Skeen's Leap (34 page)

After another frustrating day at the wharves she was pacing back and forth along one of the upper halls, cursing under her breath, filled with bursts of nervous energy she couldn't wear out by working because there wasn't any hard physical labor she could do. Pegwai came trudging up the ramp. She looked at him, turned her back on him, and walked away. He came hesitantly along the hall; his room was two doors from hers. She stood in the doorway watching him. He came even with her. She went into the room and sat on the bed, leaving the door open. He stopped in the doorway. She poured wine from a skin into two mugs and sat waiting. Feet dragging, breathing too fast, he came in, pulling the door shut behind him.

The eleventh day.

A large ship came in. The sleepy wharves came alive—swarms of ladesmen came out of the cracks, shouting her name: Maggí Maggí Maggí. Laughter, elbows working in ribs, the strongest struggling for a place in the front ranks. Maggí Maggí Maggí. Skeen was squashed into a corner, startled, grunting as a foot slammed down on her toes, an elbow caught her on a cracked rib, discouraging a thieving hand with a jab of a sleeve knife.

The ship nudged up to the wharf, a big merchanter looking a bit battered, with new patches on the sails and some char marks and grapple gouges on the rails.

The gangplank slammed down, the Captain came sauntering off her ship. Aggitj. One of the rare female extras. Her not-hair was fine and pale, like limber silver wire, long and mobile, fluttering to a wind of its own. She was long-legged and forceful, taller than the tallest of the Aggitj boys, fleshy but not fat, eyes of dark amber, catching the sunlight with orange glows. Her features were clean-cut but heavy. Her hands had broad palms and long tapering fingers. She took good care of them, kept the skin soft and pliant, the nails short for convenience and buffed to a discreet glow. Her feet had the same generous lines and were given the same sort of care. She wore sandals not boots, wide-legged trousers of a heavy black silk that clung to large but shapely legs. A broad leather belt, stained crimson with several decorative folds, buckled in the back. A heavy white silk shirt over breasts like melon halfs, wide sleeves caught into long narrow cuffs that buttoned from wrist to elbow, flattering slender wrists and long arms. Carbuncles dangled from her ears and flashed red on thumb rings. She walked with the controlled energy of a prowling tiger, the same looseness, the same unconscious arrogance.

She stepped onto the wharf, grinned and waved at the men calling her name, then turned to watch her passengers leave the ship while her armed escort formed up to wait for the men she chose to transfer her personal cargo to the secure storage she kept under permanent lease. All but a few of the passengers pushed through the crowd and disappeared down the alleys between the warehouses, a hard-looking bunch, mostly male; like the ship they'd been through a fight and like the ship they weren't advertising it. The remainder, traders with cargoes in the hold, stood silent beside the Captain as she began calling out names, sending the ladesmen to the one-eyed mate leaning on the rail beside the plank.

As the goods began coming out, the Kral's reps showed up and kept a careful eye on what was being piled on the wharf, ticking items off on long wooden rods with a short-bladed knife, hands moving with swift efficiency, cutting a variety of notches—different depths, different angles, different shapes—making a comprehensive record of what belonged to the Captain and what to each of the several traders hovering over their own piles. Maggí joked with them, laughed, traded quips with the traders and the ladesmen … keeping her own record of what emerged, needing no rod or other aid to prod her memory.

When the unlading was finished, the reps left and the wharf cleared swiftly. Leaving the disposal of her goods to the mate, Maggí went back aboard her ship.

Skeen lingered. She liked the look of the woman, her crew, and the ship. Everything done with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of good will. Maggí was well known here and popular. That didn't mean a great deal, but if she cared for her reputation she was that hair more trustworthy than some git who didn't give a damn.

The Captain came off her ship shortly afterward and strode across the wharf. Skeen came out of her corner and walked quietly beside her, feeling towered over, an uncommon sensation for her. Maggí glanced at her, but said nothing, just kept walking.

“Captain,” Skeen said after a short while. “Might I speak with you?”

“Why?” Maggí didn't look at her or slow the swing of her stride.

“If you'll be heading back along the Tail and if we can come to terms on price, my companions and I would like to take passage on your ship.”

The Captain glanced at her, speculation in her burnt orange eyes. “Terms would include your satisfying me about your reasons to head downtail.”

“My companions and I stay at Chaffelu's Inn, the Truce Haven. Perhaps you could join us for the evening meal.”

Maggí stopped walking and turned to look down into Skeen's face. “I thought you were Pallah. You're not.”

“That's part of the explanation.”

“Ah! You read me too well.” Quick grin briefly exposing white even teeth, the canines perceptibly longer and more daggerlike than the others. “I'll be there. Hour after sundown.” She nodded walked briskly on.

Skeen stood watching her. Maggí needed no bodyguard, at least not in daylight. Several more of the loungers cried greetings to her and she responded with laughter and insults that they took in good part and returned with interest. Well-liked. Whether that spoke for her or against her was difficult to say, this city being what it was.

Captain Maggí stood in the doorway of the private dining room and raised her brows at the mix of people waiting for her, seated on cushions around the low table. A window fan turned lazily, drawing air into the room (the fans were ingenious contraptions, worked by a water screw powered by the tide). The air was damp and reasonably cool. It smelled of the strong incense smoldering on the sill that was meant to cover the odors that made walking through the city something that was never pleasant and only tolerable because the nose grew so quickly numb. Groundwater under the city had been contaminated long ago and only the poorest drank from wells and that only when they had no other choice. One of the items that enabled the Kral to keep his claws on local purses was the aqueduct bringing pure water down from the precipitous mountains in the interior of the island; only those who paid were permitted use of that water and the Kral kept a rigorous patrol of the pipes (all of them above ground so they were easy to watch). Theft of water was a capital crime. So the Haven had no open windows—only airshafts that were connected to chimneys that rose into air that was marginally cleaner than the miasma that lived in the streets. It also made the Haven that much safer from night creepers of the two-legged sort.

Maggí came in warily, settled beside Skeen. “You heard my name on the wharf but not all of it. I am Maggí Solitaire. My ship is the Goum Kiskar. We will be leaving in three days, going downtail.”

Skeen started to speak, then smiled and waited as the servitors came in with laden trays and started spreading bowls of food along the table; others set down urns of steaming mulled cider, then scented water in fingerbowls with linen towel rolls beside them. The servitors worked in silence, left in silence. When the door was shut again, Skeen introduced the company—names without accompanying comment, each individual bowing as his or her name was pronounced. “I am a recent Pass-Through,” she finished, “the others are as you see.” She smiled, a brief wry twist of her mouth, knowing how Timka and Pegwai would scold her later for what she was about to say. They didn't understand her, they wouldn't understand Maggí either. We're a lot alike. She didn't make the mistake of thinking she knew everything about the Aggitj woman, but she'd wager all the gold in Duppra Mallat's chest that the two of them shared a number of common childhood experiences. Dealing with Maggí with candor and openness, giving away advantages with open hand, that seemed folly of the most rampant kind, but she was guessing it wouldn't be. “Pegwai Dih told the Kral we meant to map the north shore of the Halijara Sea. That's partly true, but our goal—well, say my goal since my goal is the driving force—is to find a Gather of Ykx and talk them into giving me a key to the Stranger's Gate.” She saw Pegwai roll his eyes up and Timka start tearing a roll to shreds; her mouth twitched again, then spread into a wide grin as she met Maggí's laughing, comprehending gaze. “And there are a number of drawbacks to being anywhere around us. Timka has a sister whose chief goal in life seems to be erasing her from the roll of the living; we dealt with two Min attacks while we were coming along the Spray. Pretty feeble, but that's subject to change as Telka changes agents. The Boy is the sole remnant of his clan with Kalakal Ravvayad hot for his hide. We haven't seen any yet, but the Boy swears they'll come and won't let any trick throw them off his trail. We've been here eleven days, the longest we've sat in one spot since we left Atsila Vana. So if they did follow, they should show up any hour, any minute. And poor old Pegwai—the Kral is starting to think he owns him, wants his own private Court Jester. So you see, there is a certain degree or urgency driving our desire to move on.” Skeen poured a cup of cider for Maggí then for herself as a signal for the meal to begin. She sipped first, then set her cup down and began filling her plate.

As the meal went on, she was amused by the fascination Maggí held for the Aggitj boys; their interest even seemed to have blunted their awesome appetites. She killed a grin as the thought struck her that the appetites hadn't been killed, merely transformed. Maggí was aware of that interest, how could she not be with four pairs of hazel eyes fixed unwavering on her, but gave no sign she understood, perhaps a slight exaggeration of the grace with which she used her large beautiful hands.

The Boy was watching her too, with an intensity he wasn't aware he was showing, an intensity that told Skeen too clearly for her comfort just how terrified he was. He ate nothing until Domi noticed, clucked his tongue, and began coaxing him to eat. Skeen leaned forward. “Boy,” she said softly prouncing each word with considerable force. “They will have to come through me and I don't care how loud the Ravvayad boast, there is not a Chalarosh alive who can manage that.”

He stared at her from a tragic face. But he was only six and more than a little awed by her. He flushed at the attention he was getting, wriggled on his cushion, then began to eat with more enthusiasm.

“Nine,” Maggí said. “You're financing this?”

Skeen sighed. “One thing leads to another on this damn world. You make impulsive promises and look what happens. I started with one.”

“If you find the key you want, will you be taking them through the Gate?”

“That's a long way off in maybe-never-never. First we catch our rabbit.”

“What?”

“Ancient recipe for rabbit stew. Also ancient cliché.”

“Ah. The Ykx.” She leaned forward, looked around Skeen at Pegwai. “Scholar, you're right to be nervous of the Kral. Some time ago the great grandfather of this Kral imported some talent from the Tanul Lumat to design and build the aqueduct. Word is he never got over his foolishness in letting such talents get away and go back to the Lumat. This Kral knows the story. Do they take girls at the Lumat?”

“Oh yes. The Skirrik insist females be considered. These girls stay in the Nests so our resident Skirrik Scholars can keep an encouraging eye on them. Reassures the parents about them, too; the girls will be well-protected there. Are you interested? There'd be no difficulty about an adult female living there as long as she can pay her way.”

“I've got a daughter who shows signs of wanting to be a scholar.”

Pegwai chuckled. “You and the Kral. His charming child is just learning to walk.” He sobered. “But she is a pretty thing and I should be grateful to her since she's the reason I'm still living here. However, that's for another time. Some children we take without requiring a dowry, if they're unusually brilliant or gifted. Most must help support the Lumat with an initial contribution and a yearly sum whose size depends on the child and the parent and their sponsors. For a girlchild, it's especially needful to find a sponsor among the Skirrik. If I could meet your daughter, talk with her, see how strong her desire seems to be, I might be able to provide such a sponsor. It's not an easy life, Maggí Solitaire, your daughter will be a long way from home and friends and with strangers however kind; she will need to have a very strong calling to endure the loneliness and the rigor.”

Maggí settled back. “I thank you Scholar Dih.” She sipped at her cooling cider. “The Tanul Lumat knows where to find the Ykx?”

“Rumors and seacaptains' tales, some more reliable than others.”

“Not much to bring you so far.”

“One of the seacaptains is a cousin of mine.”

“Trading in the Halijara? Who is he, perhaps I know him.”

“Perinpar Dih.”

“Perich?” A burst of laughter. “Yes, I know him. I was at his off-faring feast a year or two after I came when he retired to Lesket Tjin; he might be your cousin, Scholar, but he's the grandest weaver of tales with the smallest kernels of truth I've ever met.” She turned to Skeen. “If you're depending on his report, Skeen ky, you lean on a feeble reed.”

“Even feeble, it's the only reed I've got, Maggí Solitaire. What else should I do with my time? Besides, this is how I earn my living on the other side, sniffing after rumor and long chances.”

Maggí's eyes went vague. “I have heard tales … they say you sail from star to star as easily as I sail from isle to isle.”

“Not so different, no, only in the speeds involved and the distances covered.”

Maggí blinked. “Where did P'richi locate the Ykx?”