The night was warm and pleasant, the garden between the bathhouse and the Inn was full of drifting perfume and small paper lanterns dangling on long strings; they swayed in the soft airs and made shadows dance everywhere. On the far side of the vinetrellice that protected the privacy of bathers moving to and from the Inn she could hear unobtrusive cittern music and voices from the late diners eating out under the sky, enjoying the pleasant weather and the fine food Kheren Zanc’s cook was famous for. She thought of going round and ordering a meal (more to enjoy the ambiance than because she was hungry) but did nothing about the thought, too tired to dredge up the energy needed to change direction. She drifted into the Inn, climbed two flights of stairs and tapped at the door to her room.
Not a sound. She waited. Nothing happened. She tried the latch, made a soft annoyed sound when the door opened.
The children were both in bed, sunk in their peculiar lethargy. As Brann stepped inside, one pale head lifted, dropped again. She relaxed. Trust Jaril to leave a fraction of himself alert so he wouldn’t have to crawl out of bed and let her in. She stopped by the bed and ruffled his hair, but he didn’t react, having sunk completely into stupor; she smiled. looked about for the key. It was on the bed table, gleaming darkly in the light coming through the unshuttered window. She locked the door, stripped and crawled into bed. A yawn, a wriggle, and she plunged fathoms deep in sleep.
A noise outside woke her from a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep. She pulled a quilt off the bed, wrapped it around her and got to the window in time to see a dark head and shoulders thrust out from the top of the wall, close enough she could almost touch them. Beyond the wall she heard shouts and dogs baying. Without stopping to think, she leaned out, caught the fugitive’s at-tendon with a sharp hiss.
The head jerked up.
“In here,” she whispered. She saw him hesitate, but he had little choice. The hounds were breathing down his neck. She moved away from the window, jumped back another step as he came plunging through and whipped onto his feet, knife in hand, eyes glittering through the slits in his knitted mask. “Don’t be silly,”
she said, no longer whispering. “Close the shutters or get away from the window and let me do it.”
He sidled along the wall, keeping as far from her as he could. After a quick glance out the window, she eased the shutters to, careful to make as little noise as she could, pulled the bar over and tucked it gently into its hooks. That done, she set her back against the shutters and stood watching him.
He was over by the door; he tried the latch. “The key.”
She hitched up the quilt which was trying to untuck itself and slide off her. “On the table.” A nod toward the bed. “Go if you want. You could probably break loose. Or you can stay here until the chase passes on. Your choice.”
“Why?” A thread of sound, angry and dangerous.
“Why not. Say I don’t like seeing things hunted.”
He lowered the knife, leaned against the door and thought about it, a small wiry figure, with black trousers and black sweater, black gloves, black busks on his feet and a knitted hood that covered his whole head except for the eyeslits. The dim light coming through diamond holes in the shutters touched his eyes as he moved away from the door, pale eyes, blue or hazel, unusual in Jade Halimm; he stared at her several seconds, glanced at the sleeping children. “Who are you?”
“Did I ask you that?’
“They aren’t breathing.” He waved the knife at the children.
“Nor did I make comments about your person.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then he dragged off the mask and stood grinning at her. “Drinker of Souls,” he said, satisfaction and certainty in his voice. “You knew my grandfather.” He was a handsome youth, sixteen seventeen twenty at most, straight thick hair, heavy brows, flattish nose and a wide thinlipped mouth that could move from a grin to a grimace at the flash of a thought. Mixed blood. Hina stature, Hina nose and tilted almond Hina eyes (though they should have been dark brown to be truly Hina), the dark blond hair that appeared sometimes when Hina mixed with Croaldhese, his mouth and chin were certainly Croaldhese. He had the accent of a born Halimmer, that quick slide of sound impossible to acquire unless you lisped your first words in Jalimmik.
He slipped the knife up his sleeve and went to sit on the bed. “My mother’s father was called Aituatea. You might remember him.” He waited a moment giving her a chance to comment; when she said nothing, he went on. “You’re a family legend. You and them.” A wave of his hand at the two blond heads.
“Hmm. This seems to be the month of old acquaintances.”
“What?”
“Wouldn’t mean anything to you. Yaril, Jaril, wake up.” The covers stirred, two sleepy children sat up blinking. “Forget it, kids, the lad knows all about you. ‘ She turned back to the young thief. “How serious were they, those folk chasing you?”
He scratched at his jaw. “I’m still here, not running for the nearest hole. Those Dreeps know all the holes I do, and they’ll be going down them hunting blood. Not just them.” He thought a moment, apparently decided there was no point being coy about his target. “High-merchant Jizo Gozit, it was his House I got into, he’s a vindictive man and he’s got more pull than a giant squid; by now the king’s Noses are in the hunt.”
“I see. They’ll be searching this place before long. We could shove you under the bed or hide you in it… no, I’ve got a better idea… maybe… you think they know it’s you they’re hunting?”
“Doubt it. I usually keep well away from that quarter. The hounds have my scent, though; if the Dreeps bring their dogs…”
‘Jun, let him take your place. Mastiff, I think, hmm? Any dogs stick their noses in the door, you take their minds off our friend here.”
Jaril patted a yawn, slid out of the bed, a slim naked youth. For a moment he stood looking at the thief out of bright crystal eyes, then he was a mastiff standing high as the boy’s waist, muscle rippling on muscle, droopy mouth stretched into a grin that exposed an intimidating set of teeth. He went trotting around the room, came back to the rug at the foot of the bed, scratched at it until he was satisfied, turned around once and settled onto it, head down, ready to sleep until he was needed.
“Get into the bed beside Yaril,” Brann said. “You’ll be Jaril. Kheren will tell them I came in with two children, a boy and a girl, you’re older and taller and not so fair, but that shouldn’t matter.”
The mastiff lifted his head, whined softly.
“Move it, friend.” Brann whipped the quilt off, swept it over the bed and dived under the covers beside him. She felt his tension as he lay sandwiched between her and Yaril. “Relax,” she muttered.
A long sigh, a wriggle that edged him away from her, then his breathing went slow and steady, craftily counterfeiting slumber. A handsome youth, but he didn’t arouse anything in her except impatience. Getting old, she thought, Slya Bless, a few hours ago I was hot to trot, as the saying goes, contemplating the seduction of some sea captain. She sighed. What do I do if the same nothing appears when I find someone more to my taste, ayy yaaah, dead from the neck down? May it never happen. I was something like half dead up there. Mmh. Would have been all dead, if the children had been an hour or so later. She scowled at the unseen ceiling. Didn’t even try to fight… The memory made her sick. Didn’t even try to get the knife out, heal the wound. They surprised me, but that’s no excuse. Hadn’t thought about it before but that must have been what I was doing the past fifty years, getting ready to die and when it happened… Shuh! I can’t die. Not with the kids depending on me. I’ve got to do something about that. I don’t know what. After this is over and there’s time… maybe if I went back to Tincreal and roused Slya…