When the sun dropped low enough to sit on the wall and the children cleared away, heading for home and supper, Daniel Akamarino got to his feet, shook himself into an approximation of alertness and went strolling back to Kuronee’s Place. He spent the next half hour haggling over the ring and the medal, enjoying the process as much as the old woman did; by the time he concluded the deal he was grinning at her and had seduced the ghost of a twinkle from eyes like ancient fried eggs; he got from her the name of a tavern whose host had a reputation for knocking thieves in the head and not caring all that much if he knocked the brains right out. He rented a cubbyhole with a lock on it and a bed that had seen hard usage. Not all that clean, but better than he’d expected for the price. He ate a supper of fish stew and crusty bread, washed it down with thick dark homebrew, then went out to watch the night come over the water.
The evening was mild, the air lazy and filled with dark rich smells, one more day’s end in a mellow slightly overripe season. Mara’s Dowry his folk called this last spurt of warmth before winter. Season of golden melancholy. I wonder what they call it here and why. He sat on an oaken bitt watching the tide come in, his pleasant tristesse an elegant last course to the plain good meal warming his belly. A three-quarter moon rose, a large bite out of the upper right quadrant. The Wounded Moon, that’s what they called it. He watched it drift through horsetail clouds and wondered what its stories were. Who shot the moon and why? Who was so hungry he swallowed that huge bite?
Something glittered in the dark water out beyond the ships. Dolphins leaping? A school of flying fish? Not flying fish. No. He got slowly to his feet and stood staring. A woman swam out there. A woman thirty meters long with white glass fingers and a fish’s tail. Shimmering, translucent, eerily beautiful, throbbing with power.
“Sweet thing.” The voice was husky, caressing. Daniel Akamarino turned. A dumpy figure stood beside him, a wineskin tucked under one arm; at first, because of the bald head with a fringe of flyaway black hair and the ugly-puppy face, he thought it was a little fat man, then he saw the large but shapely breasts bursting from the worn black shirt, the mischievous grin, the sun colored eyes that danced with laughter. ‘Godalau,” the ambiguous person said, “bless her saucy tail.” Heesh poured a dollop of wine into the bay, handed the skin to Daniel who did the same. Laughter like falling water drifted back to them. With a flirt of her applauded tail, the Godalau submerged and was gone. When Daniel looked round again, the odd little creature had melted into the night like the Godalau had into the sea, the only evidence heesh had ever been there was the wineskin Dan still held.
He settled back on the bitt, squirted himself a mouthful of the tart white wine. Good wine, a little dryer than he usually liked, but liquid sunshine nonetheless. He drank some more. Gift of the gods. He chortled at the thought. Potent white wine. He drank again. Sorcerors as social engineers. Giant mermaids swimming in the surf. Hermaphroditic demigods popping from the dark. I’m drunk, he thought and drank again and grinned at a glitter out beyond the bay. And I’ll be drunker soon. Why not.
The Wounded Moon slid past zenith, a fog stirred over the waters and the breeze turned chill. Daniel Akamarino shivered, fumbled the stopper back in the nozzle and slung the skin over his shoulder. He stood a moment looking out over the water, gave a two fingered salute to whatever gods were hanging about, then started strolling for the tavern where his room was.
The fog thickened rapidly as he moved into the crooked lanes that ran uphill from the wharves. He fought to throw off the wine. Damn fool, you going to spend the night in a doorway if you don’t watch it. He leaned against a wall a minute, the stone was wet and slimy under his hand and heavy cold drops of condensed fog dropped from the eaves onto his head and shoulders. He did a little deep breathing, thumped his head, started on.
A few turns more, as he left the warehouses and reached the taverns clustered like seadrift about them, the lanes widened a little; the fog there separated into clumps and walking was easier. He turned a corner, stopped.
A girl was struggling with two men. They were laughing, drunkenly amorous. The taller had a hand twisted in her hair while he held one of her writhing arms, the other was pushing his short burly body against her, crushing her against the wall while he fumbled at her clothing. Daniel sucked at his teeth a moment, then ran silently forward. A swift hard slap to the head of the skinny man-he squeaked and folded down. A kick to the tail of the squat man-he wheeled and roared; bullet head lowered, he charged at Daniel. Daniel danced aside and with a quick hop slapped the flat of his foot against the man’s buttocks and shoved, driving him into a sprawl face down on the fog-damped paving stones.
The girl caught at Daniel Akamarino’s ann. “Come.”
He looked down, smiled. “Kori.” He let her pull him into a side lane, ran with her around half a dozen corners until they left the shouts and cursing far behind. He slowed to a walk, waited until she was walking beside him. “Blessed young idiot.” He scowled at her. “What do you think you’re doing down here this time of night?”
“I have to meet someone.” She tilted her head, gave him a quick smile. “Not you, Daniel. Someone else.”
“Mmf. Couldn’t you find a better time and place to meet your boyfriend, whatever?”
“Hah!” The sound dripped scorn. “No such thing. When the day comes, I’ll marry someone in Owlyn. This is something else. I don’t want to talk about it here.”
“Mysteries, eh?”
“Come with me. Trd says you’re mixed up in this some way, that you’re here because of it. You might as well know what’s happening and why.”
“Tell you this, Kori, you’re not going anywhere without me. I still think you should go back to your folks and wait till daylight to meet your friend.”
“I can’t.”
“Hmm. Let’s go then.”
The Blue Searnaid was near the end of the watersecLion, a rambling structure sitting like a loosely coiled worm atop a small hill. This late, it was mostly dark, though a torch smoldered in its cage over the taproom door, a spot of dim red in a patch of thicker fog. Daniel Akamarino dropped his hand on Kori’s shoulder. “Wait out here,” he whispered.
“No.” Her voice was soft but fierce. “It’s not safe.”
“You weren’t worried about that before. Look, I’m not going to take you in there.”
“It’s not drunks I’m worried about, it’s HIM.”
“Oh.” He thought about that a moment. “Political?”
“What?”
“Hmm.” He stepped away from her and scanned her. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
“I couldn’t come dressed in my Owlyn clothes.” Indignation roughened her voice. “I borrowed this off one of the maids in the hostel.” A quick grin. “She doesn’t know it.”
“Kuh,” disgust in his voice, “after that mauling you got, you look like you’re an underage whore. I’m not sure I like being a dirty old man with a taste for veal.” When she giggled, he tapped her nose with a forefinger. “Enough from you, snip. Tell me the rules around here. The tavernkeepers let men take streetgirls into their rooms?”
“How should I know that? I’ve seen men taking girls in there, what they did with them…” She shrugged.
In the fireplace at the far end of the long room fingerlength tongues of flame licked lazily at a few sticks of wood; three lamps hung along a ceiling beam, their wicks turned low. There were men at several of the scattered tables, talking in mutters; they looked up briefly and away again as Daniel led Kori through the murk to a table in the darkest corner. A slatternly girl not much older than Kori came across to them. Her face was made up garishly, but the cosmetics were cracking and smeared and under the paint she was sullen and weary. Daniel ordered two mugs of homebrew, dug out three of his hoard of coppers. The girl scooped them into a pocket of her stained apron and went off with a dragging step.