Jo Clayton - Skeen 02 - Skeen's Return

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2024-12-19 0 0 591.33KB 261 页 5.9玖币
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WELL HERE WE ARE AGAIN;
YOU'VE HAD YOURSELF A NICE
BREAK, TIME NOW TO GET BACK TO
OUR QUEST. SKEEN AND COMPANY
HAVE DONE SOME REORGANIZING
AND SHE HAS FACED THE FACT
THAT THE RETURN TO THE
STRANGER'S GATE IS GOING TO BE
AS LONG AND DANGEROUS AND
TEDIOUS AS THE JOURNEY AWAY
FROM IT.
or
WHAT I WOULDN'T GIVE FOR ONE
OF FLITTER HINKEY'S RETREADS.
"Djabo's ivory overbite." Skeen pushed her fingers through her hair
until it stood in dark spikes about her thin face. A dozen meters south of
her and considerably more than that above her, near the elaborate Gate
that led to the Min Temple Maze which filled the center of the Sacred
Island, Pegwai and the sponsors from the Sydo Gather were in a noisy,
arm-waving argument with the Island sacerdotes while Plains Min stood
about looking superior. "Every argument we covered in the past five days."
She closed her eyes. Tibo, ah, Tibo you baster, where are you? what are
you doing? where's my Picarefy? why did you dump me? Same old
questions, same old nothing. No answers, no way of finding out anything,
anything, anything at all. She glared at the shifting knot of Min and Ykx
circling about Pegwai and the Sydo Remmyo. Fuckin' backassed world.
Months! Months before I can get back to the Gate. Months while you're
skittering Djabo knows where. I can't stand it, I… No, Skeen. Cool, Skeen.
One foot after the other. You'll get there. Yes, you will. If you don't fall on
your face. She sighed, clasped her hands behind her back, turned to
Lipitero. "They have to go over everything again?"
Morning started out well enough. When dawn was still red in the
eastern sky, a lakeboat beached on the sand below the Gather cliffs. Half a
dozen Min Ykx from the Sacred Island in the middle of the lake lifted from
the deck, drifted over and dropped to stand before the Sydo delegates and
exchange ritual greetings with them.
Britt moved closer to Skeen. The guide's plushy fur roughed and his
glands gave off an acrid stench as he watched the Islanders. He didn't like
them or want anything to do with them. "They'll cut your guts out," he
said. "All the gold on Mistommerk wouldn't change that. You keep away
from them." He growled, a soft sound inaudible a step away. A strained
silence for several minutes. He spoke again, "You can trust the Ykx, that's
a plus for you. They're cunning gits and you'd better watch for
bait-and-switch before the handshake, but after that, no worry. The last
time I talked with Dibratev, he said everything was set. He said the boat
would be there this morning, docking out to the Island." He extruded his
claws, picked delicately at the fur on his arm. "Plains Min you can do
business with. Get past the hostility and they play by the rules. They let me
come and go as I please; they get more out of me that way. Yours is a
one-shot, so maybe you should worry some. I hear when they go down to
Cida Fennakin, what they buy most of is slaves, ones with skills they can
use; they like Pass-Throughs because these know things most other Nemin
have forgot. That's you, Skeen. Dih's a prize, too. And given I was pushed
to it, I'd say they'd give a lot to twist what the Boy knows out of him. Min
and Chalarosh mix like oil and fire. Chulji, well, I'd say he wasn't worth
their trouble. Too young to know much, but there's the chance they'd
consider holding him against the services of older Skirrik. Other hand,
he's only Min Skirrik, they despise their kin who've put off what they call
the True Min shapes and they wouldn't be sure how much True Skirrik
might be willing to pay for him. Lifefire solo knows what they'd do to
Timka, no, that's not something which wants thinking about. So listen,"
he drew his claws lightly along her arm, waking memories that made her
shiver with pleasure, "listen, Skeen, you and Timka had better split night
watch between you. And maybe Pegwai. For a Scholar, he's pretty shrewd.
I'm not saying they'll jump you, they probably won't. Just be careful, that's
all." He glared at the Island Min, growled again, then stalked away,
disappearing into the mouth of the Guest Valley.
Lipitero shook out her flight skins, folded her arms so the skins draped
gracefully about her body. "Don't fuss, Skeen. It's the nature of the beast.
He was born to make trouble, that one, but it doesn't mean anything."
Pegwai was intermittently visible among the gleaming shimmering
flight skins that shifted with every movement of Ykx and Min Ykx bodies,
catching the light and turning it to liquid ambers and bronzes. Mixed
among the True and Min Ykx were other figures, long and narrow, taller
than both sorts. Plains Min. Bipedal. The sharply defined eyes of avian
predators, melting gold irids hot and hungry. Long narrow hands, the
number of fingers varying from three to seven. In a curious asymmetry
none of these Min had the same number of fingers on their right and left
hands; four fingers and three, seven and five or any other of the possible
non-matching combinations. Their faces had a vague similarity to the Ykx
faces, the malleable Min flesh reacting to the presence of the Nemin on
their borders. Odd though, odd that they kept their original forms so
completely. Timka's folk, the Mountain Min, were mostly Pallah in their
primary forms and Min Skirrik, well, only the Skirrik could pick out Min
from True. These Plains Min were more intransigent in every way.
And having noted that, what did it say about the Islanders who were
fully Ykx down to the ornamentation they chose for their harnesses? Was
serving on the Sacred Island as much exile as honor? A weeding out of
weaker flesh?
The troublemaker doing most of the talking was a shining almost
ghostly figure, creamy white all over with no gradation in the color of his
fur like the other Min and True Ykx showed. The Ciece Kirkosh was as
vehement in his cold restrained way as Pegwai was, dividing his diatribe
between the Scholar and the Speaker for the Sydo Gather.
Skeen watched the exchange, fuming. "What's taking so long? I've paid
the gold, what more do they want?" She kicked a pebble against a boulder,
watched it go bounding off, glared at the dusty splotch on her boot, then
started jigging about in small tight circles, trying (but not too hard) to
work off her temper.
Lipitero yawned, settled herself on a flat boulder. "That spook thinks
we're his pets and he gets his fur ruffled when he sees outsiders coming
between him and us."
"Pets." Skeen mouthed the word like a worm dropped on her tongue.
"Oh, yes. They all do. When they get too pushy we have to slap them
down, and things get tense for a while until the Remmyo's cadre chat
them into forgetting their snit. Look. The Remmyo's interrupting Kirkosh.
Shouldn't be much longer now."
"So now we're back where we started, all that time and energy wasted."
"So it seems." She chuckled, her eyes narrowed to slits and gleaming
with a gentle mischief. 'You've never had to wait through this nonsense
before? Are folk on the other side so reasonable and calm about things?
Do you tell me you've never had to sit and sit and sit to wait for idiots to
talk themselves into doing something everyone including them knew they
were going to do?"
"Oh, endlessly. Endlessly, Petro. Still, there's always the hope that it
won't be necessary in some new place."
"Ever happened?"
"No." Skeen sighed. "But I keep looking; I'm as unreasonable as the
rest."
Lipitero laughed, then shook her head; she sat silent for several minutes
watching Skeen fidget about, working her body to bleed off the impatience
and irritation that might warp her judgment come a crisis. With
considerable relief, she interrupted a series of squat thrusts and pointed
along the shore. "You can relax, Skeen. Look there. The riverboat has
arrived; it's tying up at the dock end."
The long narrow ship rocked gently against the pilings. Black and sleek,
with stubby masts and waterjets flaring from its stern, its hybrid shape
was for Skeen a paradigm of the incongruities and anachronisms she
found here on Mistommerk. The crew moved about on deck, keeping their
backs to the land; some leaned on the railings watching the strangers with
a hostility they didn't bother concealing. Skeen remembered Britt's
comment about what the Plains Min would like to do to Timka; what she
saw in those mean faces told her how right he'd been.
The Aggitj, who usually took little notice of pointless prejudiced
hostility, were staying well away from the boat; they sat in a tight group
on a tussock of coarse grass, the Chalarosh boy pressed up close against
Hal's leg. He'd adopted Hal as a surrogate father after the young Aggitj
killed the Kalakal assassins responsible for the slaying of his mother and
father. Chulji squatted a short distance off, his tripartite eyes fixed on the
Min crew, his forelimbs moving restlessly, his mouthparts snapping
together with vigorous disapproval. He had budded into a happy family,
spent his childhood in a friendly and peaceful society, lapped in the
warmth of a general approval, a society filled with immutable hierarchies
that tucked every hatchling and every budling into a niche it would never
quite break out of no matter what it did or felt, but also a society that
accepted it without reservations, that cherished it and tolerated its
rebellions, its idiosyncrasies. On this long trip he'd grown accustomed to a
similar acceptance from outsiders and, more than that, to praise for his
talents. He was angry at these Min for rejecting him without cause and,
like them, made no attempt to hide what he was feeling. Some distance
farther along the shore Timka sat alone by the water, her knees drawn up,
her arms crossed over them, hands dangling; she stared out across the
lake, lost in what looked to be unhappy thoughts.
Skeen strolled away from Lipitero and walked to the end of the dock
where she stood inspecting the boat and ignoring the scowls from the
Crew. The craft looked swift and efficient, good on the river but probably a
heller to run out on open water. Djabo bless, since Chulji had mastered his
waterform, none of them suffered from seasickness; even the short
distance across the lake to the mouth of the river was likely to be tricky on
the stomach. Built like a spearhead with a knife for a keel, not meant for
bulky cargo, that craft. Slaves, fah! Skeen stared into hot gold eyes with a
hostility of her own and a comforting sense of superiority; she might be a
Rooner raping the ancient histories of assorted worlds, but she drew the
line at dealing in flesh. Nostrils flaring, she turned her back on them and
walked away.
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, LETS 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 CLEBRATING
THESE EPIC JOURNEYS PUTS IN
ANY OF THAT- TOO
DISILLUSIONING AND WORSE, TOO
BORING. SO LETS 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
摘要：

ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofMollyKate's/Cinnamon'sstylesheet.WELLHEREWEAREAGAIN;YOU'VEHADYOURSELFANICEBREAK,TIMENOWTOGETBACKTOOURQUEST.SKEENANDCOMPANYHAVEDONESOMEREORGANIZINGANDSHEHASFACEDTHEFACTTHATTHERETURNTOTHESTRANGER'SGATEISGOINGTOBEASLONGANDDANGEROUSAND...

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