A Bait of Dreams (19 page)

Gleia watched, exasperated. “Must you fool with those?”

One eyebrow arched up. “Why so serious, Companion? Life is only as grim as you make it. Relax.” He caught the pouch and the key and slipped both into his bag. “You take his feet. I'll get his shoulders. Up there.” He pointed up the track to the point where the worm hole broke into the bubble. “No one's likely to look for him there.”

After an exhausting struggle that Lorenzai hampered as much as he could, they dropped him on the stone and stood a moment to catch a breath before returning to the pier. Gleia leaned against Shounach smiling down at the merchant. “We'll see you get your weapons, Lorenzai. I'm sorry about Amrezah.” She closed her eyes a moment, feeling sick as she saw again Amrezeh tottering on the rim of the track, face ugly with horror. “We didn't plan to hurt anyone; it just went wrong.” Shaking herself out of her sudden depression, she moved away from Shounach. “We'll have your smuggler stack the weapons in front of your armory. You can still pull your coup. Not my business but I think you'll do a lot better at running Thrakesh than those crazy Ayandari.” She smiled tentatively but the rage on the merchant's face failed to abate. He humped his body about, struggling against his bonds, then fell back, gasping for breath around the gag.

Shounach tossed the armory key down beside him. It rang on the stone, bounced, settled against Lorenzais arm. “Forget him.” He took Gleia's arm. “You're not going to reach him now. Let's get back out there.”

An hour later they stood together between the torches, watching a line of small boats come into the light. Gleia plucked at the still damp material of her cafta and glanced up at Shounach. He was frowning slightly, his eyes moving from the six rowers to the man sitting at the bow of the front boat. She tugged at his sleeve. “Zuwayl?”

“Probably.”

“You know him?”

“No.”

She scowled at the nearing boats. “Five, Shounach. A lot of men.”

“We don't intend to fight them. Words, Companion. They'll get us a lot farther than swords.”

Gleia examined the man they thought might be Zuwayl. “Wag your tongue carefully; Juggler.”

Zuwayl stepped from the boat onto the pier. He looked at them, looked past them at the empty pier, raised his eyebrows and turned to face Shounach. “Who're you?”

“Passengers.”

“Hoh! Not that I know. Persuade me.”

Shounach tossed five pentoboloi at him, one at a time. “Let these whisper in your ear.”

Zuwayl grinned and clicked the coins in his left hand. “They have sweet tongues, friend. Welcome aboard.” He jerked a thumb at the boats rocking in the water by the end of the pier. “I had a deal.”

“Still got it. Our friend who shall be nameless gave me the money for the shipment. Have your men haul it up and dump it in front of the armory door.”

Zuwayl's mouth split in a wide grin, folding the skin of his cheeks into a dozen small wrinkles on each side of his mouth. “You seem like an honest man, friend.” He snapped thumb and forefinger together. “Me, I gotta check myself to see I don't sell my skin. The gold, friend.”

Shounach dipped into his bag and produced the pouch of gold. He tossed it to Zuwayl.

“Now that's style.” Zuwayl wheeled, casually turning his back on them. “Jorken, take our passengers out to the ship. Herler, the rest of you, start unloading. Move it. Tide'll be in before we finish, we don't hurry.”

Gleia stepped into the boat and settled herself somewhat nervously between two of the villainous-looking oarsmen. Shounach stopped for a last murmured word with Zuwayl, then settled in behind her.

The stone bubble's wall swept quickly down to another wormhole dripping seaweed and slime. They wound quickly through the short tunnel, then were out under the open sky and heading for a dark bulk barely visible in the dusting of surface mist. Gleia looked around, her curiosity back stronger than before.

They were outside the breakwater in the open sea. She glanced up and back, catching fugitive gleams from the gilded roofs of Thrakesh. She moved her shoulders impatiently. That part of her life was irrevocably over.
Over.
She laughed silently, remembering the crazy rage in Lorenzai's eyes.
Better to get away far and fast.
She looked around at the men bending their backs in practiced unison as they drove the boat across the waves toward the ship anchored in deeper water.
Far and fast. The both of us.

She stared to turn to the Juggler but changed her mind.
Time for that later. Time to find out who and what he is. Shounach the juggler. The thissik Keeper called him Starfox. Hunting for the source of the Ranga Eyes. Should be uncomfortable but interesting.
As the longboat's bow cut across the incoming waves, rising and falling in bumpy swoops, she began to feel a similar swooping in her spirits.

She ran her hands through her hair and sniffed the wind. Southwind again.
Southwind.
She laughed aloud, drawing astonished glances from the rowing men.
Southwind my mother, here I go again. Jumping into the dark. I wonder what will happen this time.

FIFTH SUMMER'S TALE (PART TWO)

Companioning

“Damn him. Five days and not a word.” Gleia stabbed the needle through the soft black material, pricked her finger, and jerked it away before blood could stain the cloth. Sucking at the small wound, she laid the shawl aside and swung around on the window seat where she'd taken her work to save on lamp oil, using instead the pale red light from Horli that struggled through the heavy layer of clouds. She propped her elbows on the windowsill and gazed out at the busy street below. The pattern of silver and green on the shawl heaped beside her was nearly finished. Another day and there'd be coins plumping out the limp money pouch she'd left on the table by the bed.
One more thing to worry about. That and Shounach. Damn him for not letting me know whether he's alive or dead.

She was still chuckling at that absurdity when an iron bird swooped past to hover over the street. As she watched, it darted back and forth over the suddenly quiet people, then soared back to hover in front of her, humming like an outside insect, wings a foot long, moving slightly but constantly, the red light from cloud-hidden Horli sliding along crisply modeled features. The ball-head's single eye set above a needle beak scanned her, small flickers of red light stirring in the depths of the dark lens. The thing made her shiver—a parody of a living bird. Deel called it an iron bird, the Lossal's iron bird, though it was made of a shining metal more like polished silver than black iron.
It's only a machine,
she told herself,
not a creation of some devil sorcery.
As it swung suddenly and whirred off, she shivered again.
Temokeuu-my-sea-father, I wish you were here to tell me it's only a machine.
She continued to watch as it soared inward over the middle city, dipping finally out of sight behind one of the Family Houses that dominated the center of walled Istir.

She rested her chin on her hands and looked dreamily out the window, thinking of her adopted family of sea-folk, wondering how Tetaki-her-brother was coming with his new trade route, wondering whether Jevati-her-friend had married again. Snatches of music from neighboring taverns drifted up to her; street sounds floated around her—men's voices as they passed along the street, arguing, talking, laughing; the clop-clop of horses' hooves on the dark stone paving, a whinny or two and some snorts; the distant blended noise of huckster cries coming from the markets on both sides of the Strangers' Quarter. Sharp smells floated on the lazy breeze—frying oil, fish, cooked meats, urine, horse manure. Her eyes dropped; she studied the people passing by, feeling a comfortable familiarity with a mix much like that she'd grown up with in Carhenas across the ocean—drylanders in silent groups; hunters; hillmen; boatmen from the highland rivers; an enigmatic group of veiled and armored women who seemed to call out hostility in the men around them. Gleia blinked, frowned as they passed out of sight followed by curses, uneasy laughter, obscene gestures.

Once the women were gone, Gleia lost interest in the street and turned back to wondering about Shounach.
How is he? What's he doing now? What's he been doing the last five days? Why doesn't he send word out?
She scratched at her arm; living with the Juggler was making her itchy.
Companion. What's that mean? That red-haired cow, the Lossal's daughter.…
She flexed her fingers, then began rubbing at the line of her jaw. It was difficult. She wasn't used to fitting her actions to someone else's needs.
If he isn't back by tomorrow, I'm getting out of here.
With a feeling of relief, she let her hand drop into her lap. Relief and anger and uncertainty.

Relief because she was going back to the comfortable simplicity of living alone; she could feel her taut muscles relaxing.

Anger because she hurt at the thought of leaving him. She didn't want to allow him that much importance in her life. With an involuntary smile she remembered the long, lazy nights on the smuggler's ship that had brought them across the ocean from Thrakesh to this new land—new for her if not for Shounach—long lazy nights crawling north along the coast, city to city, waiting while Zuwayl did his deals, moving on again, in no hurry to get anywhere. She remembered the painful, clumsy beginning of intimacy. Remembered his patience and skill—a skill she teased him about later when she'd regained some of her assurance—as he taught her body to respond. She clenched her hands into fists and beat on her thighs.
The Lossal's daughter. He's with her. Five days, five damn days.…
The thought was fire in her blood. She pushed at the pain, trying to deny it, and sat for some minutes, the heels of her hands pressed against aching eyes. As her breathing steadied, the anger altered to uncertainty.

Uncertainty because she wanted to stay as much as she wanted to go. Because she had no place to go to if she left. Rubbing absently at the brand on her face, she leaned her head against the end of the shutter and wondered what she was going to do.

A rippling laugh from the street pulled her from her painful musing. She caught hold of the sill and leaned farther out.

A cloaked figure was slapping at the hands of a Harrier, one of the mercenaries hired by the six Families to act as guards and as a small private army if necessary. The long slim arm, the fluid movement looked familiar. The woman laughed again, called back a last cutting comment to the Harrier as she moved along the street with a free, flowing swagger that sent the ends of her cloak flying. Gleia smiled with pleasure, leaned down and waved. “Deel?”

The dancer looked up, pushed the hood back off her head. Raising her voice over the noise of the street, she called, “He back yet?”

“Not yet.” Gleia coughed to clear her throat, then yelled, “Going somewhere?”

“Work.” Deel wrinkled her nose, twisted her mobile face into a comical grimace. “New bunch of boatmen in from upriver. One-eye sent word I was to get there in half a breath.” She shook her head, her tight thatch of brown-gold curls glinting in the pale light. “Good money, but I hate those sorry slobbering bastards. Have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“I'd like that. Meet here?”

The dancer nodded. Gleia watched her swing off until she was out of sight, then pulled her head in and slid off the window seat. Making sure the needle was tucked securely into the material, she folded the shawl neatly and set it on the table by the bed, smiling as she remembered her meeting with Deel.
Five days ago I didn't know her and now I have a friend.

In the Square of the Cloth Merchants, Shounach stood on a platform he'd rented, the blue glass balls circling his white painted face, changing in number and shape as he turned slowly to face the traders and sellers, shoppers, market women, other entertainers, scattered Harriers, and a number of pickpockets and other thieves that pressed about the four sides of the platform. Gleia sat on the coping of the market well, watching what she could see of Shounach past the heads of the onlookers. A constant stream of people moved by her, edging along the fringes of the crowd, going on to stop at one or another of the small open-faced shops that lined the square.

As Shounach's routine neared its close, she felt a brief tugging at her cafta, heard an angry yell, then a boy's shrill, rapid protest. She looked around. A Harrier had a small boy by the nape of the neck. Behind him a tall woman muffled in a long cloak stopped to watch, stiff with disapproval as she saw the Harrier drag the boy back to Gleia.

“Had his hand in your pocket.” He scowled at the boy. “Fork over, schlop.”

“I din' do nothin',” the boy shrilled. He wriggled, trying to pull away from the Harrier's cruel grip. “I din' do nothing'.”

Eyes on the child's tear-streaked face, Gleia thrust her hand into her pocket. Her handkerchief was gone, nothing more. She smiled up at the glowering man. “You're mistaken, despois. The boy took nothing. Let him go.”

The Harrier grunted, hesitated a moment, then loosed his grip on the boy's skinny neck. He watched the child dart away, then stalked off, muttering about fool women.

“You might want this back.”

Startled, Gleia looked over her shoulder. The woman who'd been watching was smiling at her, holding out her handkerchief.

“It's a beautiful thing; whoever gave it to you must think a lot of you.” The woman smoothed out the square of katani with its wide band of white-on-white embroidery, her fingers lingering over the exquisite stitching.

With a laugh Gleia waved the handkerchief away. “If it pleases you, then keep it. It's no gift, merely my own work and my own design.”

“I couldn't.” The woman's dark amber eyes glowed as she touched the delicate pattern.

“Please do. I have others.”