A Bait of Dreams (22 page)

“Hunting Ranga Eyes.”

“Hunting,” he said harshly. Turning his head to her, he half-smiled, a quick upward jerk of a corner of his mouth. “I told you I hold grudges a long time.” He reached out again, took her hand. “Something else you need to think about, Gleia. Thanks to my … my mother … when I say long time, I mean a very long time. All that.…” He searched her face, uncertain about how she would take what he was going to say; he'd been burnt too often by the bitterness and jealousy of lovers and friends when they stumbled on the truth about him, that he would live on much the same while they aged and died. For many reasons he needed to be honest with her, as honest as he could manage to be. “All that happened a hundred years ago. Jaydugar years not years-standard. If we are related, it's so remote there's almost nothing there.”

Outside, the rain hissed down, drumming steadily against the shutters. Voices from the tap room below rose and fell. In the silence that followed, Shounach could hear curses as a man was thrown out into the wet, then his pounding feet as he ran for another shelter. Beside him Gleia shifted restlessly; she pushed up on one elbow and flattened her free hand on his chest. She was smiling a little, the whites of her eyes gleaming softly in the half-light. “What happened these past six days?” Catching a bit of flesh between thumb and fingernail, she pinched hard. “And don't brag about your conquest. I don't want to hear about it.”

He laughed, happy with her, his relief as great as his joy; he squeezed her hand until she squeaked and tugged it away. “You delight me, my vixen. How I've missed you.”

She slid back a little. “No promises, Fox.” Her voice was cool; she wasn't about to let him play on her sentiments or talk her into forgetting her doubts. And, at least for the moment, she wasn't bothered by the implications of his age.

He laced his fingers behind his head, crossing his ankles. “What happened? I performed for the household and for the daughter of the House. In between times I wandered about, asked a few questions, listened a lot, and found out nothing about the Lossal and the Eyes. Though I listened to more than I wanted to hear about the Lossal and his ambitions.” He yawned, stretched as he lay, loosening cramped muscles.

He slid carefully from the bed, stood looking down at the sleeping Toreykyn, filled with soulweariness and self-loathing. “Whore,” he whispered and didn't mean the woman snoring slightly, her face slack, empty for once of the greed and fretfulness that marred its prettiness. He stood a moment, eyes closed, then turned away from her, trying to throw off his weariness of body and spirit.

Aab's light crept through the curtains, turned the darkness into a pearl-gray shimmer. Shounach dressed quickly, then knelt beside his bag, reaching through the membrane into the hyperpocket for his tools; he hung a tingler in his ear, a pear-shaped red gem that would warn him of electronic spying. The Lossal's iron birds had startled him; they had no place in this pre-industrial society. As he slid the finder ring on his thumb, he wondered idly about the source of the birds. Offworld trader probably. He turned the gray-white stone inward, his lips tightening as he saw a faint glimmer in the dull gem. The finder was tuned to Ranga Eyes. For the first time he had evidence of their connection with the Lossal. He transferred lock picks, a small stunner, a cutter, and a laser rod to his pocket, then closed the bag.

Toreykyn stirred, muttered. Holding his breath, Shounach went quickly to her. She was still asleep but moving restlessly. He touched her temples, concentrated, sent her deeper into sleep. Straightening, he drew the tips of his fingers down his jacket. She was snoring again, soft little whistles.
She even lisps in her sleep,
he thought. His revulsion had passed away and he felt only pity. She was, after all, a stupid woman without enough imagination to be evil.

He left her and moved to the window. For the past two days he'd been trying to get into the room the Lossal called his library. He'd tried every avenue he could discover, had returned again and again at various times during the day and night; there were guards around all the time, people going in and out at all hours. There was one last thing he could try—going in from the outside. He slipped through the heavy drapes and went into the window on his stomach. The wall here was nearly two meters thick and the window embrasure narrowed as it went outward, but it was still high enough for him to sit upright when he reached the outer opening. He wriggled around until he was sitting with his legs dangling among the vine tendrils, the over-sweet perfume of the vine fruit strong around him.

The garden below was silent, filled with a peace that seemed to mock him. The shrubbery and trees were dark areas separated by the paler grass and the silver glint of streams converging on the fountain in the center. Beyond the garden, the wall that shut in the privileged part of the city was dark and sullen, the crenellations etched against the torchlight from the market quarter beyond. He started to push out of the window, then stopped as he saw three figures moving at a rapid walk from the Strangers' Quarter, heading for the inner gate. He watched with considerable curiosity, high enough so he could look down into the wide street but too high to see much more than dark shapes. As the shapes disappeared behind the wall, he felt heat against the palm of his hand. He looked down, excitement cold in his stomach. Slowly he unfolded his fingers, uncovering the finder gem. The glow was strong and hot. Ranga Eyes. A lot of them. Close.

As the three appeared on the near side of the gate, a pair of iron birds swooped from the eaves to circle around the gate towers. Shounach frowned, then pushed out from the window and floated down close to the wall, dropping through wavering vine tendrils, his eyes fixed on the birds.

He landed crouching, scrambled back into the shadow close to the wall. The vine stalks were ancient, twisting monsters with loose, fibrous bark that curled away from the inner wood and came loose at the slightest touch, clinging to the material of his trousers, even to his bare feet and hands. He brushed cautiously at the itchy fragments, looking out through the skim of leaves at the birds.

One of them hesitated in its circle, then came soaring around over the garden. Shounach slid his hand into his jacket pocket, closed his fingers about the laser rod, silently cursing the bird. He had to get a look at those men, had to know who was bringing the Eyes to the Lossal. The smell of the vine fruit was stronger down here, near stifling. The leaves whispered, the vine stalks groaned and thrummed in the rising wind. In the trees and bushes he could hear a few night birds crying, night insects creaking and chirking. And over the small night sounds he could hear the humming whine of the iron bird.

It circled the garden and came back along the House wall. Ruby light shot suddenly from the eye and began sweeping along the wall's base. Shounach waited tensely; once he used the laser, he'd have to get out fast. The red light splashed on stone and leaves, moved swiftly toward him, left him wishing passionately for Stavver's chameleon web, though that was long gone, having died with its master.

The gate in the garden wall swung open and the three men came through. Two were Lossalni Harriers, the third a boatman from upriver.
Important man, judging by his strut.
An ugly, arrogant man hugging a large leather pouch against his barrel belly. Shounach stared greedily, his ring hand clenched in a fist, the ring-fire burning into his palm.
Madar be blessed,
he thought, echoing the formula of his childhood.
Fox's luck, as Gleia would say.
Forgetting about the searching bird, he stared at the man, fixing the blunt, scarred features in his mind.

The boatman looked up, saw the bird. “Get that damn thing away from me.” He stopped walking, glared stubbornly at the Harrier. “Not another step till that abomination is gone.”

Shounach started, then held himself very still as the bark and leaves rustled against the stone; he cursed the obsession that made him forget the danger he was in. He eased his head around and glared at the bird. The red light had stopped moving about two meters from him and the bird was bouncing up and down in the air as if it rode invisible waves.

“It senses something or someone in the garden. I'll.…” The Harrier broke off as the bird hummed away from the wall and darted back to the gate. “Must've been nothing. Come on. No talking once we're inside. Not till we're with the Lossal.” The boatman nodded and the three men walked rapidly across the garden to the recessed door with its small flight of steps. Shounach crouched in the shadows, not daring to follow them, watching them go with a sick feeling of futility. Shaking with anger and frustration, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to convince himself that he had all he needed.
He's a boatman and I know his face.
He leaned against the stone, dizzy from the fumes of the vinefruit, too tired to force himself farther.

“I went back to the room, tucked things back in the bag, slept hard until Toreykyn woke me the next morning and kicked me out.” He yawned, turned on his side, trying to make out her features in the darkness.

Gleia pushed her hair back from her face, raised on one elbow. “A boatman.” She swung up, sat cross-legged, elbows on her knees, chin braced on her hands, her curls falling forward around her face as she focused her eyes on him. “You've got the next step. What now?” She hesitated a moment, then went on. “Deel says the Stareyn is close to dying.”

“Deel?”

“You saw her—that time you went off with Toreykyn. The dancer standing next to me. She says when the Stareyn dies, the Families lock the gates and don't let anyone in or out until the Stareyn's Lot has been cast and the new Stareyn installed. That could make problems for you.”

“For me?”

“Deel's leaving soon; she asked me to go south with her.”

“I see. Will you?”

“I don't know.” She started laughing, straightened her back, stretched extravagantly, then folded her arms across her breasts. “Stop pushing, Fox.” She yawned suddenly. “Madar, I'm tired.” She patted at her mouth, yawned again. “In the morning. We can talk this out in the morning.”

Gleia jerked upright, dazed with sleep, as the door slammed open and a Harrier stalked inside. Shounach came awake like a startled animal, diving off the bed in a swift movement that changed into an awkward scramble as the quilt twisted around his legs. He kicked it away and ran for his bag.

The Harrier yelled an order and Shounach came to an abrupt stop, a sword at his throat. A third man came in, an archer. He stepped away from the door, a bolt ready in his crossbow, his dark cynical eyes turning between Gleia and Shounach. The leader of the three waved a hand; Shounach was backed into the center of the room where he stood, narrowed eyes searching for an opening. The lead Harrier tossed Shounach's clothing at his feet. “Get dressed,” he said. He turned to Gleia. “You too, girl. On your feet and put something on.” While Gleia pulled the cafta over her head and smoothed it down, he moved about the room, poking into its meager furnishings, tossing the two bags onto the bed, throwing the unfinished shawl over them. Shounach fastened his trousers and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his loose open jacket, watching grimly as the burly lead Harrier thrust his arm through the two straps and shrugged the bags up against his side. He turned to frown at Shounach. “The Lossal wants you. Don't try nothin'. Herv there can wing a gnat.” He nodded at the archer. “We can tie you on a pole and haul you to him like a side of meat. Or you can walk. Up to you.”

“I walk.” Shounach held out his hand. Gleia took it and together they walked out the door, the leader ahead and the other two Harriers following close behind.

The rain had stopped; the pavement glistened wetly in the starlight that had broken through the tattered clouds. The torches were extinguished in front of the taverns and all the buildings in the Strangers' Quarter were dark and silent. In the near distance she could hear the shouts and other noises of the produce carts coming into the produce market. The only other sound was the shuffle of their feet on the wet stone.

The Library was a large room, filled with racks of scrolls and layers of flat pages sewn together. Among the piles of books, the piles of scrolls, sat small statues, vases, objects that glowed with color. The corners of the room disappeared in red-tinted gloom as the dawn light fanned through the line of long narrow windows in the outer wall, red light with motes dancing in the beams like points of fire. The Lossal sat behind a massive table in a low-backed massive chair. He was a small man with an exuberant nimbus of white hair, touched dramatically with crimson by the light pouring in the window just behind him, haloed in crimson light so that his features other than the pale glint of colorless eyes were lost in shadow. He sat waiting for them, watching them intently as the Harriers escorted them into the room. The leader set the two bags on the table in front of him. “As ordered, Lossal-vas.”

The chair and table had elongated legs so the old man's eyes were on a level with theirs though he was sitting while they stood. His pale eyes moved past the Juggler, stopped on Gleia. “Why'd you bring the woman?”

“She was in bed with him, Lossal-vas.”

Gleia shivered as she saw him frown, then glance upward.
Deel's wrong,
she thought.
He knows about Toreykyn's fancies. He knows about her and Shounach.

The Lossal leaned forward and hooked Shounach's bag toward him. He flipped the top back and pulled out the contents—the blue glass balls, the red crystals, three small gilded dragons, a gilt dancer balancing on one foot, some bits of faceted glass, cheap jewelry, some crumpled scarves and dingy rags and fragments, other odds and ends. He upended the bag, shook it, then set it aside. Pushing the balls about with his forefinger, he smiled tightly at Shounach. “These look a lot better by torchlight and at a distance. Like you, Juggler.” Sweeping everything from the table back into the bag, he dropped it beside his chair, then began investigating Gleia's possessions. As he fingered her spare caftas and reached for the unfinished shawl, Gleia forced herself to stay quiet, anger burning in her at this invasion of her privacy. He unfolded the shawl, touched the design, fingered the needle, then swept the shawl aside and took up the two handkerchiefs. He spread them out on the table before him, ran his fingers over the fine stitching. He dug through the rest of the things in the bag—her bag of thread, her book of needles, the tambour hoop, the small thread-knife with its razor-edged half-inch blade and horn casing, a ragged brush and some cakes of black ink, some parchment for sketching designs. He unrolled the wrinkled parchment, examined the scribbled sketches. After contemplating these for several minutes, he pushed the other things aside and pulled the shawl back in front of him. Smoothing the soft black triangle out on the table, he ran his fingers slowly along the band of silver and green embroidery above the elaborately knotted fringe.