Six Moon Dance Part 17

"Him," she said, pointing at Bane.

He regarded her with insolence. "I go nowhere without my brother, Ma'am," he said, making little pretense of politeness.

"Your brother?" She laughed. "By all means. If you have a brother."

Dyre stepped forward. Marool nodded. "I have a cart outside. They will be taken to Mantelby Mansion." She turned to stalk away down the line of youths, paying the rest of them little attention.

One of the Haggers who had accompanied her opened the door into the entry, admitting a slight breeze that lifted the veil of the young man at the end of the line. The movement drew Marool's eyes to the face behind the veil. It was a beautiful face drawn into an expression of horrified recognition. Why horrified? She had never laid eyes on him before.

"What's the matter, boy? You never seen a woman before?"

"My apologies," he bowed, hiding his eyes. "I meant no disrespect."

Something in his manner both annoyed her and piqued her curiosity. "Feh," she barked, angry at him. "I'll take you as well, boy. You hear, Madame? I'll take this one as well. Does he have a name?"

"His name is Mouche, Mistress Mantelby." Madame said it in a dead, impersonal voice. "As I understand this matter, you are to give me a doc.u.ment agreeing to return these young men when the current emergency is over. If you will join me in my office, I will enter all the pertinent data on both our copies. Their names. Their annuities, which you would be expected to fulfill, if they should be incapacitated in your employ. Also their value to me, which you would be expected to pay if anything happens to them to reduce their value. Anything at all."

Marool glared, meeting eyes as cold as her own were hot. "You are presumptuous, Madame."

"Not at all. When we received word of this last evening, I went to the Temple to consult the Hags personally on the matter. It is not their intention that the Houses shall be robbed of their students. Bane, and Dyre, and Mouche will work in your stables or your gardens, replacing certain other laborers who are, for a time, unavailable to you. Such work is all they will do. And if their skin is marred, or their appearance changed, or if they are ill fed or their bones twisted or broken...."

Marool stormed out into the hall, and thence was led by Simon to Madame's office. Mouche moved uncertainly. Madame stepped beside him, murmuring: "Mouche, go with them. Be polite. Be subservient. Do your work. Do not tempt the woman to violence...."

"Madame ..." he whispered. "Madame ..."

"Yes, boy. What is it?"

"That picture outside my room. It's her, isn't it? That is Mistress Mantelby."

Madame paled. She shivered, then drew herself up once more. "Yes, Mouche. That is Mistress Mantelby. And the best way to avoid drawing her attention is to seem uninteresting. Do you understand? Be unattractive and dull. Totally dull." She gave him a significant look and gestured toward the door.

Still he hesitated. The sight of Marool's face had been terrible, but more terrible yet was the thought of leaving House Genevois, leaving his secret way within the walls, leaving ... that one whom he watched in the night hours. "Madame. Are the Timmys really gone?"

She shivered, only slightly, reaching forward to stroke his face with her fingers. "What Timmys? I know nothing of any Timmys. Nor do you, if you are wise. Go, Mouche. And may fortune be with you."

On her lips, it had the sound almost of a prayer.

35.

Timmy Talk.

If Mouche had been there to open his hidden gate and creep into the walls, he would have found the s.p.a.ce packed with Timmys: Timmys listening at cracks, peering through eye holes, observing what the humans were doing as they or their predecessors had been observing almost since humans had first arrived. Though it had been some time before Timmys had been seen by the second wave of settlers, Timmys had seen the settlers from the beginning.

"This creature coming," said one Timmy, who had been in the walls of the temple when D'Jevier and Marool had conversed, "This Questioner-idi coming, if idi finds out we have been treated badly, idi may seek to redress our wrongs, to do justice."

"That must not happen," cried others. "Our wrongs must not be redressed. Justice would upset everything!"

There was agreement. Justice would be the last straw.

"Why can't tim-tim go now," sang one, two, a dozen, their voices making a sad harmony of the words.

"It is not the time," replied others, an antiphon. "Timtim must await the time."

"But the jong grow strong," sang the first ones. "And the jong wax large, like moons, and Niasa turns and turns."

"Even so, it is not the time."

"The earth shakes with the turning of Niasa. She She will waken! will waken! She She will break the egg!" will break the egg!"

"Even so."

After a long silence, one offered, "Whether it is the time or not, word must be sent to the bai. The depths must be informed of this dangerous idi, this Questioner."

Others agreed. There was a generalized and rather antlike scurry as some set out and others arrived, this one and that one being a.s.signed to this peephole or that crack, and a small group started on a journey to the depths where they would inform the great ones of the dangerous Questioner who was coming.

Those remaining behind stayed at their peepholes in the walls. "The woman-gau took Mouchidi," said Mouche's G.o.ddess, the one he had intuitively called by her timtim name, Flowing Green. "They took the one I have hopes of!"

"Not far," rea.s.sured another. "He goes to House Mantelby. Tim-tim are in all the walls there, watching the terrible ones and the bad woman."

"I will go there," said the green-haired one. "I have many long hopes of Mouchidi. I read his face and see him feeling what we feel. I see how he joys. I see him perceive Her pain."

"I have no hopes," said another. "None of the jong have been any use. All those who came at first, they did the bad thing, but when we tried to use them to fix it, they were no use. Jongau are still moving around out there, all warped. That Ashes-gau, that bad smell, he is still out there."

"The other bad smells are there, too," offered another. "The big ones, the wet ones, the dry ones, the th.o.r.n.y ones...."

"I know what happened before," murmured the green-haired one. "I have been told by Bofusdiaga, singer of the sun. I have been told by Corojum, dancer of bright skies. Mouchidi is different. So say they."

One who had departed moments before returned breathlessly.

"We went, we met word already coming up from below," tim said. "The below ones already know of this Questioner. When it comes, it will be of some other kind and maybe have with it some other kinds yet. Bofusdiaga thinks we should look at them, too. Perhaps we would have better luck with another kind."

"Try, then," said the green-haired one. "Meantime, I will go to watch Mouchidi." She paused, as though debating whether or not to say what was in her mind, deciding at last to do so. "Again I dreamed! In the dream I danced into the fauxi-dizalonz, and Mouchidi was in it, and I was with him, and we were being changed together."

Several of the others recoiled, putting up their hands as though to ward her away. "Tss! Do not speak of it to tim-tim. It is not for us who say tim, tim, but only for you who say I, I. Speak of it only to Bofusdiaga, who alloys, and even then, speak softly, for She She might hear." might hear."

"She still sleeps," a.s.serted the one called Flowing Green. " still sleeps," a.s.serted the one called Flowing Green. "She is not listening yet." is not listening yet."

The other made a gesture which was the equivalent of a shrug. Flowing Green was excessive. From highest to lowest, Doshanoi, everyone, knew it. Tim-tim always said "tim-tim," we. Tim-tim never said "I." What could a part teach the whole? What dance could an "I" do, all by itself? Surely only the great ones could dream fully. Surely only the alloyed ones could remember what had been lost....

"But they do not," whispered some. "Even they do not remember, even among them the dreams are tattered, filmy, without substance. How could even alloyed ones make do with such as that?" They could not. The dance was lost. Perhaps ... lost forever.

"It is said," sang someone hidden in a corner. "It is said the mankinds have done wrong, they may be exterminated for the wrong they have done. Now, almost one could welcome this Questioner if it would exterminate these jongau who had not the courtesy to die."

"Bofiisdiaga says no," said Flowing Green. "Bofusdiaga does not want justice."

The timmy departed by Doshanoi ways, unseen. It did not take long to find the place where Mouche and the others had been sent.

36.

Pressed Men at Mantelby.

Mouche let himself be loaded into the wagon and chained there with no outward sign of protest. Only when he knew the sound of the wheels on cobbles would mask his words did he lean toward the nearest man to whisper: "My name is Mouche."

"Ornery Bastable," the other replied. "I'm a seaman. She called me a supernume!" Ornery's chin jerking toward the leading carriage showed who she meant. "I'll have words with her."

Mouche masked his mouth with a shackled hand and spoke softly. "Words won't help. I don't think she cares if we're supernumes or not. She is an evil woman, Bastable, so beware."

The other gave Mouche a level stare, then asked, too loudly, "Known or suspected of being evil?"

Mouche shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. He had meant only to warn, thinking it far too dangerous to get into discussion about it while Dyre and Bane were near. They were doing one of their favorite things, watching him with that long, unblinking snake-eyed stare. It made Mouche think seriously of the need for allies. No Simon or Madame here. No Fentrys or Tyle. He would have to cultivate Bastable or whomever, for any help was better than none.

He shielded his mouth with his hand once more and murmured, "She is known to be an evil woman, seaman. There is no doubt about it at all. I have been warned to be inconspicuous as possible, not to attract her attention. I would not have words with her if I could avoid it."

Ornery thought it over, then gave a tiny nod of thanks for the warning. Bane and Dyre went on staring for a time, though they soon gave it up in favor of loud and continuous complaint mixed with a.s.sorted sneers and un-specific threats against all and sundry. They complained of having been sent to House Genevois against their inclination and of having been kept there by threat of force. They said they had been forced to be civil (though they called it sucking up to n.o.bodies) when they would have preferred despotism (though they called it getting their rights). They complained of this latest outrage in which they were expected to labor like d.a.m.n Timmys instead of being cushioned on silk and fed cream, which is what they'd been trained for. Cushioning and drinking and other such dalliances seemed to have figured largely in their minds, as they went on and on about it. When next Mouche and Ornery shared a glance, both understood it as a contract. If word came to blow, they would stand together against these two.

The wagon took the winding road leading onto the western heights, pa.s.sing great houses behind high walls. At the top of the ridge, a man stood in an open gateway, obviously awaiting them. Mistress Mantelby halted her carriage and, indicating the waiting man with an imperious forefinger, called to those in the wagon: "Here is my steward. You will be working at his direction, so mind yourselves."

There was no reply from the wagon, and seemingly none was expected, for she went on in a loud voice. "Well, Nephew! I said I would bring replacements, and here they are!"

"Thank you, Aunt," the steward murmured, standing with bowed head while the carriage moved away. When she had departed some distance toward the house itself, the man waved the wagon on, following it dejectedly afoot as it went down a lane toward a group of outbuildings. The six prisoners were hauled out of the wagon, two of them were sent along the lane under the watchful eyes of an understeward, while Bastable and the three Consorts were half dragged and half led into the stables. While the Haggers watched from the sidelines, the steward dropped his veils and looked them over, disgust plain on his face.

"Three layabout supernumes and a triplet of useless Hunks," he complained, "to replace a dozen pairs of skilled hands. And if you don't do the work, it'll be my hide that pays for it, so take this to heart: You'll do the work or I'll make your hide pay for it, count on it."

"And who're you, g'nephew?" sneered Bane. "A Family Man? A Man of Business?"

The steward paled, biting his lips. "I am the person who gives orders to the Haggers," he said when he had collected himself. "The Mistress has set them under my direction. So, if you've some idea of attacking me or attempting to leave this place, mark down that I won't be alone in retaliation."

"We have powerful friends," yelped Dyre. "And they'll not leave us here."

The steward grimaced. "Oh, surely. And when your powerful friends order me to release you, and when the Hags agree to that, and when Mistress Mantelby signs her name to the order, I'll do it. Until then you are my fingers to move at my command, worthless, and best you remember it."

He went down the line of them, pulling their veils away from their faces, staring at each of them, noting the brothers' sullen rebellion as well as Mouche and Ornery's puzzlement. The puzzlement, he felt sympathy for. He himself was more than a little puzzled about this whole situation.

"There is no stable master at the moment," he said. "Until I can find a person with experience, I'll direct you myself. Tools are over there. Muck out all those stalls, put the muck in that cart there. Fill all the mangers with hay. Take the water buckets out, wash them, and fill them with fresh water from the well outside. Put one in each stall. When that is done, haul the cart out to the field and spread the muck about. If you think to save yourself trouble by dumping it all in one pile, you'll crawl about, spreading it with your noses! I'll be back after the noon-meal to see how much you've done. If you've done well, you'll eat."

And he turned and left, leaving two stout Haggers leaning on their cudgels to observe the work.

Mouche and Ornery set about the task, as described. There were a dozen stalls; they began on the ones nearest the loft. The job was no new thing for Mouche, though his hands, from which all calluses had long since been removed, soon felt the burn of the manure fork's wooden handle. Ornery had no such problem. Daily manipulation of ropes had given her palms like leather. Observing Mouche's tender hands, she pulled a pair of heavy work gloves from her back pocket and handed them over.

When Bane and Dyre made no move to help, the Haggers spoke roughly to them. After some muttering, they went unwillingly and unhandily to work at the far end.

"Y'said when we left Dutter, it was the end of this," Dyre growled.

"It will be," Bane muttered in return. "All this is a mistake, believe me." Then, with a glance at Mouche and Ornery, he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, "But I think we'll probably stay long enough to settle with that one. That one there owes us, don't he, Brother? He'll take a beating that will last him a lifetime."

Mouche clenched his fists and turned. "I owe you more pain than you do me, Stinkbreath."

"You got that wrong," said Bane, turning white with fury. "I do what I like. I'm a new breed, I am, and n.o.body interferes with me, not ever."

This brought the Haggers over once more, and while Bane and Dyre claimed their full attentions, Mouche and Ornery exchanged a few conspiratorial whispers concerning where they might find a haven if attacked. They settled upon the loft, and Ornery climbed there by the loose ladder-taking her and Mouche's belongings with her-and began forking straw down into the two stalls they had so far shoveled out. Mouche brought in two full buckets of fresh water, waited for an un.o.bserved moment and handed one up to Ornery, who set it out of sight. Now, if they had to retreat, at least they wouldn't die from thirst!

Somewhere a noon bell rang, and the Haggers, who evidently felt they had supervised long enough, filed out and away, chatting between themselves. When the stable door closed, Bane stalked from the stall he had made little effort to clean, threw his manure fork at Mouche's feet, and growled, "Get on with it, dungrats."

"We'll do six stalls, our half," said Mouche. "And no more than that."

"You'll do the whole," sneered Bane. "Or you'll suffer for it."

Mouche and Ornery exchanged a glance, then ignored Bane's bl.u.s.ter and turned back to the stall they were cleaning.

"Hey, farm boy," sneered Bane. "You been home to visit lately?"

Mouche paid no attention.

"You otta go. Somethin' there you otta see."

Mouche turned. "And how would you know? You've not been home either."

"Well, Dutters wasn't my home and they weren't my folks. I didn't have a daddy and a mommy like you did, but I got friends tell me things. You know you got two baby sisters, farm boy? You know you got a brother going to grow up to be a Family Man?"

"That's a lie," said Mouche stoutly. His father would have told him if any such thing were true.

Bane and Dyre laughed, punching each other in their glee. "No lie. Sold you off and right away, mama had a girl, then another one, then a boy. The farm's doing well without you, farm boy. I guess all they had to do was get rid of their bad luck, and the Hagions made it right for them."

"How come you know so much?" demanded Ornery, moving nearer to Mouche, who was choking on his anger.

"We was neighbors. Dutter place is just over the hill. We used to roam around there quite a bit, killing vermin, getting rid of varmints."

"What do you mean you didn't have a mother and father?" Ornery challenged. "Everybody has."

"Not us," cried Dyre. "We was born of the thunder, we was. Lightning is our papa. We're a new breed."

"Born of the stinkbush," choked Mouche, against all good sense. "Fathered by an outhouse."

Mouche scarcely had time to brace himself before Bane landed on him, knocking him backward so the breath went out of him. His attacker drew a blade from his belt and wasted no time striking at Mouche's face. Mouche rolled and fended the first blow, but the second bit deep. He felt the slice and the warm blood on his cheek. His mouth was suddenly larger, and something inside himself screamed with outrage. His face. Bane had scarred his face!

The manure fork was under Mouche's hand, his fingers closed around the neck, just below the long tines. He managed to bring the fork up, twist it so the tines pointed at Bane, and thrust them deep enough that Bane fell back with a yelp, allowing Mouche to scramble to his feet with a firm grip on the fork as he backed, blood streaming, toward the ladder to the loft.