IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
IV: Braided Paths
Chapter 24 Lyanfa
Friday, September 18, 2708 I
have nothing to fear by sending Bijal into town, a full-grown man like him,
raised in the revolution and not some half-crazed reject of the adult
world. He's probably put more years into
serving the Egalitarians than most of this troop has spent alive. He wears the scars of experience all over his
face. He's got the maturity to put what
little money we can squeeze out of our last few lumps of wax to the best
possible use, and not spend it all on
beer and women. And
if he can do a little recruiting, so much the better. We don't have anyone local in our band, yet,
someone we could count on to know the terrain and the people better than the
army. Bad news for guerillas—we should
have picked somebody up last time, our numbers notwithstanding. (Captain Deirdre has
nothing to fear by entrusting me to go into town for supplies. I keep telling myself that. Already my beard grows back, thick and bushy,
everywhere that the scars allow; it's time to leave that horror in the past
where it belongs, to pull myself together and move on. That Molotov accident
wasn't my fault, after all; I just had to bring out a raw recruit on a fire
mission, and he just had to freeze up right there, crouching next to me with
the damned thing in his hand. Well, he won't
make that mistake twice. And will I? That explosion didn't just make a hash out of
my face. I keep second-guessing myself,
ever since. Do I really have what it
takes to lead soldiers in the Revolution anymore? I used to believe that I could size up
recruits, and know what they could handle when, better than anybody short of
Cyran hirself, but that confidence blew apart like so much flaming glass. Right in my face. And what kind of leader am
I, without my confidence? Good enough for errands, at
least, good to send to that general store over there, to stock up on corn and
potato meal, tobacco and beans, good enough even to make first contact on
possible recruits, without giving too much away too soon, then hand them over for
someone else to train. Level-headed,
everybody says—not the sort who'd panic and let a bomb blow up in his hand. Of course Miss Cleavage
slouching over this way doesn't know anything about my level head, or the fact
that I feel a lot more temptation for that cigarette dangling from her ruby-painted
lips than for anything under such a dirty skirt. It doesn't take long to figure her out; a
face like mine only draws smiles like that from pros. Doesn't take her long to figure me out,
either—she probably assumes that I'd thank her handsomely for anything I can
get. "Far from home, stranger?" "Not so far, now," I
say. "Got a wife over in the next
valley." She puts a friendly hand on
my shoulder. "Oh yeah? Devil's Valley? Nobody lives there." She stands close enough for me to smell her. "Nothing there but rock and an old salt pan." I chuckle bashfully. "Okay, maybe I am far from home." Idiot!
Look at a map, next time—we've got some literates to point out names and
places. "What do you call this town, anyway?" "Lyanfa," she says
breathlessly. "The name means
‘Sanctuary' in the old tongue." She
giggles a little. "I guess that means
that you and I walk on holy ground." "I guess." She plays with my
beard. "You've seen some pain on your
journey, poor baby." "The scars? Yeah.
Oil cookstove blew up in my face." "Mm hm," she says
noncommitally, and hands me the cigarette for a grateful puff. "So—you traveling on your boss's business?" "Something like that." "And who is the man or
woman that you serve?" I nearly swallow the
cigarette—she's one of us? "Neither and
both." "Thought so. People alone in the world don't recover from
burns like that. What's your name?" "Bijal. And you?" "Around here they call me
Rosebud." Why does that ring a bell? "Or they did when I was younger." She takes the cigarette back for a long
drag. "You can stay at my place, free of
charge, but perks'll cost ya." She winks.
"What are you in town for?" "Supplies." I make the gesture for recruiting, too. "Ah." The smoke of her sigh fades on the
breeze. "Well, Bijal, I'd lie low, if I
were you. Purple Mantles have been
snooping around. Tell you what—I'll take
your money out to buy whatever you need, and you can recruit discreetly among
my customers. You can play the bartender
for tonight." "Sounds good," I say,
"except that it's wax to barter, not cash." "Fine with me—I deal in all
kinds of currency, honey, and nobody thinks twice about some of the strange
gear I've paid my bills with." She links her arm in mine while I ignore her
odor, and sashays off towards a ramshackle house on the edge of town. Actually, I find I don't mind the stink—reminds
me of times huddled together with the troops against the cold, taking comfort
in each other. It only disturbs me because it's not healthy for someone living
in town, with plumbing and shelter. After a deep drag of
tobacco, glancing down at the end reddened by her lips, gives my arm an extra
tug closer. "Say, I could use some of
that beeswax, myself. Not much, just a
dab to make lipstick with. Berries don't
grow this time of year, and I've got to make a living." "Fine," I say.
"Just not too much." "It only takes a bit." She tosses off an easy laugh like I'd told
her a joke, as she reaches up and toys with my beard again. "You're old for this business," she
says. "A survivor." "Aren't we all?" "Uh uh," she says, and her
eyes burn as she looks away. "Most of us
are ghosts." She says nothing further
till we reach her place, the red lamp cold and lifeless in the wan
daylight. She keeps a surprisingly clean
establishment for a lone player busy all night—looks like she's crocheted
herself some pretty curtains, gathered fresh flowers for the vase, and polished
all the mirrors. And the floor shines
enough to show reflections by itself, suitably enough. Why would she keep such clean quarters and neglect
her own hygiene? "You don't work alone,
do you," I say. "I've trained a couple
girls with nowhere else to go." She
sucks hard on her cigarette and her eyes narrow. "They won't interfere with our business." "So that's why they don't
call you ‘Rosebud' anymore—Madame." She shrugs sourly. "Bar's over there," she says. "We've got chaummin, corn beer, pome cider,
pear cider, rubyberry brandy, ‘tater spirits, Stovaki port, whiskey-blend,
Segunda, and Primera for the high rollers."
She points out the bottles with jabs of her cigarette. "Mixers are coffee, laren, juegarroz,
hibiscus punch, tamarina, and straight club soda." I whistle. "Not bad." "Can I pour you a drink,
Bijal?" "Thanks, but I only drink
on special occasions." "How dull," she
sniffs. "A cup of tea, then?" "Tea works for me." I settle into one of the overstuffed chairs—nice
bit of patchwork here on the arm, looks more like design than necessity. In contrast I notice anew how uncombed my
hostess's hair looks; the light from the window illuminates a dirty halo of
frizz around her head. As she brings me a cup she
asks, "Ever tend bar before?" "Nothing I can't
learn." I breathe in the aromatic steam
(hauntingly familiar scent) as I warm my hands on the cup. "Can you read?" She brings out a notebook from behind the
bar. "‘Fraid not." She sighs and clunks it
back down on the wood. "Then the recipe
book won't do you no good." "You really get customers
that fancy?" "Sometimes. When we're lucky." "When the army comes to
town." She glares at me
suddenly. "When anybody with real cash
comes to town." I raise my hands. "Easy, lass.
I'm sure you've heard a lot that Cyran appreciates every time the army
rolls in." I pick my cup back up—this
tea tastes delicious! And somehow familiar... Mollified, she stubs her
cigarette out in an ash tray already full of ruby-stained butts. Then she lights up another like she doesn't
even notice what she does. "I wouldn't mind one of
those, myself," I say. "You can take the
cost out in wax." This time her shrug looks
more friendly as she smiles around her smoke.
"Help yourself, free." She lights
another and hands it over to me. "Help
yourself to anything you want, except me or the other girls—that's all I meant
by ‘perks', soldier." Gladly I light up and treat
myself to a long, loving drag. Balances
nicely with this herbal tea—and where have I tasted it before? Seems associated with some comforting
memory... "Sure you won't have a
little firepower in that cup?" She flirts a little with her smile and
posture. "Don't I qualify as a special
occasion?" "I like to stay quick on my
feet when I'm far from my band," I say, "but thanks for the thought." Actually I don't feel all that quick, right
now, just luxuriously relaxed here in this safe harbor, with a good smoke, warm
tea, and the softest chair I've settled in for years. "So," I say, "Since we both work for ‘neither
and both', what have you learned that you'd like to send back to our employer?" She leans down on the arm
of my chair with a hungry grin, her eyes burning on me, and suddenly all that
cleavage looks like some dreadful gulf that I feel dizzy to stare down, like I
could fall in. "Tell Cyran..." she says,
then suddenly laughs. "No. Tell me first, how do you feel, Bijal?" "Fine. Maybe a little tired." Maybe a lot tired. "Why?"
Maybe too fine. My heart beats
way too fast as I struggle to recall where I last tasted this tea. "Maybe a little tired?" She
mock-pouts. "This chair can recline, you
know." She runs her fingers through my
beard once more and takes the cigarette from my lips. "Would Bijal-baby like a nap?" But the chair feels like it moves even before
she touches the lever on the side. I push the tea away from me
and distantly hear the cup shatter on the floor. "I just cleaned that," she
snarls, then says brightly, "No matter, Bijal-baby. Are you nice and comfy?" Suddenly I remember that
tea—Rashid brewed it to kill the pain.
"What have you done?" I try to say, but my jaw won't
move the way I want. She leaps onto the chair,
straddling it on all fours like a panther; her scent overwhelms me. Very bright shine her eyes and grinning
teeth, while all the room spins ‘round behind her. "You want my message to Cyran?" she
asks. "Tell hir I hate hir twisted
guts!" And she plays with my beard, then
digs her nails into my face, laughing, laughing, I fall into her laughter,
scared to death because I can't really feel her nails. Not yet...)
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