Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

“Mm. Means he’s inside. But is the witch with him?”

“I’ll see.” Before Brann or Aituatea could stop her, Hotea flitted back up the stairs.

“T’kk, young Hina. Pray the Dondi is sleeping or not there, otherwise your sister could bring the roof down on us.”

“She won’t think before she does.”

“And you think too much, eh?”

Aituatea ignored that as he gazed up the stairs, anxious about Hotea.

Seconds later she was back, a streak of subdued light plunging down the slant, a waterfall of woman ghost, halting before them in a swirl of crystal fragments that rapidly reassembled themselves into Hotea-shape. “They’re in bed, both of them. Asleep, I think, I only poked my head in for a second. They ate someone tonight, the smell of it is sickening thick in there.”

“Asleep. Good. Let them stay that way.” She led them around beneath the stairs so the sound of their whispers would not carry to the guards. She settled herself with her back to the wall, waited until Aituatea was down beside her, squatting, fingers rubbing at his sore hip, preferring the pain to the thoughts in his head; it was almost a sufficient distraction. “Bit of luck,” Brann murmured, “finding them asleep and sated.” A quick wry smile. “Not so good for whoever they ate, but we can’t change that. I am very glad indeed that the Dondi’s asleep. Even so, be warned, she limits me. I don’t want to stir up resonances that would wake her too soon.” When Aituatea indicated he didn’t understand, she sighed but didn’t try to explain. “First thing is taking out the guards.” She flipped back the edge of her leather vest, showed him the twin blades sheathed inside. “I can pick them off, but I can’t be sure of silencing them, takes time to bleed to death. Any ideas?”

Aituatea nodded, reached inside his jacket, felt a moment among the pockets sewn into the lining, took out a section of nested bamboo tubes. “Carry this for tight holes. Haven’t had to use the darts yet, but I can hit a hand at twenty paces. Sister, where are they? what armor?”

Hotea knelt beside him. “About a dozen paces from the landing, my paces, not yours,” She held out her arms, wrists pressed together, hands spread at an angle. “That’s the shooting angle you’ll have from the nearest shelter. They’re not looking toward the stairway, didn’t the whole time I was watching them, though that wasn’t very long.” She shifted restlessly. “It’s a tight shot, brother, even you’ll have trouble. They’re trussed in studded leather and iron straps and wearing helmets.” She framed her face with her hands, her brow and chin covered. “That’s all you got.”

“Hands?”

“I forgot. Gloves.”

“Tungjii’s tits, they don’t make it easy.” He pulled the tubes out until he had a pipe about a foot long. He looked over his shoulder at the dogs; they were on their feet, crystal eyes bright and interested, tongues lolling. He breathed a curse, brought out a small lacquer box, held it in the hand that held the pipe. “Them. If I miss, can they take out the guards?”

Without answering, Brann pushed onto her feet and went around to the foot of the stairs. The mastiffs sniffed at Aituatea’s legs as he stood beside her, then went padding up the stairs as quiet as cats slow and flowing so their nails wouldn’t click on the wood. Near the bend in the flight they misted out of shape and reformed into long brindle snakes that flowed silent and nearly invisible up to the landing.

Aituatea followed them up the steps, narrowing himself to the need of the moment. On the top step he knelt and eased around the corner, concealed in the shadow not lit by the lamp suspended above the sundoor, picking out gleams in the many layered black lacquer and the gilt sun-shape inlaid in both halves of the double door. He popped one of his poison thorns in the pipe, careful not to touch the gummy tip, got a second dart from the box and set it on the floor by his knee. Ache in his hip forgotten, chill in his belly forgotten, he focused on the expanse of cheek and sent the dart winging with a hard puff. As soon as it was on its way, he reloaded the pipe and sent the second at the other guard.

One then the other slapped at his face, eyes popping, gave a small strangled gasp and started to crumple. Aituatea was on his feet and running as soon as he saw the first man waver, knowing he wouldn’t get there in time to catch both.

The shape changers flowed up from the floor by the guards’ feet, children again, caught the collapsing men and eased them down quietly. Aituatea touched his brow and lips in a gesture of congratulation. They grinned and bobbed their pale shining heads.

He stepped over a recumbent guard and eyed the double door, brushed his hand along the center line, felt the door yield a little to the pressure. “Sister,” he breathed, “what sort of latch?”

Hotea oozed partway through the door, then pulled back out. “Turnbolt. You’ll have to cut the tongue.”

He scowled at the gilt sun. “And hope the noise doesn’t wake them. Some hope.”

Brann touched his shoulder. He jumped. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

She ignored that as foolishness. “Be ready,” she whispered. “Yaril will throw the bolt for us, but her presence in the room will wake the witch.”

The fairer child changed into mist and flowed under the door. A second later he heard a muted tunk as the bolt tongue withdrew, then a wild, piercing yell.

Brann leaped at the door, hit the crack with the heel of one hand, slamming the doors open. She charged in to stand in front of Yaril who crouched on the rug, eyes steady on the witch.

Ludila Dondi arose from the bed, her face ugly with rage, her naked body yellowed ivory in the dim light, like a tiger in her ferocity and the vigorous agility of her leap. When she saw Brann, she checked her lunge along the bed, so suddenly she was thrown off balance. “You.” She slid off the bed and came toward Brann, feral yellow eyes fixed on her, ignoring the others.

Jaril took Yaril’s hands. After a brief, silent consultation they rose as spheres of amber fire, lighting the room with a fierce gold glow.

The Tekora kicked loose from the quilts and rolled off the bed, standing naked as the witch but not so readily awake and alert. Aituatea watched him with a burning in his belly. No old man any longer, the Temueng was firm, fit, supple, a man in his prime, a vigor bought with the blood of his own children, a hideous vigor that had cost Hotea her life.

The Tekora eyed the two women, reached up and with a soft metallic sibilation drew from its sheath the long sword hanging above the head of the bed. He swung it twice about his head, limbering his arm. A glance at Aituatea, a head shake dismissing the Hina as negligible. He started for the woman.

The Dondi and Brann were moving in an irregular double spiral, gradually working closer to each other, each focused so intently on the other no one else existed for them.

Hotea fluttered about them, turning in wider loops, silent but radiating fury.

The fire spheres vibrated more rapidly, then one of them darted straight at the Tekora’s face. He lifted his free hand to brush it aside, yelled as his flesh began to blister, swung round and swiped at the sphere with the sword, slicing through it but doing no damage. It settled to the floor in front of him, a mastiff as soon as it touched down. The dog came at the man, growling deep in her throat. Bitch mastiff. Yaril. Aituatea snapped the knife from the sheath up his sleeve, sent it wheeling at the Tekora.

It sliced into the large artery in his neck. There should have been an explosion of blood and a dead man falling.

Should have been. The Tekora plucked the knife out easily and flung it away. The wound in his neck closed over. He lifted the sword and started for Aituatea.