Jo Clayton - Dancers 3 - Dance Down The Stars

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Dance Down The Stars
The Dancer Trilogy, Book 3
Jo Clayton
1994
The Final Confrontation ...
Serroi felt her macai stop walking; he shuddered under her, humped his back, fighting the grip on his
halter. The bitter orange glow told her it was Charody standing there. She shuddered under her own urge
to keep going, the Pull was a torment that never left her; she didn’t try fighting it any longer, she wanted
this confrontation. She needed it.
“Charody,” she said. “I can’t stop. I’ll take care of the mac, you can camp if you want, come after
me later.” Her voice came to her ears with so many echoes that she couldn’t be sure she was actually
saying what she meant. She heard/ felt a vibration that might be someone talking at her, shook her head.
“Don’t say things to me, I can’t hear you. There’s too much noise in my head.”
The macai trembled as the orange light moved away from his head, then resumed his ground shifting
long-walk. Soon, she thought. Live or die, this will be finished.
Jo Clayton has written:
The Diadem Series
Diadem From The Stars
Lamarchos
Irsud
Maeve
Star Hunters
The Nowhere Hunt
Ghosthunt
The Snares Of Ibex
Quester’s Endgame
Shadow of the Warmaster
Duel Of Sorcery
Moongather
Moonscatter
Changer’s Moon
The Dancer Trilogy
Dancer’s Rise
Serpent Waltz
Dance Down The Stars
The Wild Magic Series
Wild Magic
Wildfire
The Magic Wars
The Soul Drinker Trilogy
Drinker Of Souls
Blue Magic
A Gathering Of Stones
and
A Bait Of Dreams
My gratitude to these people for providing information about pregnancy and horses via the SFRT:
Dr. Judith Tarr, Deborah Wheeler, Brenda Clough, Jane Yolen, Shiela Finch—and Linda R. Fox for
details on weaving.
What Has Gone Before:
The Dancer’s Rise
Awakened from the tree dream, SERROI finds her-self uneasy in the world where she once fit. From
the moment she was herself again, the magic force that had faded from the world when she slept uses her
as a focus to flow back from wherever it had gone.
And the enemy comes forth. The Fetch troubles her sleep, calling her, calling like a calf to its dam.
As she joins a Company from the Biserica going on Ward to Marnhidda Vos of Cadander, that flow
in-creases, turns to a flood as she heals. She spawns a vast array of new life, nixies for the rivers, dryads
for the trees, ariels, fauns, lamias, ka men who are souls of stone, sirens, and many many more. Children
are born with new talents. Old forces that had shelled over and lay dormant wake again, arise to walk the
earth.
They reach Dander the night that Ansila Vos, Marn of Cadander is killed in a bomb blast.
K’VESTMILLY VOS, her daughter, becomes Marn in her turn. With the help of the Company from the
Biserica, she takes firm hold of the rule and things seem to be going well enough, but raiders in the hills
and an army of attackers advancing across the southern plains complicate her life. And the Enemy is busy
in the cities. While her forces are busy in the south fighting the invaders, the Cadander Pans (barons with
assorted holdings, some economic—as in control of all shipping—some land based) turn on her; PAN
NOV (the leader) seizes and imprisons her. She escapes with the help of ADLAYR RYAN-TURRIY
(gyes of the Biserica, shape-shifter, mind speaker), ZASYA MYERS (meie of the Biserica, Fire-born
chosen, mind speaker), and her consort CAMNOR HESLIN, and rides south to join the army and the
General she has chosen, VEDOUCE PEN’S HEIR
Camnor Heslin is a descendant of Hern Heslin who was Domnor of the Mijloc and Serroi’s lover in
her first life. This Heslin is a big, clever man with a wonderful, deep voice and an equally deep
under-standing of the way minds work. K’vestmilly Vos chooses him as her Consort although, at that
time, she is in love with Vyzharnos Oram, a poet and rebel against his class who doesn’t like her much
and has no idea of how she feels. She wants Heslin’s intelli-gence and strength for her daughter; she likes
him, but at first he doesn’t attract her—it was a choice of the mind, not heart or body.
As K’vestmilly Marnhidda Vos rides from Dander, Vedouce Pen’s Heir goes into battle with the
invad-ers, wins a great victory at a cost that would have been higher if Serroi weren’t there to heal even
the most savagely wounded. As the Marn nears the army, the Enemy strikes at it, Taking over’ half
Vedouce’s men; they turn on the others and try to slaughter them. He rallies the remnants of the Army,
drives the Taken off in time to get K’vestmilly Vos safe in camp, then the Enemy breaks off the battle and
draws the Taken back to Dander.
After consultation, Vedouce Pen’s Heir decides to pull back to Oskland in the mountains and rebuild
his forces before he marches on Dander.
On the morning of the departure, wearing the Mask of the Marn, K’vestmilly Vos speaks to the
weary, angry men, telling them they have fought well and will fight again, not only for her and the life
they’ve known, but also for the future of Cadander since she is carrying a daughter, the next True Marn.
Serpent Waltz
Serroi, Hedivy Starab, the gyes Adlayr Ryan-Turriy and HONEYDEW the sprite travel south in a
search for the Fetch (Mother Death/the Enemy), the source of the Glory. Hedivy’s agents have traced
supplies as far as the port city Bokivada on the island Shimzely. Before they can trace the line farther,
they are sepa-rated and separately captured. Hedivy is taken into a swamp and left with hostages from
the Forest. Serroi is carried to the Forest and held, Adlayr and Honey-dew escape capture and go
hunting for her. Through a series of interlocking events, they meet and start working their way back to the
coast.
On the way they meet CHAYA WILLISH, a jour-neyman weaver, SEKHAYA KAWIN,
herbmistress, Chaya’s aunt and name-giver, HALISAN WANAYO, harpist and demi-human.
Chaya Willish is betrothed to a journeyman silver-smith, LEVAN ISADDO who was close to his
master’s paper when his master died from a heart attack. Their marriage is on hold until he can find a
new master, not an easy thing. The Glory comes into her village, takes over the authorities including the
head of her family. To escape being forced into marriage with a Gloryman, she runs. On the way,
everything she has is stolen, she is raped, beaten, left for dead in a ditch. On her usual round of visits
Sekhaya Kawin has run into trouble with the Glory; in the course of breaking free of this she discovers
what has happened to Chaya,, collects her and together they head for Hubawern where Lavan was living.
On the way they meet Serroi and her companions, Lavan who’s escaping a pack of Glorymen and
Hal-isan the Harper.
Through Halisan, Hedivy learns where the Enemy has her base. He and the others take passage on a
ship going to Bagklouss, along with Halisan who has decided to go with them.
TRESHTENY the timeseer is enticed south by a shape-shifting force that takes the form of a dapple
gray horse. On the way she encounters Mama Charody and her apprentice Doby. Charody joins her and
they all head for Bagklouss and the Enemy/ Mother Death.
Heslin has organized a league of spies called the Web; he has agents watching the Red and Yellow
Dans, reporting on the men and supplies delivered to Dander/Calanda; there are even agents in the
Pevranamist sending out information on Nov’s con-ferences and other activities. Spider One is a
wood-worker, GREYGEN LESTAR, who used to be paraplegic and who has been reshaped by Serroi
so he can walk, although he has kept that a secret. He collects the reports of the other spiders, passes
them on to Heslin. As the Glory tightens her grip on Dander/Calanda, his position becomes increasin
precarious and he plans to escape the cities with his wife SANSILLY and two other families in roughly
the same position. K’Vestimily Vos asks Greygen and Sansilly to travel to the Biserica to tell the Prieti
Meien NISCHAL TAY what’s happening in Cadan-der and request whatever aid she can give. Having
agreed to do this, they leave the city on a stolen barge and some weeks later leave Yallor-on-the--Neck,
heading for Southport and the Biserica.
Zavidesht Pan Nov gathers an army and goes marching east, heading for Oskland. Vedouce who is
now PAN PEN (his father having been killed) has been training Osklanders to replace as many of the
dead and Taken as possible, sends forces west to at-tack the Nov’s reserves and supply lines and to
har-rass the main force as much as possible. He doesn’t have the numbers for a battle in the open, the
most he can do is nibble at the fringes of Nov’s army and try to slow it down.
One of his snipers shoots into a box on one of the supply wagons. This box contains the Glory’s
ardors, the bombs that have been devastating Dander and Calanda. There is a huge explosion that kills
Nov and most of his officers along with half his army and destroys a good portion of his supplies.
At the moment this happens, back in the Temple in Dander, MOTYLLA NOV, the False Marn, is
en-globed in a sphere of blue light which rises and darts toward the army, growing larger and more
virulent as it flies eastward. The sphere settles over the army and strange things happen. Men shot and
killed within the glow get up again and march on, fighting as well as they had when they were alive; some
are killed over and over again and still they get up and come on. And any of Vedouce’s men who fall into
the glow are Taken and turn on their former friends.
Vedouce is forced to retreat.
The sphere rolls on, heading for OskHold.
The Hold is emptied. Vedouce and his men, Pan Osk, his family and as many of his people as are
will-ing to come with him, K’vestmilly Vos the Marn and her people ride out a few hours ahead of the
sphere and reach a pass in the Merzzarchars as the blue sphere reaches OskHold.
The minute the blue glow touches the stones of the Hold, there is an explosion that reduces the Hold
to rubble. The last thing K’vestmilly Vos sees before she turns to ride into the pass is the small figure of
Motylla Nov, the False Marn, standing on the rubble, her head turning as she surveys what she has
con-quered.
1. Settling In
1. Bagklouss—Tson Kyere
Hedivy Starab was a hunched dark figure in the bow, staring at the houses clustered on the cliffs at
the southern arc of the bay, watching them glide closer as the Ennachul neared the entrance to the
harbor, a narrow gap in the breakwaters marked by an im-mense stone sculpture of a ship with all sails
set. He grunted as Serroi joined him.
She didn’t say anything for a while, just watched the sunlight dance off the water and the fishing proas
slide in and out of the gap. The voice came into her head again.
MOTHER mother LOOK to your DEFENSES this is MY place MINE
you could have been welcomed with LOVE know now my HATE!
With a deep shuddering sigh, she lifted her eyes to the stone houses on the stone cliffs. This was the
Fetch’s homeplace, this land. It looked ... ordinary ... so ordinary, it astonished her. She rubbed at her
eyespot, turned to lledivy. “Bagklouss. What I know about the land is two hundred years old and skimpy
at best, other than the tongue they speak here. You?”
His hands tightened on the rail. “Not much.” Af-ter a moment he added, “No reason to.”
No reason to. Even at the Biserica. No reason to know about places so far away. She leaned
against the rail and watched the slide of the water as the crew sweated and strained around them,
bringing the ship close to the prow of the stone boat, then easing it through a narrow opening in the
breakwaters angling from the sides of the bay, their top courses barely breaking the surface.
The Ennachul was a broad-bellied merchanter trad-ing out of Tson-Kyere, sole port of Bagklous.s,
the land where the Fetch had her nest. It would have been better to land somewhere else and smuggle
themselves in, but this was the only ship leaving Bokivada on the dawn tide and their need to get away
was pressing. She signed. We’ll tweak the truth here and there, pull some moth-eaten dignity about
us, try indignation to conceal the holes and hope we get ashore in-tact. Hope!
Once the ship was safely through the gap, Ship-master Yapron Liss climbed to the quarterdeck with
a spyglass, stood scanning the wharves and the tracks cut into the stone of the cliffs, tension stiff in his
shoulders and belly.
Serroi wrinkled her nose, searched through dim memory for an explanation of that tension; she found
none, sighed and went back to scanning the city, fol-lowing it down curving terraces until it puddled in a
hoveltown beside a broad river, scores of naked chil-dren running through the gaps between shacks that
looked as if a breath would blow them over. Beyond the river there was a swamp thick with
graybearded trees and flocks of black-furred birds that rose and settled, rose and settled like smoke on a
rainy day. She contemplated the swamp and the myriad water channels running back under the trees. If
we find trouble coming at us, we could go to ground there.
The sails furled except for the minimum of canvas to give them steering way, the ship crept along
among small boats skittering about like water beetles. A square scow with a sweep oar came edging out
from behind one of a number of other merchanters already tied up at the wharves. Liss turned his glass
on it, smiled and relaxed; he folded the glass and handed it to his aide, a boy who followed him about like
a shadow.
The barge slid ponderously across the chop, a man standing in the center, wearing a robe so thickly
em-broidered it looked as if he stood it in a corner when he took it off, his head encased in a
complicated structure of gilded straw, a horned staff in one gloved hand, the other clutching a silvergilt
crescent bolted to a pole rising from the middle of the flat bottomed boat.
Liss raised his hand, his lips moved as if he were counting, then he brought the hand sharply down.
The anchor dropped.
—A sailor atop the mainmast loosed a weighted line, unfurling a large pennant with the ship’s sigil
appli-qued in the center of both sides, a second pennant with a sun’s rayed face on a black ground
snapping out above it.
A sailor blew a loud, flat fanfare of a sort on a complicated horn, a rolling minor wail that went on
and on.
Sailors brought Halisan the Harper and Adlayr Ryan-Turriy up from below, escorted them to a
cleared space before the mainmast, and dropped the Company’s gear beside them.
Two more of the crew appeared beside Hedivy and
Serroi, took their arms and led them to join the oth-ers.
Serroi glanced at Adlayr, caught a glint from Honeydew’s eye as the sprite peeked through the
buttonhole in his shirt pocket. She smiled, then turned to watch Liss and his scurrying aide move to the
main deck as sailors from the crew hoisted the man in the robe onboard, paying him the kind of sweaty
deference that shouted his importance. Two acolytes followed, thin dour men in knee-length black
gowns, their skinny legs marked with scars, their feet bare, the thick horn on the soles scraping on the
wood.
The deck tilted very slightly back and forth with the play of the chop. The fanfare stopped, the
horn-player tucked his battered instrument under his arm and stared straight ahead. Aside from the
background of the noise from the bay, and the ordinary creaks from the rigging, the ship was eerily silent.
Waiting.
The weight of the Fetch’s presence increased. Something’s about to happen, she thought. And we
aren’t going to like it. I wish I knew ...
The newcomer’s face was so immobile it might have been made of polished bronze. He raised the
horned staff, pounded it on the deck, drawing muf-fled booms from the planks, intoned, “Barta bar’a’ta
barta.” His voice was determinedly deep and reso-nant, as if he’d practiced shouting down holes until he
got it right. Before the echoes died, he turned an umber gaze on the Shipmaster and said more se-dately,
“Yapron Liss.”
“Yubbal Canpyan.”
These two know each other, Serroi thought. It’s a dance they’ve practiced a long time.
“So what do you bring us?”
The Shipmaster reached round and the boy slid a clipboard into his hand. Two crewmen came
forward with lidded bowls, clay fired rough, unglazed and heavy. “The manifest and offerings from the
cargo, 45 Yubbal.” At a gesture from the Yubbal, he passed the clipboard to the tall thin acolyte standing
at Canpyan’s elbow. “Four passengers only,” he fin-ished. “Their papers are with the lists.” A sweep of
his hand. “They stand there.”
The Yubbal gestured at one of the bowls. The Shipmaster took the lid off and stepped aside to let
Canpyan unfold the linen cloth and examine the con-tents. Serroi couldn’t see what was in the bowl, had
a notion that Liss had herded them where they were for that very reason.
As soon as the Yubbal’s polished bronze hands had refolded the linen, Yapron Liss replaced that lid,
lifted the second.
When he finished the inspection, the Yubbal stretched out his hands and a second acolyte wiped
them with a cloth moistened with rosewater (the scent strong enough to wrinkle Serroi’s nose as the wind
brought it to her), patted them dry with an-other. “The Offerings are acceptable. Tie up at the Go Bazip,
the doya Baskur will be there to check your manifests and provide hand carts to transfer your cargo to
the appointed merchants. Now—the passengers. Doya Tasab,, the papers.” Hands slipped inside his
wide sleeves, he paced toward the small group with a dignity as ponderous as the barge that brought him.
“A motley lot.” He spoke over his shoulder to the acolyte. “Read me the first.”
“Adlayr Ryan-Turriy, gyes, on Ward to Mamhidda
Vas of Cadander. That’s the pale one with the long hair.”
The Yubbal lifted a finger. “Cadander?”
“Northland. Glass and leather.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“Hedivy Starab, Cadandri, bodyguard. He’s the one standing next to the woman with the green skin.
That woman is one Serroi, no cognomen, healer, Biserica certified. The other’s a Harper, one Halison
Wanayo of Shimzely.”
“Which is the leader of the group?”
“There is no indication in the papers.”
“Ask the Cadandri who he’s bodyguard for.”
The doya sidled a few steps from his master to stand in front of Hedivy. “Hedivy Starab, Cadandri,
bodyguard, whose body do you guard?”
Hedivy was wearing his sullen, stupid look. “Her,” he said. “Healer.”
The doya made a note on the papers, sidled back and repeated Hedivy’s words as if foreign speech
could not be allowed to soil the hallowed ears of the Yubbal.
The interrogation continued in that fashion with a deeply absurd seriousness; Serroi chewed on her
lower lip and stared intently at the planks.
Line by line the story they’d thrown together was unreeled for the Yubbal, sickness in Cadander, the
healer sent to Bagklouss to confer with the herb-women and healers whose fame had reached all the way
north, the bodyguard and the gyes were sent as escorts to protect the healer in this long journey and
negotiate the way through the various lands they had to cross. Halison traveling because that’s what she
did, harping her way about the world. It wasn’t much of a story, but told in snippets that way its
weaknesses were masked.
The doya prodded at the gearsacs, walked round behind Adlayr to inspect his longgun. He didn’t
quite finger the gyes’ weaponbelt, but he eyed it specula-tively, then walked back to murmur to the
Yubbal.
When the interrogation was finished, Doya Tasab eased the top sheaf of papers loose and tucked
them into a pocket of his gown, gave the clipboard to the Shipmaster’s aide. A moment later the crew
was bus-ding around the Yubbal, lowering him to his barge, helping his acolytes scramble after him. As
soon as the barge was free, the anchor came up and the ship started creeping toward the designated
wharf.
Once Shipmaster Liss got his ship tied up, he went overside and began talking with the squat man
wait-ing for him, the Master’s aide making industrious notes on the top sheet clipped to the board as he
lis-tened to the two men.
Serroi looked up at Hedivy. “Ei vai, what do you think?”
He glanced round the busy harbor. “Don’t trust ‘em. Should grab a boat ...” He waved a hand at the
small sailboats darting back and forth across the bay, then at the swamp that had caught Serroi’s
attention. “Head in there and get lost.” He scowled as he saw a line of men winding down a cliff path, the
sun glinting off the metal molded round their bodies. “Now.”
With Honeydew perched on her shoulder, a tiny warm patch trembling against her neck, Serroi
watched Adlayr flip over the rail and slice into the water; briefly he was a sleek gray shadow in the green,
then gone as he swam for the boat they’d cho-sen, a small speedy proa. She shifted the strap of her
gearsac because it was cutting into her, then glanced quickly around. There were no sailors aloft and
none of those hauling cargo about seemed in the, least in-terested in them. Her mouth tightened; it was as
if the passengers’ fate was so determined that crew and master alike had put them out of mind. Through
the spaces between Halisan and Hedivy, who were stand-ing close together to block view of Adlayr
going overboard, she could see boxes and bales being hoisted from the hold, loaded onto trucks and
wheeled down the gangplank. Shipmaster Liss was calling items in a low voice as they appeared, his aide
checking them on the manifest
Out in the bay a form surged from the water, shif-ted in mid leap and landed on the deck of the proa.
The three men sailing the boat were overside before they recovered from their astonishment. A few
breaths later Adlayr had ropes and tiller in hand and was bringing the proa about.
When he reached the Ennachul, Hedivy lifted rope coils off a hook, dropped them overside, picked
up Serroi and swung her over the rail so she could catch hold and slide down the rope.
Serroi hit the deck and danced out of the way as Hedivy landed behind her. Halisan thumped down,
got her harp and herself over to Serroi as Adlayr helped Hedivy push the proa away from the Ennachul.
A roar from the ship, then Liss was leaning over the rail. “Get back here, you want to get killed?
Kakky, get the Guards.”
Hedivy snorted, glanced at Adlayr, raised his thumb. Adlayr grinned at him. A brisk wind blew
across the bay; the proa’s sail filled and she picked up speed.
A loud crack, a splinter jumped from the rail. More shots. Serroi dropped flat on the deck, heard the
oth-ers go down, then Adlayr was shooting. More shouts, sense of confusion behind, boats coming at
them, but they’d got too good a start and were gliding into the shadow under the trees before the chasers
got close enough to interfere.
YOU think you can ESCAPE me MOTHER you can’t escape YOU’RE MINE, I’ll have you. I
WILL HAVE YOU.
2. On The Coast Of The Stathvoreen
A candle flickering beside her, night winds howling round the eaves and sliding through cracks in the
scraped jelen hide that took the place of glass, stir-ring the hair on her neck and prickling her skin,
K’vestmilly Vos sat at a table in the loft of the Long-house at Riba Arenque, writing an account of the
past weeks in the journal she was keeping for her daughter, and listening to Heslin, Pan Osk and
Vedouce talking round the hearth on the floor below.
Reports were still coming in from Calanda and Dander, dribs and drabs of bad news. The Enemy’s
hold tightening down. Schools open again, taught by parsonas, children chanting songs no one had heard
of before, hymns to Glory. Charnel houses multiply-ing. Long lines of flagellants. Knife-dancers making
the streets lethal while they whirled in their deadly trances. The glasseries and mills shut down, the
leatheries slowing their output, boots and saddles and all the rest down to a trickle while hides rotted in
the vats because the mixes were wrong, most of the mas-ter tanners dead or fled. The river Nixies
meaner than before, upsetting any boat or barge that moved away from the wharves or tried to come up
the Red Dan. Strange rats running through the warrens, at-tacking children, sometimes sleeping adults.
The loft floor extended about a third of the build-ing’s length, the end closed not with a wall but a low
rail. Zasya Myers stood on guard in the shadows near the wall while the Firebom was a flicker
K’vestmilly saw now and then as he rambled about the angled space.
Voices and other sounds came clearly from below.
“Winter will close the passes.” Pan Osk’s bootheels beat an irritable tattoo on the planks as he
walked out his impatience. “First snows will be here before the month’s out. We sit on our behinds and
that Spros sinks its claws deeper in Dander, Maiden knows how we’re going to pry them out, Berkwast
sends his spies sniffing around, the minute he scents a weak spot, he’s going to be all over us. Heslin, the
Mijloc ....”
“Will extend its sympathies and do all it can to close its borders tight.” Heslin’s voice was weary.
K’vestmilly smiled, shook her head; he’d said it be-fore more than once, but Osk wasn’t much good
at hearing what he didn’t want to hear—and every time he thought of all those traitor Pans stripping away
his wealth, she could almost see steam come out his ears.
Heslin cleared his throat, tapped his fingers on the table beside his chair. “It isn’t getting, into Dander
that’s bothering me now, it’s what’s coming out. Four
Sleykyn running loose somewhere. And what else? Vedouce, what do your men tell you?”
Vedouce shifted in his chair, the legs squeaking across the floor. His laugh was a humorless rumble.
“Farewell. Nothing to keep anyone here. Stathvors in the hills staring down at you, hating you for taking
their land and their houses. Fish for breakfast, fish for dinner, fog in your ears and stink in your nose.
Sitting around watching the tide come in and go out. Every day more of ‘em head for home. Hard to
blame ‘em.” He shifted again. “We’re starting to get recruits from the Harozh. Ank’s being pushed to his
Hold and he can’t feed them so he’s sending them across. If we can get resupplied with weapons, come
spring we can use AnkHold as a base and strike south into Dander, retake the Cities and start prying
Cadander loose from the traitors and the False Marn.” He coughed as a sputter of smoke blew from the
hearth across his face, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his mouth. “If Hedivy and those
can locate the Enemy and remove her, or at least fid-get her enough so she takes her eye off, we could
have a better than even chance. Heslin, if the Mijloc won’t send men, what about weapons?”
“Nik. A number of reasons. Defense. Keep the neighbors from getting hold of our best
weapons—with Sankoy, Kryland, Assurtilas and Minarka as neighbors, you can see why. And except
for a few traders that agitate for it, the Council dislikes the thought of being death merchants. As long as
we’re prosperous enough without that line, it won’t hap-pen.” Clink of glass against glass as Heslin
poured more wine. “The Neck’s where you’ll resupply, there are gun shops on half the hills from Shinka
to Yallor.” Silence while he drank. “Ungh! Miserable vinegar. The Marn thought of that when she sent
the messengers to the Biserica. If the Pried Meien agrees to her terms, the Biserica will do the bargaining
and send enough meien and gyes to make sure the goods are delivered, even past the Skafarees. If
Nischal Tay agrees. We should know by midwinter.”
3. Shimzely—Bokevada
“Alo, zinya, where you going, so bright and pretty you are?”
Chaya pulled her mouth to a straight line and kept walking, trying to count the turns and ignore the
man.
“Snooty are you? You gonna have to learn better, jakaz.” He grabbed her shoulder, started to jerk
her around to face him.
Terror blinding her, she broke away, pounded along the pavements, turning and turning until she was
thoroughly lost. The silence finally brought her out of her panic; she leaned against the nearest wall,
gasping and shuddering. The street was empty, the houses around her silent, shut against her but not
threatening. Stupid ... stupid ... stupid. Halisan warned me about them, why did I wait so late? Go
in the morning, she said, end of the first daywatch is the best, they’ll be sleeping then. Get your
marketing done, your er-rands, be home before noon. If your luck’s bad one day, run bard around
a couple corners, that should do it. There’s easier. prey in plenty here in Freetown.
The trouble was, when the snaska grabbed her, the bad time came flooding back, the thieves who
beat and raped her, the horrible trip across the wasteland,. all the nightmares she still had .... “I’ll have the
dreams again tonight Poor Lavan ....”
Still shaky she pushed away from the wall and looked for the sun. “Ahwu, west is that way. Find the
bay, find the Trade Hall.”
“We don’t exactly have guilds in Freetown, so this doesn’t count for much.” Freewoman Shisell
looked down at the torn, stained certificate Chaya had sewed into her blouse before she left home, the
one thing she hadn’t lost to the thieves. “Now this ..” She smoothed her hand across the Harper’s note.
“This is worth more. Halisan says you’ve a fair touch and a true eye. She has friends here and respect. T’
t’ t’, I know a person with a loom he’s not using. Would you be willing to give him one bolt in three? Just
tradecloth, nothing fancy, you could probably do it in your sleep, and it would help establish a market.”
“And the yarn? I’ll go the bolt if he pays for his yarn. I’ll do the buying for my own work.”
“Mmm. As long as you stay off brocades and dam-asks; he won’t want to wait forever for his bolts.”
“Without Guild certification, there’s no point to investing that much time and work.”
“Oh, there is a market, Freewoman, but you’d best learn our ways before you try it.” She folded the
cer-tificate inside the note and gave it back. “You’re young and pretty enough. Are you open to
liaisons?”
“I am wed and he shares the Harper’s house with me. No liaisons. That should be made clear to
your friend.”
“Too bad; it could have smoothed the way, but things are as they are. I’ll inform him of conditions
and send a note round by sundown, letting you know if he accepts—or not.” She got to her feet, a tall thin
woman with a shock of coarse gray hair and brown eyes almost lost in the gulleys of her laughlines.
“We’ve got a lodge of sorts here, some other women and I. There’s a lunch tomorrow, you might want
to come. Freewoman Nyama lives out your way, she’s an herbwoman .” She chuckled. “Among other
things. Useful to know in case you get pregnant. Take the lane three houses in from yours and head
wallside, two houses down, hephamin tree peeking over the garden wall, on a hot day you can smell it
clear to the bay. That’s her. If you want to come, let her know. She’s got a guard half the size of a
maremar and no one bothers her.” She stepped into the hall, looked around, called, “Yane, come here a
minute.”
Yane was a skinny one-eyed boy with a rakish black patch and a grin wide enough to endanger his
ears. “Yee?”
“Escort the Freewoman home. She’s new here and didn’t know this is a bad time to be out alone.”
“Woshi, I’ll do that.” He caught Chaya’s hand and started tugging her along, chattering as he moved.
“Once you get sponsored, Freewoman, you’ll have a badge and the snaskas’ll stay away, ‘cause the
sponsor he’ll have their legs broke they bother one of his.”
Chaya smiled, amused by his exuberance, com-forted by the warm wiry feel of his hand.
“Spon-sored?”
“I expect Freewoman Shisell’s taking care of that right now. She’ll get y’ a good ‘n and ‘splain all
‘bout it. You mind me, asking where you come from?”
Chaya thought about that for a while, letting him lead her through the halls and down the stairs to the
sidewalk. “No,” she said finally, “but you wouldn’t know the village, it’s a pimple on the land’s face
called Hallafam.”
He slapped his side and gobbled laughter. “Pimple. Land’s face. I like that. I like it. Mind ‘f I tell me
friend? He makes songs, joke songs a lot.”
“It’s yours, Yane. Why not?”
As they moved through increasingly crowded streets, she was nervous at first. He was only a boy,
what could he do? She soon saw that who and what he was didn’t matter; the simple fact that he was
with her made people look at her differently. She relaxed and began to enjoy a brisk, odor-filled, noisy
after-noon.
“Do you know Freewoman Nyama?”
“Yee, sure.”
“Take me by her place on the way, hm?”
“Can do.”
The prickly mint smell of the hephamin tree filled the narrow lane; a featherduster of pale leaves with
batches of the large red hephaberries peeped about the dun wall, adding a touch of color to the dull face
with which buildings fronted the world here in Freetown.
“You see the bell pull?” Yane pointed at a large bronze berry dangling at the end of the pull-chain.
“One yank means you sick, two a problem you got to talk about, three you jus’
“I have it.” The weariness flooding back into her sounded in her voice. “Thank you.”
He was quick to hear what she didn’t say and took her at a trot to the Harper’s house, left her with a
grin, running, off before she had a chance to say any-thing or pass him a coin for his efforts.
* * *
Chaya leaned against the door a moment, eyes closed, fatigue like weights strung about her body.
She knew a little more now about what her life might be for the next few months. Beyond that ... She
drew in a long breath, pushed away from the door. Beyond that she didn’t have to look right now.
“Sekhaya,” she called. “Thazi, you home?”
No answer. The house felt empty. Se climbed the stairs to their bedroom, changed into working
clothes and went down to the kitchen garden she was putting in beside the back door.
It was good to dig in the earth again, turning it over, loosening it, working in dung from the stables,
bringing it back to life and fertility. Her own kitchen garden was the result of generations of putting back
and fertilizing and working and working until there was a bed of black soil deep enough to drown in; the
tubers, greens and other food that came out of it had a flavor she missed in food she bought in Freetown
markets. And everything was so expensive. The money the Harper had left with her was melting fast
enough to frighten her.
There was nothing planted in the garden yet, though she was almost ready for the first settings. Some
onions, of course, wefi and homboes for salads; this was farther south than Hallafam and sheltered, she
might be able to get in a crop of yams and other tubers by first frost. There was honey in the market.
Lavan liked honeyed yams. I hope he’s all right. And Sekhaya. Feels good to be by myselffor a
while. So many people here .... Lavan is excited, be likes the chop and change here. I don’t know
what I think. No choice now. Not while the Glory’s out there. Halisan said the Forest was still free
and she didn’t think the Glory would get much of a hold here. If it does, what are we going to do?
What can we do ...?
4. Southport—On The Way To The Biserica
As the Wanda Kojamy turned into the Degelea Gulf, the deep incurve of the western ocean that led
to Southport, Sansilly leaned over the rail and waved to the silkar girl who’d crossed the Sinadeen with
them, riding the bow wave of the Wanda Kojamy. The slim creature leapt from the water in a
shimmering emer-ald arch, flipped over and came up again, waving a last time before she followed the
others back to the open water.
“You’d best go below, Wana Lestin.”
She turned to see Shipmaster Am’litho standing behind her, arms folded across his burly chest. “It’s
such a lovely day.”
“But an unlovely coast, Wana. The Krymen will be watchin’ and thinkin’. If there’s a fight, you leave
it to me ‘n my men, eh?”
Sansilly slipped into the tiny cabin, trying not to wake Greygen. The crossing had been hard on him.
The first few days of the voyage, he alternated be-tween nausea and astonishment; he’d been fine on the
river, even while Biddiya’s boat crabbed down the coast to Yallor, but as soon as he couldn’t see land
any longer, the long waves of the open sea and what they did to the Wanda Kojamy’s movement
proved more than he could take.
“Sansy?”
“Zhalazhala, Greg, I thought you were asleep. ‘Twon’t be long now. Am’litho says we’ll reach
Southport about three days on, barring trouble.”
A long wavering sigh, then Greygen said, “Sansy, I don’t know if I can face this again. Maybe we
could stay here. Bring the boys out when this is over.”
“Hm. I don’ like jumpin”fore I see where m’ feet’ll go. Ask me again after we been here a while?
The Wanda Kojamy sped along the Degelea Gulf, her motion exaggerated by her haste. Greygen
groaned and spewed, Sansilly held his head and wiped his face, too busy and too worried to bother with
what might be happening on deck. Now and then she heard a flurry of yells, several thumps, felt shudders
running through the ship, but the Wanda didn’t stop and each time the noises settled to the routine creaks
摘要：

DanceDownTheStarsTheDancerTrilogy,Book3JoClayton1994 TheFinalConfrontation...Serroifelthermacaistopwalking;heshudderedunderher,humpedhisback,fightingthegriponhishalter.ThebitterorangeglowtoldheritwasCharodystandingthere.Sheshudderedunderherownurgetokeepgoing,thePullwasatormentthatneverlefther;shedid...

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