Jo Clayton - Dancers 2 - Serpent Waltz

Serpent Waltz

The Dancer Trilogy, Book 2

Jo Clayton

1994

Spacing done. 0 and 1. Spell-checked. Graphics done.

SOURCELESS LIGHT FILLED THE ROOM LIKE WATER ....

The Dancer moved through that light, his body a darker gold, yet also light; he moved in a dance of

Praise that was as much beyond description as it seemed beyond the reach of human movement.

For several moments the Dancer continued as if he were unaware of Nov’s arrival. Then he bowed

to Nov and wheeled through an eccentric spiral to the empty altar, leapt on it, and sat cross-legged, his

hands on his knees. “Pan Nov,” he said, his voice multiple yet soft as a whisper. “What do you want of

us?”Nov hadn’t forgotten how his comrade had died; he hadn’t forgotten the Dancer freezing him in place

with a gesture. And behind his growing fury at the Dancer’s lack of action was a knot of fear colder than

the wind off the mountains. “Give me a day so I can get ready to move. Name a day, Dancer.”

Eyes like butter amber stared at him unblinking. Nov felt sweat beading on his face, and fought to

breathe normally. “A day,” the form said, the multiple voices stronger. “Let it be so. On the fourth day of

the Nijilic month Sarpamish, I will send men to you from the warrens of the South.”

Nov bowed, relief making his knees shake. He wheeled, walked briskly from the chamber. Two

weeks. It was just enough time to plan the attack.

“Let it be so,” the Dancer whispered once Nov was gone. “The Sacrifice begins ....”

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

The Duel Of Sorcery Trilogy

Moongather

Moonscatter

Changer’s Moon

The Dancer Trilogy

Dancer’s Rise

Serpent Waltz

Dance Down The Stars

The Skeen Trilogy

Skeen’s Leap

Skeen’s Return

Skeen’s Search

The Soul Drinker Trilogy

Drinker Of Souls

Blue Magic

A Gathering Of Stones

The Wild Magic Trilogy

Wild Magic

Wildfire

The Magic Wars

and

A Bait Of Dreams

Dedication

Many, many thanks to Linda R. Fox for all the weaver’s talk and to Judith Tarr for

horse lore.

Contents

What Has Gone Before:

Prologue

1. In the Skafaree

2. The Reign of the False Marn Begins

3. Trading

4. Friction in Cadander

5. Going South

6. The Web Working

7. Shimzely

8. Going South—Serroi and Treshteny on Their Separate Paths

9. Dander’s Up

10. Divergences and Diffusion

11. Sea Changes

12. Waiting for the War to Start

13. Serpents Dancing

14. Hard Landings

15. Worse and Worse

16. Diffusion Increases

17. Attack and Defense

18. Dissolution in Cadander

19. The Contagion Spreads

20. Changing Configurations

21. Attacks

22. Fear

23. Circles and Southings

24. Attack and Counterattack

25. Running

26. The Glory Goes Rolling On

27. One Journey Ends, Another Begins

28. One Mystery Down, Another Ahead

29. Vision

What Has Gone Before:

Awakened from the tree dream, SERROI finds herself un-easy 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

increases, 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, kamen 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

as-sorted 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 Hem 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

understanding of the way minds work. K’vestmilly Vos chooses him as her Consort although, at that time

she is in love with Vyzhamos 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 intelligence 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

invaders, 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’vestimilly 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.

Prologue

Weary from the dreams that haunted her sleep, Serroi sat in the Summer Garden at OskHold,

watching the dryads dance and flirt with the gyes Adlayr Ryan-Turriy who lay stretched out by her feet,

his hazel eyes half-closed, his hands laced behind his head, his long black hair loose, the breeze fluttering

the fine ends; he was as relaxed as the huge feline that was one of his alterforms.

Zasya Myers sat in the shade of a tree, a pile of cloth-ing beside her, clever fingers making quick

work of alter-ations and repairs to bits of their meager wardrobe, most of it provided from the bins and

coffers of the Hold. Zarcadorn Pan Osk had offered sewing women to do that work, she’d relinquished

some of it, but kept a part for herself; having her hands busy rested her better than idle-ness. The breeze

blew her shoulder-length fair hair about her face. When the tickling annoyed her too much, she stopped

to tuck it behind her ears, then went back to her work, as contented for the moment as Adlayr.

The sprite Honeydew flitted from tree to tree, her face, arms, and hair butter yellow with the pollen

she was eat-ing, sticky with the nectar she drank, the sun turning her translucent wings to stained glass

glories.

>><<

K’vestmilly Vos pulled in her stomach, flexed the mus-cles in her legs, annoyed and bored with the

bargaining that seemed to be going on forever between Zarcadorn Pan Osk and her General

Vedouce—no longer Pen’s Heir but Pan Pen since word had come of his father’s death. Vedouce was

himself again, worry dropped for the mo-ment; his wife and children had reached OskHold alive and

well, Heslin’s warning catching them a breath before Nov’s men came for them.

The Grand Hall was filled with light streaming down from windows high in the walls, painting patterns

on the long table from the lacy lead tracery that wound between eccentric glass shapes. Intricately

embroidered banners hung from galleries that ran around the upper part of the walls, drafts keeping them

in constant motion, patches of red and blue, green and purple and an abundance of gold thread glowing

as they caught the light, darkening as they retreated into shadow.

In and out of the lacework of light and shadow on the shining red-brown, wood of the council table,

there was a scatter of bowls of sliced fruit, wine jars, glasses, cha pots and cups, pads of paper and

stylos, jars of ink, and towels and bowls of warm water to wash off ink and juice. Hedivy was standing

by the wall, half lost in the shadows from the banners. Camnor Heslin sat at K’vestmilly’s left hand,

slouched and silent. A short distance along the table, the Mine Manager Kuznad Losyk and Osk’s High

Judge Chestno Dabyn sat saying nothing, their faces carefully blank as they listened to Vedouce Pen

arguing with their Pan.

Arguing. K’vestmilly touched the Mask. Two months ago there would have been no arguing about

support. Law, custom and the Marn’s Guard were more than enough to guarantee that. Now there was a

false Mask, a False Marn with thousands of the Taken to serve her. Her own army counted only five

hundred weary, worried men, she had no money (though, as far as she could tell from reports out of

Dander, the Marn’s Treasure was still hid-den, waiting for her return), no base to move from, and a

faceless, frightening Enemy.

She didn’t count Nov, he was only a tool. If he were the one behind this, she could call in Osk’s men

and Ank’s men, add them to her own, sweep down on the cit-ies and boot Nov and his minions to the

strangling post. But she couldn’t be sure of anyone any longer; the Enemy could put out his hand and

Take others and start a new massacre. She didn’t know why the Free were still free, what key explained

the Taken. And until she knew, she didn’t dare move against the cities. The Enemy. Mother Death to the.

Dancer. The Fetch according to Serroi. Like a disease you picked up just breathing the air of a place.

She glanced at Heslin.

He saw the Mask turn, shook his head quickly, then looked down.

Heslin was right, of course. He always was when it came to people and their reactions. Zarcadorn

Osk was a Pan, loyal in his way, but he didn’t like foreigners on his homeground, he didn’t trust them,

dug them out as soon as he could in courtesy, and sent them down to Dander, traders and fugitives alike,

whoever came into his moun-tains. His people took their cues from him and even K’vestmilly Vos was

looked at slant-eyed; the anointed Marn she might be, welcome she wasn’t.

>><<

Treshteny came into the garden, eyes on the baby faun dancing before her, a tiny bright green

creature whose curly horns reached only to her knee. The faun saw the dryads and ran to play with them,

Treshteny made her un-steady way through her time ghosts and sat on the bench beside Serroi. “Healer.”

Serroi touched the woman’s arm. Out of curiosity she let the manyness of the timeseer’s vision

continue without fighting it to a solid whole.

The dryads showed no change even in the timesight, perhaps because as they themselves had told

her they had no dark seeds in them. She looked down. Adlayr was a weirdness so complex that she

could make out few details except for a brief flash when he was a dolphin curled in a great leap. She

blinked, turned away and saw the trees, seed/sapling/maturity/death, saw a portion of the wall, there/not

there/blurred with crawling patterns of moss and erosion/a ruined heap of stones, saw Zasya as a

palimp-sest of infant to crone, saw Ildas as a firestreak ... she concentrated and brought everything to

oneness, held it there until she felt Treshteny’s arm move. She took her hand away and smiled at the

woman beside her. “Interest-ing.”

Treshteny looked fondly across at the faun who was chasing one of the smaller dryads across the

grass; she was giggling and tossing handfuls of broshka petals over her shoulder at him, darting behind

trees, vanishing into zhula bushes in a shower of dark yellow flowers. “It is better now that I have my son

Yela’o.” Her eyes widened. “Your new children come.”

>><<

Camnor Heslin sighed and tapped his wineglass on the table. “Pan Pen. Pan Osk.” His deep voice

broke into the tense silence between the two big men. “There’s some-thing you should consider. How

long can the Steel Point mills keep going without more coal, more ore from the mines?”

Vedouce frowned, looked down at his hands. “Two weeks. No more than that. There’s enough steel

stacked to fill orders for a while, but if they let the fires go out, they’re going to have one zhaggin’

miserable time getting those pizhes cooking again.”

“And the sand for the glasseries, some of that comes from pits in the Merrzachars, doesn’t it? Along

with the minerals for coloring and the different sorts of glasses.”

The annoyance at the interruption washed from Zarcadorn Osk’s face. He moved to the head of the

table, pulled out the Pan’s Chair and settled in it. “Heslin,” he said. “Marazhney said a thing or two about

you. I see that she was right. How soon do you expect them to march on us?”

“It depends on what Nov knows about running a man-ufactory. Pan Pen?”

“He’s got Sko to tell him. If he listens.” Vedouce wiped his hand across his face and looked sleepy.

“He never did before. We probably have a month or so grace before he realizes he needs to get busy or

destroy a good part of Cadander’s wealth.”

>><<

The wall bulged, a long section of stone separated from the rest, took a crude manform and came

across the grass, the legs seeming to move, the arms to swing, but the whole process so strange it made

Serroi’s head ache—as if the creature’s image moved forward, then its substance shifted into the image

with a ratcheting flux almost like the timeseer’s palimpsest visions, layer upon layer laid down, thickening

the form, the process repeated over and over, a hundred and a hundred times a breath.

Adlayr scrambled to his feet, came to stand beside Serroi, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

She twisted her mouth, shook her head. “No need, gyes.”

He watched the stoneman advance for another two breaths, then he shrugged and dropped to a

squat beside her.

Behind the first stoneman, the wall was whole and un-changed as if he had simply waded through it.

It bulged again a few breaths later, another stoneman oozed free, then another and another. They crossed

space in their pe-culiar way and squatted lumpily in front of Serroi. In voices like the rock groans of an

incipient landslide, they said, Mama, claim us, too. You claimed the nixies. Claim us, too.

So I do. What do you call yourselves?

Kamen, Mama.

Kamen, my men. She bent forward, extended her hand. The first kamen closed his stony fingers

about hers, the same phase-jump flow inside form. Though the hand looked clumsy, it was gentle and

even warm. The kamen bowed, loosed her, and moved away to make room for the next.

>><<

K’vestmilly tapped her glass on the table; when she had their attention, she said, “Nov has the Enemy

to provide men for him and the traitor Pans to squeeze for coin and kind. Have you talked to Treshteny?”

“Mad Treshteny?” Zarcadorn Osk had very pale eyes, gray-blue, with little more color in them than

the winter ice that lay about the Hold half the year; they narrowed into a measuring, skeptical squint.

“Useful Treshteny, my mother would have said. And Jestranos Oram. Never mind. What we need is

informa-tion, not guesses. Hedivy, come here.”

He came into the light reluctantly, his face shut down, his eyes dull and half closed. “Marn.”

“We came away with all the communicators?”

“As you know, Marn.”

She smiled behind the Mask, spread her hands as her mother had in a translation of that smile.

“You’ve seen the Taken, so you know what to look for. Do you think you could slip into the cities

without getting your head collected?”

He shrugged. “I’ve done harder.”

“Zdra zdra, is it possible some of Oram’s agents went to ground and escaped Nov’s thugs?”

“Could be. You want me to set up a network?”

“It wouldn’t have to be elaborate. Just to let us know what’s going on and warn us if there’s an

ingathering of fighters. Something like you did with the Govaritzer army?’ She set two fingers on the base

of the wine glass, moved it slowly about on the table top, blurring wet cir-cles one into another. After a

moment she sighed and set-tled back in her chair. “So. Are you willing to do that, Hedivy Starab?”

He snapped thumb against forefinger. “When do you want me to start?”

“As soon as you’re ready. I’m going to use you hard, Hedivy. Oram called you his best agent.” She

let her hands smile once more. “You’ll regret that before we’re done. When you get back, I’m going to

send you out again, to finish the job hunting down the Enemy.”

>><<

A dappled gray horse with a creamy white mane and tail leapt over the high wall, clearing the top

with his hind legs tucked tight, landing so lightly that his hooves barely bent the grass. Snorting and

whuffling, he walked to Serroi, nuzzled her hands, then moved off, tail switching, ears flicking, to graze on

the blossoms on the zhula bushes and the tender new growths at the ends of the twigs.

Zasya set down her sewing, got to her feet, and angled obliquely toward him, making soft tongue

sounds; he twitched, snorted, danced sideways, went back to grazing, ignoring her as she edged closer

and finally touched his shoulder, moved her hand lightly up to his mane, digging her fingers in, scratching

as hard as she could, working clawed fingers down the curve of his neck. “Ah, you beauty, you love.”

She chuckled as he leaned into her, hooking his head over her shoulder. “Yes, you are, yes ....”

He shook loose and danced away; at a comfortable dis-tance, he turned his head and looked at her,

his slate gray eyes knowing and strange.

Zasya laughed at him. “I know you, Pook, do you think I wouldn’t, after watching you jump a

twenty-foot wall? Hah!”

Ariels drifted overhead, golden-winged fliers sculpted from air and sunlight, teasing Honeydew,

swooping low to brush past Serroi’s head. Unlike the dryads and the nix-ies, even the kamen, they had

no voices, but they didn’t seem to miss them.

Abruptly they rushed together into a fluttery knot, then were gone.

The dapple-gray snorted, back off a few paces, and went running at the wall. He pushed off from the

grass, rising as if he had wings, cleared the top, and vanished.

The dryads melted into their trees, the faun trotted to Treshteny and huddled against her leg,

Honeydew flut-tered to Adlayr and settled on his shoulder, clutching at his hair.

A swaying figure came from the trees and stopped on the edge of the sunlight, an immense serpent at

least thirty feet long with a woman’s torso and a woman’s heavy head; her powerful arms were folded

beneath large breasts. At times she was solid, at times a translucent near-hallucination. She stared at

Serroi for a long, tense moment, then she, too, was gone.

>><<

The room high in the guest tower was filled with sun-light shimmering across tapestries bright with

color and onto simple furniture whose beauty lay in the handling of the different woods it was made from.

K’vestmilly Vos stood at a window, Mask in her hand, looking down on the walled gardens filled with

bloom in this brief moun-tain summer. Behind her, Camnor Heslin sat at a table writing in a diary, his

stylo scratching without pause across the pages.

K’vestmilly turned from the window. “Thanks,” she said.

Heslin looked up from diary and smiled, his dark blue eyes nearly lost in laugh wrinkles. “Timing is

all,” he said.

She crossed to him, rubbed the back of her hand down the side of his face. “Talking about timing, I

want our daughter born in a Pevranamist surrounded by peace and prosperity.”

“We’ll do our best, Milenka. A little luck and a lot of planning and maybe that can happen.”

1. In the Skafaree

Serroi wrung water from her skirt and grimaced as the cloth slapped against her legs when she

dropped it, the sound lost in the murmur of the surf and the hiss of wind-blown sand. A patchy fog

swirled round her ankles, lit into ghostwater by the Jewels of Anish low on the west-ern horizon. It was

only an hour before dawn and cold enough to start her teeth chattering.

Adlayr crouched atop a high dune a step away, blend-ing with a mix of tall grasses and tangled

brush, Honey-dew snugged into a shirt pocket, protected by his cloak from the foggy damp. Hedivy was

further on, standing in the shadow of some scrub growing beside a rutted track that paralleled the shore.

The triangular black sail of the fishermen’s boat that had slipped them into this shallow cove on the

north end of Jelepakan was a low blot on a horizon turning pink with afterglow when Hedivy came back,

a Skafar behind him leading a bony vul hitched to a cart.

The Skafar climbed on the plank that served as a driv-er’s seat and sat there staring at the ground

while Adlayr pitched their gearsacs into the cart. Serroi stepped onto his hands and he threw her up, then

climbed in after her. As soon as they were settled, Hedivy took his place on the plank beside the driver.

“Let’s go.”

The man nodded, his ragged turban bobbing unstably; he slapped the reins on the vul’s bony rear,

muttered, “Muh j’h j’h j’h.”

The cart started off along a road that was mostly ruts and short, wiry grasses, the vul’s hooves eerily

silent. The only sounds audible above the rising wind were a few clunks of wood against wood and a

creak or two.

Serroi drew up the hood of her cloak and pulled the front panels around her legs; she sat hunched

over, her arms folded on her knees as the cart swayed along. Traveling again, and who knows where

we’ll end this time. This has to be a smuggler’s cart, those hooves are muffled and he’s got the

axle greased to a whisper. Fetch. You haven’t been bothering me since I left OskHold. Does that

mean you’re too busy? It gives me knots in the stomach when I think of what you’re probably

doing. She dropped her head on her hands, thought about the weirdlings who were her children. From

the moment her reconstituted feet touched the stone of that cliff, the magic that perme-ated this world

before the Sons’ War had used her as a conduit to flow back from wherever it had gone. It was getting

stronger; at first she’d only felt the energy come into her when she rested after a healing, now each time

she put a foot on the earth, she felt a faint tingle, like touching metal on a frosty morning.

She wrinkled her nose. A little more of that and I’ll be skittering around like a surce on a hot

griddle. Saa! Won-der what Zas is doing? I suppose Hedivy’s right, it’ll be hard enough for the

three of us to slip and slide, more would be a shout. And the Ward is with the Marn, so someone

had to stay with her. I’ll miss her. All these men .... Hedivy about had a fit when K’vestmilly told

him I was coming. El vai, I don’t care what he thinks, this needs doing and I’m part of it. She

blinked, startled at how much she’d changed in just a few months.

For two years she’d clung desperately to the Biserica and the meien, despite the tension she caused

there and the dreams that started again, Sec Noris getting at her, raging because she was free and he was

still trapped in treeform, and the Fetch whining at her night after night.

She smiled. It wasn’t all so different from the world she remembered. Some things may have changed

in those two hundred years, but not people. Nay, not people. And it no longer hurt to face the truth; she

wasn’t going back to the Biserica ever again. Like a snake shedding her skin, putting off the old life,

emerging into the new.

The day was still young when the cart reached the B’roj’n Heath north of P’lubakat, a stretch of

fairly level ground dotted with mires and groves of sar’z, a scatter of ragged bamboo plots and attendant

hovels with stinking pens of b’ba and k’ji, flocks of oajams scratching grubs out of the brush, the source

of the hams, veal, and eggs that fed the port city.

The Skafar stopped the vul by a gloomy grove of sar’z, the foliage so dark and clotted it seemed

painted with ink, the pools of ooze under the root pyramids like more ink spilled across the spongy

ground. He turned his head, nodded at Hedivy, then sat staring down at the reins dan-gling between his

knees.

Hedivy dug in his belt, dropped a coin on the plank, and jumped down. “We walk from here on.”

The winding streets were beginning to fill with the usual mix in every wharf quarter Serroi had seen in

the other Lands she’d visited—Sleykyn in darkly glittering velater armor guarding Assurtilan merchants,

Sankoyse rug ped-dlers and their dull-eyed bondservants, black-eyed Minark traders, Fenek sailors,

Karpan mercenaries, Shimzely sea-men, traders, porters. Lots of Shimzeys, almost as many as there

were Skafars.

The stark black and white buildings were flimsy struc-tures; the walls were mats woven from the

tough grasses that grew in Jelepakan’s sea marshes, plastered with white stucco, braced with poles from

the bamboo plots. At intervals, as Hedivy led them deeper into the quarter, buildings on both sides of the

street creaked and swayed for a breath and a catch, shed plaster dust and fragments, then settled again,

while the walkway wiggled as briefly underfoot. The strings of round bronze bells that hung from many of

the doorposts tinged musically. No one paid any attention to the bells or the shaking walls. Little quakes.

They must get a lot of them here. Hev was right, once we get settled, there’s no reason to pick us

out of this melange. I wonder if there are any Taken here, or was that only in Cadander?

Shimzely’s next ... has access to Oram’s spy reports, I wonder V any of those agents are still

alive? Or the ones here. Maiden Bless, this is not go-ing to be easy.

Hedivy turned into a stinking sidelane with an open drain down the middle, went past a few houses,

turned again into a narrow dirt pathway between two of the mud-wattle storehouses, led them through a

gate in a fence of bamboo stakes held together with thick wire, a fence that looked like a heavy breath

would blow it over.

Inside, there was a paved yard, a stable to one side with four draft vuls standing hipshot and

half-asleep under a thatched roof and a pair of macain licking gram from a manger. At the back of the

yard was a two-story building with a covered porch running the length of the front wall, wicker chairs

scattered along it, several of them already occupied by wizened elders whose rheumy eyes followed

Hedivy and the rest of them as they came across the yard.

Hedivy clumped up the three sagging steps, crossed the porch, and pushed the door open.

Behind a table near the end of a short, wide hall, an old man sat sipping at a mug of kava and

squinting at a sheet of coarse paper printed on both sides. He looked up when he heard Hedivy’s boots

on the tile floor, let the paper fall beside the mug. “Hev-tan. When you get back in town?”

“This morning, Djuran-tan. Got some rooms?”

The old man peered past him at Semi and the two gyeslar. “How many you want?”

“One of those with a daughter’s cubby. How much you going to soak me for ‘t?”

“Daughter, prh?”

“None of your business, tu’or. Price it.”

“A teb a night a head.”

Hedivy clicked his tongue. “Going up in the world, prh?”

“Times change. We don’t change with them, we end up sunk in a B’roj’n mire.”

“Balk lah, I’ll pay you a week; if we leave before, the extra’s yours.”

“Keep it soft, Hev-tan?”

“Like usual, Djuran-tan.”

* * *

“So far, no problem.” Hedivy stood by the window looking down into the yard. The shutters were

open and the casements pinned back; like many of the others Serroi had seen on their way here, instead

of glass the windows of the inn had parchment scraped thin and oiled to let light through, another

concession to the constant quakes that shook the islands. Glass had to be imported from Cadander and

only the richest could afford to replace all the panes broken when the land shook. “Carter Hink wasn’t

nervous and Djuran’s price was too low to mean that rumors have reached him.” He scowled at the

yard. “Unless he’s been paid off to keep face with us.”

Serroi pulled her feet up and sat cross-legged on the bed. She glanced at Adlayr who sat in a chair

tilted against the wall, his hands laced behind his head, eyes half shut. Hmm. Waiting for them to decide

what the day held so he could get on with things. “How do you want to deal with that?”

He shrugged. “If Cambarr’s in port, or a few others I bring to mind, won’t matter, we’ll be off with

the tide. If not, hmm.” He glanced out the window, his round face going still. “Problem. Boy down there

in a hurry to be somewhere else.”

“Djuran knows you’re here, Hev. If it’s something funny, why would he send his messenger where

you could see him?”

“No choice, Healer. We backed against a warehouse. One way out.”

“Vai, I’ll believe that when I see Nov kissing babies. You wouldn’t be here if it were true, nor would

you bring us.”

He didn’t respond to her attempt at teasing, just contin-ued watching the boy until he was out of

sight. She’d no-ticed that he had little humor; he was a stolid man with loyalties rather than beliefs, a

sharp but narrow intelli-gence.

“If there’s trouble when I’m gone,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper, “get to roof, cross to

ware-house. North end. There’s a way to climb down and a maze to get lost in.” He started for the door.

“Hev.”

“What?” The word was a growl, but he paused with his hand on the latch, turned his head so he

could see her.

“If you need to, you can trade my services for passage. Say you’ve got a healer and ...” she

grimaced, memories of her childhood training still an angry ache inside her, “and a windwitch. It’s been a

long while since I’ve called a wind, not since I was eight going on nine, but it’s not something you forget

even if you try to. It’ll pin us for the Enemy, remember that in your bargaining. And there’s no way I can

fight it directly. I’m not strong enough.”

Serroi stood in the doorway and watched Hedivy go clumping down the stairs. I don’t think you

really under-stand what not strong enough means. You’re devious and sharp enough to prick

yourself but ... She shut the door, tapped Adlayr’s shoulder.

“You think you could go trax and follow him?”

“You don’t trust him?” Adlayr pushed the chair down, stood, and began stripping.

“Nay, not that. I just have a feeling ....” She shrugged. “Anything happens, send through Honeydew.”

She turned to the sprite who was sitting on the windowsill, swinging her feet and fluttering her wings.

Honeydew can do?

Honeydew giggled, the sound beyond the ears of every-one except Adlayr who winced as he picked

up his cloth-ing, folded it and left it on foot of the bed. Honeydew can do.

Honeydew lay stretched out on the windowsill, her wings flattened, her chin resting on her fists,

passing Adlayr’s report to Serroi. Adlee say Hev walking along the wharf road looking at the ships :.. not moving

fast, just stroll-ing ‘long ... he’s stopped a minute by a pile of crates ... talk-ing to a man ... a drunk sailor ... something

worrying him ... he keep sneaking looks back along the road ... like he think something’s following him ... not me ...

someone on the ground ... don’t know this place well enough to spot what’s bothering him ... he moving on now ...

head turning side to side ... what’s he looking for? Ah I think that’s it, a pilot’s cat ... he’s walking faster ...

trying not look like he’s hurrying ... he’s good at that, you wouldn’t see it down below ... saaa, there’s a bunch of men

coming down an alley ... ahead of him dressed in black, black turbans, sabers ... guards of some kind ... another lot,

coming out of a warehouse behind him ....

Honeydew, tell Adlayr just to watch, don’t mix in any trouble. Hedivy doesn’t need warning,

but he might need rescuing, so we have to keep loose.

Honeydew wiggled round as she sent on the message, ran her tiny hands through the thistledown fluff

on her head. Adlayr say asha, he watch ... Hev sees the men behind him ... he’s running now ... got his knife out ...

heading for that cat ... here come the other bunch ... trotting toward him ... he’s got a start ... might make the boat ... if

he does, they lose ... murd! they shooting ... yelling at him to stop ... he swerves, almost makes the water, means to

dive in, Adlee thinks, a Skafar trips him ... now they’re all over him, the guards ... giving him a hard time kicking him ...

using their sticks ... now they’re strapping his hands behind him and hauling him off ... moving inland ... you should

see the street clearing ahead of them ... like they’re a moving plague ... up the hill to that place with the pointed domes

all different colors

BerkHouse ... so this is government business for sure ... Adlee says Hev didn’t say he had a problem here, did he?

Never mind, we’ll talk about that later ... wall around the place, good thirty feet high ... wonder how they cope with all

these quakes ... don’t see any big cracks, maybe they dug down to bedrock to set the base he in through the gate now

... they marching him into the main building ... that’s it, he inside. Adlee want to know if he should stay a while, see if

.... Honeydew glanced out the window. Serr, men are coming, men like them Adlee tell about. Look out there, more than

Honeydew can count.

After a swift scan that showed her black turbans cross-ing the yard, Serroi caught up the packet that

held their money and papers. Honey, go on up to the roof I’ll meet you there soon’s I can. Tell

Adlayr what’s happening and to stay clear. As long as he’s loose, we’ve the Biserica to bargain

with.

* * *

Serroi wriggled through the trap, moving cautiously along the rain-bleached shakes.

There was a sharp crack and half a dozen men rose to their feet on the roof of the warehouse,

longguns pointed at her. “Go in,” one of them yelled. “Go back in or the next shot is in your head.”

Jo Clayton - Dancers 2 - Serpent Waltz

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