Maeve (21 page)

“I'm not much on drinking.” She scowled at the mug, clicked her thumbnail against the side with a small clinking sound. “It doesn't sound like much of a job. What's the pay like?”

“You work that out with Dryknolte.” Bran grinned at her. “Dearie, don't worry about the drinkin'. What you get is cold cha or colored water. What they pay for, that's something else. Don't fuss,” she said as Aleytys scowled, “what they're really buyin' is your time. As to it bein' not much of a job, you come tomorrow and tell me how easy it was. Hunh!”

Aleytys sipped at the cha. “Maybe he won't hire me.”

“Never know till you try. He's expectin' you.”

Aleytys jerked her head up, staring at Bran. “You took a lot for granted.”

The old woman examined her hands. “It's the best job. What the hell.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

Bran's broad face creased into a delighted grin. Don't forget. Come by tomorrow and tell me what a snap your job is.”

“Sure.” Aleytys pushed the mug to the far side of the counter and slipped off the stool. She pushed through the noisy crowd and exited through the dancing bead strings.

Dryknolte's Tavern was a big wooden-faced building with a carefully austere image. Even the sign manifested a conscious restraint. One word. Dryknolte's. Chastely carved in wood. Illuminated by a hidden light. Aleytys looked down at her worn tunic, smoothed the plain gray fabric over her body with nervous hands. Leaning against the building, supported by her right hand, she wiped her boots against the back of her trousers. Pushing stray tendrils of hair off her face, she squared her shoulders and pushed back the door.

She came through the narrow right-angled foyer into a shadowed high-ceiled room. Dim, secret booths lined the walls and scattered tables dotted the floor. A few groups sat, talking quietly at the tables. She hesitated a minute. Behind the bar, a big rock of a man, an image in carameled charcoal, looked up, noticed her, and beckoned.

As she walked across the room she studied him, her nervousness increasing. His face was a strong inverted triangle, wide at the temples, narrowing over high cheekbones to a too-small chin. His nose was a second triangle jutting from the first, a narrow bony projection with pinched but mobile nostrils. A knife scar slashed past one eye and down across the hollow cheek to catch the end of his upper lip, pulling his mouth into a perpetual sneer. His light eyes assessed her while he polished a glass held daintily in his large hand, set it down with gentle precision and picked up another, watching her from tawny yellow eyes with a feral gleam that stiffened her spine and woke a turbulent contrariness in her. She climbed on the stool and waited for him to speak.

“You the girl Bran told me about?”

“Yes.”

“She tell you what the job is?”

“Yes.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “What do you think? Will I do?”

His eyes ran over her, inspecting her with cool insolence. “You got the looks. She said you know how to defend yourself.”

“If I have to.”

His thin lips split suddenly into a broad grin. “Don't make a habit of killing my customers. Bad for business.”

“Hunh! I got the job?”

“You'll do.” He nodded toward a door behind the bar. “Come round the end and go through there.” His mobile nostrils quivered as he looked over her clothing. “You can't work in that. Erd, the Flash, will find you something to wear. Soon as you're dressed, come back here and I'll run through what I expect you to do.”

“One thing. Bran said I don't have to go on my back for you.”

He shrugged. “Up to you. It's not part of the job but any extra you make that way, the house gets a percentage.”

“Bran told me.”

Fifteen minutes later she came back, hair brushed to a red-gold curtain, wearing a translucent blue-green dress that matched her eye-color. It floated mistily about her body, concealing just enough of her to send a man's imagination steaming. Dryknolte's yellow eyes gleamed.

Aleytys lifted herself onto the stool, suppressing the instinctive antagonism that he stirred in her. “I feel peculiar.”

“You look fine.”

She rubbed her hands together nervously. “Erd's work. He did my hair, too, But I don't think he likes me.”

“Doesn't like any women. But he knows his business.”

“I don't worry about other ways of being, unless they mess up my life.” She smoothed her hands nervously over her hair. “I need a glass of wine. Take it out of my pay.”

“On the house.” He poured the wine and watched as she sipped at it.

“Talking about pay, how much?”

“Twenty oboloi the week.”

She sighed and pushed the glass away from her. “I'm not hurting that bad. Sorry to take up your time.”

As she stretched a foot toward the floor, he held up a long-fingered hand. “How much you want?”

“More like twenty oboloi the night, payable each night.”

“Three.”

“Fifteen.”

“Five.” His mouth closed in a firm line, the scar-lifted lip looking more like a snarl than ever.

“Ten and I don't work after midnight.”

“Five and you don't work after midnight.”

“Five. I don't work after midnight. And I get an hour to myself halfway through the evening plus a place where I can sit by myself.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, the feral light flickering in his eyes. She stared back, a challenge in her own gaze. Green-blue and gold eyes crossing like swords. After a minute he nodded. “Done.”

She relaxed and reached for the wine. “Nice place.”

“I like it.”

Part of the wall behind the bar was a huge mirror, reflecting the quiet room behind. As far as Aleytys could tell, she was the only female in the place. “Do your customers bring their women here?”

His face chilled to a savage mask. “No.”

“What about female crews?”

“No mixing in my place.”

“What's that?” Aleytys pointed to a small minstrel's harp hanging beside the mirror, almost lost amid the clutter of kick-shaws and trifles from worlds scattered across the cosmos.

He twisted his head around, following the pointing finger. “That harp? A blackgang timbersmith off a timbership left it one drunk night a couple of years ago. He ran out of money and traded the harp for a couple jugs of sheesh-water.”

Aleytys sipped at her wine and closed her eyes. “Shadith,” she whispered.

The purple eyes snapped open, glowing brilliantly. “Can I play it? I damn well can! Thanks, Lee.”

Aleytys set the glass down gently and looked up at Dryknolte. “May I see it?”

He reached up and set the harp in front of her.

She drew her finger through the thick dust on the sounding board. “Got a rag?”

Carefully, dreamily, she drew the rag over the wood and strings, removing the dust accumulation of two years while Dryknolte stood watching her, a dark scowl turning his mahogany face into a horror mask. When she finished, he lifted the dirty rag between two fingers and dropped it behind the bar, then polished angrily at the smear of dust it left behind.

Holding the harp on her lap, Aleytys finished the wine in her glass. “Well. Tell me what I'm supposed to do.”

“You going to play that thing?”

“Maybe. Go on.”

“You work from noon to midnight.” At her challenging stare, he added smoothly, “With your hour off, of course.”

She nodded and waited expectantly.

“You move around. Table to table. Don't spend too much time with anyone. You're not getting paid to chat. You listen. You smile. You keep them feeling good. Keep them drinking but don't be obvious about that. Each table has to buy at least one drink for you. That keeps you with them for about fifteen minutes. After that they either buy you another drink or you move on. Two drinks a table. No more. Got it?”

She nodded.

“You understand that what they pay for won't match what you're drinking.”

“Bran told me. It's just as well. I'm not much of a drinker.”

He grunted, looking pleased, which surprised her somewhat. “Like I said, laugh at their jokes and listen to their sad stories. Don't get pushed if the talk gets rough. Just let them know you're not amused. Act high class. You can handle that. What's your name?”

She stared thoughtfully at her image in the mirror. “I don't want to use my name here. You make up one for me.”

He drew a long finger over her forearm. “Amber,” he said abruptly. “We'll call you Amber.” He took up her hand and cradled it between his large, molasses-colored palms. “For your skin.”

“Good enough.” Quietly, she freed herself. “Now. Something else. Listen to me a minute. If you like what you hear, we'll see about adding another obol to my pay. For my singing.”

He looked at the harp sitting in her lap. “So. Show me.”

She closed her eyes. “Shadith, your turn.” She felt the singer expand through her body and withdrew her control, settling back contentedly, waiting to see what Shadith chose to do.

The Singer ran her hands over the harp. “It's well-made,” she murmured.

Dryknolte straightened, his eyes boring into her as he noted the change in stance and inflection. Then he backed up until he was leaning against the shelves behind the bar, watching her intently all the while.

Shadith settled the harp. With quick competence she tuned the strings, touching them gently with exploring fingers, testing them to see if the years of dusty idleness had affected their strength. When she was satisfied, she looked up, smiled at the faces turned her way, staring at her image in the mirror.

Quietly, she began singing, working her way through one of her own songs, singing the lines first in the original language then translating them into interlingue. Her voice fell on the new silence like drops of mountain water, clear, pure, cool.

When the Singer finished, Aleytys whispered to her, “Lovely, friend. You make me shiver with delight. Sing more.”

Shadith laughed. She sang a bubbling, lilting song about a spaceman clumsy as a bear, but blessed with incredible luck so that each disaster he tumbled into turned gold in his hands. Then she laid the harp on the bar and retreated.

Dryknolte was staring at Aleytys. “What the hell are you doing on Star Street?”

“So I get the extra obol.”

He brushed that aside. “Yes, of course. Who are you, woman?”

“Nobody.” Aleytys touched the harp with exploring fingertips, taking pleasure in the silky feel of the polished wood. “Bran is right, you know. There's more freedom on Star Street than the hill will ever know. I hate being circumscribed.”

“You got any idea what kind of money you could make?”

“More than I need or want.” She shrugged. “I do what I have to do. Without getting myself tied up in limitations. So. For one extra obol I sing for you once each night.”

Dryknolte glanced at his customers. Several of the humanoids had pushed back their chairs and were coming toward the bar. Under the impact of his yellow glare they stopped and stood, shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the woman sitting quietly, harp resting near her fingers.

Dryknolte grunted. “Time you got to work, Amber. Actor!”

A big man with a long golden beard ambled calmly, unhurriedly over to them.

Dryknolte leaned on one hand and flipped the other in a quick supple gesture. “Amber, this lump of hair is the Actor. A better man than he looks.” The beard split in a grin showing gleaming teeth. “He'll take your orders, bring your drinks, and break the heads of any grabbers. He knows the business, well enough. Listen to his advice, but don't try to seduce him.”

“A pleasure.” Aleytys held out her hand. “Why not try to seduce him?”

“He's keeping too many women happy already. One more'd kill him.”

Aleytys laughed. “Poor man.”

The Actor bowed gracefully, his huge hand swallowing hers. “Don't believe him. He's just jealous.”

Dryknolte grunted, suddenly not amused any longer. “Amber, pick out a table and get to work.”

“Sure. Damn, my knees are shaking, and look at this.” She held out trembling hands.

The Actor patted her shoulder. “Get moving, lass. You're on salary now and our esteemed employer has been known to dock pay for wasting time. What's worse, he'll go after my poor inadequate stipend.” The beard split again in a tragic grimace and the big man's eyes took on the sadness of a deserted puppy's gaze.

Clutching at his arm, swallowing to overcome her nervousness, she slid off the stool and looked around. “Which one?”

The Actor nodded at a table where three men were sitting, older types with the harsh lines of authority in their faces. “Bunch of ship captains there. Three of them, so they won't be looking for action; besides, it's early yet. But expect to listen to a lot of windy tales. Each one'll try to outdo the others.”

“That I can take. Come on.”

Chapter V

Treforis laid his hand on Gwynnor's shoulder. “You can stay. You know that.”

“I know. We went over that back and front.” He touched his brother's hand then moved away and swung down into the boat beside Sioned. “Your children, the farm. I won't set them at risk, brother.” He looked up, smiling into Treforis' troubled face. “Besides, someone has to go see what the Synwedda will do for us.”

Treforis slipped the rope loose and tossed it to Sioned. “A smooth journey, brother.”

Gwynnor waved, then leaned on the tiller, moving the boat into midstream. Crouching beside him, Sioned let the sheets run through her hand as the sail swung round to catch the night breeze that flowed over the plain toward the sea. Rope caught once around her hand, she leaned against his knees, looking apprehensively at the lowering sky. The cloud cover this night was heavy and black, casting a deep pall over the land. The wind blew fitfully, driving them along fiercely awhile, then dropping away until only the current pulled the boat along.