M.E. Traylor

“—and then something about babies chasing moths…”

“No no no! The thing about the faces changing was first. Because he was hot. ”

“Who was?” Erue asked patiently, seated on a crate, fingers laced lightly together.

“The Lridrisy’s poppa?” Nemasd said.

“No—” Brac burst out, “—it was a Lridrisy attached to the woman, a Lridrisy family and Limdri family, or something.”

“Why don’t you ask Toney?” said Erue.

“Because he’s not here right now.”

Ashur watched Brac fling out his skinny, ocean-tanned arms, pacing to the right.

Blandly, Nemasd remarked, “Well he’s probably somewhere on the ship.” From where he crouched on the deck near the cooler air, Ashur’s eyes followed Brac as he reversed direction, not quite able to resist showing his amusement.

Toney and Efeddre had been waiting for them in the open air. Kydele’s curtain was completely vanished, except perhaps as a glimmer caught in the corner of the eye. The stars hung fierce and bright in the clear black sky, all the way down to the horizon.

“This is in the end of the fruiting season,” Efeddre continued, “so everyone is getting fat before the snows. Tesenge is cold, and has at least a gross of years. He lives a little apart from his people, and watches the herds move through their valley. Orion is in her prime. She directs her people's fishing when a long, black and gold fish spawns, and she can throw a pike as far as one of our tallest white trees can reach.”

Away from the torches, Ridiath could only roughly see his slender silhouette as his hand rose in a gesture of height. The knot of anticipation that had ridden in her gut all day had begun to relax as Efeddre settled into his casual rhythm. Toney lay stretched out on his stomach, chin propped on his folded arms. Beside her, Alan sat with his elbows resting on his knees, silent, gently moving with the motion of the boat.

"We have to feed her?"

Mehth sounded sourly unconvinced of the necessity.

Ashur made half a ruthless grin.

"One meal a day's not going to starve the rest of us."

Helping him wrestle another crate from the back end of a stack against the hull, Mehth said, "I don't like it as an idea." Ashur didn't disagree. Mehth picked off a length of the pitch seal, squeezing a wooden bar under the tightly fitted lid, and wrenched it downward with his heavy arms. Pitch crackled and popped off onto the decking. Lifting the lid off, he leaned it against the stack of crates and they surveyed the contents.

Wing fruits, pickled, dried, and mashed into a solid block as heavy as a man. It showed no sign of having been tampered with since they had put it away last warm season. The seal hadn't been touched.

"That," Mehth said, "s'the last one."

Pushing the door into its slot, he stepped in and slid it closed behind him. Ridiath leaned against to the bulkhead, the stack of bowls close to her ribs.

A crack of light seeped around the edges of the door, then faded. Someone slipped out, taller and broader in the shoulder than Erue, moving with more care. Fis touched her arm lightly to ask if she wanted to go inside, but she spread her fingers against his hand in a sign to wait.

Closing her eyes, Ridiath settled into the patchy blackness behind her eyelids. She heard nothing from inside, and Erue raised no alarm. The ship creaked and whispered around them.

Opening her eyes to the dark, she touched Fis' shoulder.

He slid the door open, and when Erue unshuttered the lamp she ducked in, keeping her face down against the sudden glare. Erue had settled by the door, the lamp dangling from his fingers washing the bilge in dim shades of yellow and gray. The woman sat against the hull to her left, and looked up sharply as Ridiath stepped in. She was still massaging her wrists, clenching her hands and stretching them.

The glitter of her eyes followed Ridiath as she walked down the keelson and laid two bowls along the beam, sliding the strap of the jar off her shoulder.

Ridiath tossed the tunic onto the woman's knees. She reacted sluggishly, not even blinking.

In careful ritual observance, Ridiath poured water into the empty bowls. The woman had picked the tunic up, staring at it blankly for a heartbeat before stiffly working it over her head. Pushing the cap back on the jar, Ridiath folded her legs and tucked herself across the compartment. Picking up a bowl, she drank, studying the woman over the rim as she finished pulling the tunic as far down her thighs as it would reach. It had been a challenge finding something long enough to cover her.

Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face as it had dried, and her eyes were sunken. The effort of struggling into the tunic seemed to have exhausted her. She glanced at the bowl of water, then back at Ridiath. Ridiath took another swallow.

After a long stretch of grim consideration, the woman shifted closer, and leaned forward. Bracing the points of her elbows against the beam she picked up the bowl and drank, slowly, taking minute sips. When she had emptied it she seemed almost breathless. Her eyelids sagged. Ridiath picked up the jar, which made the woman's eyes snap back open. As Ridiath stretched forward and poured, she pulled herself back against the hull. She tried to say something and gave a jagged cough. Swallowing, she rasped again, "So're we supposed to build rapport now cuz we're both women?"

"Probably," Ridiath agreed, settling back again. The woman glanced back at the bowl, but did not move toward it, staring at Ridiath. Ridiath ignored her and finished drinking.

Setting her bowl down, Ridiath let her curiosity direct her eyes. She was big, with a frame to match her height, not fat but soft. The woman pulled on her little finger, and cracked the joint in her thumb.

The ship listed, and the woman's eyes flicked down to watch the water level in the bowl move from horizontal to diagonal, but she did not move. A little spilled over the lip before the ship rocked back. Ridiath waited, and watched herself be watched.

Suddenly the woman wrinkled her face, and began to chafe at her cheeks with her hands, loosening hanks of salt-stiff hair. She combed half-heartedly through it with her fingers, snagging on tangles, before rubbing her face insistently. The fringe on her forehead stuck out in odd directions.

Shifting, she paused, keeping her eyes on Ridiath. They darted to the side toward Erue's indolent stance against the wall. Then she slowly crept forward again and took the bowl, drinking a little more deeply.

Ridiath lifted the jar and an eyebrow.

Setting the bowl down, the woman pushed it toward her.

The tone of the stream of water rose in pitch as she emptied the jar.

This time the woman reached for the bowl as soon as Ridiath moved back. Stretching out her tied legs, she drank like deep breaths, cradling the bowl in her lap when she was done, eyes closed.

Gathering her bowl and the jar, Ridiath rose to a crouch. Eyes cracking, the woman followed her as she leaned forward and held out her hand. After a long stare, the woman gave her the bowl, but said nothing, even when Erue shuttered the lamp.

The light through the porthole in the map cabin was infinitely brighter, clearer, than the lamplight below.

"And?"

"She didn't throw up."

Ashur straightened in irritation.

"And what else?"

"She is wary, and somewhat patient."

"What did you ask?" he demanded. Raising her brows slightly, Ridiath turned her full attention on him and braced herself.

"Nothing."

Ashur stared at her.

"Then what did you do down there for half the morning?"

"Your method can be to press her; mine will be to offer her silence."

Alan was watching, considering. Ashur turned away from her, making his sharply cut shadow twist on the floor.

"I see the wisdom in attempting both."

"There are faster ways," Ashur said again. Alan tilted his head curiously.

"Have you ever heard a story of a breeder giving up under torture?" Ashur's fine mouth twisted.

"No."

Ridiath's hand wandered to the pile of bizarre clothes in the basket on the map table. Her finger toyed idly with the metal tongue etched with tiny symbols, teasing it up the two rows of teeth at the crotch of the pants. Catching herself, she pulled her hand away to not muddy the scent.

"She still smells odd," she said into the silence.

"Piss does that," Ashur agreed, deadpan.

She chose not to react, continuing, "And she doesn't have any hair on her legs." After her own pause, she said, "She doesn't feel like a breeder." The movement of his eyes said Ashur thought not much of that. Collapsing into the spare hammock hanging to the side, he scraped his hand through his newly cropped black hair.

"I don't like this," he said abruptly. "There's too much unknown. She's too comfortable with Seclednar." He paused. "I should have felt her come aboard." Ridiath held still and thought of nothing but the carved sweep of currents in front of her, the play of the sunshine on the floorboards, and especially did not feel interested in listening to him lest he shut down. "If she was Blinshe, that would be… too much…" He never finished unfolding the slow thought, and Ridiath carefully did not feel disappointed lest he remember she was there. "I still can't find anything within three leagues of us."

"Then we should be in no immediate danger," Alan pointed out.

"'Immediate' danger would be less worry."