A Gathering Of Stones

6

One week later.

Midmorning, just before the busiest time in the Market.

A huge brindle mastiff stopped suddenly, howled, shook his head. Foam from his mouth spattered the serving girl who stood beside an older woman so busy arguing over the price of tubers she didn’t notice what was happening around her. The girl screamed and backed away.

A gaunt old woman appeared between two kiosks. She swung a heavy staff at the beast and bounced dust off his hide. He howled, then yelped as the staff connected again; he swung his muscular front end from side to side, trying to get at her. Foam dripped copiously from his mouth.

People around them scrambled to get away. The girl had dived behind the old woman, trapping herself in a short blind alley between two rows of shops. Her companion looked around, yelped and went running off. The place emptied rapidly except for the three of them, the woman, the girl and the dog.

The mastiff whimpered, backed away from the whirling staff. He stood for a moment shivering convulsively, then he went ki-yi-yipping off, vanishing into the crazyquilt of alleys about the market, the noises he made sinking into the noises and silences of the dank cloudy afternoon.

The old woman knocked the butt of her staff against the flagging underfoot, grunted with satisfaction. She tugged her worn homespun shirt down and shook her narrow hips until the folds in her trousers hung the way she wanted them. Finally she tucked a straggle of gray hair behind her ear as she turned and inspected the deserted chaos around her. She saw the maid, raised her scraggly brows. “You all right, child?”

The maid was rubbing and rubbing at the back of her hand where some the dog’s spit had landed. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled out; she wasn’t crying so much as overflowing. She was young and neatly dressed, her brown hair was smooth as glass despite her agitation, pinned into a three-tiered knot atop her head; she might have been pretty, but that was impossible to say. Puffy and purplish red, a disfiguring birthmark slid down one side of her face, hugged her neck like a noose and vanished beneath her clothing. Her arms were covered from shoulder to wrist, but the backs of both hands were spattered with more of that ugly birthstain.

She lowered her eyes. “I think… I think so,” she murmured, speaking so softly Brann had trouble hearing her.

“You’re shivering, child.” Brann touched her fingertips to the marred cheek. “Your face is like ice. Come, we’ll have some tea. That will make the world look brighter.”

The maid shrank back. “I… I’d better find Elissy.”

“Surely you can take five minutes for yourself.” Brann rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, using the lightest of pressures to start her moving. “Don’t be afraid of me, I am the Jantria Bar Ana. Ah, I see you’ve heard my name. Why don’t you tell me yours.”

Reassured, the girl began walking along beside her. “My name is Carup Kalan, Jantria.” She looked uneasily at her hand. “It didn’t bite me, but I got its spit on me. Will that do bad to me?”

They turned a corner and plunged into the noisy, dusty throngs of the Market, walked around a group of highservants arguing over some bolts of silk and velvet. “No. If your skin is not broken, there’s no harm in that foam. If you’re worried, there’s a fountain two ranks over; you can stop and wash your hands.” She smiled at Carup. “I expect you were with-Elissy, was it-just to carry things, so it will be my pleasure to pay for the tea.”

They stopped at the fountain and Carup Kalan scrubbed her hands with an enthusiasm that made Braun smile as she watched. Carup might have heard of her healings and find her presence reassuring, but she wasn’t about to take any chances she could avoid.

There were a number of teashops scattered about the Market, each with a little dark kitchen, a counter and tables under a battered canvas awning. Brann took her unknowing catch to the nearest of these and sat her at a table while she went for tea and cakes.

Circling the crowded tables, lifting the tray and dancing precariously around clots of customers coming and going. Brann carried her cakes and tea back, shushed Carup as the girl jumped up and tried to take the tray from her. The tea was hot and strong, the cakes were deep-fried honey wafers, crisp and sweet. “From your name, you come from Lake Tabaga.” She slipped some cakes on a round of brown paper and slid them across to Carup, poured tea for both of them.

“Ay-yah.” Carup looked briefly surprised. “The AshKalap have a farmhold close to a village called Pattan Haria on the west shore of Tabaga.” She gulped at the tea. It was too hot; she shuddered as her mouth burned, but seemed to welcome the pain. When the bowl was empty, she set it down and stared into it; her face twisted with… something. There was tragedy in what birth had done to her. The mark distorted and denied all her expressions. Nothing came out right. Suffering was grotesque, a laugh was uglier than a snarl. “My father sold me when I was eight,” she whispered. Trembling fingers stroked the mark on her face, then she jerked them down and began crumbling a cake into sticky fragments. “He said no one would want to marry me or even take me in to warm his bed. I was too ugly. He said he’d never make back the cost of my food and clothes, so he might as well get what he could out of me. He said they had perverts in the city that might find me…” She took the bowl Brann had refilled and gulped at the steaming tea. “Might find me…” She sobbed. Her hand shook, but she took care to set the bowl down gently. It didn’t break. No tea spilled. “I’m sorry.”

“No, child, don’t. Say what you want to say.” Brann took one of Carup’s hands and held it between hers. As she’d spoken to many of the women visiting her, keeping up the role of holywoman, Jantria, she spoke to Carup: “Hearing what comes to me is the task the Gods have set me. Say what you must and know that I will hear it.” She waited, feeling the tension in Carup, the need to talk and the fear of casting herself into deeper trouble. It was hard for Brann to understand the girl. Her own life was complicated and often dangerous; for the most part, though, she’d managed to control events rather than endure them. Time after time, one god or another had meddled with her, driving her this way and that; even so she was able to finesse a degree of freedom. She could see that Camp was different, that the options she had were much more limited; she could even see reasons why this was so, but that was the mind’s eyes, not the heart’s.

A bad taste in her mouth because she was going to use this unfortunate girl as unconscionably as the girl’s beast of a father had, she leaned closer and smiled at Carty and prepared to entice from her everything she knew about the courtesan and her doulahar. “Were you brought right away to Dil Jorpashil?”

Carup sighed and freed her hand so she could sip at the cooling tea. “Ay-yah, the Agent brought us straight here.”

“What happened then?”

“I was afraid… what my father said… but it didn’t happen. The Chuttar Palami Kumindri’s agent bought me for a maid.” Carup sighed with weariness and managed at the same time to project a touch of pride. “You must have heard of her. The Chuttar Palami Kumindri is the premiere courtesan in all Dil Jorpashil.” Her mouth turned down. “The Housemaster treats me like a dog. I work hard, I’m up before the sun every day, be never says word one to me, he pretends he doesn’t even see me.”

“Then you’re still a part of the Chuttar’s household?”

“Ay-yah.” Carup sighed again; her eyelids drooped. The emotional storm had passed and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. A group of merchants came bustling past their table, kicking into her. She cringed automatically, tugged her chair farther under the table, made herself as small as she could.

Brann pressed her lips together, angry at the merchants because they were arrogant and thoughtless, angry at the girl because she hadn’t spirit enough to resent them, at herself because she couldn’t do anything about either. Her voice deliberately mild, she said. “How long has it been?”

“Ten… years…” Carup blinked, straightened. The color drained from her face, leaving the red-purple stain more glaring than ever. Her eyes were fixed past Brann’s shoulder.

Brann twisted around. The stocky woman, Elissy, Carup called her, was standing under the scalloped edge of the canvas, looking angrily about. Braun saw her and she saw Carup at the same moment. She came charging across to the table. Brann stood, held up a hand, palm out. “Gods’ peace be on you, Elissy friend.”

“I’m no friend of yours, beggar. Carup, get over here. By Sarimbara’s Horns, what do you think you’re doing, lazing about like this?” She turned her scowl on Brann. “Who you? What you think you doing with this girl?”

“I am the Jantria Bar Ana.” Brann suppressed a smile as she saw the consternation on the woman’s face, the sudden shift of expression. The past two weeks had apparently given her a formidable reputation.

She nodded gravely at Elissy, shifted her gaze to Carup. I need more, she thought, a lot more than I’ve got. Ten years that girl has been in that house. She’s not stupid, poor thing, might be better for her if she was. Get to it, woman… She set her hand on Carup’s shoulder, turned the girl to face her. “Carup Kalan,” she said, lowering her voice to its deepest register, speaking with a deliberate formality. “Would you care to serve me? My household is small, but you will not go hungry. You will clean my rooms and yours, you will do the laundry, you will buy food for our meals and do such cooking as you are trained for. In return, I will buy you out of your present place and register you at the Addala as a freewoman. I will provide a room and a bed, food and clothing and I will pay you five dugna a week.”

Camp’s face twisted into a gargoyle grimace as she struggled to decide; she had security, she knew where she would sleep, where her meals would come from, that she would be safe on the streets from pressgangs, pimps, muggers and assaults and she had a shadow share in the prestige of the Chuttar Prime, but she also knew that she’d be thrown out like refuse if she got sick or hurt too badly to work any more. Or when she was too old to work, though too-old was a long time off, at eighteen you’re immortal. She hated her life, that was obvious, but she was afraid of venturing from its comfortable certainties, that too was obvious. Brann as holywoman/healer had prestige also, was presumably trustworthy, Carup being gullible enough to accept communal judgment about what was holy and what wasn’t, but the Jantria was a stranger. From another land, another people. That was suspect, frightening. Brann was poor; Carup had a slave’s ingrained contempt for the poor. Brann had treated her with kindness and acceptance, had stood between her and the rabid dog and had beaten it off, a powerful omen for the superstitious, and like most slaves Carup was deeply superstitious. Brann offered her manumission and a degree of control over her life. That was attractive in theory but terrifying in actuality.

With a suddenly acquired dignity that made Brann as suddenly ashamed of how she was using the girl, Carup said, “Sarimbara’s Blessing, Jantria Bar Ana, I will serve you.”

“So be it, child. Go with your companion now. Wait and trust me. I’ll send for you when the thing is done.”