Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

He watched and listened a while longer, brooding over all the barriers he could see no way of surmounting, then set the bowl down and went into the sidecourt where Csermanoa had put up a paper pavilion for the players, a place to keep them away from his guests. He found Yarm in a corner with one of Tari’s maids, glanced at her to see if she was being coerced in any way, nodded to her and strolled into the alcove that served as washroom and dressingroom. After stripping the paint from his hands and face, he climbed out of his tumbling silks and pulled on a long dark robe, thrust his feet into the aged sandals he brought along when the performance would be long, complex and tiring. Knotting a narrow black sash about his waist, he walked back into the main room, stood looking around. Chinkoury the m’darjin magician and his boys in a small knot by the door, elongated blue-black figures, even the boys a head taller than Taguiloa. To one side and a little behind them a clutch of Felhiddin knife dancers, bending, stretching, testing gear, inspecting each other, chattering in their rapid guttural tongue, little brown men covered in intricate blue tattoos. He didn’t recognize them, must be new to Silili. Trust Csermanoa to get hold of something no one else had seen. Curled up in the far corner, snatching what sleep they could, six young women, more joyhouse girls than dancers, a step above ordinary joygirls, but far below the rank of courtesan, though most of them had hopes. The last to perform-in both their functions-they were expected to return to their house with more than their appearance fee, with longer-term attachments if they could manage it.

He nodded to Chinkoury and passed out of the pavilion. He stood in shadow watching the dancers, silently applauding Tad for the gift she was wasting on those drunken coin-suckers. He watched the merchants for a moment with a contempt he usually had to hide; some were drinking and eating, a few frankly asleep, others wandering about, some watching the dancers, some with their heads together, a heavily conspiratorial air about them that suggested they either plotted new coups or told each other tales of coups past to magnify their shrewdness. Maybe one or two watched Blackthorn dancing with a pinch of appreciation and understanding of what they were seeing, the magic she was making there on the cork mats before the painted coffin. Taguiloa drew his sleeve across his face, amused and angry. I ought to know, he thought, by now I ought to know what to expect. He put anger away and watched Blackthorn end her dance, bow first to the coffin, her sleeves fluttering dangerously near the hordes of candles burning about the elaborate box, then to the audience, who woke enough to provide the expected applause, she was after all Blackthorn, the most celebrated dancer in three generations. As her maids came giggling into the audience, rattling their collecting bowls, dodging gropes, shaking heads at gross remarks but careful to smile and say nothing, Blackthorn sailed majestically into the darkness, her dancers drifting after her, the flute player weaving a slow simple tune that trailed into silence a moment after the last of the girls vanished.

In the hush before Chinkoury was due to appear, Taguiloa heard a faint commotion from the direction of the main gate and succumbed to the curiosity that was his chief vice. He glanced quickly about, but the noisy clash of cymbals, the sprays of colored smoke and the!looming of the apprentices as they ushered their master onto the cork, all this had trapped the attention of most of the guests and servants; those still involved in conversations wouldn’t notice if old Csagalgasoa climbed out of his coffin and jigged on the lid. He slipped away and eeled into a dark corner of the public court, hidden behind a potted blackthorn that Tad had given to Csermanoa when he was one of her favored few, before she inherited her house and income from another of her lovers.

Old Grum stopped talking and slammed the hatch shut, swung the bar and opened the wicket to let in the folk he’d been arguing with.

A man and a woman. Not Hina. Two children, very fair. Not Hina.

“You wait,” Grum said, “You wait here.” He jerked a third time at the bell rope then stumped off to his hutch and vanished inside.

A broad man muscled like a hero, Panday by the look of him, not much taller than Taguiloa but wide enough to ‘ make two of him. Dark brown skin shining in the torchlight, yellow eyes, hawk’s eyes. Taguiloa grinned. Fitting, with a beak like that. Wide, rather thick-lipped mouth, good for grins or sneers. Raggedly cut black hair. Barbaric ear ornament the length of a man’s finger, a series of animal faces linked together. A shipmaster from his dress.

The woman, tall and full of nervous energy. Attractive face for one not Hina, rather wide in the mouth with elegant cheekbones and an arrogant nose; eyebrows like swallow’s wings over large lustrous eyes. Green, he thought, though it was hard to be sure in the torchlight. A band of silk wound about her head, hiding her hair. White blouse with long loose sleeves, wide leather belt that laced in front, long loose black trousers stuffed carelessly in the tops of black boots. She wore no ornaments of any kind, had no visible weapons, but he smelled the danger that hovered round her like a powerful perfume.

Dombro the Steward came into the court, hastened to the visitors. “Sam mang Shipmaster, you are early this year.”

“And late this night, for which I beg your master’s pardon, but it is important I speak with him.”

“So the Sao Csermanoa understood. He asks if you would wait in the spring garden pavilion, Shipmaster. He cannot leave his guests quite yet.”

Taguiloa scowled at the Steward. Stiff-rumped worm. Players had to put up with a lot of sniping from him; he looked like he wanted to try his insolence on the Shipmaster but didn’t quite dare. Obviously the Panday was important to Csermanoa. He watched the Shipmaster nod and follow the Steward, waited a while then slipped after him. He’d met many foreigners in this house. Csermanoa’s interests ranged widely; while it wasn’t according to Temueng law for a Hina to own shipping, he was a very silent partner to more than one Shipmaster, and Taga’s snooping had brought him the startling discovery that this highly respectable merchant was also a fence of considerable proportions; there was not a whisper of that in the market places around Silili and Taguiloa would have been mocked as moon-dreaming if he’d told anyone, but he was a miser with the secrets he nosed out, calling them up and fondling them when sleep eluded him.

He ghosted through the dark paths, his senses alert; if this was something to do with the subterranean aspects of Csermanoa’s business, the merchant would be quick and drastic in the methods he used to keep his secrets to himself I should forget this and get back to the Watch, he told himself. He kept following them.

The Steward unlocked and opened a gate in a wall, and left it open after ushering the Panday and his companions through. Taguiloa crept up to the gate after a few ragged breaths, still half-convinced he should get out of there.

A few scrapes of feet against gravel, no talking. Dombro wouldn’t waste his breath on foreigners. Taga watched a moment more, then floated through, his feet as soundless as he could make them. He whipped into shrubbery on the far side of the gate, wishing he wore clothing more suitable for night-prowling. A moment later the Steward came back, a sour sneer on his face. He passed through the gate, slammed it shut and locked it. Trusting soul. Seshtrango send him boils on his butt.

The pavilion was a free-standing six-sided structure large enough to contain more than one room. He circled round it till he found one window whose oiled paper was an arch of yellow light. He slid into the shaggy yews planted close to the wall, dropped into a crouch as a voice sounded above him, startling him with its nearness and clarity. At first he didn’t catch what was being said, then realized the woman was speaking Panay. Growing up wild in this polyglot port city had given him the rudiments of many tongues and he’d polished them as he grew older, because he admired his master’s command of many languages and because it was a necessity for satisfying his thirst for secrets.