The music was laughter's mother; despite his dour expression the Fanatic tapped his knife hilt in time with the beat and when she finished, he snapped thumb against forefinger, hissed his pleasure, and asked, "Does that thing have words?"
"Yes, but there's no way I can translate it. You satisfied?"
"You can play. Can you sing?"
"I don't know any of your songs."
"Sing."
She stiffened; once again Kikun touched her arm, calming her. "Hmm. There's a thing I came across on a green world a lot like this, a Lost World…" she paused and smiled sweetly at the Fanatic to make sure he caught her meaning, ".. going wild fast, seeding out, whatever you want to call it. Song's called Mad Mara's Lament. Who Mara was I have no idea, the man who taught me just knew the song and liked it, he was a man with a penchant for hurting women.." she paused again, smiled at him again, then shook her head. "Now, that didn't come out quite right, what I mean is he attracted and was attracted by women who'd been hurt. I'm going to have to switch langues, I can't translate on the spot like some. You want to know what it says, I'll tell you after." She checked the tuning, played through a verse to catch the mood, it was slow and sad, lovely in its simplicity. Then she sang. O wild wings fluttered in my head And wild thoughts muttered there In waking dreams I saw you dead Your body rent, your throat gone red Your splendid thighs ripped bare. I cannot sleep, cruel love Memory's my Mourning Dove Cuckoos call out: horned maid See your faithless lover fade All oaths broke, all hope betrayed. O wild wings fluttered in my head And wild thoughts muttered there In waking dreams I felt you near Your honey hands, the words you said In my willing waiting ear. I cannot sleep, cruel fair Memory's my Roan Nightmare Cuckoos call from everywhere: Lover's oaths are writ on air. O wild wings fluttered in my head And wild thoughts muttered there…
Her voice rose in a final mourn-filled cry; she broke it off, flattened both hands on the strings, silencing them. For a minute she couldn't speak; she cleared her throat, forced her mind back into the Awenakis, said huskily, "Satisfied?"
He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket, jerked his head up and back, his long fair hair dancing in the wind. There was a yeasty excitement in him that she didn't trust, a softening, almost a change of face. "You'll have to learn Kiskaid songs. Are you a quick study?"
"Depends upon the material." She cleared her throat again. "And the inducement."
"I see."
While she was singing, Silvercreep had walked over to the cage; he was leaning against the bars, watching her from squinted eyes. The Fanatic got a grip on his arm and hauled him away to the fire, took up the argument again.
Shadith wiped off the harp, eased the strings and settled it back in the case. After she'd snapped the catches home, she looked up. "Well," she said.
Rohant's eyes were red slits, his ears were fficking back and forth as if he were fly ridden. She smelled the rage on him again, part of it was turned on her. "Anooristi?" he snapped at Shadith. "Toh anth?"
"Wha.. Oh." He was back in interlingue-what did you find? where is it?-this jumping from langue to langue was starting to scramble her brain, which was in no great shape to begin with, not since Ginny then the locals started booting her head about. She glanced round; there were a number of locals staring into the cage. They looked away rather than meet her eyes but showed no sign of moving off, reason enough for caution.
She rubbed at her brow, sighed. "There's a stream, I think… um, I don't know, it's difficult. I think it's over there on the other side of the clearing, far enough into the trees that the firelight doesn't reach it. There's a flit tucked away in the brush beside that stream. I think… it was almost impossible to be sure with the kind of eyes I was looking through… I think our gear is in there, which is good if true. Case you're interested, I can tickle a lock with the best."
He gave a shout of laughter, shook himself. "University can't know what it's missing."
"Hmm. You think these d'dabs are ever going to sleep?"
"Shouldn't 'ye stirred them up so much."
"Well, thaaank you, so glad you enjoyed my singing."
"Didn't say that." He wiggled his heavy brows and smiled at her, mouth shut, mustache tails lifting-not the grin he gave Silvercreep; tooth baring was a threat-gesture among the Dyslaera, not a pleasantry. He waited another beat. "I did, though. You're older than you look."
"I told you that."
"Yeh, but I didn't believe you, it's the sort of thing kits always say. They're putting more wood on the fire, seems like they plan on staying a while."
"Waiting for the high-bidder to arrive, I suppose."
"Could be." He looked up, produced a peculiar fluttering whistle. Sassa came swooping down, flew over the cage; at another whistle, he went spiraling up again to perch among the fronds of the tree top. "Good bird. I raised him from the egg. Braincrystal knife, hmm? Should cut through that wood like cheese. They'll have a sentry posted. What kind of a shot are you?"
"Adequate for the occasion."
"Lots of occasions it seems."
"Flattery? What do you want?"
He laughed, slapped his leg. "I do like you, little cat. Lovely claws you've got there. Remind me of Miralys when she was a kit."
"Toerfeles?"
"Vanity, vanity, thy name is woman."
"Well?"
"True."
"So?"
"Let me use the needier."
She caught hold of his hand, measured her own against it. "I don't know. It's so small you wouldn't even feel it." He gave her a smoldering look. "I can handle little things."
"You think so, huh?"
"Know so."
"All right." She yawned. "I'm going to snatch some sleep, wake me whe." she yawned again, "aahhh! When it's time."
Chapter 9. Fugitives
A cold drop splatted into the hollow at her temple, trickled into her eye; another hit her mouth. Shadith sputtered, sat up. "Sar!" She reached for the harpcase, shifted it until it was standing upright, pushed between two bars, presenting the minimum area to the wind and the rain. Swardheld built tight and strong, but there was no point in putting unnecessary strain on his work.
The night was a black felt blanket thrown across the glade; the fire's light made little impression on it. She held her ringchron close to her eyes and clicked her tongue when she saw what it said; she'd only been sleeping an hour. More drops hit her, a flurry of them; the wind coming through the bars was chill and damp, it cut to the bone.
The locals were running about as if the storm had blown in out of nowhere, as if the clouds hadn't been piling up all evening-and they were completely ignoring their prisoners.
Rohant dropped to a squat beside her. He was shivering but trying to ignore it; he wasn't dressed for the weather and Dyslaera were savannah bred, used to dry heat and dust. His eyes shone red like bits stolen from the embattled fire as they watched shadows chase each other about the glade while the fire sizzled and smoked and threatened to go out and the locals struggled with " wind gusts and an unwieldy tarp, trying to hoist it over a rope they'd tied to staples driven into two of the trees. "City boys." He snorted. "Like a bunch of ants, you kick over their hill."
More flurries of the icy drops hit Shadith in the face, went trickling down her neck. "Tsoukbaraim!" She scraped the wet out of her eyes, pulled her shirt together at the collar and glared at Silvercreep who was yelling invective at his men while they fought the canvas and the wind and tried to pin the tarp's edges to the ground with a handful of wooden pegs.
After they got the improvised tent anchored solidly, the locals went rushing about the glade collecting their blankets and the pile of firewood. The rain started coming down steadily, the wind driving it at a strong slant.
Shadith thrust two fingers in her mouth and produced a whistle that knifed through the storm noise. "Hey," she yelled, "What about us?"