make the pits too expensive to run at a profit.” He shrugged, his hands momentarily still on the catman’s leg. “Even then.” He finished winding strips of gauze about the worst of the abrasions, the bone-deep sores on wrists and ankles; the cuts and tears on his back and sides were too awkwardly placed for anything but cleaning and salving, the rest left to hope and to the vigor of the catman. He frowned, took up the black disc she’d seen twice before. “Running low on everything,” he muttered as he thumbed a new setting. He touched the disc briefly to the catman’s neck, tucked it away again. He saw Gleia’s frown and smiled at her. “Nothing bad this time, only something to deal with the infection within as the salve deals with infection without.”

  “Oh.”

  Deel slept deeply, the soft whuffling of her breath mostly lost in the murmur of the leaves, the lighter brighter whispers of the grass, a never-ending sound that the stillness of the night permitted to rise to the edge of perception. As the wind blew the trees about, uncovering patches of sky, the light of the westering Aab touched the Dancer’s face, her arms, the long sweep of her blanket-wrapped body. The catman lay still, neither asleep nor awake, the wind ruffling his fur, but the debilitating fever had retreated until his involuntary shudders stopped completely. Shounach lay with his head in Gleia’s lap, relaxed but awake. She leaned against the bole of a bydarrakh, far from sleeping herself. The heat and languor of the last days with Shounach’s need for her and hers for him had left her drifting like a leaf in a slow eddy, round and round in lazy effortless circles. A real, not metaphorical, leaf came loose from a twig over her head and whirled down, scraped past her cheek and landed on the hand resting on her thigh. She watched as it shuddered there, then flipped away, chattering over and over until it hit the remnant of the fire and puffed into an instant’s flame, then pale gray ash. First leaf of autumn, she thought and knew that probably wasn’t so. The rise of the South Raven marked the beginning of autumn in these latitudes, and that was a month off at least. But it was a sign of sorts and she chose to read it as such, for her own pleasure as much as for any profound reason. Absently she stroked Shounach’s hair. He caught her hand and pulled it down to rest on his shoulder where it met his neck. His skin was warm, smooth, slightly damp. She moved her thumb over the curve of the muscle, forgetting everything but the feel of him.

  A cough from the far side of the fire broke her concentration. She looked around, startled. The catman was sitting up, his eyes glowing red in the meager light coming up from the dying coals. He touched the bandaged wrists, probed at the long cuts half-hidden by his fur. His tufted ears twitched forward, his rather inflexible face lifted to laughter as he took in his absence of fever and the much diminished pain.

  Shounach pushed up, sat waiting.

  Ruhshiyd looked from one to the other, but with the courtesy of his kind, he forbore to press his gratitude on them and repeated simply, “What wait you, firebrother?”

  “The Sayoneh, firebrother.”

  “Feh ni-meh.” Ruhshiyd swayed his upper body, moved his hands in a quick sweeping gesture to signify knowledge and assent. “They be gone South two days since. Crossing the grass thus.” Another gesture that went east then south, sweeping out away from the river in a great arc that ended in a complicated knotty twist of his hand. “To mountain hollow,” hands cupped together, “beyond the end-of-Grass.”

  “Two days,” Shounach whispered. He sat very still, staring at nothing. Gleia felt the tension in him, the small quiver in the hand resting on her thigh. After a short struggle for calm, he said, “Ruhshiyd firebrother, you speak of a hollow. Do you know their homeplace?”

  Ruhshiyd recognized the importance of this question; Gleia saw him stiffen as discreetly as Shounach had done, then settle himself more comfortably, his legs crossed loosely before him, his hands resting on his knees, his head up, his eyes gazing between her and Shounach into the darkness beyond. His mouth worked and his eyes glazed as he sought words in a language not his own to tell a story very much his own. To her the question seemed simple enough, requiring only an affirmation or a denial, but she was willing to concede Shounach had inadvertently touched a ritual of the chanohaya that demanded more than yes or no.

  Ruhshiyd’s stiff face lifted again in that grimace of pleasure that was more inwardness than outer expression. “Two winters since Ruhshiyd were kit going meh, time Chanohaya nom kaluur, time between kit and meh, time kit learn being meh, time of hunting, time of loneness, time of trying kit-meat, kit-fire. Kulazhan he come round gelap herd Yrsh-edin follow. Kaluur kits hunt. Kulazhan kill two, two blood meh-knife but kill not. Kulazhan hot in the belly now, kill gelap not to eat, just to make blood. Take kitlings three and feh also and meh also. Kaluur kits take torch and spear and drive kulazhan from gelap, cast bones, choose Ruhshiyd and Shedesh and Misch’ad and Ffdrass of Yrsh-edin to drive kulazhan from the Grass. We turn kulazhan, turn again, turn and turn and turn, blood and burn we drive kulazhan away-away. Moon Bigeye shrink and grow, moon Smalleye shrink and grow. Kits hunt in twos, sleep in twos, day and dark, dark and day. With torch and spear kits drive kulazhan, here, there, all ways, but mosttime south to Grassend. One dark, Ffdrass slip on grass and fall in kulazhan face. Claw finish Ffdrass, but he blood meh-knife first and Misch’ad drive off kulazhan, singe whiskers, send off howling. He come back, eat Ffdrass, can’t help that, he got round us, he sly kulazhan, hard and hungry. One and one, in dark and dark, Shedesh and Misch’ad, they blood meh-knives in kulazhan, he blood claw in they, eat they, come after Ruhshiyd, Ruhshiyd stick spear in him, drive off. Grassend close, Earth-Mother rise under foot of Ruhshiyd under foot of kulazhan. Kulazhan stop not, rest not, eat not, lick dew from rock and leaf. Ruhshiyd stop not, eat not, lick dew from rock and leaf, stay not at Grassend but go on after kulazhan. Souls of Yrsh-edin caught in kulazhan belly, if kulazhan be cut, they go to Mother and sleep, wait time and time to be born as men, if kulazhan die and rot whole, they come as kulazhan kits not men. They fire-brothers, Ruhshiyd go after kulazhan.

  “Out of grass into mountain. Kulazhan limp, drag, Ruhshiyd limp, drag, kulazhan and chanoyikit be bound, one flesh, one fire. Up and up, day and dark, dark and day. Moon Bigeye die and be born. Dark and day, day and dark. Time come, kulazhan stiff, burn with fever, stop. High-high, mountain side drop down and down to hollow long below. Ruhshiyd sit, watch kulazhan, wait. Watch hollow too. Feh work in field, fish in river. Feh and feh and feh, ni meh, never a meh. Dig and dig, tend herd, walk round, build house, wash clothes, make smells in big pot, busy more than Chanohaya feh, much more busy.

  “Ruhshiyd wait. Kulazhan not die at daysend, die at dawnfire. Ruhshiyd let firebrothers free out of belly. Burn kulazhan. He strong, fight good, live long-long, don’t quit. Burn kulazhan till he ash, take teeth and claws. Feh ni-meh come. Look. Try talk. Ruhshiyd say nothing, look not at feh. Feh leave. Day and dark, dark and day, Ruhshiyd come dow
n mountain, take teeth and claws to Yrsh-edin. So it come, Shouna’ firebrother, Ruhshiyd find homeplace feh ni-meh.” He repeated the assent gesture he’d made before, then he relaxed and looked from face to face.

  Gleia laughed, patted the hand still on her thigh. “Juggler’s luck.” Then she said, “All that wasted conniving,” feeling just a bit of malice as she spoke, then ducked away as he reached for her. Still laughing, as much with relief as with intent to tease, she said, “All you had to do was ask.”

  onward to the womb

  They stood at the edge of the cliff looking into a broad fertile valley tucked away among the crags. The floor was a patchwork of small fields fitted into the odd-shaped spaces between the intersecting arcs of heavy stone walls crossing and recrossing the valley, built by many hands over many years as a series of obstacles to a march on the Hold, a massive stone structure as formidable as the Svingeh’s Keep. There were smaller houses dotted about, most of them close to the banks of the river, more structures—barns or storage sheds or something similar—set up in the fields. The valley was a maze of sorts, filled now with busy figures hauling in the harvest, beginning to dismantle the wooden parts of many of the small houses and taking them into the Hold. The butchering ground and the smoking racks were busy and noisy and everywhere womens’ voices were heard, laughing, exclaiming, singing, shouting, some complaining, some angry. Patches of red and purple, amber, orange and greens of all intensities and degrees, blues, a thousand shades, citrine, aquamarine, ruby, amethyst, emerald, olivine, turquoise and topaz, other jewel colors, ocher, vermillion, chartreuse, sepia, umber, viridian and other earth colors, robes blowing in the wind, sleeves rolled up, hair and skirt all shades possible except the green of the seaborn, alto, soprano mezzo, contralto, voices of all textures and degrees, brown fields, yellow fields, green fields, mottled fields, gavha and gelapi, horses, chickens, dogs, woollies, gruntles—a busy happy scene demanding a miniaturist’s precision and primitive colors to paint its vigor and intricate brilliance.

  Shounach stretched out on his stomach and spent the morning watching the flow of movement, still there long after Gleia and Deel retreated from the cliffedge to spread out blankets and sit in the shade of the stunted trees, not speaking, either of them. Deel turned her shoulder to Gleia and stared at the peaks that rose like gray teeth about the valley. Gleia thought of trying to distract her but made no move because in the end there was nothing she could say or do. She dug into her bag and pulled out a bit of needle lace she’d started on after she’d seen some for sale at the Fair. Judgement had been a lot easier in Jokinhiir when none of this was spread out before her eyes. A refuge for those who had no recourse. A safe and happy place. Yet they brought their haven with horror. She clucked her tongue, annoyed at herself. She’d been through all that too many times already; seeing the Haven changed nothing only made Deel miserable. She really shouldn’t have come with us. Why did I unsettle her? It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Ashla’s Hells. She shook her head and began counting knots to find where she was in the lace pattern.

  Ruhshiyd squatted in shadow a little way apart, watching Shounach watch the valley. He was content, relaxed, his debt paid, his body well on the way to healing; he bore scars and bald patches where scar tissue blocked the regrowth of his fur, but already in several of the broader wounds a pale fuzz of new fur was visible against the gray-pink of the new skin. His eyes were half-shut, he’d sunk into the waking-sleep that seemed to restore him as much as her deep plunges did her.

  Shounach crawled back to them, came onto his feet. He glanced at Deel, then at Gleia, raised a brow, turned to face the catman. “Ruhshiyd fire-brother, the debt that was no debt is paid and more than paid.”

  The catman blinked. His broad nose twitched, his ears came round to a jaunty forward prick and he rose from his squat with his usual muscular grace, the pleasure grimace strong on his face. “Shouna’ firebrother, know the Yrsh-edin of the chonohaya sing the fire of Shouna’-meh Gleia-feh Deela-feh into the firehold of Yrsh-edin.” His head jerked down, up, he turned without further words (Gleia smiling at the rightness of his instinct) and vanished like a shadow in the whispering shadows under the scrubby trees.

  Gleia stretched, laced her fingers behind her head. “Well?”

  Shounach spread his hands. “No way to tell anything from up here. Colors are all mixed up, all ages working together, small groups, no one in charge of them.”

  “So. How do we find ourselves an elder?” She took up the needle lace again, sat half-smiling, a challenge in her eyes as she waited for his answer.

  He stood hands on hips gazing down at her. “Vixen.” He shook his head. “Soon as it’s dark, I’m going down to catch a saone I can question, find out where to look for their leaders. I suppose they’ll be in the Hold.”

  “And me?”

  “Wait. If I’m not back by dawn, whatever you do is up to you!”

  “Haven’t we been through that before?”

  “Gleia, listen. One can go quieter and faster than two. And have a better chance of getting in and out without raising the valley against us.” He spoke with a weary patience that made her want to kick him even though she knew he was right.

  He slept the rest of the day. In red dusk, Gleia lay beside him, watching the valley close down for the night. The bright bits like painted ants began to stream inward, taking with them wains loaded with crocks of milk, piles of tubers, melons, vegetables of all sorts, sacks of grain and fiber, baskets of fruit, the wooden wheels squealing, more laughter, a blend of voices rising like the hum of insects, women in long lines, some carrying babies in body slings, walking heavily because the day had been long, the work hard, but also with the centered weight of satisfaction with themselves and what they had accomplished that day.

  One by one the gates in the secondary walls slammed shut and a pair of guards climbed up, settled themselves, one on each side of a gate, then yodeled their assumption of ward, the sound moving in waves up the valley as night closed in, as the women and their loads crossed to the neat little houses along the riverbanks and nestling under the massive walls of the Hold.

  Shounach’s eyes swept the valley again and again, searching the shadows, watching the inflow of the women. Gleia gave it up after a while, threw herself down beside Deel (who was asleep again, twitching a little), pulled a blanket about her shoulders to keep off the chill, and sat waiting for Shounach to start on his way down into the valley. Nothing for her to do but wait. She didn’t like the feeling that came strongly to her right then—that her life had passed out of her control. She chewed on her lip and scowled at the long dark figure who was pulling her strings. His gaudy clothes were folded and packed away. Now he wore faded trousers that looked as if they were black sail canvas, weatherbeaten to an unnatural softness, a clinging black shirt with a high ribbed neck and long sleeves, low-topped black boots more like gloves than shoes, scuffed and disreputable and more silent than a whisper even over stone. His gloves, a mask, and his magicbag lay by his feet. She closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them he was kneeling beside her.

  He held out the laser rod. “Here,” he said. “You know how to use this.”

  She shook her head, her mouth twisted into a tight humorless smile. “We sit and wait. The only danger we face is boring ourselves to death. That thing can’t kill off boredom. Keep it.”

  He took her hand and closed it around the rod. “If I worry about you, who’s to blame me, Vixen? If I don’t come back, you’ve got it. If I need it down there, things have gone so sour, it won’t help.”

  “How long’s your prowl going to take?”

  He rubbed at his chin. “Take me a half hour to get down to the floor; after that, depends on how many Sayoneh I have to question, on what I have to do once I’m in the Hold.” He swung around so he was sitting beside her, looking out over the shadowed valley. She stole brief glances at him. He was strung so tight she imagined she heard his teeth grinding.

  “And
we sit. And we wait. Like good little women.”

  “All right, Gleia. Come along if you have to. It’s stupid and you know it, but anything to stop you picking at me.”

  Gleia heard more in his voice than she thought he wanted to show her, uncertainty and need. He turned to stare at her, focusing so intently on her she wanted to back off; he was too close, too demanding; she couldn’t breathe. She started to shift away from him, changed her mind and edged closer. She put her hand on his thigh, rested her head against his shoulder. After a moment his hand came to touch her hair, play in the soft fine curls at the nape of her neck. “Vixen.” It was a breath, hardly louder than the rustle of the leaves. She felt some of the tension in him give way, the anxiety he’d been ashamed to show let loose and in the loosing banished as he continued to touch her shoulder and hip, to brush his fingers against her cheek, her breast.

  When the clouds had thickened enough to cover the sliver of moon and make a confusion of shadows webbed between the guardian walls below, he got to his feet, caught up his magicbag, gloves, and mask and disappeared into the trees.

  SHOUNACH

  The Hold wall loomed over him, massive and shining, reflecting the meager light coming through the clouds as if it were mirror rather than stone. He ran his hands over the stone, feeling the slickness of it even through the fine tough leather of his gloves, as smooth as if it had been built that morning, its gloss either repaired after the ravages of winter or merely a veneer that was replaced when pitted or torn. Not that it made much difference. There was no way anyone could climb that wall. Fortunately he wasn’t required to do any climbing. He crouched in the shadow of a shrub, gathering his strength, wearier than he’d expected to be.