A Bait of Dreams (23 page)

Fuming and impotent, Gleia hugged her arms across her breasts and refused to look at the old man. The room was still; the only sounds were the soft rasp of his chalky fingers over the black cloth and the steady breathing of the man beside her. There was a dry, dusty smell to the room, a dusty smell to the old man as if he sat here like a withered spider, touching the threads of his plots.

The Lossal dropped the shawl and leaned back in his massive chair, dominating it and the room by the cold intensity of his colorless eyes. “Bring the woman closer.”

Gleia jerked her arm away from the Harrier's hand, marched up to the table and stood glaring at the Lossal, too angry to give in to the fear that was clutching her stomach.

The Lossal leaned forward, frowned. “Turn your face.” His eyes opened a little wider. “Show me the marks.”

Reluctantly, Gleia turned her head. She moved stiffly, forcing an outward calm she was far from feeling. Her fingers twitched; her hand stirred, started to lift to her face. She stiffened her arm, brought her hand back to her side.

“Carhenas marks. Thief?”

“Yes.” Though he waited, obviously expecting her to expand her statement or justify herself, she said nothing more.

He placed his hands palm down on the shawl. “Your work?”

“Yes.”

“You're his woman?” He pointed at the Juggler.

Gleia stirred; she glanced at Shounach's blank face, then she shrugged. “For now.”

He reached over, picked up the limp money bag, his eyes on her, a small tight smile curving his thin lips. “You don't need this now.” His smile widened and he tossed the pouch to the leader of the Harriers. “A small bonus for a good job, Ciyger.”

Gleia clenched her hands, watching the money she and Shounach had worked hard to earn thrown so negligently away. Anger and a growing fear alternately burned and chilled her. Once again her skill was saving her neck; her fear wasn't for herself. What she'd begun to understand on Zuwayl's ship was coming clearer to her. What happened to Shounach happened to her; she was vulnerable in a way she'd never been before. The thought dismayed her, made her more uncertain than ever about what path she should take in the future.

“Move aside, girl.” The Lossal's impatient command brought her from her unhappy thoughts; hastily she moved from in front of him and stood watching as the Harriers brought Shounach forward.

She stared. He looked furtive, cunning; his shoulders were rounded, his head thrust forward, an ingratiating smile twisted his mouth upward. Unconsciously she relaxed, realizing that the Fox was fitting himself into the Lossal's image of him, intending that the Lossal despise him and in despising him underestimate his capability. She glanced at the Lossal, saw him watching her, began to feel uneasy again. She clasped her hands behind her and tried to keep her face blank.

The Lossal shifted his gaze to Shounach. “Juggler.” His voice was silk sliding easily over the ears. Gleia heard amusement crouching behind the softness and felt a lump of ice growing in her stomach. His next words weren't a surprise, she'd been waiting for them since the Harriers had broken in on them. “Tell me what you were doing in the garden last night.”

The smile was wiped from Shounach's face; he looked startled and increasingly nervous. He rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth and stared at the floor. Forgotten for the moment, Gleia began to enjoy his performance.
Nothing overstated,
she thought.
He's another person.
“The bird spotted me,” he muttered. He shivered, his eyes turning and turning, visibly searching for some escape from this difficulty. The Lossal waited, fingers tapping on the table. Shounach seemed to collapse in on himself. “I'm a thief,” he said sullenly. “Too many people in the halls, couldn't lay my hands on anything worth the trouble. I went down the wall, meant to come inside on this floor, see if I could pick up something worth putting my head in the strangler's noose.” When he finished, his words were coming fast, piling out one on top of the other, but the last words trailed off under the Lossal's cool and skeptical gaze.

Reptilian lids dropping over pale eyes, the Lossal studied Shounach's face. “You could be the trash you seem.” He waved away Shounach's protests. “No matter. I'll find out.” The jerk of his hand brought the lead Harrier to the table. “Take that downstairs; tell Ottan Ironmaster to play with him a little, find out what he knows. I don't think he'll find anything interesting so he doesn't have to waste effort trying to keep it alive. Leave one of your men here to take the girl.”

Gleia swung around, her hands pressed briefly over her mouth, then pulled back to her sides. Shounach went without further protest, without even a look at her.
It would have worked,
Gleia thought,
it would have worked except for Toreykyn.
She turned back to face the Lossal. His hands were folded on the table; a small, satisfied smile pulled his thin lips into a tight arc. She suppressed a shudder. She must have made a sound, though she wasn't aware of it; he swiveled his head and examined her, his smile widening as he enjoyed her distress. He began touching the shawl again, watching her intently as he pinched and smoothed the material. A faint flush bloomed in his cheeks; the tip of his nose reddened. Gleia began sweating. She swallowed, nauseated by the feeling that his hands were moving over her body.

He pushed the shawl away and leaned back. “You're gifted with your hands, girl.”

She stared at him.

“No point in wasting that talent.” He got up, smoothed his robes down over his small round belly, walked across the room to the guard. “Put her in a room in the servants' quarters, away from the others, put a guard outside to see she stays there. See she's fed, bring me the shawl when she's finished with it.” He strolled out leaving Gleia seething behind him.

The Harrier reached for her. She jerked away. “I need my things,” she snapped.

He scowled at her. “Don't take all day.”

Gleia moved around the table without arguing. For the moment she was too tired to keep fighting. She folded her things and put them back into her bag, ignoring the Harrier's impatient muttering. When she leaned over, reaching for one of the handkerchiefs, she kicked something on the floor. Shounach's bag was sitting beside the Lossal's chair. She folded the handkerchief with shaking hands and slipped it into her bag.
Unarmed,
she thought.
Ay-Madar, what will he do?
The Harrier was fidgeting by the door, paying little attention to her. She caught the strap of Shounach's bag and slipped it over her shoulder, then covered it with the strap of her own. Holding her bag in front of the other, she walked slowly to the door, her shoulders slumped in weary acceptance of her servitude, trying to hide her nervous anxiety.

The Harrier grunted impatiently and urged her out of the room, too much in a hurry to bother about what she carried. She walked ahead of him along the high echoing hall to a pair of swinging doors. On the far side of the doors the hall was smaller and a great deal rougher. A few horn lamps lit the undressed stone of wall and ceiling; the coarse matting on the floor was worn but thick enough to muffle footsteps. They passed several closed doors then came to a busy kitchen. Gleia's stomach cramped as she smelled the scent of cooking food. She stopped walking. The Harrier went on two steps before he realized she was no longer with him. He wheeled, grabbed for her. She evaded his fingers. “The Lossal told you to see I'm fed. Food and candles. I need both.” She faced him, her head up, her eyes defiant. For the moment she didn't give a damn about anything.

Reading this in her face, he backed away. “Wait here.”

He left her standing in the hall outside the kitchen. She was tempted to slip away but she couldn't leave Shounach. She hugged his bag against her hip, wondering what was happening to him, then shied away from the thought.
He can't die. It would be absurd for him to die now.
Even as she thought this, she knew that anyone could die any time, absurd or not.

The Harrier came back with a covered pannikin and a handful of candles, thrust both at her and hustled her on down the hall. After turning several corners, he caught her arm and shoved her inside a small room. After he slammed the door and stalked off, she tossed the two bags onto a narrow cot and looked nervously about. There was a small barred window, and a table holding a battered candlestick clotted with wax. She put the pannikin and the candles on the table, stretched, then went quickly to the door and pulled it open.

A Harrier was coming down the hall, not the one who'd brought her. He speeded up to a trot, opened his mouth to speak. She shut the door.

There was a narrow space between cot and table, just wide enough to let her walk back and forth. She paced nervously, angry, confused, and afraid, worried far more about Shounach than she was for herself. Back and forth until her legs ached. Back and forth, rubbing her sweating palms up and down her sides, feeling the rough material of her cafta riding up and down against her skin. Abruptly she kicked the stool from under the table and sat, taking the lid off the pannikin. There was a hunk of bread soaking in a thick stew. It smelled good and re-awakened her hunger. She fished the spoon out of the gravy and began eating.

The morning dragged by. Again and again, she went to the door, but the guard was always there. She tried talking with him. He told her to get back inside and stay there, said nothing else. She worked on and off at the shawl, stopping when her hands began to shake, paced awhile, sat down again to send the needle dancing in and out of the material as her mind circled endlessly and futilely around and around Shounach and her own uncertainties.

Once Shounach and she were loose—she wouldn't think of any other outcome to this mess—she could let him go off on his obsessive quest and strike out on her own. In a way that was the easiest road, the most comfortable choice. She wouldn't have to change at all, just go on the way she always had. She could sell the shawl or trade it for passage to another city where she could keep herself with her skill. There were times when this path seemed irresistible, when she was sick of trying to adapt herself to another person's needs, friend or lover.

Deel had asked her to go south with her. The dancer was brisk and practical; she represented a way of life that was strange and exotic to Gleia. The dancer fascinated her both as a person and as a symbol. Most of all, she would be someone to talk to, to share things with. The need to share was growing on Gleia, perhaps because she'd been getting more practice at it. It fought with her urge to autonomy, it was a contradiction to all she thought she wanted, but she couldn't deny that need.

Or she could go on with Shounach, trying to learn the rules of pairing, finding herself forgotten again and again as he pursued the source of the Ranga Eyes, moving in and out of danger with him, living in pain and fear and confusion.

Late in the afternoon she was sitting on the edge of the cot, the shawl on her knees, her mind milling in its endless circle. She jerked her head up, tried to smile as the door clattered open and Deel swept inside. The dancer shut the door, leaned against it, her arms crossed below her breasts. “Some mess you got yourself in.”

“How did you know?” Gleia tucked the needle into the material and folded the shawl into a neat square.

“Merd.” Deel laughed, left the door and went to sit beside Gleia. She dropped a hand on Gleia's, a brief comforting touch, then wriggled around until she was leaning against the wall, her long legs tucked to one side. “He got me in here to dance for the Lossal. Guess he figured he could make points if they liked me. They stick us artists with the servants.” She laughed again. “Unless like your Juggler we're sleeping with the masters. Anyway, the servants, they're buzzing like a bunch of night-crawlers about you and your friend.” She wiggled long fingers at the door. “The guard out there, he's seen me with Merd so he let me in. Why the hell'd the Juggler go fooling about in the garden?”

Gleia ran her hands over her curls, shook her head. “He had good reasons. You said it right. Some mess. You better keep away from us.”

“Get away's a better way to say it.” Deel sucked in her lower lip, bit down on it with small white teeth. “The servants got other things to talk about. They say the Stareyn is laid out, barely breathing, that he could go any minute. Look, I'm not going to be penned up in this stinking city while a bunch of power-hungry families fight for the Stareynate. Bad enough if I was sworn to one of the families. I figure people like you and me, we're going to get squashed. We could get out of the city tonight, go south like I said. It's tonight, I think, or not.” She narrowed her eyes, swept them over Gleia's face. “I don't suppose you'd care to forget the Juggler?”

“Not while he's in here.” Gleia rubbed nervously at her scars. “You know where they've got him?”

“I can find out.”

“Be careful.”

“You're telling me?” Deel grinned. “I'll be so damn careful nobody'll know I'm around. Can you use a knife? I could get us a couple.”

“Deel, I grew up running the streets. Four summers. You know what that means.”

“Yeah, too well.” she pushed up off the bed. “I'd better get back, I have to be dancing soon. It'll be late when I come, better that way, I suppose; most of the place should be asleep. Just you pray to whatever gods you know the Stareyn doesn't die on us before we're ready.” She touched Gleia's cheek, then swirled out of the room with a flutter of her favorite amber silk.

The candle was guttering in the gusts of cold air coming through the window. Gleia paced back and forth past the table, her distorted shadow jerking dramatically on the wall. She wheeled and faced the door as she heard voices, then a choking sound and a thud. The door opened and Deel stepped in over the body of a Harrier. She bent down and took hold of one of his arms. “Help me. Quick.”