A Bait of Dreams (20 page)

Smiling with pleasure, the woman tucked the handkerchief into her cloak pocket and settled beside Gleia on the well coping. “Why did you let the boy off?”

She was a tall woman with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, a wide mobile mouth that flashed easily from smiles to frowns. Her skin was a silky red-brown that looked poreless and fitted smoothly over elegant bones. Her hair was a disciplined foam of tiny curls only slightly darker than her skin. Underneath the cloak she wore wide amber silk strips arranged to flow around long slim legs. “My name's Deel. I dance at the Horn of Sandar in the Strangers' Quarter. You're new in Istir, aren't you. Why did you let the boy go?”

“I grew up in the streets myself.” Gleia touched the scars on her cheek and met amber eyes bright with interest and understanding. “Not here. You're right about my being new.” She flipped a hand at Shounach. “I came with the Juggler; we've only been here a few days.” Reaching out, she touched Deel's hand. “My name's Gleia.”

“I've been watching him the past few days. He's damn good, your Juggler.” They sat in friendly silence as Shounach began putting away his paraphernalia.

A litter carried by four brawny men eased into the square and moved through the scattering crowd toward the platform. The litter was gilded and profusely carved, its occupant hidden behind pale-blue curtains.

Gleia frowned. “Who's that?”

“Trouble.” Deel wrinkled her nose. “Toreykyn, the Lossal's daughter; that's the Lossal's sigil stitched on those curtains.” She looked up, pointed. “Yeah, has to be her in there. Lossal's iron birds are keeping watch on her.”

Two glittering metal bird-shapes were circling over the square. Gleia squinted up at them, trying to see them more clearly. “Iron birds?”

“Lossal's spies.” Deel's mouth twisted, turned down at the corners. She tapped her polished nails lightly on her silk-covered thighs. “You've lost your man for a few days. Until she gets tired of him.”

Gleia hid a smile as she watched the litter stop in front of Shounach.
The Fox's luck has turned,
she thought, remembering his frustration as he paced the room, cursing the insularity of the. Families that shut the Lossal away from him. Now he would be riding in with the Lossal's daughter. She looked down. Her hands were closed into fists, fingernails cutting into her palm. After forcing her hands open, she glanced at Deel, and said with outward calm, “We do what we have to. No point in staying here any longer. Going back to the Quarter? Come and have a glass of wine with me.”

Shounach snapped the lid off the solvent and poured some on a rag. Kneeling beside his bag, he wiped the paint from his face, then began on his hands. His eyes moved restlessly over the scattering crowd; he was impatient with this waiting time, wanted to get on with his search for the source of the Ranga Eyes. He saw Gleia talking to a strange woman, felt a touch of irritation that she'd hadn't bothered to watch his performance. He scrubbed at his hands, annoyed at the way the white paint clung around his fingernails, jabbed the rag at the stubborn paint in the creases. At the same time he fought against the rising waves of rancor that threatened to explode into shapeless, unreasonable anger spilling over anyone or anything around him.
It never ends,
he thought. He looked down at his hands, flexed the fingers, then put the solvent and the rag back in the bag.

He saw the litter approaching and remained on his knees waiting to see where it was going, holding his face calm as excitement rose within him when he recognized the Lossal's arms on the curtains.

The litter stopped in front of him; a slim, bangle-laden arm came through the curtains. With a flourish of clanks and tinkles, a delicate hand weighed down with many rings pulled the curtain back, retreated. Inside, the woman smiled up at him; she was stretched out, leaning on one elbow, pale-blue cushions piled around her; the hand that had drawn the curtain back now played with long strands of red-gold hair flowing over large firm breasts which thrust against the silver-shot white avrishum of her long, loose dress.

Red hair. Red-headed women. He shivered, then smiled to cover a surge of rage mixed with contempt.
In my mother's honor,
he thought, then bowed his head and waited for her to speak.

The big brown eyes focused on him began to blink nervously, the hand caressing the hair stiffened.
Stupid cow,
he thought. The soft smiling mouth drew into a pout. “Juggler!” Her voice was sharp, petulant. He got the feeling she'd expected more response from him than a polite bow.
Lossal,
he told himself.
A way in. Don't be more of a fool than you can help.
He widened his smile and let his eyes travel slowly over her, lingering on the slim curves barely concealed by the clinging material.

“Juggler.” She was smiling again, her voice caressing. “The Lothal wanth you to perform.” Her long lashes fell, then lifted, as she lisped the words, the command in them smothered in sugar. “I am motht interethted in your performanth, Juggler,” she murmured. Her plump little hand closed tightly around cloth and hair. “Come with me now, Juggler. To my father.” She stretched out her hand, more as a token of intent than as an offer of touching.

Shounach jumped easily down from the platform, the jacket swinging open to show the flat, hard muscles of his chest. He slipped the strap of the bag over his shoulder, slapped it into place against his side, then walked the two steps to the woman's side. “My pleasure, lady.” He reached out and almost touched her, letting His hand hover over hers for a moment as he smiled into the dark brown eyes. Her red hair fluttered gently as the litter moved toward the gate to the market. She lisped banal and impertinent questions, her eyes moving over him with the possessiveness of a herdsman assessing a prize bull. At the gate he looked around and saw Gleia watching him, an odd expression on her face, a gentle, vulnerable look as fleeting as a moment's thought. She turned and moved away with the tall, dark woman beside her. He glanced back again a moment later, saw the cluster of soft brown curls held high, saw a brief arc of cheek as Gleia turned to talk to the strange woman. A sharp note in the voice of the Lossal's daughter brought his attention back to her. He listened, then answered her as they walked along the broad avenue leading to the Families' quarter, walled in, apart from the rest of the city.

Gleia picked up the pouch, poured the coins into her hand, frowned as she counted the diminishing supply. With a sigh she dumped them back in the pouch, jerked the drawstring tight, slipped the loop over her head, dropping the pouch inside her cafta to dangle between her breasts. She brushed off the bottoms of her feet, slid them into sandals, ran a comb through her tangled hair, tossed the comb on the bed and went out. She grimaced with disgust as she locked the door and slipped the key into her pocket; given a bit of bent wire she'd be inside with no trouble at all.
Good thing there isn't much to steal.

Outside, she looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. The sky was clear, blue Hesh edging past fuzzy red Horli. She pulled the hood of her cafta up over her head. The respite was over. With Hesh emerging from behind Horli she'd have to watch her exposure; ah, well, she was used to that. She stepped back and stood waiting as clusters of men moved past her, some strolling, others walking briskly.

Deel came rushing up, her cloak fluttering about her long legs. “Thanks,” she gasped out. “For waiting. Merd had some time off this morning and I couldn't get away earlier.”

Gleia turned, began walking along beside the dancer, threading through the thickening crowd as late sleepers joined those already moving, blending into the same mix as before, even to the compact group of veiled women. Gleia nodded at them. “You know who or what they are?”

Deel followed the nod and saw the women. “Never mind them,” she said hastily. She sounded uncomfortable.

“Why?” Gleia caught hold of Deel's arm. “Who are them?”

“They call themselves Sayoneh,” Deel said reluctantly. “Some folk call them trail women, some witches, unnatural creatures. They live together, won't let men in their compounds; lot of funny stories about them and I don't mean ha-ha. Come from somewhere upriver like the boatmen, no one knows really where they live, they just show up. Some say they steal women and babies, girl babies to raise, boy babies to sacrifice or eat, Madar knows what.” Deel looked after them and shivered. “Best to keep far away from them.”

With Gleia silent, thinking over what she'd just heard, and Deel too disturbed to talk, the two women wound through the streets toward the row of cook shops in the shadow of the outside wall.

After buying meat pies and mugs of cha, Gleia and Deel moved outside and sat down on a shadowed bench in a quiet corner where the massive outer wall turned to follow the line of the River. Deel finished the meat pie quickly, lifted the cheap clay cup to her lips, her amber eyes sweeping over Gleia. “Still no sign?”

“No.” Gleia sipped at her cha, then settled back, pushing the hood off her head with a sigh of pleasure.

Deel chuckled, unfastened the clip holding her cloak around her shoulders and let it fall away. She shook the springy foaming curls haloing her head, pushed straying tendrils off her face. “He must be something special, your man.” She raised an eyebrow. “Most of Toreykyn's fancies don't last this long.” Her mouth turned down again. “If she gets too taken with him, the Lossal will open the eyes he keeps shut. Then, well, good-bye Juggler.”

Gleia folded both hands about the coarse clay of her cup, sipped at the cooling cha. The clay clicked dully against her teeth. Her hands were shaking. After a moment she rested the cup on her thigh, feeling the spot of warmth through the material of her cafta. “What choice do people like us have? We do what we must to stay alive.”

Deel leaned back, her eyes narrowed, her long legs like polished wood coming through the slits of her costume. “Istir's no place for a woman on her own. You should look around, find yourself a protector.” She grinned at Gleia's grimace. “No need to make faces, girl; it's the truth and you know it.”

Gleia's mouth twitched. She rubbed her thumb under her lower lip, then stroked the scars on her cheek. “No,” she said quietly. “Deel, I've been on my own since I was born, almost. I wouldn't know how to act with a protector.” She took a long swallow of cha, lowered the mug back to her thigh. “And I don't want to learn.”

“What about the Juggler?”

“That's different.”

Deel snorted. “It always is.”

Gleia scowled stubbornly. “You don't know.” She examined Deel's face over the edge of the cup as she lifted it for another sip. “What happened to your eye?”

Deel grimaced. “Merd. His captain's been riding him hard the past few days so he takes it out on me.”

“And you want
me
to find a protector. No thanks, friend.”

Deel spread out long slender arms, her narrow elegant hands turning in quick flashing gestures. “Lot worse about than Merd. Me being a dancer, I keep running up against creeps who think dancer's another name for whore. Some of the bosses're worse than the drunks hanging round the bar when I dance. Since I've been with Merd, both types leave me alone. He got physical with some hecklers and clods hard-timing me a while back.” She chuckled. “He's half as big as a house and a Harrier besides. No one wants to get the Families stirred up. It's worth a few lumps. Anyway, he's not so bad.” She shrugged, stroked her finger along the clean-cut curve of her upper lip. “You wouldn't be bad looking if you covered up those scars. Why don't you let me give you some stuff I have? I'll show you how to fix yourself up.”

Gleia shook her head, then grinned at Deel. “I don't give a damn about trying to change myself, my friend. I know how I look. I like how I look.”

“Dumb.” Deel leaned forward, spread her hands out in front of Gleia. They were meticulously manicured, the nails polished a dark plum that matched the gloss she wore on her lips. “Put your hands by mine.”

Gleia spread her smaller hands beside the dancer's. Short fingers, short nails, the tip of her middle finger and the side of one thumb rough as sandstone from repeated needle pricks.

Deel clucked with distress. “Didn't anyone ever show you how to take care of yourself?” She lifted one of Gleia's hands and turned it over, scowling at the dry skin of the palm. “You got any money left?”

“A little.” Gleia gently freed her hand. “I've almost finished embroidering a shawl. A couple hours' work left on it. I could use some help finding a reasonably honest merchant to buy it.”

“Got it, hon.” Deel frowned, tapping the tips of her nails lightly on the amber silk covering her thighs. “I'll see if I can talk Merd into coming. With him along, no merchant's going to cheat you more than reasonable. If the Juggler's not back by tomorrow morning we can grab a bite to eat and hunt out a couple of men I know of. What're you going to do once you've got the money?”

Gleia was silent a long moment. Finally, she smoothed her hand across her eyes. “I don't know,” she said slowly. “Last night I thought I'd leave. Now … I don't know. I.…” She stopped talking, shook her head, sat frowning at the dregs of cha in the cup. “Deel, what's happening here in Istir? What's got people so stirred up?”

The amber eyes studied her, then the dancer nodded. “Right. You and your Juggler picked a bad time to come here.” Deel crossed her arms over her breasts and leaned forward until her head was close to Gleia's. “The Stareyn's getting feeble, so I hear. They don't let it out, the Families, I mean, but a lot of people work in the Kiralydom and go home to their families when their hours are done. So people know more than the Families think. And Merd had duty in the Kiralydom twice a week. He tells me the Stareyn drools and goes to sleep in the middle of what he's saying. He's a Sokklaun, the Stareyn, I mean. The Sokkla have held the Stareynate for the past three Stareyns which means they've ruled Istir and the Istraven for years and years. But the Lossalni are prowling around ready to take it from them soon's they figure out how.” She looked cautiously around, then leaned closer and whispered, “Rumor is they have. The Stareyn's Lot is supposed to be tamperproof, pure chance, but men keep saying the Lossal's found a way to change the odds. Me.…” She glanced about again, but none of the men moving past seemed interested in them. “Me, I'm thinking hard of getting out of here, maybe going south to Zindaira. Summer's almost over, got to find a place to winter somehow. I've got friends there. And I'm a damn good dancer. I won't starve. Why don't you come with me? You said you were thinking of leaving. Two women would be safer than one.”