Jo Clayton: Drinker of Souls

Brann felt a touch of pleasure in Taguiloa’s evident delight, a touch of satisfaction at this indication of the troupe’s high repute, but pleasure and satisfaction drained rapidly out of her as had all feeling since her folk left with Sammang, except for an occasional twinge of uneasiness when she thought of what slept within her. She sang to it at night, Sleep Slya Slya sleep, Yongala dances dreams for you, and hoped the god would sleep until Brann took them both back to the slopes of Tincreal. In spite of the lethargy that seized on her the past three days, she’d struggled to present her usual face to the world, grateful to Taguiloa and the others for giving direction to her life when every other purpose had been stripped from her. Having to stay with the troupe and perform with them meant it would be a while longer before she had to make painful decisions about what she was going to do with the rest of her life, it was an interlude when she could relax, enjoy the approval of audiences, the friendship of Taguiloa, Harra and Negomas and the comforting indolence of Linjijan, and let life flow about her undisturbed and unexamined.

She stripped, took the dance robe Jaril handed her, and wriggled into it, smoothed it down over her breasts and hips, enjoying the slide of the silk against her skin, pleased by the way it clung and showed off the body beneath. “I’m getting very vain,” she told Jaril, giggled at the face he made.

Taguiloa dressed quickly, pulling on a crimson silk body suit, tied a broad gold sash about his waist, began spreading the white paint over his face.

A commotion at the door. He turned toward the curtained arch, smoothing the white onto the back of one hand and between his fingers.

The drape billowed violently. A tall thin girlchild stalked in, followed by a seven-foot guard. Three steps in, she stopped and looked around with arrogant inquisitiveness. Hot yellow eyes landed on Taguiloa. “I am Ludila Dondi,” she said, “sister of the Consort.”

He bowed. “Damasatirajan.”

She stared at him as if she expected more from him, but he felt safer silent so he continued to wait, mute as the huge guard who stayed half a pace behind her.

She brushed past him, took up the jar of facewhite, poked her finger in it, then wiped the finger on the wall, dropped the jar without bothering about where it fell. By luck it landed upright on one of the pillows; annoyed but forced to keep silent, Taguiloa caught up the jar and set it back on the table, stood watching as Ludila Dondi sauntered about the room, poking and prying into everything. She slapped a heavy hand on a drumhead, ignored the alarm on Negomas’ face as she beat harder and harder on the skin, laughing at the booms she produced. Negomas bit his lip and said nothing, but his brown eyes were eloquent. She gave the drum a kick, he caught it as it toppled and scowled after her as she strolled to Harra. “Are you the seer?” She put her hands on narrow hips and scanned Harra from head to toe with insolent thoroughness.

“No, damasaorajan.”

“I am the Dondi, ketcha.” She turned slowly, glaring about the room. “Where’s the seer? I want the seer.”

Brann stepped around the screen and bowed, antipathy sitting sour on her stomach. When she straightened, she watched the Dondi’s face change. The Temueng girl felt it too. Hate at first glance. She was very young, long thin arms, long thin legs, black hair hanging loose, elaborate earrings in long-lobed ears, small mirrors bound in silver. A mix of some sort. Ternueng plus something else. And dangerous, for all that she was a child. She was empowered. Warning plucked at Brann’s nerves, then she felt the god stirring in her and forgot everything else. No, she thought fiercely, no you don’t, you don’t ruin Taga’s life.-No! She drew in on herself, pushing the god-force flat.

The Dondi walked around her, nostril lifted in a sneer. “You real or fake?”

“I am an entertainer, oh sabr the Dondi.” Brann was pleased but rather surprised at how cool and controlled she sounded. “Which would you prefer?”

The Dondi prowled about her with awkward adolescent ferocity, tugging at Brann’s hair, pinching her breast, poking a finger into her stomach, drawing a hand down the curve of her hip, treating her like an animal on the block. Brann felt no anger, only a deeper and more intense loathing.

Bored with the lack of reaction, the Dondi stepped back. “Prophesy, oh seer.”

“Certainly, satir the Dondi.” Brann lifted her arms, pressed her hands together to make a shallow bowl. “Place your hand on mine, please.”

“Which hand?”

“Whichever you choose, Sit amp; the Dondi. The choosing is part of the reading.”

The Dondi looked at her hands, started to extend the right toward Brann, then snatched it back. “Nol” She wheeled and stalked from the room, followed by the mute guard.

Brann shivered and looked sick.

Taguiloa came to her, touched her shoulder with his unpainted hand. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know.” Brann shuddered. “I think she was just curious. Or sniffing at us to see what we were.” She went silent for a breath or two. “I shouldn’t have come here, Taga. Should have sprained my ankle or something.”

“Couldn’t do that. Not with Maratullik breathing down your neck.” He soothed her, though he agreed with her, wishing he’d thought of it himself, but he didn’t want anxiety tightening her muscles and perverting her timing. “Make them drool, Bramble, make them pant for what they can’t get, make them forget you’re anything but a woman.”

She shook her head, laughed. “All right. All right, Taga. I get the message.”

“Good.” He went back to the table and began smoothing the white paint over his other hand.

BRANN’S DANCE went well, no one jumping up to denounce the fire as demon-bred or accuse her of running off with imperial slaves. Applause when she finished was enough to show some interest but not great enthusiasm. Taguiloa relaxed as the dance went on, satisfied that the Dondi’s visit was an aberration, not an indication that anyone here had serious questions about them. One thing bothered him. It was a dead house, Temuengs were sitting like stumps out there, barely could stir up a flash of response. He rubbed at the nape of his neck. Just meant more work, that was all.

The audience hall was a huge barrel-vaulted room, large enough to hold the Quarter’s market square and have space left over; hundreds of glass and gold lamps were clustered along the walls and hanging on gilded chains from the ridge of the vault, swinging slightly in the drafts, painting a constantly shifting web of shadow on the floor and on the forms of those seated about the dance mat, from the look of the crowd; most of the meslar lords in Durat. Royal Abanaskranjinga sat on a carved and gilded throne on a dais a double-dozen steps above the floor, behind him a carved and gilded screen. Taguiloa caught glimpses of dark figures moving behind the screen, probably the Emperor’s wives and concubines and some of his older children. His present Consort sat six steps below him, her head even with his knees. On a cushion by her feet was a young boy, a stiff, determined look on his round face; no more than four or five, he was the chosen heir at present, the favorite among old Krajing’s many sons. Closest to the dais were none of the meslars, but a number of dark-clad Temuengs with the same mix in them as in the Dondi, behind them a clutch of men and women wearing heavy brown robes with cowls pulled forward so their faces were hidden in shadow.

TACUILOA FINISHED his clown dance and bowed, avoiding the Emperor’s hungry black eyes, eyes that caressed him, seemed to devour him. During the dance the Emperor had laughed and slapped his thigh, bent and whispered in his Consort’s ear. Hungry, hungry eyes. No wonder Maratullik wanted a distraction to take the Emperor’s gaze off him. Taguiloa bowed again and ran behind the screen.