Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

“We want him,” the changechild said, and pointed to the dun colt moving irritably at his tether, jerking his head up and down, blotched with sweat, caught in an unremitting temper tantrum.

“Why?” The colt was a hand or two taller than the yearlings about them, with a snaky neck, an ugly, boney head, ragged ears that he kept laid back even when he stood fairly quiet, a wicked plotting eye. Whoever brought that one to the Fair had more hope than good sense. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sure,” Jaril said. “Tough, smart and kill anyone tries to steal him. And fast.” He reached up, tugged at Taguiloa’s sleeve. “Come on. Once the breeder knows we really want him, he’ll try to screw up the price. He expects to make enough to pay for the colt’s feed, selling him for tiger meat to some Temueng collector. Don’t believe anything he tries to tell you about the dun’s breeding. The mare was too old for bearing and on her way to the butcher when she got out at the wrong time and got crossed by a maneater they had to track down and kill. Took them almost six months to trap him. Colt’s been mistreated from the day he was foaled and even if he wanted to behave he wasn’t let. Offer the breeder three silver and settle for a half-gold, no more. Don’t act like you know it all, that’s what breeders like him love to see. He’ll peel your hide and draw your back teeth before you notice. Just say you want the colt and will pay a silver for him, let the breeder rant all he wants, then say it again.” He gave Taguiloa a minatory glance, then a cheeky grin and trotted away, his small sandaled feet kicking up new gouts of dust

Annoyed and amused, Taguiloa followed him, knowing Jaril was getting back at him for the times he’d ordered the changechild about. He was a tiny Hina boy today with bowl-cut black hair and dark gold skin, except for his eyes indistinguishable from any of a thousand homeless urchins infesting the streets of Silili, dressed in dusty cotton trousers and a wrapabout shirt that hung open over a narrow torso and fluttered when there was any breeze. He rounded a haystack and stopped beside three men squatting about a small fire drinking large bowls of acid black tea. He waited for Taguiloa, then nodded at a fox-faced man, lean and wiry, with a small hard pot belly that strained the worn fabric of his shirt.

Taguiloa came up to him. “Salim,” he said, “you own the dun colt tethered by himself, back there a ways?”

“I have a fine dun yearling, Salim. Indeed, one whose blood lines trace back on both sides to the great mare Kashantuea and her finest stud the Moonleaper. Alas, the times are hard, Saom, that a man must be forced to part with his heart’s delight.”

“Bloodlines, ah. Then you’ve turned up the man-eater’s origins?”

A flicker of sour disgust, then admiration. “That a sothron islander should know so much! Oh knowing one, come, let us gaze on the noble lines, the matchless spirit of this pearl among horses. A pearl without price as such a wise one as you are must see at a single glance.”

“I know nothing of horseflesh,” Taguiloa said, glad enough to take Jaril’s advice. “One silver for your dun.”

“One silver?” The breeder’s face went red and his eyes bulged. “One silver for such speed and endurance. Of course, a jest at my expense. Ha-Ha. Twenty gold.”

“I noticed the spirit. He was doing his best to eat the plank in front of him. No doubt he’d prefer man-flesh like his sire. Two silvers, though I’m a fool to say it.”

“Never! Though I starve and my children starve and my house fall down. Fifteen gold.”

“Eating your house too, is he? Think what you’ll save on repairs by getting rid of him. Three silver and that’s my limit.”

“His mother was Hooves-that-sing, renowned through the world. Twelve gold, only twelve gold, though it hurts my heart to say it.”

“No doubt it was because of her great age that she died in the birthing.” Taguiloa wiped at his face and looked at his hand. “I’m hot and tired, my wife waits with a bath and tea, let us finish this. Three silver for the beast and five copper for his rope and halter. My boy can find a new fancy if he has to. Well?”

“You’re jesting again, noble skim, such a miserable sum…”

“So be it. Come,” he wheeled and started off, knowing jaril was coming reluctantly to his feet and pouting with disappointment. Might work, might not, he didn’t really care, he didn’t want anything to do with that piece of malevolence in the corral.

The breeder let him get three strides away, then called out, “Wait. Oh noble Sen, why didn’t you say you bought for this divine child, this god among boys? That my heart’s delight should find a home with such a young lion, ah that tempts me, yes, I can give my prize into such hands, though if you could bring yourself, noble Satim, a half-gold…” He sighed as Taguiloa took another step away. “You are a hard man, noble Satim. Agreed then, three silver and a copper hand. You pay the tag fee?”

Satisfied with his bargaining, Taguiloa nevertheless glanced first at Jaril, got his nod, then waved a hand in airy agreement.

They stopped at the pavilion of records, paid the transfer fee and the small bribes necessary to get the clerks to record the sale and hand over the tin ear tag, a larger bribe to get a tagger to set the tag in the dun colt’s ear.

As soon as he identified the proper beast, the breeder’s job was done but he lingered, relishing the dismay on the face of the tagman when he heard the yearling scream, saw him lash out with each hoof in turn, saw his wild wicked eye, his long yellow teeth. The tagman started to refuse and retreat, but Taguiloa got a good grip on his arm. “The boy’ll get him calmed down. Watch.”

Jaril, climbed the rails and stood balanced on the top one, looking down at the the dun who went crazy trying to get at him. Somewhere deep in his soul the breeder found a limit and opened his mouth to protest, shut it when Taguiloa laughed at him and repeated, “Watch.”

The boy found the moment he wanted and launched himself from the rail, twisting somehow in mid-air so he came down astride the colt. The yearling squealed with rage, gathered himself…

And snorted mildly, did a few fancy steps, then stood quite still, twisting his limber neck around so he could nose gently at Jaril’s knee. Again the breeder started to shout a warning, again he held-his peace as the dun swung his head back round and stared at him. Breeder stared at beast, beast at breeder and the man looked away first, convinced the beast was snickering at him. Fuming, he stalked off, aware he’d been fooled into selling a valuable beast for almost nothing.

After they bought the bay cob and the gray gelding, they left the Fair, Taguiloa on the gelding, leading the cob, Jaril riding the yearling. They left the three horses with a widow who had a shed and pasture she rented. In the days that followed Jaril and Yaril flew across frequently to train and grow the dun from a yearling to a lean fit three-year-old. Those same days Taguiloa planned the performances and rehearsed his troupe.

THEY WALKED OUT of Silili, Taguiloa, Brann, Harra, Negomas, Linjijan, Jaril as Hina boy and Yaril as brindle hound. Taguiloa and Linjijan put their shoulders to the man-yokes of a tilt cart that carried their props, costumes, camping gear, food, and a miscellany of other useful objects. Brann and Harra slipped straps over their shoulders and added their weight to the task of towing that clumsy vehicle. Jaril ran ahead of them with Negomas, both boys chattering excitedly about what they expected to happen, a sharing of ignorance and pleasurable speculation. Yaril trotted about, her nose to the ground, enjoying the smells of the morning.