Maeve (19 page)

“What about a job?”

“What can you …”

The bead curtain exploded inward. Henner leaped through, landing in a crouch in the middle of the room, mouth working over incoherent obscenities, clutching a bloody knife in each hand. He turned glaring red eyes from Bran to Aleytys and back again. His mumbling grew louder.

Cautiously, Bran began inching a hand back toward the edge of counter, her broad face impassive.

With a sudden wild shriek, Henner straightened, threw the knife in his right hand, crouched again, muttering and rocking from side to side on his toes, eyes flicking around the room, stopping on invisible menaces. He snarled and threatened these with the remaining knife.

Bran clutched at her upper right arm, hand splayed out around the bobbing knife hilt, blood oozing from between her fingers. Inside, she was seething with fury, but cool caution kept a lid on it. Aleytys shivered as the soup of emotion in the small room threatened to overload her senses. Hastily, she pulled up her shields and sucked in a quavering breath.

Henner heard the sound, wheeled to face her, lunged at her, knife thrust point out, shrieking hate.

The diadem chimed. She felt the air stiffen while Swardheld snatched control of her body. He slid off the stool, catching Henner's arm, turning the knife. The diadem chimed again and Henner's interrupted leap drove his body forward onto the knife, thrusting the blade into his throat.

“Hai, you're quick.” Bran stared at the girl, astonishment sagging her heavy jowls.

Swardheld turned, nodded, then climbed back on the stool and loosed his hold on Aleytys' body. “I wish you hadn't done that,” she whispered, and heard an unconvinced grunt rumbling against her skull. She sighed, recognizing futility when she saw it.

Bran was leaning heavily against the counter. Aleytys touched her tentatively. “Is there a doctor I can …”

“Doctor? Phah! He's stretched out in k'Ruffin's den worse off than Henner here. Want to help … get that … that rag … there …” She waggled her head at a line of hooks where snowy white rags hung ready to wipe the counter or polish glasses and mugs. Her words were coming out in spurts. “Get … get the knife … out.”

“No.” Aleytys sighed. “I didn't want to … I'm a healer, Bran. Relax. You'll be whole in …” Voice trailing off in a whisper, she slid off the stool and braced her arms on the counter. She jerked out the knife and let it fall unheeded as she clamped her hands over the spurting wound. She reached out and the waters of the power river splashed down over them, pouring into the gaping wound, driving the cells to furious growth, dropping to a melodic humming as it played with blood cells, making them double and redouble until the blood loss was replaced. Then, flicking a last time through Aleytys, cleansing the fatigue from her body, the image faded and she stood, blinking slowly, blood-stained hands holding tight to the old woman's arm.

Sighing again, Aleytys unclamped her fingers and settled back on the stool poking distastefully at the sticky blood on her hands and wrists.

Bran inspected her arm. The pierce wound was a faint line of pink that, even as she watched, seemed paling to her usual matte ocher. “That's a useful trick, dearie.” She dipped the end of a clean rag in a water can and mopped the blood off her arm, shaking her head and clucking like an old hen. Then she turned to Aleytys. “Hold out your hands.” With gentle, meticulous care she washed the blood away and dried the hands that looked baby small next to hers.

Aleytys flexed her fingers. “I'd rather you didn't tell anyone what happened.”

“Why not? You'd make a fortune.”

“As a psi-freak?”

Bran dropped the cloth in the laundry bin, frowning. “I see. Lots of fools around even on Star Street.”

“What about him?” Aleytys jerked a thumb at Henner's body. “I don't want trouble.”

“Ha. Wait here, hon.” Bran grinned. “I figure you could take care of any bastard starting trouble in here.” She slapped the counter open and edged through. “K'Ruffin made this mess and he can damn well clean it up.” She charged out of the shop.

Aleytys poured another cup of cha and waited.

Ten minutes later, Bran swept back through the swaying beads, a small, greenish, insectoid being trailing after her, cluttering querulously, hunched over under the barrage of Bran's verbal attack. Behind him a tall blue humanoid ducked his bullet head under the lintel and stepped inside to stand blank-faced beside k'Ruffin, flexing immense muscles until they rippled like ocean waves under his thick blue hide. He was totally hairless, not even eyebrows. His pointed ears twitched and moved about restlessly, his eyes were round and yellow, narrowed in the morning light since he was more nocturnal in habit than the others in the room. His mouth was very tiny for his size and, lacking lips, it pursed together like a sphincter. Aleytys shivered as she scanned him. He exuded a total indifference to the other life forms around him, was merely impatient at the fuss, wanting to get back to something he had been doing; Aleytys refused to imagine what that might be.

“You keep better watch on your creeps, k'Ruff'n. That berserker could have killed me! And Lovax is on your tail. He's hungry, you idiot. You ain't much but you're a wide place better than him. Now, clear this mess out of my place. I don't want no Company spies walking in on a corpse.”

K'Ruffin shuddered. His stubby antennas drooped dejectedly. With short, simple words, he directed the other being to pick Henner's body up and follow him. Then the oddly assorted pair stumped out of the cookshop.

Bran nudged at the bloodstain with her toe. “That sets and it'll be a pain in the ass getting out of the wood.” She shrugged and went back behind the counter.

“What was that?”

“K'Ruffin? I told you about him.”

“No. The other.”

“The big one. A Hasheen. He's other, all right.”

“He made my skin crawl.”

“You got taste. A junker ship kicked him off here and anything too bad for a junker …” She shook her head. “K'Ruffin took him on because the little bug's greedy as hell but scared of his own shadow. No one who had sense enough to put two thoughts together would mess with him when the Hasheen was around. They're treacherous, though.” She tilted the cha pot. “Low. You want a refill on me? It's strong enough to float a starship.”

Aleytys shoved her mug across the counter. For several minutes there was a comfortable silence in the shop as they sipped companionably at the warm, bitter liquid.

The beads clacked behind her. Aleytys turned slowly.

A small, gray man walked cat-footed to the other end of the shop and hoisted himself neatly onto a stool. He looked at the two women and tapped impatiently on the counter with the coin he held between his first and middle fingers.

Bran's face went blank. Aleytys could sense anger building in her, focused on the innocuous-seeming little man. Seeming … she touched him with the fingers of her mind … she could feel a cynical amusement expanding outward from him, a cruel cat nature under his colorless exterior. And … she struggled to conceal her astonishment … a lively interest in her.

“Kavass.” His voice was high-pitched like an adolescent's and rather comical coming from the withered little face, but neither woman felt any desire to laugh. Silently, Bran levered open the bottle of kavass and set it in front of him. From under the bar she took a glass and several chunks of ice and set them beside the bottle. He slid the coin across the counter, smiling meanly as the old woman seemed reluctant to touch it. “Keep the change, despina.”

She swept the coin into a money box and began fussing with the stove. She set a fresh can of water on the burner, emptied the leaves from the cha pot into the garbage hole, scrubbed the pot clean and dried it with care. By the time she had finished all her busy work, the little man had drained his glass and fixed his eyes on Aleytys for a minute. He slid neatly off the stool and prowled out.

Bran picked up his glass, touching it with fingertips only, and dropped it in the garbage hole.

Aleytys stared at her. “That's a good glass.”

“Go see if he's really gone.”

Aleytys walked to the curtain and stepped outside. She saw the small, gray figure walking through the growing crowd of sleepy, noisy people. No matter how crowded the street was, he had a constant emptiness around him. No one got closer than half a meter without sheering off. She shook her head and went back inside. “He's going off down street. Walking slow but not stopping.”

“Good.” She was scrubbing vigorously at the counter where the little man had put his hands.

Aleytys picked up her pack and rested it on the stool. “Who's he?”

“Company louse. Spy.” She dropped the rag and turned the fire down under the bubbling water. As she shoveled new leaves into the pot she said slowly, “You better get on over to Tintin's; tell him I sent you. Drop back around sundown. Should have some idea by then what work's available.”

“Thanks. See you later.” Aleytys slung the pack over her shoulder and went out.

Chapter III

Gwynnor pushed the door open and stepped into the smoky lantern-lit interior. Several young cerdd were sitting around the fireplace arguing vehemently, individual voices lost in the noise of the common babble. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he recognized Siarl standing with his back against the bricks with Tue, Huw, Iwan, Ofydd, and Twm seated on the cushioned benches arranged in a circle around the fire.

He hesitated a minute, then walked over to join them.

Siarl saw him first. “Gwynnor?”

“Himself. Annerch, Siarl.”

“Annerch, old friend.” As the others stared, the young cerdd sidled past the benches and chairs to clasp hands with the newcomer. Siarl pulled Gwynnor into the circle. “Eh, now we'll have some real news.”

Gwynnor shook his head. “I've been out of touch for awhile. What news I have, I got from Treforis.”

Ofydd leaned forward, his long face drawn into a sneer. “You went with Dylaw.”

Twm snorted. “Shut up, Ofydd. Let the man talk.”

“Man? Huh!”

“When you come up with more than some dumb carping, someone might want to listen to you.” Twm grunted. “What about Dylaw? What's he doing, Gwyn?”

Ofydd settled back, offended.

Gwynnor sat beside Twm. “Dylaw's bought darters from a smuggler. He plans to keep sniping at the city and raiding the starport.”

Iwan plopped his hand on his thigh. “I told you. Didn't I tell you?” He glared around at the shadowed faces. “At least Dylaw's doing something, not just throwing words around.”

Ofydd smiled bitterly. “That why you left him, Gwynnor?”

Siarl moved impatiently. “Shut up, Ofydd. You tell us, Gwyn. Do you think Dylaw's really making any mark on them?”

Gwynnor shrugged. “Flea bites. If he ever made real trouble, they'd squash him like a bug. You thinking of trying something?”

Tue leaned forward eagerly. “I say we should get cerdd from all over the maes and hit that damn city hard before they wreck us so bad we'll all starve come winter.”

Eyes moving sadly from face to eager face, Gwynnor shook his head. “That's a great idea, if you don't want to starve. You'd all be a layer of ash floating haphazard on the winter wind. You've seen their weapons. You must have when they raided.”

“I still say …”

“We heard you, holy Maeve, haven't we heard you.” The cool, sarcastic voice sliced through the fervid smoky air.

Heart beating with unexpected excitement, he stood. “Syfarch, Sioned.”

“Annerch, Gwynnor.” The girl stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, scornful eyes on all of them. “Come to hear the brave ones fight the war of the words?”

“Treforis told me about Rhisiart. I'm sorry.”

“Come have a beer with me and tell me what's happened to you.” She ran appraising eyes over him. “You look older, cerdd.”

Gwynnor caught Ofydd's jealous glare and smiled to himself as he left the cerdd to their arguing. “I feel older.” He sat on the swiveling stood and took a foaming mug from silent Margha.

Sioned smiled at him. Her hair was a riot of black curls. She wore a dark, baggy tunic that failed to disguise the taut ripeness of her young body.

“You're looking well, Sioned.”

“Good thing the light's dim in here.” She sipped at the beer, licking away the foam with her pointed pink tongue. Gwynnor felt tension rising in him as he watched. Her nostrils dilated and the tip of her tongue traveled around her lips again. Then she shifted impatiently on the stool. “Well, Gwyn, what about you? What have you been doing?”

“Dylaw's an idiot. I was getting fed up with him when the smuggler landed. One of the starfolk from the smuggler ship cut loose from it and needed someone to take her to the city.”

“You? I thought you couldn't stand them.”

“Me, too.” He dipped a finger into the drops of spilled beer and drew a circle. He put two dots at the top for eyes and drew a line for a mouth. “Like you said, I'm older.”

“You said she. It was a woman?”

“Mm. We tangled with a peithwyr and got away alive because she had an energy gun. Then we got mixed up with the forest people, tangled with the Company men, and twisted their tails.”

“The Company men?”

“Yeah.” He touched his finger to another drop and drew long wavy lines on either side of his schematized face.

“Ah, Mannh! You beat them!”

“Not me.” He brushed his hand over his face, erasing it. “The starwitch. She was … remarkable.”

Sioned drummed her fingers on the bar. “Did you sleep with her?”

“Yes.”

“And she left you.”

He squeezed his fingers hard around the ceramic mug as he remembered too clearly the stormy ups and downs of his relationship with Aleytys. He thought about explaining, then said simply, “Yeah. She left me.”