To mine in evenglow.
Love and women and things of the world. "A hatani has no kin," Duun said while his hands played on. "When you are hatani to the heart you will not have me."
The drum stopped. But there was no question. Thorn had betrayed himself and Duun had gone no further; Thorn kept his own counsel, grown wary in his years. And having done that much, Duun kept the melody going, gentle harmony. "When I lost the most of my hand, I thought I would never play. I recovered that. Other things I lost. You gain no virtue from loss you never know. There will never be love, Thorn. Never. Do you know that word? -Take up the beat."
Thorn picked it up, bowed his head till his eyes were hid.
"I tell you," Duun said in the low beat of the strings, the counterpoint of the drum. "There's always something left to lose. When you think there's nothing more you're a fool, Thorn; there's something till you're dead. And after that-gods know. Do you know how old you are?"
Thorn looked up. The beat skewed, recovered itself.
"They know in the city. I know. The meds don't come. Half a year and they don't come. You know why, Thorn?"
A move of the head. No. There was dread in Thorn's eyes.
"Well," Duun said, "they don't. Maybe they know what you are."
The beat kept up, regular as heartbeat and as painful. "What am I?"
Duun looked at him sidelong. "Hatani. Like me. Self-sufficient."
Thorn only stared at him, knowing his tricks. (Foul, Duun-hatani. Wicked and foul.)
"You have a wound, little fish. You bleed into the water. Don't you know this?"
Thorn's jaw set. His eyes were alive with thoughts. "I didn't feel the wind, Duun-hatani. You caught me." "-again." "Meds."
Duun looked up.
"You talked about meds, Duun, and cities. What about them?"
"Oho. The minnow takes to deeper water." "You mean to say something, Duun-hatani. You never say anything you don't want to say." "Deeper still."
"You called them. Did you?" "No." The music grew under Duun's fingers, shifted and changed. "They called you." "Ellud called." "Why?"
"To ask how you are. I told them. Improving, I said. Growing. They were satisfied." "What's Ellud? Why does he want to know?
Why do the meds care? Why do they look at me and never at you?"
"Ssss. There's time. There's a little time, isn't there?"
"Time for what?"
"Tksss. Fool. Walk and breathe at once, can you?"
The beat picked up again, changed, became another thing, strong and temperful.
"Defy me, do you?" Duun launched into a thing more complex.
The beat followed. "Time for what?" Thorn asked. Duun shrugged.
"For Sheon."
"The city? The meds?" Thorn's eyes grew wild, dilate. "Gods-go there?"
"Did I teach you profanity? No. I taught you respect. You're still a child. What a leap of reason. Did I say go to the city?"
"What do you mean-time?"
"That." And Duun launched out on another tune. "Time was, I thought you might beat me, little fish. I thought you might come at me in my sleep. Fair or foul, I said. You ever think of that?"
"I thought of it."
"Why didn't you?"
A long hesitation. "I like my own sleep, Duun-hatani."
"Ah."
Thorn gave him a wary look. Duun grinned at him in no merry way. So Thorn got the joke as well. Jaw set. Eyes flickered in alarm.
(Guard your sleep, little fish. The rules just changed.)
Thorn smiled suddenly, darkly, without humor, and complicated the drum-pulse, making irreverent changes in hatani songs.
(What is a hatani? Duun. Duun is Duun. Like the sun. You become Duun, little fish, and never ask what Duun might be. Duun is the trees and the mountain, environment. Duun is faith kept. You sing the song. Hear the words, Thorn, wei-na-mei, minnow in my brook.)
Thorn poured the tea, sitting cross-legged on the riser in the room before the fire. His hand trembled and there was a shadow about his eyes, a bruising where no one had struck. "Eat," Duun said, on its other side. "You'll climb the mountain today."
Shadowed eyes lifted to him. Shoulders were already slumped. Perhaps Thorn thought of protest. If so he gave it up. Thorn knew the game.
"The black thread," Duun said, sipping at the tea. "Across the door last night. It's a very old trick. Did you know that?"
"No."
Duun grinned and swallowed down a mouthful. "Eat. Eat. You'll break your neck on the rocks."
Thorn filled his mouth and choked it down. He had shaved. He had washed himself. He had waked last night with a knife being laid at his pillow. "You're dead," Duun had whispered, ever so softly, the fifth night, the fifth night of Thorn's sleeplessness.
Thorn had started up, grasped Duun's wrist and lost that battle too, in the pitch black, in the haze of sleep caught for night upon night in fitful snatches.
"You'll try to sleep today," Duun said quietly, over tea. "It might be wise."
Thorn looked at him in bleak dismay.
Duun grinned. "On the other hand, it might not be. Want to sleep, minnow? You might take me now, face to face."
"No. There's a pebble in the pot, Duun-hatani."
Duun stopped in mid-sip. Looked at the haggard face.
"I've drunk no tea," Thorn said.
Duun set the cup down on the riser, in front of his crossed ankles.
"I won't ask my question," Thorn said hoarsely. "That was foul. I'll take you fair. With warning."
Duun drew in a long breath. Thorn had braced himself. Centered himself against the chance of a blow. And Thorn trembled.
For a long moment Duun did not move. Then he held up his left hand in a slight gesture that meant no attack forthcoming, and reached to his belt with the two fingers of this right. He laid the pebble on the smooth surface. Thorn glanced at it. There was only that. His eyes lifted, strangely clear.
"I would have given it to you before you left," Duun said. "I would have given it to you when you told me. But, minnow, you offered me quarter. To offer that to me-" "I'm sorry, Duun."
"The thread was clever. To change the rules was cleverer. Then pride blinded you. Minnow, you've changed the rules. Do you understand?" A hoarse whisper. "Yes, Duun-hatani." "Be wary of everything, minnow. And never grant quarter to a hatani. Fair is a teaching-game. Fair is a box I drew. Should I have used all I had and discouraged you? Now the walls are down, minnow. What will you do?" "I'd be a fool to tell you, Duun-hatani." Duun nodded slowly. Thorn picked up his bowl to eat. Set it back then, with a soft click of the spoon against the bowl and looked up at him.
"Yes," Duun said. "It would be good to wonder what's in the food. Wouldn't it? Eat, minnow. I give you that grace. It's quite safe."
Thorn edged back on the riser, set his leg over the edge. "You said no quarter. I believe you."
"And not my telling you it's safe?"
"No." Thorn got to his feet and walked across the sand, gathered up his weapons from the shelf, his cloak from beside the door. He stopped there and looked back.
Turned and left then. Running, feet thumping down porch steps.
Duun sipped at his tea and set it down at his knee. Thorn expected a little start. Such things he took for granted.
Duun got up, gathered up his own weapons, and his cloak.
No quarter then.
Thorn ran, ran, knowing that there was no time. There was no time to rue the attack, no time for any regret, only the running and the land-
("Wind and land, wei-na-ya: wind and land.")
("Scent-blind: but my knee aches when it rains-")
Turn and turn and turn: a fool's need rules his wit; a wise man's wit governs need.
("A hatani dictates what another's need will be.")