Maeve (18 page)

She stepped over the outflung hand of a drunk snoring on the sidewalk. Further down the street a man came from a building, yawned, rubbed his stomach, then ambled across the street, disappearing down one of the alleys. She felt a faint relief and the eeriness of the empty morning clicked suddenly into solid mundanity.

Garish flashing signs were cold gray on buildings that had managed to accumulate a thick patina of grime, especially at the shoulder level where thousands of groping hands had pawed in search of a precarious equilibrium before tacking off down street to one of the dingy hostels.

She shivered, depressed by the tawdry, dingy street too visibly revealed by the clear morning light. She walked on, sand grains from the road outside still clinging to her soles, crunching loudly against the roughened surface of the plasticrete sidewalk.

A man slammed folding bars aside and came yawning into the street, pulling a hose behind him. Still yawning, he thumbed the catch on the nozzle and sprayed a stream of water on the sidewalk in front of his shop, hosing the gutter there clear of its accumulated filth. Aleytys grimaced and stepped back as drops of turgid water splashed on her boots. They were dusty and caked with mud but that was clean dirt. She shuddered to think that liquids and muck mingled in the gutter puddles.

“Watch where you're pointing that thing.” She glared at the pudgy man.

He turned to stare at her. He had furry, gray eyebrows and a bald head. The brows wiggled up, pushing the smooth freckled skin on his head into corrugated wrinkles. Aleytys realized, abruptly, that she'd forgotten to switch languages and had been talking in cathl maes.

She shrugged. “Forget it,” she said in interlingue.

He shut off the flow of water until she was past him, then went back to spraying the front of his shop.

Along this stretch of Star Street, shopkeepers were coming out one by one to look up and down the street and yell insults to each other. Though the bars remained tightly shuttered and dark, the other shopkeepers were slowly getting their places ready for business, though obviously in no hurry about it. The silence of the street began filling up with voices. Small groups accumulating and breaking up, some sleepy grousing, and a few appreciative noises as Aleytys moved past them.

She glanced casually in windows as she went by. Junk of all kinds, bright and cheap to catch the transient visitor's eyes. Carved wood and embroidery from the villages in the plains. Bits of lace. Bright ribbons. Drugs. Depilatories. Packaged food. Thread and needles. Repair kits. Knives. Tools. Guns. Pornography. Books. Jewelry. A herbalist's shop, its sign, a case of acupuncture needles in self-glo plastic hanging above the dusty door, with ginseng roots preserved in an anonymous amber fluid sitting on shelves in the window along with snakeskins and other less identifiable leaves and powders. She hovered in front of the barred window, peering into the dim, dusty interior, fascinated by the strange images on fly-specked charts.

Then the breeze brought the smell of cooking food. She was suddenly ravenous. Following the drifting scent, feet moving faster and faster, she hurried along the street, passing other shops, other beings—human and otherwise—ignoring both in the growing urgency of her hunger.

A sign glowed feebly, its bright colors turned sickly in competition with sunlight. Bran's. A name? The steel shutter was rolled into a compact rod above an entranceway masked with dripping lines of polished seeds. The bead curtain clattered loudly as she pushed the strings aside and stepped into the warm, odorous interior.

“A minute, dearie. Let old Bran get her pies sizzling.”

Aleytys moved to the wide counter and slid onto a high, backless stool. The counter was a solid piece of wood, a hand's breadth thick, with a hinged section to let Bran into the small, square room where several tables sat upon a new-waxed floor, their wooden tops shining with the same care and effort expended on the counter.

Bran was a massive female, big rather than fat, her skin stretched smoothly taut over the heavy muscle beneath. She stood with her back to the shop, dropping folds of pastry into bubbling hot oil, pies that looked small in her large, shapely hands. Her hair was silvery white, thick and straight, woven into two braids that were pinned into neat coils over each long-lobed ear. Long, elaborate earrings dangled beside her heavy neck, swaying with a delicacy that contrasted absurdly with the aura of formidable strength that clung to the old woman.

As the last pie dropped neatly into place, the water can on the stove began to whistle wetly. Bran snatched up a rag in one hand and a cha pot in the other. She tilted the boiling water over the crips curled leaves, adding the brisk astringent scent of brewing cha to the other tantalizing odors filling the shop.

For two weeks, Aleytys had swallowed journey bread that had grown staler and staler. Had washed smoked meat down with stale, lukewarm water. She laughed. “If I don't eat soon, despina, I'll be jumping you.”

The old woman chuckled. “I'm too tough for tender teeth like yours, dearie. What will you be having?”

Aleytys pulled a handful of coins from her tunic pocket. “Depends on your prices,” she murmured, poking at her meager supply of money with a forefinger. “A cup of cha to start.”

Bran fished a mug from under the counter and filled it with the steaming amber-brown fluid. “Half drach.”

“Ah, and those rolls?” She pointed to a pyramid of nut rolls heaped high on a platter that stood on a shelf beside the stove. Rolls glistening with brown-gold glaze, crusted with nuts, exuding the tantalizing yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread.

“Half drach the three.”

“I'll have three.” She sniffed appreciatively at the meat pies crisping in the oil. “And those?”

“A drach apiece.”

“I'll have two of those when they're done.” She counted out the coins and put the remainder back in her pocket.

Bran set the rolls in front of her and turned back to her bumping pies, flipping them over deftly with a quick flip of her spatula. Then she poured a mug of cha for herself and leaned against the counter, sipping at it and watching complacently as Aleytys tore into the hot, light bread. “Good?”

Aleytys swallowed and cleared her mouth with a gulp of cha. “Very. You made them?”

“Always had a good hand with pastry and bread,” she sniffed. “Pies ready in a minute.” Leaving her mug on the counter, she took up a woven wire scoop and skimmed the pies from the oil, sliding them neatly onto a draining rack. “You're new here. Crewin' a ship or workin' the street?”

“Neither at the moment.”

Bran left the pies to drain and picked up her mug. With the sharper demands of her hunger appeased, Aleytys took time to examine her hostess. The huge old woman's eyes slanted obliquely, almond-shaped, black as coal, and brilliant with the lively spirit encased in her flesh. Her face was broad, the features large but still attractive. The only real sign of her age were the tiny wrinkles, less than a millimeter deep, tracking across her dark ocher skin into olive shadows at temples and jaw, sinking slightly deeper at the corner of her eyes and around her smile.

The black eyes measured Aleytys. “You'll never make a street girl, hon. Not flashy enough and too intelligent looking. Though you'd polish well, make a helluva asset to a high-class house. Not that you'd find one of those on Star Street. Going uphill?” She jerked her head backwards toward the cliff looming over her shop.

“No!”

“All right, glad to hear it. Ain't many starships come here with women crew.”

Aleytys shrugged.

“Jumped ship, huh? Well, you picked a bad world for that, hon. The Company don't hire women except as laybacks. I suppose you did what you had to, though.” She sighed. “Let me give you a bit of advice, dearie. You stay on Star Street. I don't care what any of those bastards on the hill promise you, don't believe 'em. I know. Here, you might be poor, but you're free. Livin' inside these walls might look like we was in prison—well, these walls don't shut free air out, they shut it in. Go up hill 'f you don't believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you, despina.”

“Bran, hon. Too old for that fancy stuff.” Her eyes went dreamy. “Was a time I had men bidding for me. Huh!” She glowered at the cha. “I had to go and listen to a smooth-talking snake. You watch out for them snakes when they come crawling down from their fancy houses for a bit of unregulated fun, you hear me, girl?”

Aleytys chuckled. “Thanks.” She hesitated. The old woman radiated a curiously intense good will for her and she decided to trust it. “It's not a thing I want broadcasted, but if you hear of a way offworld …”

Bran sipped at the cha, then grinned at her. “Any place special?”

“In toward center. That's all.”

“I'll keep an ear open. How many pies you said?”

“Two.”

The pies went quickly. Feeling replete and deeply contented, Aleytys let Bran refill the mug and sat leaning on the counter, sipping at the strong, revivifying liquid.

“I need a place to stay while I'm here.” She sighed and set down the mug. “Someplace reasonably clean and not too expensive.”

“And a good lock on the door.” Bran sniffed at the startled look on Aleytys' face. “You should know that. Some of those crumbs over there'd sell you for the chance to lick a Company man's arse.”

Aleytys chuckled. “I can protect myself, though I'd rather not have to.”

“A little thing like you?” Bran snorted, measuring Aleytys' wrist between thumb and forefinger. “I could break you in two without half tryin'.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Mmph. A room. Let me see. Blue's full up just now and she don't like women much anyway. Daywel? Laziest bastard I ever saw. Take you a year to shovel the filth out of his place. Kathet? He's got rooms and they're cheap. Except he got a lot of drunks and scrot smokers. They go funny, sometimes. Me, I wouldn't go in his place after dark if you paid me. Now Firetop runs a tight house. He'd give you a room if I asked. Lose yourself in the crowd, keep the Company spies from wonderin' about you.” She pursed her lips and opened her hands, scanning the palms. “And there's Tintin.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“Nothing much. Prices are a sin and a shame, but he don't hold with folks messin' around in his place. Mostly he gets the top techs on the starships. Lot of Captains stay there when they're not on their ships or up the hill. Some travelers, too. Trouble is, Company spies check it out all the time. You don't want them nosin' at you.”

“That's twice you've said something about Company spies.”

“Yeah, and twice too much. They sneak around listenin' to folks talk and keepin' an eye on money goin' in and out. We pay taxes for the privilege of squattin' here and those bastards are lookin' to squeeze the last drach out of us.”

“How can you be sure I'm not one of them?”

Bran burst out laughing, holding her thick body and rocking back and forth on her heels. When she sputtered back to sobriety she said, “No females in that bunch. You think they'd trust a woman?”

“Their loss.” She tapped fingers on the countertop. “Tintin's place. The ship captains really go there?”

Bran nodded. “You be careful, hon. Pick the wrong one to talk to and you'll end uphill, after all.”

Aleytys nodded. She turned so she could look out the windows at the front of the shop. “I might need some kind of work if I have to stay a while.”

A man walked past the shop, stumbling, swaying, his face drawn into a mindless scowl. Bran slapped the counter open and strode across the room, indignation snapping through her forceful movements. She thrust the bead strings aside and looked down the street after the shambling man. Then she strode back muttering, wiggled through the counter, slammed the leaf shut, and leaned on the slab, red-faced with anger.

Aleytys rubbed her thumb beside her nose. “What's wrong with him?”

“Never seen a scrot smoker before? Huh! K'Ruffin should have his butt kicked letting Henner on the street in that condition. What you saw was a murder on its way to happenin'. Or a suicide, if Henner runs into someone tougher.” She slammed her fist down on the counter, making the wood boom with the force of the blow. “That's the third time he's slipped up.” More composedly, she explained. “He runs a smokeshop back by the wall. Supposed to lock the creeps in when they're on the stuff. Dammit, he must of got hooked on his own crud.” She sighed and calmed down. “If he did, he won't last long. Lovax has been itchin' for a spot. Too bad. That young fruff's a slimy slug, the kind makes you want to pop it with your foot and then sorry you had to touch the thing. Reminds me. Keep away from him; he likes to play with knives.”

Aleytys shuddered and turned so she was sitting with her side to the counter. There was a little lukewarm cha left in the mug. She sipped at it, then set the mug down, retreating into a calm contentment, absurd in the situation, but warm and comfortable. The hard, driving rush was over. She had plenty of time, the whole day ahead of her and a space of time after that for resting while she schemed her way offworld. She dropped a half drach on the counter and accepted another cup of cha. “What's your fruff look like?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes. Tall. Thin. Makes a good first impression. For about five minutes, maybe.”

Aleytys chuckled, sniffed at the cha and swallowed a mouthful. “Happens. I met a woman once. Small, pretty, a porcelain doll. She had the personality of a pit viper. How do I find Tintin's place?”

Bran tapped the counter with her long, beautiful fingers. “Go that way,” she nodded her head to the right, “till you reach the center square where the road to the starport takes off. On the east side is Dryknolte's Tavern. Tintin's place sits on the other corner. Minik, the jeweler, is next to him. It's got a name, um … Starman's Rest … no one ever calls it that. Just Tintin's place.”