Moonscatter (41 page)

“Hekatoro, cousin, come a-visiting.”

The guard chuckled, a slow drawn-out sound. “Ah,” he said. “How could I be forgetting that Olambaro's galley be nuzzling a wharf this ten-day. Eh-Atoro, have a care to your feet, a new ductor's laying dung about. Got an itch he's looked to scratch on some blockhead's corners.”

“Not me, o-eh cousin, not me.” Hekatoro laughed and strolled on. The guard sucked on his pipe again and went back to contemplating the stones.

The old fenekel led them around the baffle wall and into a dark and empty street. They wound their way through other silent streets, past lamplit, noisy courts, the life inside shut away from the street by high mud-brick walls. Tuku-kul was a city of inner courts where no outsiders would be welcome or find anything but idleness and boredom. Serroi's sense of foreboding increased until she was sick with it. And sick with the healing compulsion. And glad now she rode the rambut, there was no way she could walk.

Light rose against the sky, a dim torchlight glow shining between the dark bulks of the walled houses. At every turn it seemed just a street or two ahead of them.

Foreboding blacker and blacker. Alert—a stabbing into her gut. Serroi gasps, dives off the rambut, shoves Hekatoro off his feet, slams into Hern, sending him staggering, hits the ground, rolls onto her feet in front of them, her hands outstretched as three Sleykynin come rushing round the corner, roaring a challenge, the leader with a sword, the other two holding whips loosely coiled, She is not-thinking, not-acting, seized by a sudden irresistible force that surges in great waves up through her shaking slight body. Green light pulses about her hands, pulses from her splayed-out fingers.

The light hammers at the assassins who freeze in mid-stride, their mouths gaping below the velater half-masks. They begin to change. Slowly, horribly, they change. Their bodies writhe, their skin hardens, turns papery, their heads elongate, bifurcate, the two portions spread apart and grow, up and up, divide again, grow up and up. Eyes, mouth, all features are absorbed, gone. Their arms strain upward, stretching, thinning, their fingers split into their palms and stretch outward from the wrists whiplike branches spreading in a delicate fan. The velater hide is absorbed into their altered flesh but there is a short rain of metal objects, buckles and rivets, knives, swords, whips, a pouch of coins.

The green light dies. Her arms fall.

Hern came hesitantly around to stand in front of her. “Serroi?”

She dropped to her knees and began vomiting. He knelt beside her, held her. When she was finished, he wiped her face, lifted her onto her feet and held her until her shaking stopped, warning Hekatoro to silence with a glare and a shake of his head.

When she was calm again, he cupped his hand under her chin and lifted her head. “Serroi?”

“Yah, Dom.” She moved her shoulder, worked her mouth. “Looks like I'm not such a dead loss after all.”

He looked past her at the three twisted trees. “No,” he said. “Looks like.” He took his arms away, frowned thoughtfully at her. “You together again?” When she nodded, he went over to the trees and began poking about among the odds and ends of metal and accoutrements dropped about the new-made trunks.

Hekatoro sidled closer, his eyes rounded, irises ringed with white, mouth dropped open. He flattened himself on the ground by her feet. “Beiji-behandum,” he said, his voice rumbling against the dirt.

“Oh get up,” she said irritably, shoving at her hair, rubbing at her forearms. “Maiden bless, you don't think I meant to do that, do you? Stand up, Atoro-besri. Please,”

Hern came back with sword, knife and whip—and a small heavy pouch that clinked. He shook it, “Repaying what they took from us,” He pulled the pouch open and inspected the contents. “Well, well, repayed with interest.”

“Enough to
buy
passage?”

He glanced at her, suddenly still, his outline bold and black against torchlight still a street or two away. “Possibly,” he said.

Hekatoro was silent, looking from one to the other, sensing things unsaid behind the words. He read his own meaning into the exchange. “Favor for favor,” he said, breaking the silence. He nodded, grinning, back on his trader's ground, much more comfortable there than on his face before mystery. He snapped his fingers. “Buy passage, no. I pay. You ride, no fuss. I get rid of obligation sitting on my head. Hah.” His eyebrows wriggled wildly, then dragged down and together. He trotted off to round up the rambut and the vachai.

“Would it matter that much, being hired to heal?” He rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek. “If that thing in you makes you heal anyway?”

She leaned into his caress then moved away. “I suppose not. But I'd rather be compelled from inside than out, if you see what I mean.” She swung round to stare at the gnarled and twisted trees. “That scares me, Hern.” She ran trembling fingers through her hair. “What am I turning into?”

Hekatoro pushed open the door and stepped into the tavern, Hern and Serroi close behind him. The taproom was noisy, hot and dim, lit by thick crockery lamps with holes pierced in the sides to let light from the burning oil through, though not enough light to cut the thick shadow and smoke. The stench of hot oil was strong enough to overwhelm the other stinks in the room, the sweet stale mead, the clouds of rank duhanee, bitter ale, raw spirit, sweat, farts, body odor, particularly pungent because of the mix of races within the room. In a back corner of the room, surrounded by silence and space, two black clad men with the honey-gold faces of Shinka sat scowling at the others, at pale northards, amber shinkin a little nervous under the eyes of their countrymen, fenekeln dark as new-turned earth, scrawny unhappy majilarn brooding over kifals.

There was a shout. Another fenekel who might have been Hekatoro's twin was pushing through the crowd and in a minute was pounding him on the back and shouting extravagant compliments. A slight figure slipped out past them, a skinny whey-faced, bulge-eyed northard. “Mus'll take you beasts around back and see the packs brought up.” The words were a gentle murmur flanked by Olambaro's more boisterous questions and answers. He led them across the room, a shoving circuitous path around busy tables through the noisy throng moving between the bar and the tables. After a word with the man behind the bar the four of them—Olambaro and Hekatoro trading stories in a dialect so thick and with allusions so personal they were incomprehensible, Hern and Serroi silent behind them—the four of them went through an inconspicuous door at the bar's end and up a narrow flight of stairs to a small tight room on the second floor.

Olambaro held the door open, waved them in, then stood waiting while two silent grinning men brought in the packs from the beasts and deposited them on the floor by a low table. As they left he walked round the table, stepping carefully among the scattered pillows, seated himself on a plump red silk cushion and waited till the others had seated themselves. Not-looking at Hern and Serroi with fenekeli politeness, he said, “Beginning to think you weren't coming, cousin.”

“O-eh, a bit of this and that happening at the Hold.”

“Yah, so l'il Ando said. To anybody'd listen. Full of funny stories he was, a couple ears looked pleased to hear 'em, strangers, mean looking, you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “Long as they don't be ductors, I figure I keep hands off. L'il Ando got hisself one damn good drunk outta it.” A knock on the door cut off what he was saying. “Who?”

“Silkar, Cap'n.” Even muffled by the door the voice was harsh and unhuman.

“Come.” Olambaro's eyes slid momentarily to Hern and Serroi, his teeth flashing in a broad grin then vanished immediately into a dignified gravity.

Serroi had to struggle not to stare at the man who came in. She'd grown accustomed to her own muted olive shade, but this one was scaled like a viper and green as the new leaves of spring. He wore a linked belt of beaten bronze with a needle-pointed bronze knife clipped to it, a short leather kilt and a heavy bronze medallion on a chain about his neck. Carrying a fat-bellied jug of wine, his long slender fingers hooked through the handles of four cups, he stepped around the pillows with a predator's lightness to set his burden on the table before Olambaro. When he straightened, he stared a long moment at Serroi, his glowing golden eyes moving from her face to her hands and back, then he left the room with the same silent glide.

The corners of his mouth twitching, Olambaro popped out the cork and poured wine in the cups. “The harvest, I hear, is beyond praise this year.” He passed the cups to his guests, then sipped at the wine so they'd feel free to drink.

“True, yes true,” Hekatoro murmured. He took a gulp of the wine then sat holding the cup at heart level. “Though the weather be some strange. I hope your passage down river did not prove too strenuous.” He drank again, his dark eyes twinkling. There was mischief even in the back of his neck and his brows were prancing up and down in time with his breathing. The Cousins were gently teasing their guests and at the same time gently sparring with each other.

Serroi looked down at her hands. Her skin gleamed in the soft glow from the fine porcelain lamps bracketed about the walls: the glow also woke shimmers of green and red and blue from the cushion covers, kindled gleams in the hand-rubbed hardwood of the wall panels. In the comfortable warmth—in several senses—of that room Serroi was beginning to recover from the profound upheaval of mind and spirit brought on by the events in the street. It wasn't particularly pleasant to serve as conduit for such a terrible force. Her lips twitched. A force that disposed of attackers by transforming them into rooted vegetation.
Effective but drastic
, she thought, reached across and rested her hand on Hern's thigh. His eyes smiling at her, he covered her hand with his.

“One trusts the river is free of snags and vermin.”

“Storm scours have disturbed the channels more than usual and there are always vermin.” Olambaro tapped a thumbnail against the side of his cup making it ring like a porcelain windbell. “A healer is a useful thing to have on board.”

His brows compressed into a brambly line, Hekatoro snorted. “L'il Ando. Next time I send him looking, I sew his mouth shut.”

“Should storm later this night. More wine?”

“Good Southron this.” Hekatoro pushed the cup across the table with the tips of his fingers. “Might be you have a barrel or two for trade?”

“Might be.” Olambaro filled both cups, brushed at his fiercely coiling moustache. “Millvad making more knives at that magic forge of his?”

“One or two. But this can wait a breath more. Got room for passengers to Low Yallor?”

“Could be, ah, could be. Working passengers.”

“No.”

“No?” For the first time Olambaro looked full into Serroi's face, his black eyes snapping with interest and curiosity.
L'il Ando must've achieved real eloquence
, she thought.

“If there happens to be need, the healing is free,” she said quietly. “I will not be compelled.”

“Ah!” Olambaro grinned at Hekatoro whose face contorted into a rueful grimace. The old fenekel spread his hands in disgust at this willful breach of the usages of bargaining. Olambaro looked from Hern to Serroi, back to Hern. “Two,” he said. He examined Hern with the same lively curiosity, scratched at his broad flat nose. “Two. Food. Sleeping space. Deck space taken from cargo. Hmmm. Sleykynin hunting 'em. Hmmm. Two and two.” He made a play of moving his lips and ticking whispered items off on his fingers.

“Two and two?” Hekatoro frowned.

“Got two already riding down river.” He rubbed his thumb across the tips of three fingers. “Working passengers, these, meien, standing guard and killing vermin should the need arise.”

“Meien.” Serroi leaned forward eagerly. “Who?” Hern's hand tightened over hers. Impatiently she pulled free. “How are they called?”

Olambaro shrugged. “They didn't say.”

“Where are they now?” As Olambaro hesitated, she said, “I'm of the Biserica myself, man, I'm no enemy of theirs.”

“O-eh, I know you now.” He slapped the table making the wine cups jump, gave a shout of laughter. “O-eh, l'il meie, four years gone in Dander market. Shieldmate twice you length and you standing ward while Marnhidda Vos she ground small the profits of Cadandar Merchants. You changed you calling since.” He stroked a finger along his moustache, raised a bristling brow. “And found yourself some new enemies it seems.” He eyed her a moment longer then jerked his head up and down in a decisive nod. “Yah. Healing free of charge, passage free of charge, you and you friend there. Mind you, should we be set on, I'll expect you both to mind my generosity. Hah! Now. You want to know about meien. They watch my boat for me, keep the vermin off.” He grinned. “Always sticky fingers and snoopers hanging around my
Moonsprite
.” Slipping two fingers into a sleeve pocket, he fished about then brought out a ceramic disc—on a crimson ground, a black circle with three curved lines inside, the fenekeli sign for moonsprite. “My flag's raised, lantern's lit and hanging on the mainmast. Out the front and to the right. Not hard to find.” He rested his gnarled hands flat on either side of the disc. “We leave in two days.”

“I have to talk to them. Maiden bless, Captain.” She got to her feet. “Maiden bless, Hekatoro friend.”

Hern came after her. He pulled the door shut and caught hold of her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You lit up like … like the green at Primavar.”

She loooked at the hand on her arm. “Let me go.”

He took his hand away. As she stood rubbing at the sore spots that would be bruises later, he gazed helplessly at her. She could feel a tightly controlled anger working in him. “A man I could fight,” he said suddenly, “this.…”