A Bait of Dreams (34 page)

In the dark hours just before dawn, Shounach pulled the last of the stolen horses to a stop. “The Roost,” he said.

Clutching at him, she leaned out and looked around him. The tower was a black cylinder cutting into the starfield, twice the girth and twice the height of the other watchtowers. Though there were a few sparks of red near the base where torches burned at guardposts, the rest of the tower was quiet and dark, those inside apparently all still asleep. Shounach tapped her hands. When she loosed her grip, he slid to the ground and reached up for her.

Gleia eased her head above the step and wrinkled her nose as her eyes confirmed what her ears had told her. A corseleted guard paced steadily back and forth in front of an elaborately carved door, a regrettably alert sentry far different from the two men supposed to be watching the tower's entry, both of them drunk and intent on the leaping bones and the piles of coins in front of them. Up here on the top floor of the tower, Kan's own roost within the Roost, everything was different. She watched the guard pace then looked around the wide open space in front of the door. It was bare of cover and lit by at least a dozen shell and pewter lamps; the only shadows visible were those multiple shifting shapes pooling around the feet of the pacing guard.

She crept carefully back down the steps to the floor below, tensing at each accidental sound. She pushed open the door to the unused room where he'd left her. The lamps in the corridor were burning low, it would be dawn too soon and at dawn the tower would turn into a trap. Her sandals creaking on the stone, she paced back and forth over the gritty flags, circling around the broken, three-legged chair that was the only furniture in the room, too restless and worried to sit or even stand at the window.

Shounach came back after what seemed an eternity though the darkness outside was as thick and still as ever with no sign of the approaching dawn. She whirled when she heard a noise at the door, relaxed when she saw him, lifted a brow at his burden—a large metal tray with a pewter pitcher sitting in the middle, a ragged hunk of bread on one side and an equally ragged lump of cheese on the other. He set the tray in the window embrasure and shook out the wad of cloth he'd carried pinched between arm and ribs, a servant girl's shift, cleaner than most she'd seen in the other towers.

“What's that for?” She glanced from the shift to his face. “I almost hate to ask.”

“You. I want you to distract the guard for me. He won't be suspicious. No sane person would invade this tower.”

Gleia chuckled. “Sane? Neither of us qualifies.”

He held out the shift. “Get into this.”

Scowling, she shook her head. “Look at me. Smell me. I smell more horse than woman.”

“You don't have to seduce him. Use your tongue, Vixen.”

“What? Oh.” Ignoring his sudden grin, she reached around the shift and snapped a finger against the shoulderbag riding his hip. “Use the light-blade on him. It'd be quicker and quieter.”

“Can't. Not enough charge left to light a match.” At her puzzled look, he shook his head. “Never mind. It's used up for the moment, that's all. You can do this, Vixen.”

“But I won't like it.”

Laughing he moved to the window and stood gazing across the chasm at the dark bulk of the Svingeh's Keep sitting high above the sleeping Fair. Shivering as the damp chill pervading the desolate little room touched her skin, she stripped off the tunic and trousers and smoothed the shift down over her body, regretting already the warmth she'd discarded; the sleazy material of the shift provided little protection against the cold. She joined Shounach at the window, rubbing briskly at the cold-bumps on her arms. The starlight glittered on patches of frost that shone white against the black of the stony earth far below. “Winter in a few months,” she said. “Have you thought.…”

“Time for that later, Vixen.” He lifted the tray and carried it to the door.

She took it from him and stood back to let him open the door for her. “I'm an idiot to do this. You be sure you're close behind me.”

Shounach smiled down at her, drew fingertips gently along her cheek, lingering over the brands. “See if you can get him to turn his back to the stairs.”

“Talk about your one-idea minds.” Shaking her head, she went out, walking slowly, intent on keeping the unstable pitcher from tipping over and dousing her with the beer it held.

“What you doin' here, girl?”

Her head down, her eyes on the rocking pitcher, she ignored the guard's snapped question and moved several more steps toward Kan's door. With a muttered curse he rushed at her, grabbed at her arm and jerked her around. The pitcher rocked precariously but didn't quite tip over. She held her breath until it settled, then stood with her eyes lowered, refusing to look at the guard, trying to present him with a picture of sullen stupidity. “Orders,” she muttered. “Tol' me, bring this here.”

“He's sleeping.” The guard kept his voice low though there seemed little chance that many sounds would penetrate that massive door or the equally massive walls. “He don't want no food now. Get your butt down those stairs before I kick it down.”

She stood stubbornly silent.

Breath hissed between his teeth. His fingers closed painfully on her arm; he jerked her around, sending her into a stumbling run toward the stairs, the tray wrenched from her hands. It bounced on the floor with an appalling clatter, the pitcher rolling away in a lopsided arc, spilling beer in a frothy stream across the flags.

Then the guard was folding down to lie with his face in a puddle of sour beer, Shounach standing over him. He grinned at Gleia who stood rubbing at her bruised arm and scowling down at her beer-soaked sandals. “About time,” she said.

“You know you did good, Vixen.” He crossed to the door, lifted the latch and shoved. “Barred inside.” Eyes narrowed, body taut, he concentrated a moment then shoved at the door again, smiling as it swung ponderously open, silent on oiled hinges. He beckoned Gleia to him, sniffed as she came up beside him. “Horse and beer are not a pretty mix.”

“You should be as close to it as I am.” She moved past him into a huge dark room with scattered divans, their piles of silken pillows gleaming liquidly in the faint light from a single lamp. She started across the room, expecting to hear Shounach following behind; near the middle she turned, raised her eyebrows as she saw him back outside, stooping beside the unconscious guard. He dragged the man inside, went back for the pitcher and tray, swung the door shut and dropped the bar into its slots. “No use getting anyone excited.”

Kan's breathing filled the bedroom beyond, a steady rasping not quite a snore. Starlight and the meager gleam from Aab's shrunken crescent came grayly through the window hole cut in the thick outer wall, through the double panes of its glass, just enough light to darken the shadows and fuzz the outlines of the room's furniture. Her sandals whispered over layered furs as she crossed to the wide bed where Kan sprawled alone among scattered pillows, quilts twisted around him until he looked like a dark moth emerging from a tattered cocoon. He lay on his stomach, his face turned toward her, drooping open, quivering with each noisy breath. She glanced up at Shounach. “The sleep of the just,” she said acidly, not bothering to lower her voice.

His eyes darkening with amusement, his teeth gleaming in the ghost-light, he touched her shoulder, then bent over Kan, startling her by slapping his open hand against the man's neck.

Kan grunted, tried to fight out of the quilts, collapsed onto his back; he stared glassily up at them, a dark disc clinging leech-like to his neck. Shounach watched him a few minutes, eyes narrowed, measuring the changes in his face, then he retrieved the disc, slipped it back in his pocket. “Hand,” he said sharply; he slapped him, his hand cracking against the plump cheek. “Hand, tell me your name.”

“Hankir Kan ycon y-sannh.” His voice was thick and slow; a line of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

“Do you carry Ranga Eyes into Istir?”

Kan's eyes opened wide; for a moment a flicker of awareness brightened in them, then his face went slack again. He said nothing.

Shounach frowned, then nodded. “Right. Did you carry Ranga Eyes into Istir?”

In a dull, blurred voice, Kan said, “I did carry Ranga Eyes into Istir.”

“Where did you get the Eyes?”

Gleia moved closer until she was pressed against Shounach's side, his arm shifting to rest on her shoulder as he waited with more patience than she could muster for the answer to this question.

“The Svingeh.”

Suppressing an exclamation of disgust at the let-down, Gleia pulled away from Shounach and began wandering about the room. With more understanding of the limitations of the drug, Shounach continued his questions. “Where does the Svingeh get the Eyes?”

“Hell-bitches.”

Two of the walls were covered by large tapestries, their colors swallowed by the cold light, the woven images fading into blotches of gray and white. She wandered over to one of them, ran exploring fingers along its surface.

“Explain Hell-bitches.”

“Sayoneh. Trail women.”

Gleia pulled the tapestry out from the wall, raised her brows when she saw the small alcove it concealed.

“Where do they get the Eyes?”

“Don't know.”

Gathering the tapestry into folds to let the meager light filter past her, she peered into the alcove. With a soft exclamation she dropped the tapestry and groped across the small space to the two bags piled in a back corner, her bag and Deel's. She took one in each hand and pushed back out into the main room.

“Where is their settlement?”

“Don't know.”

“Who does know?”

“No one. They keep it secret.”

Gleia stripped off the beer-stained shift, glad to be rid of it. She dug into her bag, found one of her caftas and pulled it on; it was wrinkled and damp but she felt more like herself.

“When do the Sayoneh bring the Eyes to Jokinhiir?”

“Ten days before the Jota Fair.”

“They've already delivered the year's shipment?”

“Yes.”

Gleia hauled the two bags across the room and stopped beside the bed. She touched Deel's bag, considered interrupting Shounach to ask about Deel, decided that she could wait a little longer.

“What do the Sayoneh buy with the Eyes?”

“Protection.”

“Protection?”

“Come and go, buy and sell, Svingeh keep hands off, make everyone else keep hands off.”

“When the Sayoneh leave the Fair, do they go off together?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes they leave in separate groups, go in different directions?”

“Sometimes.”

Gleia looked down at the man's slack face, then up at Shounach. She rubbed slowly at her arms. Kan was sweating copiously, little ripples of twitches running repeatedly across the flaccid muscles of his face as if in some deep part of his mind he fought this invasion of his private thoughts. Gleia chewed on her lip, feeling uncomfortable at the probing, feeling also a degree of satisfaction at seeing him struggle helplessly as he must have made Deel struggle.

“What direction do they take when they leave together?”

“South along Skull-crusher.”

“What is Skull-crusher?”

“River.”

“What river?”

“Cuts between Roost and Svingeh's Keep.”

“In the chasm?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone tried following them?”

“Not far.”

“Why?”

“After the first time, Svingeh forbade.”

“Why?”

“No more Eyes.”

Gleia scratched at her nose, glanced at the, window, frowned when she saw the faint rosy tinge to the gray light. She laid her hand on Shounach's arm.

The muscle under her hand jerked, he twisted around and frowned at her. “What is it?”

“Deel.”

His face went blank, then he passed a shaking hand across his eyes. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“I know.” She touched his cheek. “You do that. One track at a time.”

He shook his head, then bent over Kan. “Where's the Dancer?”

“Gone.”

“How gone?”

“In the River.”

Gleia sucked in a breath, held it, waiting tensely for the next answer. Shounach's mouth tightened, his hand closed hard around hers. “What was she doing in the River?” he asked quietly.

“Swimming.”

Weak with relief, Gleia leaned against Shounach. Once again he absently rested his arm along her shoulders and held her close. “Did she get out of the River?” he asked.

“Don't know.”

“Is it possible that she got out of the River?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Hell-bitches could have pulled her out.”

“Sayoneh. Where were they?”

“By the Mouth of the Chute.”

“What were they doing there?”

“Riding a barge to the Jota Fair.”

“Why do you think they got the Dancer?”

Kan's mouth fell open, worked moistly; his face twisted into distorted shapes. For a moment Gleia thought he wasn't going to answer, then the distortions smoothed out. “Too … too uppity,” he said dully. “Daring me … to … to do … something. Hiding her … know it … they got her.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Five days.”

“When will the barge reach the Fair?”

“Tomorrow … day after.”

Gleia moved restlessly, happy that Deel was probably alive and safe, increasingly worried as the red tinge strengthened. She came back to Shounach. “Not much time left, Fox. Sun's up.”

He nodded. “In a minute. Kan.”

“Yes, I am Kan.”

“The Dancer. What are you going to do about her?”

“Get her. Make her sorry.”

“How will you get her away from the Sayoneh?”