Woman's Work: Shikari Book Four

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “No, because I will not use those words around Lexi. You know how sensitive he is to such things, my dear.” Behind her aunt, Lexi put his forefeet over his ears, then over his eyes, then used one forefoot, the two main toes separated, to give her aunt Staré ears. Rigi fought off the giggles. Proper young ladies did not giggle. Married women certainly did not giggle.

  “Thank you, Madame. Your grace and understanding of my delicate sensibilities is most appreciated.” Lexi sounded as grave as a holo-news-feed reader, pushing Rigi closer to laughter. Makana's //mild confusion/amusement// did not help. He’d seen Lexi in full battle kit, and had heard Aunt Kay swearing—she'd been swearing at Lexi, in fact.

  “All levity aside, this is probably the most serious claim against the find I’ve seen thus far, which is why Micah needs to be in and to take the lead in answering it. He also has no history with Benin S. Petrason, unlike you and Tomás.”

  “Ah, and excellent thought, ma’am. Um,” she hesitated. “I’ll forward it to Dr. De Groet, but should I wait to tell Kor and Tomás? This might not be the best thing to have waiting when they come through the door.”

  Aunt Kay made an unladylike sound and put her fingertips to her forehead. She’d been using oil paints recently, Rigi noticed, judging by the pigment in her nail beds and on her brush-callous. “Yes, wait at least three days. There is no hurry, and Kor and Tomás will have very many things on their minds, none of which involve legal counsel or responding to threats of idea-theft lawsuits.”

  Rigi’s face warmed, because she knew exactly what her aunt referred to. So did Lexi, who appeared to have found something of supreme fascination on the far corner of the ceiling in her uncle’s study/library/work room. Makana leaned over and murmured into her ear, “Perhaps they should spray for dust-flutters.” Rigi bit her tongue hard to keep from laughing.

  “An excellent observation,” she murmured back. More loudly she assured her aunt, “I’ll get my and Makana’s notes together, and wait, then, until I hear from Dr. De Groet.”

  “Do that. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mammal to paint.” She sighed. “Mammals are such a nuisance.” Rigi had similar thoughts about birds, but kept them to herself. She signed off and Rigi confirmed end of comm, then brought the legal message back onto the screen.

  “What color will she paint Lexi, ma’am? Or does Mistress Trent refer to a different mammal?” He sounded as innocent as a newly-hatched pouchling, but the twitching ears gave him away. He’d started picking up Kor and Lexi’s odd senses of humor—odd for Staré.

  “I suspect a different mammal, but perhaps a restful blue-green in honor of the start of the wet season might be appropriate should Lexi desire a change of haircoat.”

  Makana appeared to be deep in thought, ears tipped slightly forward and in. “Blue-green would be acceptable, although perhaps not to his mates. Thank you, ma’am.” He hand bowed and departed, after discreetly lifting the ceramic pitcher to confirm that it remained full. In truth, dying one’s haircoat could be a serious legal offense among the Staré, should an individual do so in order to pass for a higher Stamm. Rigi wondered which Stamm would have bright blue-green fur. She decided that she didn’t want to know.

  “This is not getting work done, and undone work pays no bills.” Rigi forwarded a copy of the lawyers’ letter to Dr. Micah De Groet, the lead xenoarchaeologist in charge of the site known as Strahla City. Then she cleared her mail and called up the graphics program. Digitizing pastels never quite went according to plan, she sighed to herself, after having another glass of water as she contemplated the color shifts and what she needed to do to correct them. “I see why so many people prefer to do imaginary animals and plants. No one can criticize which shade of brown you use.” She leaned forward and picked up a small, transparent envelope containing a puff of wombow fur, compared it to the screen image, and shook her head. “Too light. Even after I adjusted the auto-compensation filters.” The wombow on the screen looked back at her in a mildly bemused way. Why the Chan-Tae family wanted a portrait in pastels of their son’s pet wombow Rigi hesitated to guess, but they’d invited her to sketch “Astrid” in person, and had given her fur samples so she’d get the colors just right. Then they asked for multiple digi-print copies, and the computer had undone “just right.”

  Two hours later, Rigi finished her corrections, saved the images, backed them up to three different places, and sent word to the Chan-Tae’s that all parts of the commission were complete and when could she bring the portrait by? “I’ll do the bird first thing tomorrow,” Rigi promised herself. She signed out, closed the programs and powered down the large computer. Then she stood. She reached for the light-blue painted ceiling, bent and touched her toes before twisting left and right as much as maturity and modesty permitted. Granted, Martinus did not care, and Nahla and Makana never came in without knocking, but Rigi had seen a few unfortunate garment failures, as her mother phrased it, and preferred not to get into habits that might lead to difficulties.

  Two days later, Rigi did her best to hide her eagerness and anticipation. Tomás and Kor would be home soon, very soon. Uncle Eb had informed her that morning that he’d meet the pair at the military landing area, since she did not have permission yet to join the other wives and family members meeting the men. Why the Army insisted on delaying her request for basic access permission she did not know, although she had a few uncharitable suspicions. Some of those suspicions centered on Crown Governor Domingo Leopoldi’s attitude towards her, both because of her being a NeoTraditionalist and because of the little difficulty he’d encountered with the Staré leadership following the Night of Falling Birds. Her aunt and her brother, Cyril, had offered another possible explanation.

  “Rigi, you’ve only been married four months. That’s not long enough to prove that you’re married, not to His Majesty's Armed Forces. The Navy wants at least two Home years of full-time joint residency after the ceremony before they will grant spousal privileges and inheritance rights,” her brother had said over dinner shortly after Tomás and Kor’s departure. “Centuries ago, people tried to take advantage of military benefits, and because of a few bad lump-fruit, all the rest of us are still sighing and filling out document files.”

  Aunt Kay had nodded. “It is getting better. Eb and I had been married, ah,” she counted on her fingers. “I can never remember the conversion between WemWorld and Home. Four Home years before I was granted wife status. It didn’t matter so much to me, for reasons I’m not able to discuss, but for many women it caused serious difficulties, especially if they had a child or two.” She’s looked up at the ceiling, lips moving, then nodded. “Four years. I do wish the out-planets had years that matched Home’s more closely, or were divisible by two, five, or ten.”

  “Perhaps we can add that to the list of requirements for colonization approval, ma’am,” Cy had suggested with a wink. “As long as the list is now, no one would notice.”

  “Agreed,” Aunt Kay had gestured emphatically with her salad fork, almost stabbing the poor waitress who was trying to remove her empty salad plate.

  Well, not being able to welcome Tomás and Kor home rankled, no matter why she could not be there. Rigi wanted to pace the verandah, or play pull-the-rope with Martinus, or throw something fragile and breakable just to see a result. Alas, all their wedding gifts had been useful or unbreakable, aside from the enormous art supply kit Aunt Kay had given her. Rigi considered hurling that unattractive purple-green dry pastel at the wall, imagining the satisfying puff of color it would make as it shattered. Yes, and then you’d have a bruise on the wall and be tracking bruise-colored dust all over. At least she’d gotten the feather-tailed leaper done! She sighed, called up her sketching program, and picked up where she’d left off with the hunter lizard for the next illustration in the series. Holos had gotten so good over the centuries, but they still could not capture the sense of life, the true essence of living things. Rigi wished she could. Aunt Kay could, and did, and her birds almost flew off
the page or the wall, but Rigi’s didn’t, yet.

  The comm chimed, and Rigi answered to see Uncle Eb. He did not appear to be pleased, and his grey and white mane of hair bristled almost as much as Lexi’s fur did. “Rigi, I have some less-than welcome news, I fear,”

  “Tomás’s transport is late.”

  “Ah, no.”

  Her heart tried to skip a beat. “Tomás missed the transport?”

  “No, no, nothing so dramatic.” He hunched his shoulders a little, and Lexi’s ears twitched as he bared his yellow upper front teeth a centimeter or so. “The new training system? The men need to ramp down after transport. That means settle down and get used to things outside the training structure. Tomás and Kor will start their leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  The desire to hurl something at the wall reached nigh unto overwhelming, but Rigi counted to eight, exhaled, and counted to eight once more. “Thank you for letting me know, Uncle Eb. Do they have transport to NovMerv arranged?”

  “What? Oh yes, yes, I’ll see to that, never fear.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to impose.” She and Tomás could not afford to rent a flitter yet, and going all the way to Sogdia in a wombow cart held little appeal, especially since the rains had started.

  “No imposition at all, and it will give me a chance to find out what this wonder-course entails. Too much classroom time and not enough practical experience would be my suspicion.”

  “An excessive amount of documentation augmented by a paucity of useful information comes to mind, sir,” Lexi opined. “But perhaps my bias renders my judgment on this topic somewhat flawed.”

  “Alas, no, Lexi, I believe your experience would validate rather than nullify the hypothesis.” Uncle Eb sounded exactly like the bookish academic linguist he claimed to be, and Rigi felt twelve years old again, in a good way. “So, I hope you did not have a fancy meal prepared.”

  “No, sir, I know better. Mrs. Prananda warned me.” And Nahla needed to get some more fresh produce, including tam for Kor. The Staré in the household all loved tam. The humans detested it, and Rigi and Tomás had agreed that it would not be served at their table. The staff and Kor thought them somewhat addled and more than a little sad, but seemed delighted to eat the humans’ “share.”

  “Good. I’d best let Kay know of the change of plans. Trent clear.” He ended the comm. Rigi sighed, logged out, and went to inform Nahla of the new schedule. The cook was washing her forefeet, and Rigi saw a large bowl of freshly chopped meat. Tomás had offered to get a mechanical meat cutter for the house, but Nahla had politely but firmly put both hind feet down. “No, thank you, Captain sir. Shona taught me how to cut meat, game and tame.” Rigi had watched Nahla at work more than once, and had decided that she was actually faster than Shona and just as careful and precise. Not that she would ever tell Shona that. He tended to be sensitive to any challenge to his informal position as the best Staré cook on Shikhari.

  “Nahla? Mr. Trent just commed. There’s been a delay and Tomás and Kor will be arriving tomorrow in time for supper.”

  “Oh.” Nahla’s ears drooped backward a little and Rigi caught a whiff of //disappointment/upset.// “Perhaps…” Her nose twitched and she looked from Rigi to the bowl of meat and back as her forefeet dried under an air-blower. “I’ll change the seasoning to something that benefits from a longer wait, and serve the poultry pie tonight, if you have no objection?” //Hope/trepidation.//

  “I have no objection, Nahla. That sound perfect. Thank you, and I’m sorry to ask you to change your plans.” It really wasn’t fair to impose, Rigi knew.

  “There is no imposing, Mistress! And I will have fresh tam for the patties tomorrow. All is well.” She made a little shooing motion, another skill she’d learned from Shona. Rigi retreated.

  After a moment’s thought she led Martinus onto the verandah and polished his metal parts, then spot-cleaned his synth-cloth patches. M-animals had to have a minimum percentage of bare metal, to distinguish them from bio-animals. Rigi contemplated once more what Martinus would look like if she painted his shiny parts matte black. Would the change make him look any less scary to other people? Probably not. He was only a meter tall at the shoulder, and his jaw had been designed to minimize how much of his toughened steel teeth showed, but people seemed wary of him for some reason. At least until he made his barking sound. “Woof, Martinus,” Rigi tried.

  “Wooeef! Wooeef!” Tick tick tick the metal rod of his tail tapped the verandah floor.

  She put the cleaning things away, smiling as she smelled baking crust. Unlike Shona, Nahla had no opposition to store-bought breads and pre-made pie crusts. Neither did Rigi or Tomás. Shona also chased people out of his kitchen, waving his largest meat knife, for daring to ask for his secret spice blends and marinades. Nahla had not done that yet. Rigi let Martinus into the shoe-and-coat room, put his cleaning kit away, then went to wash her hands.

  The next day Makana took Nahla to the produce market. Two fifth Stamm cleaners tidied the Staré houses behind the main house, focusing on Kor’s residence. Rigi never went into the little cottages, lest she accidentally break Stamm, but she insisted that they be “done” once every other month at least, more often during shedding season. Rigi tidied the garden, checked Slowth’s spare harness in case it needed oiling or repairs, swept the verandah, and ran out of things to clean. She’d dusted the day before. If there’d been a ladies’ meeting at the Temple she would have gone, but that would be the next day, and she’d been excused by the Matron in light of Tomás’s return. Rigi put her fists on her hips, snorted to herself, and decided that there was no help for it. She had to finish those other birds.

  She managed to complete one out of five by the time Makana and Nahla returned. “The fresh ginter looked poor, Mistress,” he informed Rigi, handing her the receipts. “However, the seller of cowlee milk has a surplus, and I purchased three liters extra, along with the first rose-fruit. I believe Nahla already has plans, ma'am.”

  “Thank you, Makana, and I believe that Nahla has plans, secondary plans, and is ready for anything short of a wombeast walking into her kitchen.”

  “Indeed, Mistress, indeed.” He departed and she entered the bills into the household ledger, wincing a little at the small number showing at the end of the column. While Tomás was gone, she could not access his pay-account. That left precious little for emergencies, although they had not had one yet, Creator and Creatrix be praised. And she’d paid the rent well in advance, so it would not be a worry if several months passed without a commission. Now that he’d come back, perhaps she could get a new dress to replace the one that had finally been patched past wearing outside the house.

  As agreed, dinner was left-over-poultry pie and hot leaper-broth. Whatever Nahla had done to the meat for supper, the scent of simmering made Rigi’s mouth water, and she dearly wanted to sneak into the kitchen and sample it. But that would cause problems for Kor and Makana’s meal, so she restrained herself. Instead Rigi collected her mending and settled into her chair in the family room to work. She’d bought several pairs of loose under-trousers from the fabricator shop on sale, and had gotten what she’d paid for, alas. The stitching never held, especially on the bottom hems, and Rigi patiently re-did the machine work. She preferred Staré made when possible, but her budget had not allowed. That might be changing, she grumbled as she looked at the pico-meter of seam allowance on the dark brown pair. Surely the fabrication company would not fail due to excess costs if they allowed a millimeter, or better a centimeter, of fabric on the seams.

  Rigi managed to concentrate so hard on her mending that Makana’s tap on the doorframe made her jump. “Apologies, Mistress, but a flitter is here.”

  “Already?” Rigi set her work aside, jumped up, and rushed to go change. Before she could reach the hallway, the door knocker sounded. She said one of those words she’d picked up from Aunt Kay and spun around, trying to comb stray curls back into place with one hand as she brushed bits of thread off her
skirt with the other. Makana opened the door, bowing as a black-furred Staré entered, followed by Uncle Eb and Tomás. Rigi hesitated. Something about Tomás seemed different. Kor as well. They walked farther into the house, moving silently, easing along the sides of the corridor. It made her think of a striped lion moving from tree to tree.

  “I’m glad to see you home,” she said, her mouth dry. Three predators stood in her hallway. Where was her husband?

  2

  Home Are the Hunters

  Tomás blinked at her, and seemed to wake up, or to remember something. He shook a little, like a Staré settling fur. “Rigi! It’s so good—” She was in his arms, him holding her, her holding him, lips touching. He smelled right, he felt right, he was home. Kor was with him, and all would be well.

  “Ahem.”

  Rigi moved just enough that daylight appeared between herself and her husband. She caught whiffs of Staré //amusement/ puzzlement/question,// and was that a hint of //annoyance?// She looked over her shoulder in time to see Nahla’s tail as she ducked back into the kitchen.

  Tomás chuckled. “Excuse me, Uncle Eb, but you of all people should understand and appreciate an enthusiastic welcome.” He winked at Rigi, then raised one eyebrow and looked to their distant-uncle-by-marriage.

  Uncle Eb folded his arms. “I have no objection to enthusiastic greetings, especially in one’s own home. I object to poor Kor starving to death as I stand here.” Except the stomach growl Rigi heard did not have its origin among the Staré. The scent of hot cheese and toasted bread drifted up the hallway, and Rigi felt Tomás vibrate with another chuckle.