Jo Clayton: Blue Magic

He was over by the door; he tried the latch. “The key.”

She hitched up the quilt which was trying to untuck itself and slide off her. “On the table.” A nod toward the bed. “Go if you want. You could probably break loose. Or you can stay here until the chase passes on. Your choice.”

“Why?” A thread of sound, angry and dangerous.

“Why not. Say I don’t like seeing things hunted.”

He lowered the knife, leaned against the door and thought about it, a small wiry figure, with black trousers and black sweater, black gloves, black busks on his feet and a knitted hood that covered his whole head except for the eyeslits. The dim light coming through diamond holes in the shutters touched his eyes as he moved away from the door, pale eyes, blue or hazel, unusual in Jade Halimm; he stared at her several seconds, glanced at the sleeping children. “Who are you?”

“Did I ask you that?’

“They aren’t breathing.” He waved the knife at the children.

“Nor did I make comments about your person.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then he dragged off the mask and stood grinning at her. “Drinker of Souls,” he said, satisfaction and certainty in his voice. “You knew my grandfather.” He was a handsome youth, sixteen seventeen twenty at most, straight thick hair, heavy brows, flattish nose and a wide thinlipped mouth that could move from a grin to a grimace at the flash of a thought. Mixed blood. Hina stature, Hina nose and tilted almond Hina eyes (though they should have been dark brown to be truly Hina), the dark blond hair that appeared sometimes when Hina mixed with Croaldhese, his mouth and chin were certainly Croaldhese. He had the accent of a born Halimmer, that quick slide of sound impossible to acquire unless you lisped your first words in Jalimmik.

He slipped the knife up his sleeve and went to sit on the bed. “My mother’s father was called Aituatea. You might remember him.” He waited a moment giving her a chance to comment; when she said nothing, he went on. “You’re a family legend. You and them.” A wave of his hand at the two blond heads.

“Hmm. This seems to be the month of old acquaintances.”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t mean anything to you. Yaril, Jaril, wake up.” The covers stirred, two sleepy children sat up blinking. “Forget it, kids, the lad knows all about you. ‘ She turned back to the young thief. “How serious were they, those folk chasing you?”

He scratched at his jaw. “I’m still here, not running for the nearest hole. Those Dreeps know all the holes I do, and they’ll be going down them hunting blood. Not just them.” He thought a moment, apparently decided there was no point being coy about his target. “High-merchant Jizo Gozit, it was his House I got into, he’s a vindictive man and he’s got more pull than a giant squid; by now the king’s Noses are in the hunt.”

“I see. They’ll be searching this place before long. We could shove you under the bed or hide you in it… no, I’ve got a better idea… maybe… you think they know it’s you they’re hunting?”

“Doubt it. I usually keep well away from that quarter. The hounds have my scent, though; if the Dreeps bring their dogs…”

‘Jun, let him take your place. Mastiff, I think, hmm? Any dogs stick their noses in the door, you take their minds off our friend here.”

Jaril patted a yawn, slid out of the bed, a slim naked youth. For a moment he stood looking at the thief out of bright crystal eyes, then he was a mastiff standing high as the boy’s waist, muscle rippling on muscle, droopy mouth stretched into a grin that exposed an intimidating set of teeth. He went trotting around the room, came back to the rug at the foot of the bed, scratched at it until he was satisfied, turned around once and settled onto it, head down, ready to sleep until he was needed.

“Get into the bed beside Yaril,” Brann said. “You’ll be Jaril. Kheren will tell them I came in with two children, a boy and a girl, you’re older and taller and not so fair, but that shouldn’t matter.”

The mastiff lifted his head, whined softly.

“Move it, friend.” Brann whipped the quilt off, swept it over the bed and dived under the covers beside him. She felt his tension as he lay sandwiched between her and Yaril. “Relax,” she muttered.

A long sigh, a wriggle that edged him away from her, then his breathing went slow and steady, craftily counterfeiting slumber. A handsome youth, but he didn’t arouse anything in her except impatience. Getting old, she thought, Slya Bless, a few hours ago I was hot to trot, as the saying goes, contemplating the seduction of some sea captain. She sighed. What do I do if the same nothing appears when I find someone more to my taste, ayy yaaah, dead from the neck down? May it never happen. I was something like half dead up there. Mmh. Would have been all dead, if the children had been an hour or so later. She scowled at the unseen ceiling. Didn’t even try to fight… The memory made her sick. Didn’t even try to get the knife out, heal the wound. They surprised me, but that’s no excuse. Hadn’t thought about it before but that must have been what I was doing the past fifty years, getting ready to die and when it happened… Shuh! I can’t die. Not with the kids depending on me. I’ve got to do something about that. I don’t know what. After this is over and there’s time… maybe if I went back to Tincreal and roused Slya…

She lay still and did a few mind tricks to keep her body relaxed, then tried to figure out why she’d taken on this young thief with no questions asked. It startled her now that she had time to take a look at what she’d done. She thought about what she’d told him, I don’t like to see things hunted. True enough, especially after the past six days (twinge in her stomach, quickly suppressed). I suppose he’s my redeeming act, my sop, my

… oh forget it, Brann, you’re maundering. Aituatea’s grandson, hmm, he’s got the proper heritage for his profession all right. What’s going on here? First Harm’s great grandsoevers, now Aituatea’s. Things come in threes, uh huh, and if there’s a third intrusion from my past…

She heard the voices in the hall and the tramp of booted feat near her door. She heard the clank of the key as it turned in the lock. She stifled an urge to turn and look at the boy, forced her breathing to slow, her body to relax again.

The door crashed open, banging against the wall. Light from the hallway and the lanterns the Dreeps carried glared into the room, slid off the leather and metal they wore. Jaril came onto his feet and stood ears back, head down, growling deep in his throat. As if startled from sleep but no less dangerous, Brann surged up, knife ready in one hand, snatching at the quilt with the other, holding it in front of her. “Shift ass out of here,” she spat at them, “or I turn him loose and carve into stew meat what he leaves.”

“Calm, calm, fenna meh.” Kheren Zanc pushed past the lead Dreep. “There’s no harm done. The guards are searching for a thief who got over the wall near your room. They need to be sure he’s not hiding in here. It’s for your safety, fenna meh.”

She looked them over with insolent thoroughness, then she wrapped the quilt around her and tucked in the end. “Let them look if they’re fools enough to think some idiot thief could get past Smiler there.” She dropped onto the bed, knife resting lightly on her quilt-covered thigh. “I’ll have the hide off anyone who wakes the children.” She patted the blanket beside her, whistled the mastiff onto the bed. Jaril, newly christened Smiler, leaped over the footboard and stretched out with his hindquarters draped over the young thief’s legs. Yaril and the erstaz Jaril slept heavily while three Dreeps prowled the room, looking under the bed and into the wardrobe. One of them prodded his pike through the blanket near the foot of the bed but retreated before a sizzling glare when he showed signs of wanting to jerk the covers off in case the thief was masquerading as a twig-sized wrinkle.