Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (23 page)

“I’ve got ’em!” declared a voice from the rear.

“Pass them over so Medrabbi will quit her speech making.” Jefflynn grinned defiantly at her leader. “She’s indirectly my responsibility so I should have a part in this, too. I am, after all, acting as her raiser in this regard.”

Medrabbi latched onto the shears when they came near. “The shears will remain in the mayor’s control,” she said with a wry chuckle.

“Not tonight, good friends.” An age-darkened head sporting a multi-looped braid pushed toward Medrabbi. “Tonight, I challenge the claim.”

“That challenge is recognized. Is the speaker who I believe?” Medrabbi strained to identify the voice then motioned the crowd to make way. “Ah, it is. Harlis, you grace the Gretchencliff with your presence. What brings you to us this eve?”

“New blood, Medrabbi, new blood.” Harlis appeared in the round. She stood short for a broadback, her height further reduced by a spinal injury that caused her shoulders to be uneven. But she was also so thick in the upper arms that the openings in her royal blue tunic had been slit. “I had to meet the young people for myself. This one in particular interests me. I’ve been told she grew up clanless.”

“Indeed she did, sister Harlis.” Medrabbi clasped the clan leader on the back. “How long have you been lingering about?”

“Long enough to hear the winnolla’s song, Lisajohn’s usual criticism—and other matters.” Harlis’s gaze centered on Rankil.

“Your thoughts?” inquired Medrabbi.

“The Gretchencliff always do things differently than most.” Harlis took an untouched cup and pulled a hard swallow from it, pale upon pale eyes never wavering from Rankil as she drank. Rankil dared to return the look, and their eyes locked for a moment. It was a brave though perhaps foolhardy move, one that many broadbacks took as a provocation but as Harlis was easy to humor, she took the stare for youthful mischief.

“I’ve spoken to several elder sisters regarding this matter and I believe—” Harlis dropped to the bench beside Rankil and lay her arm across her back. “I believe Rankil here is up to the demand.” The clan leader’s fingers grasped the top of Rankil’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to most, a growl from Rankil. “I also believe”—the comment was intended for Rankil alone—“that the Serpent clan is too stringent in some regards, unbending to an obvious exception to the norm. You’re a test subject for my council, the answer to the question does hardship make for maturity? Don’t mess this one up, young woman. Medrabbi and Jefflynn have gone out on a limb for you. Screw up, and they’ll both be your ruin. Understand?”

“Yes, clan leader Harlis.”

“Harlis will do.” Harlis flashed a grin. “Just remember where you’ve been and where you’re going and you’ll be fine. Now, someone hand me the shears. I’ll take my right of first cut then I’ll be off. An unattached gentlewoman in the Adner colony has requested my company this evening.” Harlis winked at Rankil, released her grip then rose. “And I’d be a fool to refuse such a kind offer.”

The clan leader snipped a small section of hair from the top of Rankil’s head then departed, the lock still wrapped in her fingers. “Farewell, young Rankil. We shall meet again—sooner than you think. Coach her, Jefflynn. Knock her on her ass if she warrants it. She’s yours to mold.”

“I will, Harlis.” Jefflynn’s expression became guarded as she turned to Rankil. The usual means of teaching a broadback her role, while tried and true, might throw astray some of Rankil’s good beginnings with Myrla. But above all else, the Recognition must be true to its name. Rankil must feel the responsibility, the seriousness of her position, something that was often lost in the night’s indulgence. No. Jefflynn stepped back as someone refilled the mug in Rankil’s hand. No. Rankil should make her own decisions this night. Be they right or wrong, they were hers to make.

Someone poured a bucket of half-melted snow over Rankil’s head. “Get used to cold baths!” Jefflynn joined the friendly mayhem as a second bucket rolled down Rankil’s back. “They’re the best alternative if your woman is not willing.” Rankil voiced objection as she was lifted from the bench and placed face down on one of the tables.

“Quit your complaining. Tekkroons don’t whine.” Medrabbi began scraping the hair from the back of Rankil’s head. “Don’t move. I’ve already drank four mugs and will slice you if you so much as blink.”

Rankil remained still, her eyes closed against the spinning sensation the ale created. First the back, then the sides of her hair disappeared, leaving a narrow mohawk strip on the very top when Medrabbi stopped to drain another mug. Now tipsy and quite insecure, Rankil kept her eyes closed to the laughs and whistles around her until the final section of hair was pulled straight for removal. Different hands finished the task, soft, gentle hands that rubbed her forehead and ears. A delicate, flowery scent accompanied the touch and Rankil looked up, straight into the plunging neckline of a well-endowed gentlewoman. Horrified, she tensed and jerked backward only to be pushed into the perfumed recess again.

“Never had one of you do that,” laughed the owner of that generous pair of breasts. “Hold still now. Let me finish, and you can see everything.” She removed the remaining tuft and someone jerked Rankil upright into a chair. The woman slid into Rankil’s lap to run an exposed leg down hers, toes toying with her boot cuff. “Like what you see?”

All Rankil’s attempts at communication failed.

“Hey, Jefflynn,” shouted one of the onlookers. “What’d you say at your Recognition?”

“I don’t rightly recall.” Jefflynn replied as she observed Rankil’s expression. “But I believe I managed an ‘oh Mother yes’ in there somewhere.” She bent close, rotating Rankil’s head so her nose pushed back into the center of the sweet-smelling woman. “Say something, Rankil, or Abbye will think you aren’t enjoying her company.” Then she hissed in a whisper only Rankil could hear: “Say it whether you are or not. It’s expected of you.”

“I . . . I am.” Nothing further from the truth had ever come from Rankil’s mouth. She was petrified, mesmerized and confused at the same time. Experience was pressing against her, nipping at her ears, gyrating in her lap. This older woman was beautiful, scantily clad, soft freckles running across her supple shoulders, everything a fantasy should be and willing to indulge—but Myrla! The objection threatened to fade as Abbye swirled her tongue into Rankil’s mouth.

“I can’t.” Rankil pushed away to peer up at Jefflynn. “I can’t.”

Abbye sat back and glanced up in despair. “What gives, Jeff? Are my face paints crooked or something?”

“Nah, I believe it’s more than that, Abbyegale. Rankil’s the noble sort.” Jefflynn sat down beside Rankil and began to explain the Tekkroon custom. Medrabbi turned away the few who had noticed the refusal, returning them to their gaming and drinks, pouring them a distracting round from her private keg.

“Abbye’s a widow,” explained Jefflynn. “She’s not committed to a broadback. You’re not violating anyone else’s woman. Enjoy yourself as you’d like. Abbye will, believe me.”

“No.” Rankil swiped Abbye’s saccharin flavor from her mouth. “It’s not that. I just can’t.”

“Why not?” Abbye’s touch was now more compassionate than seductive. “You embarrassed by your inexperience? That’s what I’m here for. I’m to be your first pleasure phase.”

“You can’t be my first phase.” Rankil drowned her sorrows in her drink. “I’m saving that for Myrla.”

“We’re not talking full physical relations. That’s part of commitment. A pleasure phase isn’t by most clan standards,” explained Jefflynn in a low voice. “Mental pleasures have to be learned and practiced. Your job is to teach Myrla.”

“It is?” Rankil looked again at Abbye. How could a pleasure phase possibly fulfill one enough that they could forget about involving the physical? “I thought Myrla and I would learn together.”

“Sweet sentiment but not the way it normally happens.” Abbye placed her arm around Rankil’s slumped shoulders, took her mug, and drained the contents. “Most clans expect it to happen this way. But Medrabbi mentioned you’d been raised Aut, didn’t she? That explains a lot. Tell you what. I’ll stick around until the Recognition is finished. We’ll play things up, put on a show that’ll make everybody think you’re ready and willing. Then,” Abbye batted her lashes to remind Rankil of the delights she offered, “if you haven’t decided otherwise, you can walk me back to my quarters and go back to your home. Deal?”

“You won’t think worse of me?” Rankil glanced over to a young, single broadback who was being entertained by a widowed gentlewoman with wide hips and a shrill voice.

Jefflynn turned Rankil from the spectacle. “Don’t compare your actions to those of one who is older and without an attachment of the heart. I told Medrabbi you might not enjoy this part of the Recognition. Abbye would’ve overwhelmed me at your age. I’m impressed you handled yourself so well. You’re truly committed to Myrla.”

Rankil took a moment to consider Abbye again before she responded. Pleasure phases had to be practiced? Myrla should know this. “So it’s all right? You don’t mind, Abbye?”

“Nah.” She kissed Rankil’s shaved head, leaving a perfect, red mouth print Jefflynn removed with her cuff. “I would’ve done things differently if I’d known you were so serious about that pretty girl I’ve seen you with. Tekkroon broadbacks never take a woman at such an early age. They’re far too content to play around with us widows and perfect their phases until sometime in their twenties.” Abbye shook her head at the lewd nature of the other gentlewoman’s dance. “Give it a rest, Webbic. There’s still the marking to go. Save something for later.”

“Ah, you’re just jealous.” Webbic snickered but stopped her dance, smoothing her skirts back to a less obscene height. “Somebody bring me some wine. I’m too parched to go on.”

Jefflynn rolled her eyes as the other broadbacks stumbled over each other to obey the request. “She has it down to an art, doesn’t she?”

Abbye was once again sitting in Rankil’s lap, but much more primly than Webbic, who sprawled across two laps. Abbye’s presence wasn’t as intimidating now, thought Rankil as she listened to the tales of battlefield and bedroom victories circling the room. She was more of a sympathetic friend, she and Jefflynn the only ones who truly understood the dedication she felt toward Myrla.

Abbye made a good show of things, snuggling close and rubbing up in just the right way to keep suspicion at bay, but the touch was platonic the rest of the time. She matched Rankil cup for cup and both were quite relaxed when she was told to move from her seat. Someone stripped Rankil to her undershirt, exposing every scar dotting her arms.

Medrabbi reappeared at her side with an almost figureless thin gentlewoman on her arm. “This is Elreese, my woman of twenty-four passes and the Gretchencliff’s second best skin marker.” Medrabbi stumbled back a pace. “I’m the best, but seeing as I’m not fit to ink at the moment, I asked her to do the honor.”

Elreese flicked her fingers for Medrabbi to sit down before she fell down and pulled a bench end close to Rankil. She laid hide-sealed pots of color, threading and thin curved needles across the wooden seat. “Someone bring a lantern close enough for me to work,” she said brusquely, then turned to her partner. “Am I going to mark both sides?”

“Nope.” Medrabbi garbled her reply. “Larza has volunteered to do the clan emblem.”

“Not if she isn’t sober.” Elreese glared at Larza’s ale-stained leggings. “How much you had?”

“Only two.” Larza, a flare-jawed teen not far from the Recognition herself, straddled the bench on Rankil’s right. She grasped Rankil by the arm and began to inspect the condition of her bicep. “I’ll have to put the symbol a little lower than normal. That scar running off your shoulder will distort anything I ink onto it. How’d you get it?”

“I don’t remember.” Rankil ignored the shocked expression on Larza’s face and took another swallow of numbing ale. “It’s hard to recall what caused them all.”

“I think I’ll add the sign of a misplaced sister to your personal marker,” said Elreese with a tad of reverence. “You deserve that recognition for just surviving.” She dipped a long strand of threading into the black color pot, wiped the excess on a cloth, then pulled the end through the eye of one of the needles. Someone pulled the surface of Rankil’s upper arms tight. Elreese and Larza deftly slipped points under her skin and pulled out a few millimeters down, the threads’ knotted ends pinching into Rankil’s flesh. It hurt, but in a purposeful way. They took stitch after stitch, never looking up from their work until the thread began to run short. Fine straight lines began to emerge on Rankil’s arms, the right separating into a star and stripe pattern very similar to the one on the downed spacecraft she had discovered. Just what was the relation? Should she tell her new people of the find, tell them about the small arsenal she had tucked between the tunics in her clothing box? Elreese, assuming Rankil’s fixation on the emerging tattoo was pain related, paused to examine Larza’s work then clipped the thread free of her needle.

“Rip time,” she said to the closest spectators. “Grab her up.”

They smashed Rankil into her seat a second later, holding her arms as the threads were removed in one hard pull. She tensed at the pain, but didn’t pull away. She was Tekkroon. She was grown. Only children cried over such discomfort.

“Not a flinch!” declared Jefflynn in a proud parent’s tone. “Medrabbi did right putting you in the Powder ranks.”

“That she did,” observed Elreese as she rethreaded. “Broadbacks normally howl and carry on like I’m killing them. Gentlewomen are much easier to work with.”