Jo Clayton - Moongather

Serroi threw her arms around her friend, pressing herself anxiously against the warm soft body. “I want…” She started crying.

“I know, meto-mi, I know.” Raiki patted her on the back awhile, then pushed her away, stood her straight. “I know. Well, that’s enough. Come with me, meto. Something I want to show you.”

In her tent Raiki opened a chest and pulled out trousers, vest and a loose smock like the men and boys wore. She tossed them on the rug by Serroi’s feet. “You’re a bit of a thing and still flat enough to pass for a boy half your age. Be safer that way with Lowlanders. Don’t trust them, meto. They’ll steal the skin off your face and sell it back to you.” She grunted as she settled her bulk onto a pile of cushions. “Come and see me if you can. You know how we go.” She looked down at her hands. “You’ll stay until the men have left?”

Two days later, Serroi slipped away from the Well and followed the track the men had taken down the long slope to Sel-ma-Carth and the Shessel fair. After hours of brooding, her goal was set-the Golden Valley, the place where the Noris couldn’t go, the place that had welcomed her.

The Woman: XIII

Serroi’s chains clashed softly as she shifted position on the plank bench bolted into the cell wall. Some distance away down the dark stinking corridor she could hear the rise and fall of male voices but couldn’t make out the words. She stirred and the chains clanked again, drawing her eyes down to the iron cuffs tight about her wrists, to the rusty chains looped over her thighs. She shivered then reached down and touched the lump in her boot. The tajicho was cool again. The Norit couldn’t care less about her. She leaned her head back against the damp stone and listened to the voices, to the silence. The dungeons were empty as far as she could feel. Hah, she thought. Wait till Lybor has her way. No. Not Lybor. The Nearga-nor. Ser Noris, Ser Noris, what’s the point of all this? She felt the stone cool and damp through the double layer of vest and tunic. That Norit didn’t know about me. Why? Are you using them too, Ser Noris? Pushing them about without their knowing it? That so, then I’m a rat in the walls going to steal their prize. She caught her lip between her teeth. Half a chance, blessed Maiden, give me half a chance.

She stood, shuffled to the door. Pressing her body against the hardwood planks, closing her hands tight about the bars, she tried seeing down the corridor; because it slanted a little away from the cell where she was imprisoned she could see dark forms pacing past the end of the corridor. Words floated back to her, cut off as each figure passed out of sight. “…-that crazy mare… set up… race… got the legs… dlebach… beat… decset… three decsets for… the meie… play with her… damn Nor… leave us the bones… no meat on her…” Finally the two men sat at a table just beyond the end of the corridor and their voices came more distinctly. “Stickin’ around here after they finish with fat boy?” The speaker jerked his thumb at the ceiling.

“They promised us gold. Who’s gonna stop us takin’ what we want.”

“Sons, that’s who; too many of them got their noses in this. No drinkin’. Don’t mess with the women, run the hoors outta town with they heads shaved, ever tried a bald-headed woman? I say gimme the gold and I cut out for the Southcoast where they somethin’ to spend it on.”

“Hunh, better not let of yellow-face hear you talkin’ like that.”

“Know what I want right now?” The speaker leaned forward and for the first time Serroi saw that he wore the Sleykyn mask. He tilted the bottle over his mug, watching the last drops trickle out.

“Yeh, and you ain’t gonna get it. Can’t touch the women in these walls, not even that.” The second Sleykyn waved vaguely toward Serroi.

The first drained the mug and stood, not swaying but holding himself with careful dignity.

“Nor said to stay here.” The seated one leaned back and brought his hand down heavily on the tabletop.

“Stingy shit only left us two bottles. Maiden’s tits, I go get some more, he going to be busy, you keep you mouth shut, he won’t know nothin’.” He stalked off, moving out of Serroi’s limited range of vision, his heels stomping harder than usual on the stone.

The second Sleykyn sat slumped in his chair staring gloomily at the mug in his hand. Serroi watched a moment longer, then went back to the bench.

She reached into her boot and twitched out the lock-picks. Leaning back against the stone, she began working on the cuffs of her manacles. The crude locks were no problem; she caught the manacles as they cracked open and set them on the bench beside her, then dealt with the chains on her ankles. Pick in hand she moved silently to the door.

The Sleykyn was still alone, head fallen on folded arms, the mug on its side with a small spill of wine by its mouth. His shoulders moved and she heard a sputtering snore. Hastily she began work on the door’s lock; with one Sleykyn gone oft somewhere and the other far gone in wine and asleep she had her best chance. No time to waste, no time at all. The door lock was worse because it was bigger and more complex, but she forced it as silently as she could, her breath caught behind her teeth, her heart juddering at each squeal.

After checking the Sleykyn a last time, she eased the heavy door open just enough to let her slip into the corridor. There was a torch set in a holder by her cell, but that was the only one, confirming her sense that the other cells were empty. She ran on her toes beyond its light, then sank into a crouch, supporting herself on her toes with fingertips touching the filthy floor as the Sleykyn muttered heavily, lifted his head for a bleary look around, then dropped it back on his arms. As soon as he started snoring again, she stood very slowly, making no sudden moves. She drifted like a shadow down the three steps to the cellar floor, then circled around behind the Sleykyn.

She was halfway across the place of torment when the uncertain light from the low-burning torches and the clutter on the filthy floor betrayed her. Focused too intently on the Sleykyn, she stumbled over a hardwood rod lying beside several enigmatic instruments of torture. It bounced off these with a clangor like the ringing of the war-bells and bounded away across the stone, clattering loud enough to wake the dead.

The Sleykyn bounced up, swung around, the whip snicking out of its pouch, the tip slashing her arm before she had time to move. She dived behind a rack, scrambled along it, narrowly avoiding a second slash. At the end of the platform, she looked back along the crank and nearly lost an eye to the flickering whip. It coiled around the crank until the Sleykyn jerked it loose, giving her time to scurry away. He was still hazed with sleep and half drunk, his timing just a fraction off. She crossed to the other side of the rack, looked rapidly about, then dashed for a pair of heavy whipping posts. The lash tip caressed her ankle. She pulled free, then straightened, using the thick posts as protection.

The Sleykyn carne rapidly down the side of the rack, stumbling and bleary-eyed. She shifted to keep the posts between her and him, searched frantically about for some kind of weapon, saw cutting tools in a frame on the wall. Ducking and weaving, gasping with pain as the whip found her twice, she darted across the open space and slid behind another article of torment. Flaying knives, high over her head. She dived at the wall. The knife was in her hand as the whip coiled about her hips, cutting through the thick material of her trousers, searing her skin, drawing more blood. Whimpering with pain, the knife held away from her, she crashed to the floor, her weight freeing her from the whip. Before the Sleykyn snapped the whip back, she was up again and running, ignoring the pain, bent low, weaving and elusive in the smoky torchlight.