Bloodsongs

Robin W. Bailey

 

To Marian, Sharon, and Stephen, and to the memory of my father, William —

 

For Carol Uncapher, Jinjer Stanton, Don Haynes, Mike and Sherry Fogal, Malinda McFadden, my wonderful gypsies —

 

For every single member of the Kansas City Science Fiction and Fantasy Society —

 

And always for my sugar-bear, Diana —

 

This book is for all of you, my several families.

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Mother, I need you

Take me back and cradle me

In boughs and branches

Clothe me in green leaves

Suckle me on fresh flower petals

Soothe me with wind songs

I am lost, alone,

For you will not come near me

Where I wander now.

 

The music wove a wild, insistent fury in her brain; its tempestuous rhythms drove her, inspired her movements. The strings of the
saz and
the
oud
rang out in frenzied quarter-tone harmonies. The
dumbeki
drum shivered and pulsed and quivered. The
zils
on her fingers made brass thunder in the air.

All through the inn men and women hawked and cried encouragement, ignoring food and drink and companions while they watched her dance. Samidar's dance.

Her hips shimmied, stilled suddenly, then described small, tantalizing circles and half circles. Above the low band of her several skirts her belly fluttered, rolled sensuously. The navel seemed to drift around her body of its own free motion. She began to spin ever more rapidly on the smooth tabletop. Skirts flew about, exposing her legs and the bells she wore on her left ankle. Dark hair formed a cloud about her face. The jeweled halter that contained her breasts glittered in the lamplight that illuminated the inn; the gems flashed with mesmeric fire in response to every subtle movement.

She clanged the
zils
, and the deep voice of the
dumbeki
throbbed in answer. The
saz
and the
oud
dared, and her hips courted brazenly. Perspiration made thick rivulets along her face, throat, and torso, creating slick puddles that menaced her intricate footwork.

She danced, danced until the faces were blurred and the voices were indistinct rumbles of no significance, until nothing touched her or seemed real but the drum and the music and the dance.

From the shadowy darkness coins struck her breasts and belly, then clattered on the table around her feet. It was impossible to recognize the value or the mint. She glanced at the man who threw them, then regarded him through seductively lowered lids, a gaze that promised everything and nothing, by design. Generosity deserved some reward after all. She shook her hips for him, turned, bent slowly backward until her hair brushed the top of the table. Her shoulders and breasts began a provocative quiver as she arched even lower.

It was part of the dance, that look, that beguiling, teasing gaze. It drew the customers in, made them part of the dance, too. It invited them to share in her joy and excitement.

The
dumbeki
called her back with an urgent, low fluttering, and she gave herself to its rhythm like a lover, riding every throbbing beat, feeling the drum's power coursing through her.

Then the drum stopped, and it was like the huge hand of some cruel god had suddenly crushed her heart. She collapsed, both legs bent back beneath her, breasts heaving, one hand flung back dramatically, eyes closed, skirts pooled between her damp, open thighs.

For a long instant the inn was silent. Then, the crowd erupted. She shielded her eyes from the shower of coins that shimmered in the air and fell on or around her. Kirigi, the drummer, rose from his seat before the
dumbeki
to help her gather them. He grinned at her as she sat up. Some of the coins had stuck to her sweat-sheened flesh. She picked them off and dropped them in Kirigi's cupped hands. Plenty of coins, she discovered. A good night.

Hands reached up to help her down from the table.

They were a good lot, these men and women. Their mirth threatened to burst the walls of her poor place. They called zaghareets and shouted to her, and she answered with bawdy joviality.

“I hope you've a father or an older brother, Conn,” she gibed. “I doubt you're man enough, yourself!” That brought laughter from all but the boasting, red-faced young townsman.

“Make ‘er no offers, lad,” cried old Tamen. Once, he'd been a warrior in the northern lands. Now, he was Dashrani's blacksmith. “She'll no' accept ‘em from the likes o' ye.”

Samidar reached out and tweaked the old man's iron-gray beard, wondering briefly if anyone noticed such streaks in her own black tresses. “With a man like you around”—she grinned, teasing—“hot young studs like Conn haven't a chance.”

“Ah, his sword's too rusty to cut piss,” shouted a stranger, one of the caravan merchants who frequented Dashrani's bars and brothels. “Let alone carve on good hams like yours!”

That brought another outburst from the crowd.

Old Tamen jumped to his feet, parted his trousers, and exposed himself. “Who said that? Speak, ye son o' a bitch, an' up against the wall wi' ye! We'll talk o' swords!”

A flurry of taunts, insults, challenges, and bets filled the inn as a dozen others exposed themselves. Samidar cried out over the din, “Put those things away before the straw thrashers come for an early harvest! You'll find no one here to test the mettle of those dirks.”

The laughter was interrupted this time as someone called from the far corner, “How about those three monkeys by the door? I'll wager they've sat on a few dirks in their days.”

She turned to see whom the caller meant. The customers seemed to part for her.

Three soldiers, dressed in the livery of the king, hunched around a small table separate from the rest. Two of them clutched half-empty mugs of ale. The third leaned back on his bench, resting against the wall, drinking nothing. She'd noticed them earlier. They'd sat quietly most of the evening, watching and muttering among themselves

She stopped before their table and folded her arms. “Well, what say you men of King Riothamus? Will you cross swords with my fine gibbons?” She waved at the men who, moments ago, had exposed themselves.

The soldier who leaned on the wall folded his arms over his chest, perhaps to mock her, and regarded her with a cool, sober gaze. “We never cross swords with peaceful citizens.”

Did she imagine it, or was there a hint of displeasure in his tone, a note of warning? It annoyed her. This was her place; she ruled it.

A little pout formed on her lips, and she drew her hair over one shoulder so it covered a breast. Her hand drifted down along one hip in an exaggeratedly seductive motion. “But you do sheathe your blades now and then”—she made a small thrust with her pelvis and grinned—“in a few of those peaceful citizens?”

Someone shouted from the crowd, “I sheathe it in me wife ever' night, an' she's real peaceful!” That sparked another uproarious outburst.

But an odd tension settled over the inn.

Only two days before, a farmer and his family had been slaughtered on the far side of Dashrani. The youngest son had lived just long enough to accuse a band of soldiers. A hasty search by a group of outraged townsmen found no soldiers in the area. However, it was general conversation among the caravan merchants that King Riothamus was taking little time to verify allegiances in his hunt for an elusive group of bandit-rebels.

Now, here were three soldiers. Could they have had anything to do with the farm attack?

The soldier unfolded his arms, leaned forward on one elbow. He fixed her with a stare. “We sheathe our blades where our king orders.” He glanced at his two companions. They continued to sip their ale, but they watched the crowd carefully. “Where
your
king orders,” he added pointedly.

“To the insensate joy of wives and daughters everywhere, I'm sure.” Samidar spread her skirts and made a mocking curtsey, hiding a smile. “Kirigi, my fine son!” she called, straightening. “More brew for these duteous soldiers.” She leaned on the table, then, until she could smell the beer on their breath. “Enjoy my hospitality, sirs, but pray keep all your weapons sheathed. I run neither a brothel nor a charnel house.”

She turned and glowered at old Tamen, who stood close behind her. “And if you let that mouse out of its hole again, I'll take a broom to it.”

Again the inn shook with laughter, and Tamen was made the butt of many jests. He took them all in good humor, though, secure in the knowledge that, if any cared to look, it was no mere mouse that filled his trousers.

She pushed her way through the throng and passed through a door into the kitchen. The smells of roasted meats were nearly overwhelming in the small room, despite the two unshuttered windows. She snatched up a long tunic from a peg on the wall and pulled it over her head. The hem fell past her knees; to protect her skirts it was much better than an apron.

Half a side of beef and several fowl sizzled on spits in the huge firepit. She dipped a ladle into a jar of grease and herb-seasoned drippings that sat on the hearth. She poured it carefully over the meats, and blue spurts of flame leaped up as the juices drooled down on the crackling coals.

Kirigi came in, bearing a wooden tray and four mugs. His linen shirt was opened to the waist, revealing his smooth, sweaty chest. He paused long enough to wipe his brow and smile at her.

“You danced like a wind-devil tonight, Mother,” he said as he dipped each mug into a large cask of frothy beer.

“You drummed like the thunder-goddess herself,” she called after his departing back.

Alone again, she bent over a blackened pot of stew that simmered on the edge of the coals and stirred the contents with a heavy spoon. As an afterthought, she added water to thin it. When that was done, she moved to the other side of the kitchen, where loaves of hard-crusted bread and blocks of cheeses occupied a row of shelves. Only two cheeses were left. Tomorrow she would have to go into Dashrani to the shop of Khasta the merchant. His cheeses were the finest; she dealt only with him.

Filling a mug with beer for herself, she rejoined her customers.

They were hers, these men and women of Dashrani, neighbors who walked or rode out from town to relax from the day's labors or to escape their wives for a little while. Some came to forget their troubles; some came to enjoy the company of good fellows. There were other inns inside the city's walls, but they had no dancers, or they watered the wine, or the owners were surly. Not that her place was a playpen for children; she served the occasional cutpurse and murderer, she was sure. But she minded her own business. And at her place, she reflected with a sly grin, if one was robbed or murdered, it happened in good humor.

Yes, they were hers. For twenty years she had lived among them, served them, and entertained them. She knew their troubles, and they knew hers. And though she was not native to Dashrani or even to the kingdom of Keled-Zaram, they accepted her. They were as close to her as kin, these men and women, these friends.

A movement near the front door caught her eye. Riothamus's soldiers slid out quietly into the night. She crooked a finger at Kirigi, who served a table on the other side of the inn. With a subtle nod, he set down his tray and followed them out. Moments later, he returned and took up his duties again.

“Away from town.” he reported, mouthing the words so she could read his soundless lips.

Samidar put the soldiers out of her mind. There was business to see after, and it was almost time to bring out the meats. She feared the stew had scotched, but if she sold enough beer, her customers wouldn't notice. And later, she must dance again. She was eager for it, though she rubbed the small of her back, sighed, and wished she were younger.