Skeen's Return (15 page)

That was the first day.

While Skeen and Timka slept, during Pegwai's morning watch, several small bands of shorthorns came winding toward the chek. Chulji screamed a warning, the Aggitj and the Boy raced about threatening first one then another, but when one of the skirmishes spilled into a Skak, the tunk tonk of a guard drum sent both sides scurrying into the alleys and the attack was abandoned for the day.

When Chulji was aloft again, ready to spot for them, Domi sent Ders inside to report to Pegwai.

“… and they disappeared like they were Min Shifters,” Ders finished.

Pegwai glanced at Angelsin, but the woman's broad pale face had no more expression than it usually did. If she knew what was going on, if she'd planned that sniping, she showed no sign of regretting the failure of her ploys. “How serious were they about wiping you away?”

“Domi says they testing us. Would a got us if they could, but they never pushed it very hard and they backed off fast when it looked like the guard would stick its nose in.” He shifted from foot to foot, doing a nervous dance, anxious to get back to his cousin but too polite to hurry Pegwai.

Pegwai drummed his fingers on the table, his dark eyes darting about the room as if he sought answers there he couldn't find elsewhere. He gazed at the staircase a long minute, shook his head. There was no point waking Skeen. I'm not wholly inept. I hope. “Tell Domi if they come at you again, they'll be serious about the attack; the two of you and the Boy get back in here and I or whoever is on watch will have a little talk with our hostess.

Ders giggled, flashed an obscene sign at Angelsin and slouched out of the room.

The second day passed. Angelsin increased pressure on them though she did nothing overt. No sign of Maggí yet. Again Skeen exercised for over an hour, trying to drive the maggots out of her head. She slept as heavily as before, but this night she dreamed, all the old sores opening again, playing over and over, with the new humiliation mixed in—Tibo's betrayal. She woke as tired as when she lay down.

The third day. Angelsin was showing strain. Her bones were paining her because she wouldn't give her warders the satisfaction of seeing her tend her joints. Her calm was brittle from the moment she woke on the morning of the third day; she snarled at the Aggitj who watched her void her bladder, wash herself and dress; she spewed invective on them which they ignored with that amiability that could be more irritating than curses. Her face was blotchy with temper as she struggled downstairs and into her chair; she could no longer sit with massive intimidating stillness, but fidgeted with her sleeves, moved her hands along the chair arms, traced the cuts of the carvings, turned from side to side, moved her feet. Dark glitters shone in eyes sunk so deep in their sockets they were usually lost in shadow. When Skeen came downstairs, she walked into a glare that sent chills along her spine.

Maintaining her calm though it took considerable effort, she turned her back on the Funor woman, ambled to Pegwai, dropped into a chair beside him. “My my,” she breathed. “If looks could kill.…”

Pegwai rubbed red eyes. “Skeen, we are so close to losing hold of this thing,” he broke off his whisper, shook his head. “If the ship isn't here today, you'd better come up with some other way of getting out of this place.” He swallowed a yawn, knots of muscle punching out beside his mouth. “I'm played out, haven't been sleeping well; I've got to sleep, but I don't know if I dare close my eyes.”

“Eh, Peg, you might as well. I hear you and yeah, you're right. Don't worry, I'll come up with something. I've been in tighter pinches before and I didn't have you all round to help me out.”

“Help, hunh.” He closed both hands over the edge of the table and started to push away, then changed his mind. “Skeen, there's a young Pallah who keeps coming in, fidgeting around, watching Angelsin all the time. She pays him no mind and he drifts out again. I don't think he's Pallah. I think that monster made a deal with the local Min for Timka's hide and the boy's here to collect it.” He pushed heavily to his feet. “Hopflea followed him out the last time. I don't like that. I've been debating whether to get Timka down here and see what she says.” He straightened his back, looked round the room a last time. “I'm going to wake her; she can decide what she wants to do.” He stumped off toward the stairs.

The room was almost empty; the buffet table had a plate of raw greens and some stuffed toast on a long tray, nothing like the usual spread of delicacies. A Pass-Through of the tentacled variety, indeterminate as to species or sex, was slumped bonelessly in a chair near the fire, a half consumed mug of ale on the table beside him. Another customer slouched on the far side of the hearth, his shape mostly lost to shadow. Even the noises off the street were hushed and hurried, scurrying footsteps, voice murmurs, the whistle of a freshening wind, nothing like the raucous vigorous blare of most days. Skeen listened to the wind and wondered if it was blowing north or south; between the delta marshes and Cida Fennakin there was a long stretch of the river that ran almost directly north/south through a mile wide canyon that funneled winds at any ship attempting to traverse it. Bona Fortuna grant the wind was coming out of the south, blowing Maggí to them, though that could turn into a problem if they had reasons for getting away fast. When she couldn't stand the wondering any longer, she went to the door and looked out.

The street was almost as empty as the taproom; a few bits of paper and dead leaves, a scatter of feathers and some mattress flocking scudded along the cobbles, moving south to north; she leaned against the door-jamb where she could watch the street and Angelsin both by turning her head a bit. “I've never seen the place so dead,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the whine of the wind, “What's happening?” She watched Hopflea come running along the street, head turning continually, his small body shouting excitement and apprehension; any unexpected noise and he'd be off down a sidestreet so fast he left his shadow behind. He was hugging a heavy pouch to his ribs. When he got close enough she could see a smear of drying slime on one sleeve. Goodbye, boy Min, she thought. I'd say we don't have to worry about you any more. Hopflea ducked into the alley alongside the chek and Skeen moved back inside, settled herself at her table. “What's happening?” she repeated, the snap of command in her voice.

“It's the eve of a season-change Moondark,” Angelsin said, resentment harshening her vowels and biting at the consonants; Skeen almost expected the words to squeal as they slipped between those broad chisel teeth. “The first Moondark of the Dying Quarter. The Pallah are on the hilltops outside the city.” The Funor woman started to relax, as if she was grateful to have something to take her mind off her own problems. “Each Pallah clan has its own hill; they stack wood higher than a house and crown the pile with the bones they save from the flesh and fish and fowl they eat between fires. They wind paper chains about the wood and stuff paper charms in the cracks between the layers.” She curled her lips in a faintly contemptuous smile. “They're clever with those five stiff fingers, useful sometimes. I've hired Pallah dancers now and then and they've made paper birds and beasts for me for some extra coin to decorate the private dining rooms upstairs. They'll be spending the night out there, the Fennakin Pallah, drinking some foul concoction they call possel, dipped so hot from the possling kettles, you'd think their gullets were lined with copper. Capering the night away and coming back so draggletail they're no use for a fortn't after.” She moved heavily in the chair; Skeen decided her bones were bothering her more and more and she couldn't find any comfortable position no matter how she shifted. “The Balayar now, they like their comforts too much to spend a cold night getting bit by chiggers; they've been cooking for a week now, all of them—man, woman, child. They've hired a warehouse up in North Cusp and packed everyone in it to eat and drink and do whatever else it is they do to celebrate the end of the storm season; that's what this Moondark means to them. You won't get a smell of them for at least three days. Too bad your friend is tied up here. He's missing an orgy of eating and tupping. The Aggitj? Who knows what the Aggitj are doing. Who cares. The Chalarosh—they're probably in some cellar somewhere torturing something.” She spat. Skeen suppressed a shiver; Angelsin had a hate so big for the Chalarosh she didn't bother to hide it, knowing there was no way she could avoid showing what she felt. The Funor woman turned her glare on Skeen. If she saved her ultimate hate for the Chalarosh, she had a lot left over for an interfering Pass-Through. Remind me, Skeen told herself, I should never ever pass through here again.

Hopflea was in the chek somewhere, but he hadn't showed his face in the taproom. Skeen went back to standing in the doorway. The street was empty. She sighed, and wondered if they were going to have trouble with the local Min. Domi strolled by, talking with Ders; they threw her a wave and went on with their untroubled patrol. She looked-up. Chulji must be downriver again. She rubbed her back against the doorjamb, listening to the snores of the sleeper by the fire, the soft voices of Hal and Hart as they tossed the bones and moved the stones about.

She strolled to the bar, hitched herself onto the slab and sat gazing thoughtfully at Angelsin, ignoring her angry hiss. “Pallah, Balayar, Chalarosh, Aggitj,” she murmured. “What about Funor Ashon? How do Funor celebrate the Moondark?” She raised both brows. “Well, Adj Yagan, are you supposed to be somewhere tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

SECRETS. SOME ARE WORTH A LIFE, SOME ARE SILLY, SOME ARE BOTH. THIS ONE TILMAN SANG WOULD HAVE PAID A LOT FOR; IT WOULD HAVE CLEARED UP HIS CONFUSION IF HE COULD HAVE SEEN THE FOOL BEHIND THE FACE OF THE FACEMAN. IF HE COULD HAVE KNOWN THAT THE HIDDEN FUNOR FEMALES HELD THE REAL POWER, NOT THOSE GLITTERING SWAGGERING MALES HE SAW WIELDING THAT POWER. HERE'S WHAT ANGELSIN YAGAN WOULD NOT TELL SKEEN: EVERY SEVEN YEARS (AND, TOUCHED BY MALA FORTUNA'S NOT SO BAD HAND, THE COMPANY HAD LANDED IN CIDA FENNAKIN ON A SEVENTH YEAR) THE FIRST MOONDARK OF THE YEAR'S LAST QUARTER MARKED THE TIME OF TAPPING. EVERY FEMALE FUNOR ABOVE PUBERTY RETREATED INTO PREPARED ROOMS AT THE CALL OF THE HORN, JOINING HER SISTERS IN RITES THAT INITIATED THE GIRLS WHO'D REACHED THE PROPER AGE INTO WOMANHOOD AND PERFORMING OTHER ACTS THAT SOLIDIFIED IN THEM THE SENSE OF THEIR POWER. WHAT THOSE ACTS WERE ONLY A FEMALE FUNOR KNEW AND EVEN THE OUTCASTS NEVER TOLD; IT WAS A MYSTERY, IT REMAINS ONE IN ALL THE DEEP OLD TERRIBLE SENSE. A DAY AND A HALF AFTER THEY RETREAT BEHIND LOCKED DOORS THE FEMALES BURST FORTH INTO THE HALLS OF THE UPHILL KEEPS, SHOUTING THAT DEEP HOOMING CRY THAT FREEZES EVERY MALE IN EVERY HOUSE. THE YOUNGEST AND THE ELDEST LEAD THE WOMEN, THE YOUNGEST HOLDING THE SIMMRAEL STAFF THAT WOULD TAP THE NEW GREAT FOOL INTO BEING, THE ELDEST WHISPERING TO HER, DIRECTING THE CHOICE OF THE FOOL. THE MALE THE ROD TAPPED WOULD BE THE SECOND MOST POWERFUL FUNOR IN CIDA FENNAKIN; HE WOULD BE THE COMMON PROPERTY OF ALL ADULT FEMALES, SERVING THEM IN EVERY WAY THEY REQUIRED, YET HE WOULD HAVE AUTHORITY OVER ALL MALES AND FEMALES BUT THE BOHANT, THE FIRST AMONG WOMEN, THE LAWGIVER, AND ONLY SHE COULD COUNTERMAND ANY OF HIS ORDERS. THE GREAT FOOL WAS THE FACEMAN, THE FORM THROUGH WHICH THE BOHANT SPOKE TO THE OUTSIDERS IN THE CUSPS OF LOWPORT AND THE TRADERS FROM EVERYWHERE. HE MIGHT SERVE THE WHOLE SEVEN YEARS OR HE MIGHT SUCCUMB TO A FOLLY REAL RATHER THAN CEREMONIAL (THE FOLLY OF THINKING THE POWER HE WIELDED WAS HIS OWN, NOT SOMETHING BORROWED FROM THE WOMEN THAT HE WOULD HAVE TO SURRENDER TO THEM AT THE END OF HIS TERM). MORE THAN ONCE THE WOMEN HAD TO UNMAKE WHAT THEY HAD MADE AND CHOOSE A SECOND FOOL TO FINISH THE SEVEN OUT.

ANGELSIN YAGAN WAS DUE IN A HOUSE UPHILL THIS VERY NIGHT, DUE TO ANSWER THE CALL OF THE ELDEST OF HER HOUSE OR BE CAST OUT. DEATH WAS THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE EXCUSE FOR ABSENCE FROM THE RITES AND EVEN THAT WAYS SHAKY; IF THE DEATH WAS JUDGED SUICIDE, THE BODY WAS EXPELLED FROM THE COMMUNION AND IF THE WOMAN WAS REBORN AT ALL, IT WAS AS A LOW-CASTE MALE, NOT A FATE TO BE DESIRED. ANGELSIN MUST NOT ALLOW SKEEN AND COMPANY TO HOLD HER AWAY FROM HER HOUSE, NOR WOULD PRIDE OR THE OATHS SHE SWORE AT HER OWN PUBERTY ALLOW HER TO EXPLAIN ALL THIS TO SKEEN. HER BRAIN IS TEEMING WITH SCHEMES FOR HER ESCAPE; SHE IS GOING TO HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN WEAKENING HERSELF, PERHAPS FATALLY, DOWN HERE IN SOUTH CUSP OR DESTROYING HERSELF UPHILL. OF COURSE, SHE HAS NO REAL CHOICE; SHE WILL BEND HER PRIDE A LITTLE, COMPLAIN OF THE PAIN IN HER KNEES AND ASK SKEEN TO LET HER RETREAT INTO HER OFFICE WHERE HOPFLEA CAN PUT FOMENTATIONS ON THEM AND EASE THE ACHE A LITTLE. SHE IS REASONABLY SURE SKEEN WILL PERMIT THIS THOUGH SHE IS EQUALLY SURE SKEEN WILL KEEP A SHARP EYE ON HER. SHE IS HOPING FOR A DEGREE OF OVERCONFIDENCE, SHE IS HOPING THAT THE AGGITJ WILL BE LEFT OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, SHE IS HOPING THAT HOPFLEA HAS MANAGED TO GET HOLD OF A NAGAMAR DAGGER DART AND HIDDEN IT ON THE STEAM TABLE WHERE HE COOKS THE TOWELS. ONE TINY SCRATCH FROM THE POISONED TIP OF THAT TINY DAGGER AND GOODBY SKEEN. ANGELSIN SITS AND STARES OUT THE DOOR AT THE EMPTY STREET AND RUNS HER PLAN OVER AND OVER IN HER MIND, SEEKING FOR EVERY POINT OF WEAKNESS SHE CAN VISUALIZE.

“Maybe you could convince me to let you go.”

Angelsin stared at her a long minute, then looked away, saying nothing.

“If you want to be like that.” Skeen slid off the bar and went back to her seat at the table. She fished in her belt pouch, pulled out the bit of wood she'd cadged off Lipitero and began working on it with her boot knife. As the hours passed, the quiet inside and out intensified and with it, Skeen's uneasiness. The sleepers by the fire woke, looked around, went out. Angelsin stopped fidgeting; she was stone now, not even her eyes moved.

Midafternoon. Domi came sauntering in with a hot meat pie in each hand; he gave Skeen one of them and settled beside her to eat his. “Chulji dropped down,” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost seemed he hadn't spoken, that the movement of his mouth was due to his chewing. “Maggí's ship is about an hour away downriver.”