A Bait of Dreams Read Free

smash the old woman in the face, to smash—smash—smash that little weasel face into bloody ruin, then wipe the ruin on that damn cafta. But she doubted whether she could stand without tumbling over, so she managed to keep her head down and her mouth shut. When the old woman went off to scold someone else, she sat still, hands fisted in her lap.
    Habbiba’s scolding voice faded as she left the room. The other girls moved about, chatting cautiously, eyes turning slyly about, watching out for the sudden return of their employer. When they had all trickled out, bunched into laughing clusters of workfriends, Gleia forced herself onto her feet.
    The world swung. She grabbed at the sewing stand and held on tight until the room steadied around her. With neat economical movements she folded her work and put it in the box, then she walked through the rows of silent tables, a fragile glass person that the slightest shock would crack into a thousand fragments.
    Outside, the darkening twilight threw a veil of red over the crowded streets, blurring covered carts with screeching wheels into horsemen riding past in dark solid groups into single riders gawking at the city sights into throngs of people pushing along the wooden walkways. She hummed the Madarchant of the peoples. Chilkaman catman fishman hunter, parsi plainsman desert fox herder, firssi mountainman caravanner hawkster .… In spite of her fatigue she sucked in a deep breath and watched furtively the fascinating variety of peoples flowing past her. Chilka catmen from the plains with their hairy faces, flat noses and double eyelids, the inner transparent one retracted into the damp tissue folds around their bulging slit-pupilled eyes. Caravanners, small and quick, pale faced. Mountain hunters, far from their heights with dark gold skin and brown hair bleached almost white at the tips, leading horses loaded with fur bales.
    A breath of salt air, cool and fresh as the sea itself, stung her nose. A flash of opaline emerald. Impression of scaled flesh flowing liquidly past. A seaborn. Ignoring the irritated protests of the other pedestrians she turned and stared after the slim amphibian walking with the characteristic quick clumsy grace of the sea folk. She didn’t recognize him. Disappointed, she edged to the wall and stumbled tiredly through the crowd thinking about the only friend she’d ever had, a slim green boy … so long ago … so long.…
    She walked slowly into the dingy front hall of the boarding house, putting each foot down with stiff care, wondering how she was going to get up all those damn creaking stairs.
    â€œGleyah ’spinah.” The hoarse breathy voice brought her to a careful halt. She inched her head around, feeling that her burning eyes would roll from her head if she moved too quickly.
    â€œRent.” Miggela held out a short stubby hand.
    Gleia closed her eyes and fumbled in her pocket, sore fingers groping for the packet of coins she’d put there earlier. Her fingers closed on the egg-shaped stone; she frowned, not remembering for a minute where the thing came from.
    The rat-faced landlady scowled and flapped her pudgy hand up and down. “Rent!”
    Gleia slid her hand past the crystal and found the packet. Silently she drew it out and handed it to the old woman.
    Miggela tore clumsily at the paper. Her crusted tongue clamped between crooked yellow teeth, she counted the coins with deliberate slowness, examining each one with suspicious care, peering nearsightedly at the stamping.
    Gleia rubbed her hand across her face, too tired to be irritated.
    Slipping the coins into a sleeve pocket, Miggela stood staring up into the taller woman’s drawn face. “You’re late. You missed supper.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œAnd don’t you go trying to cook in your room.”
    â€œNo.” She wasn’t hungry anymore but knew she had to have food. Her legs trembled. She wanted more than anything