Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Brann’s breath was a spot of warm dampness on his shoulder. She was deeply, bonelessly asleep, not even murmuring as he eased from under her and slid off the bed. He picked up a fresh pair of trousers and laced them on, pulled on a sleeveless shirt bleached by sun and salt water to a dirty gray. He ran his fingers through his hair and swore to have Staro take a knife to it before the day was out.

He looked at Brann. She lay on her stomach, one arm outflung, the other bent so her fist was pressed against her mouth. A child, damn her. A moment before he’d been looking forward to breakfast, now his appetite was gone. He left the cabin, his bare feet soundless on the planks, taking care to make no noise when, he shut the door. He didn’t want to wake her. If she slept most of the day away, he’d be quite happy. He had a lot of thinking to do.

Hairy Jimm had the wheel. He was squinting at the sky ahead, humming a three-note song into his beard. He grinned at Sarnmang, jerked a massive thumb at the sky. “Takes a bit of getting used to, it does, but they’re handy little buggers. Y’ know, Sammo, you ought to keep hold of them all, say you can.”

Sammang looked up. Two large white birds circled lazily above the ship, effortlessly keeping even with her.

“They been up there most all the night, friendly of them, they say they give us a shout down here if somethin starts coming at us.”

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON Brann came on deck. Standing in the bow, Sammang heard her shouted exchanges with the crew, heard her silences. She drifted about for some time, circling gradually closer to him, but he gave no sign he knew she was there. When she put her hand on his arm, he flinched and all but jerked his arm away.

“You’re really upset.” She seemed amazed.

“Yes,” he said, angrily, almost violently.

“I told you I was getting older. I was eleven in Tavisteen, but things have happened since, pushing me older. Might be fifteen, sixteen seventeen now.” She drew her forefinger along the hard muscle of his arm. “You helped, Sammo, you taught me a lot before you ever touched me.”

“Don’t do that.” He pulled his arm away, stared at the water ahead of the ship without seeing it. “Why?

“I don’t know. Lot of reasons. Comfort. I needed to touch someone just for me, not to heal them or kill them. She gave a tiny shrug. “Curiosity.”

“You weren’t virgin.” His own resentful confusion increased his fury.

“A Temueng censor raped me. He’s dead.” She ran her hand slowly down his arm; he felt her enjoying the feel of him and ground his teeth together. “You would be too,” she said, “if I’d wished it.”

A chill ran through him, fear. He forced himself to look at her. There was sadness in her face as if she knew how her words had affected him, had extinguished desire. She said it deliberately, he thought, out of pity for me . He took a step away, almost hating her. Then child and woman both looked at him out of those wide green eyes and anger drained from him.

Forgetting him, she leaned precariously out to look down at the water slicing out from the bow. “The sea looks different.” she said. “How come?”

“How different?”

“Color maybe, the way it moves. I don’t know. It’s just different.”

Watching her, he again saw himself as a boy, ship’s lad trying to answer the same question. He leaned over the rail beside her and began teaching her as he was taught.

THE NEXT DAY was bright and clear, but the wind grew erratic, now and then quitting altogether, leaving the Girl wallowing, her sails slatting, the crew run off their feet. And the weathermaker’s ghost tangled itself in the rigging, gibbering at them, which didn’t improve either skill or morale. Tik-rat who was ship’s exorciser as well as bard had dealt with the rest of the ghosts but the weatherman was stubborn and filled with spite, determined to make the lives of his slayers as miserable as he could manage. He was ragged and growing more so, but grimly hanging on ignoring Tik-rat’s chants and sacred dances, the eroding of the incense the boy waved at him, the curses of Sammang and the rest of the crew. Yaril and Jaril watched the process with fascination until it began wearing on the nerves of their friends, then they joined to drive the ghost from the shrouds and banged through him until he was scattered wisps of smoke that dissipated with the rising wind.

ON THE TWELFTH day after leaving Tavisteen the Panday Girl dropped anchor in the crowded bay at the island port Silili.

4. Brann’s Quest-Silili to Andurya Durat with Taguiloa the Dancing Man

HOLDING LIT CANDLES in both hands, Taguiloa made the last run, whirling over and over, coming up with the candles still burning, arms lifted high over his head, feet stamping out an intricate patterdance over the cork matting spread on the flags of the summer court. He finished the dance before the painted coffin, made the required deep obeisance, blew out the candles, bowed to the finger-snapping crowd and stalked into the darkness with stiff-legged dignity, leaving Yarm to pass through the ghost-witnesses and collect what coins they felt like giving. Should be a goodish haul. Most of the witnesses were rich old merchants, more than half-drunk, delighted to have their minds taken off the death of one of their number, even if the dead was only an old cousin of the master of this house. They were reminded too vividly of their own decaying bodies and how short the count of their remaining years could be. He didn’t like performing at ghost watches either but the money was good, the fee guaranteed, with whatever he could wring from the watchers added on top of that.

He stopped by the food table, dipped a drinking bowl into the hot mulled wine and stepped back into the shadows to watch the dancers who followed him move onto the matting, their long sleeves fluttering, their gauze draperies hiding little of the lithe bodies beneath. Tari called Blackthorn and her dancers. Csermanoa wasn’t stinting his uncle. Taga smiled. Wasn’t for love, all this, Csoa the Sharp was underlining his position among the Hina merchant class; from the number of men sitting out there and the smiles painted onto their faces, he was nailing down his status with the same force he used to drive bargains.

Tari’s flute player was a marvel, the sounds he got out of that pipe, and matched-the mood of the dance and the subtle rhythms of Tari’s body. Taga sipped at the wine, frowning thoughtfully at the way the music enhanced the appeal of the dancers. Though tradition decreed that flute music be reserved for female dancers, for the past year he’d been working with Tari’s Ladjinatuai, developing a mixture of tumbling and dance that used the flowing line of the flute music, but he hadn’t tried it in public yet. It was a daring move and required the right audience, probably one with a strong leavening of Temuengs. Much as he despised them, they weren’t so rigidly set on maintaining things the way they were. When he ventured to combine juggling and tumbling into a single presentation, he had Gerontai his master to support and defend him, but he remembered all too well how difficult it had been to win acceptance before the Tekora chanced to see him and approve. Taguiloa spent a good few days despising himself for being grateful for this recognition until his mentor-almost-father chided him out of it. We’re despised anyway by those who pay us for our skills, Gerontai said, don’t let them tell you how to see yourself. Look at the lap-dogs licking Temueng ass and running after you now that the Tekora says you’re remarkable. What does it matter that it takes a Temueng to see what you are? You know yourself, soul-son, you know you’re better than I ever was or could be. Your integrity lies in your art, not in what Hina say of you. The new things he wanted to do, though, would need a lot more than the Tekora’s approval. He was growing more and more impatient to get started but could only see one way to manage. Gather a troupe together and travel to Andurya Durat with a chance at performing before the emperor-which would give him the right to display the imperial sigil when he was working. That plan would cost an impossible sum in bribes and fees, to say nothing of general expenses. He’d need a patron and a lot of luck to have half a chance of pulling it off.