Moongather (7 page)

“You'll be crossing the mountains?”

The voice behind her startled her; she wheeled. The Intii had left the laboring men and come up so quietly behind her she hadn't heard a whisper of sound. She looked into the wrinkled mask. “Yes.” The word trailed out as she tried to read him and determine how much she should say. It seemed safer to lie; no matter how little contact the scattered fisher villages had with outsiders and each other, accidents still happened. A hundred eyes—a thousand—might be looking for her, searching every shadow for her traces.
In an odd way I'm safest going back to the city. That's the last place they'd look for me
. “I'll be taking the Highroad south to the Biserica,” she said.

The Intii looked from the village walls to the dark smudges on the grass where the dead raiders lay still unburied. “The Kapperim will be waiting for you.” He pointed at the trees. “You won't see them. One or two at a time, they'll be waiting for you. Never forget an injury, those animals.” His mouth stretched into a slight smile as he reached out and touched the tip of the bowstave. “Do you ever miss with this, little meie?”

“Not often.” She watched the boats moving into the middle of the tappata. The men left behind were walking silently back toward the waking village. On the bank she could see at least half the boats still perched high above the water. “You expect the Kapperim to come back?”

He jabbed a long bony thumb at the sprawled bodies. “That bunch, they won't be back but others're sure to come behind them. Already had half a dozen raids hit us.” He tugged at a beard plait. “I tell you this, meie, I bear you no ill will, but better you go quick, you hear? My woman is fixing up the things you asked for. No need you going back in there.” He nodded at the village. “Fetch your macai.” He grinned suddenly and as suddenly sobered. “Lots of them to choose from.” Without more words he turned and strode off toward the gate.

A macai bonked mournfully, then strolled past her chewing at a succulent louffa, the long slim leaves dangling from the mouth jerking rhythmically and gradually shortening. Chuckling now and then, Serroi moved through the grazing macai, looking them over with an eye trained by Tayyan until she found one that pleased her.

She edged cautiously toward it, using her eye-spot to send out waves of reassurance. It watched her warily but didn't move off, only shied a little when she rested her hand on its skinny neck. She scratched at the slick warty hide, then rested her forehead against the macai's shoulder, the sharp dusty smell of the beast triggering memory.…

A long skinny blonde with scraped knees, a tear in her sleeve, a small bandage on her nose, Tayyan strolled into the stable, looking the macain over, her inspection accompanied by an assortment of sniffs, mostly scornful. Serroi was stroking the neck of a new hatched macai, pleased by skin striped a brilliant amber and umber and softer than new spring grass. Tayyan knelt beside her, hard blue eyes softening. She held out her scruffy hand for the colt to sniff, then settled herself beside Serroi. After a moment she edged her hand close enough to touch the quivering nose, stroked it gently until the little macai honked its treble pleasure. More moments passed in companionable silence, then Serroi and Tayyan began talking.

Tayyan's father was mad about macai racing and shared that obsession with his daughter. She rode almost before she could walk, refused to sit meekly with the women and learn the maidenly arts her aunts struggled to teach her, escaped to the stables at every opportunity where she was treated more like a son than a daughter. But all this ended on the day they brought her father home belly down over a macai's back, his neck broken.

Her oldest uncle moved in, a rigid man, dull and lumpish, jealous of his popular older brother, seeing slights in nearly every word. He shut her in the women's rooms, demanded that she learn a woman's tricks, had her beaten, beat her himself, when she defied him or sneaked away to the stables when life became too much for her. When she reached her twelfth year, her uncle betrothed her to a friend of his, thinking to rid himself of her. And so he did, though not the way he intended. She crept out one night, saddled a macai and took off for the Biserica.

Serroi sighed, rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. Humming a ragged tune, she stroked her fingers along the macai's neck, then scratched at the folds of skin under its jaw. The beast nudged her, then butted its head against her shoulder, honking plaintively, begging for more scratching. With a shaky laugh, she complied. Then she pushed away, sighing, and swung up into the saddle.

The macai hopped about a little, but calmed immediately as she kept a firm hand on the reins and sent him toward the village. With every step she was more pleased than before with her choice. A smooth rolling gate. The saddle and halter well-crafted. Made to the measure of the small-hipped Kapperim, the saddle with its high front ledge and trapezoidal back fit her well enough. The stirrups were a little long, but that could be easily fixed. Saddlebags, lumpy now with the dead raider's possessions, big enough to hold her own supplies.
Ten days
, she thought.
Only ten days to Moongather. Ten days to get across the mountains and back to Oras
.

By the village wall, she slipped from the macai's back, stripped off the saddle and used the pad to scrub his skin clean of all sweat.

She was pulling at the saddle's belly band when she heard slow steps behind her. “Set the things down by me,” she called, then grunted and jabbed her knee into the macai's side. The beast whooshed and honked, then sucked in its stomach. She pulled the strap taut and tucked it home. When she turned, she saw a girl crouching beside a heap of gear, a ragged girl with a sullen stubborn face, big hands spread out over the waterskin on the top of the heap, fierce determination in her scowl. Her skin was several shades darker than most fishers', though her eyes were a greenish-brown, much like the Intii's. Her hair was long and dirty, very dark, almost black.
Mixed blood
, Serroi thought with a touch of sympathy. She could remember all too well how closed societies treated those among them who were different. “What is it?” Serroi asked quietly, not wanting to frighten her more than she was already, a fear that was glazing those green eyes.

The girl's tongue traveled over dry lips. She rose slowly to her feet. About twelve, still flat-chested as a boy, she was nearly a head taller than Serroi. “The Intii sent these things and says it would be best to hurry.” She stumbled over the words, her voice hoarse and uncertain.

“Yes. I know.” Serroi took the saddlebags and shook out the Kappra's rubbish, not bothering to see what was there. She took the bundles of food and the utensils provided by the Intii's wife and stuffed them hastily into the bags, slapped the bags over the macai's back, then reached for the blanket roll that the girl was holding out to her, her hands shaking badly. “Take me with you, meie,” she said rapidly. She let go of the bundle, pressed fisted hands against her chest. “I want to go to the Biserica, meie. Please?”

Serroi stared at her. Her first impulse was to refuse; she was in enough trouble without this added complication.
Maiden bless, can't I be excused this? I'd never get out of the village with her. And what do I do with her once we're over the mountains, send her south alone?
“I'm riding into a lot of trouble, child,” she said. “I can't take you with me. You could be killed or worse.”

“Killed?” The word was low and intense. “Worse?” She shook the coarse hair out of her eyes. “Nothing could be worse than staying here. You have to take me, you have to.”

Serroi turned her back on her, started tying saddle thongs around the blanketroll. Over her shoulder she said, “You don't understand what you're asking.”

“I don't care, meie.” She bent and picked up the waterskin, moving a little awkwardly, her thin body coltish, uncertain as a young macai. “Listen. My mother was raped by a Kappra and left for dead. Kappra!” She stretched her mouth into a snarl, then shook her head impatiently. “Better if she'd died. Or me. I eat the scraps after the posser and the oadats. Each time the Kapperim raid, the fishers who are killed—their families take it out on me. Meie, I'm a woman almost and there's no one here to protect me, not even the Intii, though my mother was his own sister. I used my knee on a man this morning, I got away, but he'll be waiting for me tonight. I don't want to be the village whore, meie. Take me with you.”

Serroi took the waterskin from her and tied it slowly in place. “They won't let you go.”

“I know. But I'm supposed to watch the posser and keep them out of the trees, what I thought—I'll go away now and meet you out there, behind the knob where the Kapperin were.”

“You've thought this out very carefully.”

“Meie, I had to.” She glanced nervously around. “Please, I should go now, I've been here too long.”

“Wait a moment. There's something I must do first.” She tapped the macai on the rump, sent it a few steps in a tight half-circle. “Start going through that junk.” She pointed to the pile of Kappran leavings on the ground. “At least you'll look busy. There are some questions you must answer. It's ritual. Do you understand?”

“Yes, meie.” The girl dropped on her knees and fumbled with the bits and pieces, touching them with a determined attempt to conquer her revulsion.

“You ask to be one of the company of the Biserica?”

“I ask it, meie.” Her hands staled, began moving again.

“The way is long.” The required words came smoothly enough to Serroi though she felt little joy in speaking them. “We promise nothing.”

“I have learned to endure, meie.”

“What do you bring us?”

“Only my hands and my heart, meie. I'll do anything, I don't care what. To get away from here, to be someone, not an animal, I'll do anything.”

Serroi took a deep breath. “If you join the company of meie, you must abandon the hope of children.”

“Better than being raped by whoever takes the notion. I want to rule my own life, meie.” Her body was taut as a bowstring with passion. “I want to be … I don't know … I want to mean something.”

“Then let it be.” As the girl gathered herself, Serroi added hastily, “Don't move yet, not for a minute. What's your name, girl?”

“Dinafar.” Her tone turned bitter. “Outsider. That's what my mother named me before she threw me into the street.”

“And I am Serroi. I'll wait by the knob, but I meant it about the danger. I can't explain, but think carefully before you come.”

Dinafar's face flushed, then paled. She jumped to her feet, staggered, ducked her head in a awkward bow, then ran for the meadowland.

Serroi chuckled, shook her head as she turned to the macai and checked all the ties and straps, then she pulled herself in the saddle and started riding after Dinafar toward the rocky knob rising like a brown-grey pimple from the rolling green.

THE CHILD: 3

The Noris's head jerked, the red gem flickering in the pearly light coming from the room behind him, then flickered again as his mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. “So it is. Serroi,” he said. “Come, Serroi, I want to show you where you'll sleep.”

Rebellion melting away for the moment, she walked carefully past the raised tapestry and into the corridor, glancing repeatedly up at him, surprised at having surprised him, trying to fit his reaction into what she knew of people. The Noris spoke a WORD and the stone to her right gapped suddenly. Stone seemed as malleable as water to him. Light crawled up stairs folding in a tight spiral as the Noris dropped the tapestry and urged her forward with a hand on her shoulder onto steps that seemed to be driving into the stone, forcing it open as they climbed. Serroi trudged reluctantly up those unreeling stairs, feeling very strange. The narrow space made her skin itch; she didn't like being so enclosed, was glad the Noris followed close behind.

She came around the last curve of the spiral and stepped into a short hallway with an arched roof, little more than an alcove shut off by a large panel of bronze. She turned and looked up at the Noris, puzzled.

“Open the door.” His voice filled all the space, stroked her like a caressing hand.

“How?” She scowled at the metal.

“Examine it.”

She marched up to the slab of bronze and looked it over. A little higher than her head a bronze hook stuck out of a slot. She pulled it down and pushed. Nothing happened but a metallic clunk. She rubbed at her nose, then pulled the hook down again and tugged the door toward her. It slid smoothly open. She pushed it against the wall and swung around with a wide grin. “I did it.”

“So you did. Now, go inside.” The Noris folded his arms over his chest, his eyes twinkling at her.

She stepped into the room, eyes wide with excitement. There was a bed set up on legs like a cart without wheels. She had no trouble guessing what it was though she'd slept most of her five years on piled-up vinat skins only inches from the frozen earth. She crossed to it and touched the shimmer-soft coverlet, then stroked her hand over the bright, blue-green smoothness, oohing her delight. Still petting the cover she looked around at the other strange things in the room. With great zest she trotted from wall to wall, touching everything she could reach. There were two tapestries, simplified plant forms in strong rhythmic designs, worked in threads that gleamed richly in the brilliant light pouring in through the open window. A bronze chair and a table with a marble top and bronze legs stood next to the window, on the table a bottle of ink, several sheet's of paper, two pen-holders with silver nibs. She lifted the holders, touched the points to the tip of her forefinger. “What are these?”

“For writing.” At her blank look, he joined her at the table, took a pen from her, dipped it into the ink, pulled a sheet of paper close and wrote
SERROI
on it.