Skeen's Return (2 page)

Kicking aimlessly at small stones, she wound through the sprays of large and small rocks along the stony shore and finally dropped beside Timka. “Hurry up and wait,” she murmured.

Timka looked blank a moment, then smiled. “Are you that anxious to get back? Think about Telka and her minions waiting to skewer us all. That should fuel your patience a while longer.”

“Pah!” Skeen wiped at her boot with the heel of her hand, rubbing away the dust from the stone marks. “Fuckin' right I want to get back.” Gloom saturated her voice. “Telka? We'll fox her till she doesn't know which end is up. Thing is, no more gold left, just small stuff; I don't like being tapped out this far from a city.”

“First time I saw you worry about money.”

“It's a bitch trying to wring coin out of a bunch of rocks.” She scowled over her shoulder at the barren shore.

“Our fares are paid; there shouldn't be any bother about funds until we reach Cida Fennakin.”

“Yeah, but I've seen this kind of thing before. The only cure for such wounded souls is a slather of gold. Guess whose gold.”

“The Ykx will provide; you've got them round the neck. Stop grumbling.”

“It's something to do while that farce is going on.”

“Why aren't you over there with Pegwai doing some shouting of your own?”

“Lipitero. She said I'd better leave the talking to him. Said I'd lose my temper and get us all skinned. Said I wasn't tactful when I was angry.”

Timka giggled. “So right.”

“I know. I know.” Skeen passed her tongue across her upper lip. “What a lousy place. What do they do to pass an evening round here?”

“You asking or still muttering?”

“Still muttering. Never mind. Tell me what you used to do, come sundown.”

“Mmmm.” Timka gazed thoughtfully at the lake-water lapping a handspan from her toes. Truebirds fluttered past overhead, raucous cries each time one of them stooped at the water and rose with a fish in its talons. “When I was living at the hostel with Aunt Carema …” her voice was muted, with a smile in it, her words ambled along at a nostalgic gait, “… and her six apprentices, they were all talented to earth and rooted things. Not me, but Carema wouldn't talk about my talents or let me boast either. Aunt Carema. She was what you hope all aunts are like, big and shapeless as a pillow and twice as warm. Not sickly sweet, no, she had a tongue that could strip the bark off a tree at twenty paces. She couldn't abide fools and let you know fast when you were being a silly lackbrain. Evenings … evenings … mmm, some evenings Carema would have friends over, older Min, some of them reaching back so far they'd stopped shifting and spent most of their time rooted deep and husked over; she'd feed them hot worran nuts and apple brandy. And they'd tell us about times that were legend to most of the Min, even the busy-busies like my father. They'd do chants for us, they'd tell stories of things that happened when they were young or sometimes stories other ancients had passed on to them in just this way.” A wistful sigh. “Sounds like it should be dull, but it wasn't. They were very impressive … yes.” She smoothed her thumb across her chin. “Sometimes there were healers and herb doctors from other Min groups, sometimes travelers who were drifting about because they were restless or involved with quarrels at home. I liked these; I'd sit and listen to them until they were tired of talking. They'd fly in and Carema would give them courtesy robes for the length of their stay and they'd try to tell us and other Min about the world outside. But they'd give that up fast, except for me.” Timka moved her shoulders, grimaced. “Most of my kin and kind don't want to hear about anyplace else or anyone else. Might disturb their satisfaction with themselves. I don't know … I still don't understand why they are so afraid of changing. In spite of everything they do, things do creep in from outside, things do change. We've got Pallah and Balayar words not just in Trade-Min but in the home tongue. Balayar spices growing in our gardens, and hundreds of plants from the Skirrik. I could name a lot more … and Telka, miserable, meeching Telka. She and her Holavish seem to think they can stop that creep. ‘Get rid of the Pallah,' they say, ‘shut the Valley, then we can be True Min again.'” She laughed scorn at that. “The Holavish are laying up weapons and recruiting followers to do that thing. Fools. When I was with the Poet he knew all about them. His brother the Byglave knew. The Besar Casach knew. I didn't tell them. How could I? I didn't know anything about Telka's maneuvers until the Poet told me. He enjoyed letting me know how Telka was using me to stir the Min up, to make them afraid of the Pallah; he'd laugh like a fool and I'd feel a handspan high. Oh, he liked that, especially when the Byglave was riding him about something he did or didn't do.” She broke off, shook her head. “Sorry about the rant.” She leaned back, looked up the hill. “They're breaking up. You'd better go see what Pegwai has committed you to.”

Skeen sniffed, got to her feet, reached her hand down to help Timka up.

Timka shook her head. “Better not. They're touchy about stray Min. Send Chulji over to me. We'll play last on board.”

Skeen frowned, glanced at the dark ship. “You sure?” She waited a moment longer in case Timka changed her mind, then walked away. She hesitated again as she came even with the Min Skirrik youth, then put her hand on his top shoulder. “Chul, Ti wants to talk with you.”

“How come?”

“She'll tell you. I think you should go.”

“It's those Min, isn't it. Stinking znaks.”

“Talk to Timka.” She moved on toward the dock. Behind her Hal got to his feet, tall and lanky, the silvery not-hair moving softly about his head. He was excited but controlling it; he was the one responsible for the others; he was the oldest, generally the calmest. He urged the others up and went with them to stand behind Skeen as she met Pegwai near the shore end of the dock.

“How much?” An edgy tartness in her voice.

Pegwai flung his hand out in an angry angular gesture. “That misbegotten son of a corpseworm claimed we'd pollute the boat so it'd have to be burned, that he couldn't let it back in the lake. Either the Patjen and his crew should back out of the deal, or you should be charged the full value of the boat.”

“Yeah, I expected something like that. And?”

“Dibratev tried soothing him. That didn't work so he put the squeeze on. The Ykx own a quarter share in the riverboat, and they're the ones who keep it running. Dibratev mentioned that.” Pegwai grinned. “Dropped it into a moment of silence when Kirkosh was snatching a breath. The silence got a lot louder.” Skeen matched Pegwai's grin; he chuckled, then turned serious. “The next thing he said was the Sydo Ykx weren't happy with the Islanders, too much interference and he was looking at Kirkosh when he said it. If that interference kept up, the Ykx might decide to withdraw from the Min-Ykx compact. He wasn't just throwing that on the scales. He meant it and it showed. The Patjen saw he meant it and turned on Kirkosh so fast it was almost funny. Fare was paid, he said, and if the Ciece wanted to fool with the deal, maybe they'd better call on the Synarc to adjudicate. The Islanders started whispering at Kirkosh and he spent the last half hour worming out of the mess he'd got himself in. Good thing we're leaving right away, give him a hint of an excuse and we'd be fueling bone fires.”

Skeen rubbed at the back of her neck. “No extra gold?”

“None.”

“When do we board?”

“Soon as the gear is stowed. Which I'd better see to right now.”

Skeen watched him walk away, then glanced at the sun. Halfway to noon already. Might be slow, but I'm coming, Tibo. Enjoy yourself, you baster. When I catch you, I'll skin you slow. Maybe I will. Why'd you do it, you little … little devil? Why did you strand me? Why?

LOOK, LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT THE GLAMOUR OF QUESTING. MOST OF IT SEEMS TO BE KEEPING THE RAIN OUT OF YOUR BLANKETS, FLEAS OR THEIR ANALOGS OFF YOUR PERSON, FOOD IN YOUR BELLY AND THE LOCALS OFF YOUR BACK. OF COURSE, NO ONE CELEBRATING THESE EPIC JOURNEYS PUTS IN ANY OF THAT—TOO DISILLUSIONING AND WORSE, TOO BORING. SO LET'S SKIP THAT TRIP DOWNRIVER. TAKE AS READ THE UNRELENTING HOSTILITY OF THE PLAINS MIN CREW AND THE DISCOMFORT OF THE RIVERBOAT.

NO AMBUSHES, NO THREATS TO LIFE AND LIMB, JUST DAY AFTER DAY OF COLD WET JOLTING.

or

ARRIVING BROKE IN CIDA FENNAKIN.

Cida Fennakin was a rambling city of interlocking compounds whose walls were an elaborate play of textures and colors climbing the small steep hills above the ragtag working port. The higher the compound, the more elaborate the stone dressing of the walls, the more power the Funor inside had over the days and nights, the lives and loves and general subsistence of those who lived outside those walls. The Port itself was a conglomeration of elbow to elbow structures. Warehouses, taverns, half-ruined compounds turned into shelter for the flotsam off the ships that were continually arriving and departing—abandoned or runaway sailors, escaped slaves, servants who had lost their usefulness from age or disease or crippling accident, ruined gamblers, thieves, whores of both sexes and assorted kinds, beggars, street players, the mad and half-mad, druggers and drugged, hardboys collecting the sub-taxes for local thuglords, small traders, rag and bone men, cookshop owners, tailors, cobblers—a thousand other small enterprises that brought in enough coin to feed and clothe the families who ran them. A noisy, stinking, lively port, the streets so filled with folk that walking was like swimming in a powerful river. Cida Fennakin, the most important port on the western end of the Halijara sea, the last stop of most trading ships, the gateway to goods from the interior.

The Patjen brought the riverboat past the rubble at the outskirts of the port as the tip of the sun pushed over the highest of the compounds, a sprawling mass of stone whose broad towers were boldly black against the gray-pink sky. He nosed the boat up to a tottery wharf, the first in the long line of wharves that followed the bulge of the river, a dusty unstable structure long abandoned, its piles loosened by the working of spring floods and winter ice. Without ceremony, he put them ashore and dumped their goods onto the groaning planks, then took his ship back into the main current and hastened toward more propitious surroundings.

Skeen frowned at the ruins around her. Not a soul in sight. Nothing happening here. Silence, cool and damp. Almost no breeze, shadows with edges sharp enough to cut, the river a dull, sub-audible yet pervasive sound. Trickles of sand and eroded brick rattling down here and there. A hint of voices, far off, broken tones rising and falling, punctuated by an occasional shout. Smell of urine and excrement, of something dead not so far away, of rotten food and the dry rot in the planks of the wharf. The remains of a warehouse that had burnt out a decade ago, battered by the seasons, crumbling back to the soil it was built on, eaten at by fungi and weeds. And deserted. Even the worst off of Fennakin beggars found better shelter elsewhere. “Lovely,” she said.

Pegwai stumped over to the pile of gear and rooted out his pack. He straightened with it dangling from one hand. “No point hanging about here.”

“Noooh.” Skeen clasped her hands behind her, turned her head side to side, scanning the draggled wrecks collapsing onto rotting planks. “Let's wait a while.”

“Why?”

“Something I'm remembering.”

“What?” He took a step toward her, leaped back as the plank started to collapse under his weight, dry rot turning the wood to dust under the lightest pressure. He glared at the plank, transferred the glare to Skeen. “Hardly the time to indulge in nostalgia, woman.”

Skeen clicked her fingers impatiently. “Nostalgia? Nonsense. Listen, the place where I grew up was on a river like this with blights …” she waved a hand at the tumbledown structures on the bank, “… a lot like this, and whenever anything happened around those blights, we used to snake down there and see if we could make a dime or so out of it. Street kids can be useful, Peg, if you trust them as far as you can see them and know a little about how to take them. And right now we need one.” She looked around at the others. Lipitero, her form and face concealed by a voluminous cowled robe, sat with her back against one of the old bitts, an anonymous lump, waiting and willing to continue waiting until Skeen was ready to move. Timka perched on another bitt, her eyes half shut, her face unreadable. Ders was jittering about, but that meant nothing. He seldom sat anywhere longer than five minutes at a time; she suspected he couldn't stay still any longer, that there was a switch in his brain that set him on PACE at predetermined intervals. Hal and Domi were immersed in a game of stonechess. Hart was talking softly to the Boy who was absently making the Beast sit up and beg for bits of raw fish. Chulji squatted on his four hinder limbs while he preened his antennas with the hooks on his wrists. “Let's wait a while more,” she said. “We might acquire a guide. Which is better than barging in and starting something we maybe can't handle.”

A small skinny boy ambled down the cluttered alley, a pre-pubescent Funor, the knobs of his horns two gray velvet buttons poking through lank dirty hair whose original color might have been a pale reddish brown; it shifted with the wind and the quick darting moves of his head. He wore a ragged tunic of some thick coarse material rather like worn canvas, the arm-holes and sliced-off bottom blooming with cottony fuzz. He kicked casually along the coarse dirt, tickling weeds with a whippy stick, whistling through tooth gaps. After the first furtive glance at the strangers, he seemed to ignore them though Skeen's memory told her he was keeping a sharp eye on them.

She stirred. “Got a minute?”

The boy stopped (well out of reach, poised to dive away if it seemed necessary) and considered her briefly, then his dark eyes skittered from her to the others and back. Then he raised a small hand with three fingers, one excessively thin, the other two thick as the thumb. Thumb and thick fingers looked clumsy but that was probably deceptive. He rubbed his thumb across his fingers in a rapid flutter, a sign that had so far in Skeen's experience proved universal.