Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

She nodded, but said nothing.

The old man spoke. “Taga, when would you like to talk with Linjijan? And where?”

Blackthorn’s toe nudged at Taguiloa’s head again. “Will here do?”

“Since you offer.” He rubbed his head gently against her foot. “This afternoon? I’ve got to start shaking the mix.”

“Ladji’’

The old man looked past her at the wall. “Linjijan went out with his brothers this morning. After fish. He’ll be returning with the sun. But he’ll need sleep.” He turned muddy amber eyes on Blackthorn and smiled, the wrinkles lifting and spreading. “And you, saOr, prefer the afternoon.”

“True, my eldest love.” She made the deep gurgle that was her sort of laugh. “raga. Dance for me, you. I’ve earned some entertaining, don’t you think?”

He turned his head and kissed the smooth instep, then jumped to his feet. He kicked off his sandals and walked barefoot onto the woven straw mat, rubbed his hands down his sides, lifted a brow to Ladjinatuai, then began snapping his fingers, hunting for the rhythm that felt right for the mood he was in and the way his body felt. He looked over his shoulder at the foreign woman. “Play for me,” he said. “With Ladji, if you will.”

Ladjinatuai lifted his flute and began improvising music to the changing rhythms of Taga’s fingers.

A few beats later, a soft laugh, and the lively metallic complex tones of stringed instrument came in, picking up the beat, playing fantasies around it, making a sound he’d never heard before.

He let the music work in him a while longer.

When he was ready, he began the first tumbling run, moving faster and faster, gathering the energy of the music into his blood and bone, ending the run with a double flip, landing, reversing direction without losing the impulse driving him, dropping, curling onto his shoulders, slowly unfolding his body until he was a spear pointed at the roof, breaking suddenly, the music breaking with him, a long swoop of the flute, a glittering cascade from the strings, his body flexed, rose and fell, wheeled and caracoled, improvised around the traditions of the female dancers, the male mimes and tumblers; he felt every move, all the pain and effort, yet at the same time he was flying, riding the sound.

Until a tiny shake, a hairline miscalculation, and he lost it, the music went on but his improvisation faltered. With a gasping laugh he sank onto his knees, then sat back on his heels, hands on thighs, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, into his eyes and mouth. He heard Blackthorn’s gurgling laughter, the patter of her hands, but only at a distance; more important to him this moment was the music that wove on and on, the foreign woman and the old flute player working out their own magic until they achieved resolution and silence.

He swung on his knees to face the woman. “Who are you?”

“My name is Harra Hazhani.”

“From the west?”

“A long way from, dancer.”

“Why?”

“Chance, curiosity, who knows. I came with my father.”

“Your father?”

“Dead.” She plucked a discord from the strings. “An aneurism neither of us knew he had.”

“Your people?”

“You wouldn’t know them.” She shrugged. “What does it matter?” Then, producing a soft buzzing sound from the instrument by pulling her hand gently along the strings, she stared past him. “I’m a long way from my mountains, dancer. The wind blew me here and dropped me. The day will come when I catch another and blow on. Rukka-nag. My people. You see, it means nothing to you and why should it?” She had a strong accent that was not unpleasant, especially in her honey-spice voice. As she spoke she made almost a song of the words, using the pads of her fingers to coax a muted music from the strings. Abruptly she lifted her hands from the instrument and laughed. “More prosaically, Sad Taguiloa, when my father dropped dead, Saiiri Blackthorn took pity on me and gave me houseroom until I could find the kind of work I was willing to do.” She took up the plectrum and plucked a questioning tune. “And have I, O man who makes music with his body? Have I?”

“Do you dance?”

“The dances of my people. And never so well as Blackthorn does hers.”

“Show me.” He moved off the mat to make way for her, seating himself once again at Tafi’s feet.

Han-a Hazhani looked at him gravely, considering him, then she set her instrument aside and got gracefully to her feet. She wore black leather boots with high heels; a long skirt with a lot of material in it that swung about her ankles, a bright blue with crudely colorful embroidery in a band a handspan above the hem; a long-sleeved loose white blouse and a short tight vest laced up the front that seemed designed to emphasize high full breasts and a tiny waist. The blouse was gathered at wrists and neck by drawstrings tied in neat bows. She reached into a pocket in the skirt and pulled out a number of thin gold hoops, slid them over her hands so they clashed on her wrists when she lifted her arms over her head and began clapping out a strongly accented rhythm. Still clapping she began to whistle, a sound with a driving energy as crude to his ears as the colors and patterns in the embroidery on her clothing was to his eyes. She whistled just long enough for Ladjinatuai to pick up the tune, though the mode of her music was not that of his flute.

Her head went back; her arms curved so her hands were almost touching, then quivered so the gold hoops clashed slightly of the beat, then she was whirling round and round, her feet moving through an intricate series of steps. She danced pride and passion and joy-at least that was what he read into what he saw-then went suddenly still, a foot pointed, a leg a little forward, a straight slant visible through the drape of her skirt, her head thrown lwk, her arms up as if she would embrace the moon.

She broke position, grinned at him and went back to her cushion, dropped with energetic grace beside her instrument.

“What do you call that?” He pointed to the instrument. “Daroud. A sort of distant cousin to a lute.”

“You dance well enough.”

“Thanks.”

“You play a lot better.”

“I know.”

“Modest too.”

“Like you.”

“What would you do if a man started fondling you?”

“Depends. Official, patron or some lout in an Inn where we happened to be staying?”

“Start with the lout.”

She tilted her head, scowled, put her hands on her hips, “Back off, lout.” One hand shifted position so quickly it seemed to flicker. A short thin blade grew suddenly from her fingers; she held the hand close to her body and waited. “And if he didn’t, he’d lose maybe some fingers, certainly some blood.” She tossed the bright sliver of steel into the air, caught it and flipped it at the wall. It thudded home a hair from a small waterstain on the wood. She frowned, got up and retrieved the knife. “Kesker would pull my hair for botching a throw like that.”

“Kesker?”

“My father’s bodyguard until he got killed.”

“Protecting your father?”

“No. Bloodfeud. We passed too close to his homeland.”

“You’ve had a varied life.”

“Very.”

“That takes care of the lout. If you run into trouble for it, I’ll back you, but try saying no first, will you?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Say a Jamar Lord has an itch for foreign bodies in his bed.”

She grinned. “And I say, it’s all right with me, honored Sabin, but I’ve got the pox so maybe you’d rather not.”

“You don’t look it.”

“That’s us foreign bints, can’t tell about us.”

“And if he says he doesn’t believe you?”

“Then I do this.” She began to whistle an odd little droning tune. He watched her a moment until she blurred and a total lassitude took hold of him. She stopped whistling and clapped her hands, the sharp sound jolting him awake. “Men are very suggestible in that state,” she said calmly. “I’d tell him he wasn’t at all interested in me and he should forget the whole thing including the whistling. My father was a mage. I was his best and most constant student.”