Jo Clayton: Drinker of Souls

“You suggest…”

“Nothing, Sao jura Meslar. I warn. My god is jealous of my person and prone to hasty acts.”

“Ah yes. I know something of the Sujomanni. Which of their gods is yours?”

“The Hag with no name, saх jura Meslar. She who spins the thread of fate.”

“Thus your calling. Most fitting.” He looked from bench to bench, quiet now except for some muttering, and moved his lips in a neat and mirthless smile. “We will forgo the readings, seer. This night. Perhaps another time would be more propitious.”

“Your will is mine, saх Jura Meslar.” She bowed and stood silent, waiting with the others for their dismissal.

“Would it were so, Sujomann.” He struck the gong and the steward came forward to lead them out.

WORKING SWIFTLY and with a vast good humor, the crew got the Arth Slyans stowed below deck. The flight through the palace grounds and across the lake had used up the better part of three hours and even the fittest among the escapees was cold, weary and soaked to the skin. Rubbed down and dressed in dry clothing, hoisted into hammocks, wrapped in blankets, swaying gently as the ship hoisted anchor and started downriver, all tension drained from them, warm and comfortable, most of them drifted into a deep sleep.

Cathar was too restless to sleep. He tumbled out of his hammock and made his way back on deck. The masts were bare except for a small triangle of sail; the shipmaster was taking her away from her mooring as silently and inconspicuously as he could. Trying to keep out of the way of sailors passing back and forth along the deck, uneasy about his footing, wind and rain beating against his back, Cathar groped along the rail to the bow where the Panday stood staring into the gloom. He touched the man’s arm. “Shipmaster?”

The Panday turned a stone-god face to him, a sternness in it that eased a little when he saw who it was. Even with that easing he didn’t look very welcoming, his words underlined his dislike for mudfeet wandering about his deck. “You’ll be more comfortable below. Brann’s brother. Cathar, is it? Right. Soon as, we’re around that bend ahead we’ll be racing. No place for passengers then.”

“Why isn’t Brann here?”

“Your sister has proper reasons for everything she does; leave her to them. She got you out, I’ll get you home, that’s enough. You’ll see her when she’s ready. Look, Cathar, it’s three days coming up the Palachunt and usually two days going down for a shipmaster who gives his ship the respect she deserves. Us, we’ll be racing the pigeon mail and taking chances that turn my hair white thinking of ‘em. If we can make the mouth by noon this coming day, there’s no way in this world the Temuengs can get word to the fort there in time to stop us. But, lad, one thing we don’t need is interference on, deck. You keep your folk below, you hear?”

“I hear. Why are you doing this?”

“She’s our witch as much as she’s your sister. Someday when I’m good and drunk maybe I’ll tell you the tale.”

“Witch?” Then he remembered Brann’s face changing and looked away, uneasy at the thought.

“Below with you. Now.” A strong hand closing on Cathar’s shoulder, turning him. “Get.”

BRANN STOOD at the glazed window seeing the gray curtains of the rain and the flicker of the single lamp cutting the darkness of the small room. A movement in the window mirror, the door opening. She stiffened then relaxed as Yaril •came in, small black-haired Hina urchin. He came across and leaned against her hip; neither of them spoke for a while then he began singing, his voice a burr that hardly stirred the air.

Mistcrane, mistcrane flying high

Through the gray and stormy sky,

Wounded moon sails high and white,

River races with the night.

Oh, the mistcrane’s ghostly flight

Flitting phantoms never missed

From their greedy master’s fist.

Mistcrane’s flight is finished now,

Shipman answers to his vow,

Phantoms waking from their fright,

Laughing in the face of might

As the sun soars shining bright.

Turn the key

Set us free

Blessed be we

When home we see.

Brann sighed, moved from the window. “Mistcrane’s flight might be finished but there’s a fistful of other threads to tie off. Watch while I sleep, my friend. I trust the latches on these doors about as much as I trust the walls.”

WITH A STRONG following wind augmenting the push of the current and a clear sky opening ahead of them as they left the storm behind, the little ship groaned and strained and flew.down the river, Sammang, jimm and Tik-rat watching the water as if it was a treacherous mount that would try to rub them from its back given half a chance. They raced from point to point, trusting memories from the trip upstream, taking impossible gambles and bringing them off as if Tungjii rode the bow scattering blessings before them.

They emerged with the dawn from the twisting chute through towering limestone cliffs into the broad triangle of wetlands sloping down to the coast. Sammang sent Tik-rat into the jib-boom stays to spot snags, took in sail until the ship’s speed was reduced by half, put Hairy Jimm at the wheel and kept the crew hopping as he went carefully down that treacherous stretch winding through half-drowned trees whose stale stench clung so closely to the soupy greenish-brown water that he felt as if he were eating, drinking, breathing it along with the swarms of pinhead midges blown from the trees on the heavy erratic wind.

They left the trees about mid-morning and picked up speed along the broad main channel of the delta, skimming along between stretches of saw grass and stunted brush. The air immediately seemed cleaner and many degrees cooler. Sammang sighed and moved his shoulders, rubbed his back against the foremast to get a little of the stiffness out of the muscles there. Tik-rat came off the ropes: rubbing at tired eyes, groaning and grousing but cheerful. Sammang laughed at him, then sent him below to tell the Arth Slyans they could come on deck if they wanted, get some sun and fresh air. He watched the youth go bouncing away and knew there was going to be a song about this race, one he’d enjoy but have to suppress for a while at least if he wanted to keep trading in Silili. He laced his fingers behind his head and pushed, exploding out a sigh of pleasure as he pulled against the resistance and worked his muscles. One last knot to unravel. The fort at the river’s mouth. He glanced up at the hot pallid sky thick with birds. None of them carrying mail, he was ready to swear that. A witch-summoned demon might beat them but he had strong doubts so powerful a magus could be found in time to make a difference; Temuengs tended to distrust and dispose of anyone with that much power. He yawned, nodded at Jimm and went to see if Leymas had fresh kaffeh in the pot.

TAGUILOA STARED out his window at the busy courtyard below, fingers tapping nervously on the sill. Brann was out in the market somewhere, set up for readings, keeping herself visible while Imperial guards stalked about turning the Quarter upside down as they searched for the escaped slaves. He hadn’t seen her since the troupe went wearily up the stairs a little after sunup. He didn’t want to see her. He liked her, she was easy enough to like, doing the best she could to piece together the ruins of her existence. Trouble was, he’d got so close to being set for life. A breath away from court. A breath! Easier to endure losing what he’d had no real chance of getting. But to get so close… if it didn’t happen, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d handle himself. He left the window and began pacing about the room with the barely contained energy of a caged tiger. Imperial guards stumping through the quarter; he could hear the sounds of their progress drifting in on the wind. Rumors. Jassi brought a clutch of them with his breakfast tray. The escapees were twelve identical sisters who performed unnatural acts on each other while the emperor watched, the description of those acts growing more lurid with repetition. Or they were snake men with poison fangs the Emperor kept as a weapon to scare the meslars into doing what he told him and they were stolen by the meslars who were planning to assassinate the Emperor and he knew it and that was why he was so hot to get them back. Or they were a coven of witches of talents so wild no one agreed on what they could be, turning lead into gold, whipping up an elixir that guaranteed immortality, seers who could tell the Emperor everything that was happening in every corner of the Tigarezun. Rumors. None that connected Taguiloa and the others with the escape. Tungjii took Brann’s plot and made it better, bringing the rain clown on them so they were shut up in Maratullik’s house for the whole night, impossible they could have any connection with the escape. His mind told him, be easy, the Hand knows where we were, he can’t suspect us. His gut replied, that we’re so clearly out of it might be just the thing to make him suspect us. He doesn’t need proof to maul us about, all he needs is suf ficient malice and a shred of suspicion. Taguiloa kicked a chair across the room, stalked after it and jerked the door open, startling a maid into dropping a pile of dirty towels. He gathered them up for her and sent her down to find him some sandwiches and a pot of tea.