Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Jaril walked over to Negomas, jerked his head at the door, then strolled out with an air of going where he chose at the speed he chose to go. Negomas picked up his drums, winked over his shoulder at Taguiloa, then followed the blond boy out.

Brann got to her feet, stood looking around. “I’m glad it’s you who’s got to pull this mix of geniuses together.” She nodded to Blackthorn, smiled a general farewell and swept out the door.

YARM LOOKED UP as Taguiloa stepped through the door. “Where you been? And what’s that dirty m’darjin doing here?”

“None of your business. And speaking of dirty, this house is a garbage dump.”

“If you want neat, hire a girl. You can afford it,” Yarm said sullenly. “I’m not your servant.”

“You’re not my wife either, which is just as well because you’d be fit only for drowning if you were a woman. Not a servant? Boils on your ass, you’re what I say you are. As of now, that’s nothing. Get.” He jerked a thumb at the door.

“Now?” Yarm’s voice cracked with surprise and rage. “You’re putting that foreigner in my place?”

“Get out. Now. Tomorrow morning you can collect your gear, but I’ve had all I’m going to take from you.”

“Fist will…”

“Out.” He leaped at the boy, caught the collar of his shirt, half shoved, half lifted him across the room and out of the house, set his foot on the boy’s backside and sent him in a stumbling sprawl down the leaf-littered path.

Yarm lay dazed for a moment or so, then scrambled to his feet and came screaming at Taguiloa. Who slapped his face vigorously several times, swept his feet from under him with a leg scythe, caught an arm in a punish hold and ran him down the path and out into the street. He stood watching as Yarm slunk off, even his back full of threat though he didn’t dare turn and voice his thoughts.

“He still doesn’t quite believe you’re serious.”

Taguiloa looked down. Jaril stood beside him, his blond hair shining in the sunlight.

“I’m like to have company tonight.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll be there too. Yaril’s been getting bored, she says I have all the fun.”

TAGUILOA STOOD in the center of the bedroom and looked about him. He’d finished packing up Yarm’s things and a ratty lot they were, the boy had no pride. Blackthorn was right, he thought, as she always is. Yarm had a beautiful slim body, limber as a sea snake’s, and the face of a young immortal which the women in the audiences sighed over. He also had a good sense of timing, he learned quickly everything Taguiloa taught him, but he was spoiled, lazy, whining, dishonest about small things and large unless he thought he would be caught, jealous of Taguiloa’s time and attention to a degree that had soon become unbearable. Not a sexual jealousy, that would have been far easier to handle, but something else Taga couldn’t understand or explain.

He put the packets outside with a feeling of relief. This house used to be the place where he rested, practiced, meditated. It was filled with memories of his loved teacher, memories of peace and contentment after the turmoil in the streets. Gerontai had taught him much besides tumbling and juggling. He’d been hoping for much the same relationship with Yarm but was quickly disillusioned. He’d let Yarm move in with him, not seeing the speculative gleam in Yarm’s black eyes. A measuring cold calculation powered by malice and spite and a like for hurting. A passionate need to hold and own. Fire and ice and neither of them comfortable to live with. Taguila stood in his doorway rubbing his back across the edge of the jamb, feeling relaxed and clean for the first time in the three years Yarm had lived here.

The Wounded Moon was a ragged crescent rising in the east, its lowest horn just touching the Temple roof. I’m not going to wait here staring at the wall like a fool. Negomas was spending the night with Brann: no need to worry about him. “Jaril,” Taga yelled.

An owl circled above, hooted what sounded like laughter, came swooping down, landing beside Taguiloa as the blond boy. A moment later a nighthawk screeched, came slipping down and landed as the silverbright small girl. “What’s the fuss?” Her voice was water clear, melodious.

Taguiloa bowed. “Welcome, damasaхr.”

“Hm. Well?”

Feeling as if he faced the ghost of his great-aunt who was mamasaхr to the whole family and by repute tougher than a Temueng pimush, Taguiloa cleared his throat. “I was going to visit some friends, thought your brother might like to come along.”

She snorted (though Jaril had informed Taguiloa that his kind didn’t actually breathe and therefore couldn’t play the flute). “And let Fist burn you out?”

Taguiloa laughed before he thought, then expected her to scold him for disrespect, but she seemed unperturbed, just stood waiting for him to explain himself. “Fist has better sense,” he said. “Even on a foggy night, start a fire here and half of Silili would go. Bad enough to have Hina on his tail when some ghost or other named him as the fire-starter, something that big would bring in Temueng enforcers and maybe even an Imperial Censor. He’d be skinned alive and hung to rot. His family too and everyone who helped him and their families.” Taga flung his arms out. “And even when he was dead, the ghosts he made would torment the ghost he was. I’m not worth all that. No way. Not even for dearest Yarm the family hope.” He smiled at the little girl. “Want to come along?”

She gazed a moment at her brother, then nodded. “Why not. This ghost business is weird.”

Taguiloa stared at her. “Your kind don’t die?”

“Oh they die all right. And stay dead. Ghosts? No way.”

“They don’t have souls?”

“That’s something they’ve been arguing about since eldest ancestor learned to talk.” She shrugged. “A waste of time and breath far as I can see.” She watched as Jaril blurred then changed into a Hina boy. “This is the first reality we’ve seen where there are ghosts you can actually talk to.” She shimmered and changed to a small golden lemur, then hopped up to ride her brother’s shoulder.

“Well,” Jaril said, “she couldn’t come as a little girl, that’d make your friends uncomfortable.”

Taguiloa pulled the door shut, turned the key in the lock and dropped the metal bit into a pocket, then started walking toward the gate through the rustling foliage of bushes he reminded himself he’d have to water in the morning. “You change your shapes so why couldn’t she be another boy?”

The lemur gave a chittering sound that sounded indignant. Jaril grinned and patted her paw. “But Yaril’s a female,” he said. “She couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” Curiosity driving him, Taguiloa persisted. “It’s only appearance after all. If I dressed myself in woman’s robes, painted my face, wore a wig and practiced a bit, I could make a fairly convincing appearance as a woman, though my real nature wouldn’t change at all.”

The boy turned those strange crystal eyes on him; when Taguiloa was sure he wasn’t going to answer, he did. “The inner and outer are one with us. If we try to change the nature of the outer, we deny and warp the inner. So-” he grinned, an impudent urchin grin that acknowledged and mocked Taguiloa’s voice-“that we seem children should tell you we are children.”

“How old are you?”

“Hard to say. Time is funny. Six or seven hundreds of your years. Something like that.”

“Children?”

“We grow slowly.”

“Seems like.” He tapped a finger on Jaril’s head, relieved to find it solid, warm and a little oily. “Talking about weird, I find you changechildren stranger than any ghost I’ve ever seen.”