Six Moon Dance (31 page)

“But they do not,” whispered some. “Even they do not remember, even among them the dreams are tattered, filmy, without substance. How could even alloyed ones make do with such as that?” They could not. The dance was lost. Perhaps … lost forever.

“It is said,” sang someone hidden in a corner. “It is said the mankinds have done wrong, they may be exterminated for the wrong they have done. Now, almost one could welcome this Questioner if it would exterminate these jongau who had not the courtesy to die.”

“Bofiisdiaga says no,” said Flowing Green. “Bofusdiaga does not want justice.”

The timmy departed by Doshanoi ways, unseen. It did not take long to find the place where Mouche and the others had been sent.

M
ouche let himself be loaded into the wagon and chained there with no outward sign of protest. Only when he knew the sound of the wheels on cobbles would mask his words did he lean toward the nearest man to whisper: “My name is Mouche.”

“Ornery Bastable,” the other replied. “I’m a seaman. She called me a supernume!” Ornery’s chin jerking toward the leading carriage showed who she meant. “I’ll have words with her.”

Mouche masked his mouth with a shackled hand and spoke softly. “Words won’t help. I don’t think she cares if we’re supernumes or not. She is an evil woman, Bastable, so beware.”

The other gave Mouche a level stare, then asked, too loudly, “Known or suspected of being evil?”

Mouche shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. He had meant only to warn, thinking it far too dangerous to get into discussion about it while Dyre and Bane were near. They were doing one of their favorite things, watching him with that long, unblinking snake-eyed stare. It made Mouche think seriously of the need for allies. No Simon or Madame here. No Fentrys or Tyle. He would have to cultivate Bastable or whomever, for any help was better than none.

He shielded his mouth with his hand once more and murmured, “She is known to be an evil woman, seaman. There is no doubt about it at all. I have been warned to be inconspicuous as possible, not to attract her attention. I would not have words with her if I could avoid it.”

Ornery thought it over, then gave a tiny nod of thanks for the warning. Bane and Dyre went on staring for a time, though they soon gave it up in favor of loud and continuous complaint mixed with assorted sneers and un-specific threats against all and sundry. They complained of having been sent to House Genevois against their inclination and of having been kept there by threat of force. They said they had been forced to be civil (though they called it sucking up to nobodies) when they would have preferred despotism (though they called it getting their rights). They complained of this latest outrage in which they were expected to labor like damn Timmys instead of being cushioned on silk and fed cream, which is what they’d been trained for. Cushioning and drinking and other such dalliances seemed to have figured largely in their minds, as they went on and on about it. When next Mouche and Ornery shared a glance, both understood it as a contract. If word came to blow, they would stand together against these two.

The wagon took the winding road leading onto the western heights, passing great houses behind high walls. At the top of the ridge, a man stood in an open gateway, obviously awaiting them. Mistress Mantelby halted her carriage and, indicating the waiting man with an imperious forefinger, called to those in the wagon: “Here is my steward. You will be working at his direction, so mind yourselves.”

There was no reply from the wagon, and seemingly none was expected, for she went on in a loud voice. “Well, Nephew! I said I would bring replacements, and here they are!”

“Thank you, Aunt,” the steward murmured, standing with bowed head while the carriage moved away. When she had departed some distance toward the house itself, the man waved the wagon on, following it dejectedly afoot as it went down a lane toward a group of outbuildings. The six prisoners were hauled out of the wagon, two of them were sent along the lane under the watchful eyes of an understeward, while Bastable and the three Consorts were half dragged and half led into the stables. While the Haggers watched from the sidelines, the steward dropped his veils and looked them over, disgust plain on his face.

“Three layabout supernumes and a triplet of useless Hunks,” he complained, “to replace a dozen pairs of skilled hands. And if you don’t do the work, it’ll be my hide that pays for it, so take this to heart: You’ll do the work or I’ll make your hide pay for it, count on it.”

“And who’re you, g’nephew?” sneered Bane. “A Family Man? A Man of Business?”

The steward paled, biting his lips. “I am the person who gives orders to the Haggers,” he said when he had collected himself. “The Mistress has set them under my direction. So, if you’ve some idea of attacking me or attempting to leave this place, mark down that I won’t be alone in retaliation.”

“We have powerful friends,” yelped Dyre. “And they’ll not leave us here.”

The steward grimaced. “Oh, surely. And when your powerful friends order me to release you, and when the Hags agree to that, and when Mistress Mantelby signs her name to the order, I’ll do it. Until then you are my fingers to move at my command, worthless, and best you remember it.”

He went down the line of them, pulling their veils away from their faces, staring at each of them, noting the brothers’ sullen rebellion as well as Mouche and Ornery’s puzzlement. The puzzlement, he felt sympathy for. He himself was more than a little puzzled about this whole situation.

“There is no stable master at the moment,” he said. “Until I can find a person with experience, I’ll direct you myself. Tools are over there. Muck out all those stalls, put the muck in that cart there. Fill all the mangers with hay. Take the water buckets out, wash them, and fill them with fresh water from the well outside. Put one in each stall. When that is done, haul the cart out to the field and spread the muck about. If you think to save yourself trouble by dumping it all in one pile, you’ll crawl about, spreading it with your noses! I’ll be back after the noon-meal to see how much you’ve done. If you’ve done well, you’ll eat.”

And he turned and left, leaving two stout Haggers leaning on their cudgels to observe the work.

Mouche and Ornery set about the task, as described. There were a dozen stalls; they began on the ones nearest the loft. The job was no new thing for Mouche, though his hands, from which all calluses had long since been removed, soon felt the burn of the manure fork’s wooden handle. Ornery had no such problem. Daily manipulation of ropes had given her palms like leather. Observing Mouche’s tender hands, she pulled a pair of heavy work gloves from her back pocket and handed them over.

When Bane and Dyre made no move to help, the Haggers spoke roughly to them. After some muttering, they went unwillingly and unhandily to work at the far end.

“Y’said when we left Dutter, it was the end of this,” Dyre growled.

“It will be,” Bane muttered in return. “All this is a mistake, believe me.” Then, with a glance at Mouche and Ornery, he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, “But I think we’ll probably stay long enough to settle with that one. That one there owes us, don’t he, Brother? He’ll take a beating that will last him a lifetime.”

Mouche clenched his fists and turned. “I owe you more pain than you do me, Stinkbreath.”

“You got that wrong,” said Bane, turning white with fury. “I do what I like. I’m a new breed, I am, and nobody interferes with me, not ever.”

This brought the Haggers over once more, and while Bane and Dyre claimed their full attentions, Mouche and Ornery exchanged a few conspiratorial whispers concerning where they might find a haven if attacked. They settled upon the loft, and Ornery climbed there by the loose ladder—taking her and Mouche’s belongings with her—and began forking straw down into the two stalls they had so far shoveled out. Mouche brought in two full buckets of fresh water, waited for an unobserved moment and handed one up to Ornery, who set it out of sight. Now, if they had to retreat, at least they wouldn’t die from thirst!

Somewhere a noon bell rang, and the Haggers, who evidently felt they had supervised long enough, filed out and away, chatting between themselves. When the stable door closed, Bane stalked from the stall he had made little effort to clean, threw his manure fork at Mouche’s feet, and growled, “Get on with it, dungrats.”

“We’ll do six stalls, our half,” said Mouche. “And no more than that.”

“You’ll do the whole,” sneered Bane. “Or you’ll suffer for it.”

Mouche and Ornery exchanged a glance, then ignored Bane’s bluster and turned back to the stall they were cleaning.

“Hey, farm boy,” sneered Bane. “You been home to visit lately?”

Mouche paid no attention.

“You otta go. Somethin’ there you otta see.”

Mouche turned. “And how would you know? You’ve not been home either.”

“Well, Dutters wasn’t my home and they weren’t my folks. I didn’t have a daddy and a mommy like you did, but I got friends tell me things. You know you got two baby sisters, farm boy? You know you got a brother going to grow up to be a Family Man?”

“That’s a lie,” said Mouche stoutly. His father would have told him if any such thing were true.

Bane and Dyre laughed, punching each other in their glee. “No lie. Sold you off and right away, mama had a girl, then another one, then a boy. The farm’s doing well without you, farm boy. I guess all they had to do was get rid of their bad luck, and the Hagions made it right for them.”

“How come you know so much?” demanded Ornery, moving nearer to Mouche, who was choking on his anger.

“We was neighbors. Dutter place is just over the hill. We used to roam around there quite a bit, killing vermin, getting rid of varmints.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a mother and father?” Ornery challenged. “Everybody has.”

“Not us,” cried Dyre. “We was born of the thunder, we was. Lightning is our papa. We’re a new breed.”

“Born of the stinkbush,” choked Mouche, against all good sense. “Fathered by an outhouse.”

Mouche scarcely had time to brace himself before Bane landed on him, knocking him backward so the breath went out of him. His attacker drew a blade from his belt and wasted no time striking at Mouche’s face. Mouche rolled and fended the first blow, but the second bit deep. He felt the slice and the warm blood on his cheek. His mouth was suddenly larger, and something inside himself screamed with outrage. His face. Bane had scarred his face!

The manure fork was under Mouche’s hand, his fingers closed around the neck, just below the long tines. He managed to bring the fork up, twist it so the tines pointed at Bane, and thrust them deep enough that Bane fell back with a yelp, allowing Mouche to scramble to his feet with a firm grip on the fork as he backed, blood streaming, toward the ladder to the loft.

Meantime, Dyre had attacked Ornery, clutching her clumsily around the waist. Ornery had thrown herself forward, fallen hard on her attacker, and escaped while Dyre was catching his breath. By the time the brothers were on their feet, Ornery and Mouche were in the loft with the ladder pulled up after them and the manure fork close at hand for repelling boarders. Mouche leaked blood from his face, where his cheek had been sliced through, along with other cuts. Ornery had battered knuckles and a cut on her jaw, made by Dyre’s ring. She paid no attention to this as she inspected Mouche’s face, where the flesh was already swelling.

“Oh, by all the Hagions, Mouche….”

“If i … ‘s aad, don’ … ell … e.”

“It’s bad, and I have to tell you. It’s got to be stitched. You’ll be a horror, otherwise.”

Mouche felt the horror as he moved his fingers over his face. “… ack,” he said, as best he could, and Ornery read his mind. He fetched the pack and Mouche felt through it, coming up with a slender tube. “Glue,” he said, almost clearly. “Now … whiaw is … resh.”

“Tissue glue? I may not be good at it, Mouche. I may leave a scar.”

“Now … whiaw … is … resh.”

Working from the top of the cut, high on Mouche’s cheek, just under his left eye, Ornery applied the glue and pressed the flesh together, centimeter by centimeter, hoping desperately that she would come out even when she reached the lips. The end of the cut was at the corner of the mouth, and this took several applications of the glue before it held. Mouche lay back, eyes wide with pain and sudden terror. Up until now, he’d had a life to depend on. Now? He couldn’t be a Hunk, not now. Not unless a miracle happened and it healed so clean that the Denti-med machines could clean it up. Well, Madame would make Mantelby pay his annuity out. Trust Madame. At least he wouldn’t starve.

Meantime, below, the brothers rattled the stable door to no effect, then sat down, muttering to one another and examining the walls in a vain effort to find some climbable way into the loft. The work of cleaning the stables went no further. Nor would it be finished, Ornery whispered, until those other two were got rid of.

“Let’s … ill ‘em,” muttered Mouche, dazedly fingering the manure fork.

“Now, then,” whispered Ornery, patting Mouche’s shoulder. “Killing them isn’t going to do us any good. Calm down. Maybe your folks didn’t want to hurt your feelings so they didn’t tell you about the new babies.”

Mouche shook off the comforting hand and concentrated on what was going on below. “… e could … ake um … ane isn’ … so good a … ighter. He’s lazy.”

“He may not be a good fighter, he may even be lazy, but we’re in no shape to prove it,” said Ornery. “Please. Just lie there and let the glue set. Don’t talk. Let me just try to get us put to work somewhere else, or vicey-versy.”

Mouche took a shuddering breath and subsided while Ornery wet a clean handkerchief and cleaned the worst of the blood from his face. The glue had sealed the cut, as it was designed to do, which is why the stuff was carried by sailors and roustabouts and others subject to injury in the way of the work. Deep, disfiguring injuries like Mouche’s, however, were supposed to be followed up by an immediate visit to the surgery machines, and Ornery didn’t think it was going to happen, not with things all in confusion as they were.