Jaril laughed, a soft contended sound like a cat purring. “Sure,” he said. “But I won’t need to.”
That tranquillity was beginning to get irritating. She straightened, tensed as Amortis changed direction and came striding toward them.
The god bent over the river, cupped her immense hands ahead of the barge. Up close her fingers were tapering columns of golden light, insubstantial as smoke but exquisitely detailed, pores and prints, a hint of nail before the tips dipped below the water-which continued undisturbed as if there were no substance to the fingers.
The barge plowed into the fingers, passed through them. Brann felt a brief frisson as she slid through one of them; it was so faint she might have imagined it.
She heard what she thought was a snort of disgust, unfroze enough to turn her head and look behind her. Amortis had straightened up. She was stalking off without even a look at the barge.
“Told you,” Jaril murmured. “It doesn’t want to be with her any more. It’s taking care of us.” He yawned, stretched out on his blanket and sank into his sleep coma.
Brann frowned down at him. If she wanted to play her role, she’d pull the other blanket over him; she chewed her lip a moment, glanced at the sun. Take a chance, she thought, let him draw in as much energy as he can, he’s going to need it, poor baby.
For three more days the barge swung through the extravagant bends of the broad Kaddaroud. Twice more Amortis came sweeping by, ignoring the river and those on it, her anger monumentally visible. The pilgrims huddled in their blankets, terrified. When she was angry, the god had a habit of striking out at anything that caught her attention. If the force of that anger rose too high in her, she struck out at random; anything could set her off, a change in the wind, a gnat on her toe, a fugitive thought too vague to describe. Anyone who got in the way of her fury was ashes on the wind. All they could do was pray she didn’t notice them.
She didn’t. After she stalked by the second time, she didn’t return.
##
The Bargemaster unloaded his passengers at the Waystop where the Kaddaroud met the Sharroud, took on a new load of pilgrims, hitched up the draft oxen and started back upriver.
The Inn Izadinamm was a huge place, capable of housing several hundred in a fair degree of comfort. This late in the season, there were scarce fifty there, three scant bargeloads come back from Kudush to wait for the riverboats that would carry them north or south to their ordinary lives.
Five days after they came to the lzadinamm, a northbound riverboat moored for the night at the Waystop landing. In the morning it left with a score of passengers, Brann and Jaril among them.
9
Waragapur, green and lovely, jewel of peace and fruitfulness.
Truceground re jagged oasis, a place of rest among stony bar-
n mountains agged enough to chew the sky.
Warmed by the firemountain Mun Gapur, steamed by hotsprings, hugged inside hundred-foot cliffs, Waragapur knew only two seasons, summer during the hottest months and spring for the rest of the year. When Brann arrived it was the edge of winter elsewhere, but there were plum trees in bloom at Waragapur, peach trees heavy with ripe fruit, almonds with sprays of delicate white flowers and ripe nuts on the same tree.
Tak WakKerrcarr came down from his Hold and stood on the landing, leaning on an ebony and ivory staff, waiting for the riverboat. He was an ancient ageless man, his origins enigmatic, his skin the color and consistency of old leather drawn tight over his bones, long shapely bones; he was an elegant old man despite being a home to an astonishing variety of insect life and despite the strength and complexity of the stink that wafted from him-apparently he bathed every five years or so. He ignored the stares and nudges of those who came to gape at him (very careful not to annoy him by coming too close or whispering or giggling), ignored the nervous agitation of the boatmen who’d never seen him but had no doubt whom they were looking at. When Brann came off the ship with the passengers stopping here, he reached with his staff, tapped her on the shoulder. “Come with me,” he said, turned and stalked off.
Brann blinked, looked after him. His voice told her who he had to be. It was a wonderful voice, a degree or two lighter than Maksim’s, with much the same range and flexibility. “Jay,” she glanced over her shoulder at the changer, frowned as she saw him curled up on the landing beside their gear, “look after things here.” She hesitated, went on. “Be careful, will you? Don’t trust that thing too much.”
Jaril nodded, gave her a drowsy smile, and got to his feet.
She didn’t want to leave him, but she hadn’t much choice. She walked slowly after Tak WakKerrcarr, chewing on her lip, disturbed by the changes in the boy; after a few steps she shook her head and tried to concentrate on WakKerrcarr. She didn’t know what he wanted with her or how much he knew about why she was here. He’d be dangerous if he took against her; Maksi wouldn’t admit it, but even he was a little afraid of the man. Tak WakKerrcarr. First among the Primes, older than time. Brann straightened her back, squared her shoulders and followed him.
WakKencarr waited for her in a water-garden at the side of the Inn, sitting beside a fountain, one fed from the hotsprings, its cascades of water leaping through its own cloud of steam. She caught a whiff of his aroma and edged cautiously around so he was downwind of her.
He pounded the butt of the staff on the earth by his feet, bent forward until his cheek was touching the tough black ebony. He gazed at her as she stood waiting for him to speak. “Take off that kujjin veil, woman. You’re no Temu press.”
With an impatient jerk, she pulled off the opaque black headcloth; she was happy to get it off, warmth poured more amply than water from that fountain. She smoothed mussed hair off her face, draped the veil over her arms. “So?”
“Got a message for you.” He straightened up, laid his staff across his bony knees. “Fireheart come to see me. Said to tell you watch your feet, but don’t worry too much, you’re her Little Nothin and she won’t let any god do you hurt.”
“God?”
“I’m not telling you what you don’t know.” He crossed his legs at the ankles, wiggled toes longer than some people’s fingers. “That bunch tryin to run you, they’re fools dancin to strings they can’t see.”
“What god?”
He got to his feet. “Said what I planned. Not goin to say more. Well, this. Tell that demon, she don’t play fair, I’ll feed her to the Mountain.” His eyes traveled down her body, up again, lingered briefly on her breasts. “When this’s over, come see me, Drinker of Souls.” A wide flashing smile, one to warm the bones. “I’ll even take a bath.” Chuckling and repeating himself, take a bath sho sho, even take a bath, hee hee, he strode out of the garden and vanished into the orchard behind.
Brann shook the veil out, whipped it over her head and adjusted it so she could see through the eyeholes-and started worrying about Slya’s offer of protection. The god wasn’t all that bright, she had a tendency to stomp around and squash anything that chanced to fall under her feet which could include those she meant to help. Nothing Braun could do about it, except stay as nimble as she could and hope she’d be deft enough to avoid any danger that might provoke Slya into storming to her rescue. She went back to the landing.
She collected Jaril and their gear and marched into the Inn. The Host came running, treating her with exaggerated deference; guests and servants stared or peeped at her from the corner of their eyes; she heard a gale of whispers rise behind her as the Host led her to the finest suite in the house and murmured of baths and dinner and wine and groveled until she wanted to hit him. Tak WakKerrcair was the reason, of course; his notice had stripped away any anonymity she might claim.