Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Taguiloa frowned at him, started walking again without answering him. Yarm had a limber body, a quick mind when he wanted to use it, a good ear for rhythm; he also had a difficult nature he made no attempt to change. He was intensely, almost irrationally possessive. Taguiloa’s continued aloofness still intimidated him a little, but the effect of it was wearing off. He had to go. There were complications to getting rid of him, notably his cousin the thug-master Fist, but he had to go.

An owl dipped low overhead, hooted softly and went slanting up, riding the onshore wind freshening about them in the thickening dark just before dawn. Taguiloa shivered, then laughed at himself. The boy was teasing him, that was all. And following him home. He glanced up at the owl, walked on. Nothing he could do about it. Besides, a hundred people knew where he lived, that was not one of his secrets.

THE DAYS SLID one into the next until a week was gone. The boy appeared now and again when Taguiloa was performing, watching him with such genial interest that he found himself relaxing and accepting his presence with equanimity and curiosity. He didn’t try to talk to the boy, only nodded to him and smiled now and then.

Yarm began making jealous scenes about the boy, barely confining them to the walls of the house, making life there such a misery that Taguiloa began staying away as much as he could, even neglecting practice, something he’d never done before. He was coldly furious at Yarm, but he needed him for performances already booked, a wedding, two funerals, a guild dinner, and the first-pressing festival. And there was always Fist who started dropping in on Taguiloa now and then, mentioning casually how delighted the family was that Yarm had found such a considerate master. It was enough to make a man stomp into the Temple and kick old Tungjii on hisser fat butt.

TAGUILOA THREW the sticks and they landed eskimemeloa, the wave of change, a sign of the third triad, a good high point. He smiled with satisfaction. Maybe a sign that his luck was changing. Djeracim the pharmacist grunted, gathered the sticks and threw them, snarled with disgust and emptied his winebowl. Neko-karan. Only one step from nothing, the maelstrom. Grunting with the effort. Lagermukaea the Fat scooped up the sticks, held them a moment lost in his huge hand. “That kid of yours, Tap, he’s whispering nasty things about you in Pupa’s ear. Muck-worm don’t waste any time running to the Temueng Nose to dump his dirt. You ought to pop the kid in a sack and drop him in the bay.” He opened his hand, looked surprised to see the thin brown stalks on his broad palm. Clicking tongue against teeth, he cast them, hummed a snatch of a dirge as they split into two signs. Rebhsembulan, the honeybee, and mina-tuatuan, the reviving rain. He grunted. Even added, they didn’t count enough to beat the eski-memeloa. He grinned a moment later, began flipping the coppers one by one to Taguiloa who caught them and tossed them up again, keeping more and more in the air until he finally missed one and dropped the bunch. Laughing, he opened his pouch and dropped the coins inside along with Dji’s, leaving out enough to buy another jug of wine. “That I would,” he said. “Tie him in a sack. If someone would sack Fist and feed him to a shark.” He pushed the coins into a squat triangle. “Let me know if someone none of us likes is looking for an apprentice, maybe I can push Yarm off on him. Or her.” He curled his tongue and whistled up another jug.

TACUILOA SAT on the pier in a heavy fog, listening to the sound of the buoys clanging, to the distant shouts from the Woda Living boats, to the thousand other noises of the early morning. He’d always liked foggy days, enjoyed the times when he was immersed in the sounds of life, yet wholly alone in the small white room the fog built around him.

The blond boy came into that room and sat beside him, his short legs dangling over the pier’s edge. Water condensed on his skin and in his hair, ran down his nose and wet the collar of his jacket.

“Why are you following me about?” Taguiloa spoke lazily, not overly interested in the answer.

“Curiosity.”

“About why I was outside the pavilion listening?”

“That? Oh no. I already know what you were doing

. there and why. I wanted to know more about you.”

“Why?”

“My companion needs to reach Andurya Durat. I thought you might be the right one to take her.”

“Me? Nol” After a moment’s silence, he said, “She’s a witch. Worse, she’s a foreigner. Worse than that, she’s going hunting for Temuengs.”

“So? You like Temuengs?”

“Hahl I like living.”

“What about gold?”

“Not enough to die for it.”

“You want to go to Durat and play for the emperor. Brann could provide the gold.”

“My master reached his eighties by being a prudent man.”

“He took a chance on a boy who tried to rob him, took him in, taught him, made him his heir. Was he wrong?”

“Stay out of my head.” There was no force to his voice, he was too accustomed to the boy now, he couldn’t work up any fear of the changechild, no matter how strange he acted. “Look, Jaril, I’m not saying I don’t understand her feelings, if my folks were slaves Understand me, it’s the rest of my life you’re talking about.”

“Brann knows that. All she wants is a quiet way into the city so she can get there without the guard waiting for her. If she didn’t care who knew she was coming she could hire a barge and a team of Dapples and float in comfort up the canal.”

“A foreigner?”

“She could buy a Temueng to take her. Enough gold buys anything.”

“Csermanoa’s gold?”

“Certainly not, we’re not going to make trouble for our Sammang and his men; think rather of the Tekora’s vaults. Who can stop Yaril and me from getting in where we want?”

“Why me?”

Jaril snickered, slanted a crystal glance at him. “You presented yourself.” Darkened by the fog his eyes glistened with good humor. “And who would look for vengeance riding in a player’s wagon?”

“Your companion offers to pay the bribes and the outfitting?”

“And expenses along the way. What you make, that’s yours to share out with the others in the troupe.”

“She is generous.”

“How easy to be generous with Temueng gold.”

“Given the Temuengs don’t know.”

“Who would think of serpents with pockets in their hide?”

Taga chuckled. “Not me, friend.”

“You won’t take Yarm?”

“One more funeral and I’m done with him.”

“He’s got a cousin with a nasty temper.”

“He has a lot of cousins, most of them with nasty tempers.”

“Only one of them about to lesson you with padded clubs that won’t break the skin, only bones.”

“Tungjii’s gut! I suppose you were a fly on the wall.”

“Be one monstrous fly, but you’ve got the idea.”

“Why tell me?”

“We like you. Offer. Whether or not you accept my companion’s gold, Yaril and I, we’ll keep an eye on Fist and warn you when he’s set to act.”

“Accept. Seshtrango send him hives and flatulence and inflict Yarm on him the rest of his life.”

Jaril giggled, then dug in the pocket of his jacket and dropped a handful of gold beside Taguiloa. “Brann wants to move out of Csermanoa’s house. He’s hanging around a bit too much, asking questions she doesn’t want to answer, and the maids spy on her. Makes her nervous. Could you find her a place to stay?” He stacked the coins into a neat pile. “That should be enough. Someplace she can stay quiet and safe?”

“There’s no place safe from gossip.”

“Even if she seems Hina? At least outside the house?”