Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

Now she was as much at ease as the others, as she watched Taguiloa’s smiles and savored her own delight. Rehearsals were one thing but putting on a finished performance with that storm of audience approval-well, it was no wonder he was still a little drunk with the pleasure of it She felt decidedly giddy and giggly herself.

“It could get addicting,” she said aloud.

Taguiloa opened one eye, grinned at her.

The door to the bathhouse opened and several serving maids came in. They set up a long table in one corner and covered it with trays of fingerfood, several large stoneware teapots, more wine jugs, drinking bowls, hot napkins. The roundfaced old woman who supervised this bowed to Taguiloa. “With the jamar’s compliments, sai5m-y-saiir.”

Taguiloa lifted a heavy arm from the water. “The Godalau bless his generosity.”

The old woman bowed again. “Saiim, the Host does not wish to intrude on your rest, but he desires you to know that the jamar has requested you perform at his house the coming night.”

Taguiloa lay silent for a breath or two, then finally said, “Inform the host that we will be pleased to perform for the jamar provided we can arrange a suitable fee and proper quarters for ourselves and our horses.”

The woman bowed a third time and left, shooing the curious and excited maidservants before her.

Taguiloa batted at the water and said nothing for a few moments, then he sighed and rose to sit crosslegged on the tiles. “A fee is probably a lost cause, I’m afraid. We’ll be lucky if we get a meal and shelter. I’d hoped to get farther along betbre I ran into this sort of complication. Still, it could be worth the irritation. These Temueng jamars keep in close touch by pigeon mail and courier, so word of us will be passed on and reach Andurya Durat before we do.” He studied Brann a long minute. “You will be careful?”

“I’ll try, Taga. Slya knows, I’ll try.”

Harra got out of the water, wrapped a toweling robe about her and went to inspect the food, suddenly very hungry. She poured some tea and began trying the different things set out on the trays. “Come on, all of you. Leave the heavy worrying for some other times, this is heaven. If you’re as hungry as me.”

THE JAMAR WAS a big man. Even as tall as, she was, Brann’s head came only to his middle ribs. His shoulders were broad enough to make three Hina, his belly big and hard as a beer tun, his legs tree trunks, arms, feet and hands built on a similar heroic scale. He should have been ugly, but wasn’t. He should have seemed fierce and intimidating as an angry storm dragon, but didn’t. He gave them a mild, beaming welcome. “Hamardan House is honored by your presence,” he boomed.

Taguiloa bowed. “We are the honored ones,” he murmured, feeling a bit battered.

Jamar Hamardan escorted the troupe to the rooms within the House he had set aside for them, something Taguiloa hadn’t expected, nor had he expected the luxury of those rooms. He didn’t quite know how to deal with all this effusiveness. It made him uneasy. Temuengs simply did not treat Hina and foreigners like this.

The jamar hovered about them as they tried to settle themselves, silent and diffident but impossible to ignore.

His bulging eyes slipped again and again to Brann, Harra and the others; again and again he licked his lips, opened his mouth to speak, shut it without saying anything. Taguiloa tried to edge him out the door and away from the troupe so he would say what was on his mind, but he seemed impervious to hints and unlikely to respond well to being hustled out in spite of his apparent amiability. Taguiloa knew enough to be extremely wary at this moment, though the tension of keeping up the required courtesies wracked his nerves. He caught Harra’s eye. Tungjii bless her quick wits, she gathered the rest of the troupe and hustled them out of the room. The Yaril hound settled in the corner of the room, her crystal eyes half-closed but fixed on the Temueng, a powerful defender if there was trouble.

Jamar Hamardan waited while the room emptied out completely, listening absently as Taguiloa continued his inane chatter. Abruptly the huge Temueng cleared his throat, shutting off Taguiloa in mid-sentence. “How many days can you stay here…?” He fumbled for some way to address the player. He wouldn’t use the Hina saх though he obviously wished to be polite, and he wouldn’t give the player any Temueng honorific-no Temueng could do that and keep his self-respect. He avoided the difficulty by falling silent and waiting with twitchy impatience for Taguiloa’s answer.

“Ah…” Taguiloa scrambled for some way to escape what he saw coming. “Ahh… jamar Hamardan, saх jura, we have to be in Durat before the storms ,blow down from the high plains.” He was deferential but determined, used his most careful formal speech and hoped for the best. If this Temueng decided he wanted his own troupe of entertainers, there was almost nothing they could do. Running meant giving up everything and he wouldn’t do that as long as there was the smallest chance he could work himself free. “Stay here,” the jamar said. “You won’t lose by it.”

“A generous offer, jamar Hamardan saх jura.” Taguiloa spoke slowly, still hunting for a way out. “If I may, we need more than a place to keep the rain off and food in our bellies…” He risked the touch of commonspeech after a sidelong glance at the Temueng. “We are at our best this year, saх jura. If I may, we have dreams… but that is nothing to you, saх jura. I waste your time with my babbling, your pardon, saх jura.” He lowered his eyes, bowed his head and waited.

The Temueng cleared his throat. “No, no,” he said. “No bother.” Silence.

Taguiloa glanced quickly at the Temueng. The big man looked troubled. He turned his head suddenly, caught Taguiloa watching him. “One week,” he said. “My jamika grieves.” He half-swallowed the words. “Our eldest son is with the forces in Croaldhu, our youngest was called to Andurya Durat.” He looked past Taguiloa as if he no longer was aware of him. “He is her heart, the breath in her throat. A good lad for all that, rides like he’s part of his horse, open-handed with his friends, spirited and impatient. Maybe a little heedless, but he’s young.” He cleared his throat again. “You…” Again he searched for a word but settled for the slightly derogatory term used by temuengs for Hina females. “Your ketchin, they should keep the jam ika distracted. She was pleased by you last night. She smiled when you did that thing on the rail and the rest of it… well, she slept without…” He broke off, frowned. “Give her some time away from grieving, showman, and you can ask what you will.”

Taguiloa looked away from the huge man stumbling over his love for his cow of a wife and for that calf who sounded like most young male Temuengs, arrogant, thoughtless and as unpleasant to his own kind as he was to those who had the misfortune to be in his power. Never mind that, he told himself, a week’s better than I hoped. He swept into a low bow. “Of your kindness; saх jura, certainly a week.”

The jamar Hamardan turned to leave, turned back. “One of the ketchin, she’s a seer?”

“One can sometimes see past a day, past a night, saх jura.”

“My jamika will ask the ketcha to read for her. I do not inquire how the ketcha reads or if she knows more than how to judge a face, whether she lies or speaks what truth she sees. I do not care, showman. Tell your seer to make my jamika contented. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, saх jura.”

The jamar hesitated another minute in the doorway, then stumped out.

Taguiloa stood rubbing at the back of his neck with fingers that trembled. Relief, apprehension, anger churned in him. A week. And who said it would end then? One week, then another, then another. It had to end there. Had to. He touched the shoulder where he’d felt his double-natured patron riding and wondered if this was one of Tungjii’s dubious gifts. He scanned his immediate past to see where he’d forgot and invoked his god. Nothing but ordinary chaos and the usual curses quickly forgotten. He forced himself to relax and went searching for the others to tell them what had happened.