Skeen's Leap (18 page)

She pulled the hook down; the door opened with a heavy silence and a gliding ease that spoke of careful balance and oiled hinges. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. A long narrow room, the entrance in one of the short sides, cut in two sections by a broad counter, the greater part behind the counter. Lit by a pair of roof windows and an efficient array of curved mirrors that multiplied the light until the room was filled with it. Backless benches along the walls. No one at the counter, though three robed youths bent over tables some distance behind it, working with such concentration they had no idea that anyone had come in and might want some attention. Skeen had a strong suspicion they were playing games with her, but she'd long ago learned how futile it was to complain. She crossed to the counter. A small wooden mallet lay beside a polished wooden block, both attached to the counter with exquisitely chased bronze chains, each link slightly different from all the others, a clever variation on a theme, something a master craftsman had tossed off once upon a rest time, just to show he could. She touched the chain and briefly coveted it, but there was no point in that right now, so she lifted the mallet and rapped on the block, startling herself with the amount of noise she produced.

Three heads popped up. One of the robed figures rose and came to the counter. “How many I serve you, Maneke?”

“I have questions. Would it be possible to speak to a scholar named Pegwai Dih?”

His round young face went solemn. “Maneke, a scholar's time is very expensive and you'd be wasting your coin to ask him something a novice could answer.”

“I appreciate the courtesy, Manoush. What are the charges for answers you can provide me?”

“If I know the answer and don't need to search, one copper. If it requires consulting a readout, five coppers. If it requires extensive file search, that will be one silver. Is that enough to go on with, Maneke?”

“Let's try it, Manoush.” She fished in her belt pouch, put a copper on the counter. “Question: Have you maps of this world, all or part?”

“Some maps we have. The Rivers Rekkah and Rioti from source to end. The Boot and the Backland. The north coast of Rood Meol. The Islands of the Spray. A few sections of the coast of Suur Yarrik across the sea. Some of the coast of Rood Saekol.” He swept the copper into a worn wooden box. “Someday we'll have the whole, but not yet.”

Skeen put another copper on the counter. “Do you sell copies of maps or let outsiders see them?”

“No cost for this answer. A silver for each page you buy, a copper for each master you look at.”

Skeen frowned at the counter. It was waxed and caressed to the kind of deep glow only time and loving care could produce. She didn't want the world and his brother to know her business, but if she didn't ask, she'd never get answers. “Do you have a brief history of the eight waves and where they ended up, with some idea of the present distribution of the species?”

The boy collected the copper. “We have such a book, but it's at least a generation out of date. We have Seekers out now gathering information and scholars working on updating the book, but the new edition won't be completed for several more years.” He cleared his throat. “For one copper you could look through our lending copy. If you decide you want a take-away copy, we will print one for you for two silver. I think you will find it useful, Maneke. It was written for singling pass-throughs.” There was a hint of question about the last words, but Skeen let the hint lie untouched. She had a sinking feeling that the book however interesting and useful would have little information about the present location of the Ykx, the one thing she really had to know.

“I've an afternoon free. How much if I take the book to one of the courts around here and read it there?”

The young man smiled. “That I'd better ask about, give me a minute.…” He glided away, went round behind some ceiling-high bookshelves. Skeen heard a subdued hum and the soft clacking of an antique keyboard and had to discipline her face into placidity. Computer? Likely. She thought about several xenologists she knew who'd go into ecstacies over this world and plan a dozen lifetimes of projects. She thought about old Yoech and frowned; any day, any hour, any minute some other fool Rooner could hear him and believe him. It didn't bear thinking about.

The clerk came back with a battered old book; he set it on the counter in front of her. “For five coppers you may take the book into the Cirincha garden. If you wish, in about an hour, someone can bring you a light snack, say bread, jam, cheese, and a pot of tea. Four coppers. One copper for the use of the garden, that would make ten. Only if you wish.”

“Sounds good to me, Manoush.” She counted out the ten coppers, picked up the book. “How do I find the Cirincha garden?”

“A pledge will be waiting outside the door. He will show you, Maneke.”

A young boy, a pre-pubescent Aggitj in a short robe that barely reached his rather grimy knees, led her around the main building into one of the pleasant arcades. He shook his head when she tried to question him, though he smiled politely all the while. He laid a forefinger across his lips and she understood he was bound to silence, at least in the presence of outsiders. Obviously he found the required muteness aggravating in the extreme and had to jerk himself up several times as speech bubbled up in him. He was a gangly child, with hands and feet much too big for sticklike arms and legs, but he had the same kind of cheerful acceptance of the world's difficulties and his own shortcomings that she'd found in the four extras. In the short distance between the hallway and the arcade, without saying a word, just by the bounce of his walk, the insouciance of his grin, the happiness of his tea-colored eyes, he gave her a good feeling about the place. He was where he wanted to be and willing to endure the little difficulties they made for him as long as they let him stay. He left her in the court and bounced away with a farewell flicker of his fingers. She settled on the grass beneath a blooming Cirincha tree and began reading, picking up speed as she grew more accustomed to the syllabary of Trade-Min.

YKX:
Frail in appearance, stronger than they look. Covered with a thick plushy fur. Color ranges from a dark cream to an umber almost black. Gossamer flight skins, also much tougher than they look, attached along the bottoms of long thin arms and the outside of long thin legs. Ykx do not fly, but they are skilled and agile gliders and could stay aloft for hours if conditions are right. Three fingers and an opposable thumb, claws, tough arcs of horn with needle points that add an extra dexterity to the long fingers and thumbs. The powerful eyesight of a flying predator, though the Ykx have never been known to kill anything without extreme provocation. Irises like molten copper. A curious assemblage of secondary eyelids which aid in the shift in focus from distance to extreme close work. Face mostly eyes. Knife blade of a nose. Unable to survive for long periods if separated from their kind. Long-lived and apparently slow breeding though very little is known about the more intimate aspects of their lives. Preferred dwelling—caves carved into tall, vertical cliffs. Their assemblages are called Gathers. Closest comparison is to nest domes of the Skirrik.

Beyond the physical description and some speculation about their social habits, there was very little solid information about the Ykx in the book. Nothing she could use, nothing to help her find them, nothing to help her bargain with them. Something stirred briefly in her head, then was gone. Bargain she'd have to; no one gave away something as valuable as the key to The Stranger's Gate. And talking of value, best check her purse. The Poet's money was going fast. Nossik's hadn't been cheap. The Grinning Eel was making the coin vanish just as fast even with the Aggitj paying their way. She didn't want to mess her backtrail by running out on the rent. Chances were she'd have to come back this way to reach the Gate again. She looked at the pile of coins by her knee; no problem yet. She yawned, glanced at the sun, then dumped the coins back in the pouch and tied the pouch back on her belt. Busy port city, bound to be a House worth nightwalking. But that was for later. She yawned again, got to her feet. It was warm and quiet in the court, making her sleepy. After a few stretching bending exercises to let air into her brain, she started back for the office.

A bang with the mallet brought the same clerk to the counter. She pushed the book across to him. “Seems I must speak with the Scholar Pegwai Dih. Would that be possible this afternoon? And how much will it cost me?”

“One moment and I will check the roster, Maneke. One gold to speak with a scholar of Pegwai Dih's rank.” He waited until she nodded her consent, then went back around to the concealed readout. A few clacks, silence, a few more. The clerk came back. “Scholar Dih agrees to see you, Maneke. One gold, if you please.”

He took the coin, weighed it on a small scale, dropped it into an iron-lipped slot beside the mallet. Taking a small rectangle of paper, he dipped a steel-nibbed pin into a stone bottle of ink and scrawled a few glyphs. This crazy world, she thought, computers and steel nibs in wooden holders, turgid ink in old stone bottles. He held out the slip. “Show this to the Scholar Dih, Maneke. A pledge waits outside to take you to him.”

“Many thanks, Manoush, you have been most kind.”

The girl waiting for her was small and dark and quiet. In the shadowy hall she thought the child was Balayar, but when they passed one of the few windows cut through the stone, she saw the tracery of scales on her skin and the odd crinkled hair; it'd looked black but was really a dark green. This quiet shadow girl was a Nagamar up from the marshes along the coast. Where the Aggitj pledge had to struggle with his nature to keep the silence, this pledge walked in silence as her natural right. She brought Skeen into a vast room heavy with age and books.

A broad solid man sat in an armchair in the midst of a clutter of paper and books, inkpots and pens. There was a metal box on wheels beside his chair, a thick black flex snaking from it to vanish under the shelves.

The pledge left, quiet shadow with a pensive abstracted air, dignified and self-contained little person. Skeen watched her a moment, smiled, then turned and held out the slip of paper.

Pegwai Dih took it, glanced at it, dropped it among the others cluttering the table; he looked her over, his face alive with interest and a brisk enjoyment she didn't know how to read. “Sit, Maneke, sit. You give me a crick in the neck standing like that.” He had a deep bass voice, rich and warm, that made her feel folded in affection and liking, that sent an answering flush of warmth through her.

Fighting against the charm of the man, Skeen pulled a chair away from the table so her legs wouldn't be encumbered if she had to move fast. The arms blocked easy access to the darter so she slid forward until she was sitting on the edge of the seat.

He watched her maneuverings with considerable amusement. “The Poet sent word to watch for someone like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing at all, just a comment. He can send all he wants, what answer he gets is another thing.”

“I didn't pay a gold for natter natter about things that mean nothing to me.”

“Games, games, always games. You've nothing to fear from me, Maneke. Had I my way, slavers would be hanged and slave owners made to disgorge.”

“Your way.” She tapped the fingers of her left hand on the chairarm. “Talk's easy.”

“So is silence when it's called for.”

“As you say.” But she relaxed, slid back in the chair, crossed her legs, and waited for what he'd say next.

“Gate closed on you? No answer? No need for one, I suppose. Let me see.…” He searched among the papers and found a long strip of papertape about the width of his thumb. He ran this through his fingers. “Dum Besar is boiling. The Poet's pulling any strings he can get his hands on—seems he's rather more important than people thought; he wants the Min back and he wants the hide of the thief who took her. Spies told him the thief was a Pass-Through female hired by some Mountain Min to steal his slave. He was making half-serious plans to take an army into the mountains and erase Mintown when he discovered they didn't have her either, same spies. Mintown is in a ferment to match that in Dum Besar. Quite a trick breaking free of the Min. Some day you'll have to tell me how you did it. The favored notion is you brought some device through the Gate, something that makes you invisible perhaps. Poet wants to get his hands on that almost as bad.” He set the tape down and watched it curl into an irregular coil. “I'll put the rest together, shall I. You're here. The Gate shut on you. You want to get away from the storm you stirred up; perhaps the Min woman is still with you. The chances are strong you want to cross back through the Gate. You inquired about a document giving the current location of all representatives of the eight Waves, then spent the afternoon reading it. After all that you still wished to speak to a scholar. Me. I suppose you got my name from Timka. Odd little thing. Slippery as a bead of mercury. I wonder if you got more out of her than I could. No matter. My conclusion: you are trying to locate an Ykx so you can persuade him to re-open the Gate. No no, let me finish, you can add or amend later. Timka is in Oruda with you; she has even more reason than you to get away from Mistommerk. You can't stay in Oruda long or the Poet's spies will report to him and the Min searchers will report to Mintown. Distances and travel times considered, you've got a sennight clear before you need to start worrying about trouble on your tail. So. Say your say, Maneke. I'll answer how I can.”

“Hm. You don't leave me much to say.”

He chuckled. “I pander to my vanity throwing all that at you. Given time and need, it's possible to find out quite a lot about visitors to Oruda.” He opened wide his black eyes, pulled a comical face. “Unless they're Funor who strangle intruders without bothering why they've come.” He chuckled again. “It amuses me, Maneke, that you've come here using the Poet's coin to buy what will take you beyond the Poet's reach. No no, say nothing. I really mustn't know for sure. If I did more than play at guessing, I'd have to act. Harmless speculation to pass an old man's long days—that's nothing to take seriously. Well well, folk here say my tongue's hinged in the middle and my pledge time did serious mischief to my feeble brain. So ask. I listen.”