A Bait of Dreams (36 page)

“Zidras,” Shounach said coolly, “I might say the same.” He slowed a little and moved over to give the man space to walk beside him.

“Finger of fate.” Zidras waved a hand airily, an absurdly delicate hand, little more than soft white skin stretched over long thin bones.

“How's the crowd? Tight or easy?”

“Tight. Early days yet.” Zidras was smiling and chatty, relaxed and comfortable enough with Shounach to hint of favors exchanged until the balance was fairly equal between them. “They smell a bad winter coming early,” he went on. “The meat auctions ended yesterday. That should liven things a bit. But the races start tomorrow and that'll draw the day crowd away from the market booths and the players' pitches. Even from the cat-pits, though there are some as likes the blood too much to be interested in such tame entertainments. Night now, that's getting livelier, but too many Hands about to make it profitable as we'd like. And they keep reminding folk of the Svingeh's cut, enough to sour hullu wine.” He shivered, pulled his robe tighter about him and looked over his shoulder. Gleia followed his eyes, disciplined herself not to flinch when she saw what was bothering him. A Hand stood watching them. Zidras' gaze rested on her face a moment too long, so she knew he'd sensed her wariness, but he said nothing for several more paces, then spoke to Shounach with a seriousness that rested uneasily on him. “One thing, Juggler. Don't set up till you've fee'd the Svingeh. You're used to working free and easy. That don't go here. You get us all busted, you try shafting the Svingeh. They just looking for the excuse to use those cords on us.”

Shounach nodded. “So I hear. Anyone else we know working the Fair?”

Zidras grinned, his dark eyes flicking to Gleia's face then up to Shounach's. “Trina and Shaur.”

“Ashla's hells,” Shounach grimaced. “Hasn't forgot, has she.”

“She forget when she dead. She'd throw fat on a fire that was burning you.” He slid another of his too-knowing glances at Gleia who apprehended what he was saying by trying so obviously not to say it. She kept her face impassive, uninterested. Go play with yourself and leave me alone, she thought. “Won't be around for long,” he went on. “Leaving first light tomorrow. Svingeh wouldn't license her. Said the last seer made too much trouble for him and was a fraud anyway and he wouldn't believe in it even if she told him the names of his eldest ancestors, so Shaur's had to work the crowds, but a Hand almost caught him … mmmh.…” He gazed at Gleia, assessing the brands on her face. “… transferring the wealth, one might say. He a dainty shade of green since and afflicted with a palsy most awful.”

Shounach snorted. “You haven't changed.”

“Never thought you'd notice, love.” He patted Shounach's arm, then sighed, fluttered long curling eyelashes. “Such a loss. Such a loss, my limber lovely friend.” Chuckling, he stroked his beard. “I come up with a band of players, earn my cut being musician, cashman and costumer, anything the manager can think up to make life miserable. You need a bit a music, give me a call. Remember about the feeing?”

“Eh-Zidras, I hear you, enough. Any rooms left? Price is relatively no object. We chanced across a smallish windfall.”

“I would not say the room you get is much better than any of the local trees. They quarantine us degenerate player types in that thing you see me coming out of. There's a room or two left, got roofs and walls, 'bout all you can expect.” He turned and faced the way they'd come. “Svingeh's man, he sit in a hole by the door. Shell out what the viper ask and don't argue or you get labeled troublemaker and first excuse you rolling back down the River with a swole face and a black line about your neck. Hands they been busy with strangling cords.” His eyes shifted to Gleia and swiftly away. “I be late, manager get nasty, think up more slop for me to do. Come see us. Not bad, could be better with a better audience; these mud-heads want it broad or not at all.” With a quick nod, a flip of his hand, he moved off at a pace just short of a trot.

The Svingeh's man shuffled off, leaving them in a wretched stale-smelling enclosure that qualified as a room only because the walls were more or less upright, the floor had no obvious holes, there was a semblance of a roof overhead and a flimsy door with a lock on it a child could open with spit and a whistle. There was a shock of fairly fresh straw in one corner, a torn dirty canvas pulled over it. It was an end room with two walls exposed to the winds that crept along the cliff-face and whistled in through cracks wide enough to show daylight. The single window was broken, the hole stuffed with moldy rags. A tree growing too close to the building tapped continually against the remaining glass and the wall, blocking what little light might have managed to trickle through the filthy glass. There was enough light in the room to show patches of moss on walls and floor, suggesting that the roof was somewhat less than watertight.

Gleia wrinkled her nose at the smell and the damp. “Just as well we won't be staying long.”

Shounach laughed. “They should be paying us.” He slipped his bag off his shoulder, reached deep into it, into the magic pocket she despaired of understanding no matter how many times he explained it, the pocket that produced miracles on demand—at least at prudent moments when no strangers were about and no crossbow bolts threatened. This time he brought out a faceted bit of yellow glass with a muted oily sparkle. He tossed it up and caught it and she remembered seeing it before, when they were prisoners of the thissik. Checking for eyes and ears, he'd said. But this was Jokinhiir, the Svingeh was a self-glorified thug who controlled a strategic stretch of water and squeezed everyone going past, there wasn't likely to be anything about more complicated than spy holes and thumbscrews, He tossed the glass bit from hand to hand some more and then she wasn't much surprised when he put it away, and brought out a familiar short rod.

“I thought that was used up.”

“Almost. Enough left for one more small service.” He fiddled with the rod a moment, then pointed it at the canvas. When he touched the sensor, the light that came out was no longer hard and white and confined to a long thin rod, but a pale violet fan. He played the fan across straw and canvas, once, twice, the light beginning to fade on the last pass, then returned the rod to the bag.

“What service?”

“Delousing.” He walked to the straw bed, the bag swinging against his calf, settled himself, his back against the wall, held out a hand. “Come here.”

“And spoil the rod's last gallant effort? Better delouse me first. I picked up friends in the watch-towers.”

Gleia wakes in the soft light of late afternoon. Shounach is seated cross-legged, his eyes unfocused, his face relaxed. She feels again the slow pulsing calm radiating from him. The room is light and dark and light again as clouds drift past overhead, the air is like water flowing, the drafts flowing over her without insistance or check. She feels herself closer to him, drifting closer to fold around him and be enfolded in his, a paradox that pleases her but doesn't assert its nature, only is, as she only is, as he only is. This too has happened before, they were put together by the thissik and he makes himself this space and she comes toward him but not so close then. She was frightened then but is not now, is more at ease with this merging because she is more at ease with Shounach.

Time passes.

He blinked and came up from the depths where he floated. She came with him, came swimming up warm and content, that contentment ruffled by the need to face once more the jars of everyday living, the drive of his obsession. For a moment he sat smiling at her, a gentled softened look on him she'd seen only once before. As if he too lingered in that limbo he could create, that he now shared with her, as if he too was unwilling to break into the moment's peace.

But it was not a thing that could be held beyond its time. Gleia sighed, rubbed at her back. Shounach reached over to the floor in front of him, scooped up a pair of earrings that lay there—she was startled to see them, she hadn't noticed them until he moved to pick them up—and dropped them into the bag slouched open beside him. Large copper hoops threaded through irregular lumps of amber. Barbaric things but beautiful in their way. Gleia started to ask him about them, but the softness was gone from his face and she was too contented and comfortable to feel any real urge to disturb herself. She pulled her own bag to her, sat holding it, yawning and blinking, getting herself together enough to face the need for washing herself and the rest of her clothing.

Shounach helped her up. “While you slept, I arranged the license. You hungry?”

“When I wake up enough.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Any chance of promoting some hot water and soap?”

“There's a bathhouse along the River a little.”

“Can we afford it?”

“Bless Kan when you're rubbing in the soap.”

“Poor old monster. Wonder what he thought when he woke.”

“Likely too confused to think.” He slid the strap of the magicbag onto his shoulder. “Bath first, then food.”

They went down the stairs in companionable silence, strolled along the mucky path toward the boardwalk.

“After bath and dinner, what?” she said.

“I negotiate for a place to perform, you locate the Sayoneh camp.” He set his hand on her shoulder, a light touch quickly removed, a reassurance as much for him as for her. “I didn't want to leave you sleeping alone too long so I didn't do more than glance around.” They left the frowsy Inns behind and started toward the noise and confusion ahead, the tents and booths of the market cluster, the performance stands of the players. “I know you can take care of yourself, but you were sleeping.”

She chuckled, patted his arm. “Poor old Fox. All that gallantry wasted on one who doesn't particularly need it.”

The sayoneh tents were set up in the shadow of trees on the far side of the Fairgrounds, apart from the rest of the fairgoers, patrolled lackadaisically by sour-faced Hands. There was a corral with a large herd of horses, riding stock and sturdy packers, a ring of tents whose peaks showed behind a canvas wall tacked from tree to tree. All those that came out from behind the canvas wall wore blue veils with embroidered eyeholes but not the leather and metal armor of those Gleia had seen in Istir. Several of the veiled women were hauling water to the horses, others were forking hay into a manger, some were sitting with stacks of gear, oiling it or repairing broken bits, yet more were flitting about on errands that seemed to involve a lot of giggling, chasing about and teasing slaps. There were many happy shouts, much laughter, women's voices, altos and contraltos, mezzos and sopranos, here and there growls of ruined throats, blending into a pleasant noise like the song of birds and the brush of the River.

In a small clearing beyond the walls and the corral, several young sayoneh had hitched up their robes to leave their legs free and were playing a game with a leather ball and much laughter, more sweat, and a lot of scrambling around.

Gleia drifted through the trees, avoiding the guards and the working sayoneh, and stopped to watch the girls play. She wore a clear cafta, a gray-green with a row of embroidered leaves about the hem, sleeves, and neck. The hood was pulled back and lay in folds under her hair, hair that was clean and moving softly in the morning breeze, tickling at her face, whispering across the silken fabric of the hood; she felt refreshed, capable of anything, the strains of the struggle upriver dissolved for the moment. She leaned against a tree, watching the game, wanting to laugh at the uncomplicated pleasure of it, but keeping silent so she wouldn't disturb the players. One of them had a way of moving she knew too well for her own comfort; she didn't need the flash of long mahogany legs to confirm her identification. Deel. Alive and obviously well.

A tall saone came quickly up to Gleia, beside her before she was aware she was no longer alone. “Your intent, Despina?” The voice from behind the veil was a pleasant contralto but the crisp delivery demanded a response.

Gleia turned to face her. The veil was an irritation. Here in the shadow of the trees, the saone's eyes were a darkness as opaque as the blue cloth that hid the rest of her face. Gleia smoothed a hand back over her flyaway hair, feeling as if her mind was half-muffled, her senses smothered. She hesitated, but there was no help for it, she had to speak or leave. “You have a friend in your tents. Deel. I need to speak to her.”

The saone watched her, that much Gleia could tell, but it was several moments before she spoke again. “We do not recognize the outclan names of those who join us.”

Gleia stiffened. “You speak double, Saone. Deel has not yet joined you, that I'm sure of—though I grant you the possibility she may at some later time. She will want to see me. There are things we must say to finish off what lies between us.” She was annoyed at the saone's resistance and at the same time pleased by it. Deel was well-guarded. She fixed her eyes on the shadows behind the embroidered openings, silently demanding consideration while she spoke what she was thinking. “I am pleased my friend is so well protected. But I will speak to her. With your consent or without it.”

The saone said nothing.

Once again Gleia passed her hand over her hair, stood elbow out, clasping the back of her neck trying for a posture of casual determination. “This much concession. I'll give you time to talk with Deel. See what she wants if you have any honesty in you. I'll return here in an hour.”

She came back with Shounach.

The tall saone was rigid with affront. “Go away. There's nothing here for you. Either of you.” Her voice sounded like she wanted to spit in their faces. “Leave. Or I'll call Hands to take you away.”

Gleia glared at her, sputtering in her fury. “You lie,” she yelled at the blue veil. “You're worse than Hankir Kan, keeping Deel prisoner.”