A Bait of Dreams (33 page)

“Hush, love,” he murmured. “Let me take care of this.” On the inside of her thighs the raw flesh had hardened over and started cracking while she'd been asleep; when he touched those chafed places, she bit down hard on her lip to hold back a moan. Then the hurting touches stopped. He straightened and his shadow slid down from her head and shoulders. She heard a small snap, then the shadow flowed back as he bent over her once more, spreading coolness along the inside of her legs, a salve with an herbal bite to the vapors rising from it. She sighed with pleasure, then lay quiet as he set the case on the floor, his shadow now a swooping blackness running across the stone. Then his hands were stroking her legs, moving slowly up, heating her as they moved. His lips touched the shallow curve of her stomach, moved upward as he helped her ease the tunic over her head.

The morning air was chill on her face when she woke for the last time. She was dressed again, though she couldn't remember pulling the tunic and trousers back on; the blanket was tucked carefully around her. The cell was filled with a cold gray light that drained color and life from everything visible, even Shounach. He was listening to voices that came to her as unintelligible fragments of sound. His hands in the pockets of his jacket, he lounged against the cell door, one corner of his mouth twisted up, a sardonic look on his lean face.

Gleia sat up, keeping the blanket pulled around her. She yawned, pushed at oily tangled hair.

Shounach looked around, grinned impudently at her, last night's tenderness something left to memory.

“He-goat.” Chuckling softly, she flexed her legs, wiggled her toes, and had to admit that the salve had worked a small miracle on her legs, though—she wrinkled her nose as she discovered them—she'd managed to collect some other bruises and aches from last night's exercises on the hard planks. She yawned again. “Unh! Do I need a bath.”

The voices outside were growing louder. She couldn't make out the words, but the anger, malice and bitterness in the tones made her acutely uneasy. She drew her feet up, tucked them under her to warm them again. “What's happening?”

“Arguing. Bowman wants you along as his personal playtoy. Gabbler says you ride like a half-empty sack of grain and you'll slow us down. He wants to leave you here.”

“Some choice.” A small black speck crawled from her sleeve onto the back of her hand. She stared at it, grimaced and pinched it between the nails of her thumb and forefinger, scowled as she felt dozens of other small tickles, making her uncomfortably aware she had lots of company under the blanket. She unwrapped it hastily and dropped it to the floor. Her fingers busy under her tunic, hunting the small lives crawling about on her skin, she watched Shounach as he continued to listen to the argument outside. “What are you going to do about this mess?”

“Wait.”

“What about me?”

“Sit and scratch.”

“Hell I will.” She swung her legs over the edge of the plankbed, then groped under it for her sandals. As she buckled them on, she said, “Don't expect me to stand about and admire your tricks, Fox. Madar!” She pinched another black speck off her instep. “I've had enough of being handed around like lumpy baggage.”

He lifted a brow. “Lumpy?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh?”

“Fool.”

“Bless you, child.” He rubbed at his nose, suddenly serious. “They're coming. Think you could push Raver into jumping you?” He stepped away from the door. “He might get his hands on you before I can take him out.”

“I expect so.” She frowned, remembering the Bowman's hand pinching and groping at her on the track last night. Absently she popped another small life. “Playtoy, hunh!” She smiled grimly. “There's a button I can tromp. I'll poke him hard, Fox.”

Gabbler dragged the bar free. One end hit the floor with a reverberating clank as he leaned it against the wall. He hauled the door open, stepped back a body-length from the cell and beckoned Shounach out.

Hands in his pockets, Shounach strolled through the door. When Gleia started after him, Gabbler waved her back. Across the cellar, standing on the lowest step of the short flight leading up to ground level, the Bowman snickered, giving her the excuse she needed. “Laugh, you horse's ass,” she snarled. “You son of a crimp-head whore. Your ma was too dumb to know wet from dry.”

With a howl of rage, the Bowman cast his weapon aside and lunged at her, everything forgotten but his need to get his hands around her throat.

Sputtering a curse, Gabbler leaped for the bow, but pulled up when a fingerthick rod of light touched it and exploded it to ash. He turned slowly, glancing as he did at Raver who was writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching at a leg that was gone from the knee down, vaporized as the bow had been vaporized. Gabbler fixed his flat dark gaze on the small rod in Shounach's hand. “What now?”

With a tug of admiration for the man's calm acceptance of this series of misfortunes, Gleia jumped over the Bowman and moved to Shounach's side, stumbling a little as the trouser legs unrolled and threatened to trip her. She knelt and began rolling them up again. Shounach touched her head; she paused in what she was doing to look up. “You wield a wicked tongue, Vixen,” he said.

“My pleasure, Fox. What do we do with them?” She nodded at the silent Gabbler and the howling Bowman.

Tugging at a stray curl, laughing as she jerked her head away, he said, “Through the hoop for you. Just for you.” Still chuckling, he turned to face Gabbler. The squat dark Riverman had wrapped his ponderous silence about himself and stood waiting with an exaggerated patience that was a reproach for their frivolous waste of time and energy. He was waiting, it seemed to Gleia, with the patience of a stalking Tars for them to make a mistake. But he hadn't tried taking advantage of Shounach's apparent inattention, perhaps he didn't care to lose a leg as Raver had. “In.” Shounach jabbed a thumb at the cell. Gleia dusted off her knees as she rose from her crouch. “Drag that with you.” Shounach nodded at the cursing, whimpering Bowman.

Gleia slammed the door shut behind them and helped Shounach slide the bar through the staples. She stepped back, frowning at the arrangement. “That won't hold them any longer than it takes to yell someone down here.”

“This will.” Shounach twisted one end of the rod, inspected it a moment, then stood slapping it against his palm, eyeing the door. Abruptly he shrugged and pressed the rod against the point where the bar touched the staple. The light this time was a murky red. The iron boiled and flowed together and congealed again when he took the rod away. The bar was welded to the staple and it would take a heavy maul, perhaps even a steel chisel to break it loose. He fingered the other staple, shook his head and dropped the rod into his pocket. Gleia watched, puzzled. Something was bothering him about the rod but she didn't know enough to tell what it was. She started to ask, shut her mouth again as he stepped to the opening in the center of the door. “Hand,” he said.

“What now?” Gabbler's voice was expressionless, but Gleia shuddered and hoped she'd never fall in his hands again.

“I've fixed it so you won't get out of here without time and hard work. Too late to catch us. You could try sending the Watchman after us. Give you one guess how much chance he'd have of bringing us back. If I stood in your boots, once out, I'd head for distant parts where Hankir Kan couldn't get his hands on me.” He waited a moment but Gabbler said nothing. Patting a yawn, he crossed the room, retrieved his bag and started for the stairs. Gleia trailed behind him, unhappy at the thought of climbing back on a horse, any horse, swearing under her breath as her trouser legs started to unroll again.

“Seren.” There was a gentle reproof in the small saone's voice. “Let her rest. She's almost asleep now.”

The tall woman moved a hand in an abrupt, angular gesture of denial. “A Hand, Chay. That Hand. We have to know what and why. Know it now, little Chay. So we can plan. Dancer, do you hear me?”

Deel sighed. Flattening her hands on the rug, stifling a groan as the stiffened muscles of her arms and back protested and scabbing wounds cracked, she pushed herself onto her knees, eased back until she was sitting on her heels. “I'm no smuggler.” She croaked, her throat burning as she tried to speak, the sounds she could make as painful to her ears as to her throat. “I'm a dancer, you know that,” she managed.

“Why is Kan so hot after you?”

Deel looked away from the elaborate eyeholes turned on her. With that veil hiding the woman's face, talking to her was like trying to talk to a hole in the ground. “I turned him down too often and too hard,” she whispered, her voice breaking and vanishing as she struggled with the words. She closed her eyes a moment, forced them open again when sleep threatened to drown her. It was hard to think, hard to know what she should say. She swallowed, then pressed a hand against her neck. The saone Chay poured some more wine in the cup and held it out. Deel gulped down several mouthfuls, relaxed a bit as warmth spread through her, chasing away—for the moment, at least—some of the soreness in her throat. She clutched at the cup, wondering just how much silence she owed Gleia and the Juggler and and how much explanation she owed the Sayoneh for rescuing her from Kan. It was a hard choice and she didn't feel like trying to sort out the rights and wrongs. Still, Seren was waiting with growing impatience for an answer. “He got me on that boat,” Deel whispered. “When he got amorous, I was sick all over him.”

Chay giggled and several others, anonymous among the clustering veils, chuckled with appreciation. Deel smiled a little, warmed by this bit of sister-sharing as she was warmed by the wine she was sipping. “He beat me.” Sympathy flowed from the blue veils—it was eerie, those veils staring at her. “No faces,” she said, her eyes blurring and watering as she turned her head from one set of fanciful eyeholes to the next.

Seren moved her hand in another of her angular gestures. Deel blinked. The hand was brown, square, small for her size but conspicuously competent. “Your hands are like hers,” Deel said, pleased with herself for seeing this likeness between Seren and Gleia. That small hand made her feel comfortable and secure.

“Her? Who?”

Jolted a little out of her drifting rumination, Deel stared at the veil, started to shake her head, but stopped that when she nearly fell over. “You wouldn't know her. A brown fox, secret. Secret. No face. Don't need a veil. Turn it off.”

Seren snorted. “You're drunk. Dancer.”

“Uh-huh.” Deel smiled dreamily at the purple-red film staining the bottom of the mug.

“Pay attention.” The saone's voice was sharp, annoyed. “How did you get away from Hankir Kan?”

“Threw up all over him.”

“You said that.”

“Said that. He said clean up. Fetch water. Went to fetch it.” She lifted a hand, swooped it out and down in an unsteady arc. “Whoop. Over the side.” She giggled. “Stupid. Him. Letting me drop that damn bucket in the River.” She sighed. “Wasn't thinking, me, just did it. Boat went crazy. I went over. He come after.”

“I see. Did the Hand take you out of Istir?”

“Don't want to talk about that.”

“Why?”

“Friends in it. Not your business.”

“Mmm. Well, we'll leave that till later when you're sober again. Dancer.”

“Huh?”

“Listen if you can. We're going to Jokinhiir to join our sisters at the Jota fair. You'd better come with us; you're not in any shape to set off by yourself.”

“Jokinhiir.” Deel touched her tongue to her lips as she considered this. “She's going to Jokinhiir if she gets away.” She scrubbed her hand across her face. “Him too.” Thought of the Juggler warmed her blood. She coughed, swallowed. “Kan will be in Jokinhiir.”

“You don't have to see him.”

Deel shivered, suddenly cold, suddenly awake again, all her aches and general exhaustion flooding over her. “Go with you.” She shivered again. “Poison,” she said, not fully aware she was speaking aloud. “I'm poison. Alahar first, then.…” She stopped, blinked. “Kan will have your skin for this and don't think he won't find out.” She swayed, jerked herself upright again.

Chay caught her arm, supporting her. “Seren, that's enough.”

With the small saone helping her, Deel stretched out on the fleecy rug, on her stomach again so the fleece wouldn't get into the wounds. She heard the slither of Chay's robes and a murmuring exchange with another saone, then she twitched as gentle fingers spread a cool lotion over the bruises, scrapes and cuts, wiping away the pain. “Sayoneh, the delivered,” Chay murmured as she worked. “The broken, the beaten, the rebels, they find refuge with us.” The voice began to fade in and out. “Pass through … stay … you can stay … want stay … wider, warmer home … place to be … belong.…” Deel heard nothing more, drowning deep deep in sleep.

The next four days were a floating shapeless dream as Shounach's drugs helped her endure the endless riding and the pain that otherwise would have immobilized her. They rode double all night through storm and frost and all day except for the few hours of high heat when they dipped into the forest to avoid the hammering of the suns, Gleia pressed against Shounach's back, holding tight to him, separated from him only when he stopped to switch horses, having ridden the one they were on into exhaustion. When they came to watchtowers, they herded the Watchman and his servants into the holding cell each tower was equipped with. The guards usually there had been pulled away to police the Fair, only one man being left behind to hold the tower, soured and made careless by having to miss the Fair and spend Fairtime sitting out in the middle of nowhere.

They left the fourth tower early in the evening. Gleia relaxed against Shounach's back, gratefully free of drugs for the first time, her body having toughened enough to support the effort of the ride; she was beginning to respond automatically to the horse's motion, was beginning almost to enjoy the ride, though the rain was beating down on her and the growing cold was eating through the heavier clothing she'd liberated from a watchman's wardrobe. The storm cleared away sometime after midnight and the clouds blew apart, unveiling crescent Aab and a great swirling sweep of stars. Gleia sucked in the frosty air, snuggled against the warmth of Shounach's lean body and felt content, even happy.