Maeve

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Maeve

Jo Clayton

Book I:

THE FOREST

Chapter I

Gwynnor crouched beside his lover, Amersit. A churning distaste stirred his insides as he watched the strangers come down the side of the ship and approach the drieu, Dylaw. More of them coming to put their damn feet on Maeve's breast.

“One's a woman,” Amersit whispered, his eyes glowing violet, like spring asters on the Maes. He sniffed, then wiggled excitedly. “She smells … ha … good!”

Face folding in a grimace of repugnance, Gwynnor stared at the smugglers. “They wouldn't come if Dylaw stopped dealing with them.”

Mischief sparkling in his eyes, Amersit patted his shoulder. “Yeh, little one, and we wouldn't have any guns.”

Gwynnor rubbed his cheek against the hand resting on his shoulder. “Do we need them so much?” He straightened his back, turning troubled eyes on his trail lover. “Do those guns really make any difference when we face the energy weapons of the starmen?”

Amersit stroked the soft gray curls coiling close about Gwynnor's head. “You take things so seriously, little one. Relax. You know we haven't got enough support from the people yet. Let the starmen hit the villages a bit more and we'll have them all storming the city. In the meantime, we make them pay a little anyway for their raids. The day's coming through. We'll lock them tight in that damn city and burn it down around their ears.”

“Someday. Always someday.” Gwynnor refused to let Amersit cheer him out of his depression.

“Hey.” Amersit stared at the group sitting on the deep black tradecloth. “The woman speaks cathl maes. Dylaw looks like she hit him over the head with a rotten squash.”

I don't like it.” Gwynnor moved away, glowering angrily at the red-haired woman. The sun shone off the glowing mass of her hair, surrounding her head with a golden halo. He pinched his nostrils to shut out her disturbing odor. “It means she had to come from the city. What if the city sent her, knowing we're here?”

Amersit slapped his hand on his thigh. “Ah, mannh, Gwynnor, you're right I didn't think of that. We'd better tell Dylaw.” He started to get to his feet, then hesitated. “If we interrupt the bargaining, he'll peel skin with a dull knife.” He rubbed a hand over his gray fuzz, a rueful grin turning the ends of his long mouth.

“I'll do it.” Gwynnor jumped up and walked with small, quick steps over to the bargainers. The woman finished translating the drieu's last speech to the starman and looked up at him, her blue-green eyes bright with interest. Gwynnor sank his teeth into his tongue as he knelt before Dylaw, body in question-submission.

The drieu frowned, his pointed ears twitching fretfully. Gwynnor knew he'd have a lot of explaining to do later. Trying to speak softly enough to keep his words from her, he said, “The woman speaks the cathl maes. It might be important to discover where she learned it.”

He saw Dylaw's face go rigid as he digested the implications of the question. Gwynnor swallowed this further indication of his leader's stupidity. He struggled to suppress his growing sense of futility. Then Dylaw's hand moved through the ritual acknowledgment and dismissal.

Gwynnor rose and walked slowly away. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, his dark-green eyes involuntarily seeking hers … blue-green like the sea on a bright day … strange round pupils like small targets … so different, so different … He wrenched his eyes free and settled beside Amersit, thigh against thigh, drawing a little comfort from the contact.

The drieu, Dylaw, picked up one of the sample weapons. Turning it over in his hands he ran the tips of his fingers over the checked grip, then along the blue-black of the metal parts. As he put the weapon down he said, as casually as if mere curiosity prompted the question, “How do you come to speak the cathl maes?”

Aleytys spread out her hands, the fingers long and golden in the rusty light of the orange sun. “Not in the city. This is the first time I've put foot on this world.” She rubbed a forefinger beside her nose. “Do you know another language?”

“I know some words of another tongue.” Dylaw spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Why?”

“I have the gift of tongues, drieu Dylaw.” The corners of her mouth twitched at his look of blank disbelief. “I can prove it. That language you know—would anyone in the city know it also?”

“Why should they learn what they don't need to learn?” His mouth drew down in an unpleasant sneer. “Few of them bother to learn enough cathl maes to give a man a proper good morning.”

She nodded. “That being so, give me a few words in that language.”

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Dylaw lifted his head and stared at her. “Watiximiscisco. Ghinahwalathsa lugh qickiniky.”

She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands, wincing as the translator's activity made her head ache fiercely but briefly. When she looked up, she was smiling. “I speak in anger. I carry the fire of my anger to the south.”

He nodded. “Laghi tighyet lamtsynixtighyet.”

“The best laugh is the very last laugh.”

“Lukelixnewef hicqlicu.”

“A hunter is a man of pride.”

Dylaw sat in silence, eyes turned toward the cold blue sky where the sun was a bronzed orange disc creeping toward the zenith. Then his shallow, pale gray eyes, with their narrow slit pupils, ran over her body and fixed on her face. “Remarkable,” he said dryly.

“It's what I do for the Captain.”

“Are there more among the starfolk who can do this?”

“I don't know.” She spread out her hands and shrugged. “I've never met any.”

The drieu, Dylaw, picked up the gun again, dismissing the talent as unimportant since he saw no way to profit from it. “If we bought weapons in Caer Seramdun, we'd pay only fifty oboloi. The maranhedd in one phial alone should buy five hundred.”

When Aleytys translated this for Arel his dark, sardonic face expressed surprise and contempt. He spoke briefly and forcefully, then jumped to his feet and stood waiting for her to give his answer to the drieu.

“The Captain says if that is so, then he will take his merchandise elsewhere.” She started to rise.

“Yst-yst, woman. No need for such haste.” He tapped fingers on his thighs and waited for her to settle herself. “Why not see if we can reach some kind of agreement rather than leave here having wasted our time?” He pulled a bag made of leather from inside his gray homespun tunic. With deliberate slowness he worked the knot loose on the drawstring, then thrust his stubby fingers inside and pulled out a small glass phial. “One trom of maranhedd.”

The Captain leaned forward and spoke briefly.

Aleytys nodded. To Dylaw she said, “Fifty guns. Five hundred darts.”

“Four hundred guns and four thousand darts.”

Arel snorted when Aleytys translated for him. He snapped out an answer, a look of scorn on his dark face.

Aleytys said calmly, “You dream, ergynnan na Maes. One hundred guns. Five hundred darts.”

Gwynnor turned his back on the disturbing sight of his leader bargaining as greedily as any huckster in the market square. “I don't like this,” he muttered.

“You said that before.” Amersit grinned widely, his mobile mouth stretching in the quick flashing smile that usually delighted Gwynnor. “I wonder what the Synwedda would think of that red witch.”

“Tchah!”

“I doubt she'd say that.” He broke into a chuckle. “I daresay you've not had a woman yet, little love. Trust me. That's one fine woman, starbred or not.” He sniffed then pantomimed an exaggerated ecstasy.

“I won't listen to you.” Gwynnor jumped up and ran to the kaffon and stood next to his own mount, combing unsteady fingers through the kaffa's thick fur, finding a measure of calm in the animal warmth of the placid, dozing animal. He ignored the sound of voices continuing behind him.

The drieu, Dylaw, grunted. “Agreed. For three trom of maranhedd, five hundred weapons and ten thousand darts.” He blinked round eyes, his slitted pupils little more than a narrow black line crossing the silver-gray mirrors of his irises. His long hooked nose twitched its mobile tip as he dropped the leather sack into Aleytys' hand. “I presume the man from the stars will test this as usual, not trusting our word.”

Aleytys glanced at the Captain, then nodded. “We aren't included in your people, ergynnan na Maes. No doubt your word is good to your own. You'll trust us to keep our part of the bargain?”

Dylaw's mouth gash clamped shut; the gray fuzz patches over his round eyes slid together as he frowned in irritation. “I trust your greed for maranhedd, gwerei. To cheat me now would mean empty hands next year.”

“True.” As Aleytys handed the bag to the Captain, she switched languages. “He knows you'll want to test it before handing over the guns.”

“Yeah.” He dumped the three phials out of the bag and began peeling off the wax. Then pulled the rolled leather stoppers out and poured a few grains of the drug from each phial into the palm of his free hand. “Looks like dream dust all right.” He stirred the amethystine crystals with a forefinger, then poured them back. Head twisted back over his shoulder, he called, “Vannick.”

The long, pale man came from the shadow of the ship's tail, leaving Joran there. The little killer's eyes prowled the canyon, measuring the small band of natives, alert for any sign of trouble.

Arel handed the bag to his second. “Test.”

“Right.” Vannik scrambled up the ladder and disappeared into the ship.

The drieu, Dylaw, crossed his arms over his meager chest, dropped his head and stared at the ground in front of his crossed legs. He let his leathery eyelids sink until the silver-gray was veiled, leaving only narrow slits. He appeared to settle into a light doze.