Jo Clayton: Drinker of Souls

“No. I can get gem. Go on out. I need you there.”

She nodded, wiped her hands on the cloth laid out by the house steward, threw the cloth down, went around the back end of the screen and settled herself as inconspicuously as she could beside Negomas, ignoring the flare-up of noise that only stopped at a sharp tap of the gong at Maratullik’s elbow. She picked up the beat and fit herself into the music, then helped it change into the sharp dissonances and throbbing hard beats of Taguiloa’s dance music.

Taguiloa shivered his arms, sipped at the air, closed his eyes and once again played over in his mind his first tumbling run and the dance moves immediately after; he’d be moving at speed, carried on the music, going faster and faster until he was at the edge of his ability to control his body. He tapped the small gong to let them know he was ready, shook himself again, then listened for the music that would lift him into his final dance.

JARIL CAME TROTTING back to the clump of trees where the Arth Slyans huddled in the cold soggy darkness. “We’ve eased the slave portal open. Yaril’s keeping watch on the guards, but they’ve got themselves some mulled cider and are more interested in that than what’s outside the windows. Keep quiet and move real slow. We don’t want to have to kill these guards, we don’t know when they’re going to be relieved or what would happen if the next set found them dead. Be better if the alarm doesn’t go up till the morning, better for Brann and better for you all. Follow me and keep in the shadows, I don’t want you even breathing hard, and when we get out stay hugging the wall until we’re far enough away from the guard towers it won’t matter if they see us. Got that? Good. Come on.

They followed the child through the shrubbery; the storm wind covering any noises they made, tension winding higher and higher in them all until Cathar wanted to shout and break things and knew the rest were feeling much the same. They had to cross a small open space before they reached the narrow gate set within the larger one. Jaril didn’t stop but went skimming across the gravel, his feet making almost no sound at all. Cathar watched the thin line of his folk move after the boy and winced at every crunch of their feet. He waited until the last were through then followed Garrag across the gravel, his back knotted with expectation of shouts or spears hurled at him. He was almost disappointed when nothing happened and he was through the portal and walking along the massive white wall fronting the palace grounds. Jail] brushed by him, passed back through the portal. Over his shoulder, Cathar watched the door swing shut, then saw a patch of light ooze through the wood, coalesce into the boy. Jaril ran past him, waving him on impatiently, no time to indulge curiosity now. Cathar moved his shoulders and grinned, then shifted into an easy lope to catch up with the others. Slya bless, what a pair they are. He looked at the nearly invisible mistcrane flying above them, the pale boy-form leading them. Slya bless.

A moment later Jaril led them across the avenue and along one of the stubby piers. Two sailboats were set up and ready at the far end. Working as quickly as they could, Cathar and his brother, Farra and her sister Fann got the others settled into the boats, the sails raised, the lines cast off. The water was choppy, the wind difficult and the rain didn’t help, but once they got away from the shore, that rain served to conceal them from anyone watching. Then the escape became a matter of enduring wet and cold and keeping the boats from capsizing. The mist-cranes flew with them guiding them until they were halfway across the lake, then one of them went ahead to take care of the guards at the outlet into the Palachunt.

When Cathar eased his boat into the outcurrent, the guard towers shone as brightly as usual with the huge lampions that spread their light out across the river-until there were no dark patches for smugglers or troublemakers to slip past. He chewed on his lip, but the mistcrane that guided them flew serenely on so he tried to relax and trust the children. A flicker of darkness sweeping past him, then there were two mistcranes sailing the clouds above them. No shouts from the towers, no stones catapulted at them. Slya bless, what a pair.

They circled a number of moored merchanters, tricky sailing in the dark and storm, with the river’s current both a help and a hindrance, then the cranes blurred into shimmering spheres of light hanging about the masts of a small ship moored away from the others.

When they came alongside that ship, a broad solid man, a panday with a clanking gold ornament dangling from one ear, leaned over the rail and tossed Cathar a rope. “Welcome friend,” he called down. “Tik-rat, get those nets overside.”

TACUILOA WHEELED ACROSS the matting, sprang off into a double twisting backflip, swung round and dropped onto his hands as he landed, used the slap of his hands on the mat to power him back onto his feet, then went on one knee in a low bow, the music behind him breaking as suddenly into silence.

Silence from the watchers, then a burst of applause, calls for more, more. But Taguiloa was exhausted, not even sure he could stand yet. He stayed in the bow, his arms outstretched at first then folded on his knee.

Maratullik touched the gong beside him and the applause faded to silence. He leaned forward. “A remarkable performance.” He watched as Taguiloa got heavily to his feet and bowed again from the waist, acknowledging the compliment. For him at that moment, the Meslar was little more than a paper figure, unreadable, a mask that might have anything behind it, something a smooth voice came from, saying pleasant things. “Most remarkable. My compliments, dancer. Come here, if you please.”

Taguiloa stumbled forward, exaggerating his weariness though not by much, wondering what was coming next.

“Accept this poor recompense for the pleasure you have given my young friends.” With a sweeping gesture, Maratullik brought round a heavy leather purse and held it out, smiling at the roars and applause from the benches.

Taguiloa dropped to one knee in a profound obeisance. “Godalau bless your generosity, saх jura Meslar.”

“Introduce your troupe, Hina, they too deserve our thanks.”

Was he preening himself before the sons of his peers or was he after something else. Paper figure making gestures? He was pleasing those louts if the noise was any measure of their feelings. Taguiloa stood slowly, holding the purse before him. “Linjijan. Hina, flute player, the second best in Silili, the first being his great-uncle the wondrous Ladjinatuai who plays for the dancer Blackthorn.”

Nod from the Hand. Desultory applause from the benches.

“Negomas. M’darjin and drummer.”

As before, a quiet nod from the Hand, a sprinkle of clapping from the youths.

“Harra Hazhani, Rukka-nag, dancer and daroudist.”

Nod from the Hand. He scanned her face with some care but said nothing. Whistles and shouts from the benches that quieted as soon as Maratullik touched his gong.

“Brannish Tovah. Sujomann, seer and dancer.

Again Maratullik scanned her face, saying nothing, again he stopped the noise from the meslarlings when he tired of it. “My steward tells me the rain is heavy. Rooms will be provided for you to take your night’s rest here. You may return to the Quarter come the morning.” Without waiting for a response from Taguiloa, he turned to Brann. “You will please us yet more, oh seer, if you stay to read for us.”

She lifted her head and stared at him coolly. Taguiloa held his breath. “Certainly, saO jura Meslar. If you will furnish a guard instructed to curb the enthusiasm of the overeager.” Taguiloa let his breath trickle slowly out; this response fit within the margins of proper behavior though barely so. Brann, oh Brann, oh Bramble-all-thorns, remember who this is and why you’re here.