by Jo Clayton
She looked into two more of the public arenas, found nothing that interested her, and left the fight-o-drome.
“You worry me, little Voyka.”
She scowled over her shoulder at the old man. “You following me round?”
“You aren’t hard to see, got up like that.”
“Not in the mood for sex, if that’s what you’re after. Just want to have some fun.” She moved her shoulders impatiently, put a touch of whine in her voice.
He clicked his tongue, shook his head. “Nothing like that, Voyka, just sayin’. You got any your poems in memory?”
“Some I set as songs. Why?”
“There’s this place down a bit closer to the lake. Man I know runs it. Lots of Ptaks go there, mind that?”
She shrugged. “Their world. So…” She saw the crewman emerging from the fight-o-drome looking ready to chew nails. “Um… let’s move on, hm? That’s a cross street where the shadows are, isn’t it?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a creep I had some trouble with.” She sighed, yanked the crest and horsetail from her head, and moved hastily around a clutch of Cousins coming from a playhouse. “Mood he’s in, I don’t want him anywhere round me.”
Shadith glanced at the holo, frowned. “The Hungry Harp?”
“Saul, he’s the owner, he says if you have to have everything explained, you don’t belong there.”
“Mm.”
The old man chuckled. “Come along, Voyka. You can buy kaf or wine at the bar; if you want something else, it’s likely hanging in the shadows.”
Inside was dark and smelled of the herbs in the smoke drifting from the torches in gilded cages scattered about the long L-shaped room, hanging on chains from ceiling beams, swaying in the breeze from the coolers, torches that cast confusing, multiple shadows over the faces of the people seated at the tables. There was a. small stage with a guitar, a flute, and a keyboard sitting on chairs as if they watched the watchers.
Saul was a round little man with eyes so pale they seemed bleached in a face the color of charcoal; he was bald on top but wore his fringe of long gray hair in double plaits tied off with leather thongs. He had a wide, thin-lipped mouth that was never still, squeezing together as he listened to the old man, a corner twisting up, then down, lower lip sucked in, then both lips pursed, then moving from side to side.
When the old man finished, Saul turned his head, called, “Zaddo.”
A man came through a beaded curtain, tall and thin with straight blond hair hanging loose. “Huh?”
“Talk to her.” Saul jerked a thumb at Shadith. He touched her arm, pointed at the stage. “You got fifteen minutes. Zaddo here plays keyboard. Get up there and tell him what you want.”
Shadith fixed the red crest in her hair again, moved with the elaborations of the tune she’d whistled for Zaddo; when she was ready, she sang, playing with the words, turning them to fit the music:
“I am fathoms deep
In love with dark
I fill my mouth with night
And drink the absence
Of the light
Dense and stark
I think
I will not endure
The pure white silence
Of the day
I will sleep the bright away
And rise
With the moon
To reprise
The melodies of night.”
Five songs later, hoarse and weary, humming with the praises of her audience, quite pleased with herself and starting to wonder if the old man was really a spy or just a whacked piece of beach wrack, Shadith ambled back to her boardhouse.
After a long hot shower and a pot of caloury tea to soothe her throat, she stretched out on her bed and went hunting for ears so that she could listen to the Cobben.
Sound of a door closing. Feet, sighs, grunts, a thud as one of the Cobben knocked something onto the floor.
“Meya, you’re drunk!”
“Am not. ‘F you’d turn the light up.”
“Heb, you stink like a whorehouse. Where were you anyway?”
“Whorehouse.” Sound of honking snigger
“Ta-tse, how’s the talent?”
“Talented. Sarpe, you back?” Hebi’s growl loudened to a shout, then he answered himself. “Hunk Guess she is, looka that, shield’s on.”
Sound of door sliding open. A confusion of footsteps, sound of yawns. Sarpe’s voice had a post-orgasmic muting of its usual harsh edges. “So you lot are back”
“You getting shy, Coryfe?”
“Don’t be more of an idiot than you have to, Feyd.”
“Any news?”
“Clo-Kajhat finally came through with what’s on his alleged mind. More than just strangling some hapless git. He wants Linojin brought into the war: The tourists are getting bored with the sniping, he needs something big to get their juices going.”
“Huh? Don’t get it, Sarpe. How’n Tarto’s Hell we supposed to do that?”
“He’s targeted three mals. The Holy Piz who plonks that Temple thing. ahh, Brother Hafambua, Humble Haf the preaching mal, the jinners go round licking up the sweat where he walks, they think he’s so righteous, then there’s a Prophet Speaker called Kuxagan, got a mouth on him could talk you into a spate of celibacy, Heb, need I say more? The third’s the hohek leader, the one they call the Arbiter, name of Noxabo. He keeps the peace between Pixa and Impix, which is something I wouldn’t like to try. CloKajhat figures we do ’em and fix it like one of the other factions killed ’em. That should stir the pot real nice.”
“So when we getting started on it?”
“Day after tomorrow; be ready to catch the boat for k’Wys straight up noon.”
After she let the mouse run free, Shadith lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. The horns of this dilemma had very sharp points. It wasn’t her job, it wasn’t her war. Why should she feel pushed to get to those people to warn them? And who said they’d believe her anyway? And yet…
Finally, tired of the ruts she was running in, she shoved that problem aside and began to consider how she was going to explain disappearing after that performance. Ah Spla! I STILL haven’t gotten into work mode. Or stayed in character. Doing what comes naturally will have to wait till the job’s done, or I’m going to mess up worse than this some time soon. She sighed. If the old man isn’t a spy, just a nice old guy who’s convinced himself I could be a daughter or something like that, he’s going to make one big fuss when I stop showing up. If he is a spy, I’m in the soup for sure.
She laced her hands behind her head and lay scowling at the ceiling. Say I write him a bit of thank-verse, say I’ve met this neat guy and we’re going to do some snuggling, so he shouldn’t fuss if he doesn’t see me for a couple weeks. Give the thing to Saul, tell him to pass it on. Just stupid enough an excuse he might even believe it; the way I’ve been acting, it’ll be right in character. She sighed and turned to working out the final details of stowing away on the Cobben’s flier.
3. Night swimming with eels
Shadith slipped out of the long dress she’d worn to cover her swimming tack and stuffed it into her gearsac, pushing it down behind the break-in kit Digby had provided along with other bits and pieces he thought would prove useful. She knelt in the deep black shadow at the end of the wharf where the weathered stone rose a dozen meters above the surface of the water. Old Tiger was moving in his hole. She could feel the hunger developing in him; if she left him alone, in another half hour he’d come gliding out to chase down some dinner. Sorry, old son, she thought. But this won’t take long.
She pulled on the breather hood, clamped down on his brain, slid over the side, and lowered herself into the water.
Old Tiger was a horror mask snarling in her face as she kicked herself down to meet him. She caught hold of the ragged crest that ran down his backbone, positioned herself beside him and sent him swimming at top speed toward k’Wys.
When his body brushed against her as they pl
unged through the darkness, she could feel the slide of those long live muscles fighting the resistance of the water. It was a wild intoxicating ride and made her want to howl at the moon for the glory of it all.
She scolded herself to order as the slopes of k’Wys loomed before them, set the eel to searching for the configurations around the blowhole she wanted.
The crescent moon was low on the horizon when she pulled herself cautiously from the hole and wriggled through the thornbush until she could stretch out on a mix of gravel and dead grass and use her nightglasses to sweep the area around the hangar.
Quiet. No one around. As usual.
She eased up, squatted, and pulled the gearsac round where she could get at it. Screened by the brush and the folds of rock, mindtouch reaching out to warn her if anyone came round, she stripped off the wetsuit, rolled it into a tight cylinder, and tucked it into a crack in the stone. No point in dripping on the hangar floor. The breather hood she contemplated for a moment, then slid it into a press pouch on the outside of the sac. There might come a time when she needed it.
By the time she was ready to move, the moon was gone and clouds were blowing across the stars, thickening the darkness. The wind had risen and was whipping dead leaves and grit across the ground. She let it whip her along with them, turned the corner of the hangar, and stopped before the small personnel door. She clicked on the reader Digby had given her, confirmed what her own senses told her. The only barrier was mechanical. She flipped the reader over, extruded the quickpic, and inserted it into the slot.
A moment later she eased the door open and slipped inside. As she started to turn so she could relock the door, there was a swift scrabbling and a sudden weight slammed into her, knocking her flat.
Carrion breath.
Feet on her back, nails ripping into her shirt and the skin beneath it.
Teeth closing on the nape of her neck.
The instant she felt the weight, her mindride stabbed out, froze the beast.
She lay with her face in the dust, holding desperately to the grip she had on him.
Focus. Slow. No hurry. You know how to do this. Follow the pathways, take control, bleed off the rage… In another few breaths she had him.
She opened his mouth, walked him off her back, then rolled up and scowled at him and through his eyes at herself. It was a weird feeling. She eased off on the hold, played a moment in his pleasure centers, then brought him closer so she could rub her hands over him and get him used to her scent.
The faint light coming through clerestory windows high overhead showed her a black canine with a flash of white on his neck. She dug her fingers into his droopy jowls, scratched behind his ears, worked down his spine, evoking slobbery whimpers and an ecstatic wriggle of his hindquarters. Gradually she removed the controls, starting to breathe again as he stayed friendly. He, was an intelligent beast and not mad at the world, no meanness in him, just doing his job.
“Yes, you’re a good dog, aren’t you. With a good trainer, you like him, don’t you. He’s my friend, you’re my friend. Feels good when I scratch you like that, doesn’t it. Ah, spla, your breath’s enough to knock over an ox. So I’ll get up. Down, boy, feet on the floor. That’s right. Head at my knee. Now let’s go explore.”
Panting and dripping slobber, he trotted beside her as she moved about the hangar, using a minute pinlight to see what the Ptaks kept in that vast gloomy building.
There were four fliers parked in the center of the stained metacrete floor. A fifth was racked with one of the lifters stripped, waiting for repairs which a certain thickness of dust suggested no one was rushing to complete.
None of the locks were engaged.
They were standard haulers with the cargo hold below the passenger module. The hold was a rectangular box with a grating floor, straps for tying bales and bundles, and a series of wall bins. Stowing away wouldn’t be difficult if she could figure out which flier the Cobben planned to use.
She moved away from them and stood, hands on hips, scowling at four large shadows. “Well, dog, it’s really too bad you can’t talk. Or would you even know? Maybe they haven’t decided themselves which beast they’re going to ride. Shays! I really don’t want the noise it’d make if I had to steal one of those things. It’s a nest in the rafters for me, dog. Sleep out the night and watch which one they load up with supplies and hope they do it ahead of time.”
The dog pushed his muzzle against her hip and wagged his stumpy tail as she dug her fingers into the ruff round his neck.
“You’re a love, aren’t you?” She chuckled. “Deadly little love. I’d be cold meat without the mindride. Ah, spla, my fault, not yours. Should have read the building before I went in. Hmp. Time for you to get back to work and me to find myself a perch.”
Early morning sunlight was streaming through the narrow clerestory windows when the large doors slid open. The dog trotted to the door, stood a moment, ruff bristling, a ridge of hair rising along his spine. There was a sound that Shadith felt rather than heard. The dog relaxed and trotted out of sight. A moment later a cargo carrier hummed in.
It settled beside the nearest flier, then a small wiry man followed the handler out. Lying on a rafter high above them, Shadith smiled tightly as he spoke. Cobben on the job. The voice told her which. Orm.
With the loader ‘bots working steadily and in spite of Orm’s fussy interference, the transfer of the goods was quickly finished. As the handler loaded the ‘bots onto the carrier, Orm climbed into the passenger section of the flier. Shadith tensed, listening to the clinks and clunks he made, wondering if he were going to settle in and wait for the others. The Coryfe said noon and that was several hours off, but maybe they’d changed the time.
The handler walked round the carrier, making sure the ‘bots and the stakes were properly in place, then he slammed down the locking lever and climbed into the cab. The hum of the lifters filled the hangar. Orm dropped from the flier’s cabin and ran to the carrier.
A moment later the hangar’s door hummed shut.
Shadith circled the flier, Digby’s readout telling her that Orm had activated some sort of alarm. The readout wasn’t sensitive enough to do more, so she clicked it off and crouched in the shadow next to the cargo hatch, eyes shut, trying to trace the energy flows. Since most of the system was potential rather than actual, it was a bitch to read. She was sweating and her head was throbbing by the time she managed to trip the switch and shut the thing off.
She used the quickpic to unlock the hatch and crawled inside; there was just room to wriggle along on top of the padded crates. At the back of the hold there was a small pile of unused padding and a space large enough for her to sit with some comfort. She slipped her arms from the straps of her gearsac, pushed it to one side, lowered herself onto the padding, then sat scowling at the crate in front of her, trying to decide if she should reset the alarm.
If it was internal as well as external… if she needed a passpartout to convince it she was part of the cargo… dogs were easier…
The Cobben might have gotten sloppy through easy living, but she couldn’t count on them missing an obvious thing like a switched-off alarm. She closed her eyes, found the configuration after a few moments of fumbling about, sucked in a breath, and flipped the switch.
Nothing happened.
Right. Now all I’ve got to worry about is boredom. Hours of boredom. Do I dare sleep? Better question is how do I stay awake? She yawned, arranged one of the pads behind her, curled up as comfortably as she could, and went to sleep.
19
When the Twig is Broken, Peril. Body, mind and soul on the brink of the Abyss.
Chapter 7
1. All that effort undone
Thann adjusted the net with a flex and bend of xe’s wrists and sent it skimming out, the wet cord resisting the mischief of the wind that boomed in xe’s ears and teased the water into jadeite shards. Xe’s father had a saying-a talking wind makes bad fishing-which had proved itself over and over thi
s day. Xe tugged at the steering lines and began pulling the net in, alert to a certain liveliness in the feel that told xe that xe’d finally caught more than weed and driftwood.
A scream. Isaho! Thann dropped the, guides and started to turn.
Hands caught xe’s arms, a loop of rope was round xe’s wrists and dragged tight. A moment later, xe was facedown on the river bank, another loop about xe’s ankles pulled tight and tied off. Xe writhed around, spat dirt from xe’s mouth, and began struggling against the ties.
The mal who’d trapped xe wore a peddler’s red shirt, faded and stained, a peddler’s humpy hat with the wide brim to keep the sun from his eyes, a peddler’s iron rings in his ears. The bits of his crest hair poking from under the hat were streaked with gray. He watched xe struggle, his leathery face impassive, then cupped his hands round his mouth, yelled, “Got the kid, Yal?”
“Ehyah, Baba, but she fighting like crazy, you wanna stake that ’un down and come gimme a hand?”
***
Thann whistled xe’s distress as Yal and the peddler came from the vevezz brake, Isaho’s limp body slung over the mal’s shoulder. Yal was a mallit perhaps two or three years older than Isaho, swaggering along beside his father, a red rag braided into his crest and wooden plugs where the rings would go when he finished his apprenticeship.
The peddler dumped Isaho on the bank beside Thann, turned to his son. “Keep y’ eyes open.” He flicked a bony forefinger against barrel of the pellet rifle the mallit carried. “But don’t go wasting ammo on shadows, or I take it outta your hide. You hear?”
“Ya, Baba.”
“And keep y’ hands off the femlit. She worth good coin if she fresh meat.”
