Moongather (28 page)

The night wore on. The Dancers set and took the moon shadows with them. Serroi faced her loneliness, her pain, her weariness, and slowly accepted them into her; in this remnant of night she found a measure of calm as she narrowed the focus of her strength to simple survival. Without knowing how she knew, she felt that her ordeal was almost over. She was changed, she could take life into her own hands now and shape it as she wished.

An hour after the Dancers set, the eastern sky flushed vermilion. As the sun rose higher, her shadow walked ahead of her like a flat black giant, jerking comically as her feet moved. She climbed a small rise and began looking about for shelter.

The parched land stretched out on all sides, dipping gradually down toward the western horizon, hard earth, dull brown earth, crossed and recrossed by deep fissures, stones of all sizes scattered like tiles across it. One of the larger boulders rocked back and forth, then staggered up onto four skinny legs.

THE WOMAN: XI

Coperic set the tray on the table, pulled the chair across to the bed and sat down in it, smiling at Serroi. She blinked drowsily, stretched, patted a yawn, then smiled up at him, deeply content. Working a hand out from under the tumbled bedclothes, she stretched it out to him. The food cooled as they sat that way, sharing a long moment's relaxation from a longer tension, sharing affection rather than passion, an affection both needed badly.

Coperic was driven by his needs to hide this side of his nature. Only rarely could he share without subterfuge. He was a complex man, a strange man Serroi could marvel at but not fully understand. She lay warm, comfortable, relaxed, contemplating the dreamy calm on his face so different from that sour greedy mask he wore downstairs. His plots and schemes, most of them of a kind to bring him under the headsman's axe were they discovered, these were as necessary to him as the air he breathed. He was smuggler and spy, master of thieves and vagabonds, cynic and idealist, fanatically loyal to his friends, a bitter enemy to those who injured him.

A minute more, then both broke the hold. Serroi threw the covers back and stood. After putting on the crumpled boy's clothing for one more day, she brushed off her feet and stamped into her boots. Crossing to the table, stepping over Coperic's feet and answering his friendly grin, she picked up the tray and carried it to the bed. “You have many people downstairs?”

“Not open, not for another couple of hours.” He rubbed at his long nose. “Lot of my customers are allergic to morning light.”

Serroi took a few minutes to eat, then she looked up. “Take care, Pero. Has Morescad got anything against you?”

Coperic shook his head. “I'm too little to catch his eye; besides I mean to keep my head low for the next few passages. No chances for greedy old Coperic.”

“Wish I could believe that.” She drained the cup. “Take care of the girl for me.” She lifted the tray from her knees and set it on the bed beside her. “She's going to kick up a fuss when she finds me gone, but she's a good child and far from stupid. If I don't make it back.… She scowled, touched her forehead. “Is the coloring still even on my face?”

Coperic leaned forward and drew his fingertips along the side of her face. “Yes, little meie; you'll have to chip it off with a chisel when you want to be yourself again.”

She laughed, then sobered, caught hold of his hand, held it against her face for a moment. “I've got a cold feeling about today.”

Coperic freed himself gently, leaned back in the chair, frowning at her. “You have to try it?”

She nodded. “For a lot of reasons. I suppose mostly because I have to live with myself after this.” She flicked her fingers at the weaponbelt coiled on the table. “I'm leaving that and the pack with you.”

He scratched at an eyebrow. “You're not thinking clearly about this, Serroi. It wouldn't be too hard to slip a message to the Domnor warning him of this plot and do it without blowing my cover or yours.”

Serroi shook her head. “You're right, it'd be easy enough. How much would you believe if you got a note like that?”

“Can you be sure he'll believe you?”

One corner of her mouth twisted up, then she shook her head. “No, Pero, but I think the chances are better that I can convince him.” She leaned forward. “The Nearga-nor seem to be holding a meeting here; I saw more than a dozen of them on the Highroad coming here. Why? How many of them are actually here? Hern's no fool, he's got to be asking himself what the hell's going on. It's not the Gather; the Norim don't have anything to do with the Maiden if they can help it.” She stood. “If I don't come back, tell Yael-mri to remember my Noris, that I smell him in this.” She slipped the cap on, tucked in stray wisps of hair. “Can I just walk out?”

He moved to the door and pulled it open. “Just go. No problem.”

The side streets were empty and quiet in the clear calm dawn. The east burned with layers of red and gold that were reflected in the scummy pools. Serroi skirted the puddles and made her way to the main street where street vendors had mooncakes already frying in pots of fat. The street was filling with the crisp hot smells of oil and batter. Jugglers and beggars, fortune tellers and gamblers, thieves and acrobats, even a few petty Norids mixed with pilgrims up early on this Moongather Eve, all of them gathering around the cake vendor's stalls or setting up for the influx of pilgrims later on.

The harvest of coins
. Serroi strolled along, smiling. For the street people these weren't holy days. What they took in by trick of hand or mind would keep them through the lean days of the Scatter. Jugglers and acrobats crunched down the mooncakes, wiped greasy hands on trousers, began practicing their arts. The beggars settled on their corners, sores flaming fresh. They too were practicing their whines, exhibiting their infirmities to each other. Dancers were warming up, stretching, turning, working their bodies. Street musicians were setting up their stands, blowing experimental trills on flutes, tuning other instruments, the singers humming snatches of popular lays or hymns to the Maiden. Gamblers were trying the sleight of hand on each other. The few early-rising pilgrims were mostly serious; even the laughing, joking visitors kept moving toward the Temple.

Serroi passed one or two of the gamblers who had snared victims, wrinkling her nose as the rustics hunched over shells or cards or scattered tiles, intent on their own impoverishment. She strolled through the noisy, colorful life that filled the main street, her spirits rising until a Sleykyn stepped into the street and began walking down its center. His serpent mask glittered, his scabbard clashed softly against the skirt of metal-inlaid velater strips that protected his groin. His velater-hide whip hung coiled in a leather pouch on his left side, only the handle showing; he could draw and strike with that whip in less than a second as Serroi knew only too well. She touched the shoulder where the cut still itched. He wore heavy leather gloves with metal inlays and thigh-high boots striped with the velater hide that could rip a man's skin off with a single glancing blow, the skin from the great dark predator of the sea depths whose scales had razor edges. He walked with a heavy arrogance that no one cared to challenge. For several minutes after he passed the street was empty, then it filled again with people talking and laughing a little too loudly.

Serroi moved unnoticed toward the Temple, a small dusty boy like countless other children—quiet and exuberant, awed and indifferent—brought to Oras to celebrate the Gather. Lost in this stream of pilgrims she rounded the curve of the Plaz-walls and saw the Temple ahead, crossing the end of the broad avenue. Around her she heard sudden intakes of breath, angry curses, the faltering of pacing feet; she faltered herself as she stared at the gathering beside the Temple gate. Black-clad Followers of the Flame swaying and chanting around a Son who stood high above them on a makeshift stage, chanting in counterpoint as he shouted a diatribe against the Maiden, naming her Hag and Whore, Demoness and Deceiver. The pilgrims muttered uncomfortably, angrily—with no one daring to confront this affront to custom and piety; under the anger there was a current of fear and uncertainty that told Serroi with a terrible eloquence how powerful the Sons of the Flame and their Followers had become.

She moved closer to a small family, mother and father and three children, trying to seem a part of it as she moved past the glaring eyes of Plaz guards wearing black armbands with the circled flame embroidered conspicuously on them, moved through the gate and down the tree-shaded walkway to the Temple itself, letting the peace inside the walls lighten her despair and soothe away the disturbance stirred up by the demonstration outside.

Old but still unfinished, the Temple was a forest of pillars, each with its unique carving of the Maiden. Every year or so a new column was added, the figure a gift of another sculptor and patron or group of patrons—wood and stone, ceramic and mosaic, every medium but cold metal. Everywhere she looked, Serroi could see images of the Maiden, stern or tender, laughing and light of limb, or formally gracious. Each artist had carved or shaped his or her own vision of the great Her. Somewhere within the forest of columns—a thousand at the last count—a pilgrim could find that image of Her that matched his or her inner vision. Serroi had come here half a hundred times during her ward; even now in her preoccupation she reacted to the beauty and mystery of the place. Since the columns were not roofed in but supported a delicate lattice of stone, the morning sun painted lacy shadows on the muted tessera of the mosaic floor. The noises of the street were closed out by the massive walls; once she moved into the columns they ceased to exist for her.

There were already many pilgrims here, telling their prayer beads or sitting in quiet contemplation of the Maiden. A few were wandering among the columns searching through the hundreds of images for the one that spoke to them. The street crowd had ignored the small boy; here, in the shadows and the silence, the pilgrims took even less notice of her. She moved quietly toward the central court, disturbed by the evil she carried with her, the jarring she felt between her inner turmoil and the holiness of this place.

She stepped out of the shadow onto the court's mosaic floor. The fountain in the center of the court sang soft music to her. At the far end of the large open space were the Door and the Dais where the Daughter would enact the rite of the Moongather, her chant echoed by the thousands of pilgrims filling the court and all the space within the forest of columns. She hesitated a moment by the coping of the fountain; she had only to cross, turn to her right at the far side and follow the sanctuary's wall until she came to a small plain door—until she was there, until she pulled the bell cord, she was safe in her disguise. The small lump of the tajicho was warm against her skin inside her boot, reassuring her as it warned her of hostile search. She looked up, touched the hand of one of the maiden figures in the fountain; it seemed to her that the fingers warmed to hers a moment. Then she shook her head, ruefully acknowledging her desperate need for reassurance.

She walked quickly across the court. The silence was thick and tense. She moved down the side of the simple rectangular building that housed the Daughter and her acolytes. At the small door, she raised her hand, touched the bell-pull. It was carved from a large piece of amber into the shape of a slender, graceful hand. To sound the bell she had to take the hand in hers and tug. The amber fingers felt warm and welcoming in hers. Her heart thudding, her breathing ragged, she tugged and heard the muted sound of a bell ringing inside.

The door slammed open. She shrank away as she stared up into the face of a Plaz guard, a big scarred man in carefully smoothed tabard and clean leathers. He scowled down at her. “What you want, boy?”

Serroi swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and croaked, “Message.” Her tongue flicked along dry lips. “Message for the Daughter,” she said.

“Give. I see she gets it.” He held out his left hand. Some brawl in the past had taken the little finger and the top joint off the fourth.

Fighting down a fear that was making her sick to her stomach, Serroi shook her head. “Mouth message,” she said huskily. “Say to the Daughter this: She who milks the wind and sows the dragon's teeth has words for the Daughter.”

The guard grunted and leaned forward to peer skeptically at her with slightly nearsighted eyes. “Stay here.” He slammed the door in her face. She sank onto the pavement and tried to stop the shaking of her knees. With a trembling hand she wiped sweat from her face.

It's Moongather
, she thought.
Except for the trouble Tayyan and I brought on our order, that guard would be a meie; though with the fuss the Sons are stirring up about us, maybe not, maybe it's not all my fault. Still, probably nothing to worry about. The Daughter has to be guarded. At least he wasn't wearing an armband. There must be some guards who aren't involved in this plot
. She rubbed at her nose.
Doesn't matter. I'm a boy, a Mouth, not the meie they're all looking for
.

The door jerked open. The guard beckoned. “Come on, boy,” he growled.

She followed him inside. There was a small dark foyer that smelled strongly of wax and polish, than a hallway lit by oil lamps, scented oil, a sweet fragrance that reminded her of spring on a mountainside. The guard stumped ahead of her. His attitude began to bother her. He didn't seem to give a damn where he was, seemed deaf to the tranquility he shattered with each heavy step.

“In here, boy.” He pulled back a curtain and motioned her through an archway, then clumped off as she stepped into the bare room where peace touched her fear like a benediction.

The room was a little longer than it was wide. Tapestries on the walls were dark blue with scattered white dots and line figures. After a moment she saw that these represented star groupings; the dots were stars, the white figures the legend images. At the far end of the room two chairs were pulled up facing each other. As she hesitated the tapestry by the chairs split and a veiled figure stepped inside the room. The slender graceful figure wore a long grey robe and over it a translucent grey veil so fine it seemed to float on the still air. The woman sat, beckoned to Serroi.