Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Tari’s eyes flew open wider. “Heat,” she whispered.

Brann said nothing, did not seem to hear. After a moment she lowered that foot to the velvet and lifted the other.

Taguiloa watched, amazed, his anxiety and the sharp fear aroused by the witch’s words dissipating as the woman’s long strong hands moved from ankles to knees, not bothering to push aside the layered silk robe, from knees to hips, then wrists, elbows, shoulders. Humming softly, Brann moved her hands from the top of Tari’s head down along her body to the henna’d soles of her lovely feet, the children moving with her, bonded to her, flesh to flesh. Then she sat back on her heels and sighed.

The children moved away from her, their small fine hands sliding from flesh and silk. Yaril shimmered a moment and was again a brindle bitch lying beside her. Jaril went to squat beside Taguiloa.

Tari’s face flushed then paled. She sat up, moved one foot then the other, moved her wrists, bent one leg at the knee, straightened it, bent the other leg, straightened it. Her hands were shaking. Her breath came sharp and fast. She opened her mouth, shut it, couldn’t speak, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her ribs, sucked in a long breath, let it out. “And the poppymilk?”

“You’re free of that too.”

“There’s not gold enough in the world…”

Brann shrugged. “Oh well, gold.” She got to her feet, stretched, yawned. “This isn’t what I’m going to feed the farmers, no and no, tell them what they want to hear and make them shiver just enough.” She grinned. “And scare the bones out of any hillwolves stupid enough to attack.”

Taguiloa looked around. Harra was gazing at Brann with an expression of lively interest, her full lips pursed for a whistle, but not whistling. Ladji was sliding his ancient flute between thumb and forefinger, smiling at nothing much, his body gone rubbery with his private relief. He was apparently the only one who’d known of Tari’s growing pain. Linjijan was gazing dreamily at nothing, his fingers moving on his thighs as if he practiced modes of fingering for music he heard inside his head.

Jaril touched Taguiloa’s ann. He looked down. “What is it?”

“You wanted a boy to play the drums.”

“You volunteering?”

Jaril shook his head. “Too boring. But I found a boy. He doesn’t have to be Hina?”

Taguiloa looked around the room. Mage’s daughter from so far west he’d never heard of her people. Linjijan, comfortably Hina. Brann the changeling witch, once of Arth Slya now of nowhere. Yaril and Jaril, who knew what they were? “One more foreigner, who’d notice.” He laughed. “How long will it take to get him here…?” He turned to Tari, spread his hands. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so free with your house.”

Tari Blackthorn waved a slim hand. “I won’t say I owe you, but you may bring all the world in here and I won’t complain.”

“He’s waiting outside.” Jaril darted for the door.

Taguiloa strolled across to the divan, knelt beside Tari, took her hand in his. “There was a time when I thought I was running this thing.” He lifted her hand, touched his lips to the wrist, cradled the hand against his cheek. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t telling myself.” She eased her hand free. “Taga my tinti,” her voice was a whisper that reached only him, “don’t you see how odd it is, all this? This collection of mage-touched strangers? Why are they being pulled together? And who is doing it?” She bent a finger, touched the knuckle to his chin. “She worries me, your patron, I don’t understand her. I shouldn’t say it after what she did for me, but be careful of her, summerfly. Why is she doing this?”

“She has her reasons.”

“And you know them. Why am I even more worried for you? No, don’t fidget so, little love. I won’t ask more questions.” She ran her forefinger around the curve of his ear and down his neck. “Your drummer comes, Taga.” Laughter shook in her voice.

Taguiloa swung round. A m’darjin boy stood uncertainly in the doorway clutching drums half as big as he was, ten, maybe twelve, blue-black skin, hair a skim of springs coiled close to his skull, huge brown eyes. His hands and feet were borrowed from a bigger body, his arms thin as twigs with bumpy knobs where the joints were.

“His name is Negomas,” Jaril said. “His father was a m’raj shaman and he did something, Negomas doesn’t know what but it was bad and it killed him and the rest of the m’darjin won’t have anything to do with Negomas now, it’s like he caught something from his father and could infect them with it, but that’s not true, I checked him out and you know I’m good at that.” He tugged the boy forward.

Negomas grinned nervously. His body was taut, quivering with eagerness and hope.

“Your drums?” Taguiloa said.

“My drums.” He grinned wider and mischief brightened the huge brown eyes. “I grow into them.” He waggled one of his large bony hands. “With a bit of time,” he finished, winced as Jaril kicked him in the ankle. “Saхm,” he added politely.

“Play them for me. Something I can move to.” He stepped out of his sandals, moved to the center of the mat and stood waiting, shaking himself, a long ripple from ankles to head, wrists to shoulders. He smiled toward the boy, then unfocused his eyes and concentrated on listening with ears and body both.

He heard a blurred shiver of sound, then some tentative staccato taps that had unusual overtones, a sonority similar to the deeper notes of Harra’s daroud. The drums began speaking with more authority. He kept up his loosening moves, listening until the sound slid under his skin and throbbed in his blood; he flexed his arms, twisted his body from side to side, then let the music lift him into a handless backflip that developed into a series of bending stretching kinetic movements, alternating high and low; he reveled in the drumsong beating in blood, bone and muscle, was unsurprised when two flutes joined in, singing in none of the usual modes, producing a strong harsh music, then the daroud came in, picking up its own version of the melodic line, adding a greater tension to the blend by tugging at the beat of the drums. The dance went on and on until Taguiloa collapsed to the mat, sweating and laughing, exhausted but flying high, his panting laughter mingling with the applause and laughter from Tari and Brann, whoops from Jaril and the sweating m’darjin boy. Then silence, filled with the sound of Taguiloa’s breathing.

He fell back till he lay flat on the straw. His hands burned, his bones ached and he’d collected bruises and sore muscles from moving in ways he hadn’t tried before. He turned his head, lifted a heavy hand to push sweat-sticky hair off his face. “You’ll do, Negomas.” He yawned, swallowed. “Anyone I need to talk to about you?”

The boy shook his head, moved his fingers on the drumheads.

Taguiloa looked at Jaril, raised his brows.

Jaril shook his head.

Taguiloa pushed up until he was sitting with his arms draped over his knees. “You understand you won’t be my student but only part of the troupe?” When the boy nodded, he went on, “I’m sorry but that’s the way the world says things have to be; I need a Hina boy. If ever I can find the right one. Jaril, fetch whatever the boy’s got, move him into my house and make sure Yarm doesn’t try anything.”

Jaril snorted, looked pointedly at Brann.

Brann sighed. “Taguiloa is master of this motley group, my friend. We don’t argue with the boss, at least not in public even if he’s being more than usually foolish.” She chuckled, then sobered. “You know what Yarm is like. For the good of our purpose, get Negomas settled, then take him out for something to eat.” She smiled. “I know you could fry Taga’s liver if you chose, he knows it by now or he’s a lot stupider than he looks, we all know it. And we know you’re going to do nothing of the kind.”