Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Brann shivered. “I don’t like…” she started in a fierce whisper. A pressure on her arm stopped her. She looked up. A fourth man had come from somewhere and was standing across the table from her. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

“I don’t recall requesting company,” she said. Jaril was on his feet now, standing at her other shoulder; she lost much of her fear; with the children backing her, this Temueng was nothing. She leaned back in her chair and examined him with hatred and contempt.

He ran his eyes over her. “What are you supposed to be?”

“Drinker of Souls.” The phrase Yaril had used came out easily enough. She looked at his frozen face and laughed.

“Who are you?” He spoke with a deadly patience.

She giggled nervously, though he and his armsmen were not very funny. She giggled again and the Temueng grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. He tried to twist the arm, to retaliate for her laughter- .somewhat to her own surprise-she resisted him with ease and sat smiling at him as he strained for breath, getting red in the face, his menacing calm shattered. But he wasn’t stupid and knew the rules of intimidation well enough. If a tactic fails, you quit it before that failure can make you ridiculous, and slide into something more effective. He’d made a mistake, challenging her with unfriendly witnesses present. He loosed her arm, sat back, turned his head partway around but didn’t bother looking at the men he spoke to. “Clear them out,” he said,

She watched the enforcers clear the room and follow the Plainsfolk out, stationing themselves in the broad archway, their backs to the taproom. She frowned at the Temueng, knowing she would kill him if she had to. Her gentle rearing and Slya’s strictures of respect seemed a handicap down here, but she wouldn’t abandon either unless she was forced to. She had horror enough for nightmares the rest of her life.

He jabbed a forefinger at the children. “You two,” he said. “Out.”

“No,” Brann said.

Yaril’s nostrils flared. “Huh,” she said.

“Yours are they, ketcha?”

“We are the Mountain’s children,” Yaril said, “born of fire and stone.”

He looked from one to the other, turned his head again. “Temudung, come here.”

One of the three standing in the doorway swung round and came across to the Censor. “Salim?”

He pointed at Yaril. “The girl. Stretch her out on the bar. Then we’ll see if the mountain has answers.”

“Censor,” Brann said softly, though with anger. “Take my warning. Don’t touch the children. They aren’t what they seem.”

Yaril snorted. “Let the fool find out the hard way, mistress.”

The enforcer ignored that exchange and came round the table, hand ready to close on Yaril’s arm and snatch her away from Brann’s side.

Then it wasn’t a delicate small girl the Temueng was reaching for, but a weasel-like beast the size of a large dog that was leaping for his throat, tearing it and leaping away, powerful hind legs driving into his chest, missing much of the geyser of blood hissing out at him. Brann grimaced with distaste and dabbed at the bloodspots on her Ece and shirt with the napkin the host had provided with her meal.

By the time the Temueng slumped to the floor, the weasel had shrunk smaller, a darkly compact threat crouched on the table in front of Brann, long red tongue licking at the bloodspots on its fur.

“I think you’d better not move,” Brann said quietly.

The Censor sat rigidly erect, a greenish tinge to his skin, staring not at Brann or the beast, but at the serpent swaying beside her. The two enforcers in the arch wheeled when they heard the abruptly silenced shriek from their companion, took a step into the room, stopped in their tracks when the serpent hissed, the weasel-beast gave a warning yowl.

The taproom filled with those tiny sounds that make up a silence, the ones never heard in the middle of ordinary bustle and noise, the creak of wood, the hiss of the dying Lire, the hoarse breathing of the men, the grinding of the sensor’s teeth, the buzzing of a lissfly without sense enough to shun the place.

“Censor,” she said. She’d done some rapid thinking, lipped into the fund of stories she’d heard from ancient Uncle Eornis, tales of heros, monsters and mischief-makers. “I am Drinker of Souls,” she said, infusing the words with all the heavy meaning she could. “Feel fortunate, O man, that I am not thirsty now. Feel fortunate, man, that the Mountain’s children are not hungry. Were it otherwise, you would die the death of deaths.” She felt a little silly, though he seemed to take her seriously enough. “All I desire is to pass in peace through this miserable land. Let me be, Temueng, and I’ll let you be. You and your kind.” She let the silence expand until even the slightest sound was painful. Then she said, “I have a weakness, Censor. Anger, Censor. You will be tempted to make the locals pay for your shame. But if you do that, I’ll be very very angry, Censor. I’ll find you, Censor, believe me, Censor.”

She stopped talking and grinned at him, beginning to enjoy herself. But enough was enough so she stood, pushing her chair hack with her legs. “I’m going to my room now, Censor. I’m tired and I plan to sleep soundly and well, but the Mountain’s children never sleep, so you’d be well advised to let me be. Say what you want to the folk here, I won’t contradict you, you need lose no touch of honor, Censor.”

She felt his eyes on her as she left the room. Yaril flitted up the steps before her and Jaril came behind-guarding her, though she was too self-absorbed to realize that until triumph burnt out and she was walking tiredly down the lamplit hall to the room she’d hired for the night.

A cheerfully crackling fire on the hearth, a large tub of hot water set comtbrtably close to the heat, copper cans of extra hot water to add later. Soft flubbed towels on the rush seat of a high-backed straight chair, a bowl of perfumed soap beside them. She crossed the room letting the children shut the door, touched the thin-walled porcelain of the soap bowl, picked it up, ran her fingers over the bottom. Immer’s mark. It was born from her father’s kilns. The simple lovely bowl made her feel like weeping. Her father was a gentle man who disliked loud voices, would simply walk away if someone got too aggressive. He saved his anger for cheats and liars and slipshod work and for that last he was unforgiving. He would not live long as a slave, there wasn’t the right kind of bend in him. She sighed and stripped, putting aside that worry, there being little she could do about it right then.

With a breath of pleasure she eased into the hot water and began to wash away the grime of her long hard ride, the pleasure of the bath making up for those many hardships she’d had to endure, even for the contretemps in the taproom and whatever came of it. She wrinkled her nose at the filthy shirt and trousers thrown in a pile beside the chair, disgusted by the thought she’d have to get back in them come the morning. No mother or cousin or anyone to do for her. When she was done she stood up, dripping, the scent from the soap around her like a cloud. She snapped open one of the towels-it was almost big as a blanket-and began rubbing herself dry, a little timid about touching herself, embarrassed by the soft full breasts, the bush of pubic hair. She put a foot on the side of the tub, dried it, stepped onto the hearth tiles, dried her other foot, dropped the damp towel beside her discarded clothes and wrapped the dry one about her.

Yaril and Jaril were sitting on the bed watching her, but in the days since the Valley she’d gotten used to their being always around. She rubbed at her head with a corner of the towel, combed her hand through short damp hair, sighed with relief as it curled about her fingers. Being bald was almost as embarrassing as the jiggle of her breasts.