by Clayton, Jo;
Three weeks out of Kulchikan. Two kirrpitt swarms avoided, thanks to Chulji and Timka; one lurk of pirates had fire dropped on them and lost their appetite for attack along with most of their sails.
Dark of the moon. Cloudy night. Generally clear waters. Chulji was with Pegwai, counting his hoard and sipping at some homebrew Pegwai had acquired at the last port. Skeen was restless and bad company, out prowling the decks, walking off her excess energy. The Boy was asleep, the Beast draped over his hip, snoring a little. Timka spent an hour or so trying to sleep, but Skeen’s itchiness had burrowed under her skin. With a last glance at the sleeping child, she left the cabin and climbed to the deck. She saw Skeen sitting on the rail beside some ratlines, staring at the water and playing a mournful music on her flute. For a moment she thought of joining her, but Skeen didn’t look like she wanted company. There was a brisk following wind, boring in its steadiness. What crew were on duty lounged about half-asleep, even the helmsman looked bored into a coma. Timka climbed to the quarterdeck, shed her robe, and shifted into hawkform. She wasn’t going hunting, just wanted the feel of flight, the intense pleasure in riding the wind.
She flew away from the ship, not wanting spectators to her aerobatics, then plummetted and clawed her way up against worldpull, looped and swooped, soared and drifted until she was pleasantly tired, then started back for the ship.
A form at the rail near the stern, something white and fluttering in its hands. Timka worked higher, faced into the wind enough so that she hovered a steady distance from the ship. The hawkform she’d chosen belonged to a night hunter so she had little difficulty seeing what the man was doing, even from that distance. His hands opened and jerked upward, a small white bird barred with gray went swiftly up; as soon as it had cleared the masts it circled round and headed south. Timka hesitated, torn between getting the man and getting the bird, then called herself birdbrain and took off after the messenger. A few questions would locate the man, no one could hide the presence of a bird (and he likely had more than one) on board a sailing ship, especially since he was almost certain to be a decker. Not Funor, he wasn’t wearing the robes, and not Nagamar, the hands were wrong.
The flier was fast but less than half Timka’s hawksize; unfortunately it was fresh and she’d just come off a series of exercises meant to exhaust her into a dreamless sleep. She went higher still, moving into a different air so she wouldn’t have to tire herself further by fighting a headwind. She’d meant to let the message bird get far enough from the ship so the man wouldn’t see its interception, but by the time she caught up with it, she didn’t care who saw. She stooped, slammed into it, breaking its neck before it had time to struggle; the sudden weight pulled her lower than she wanted and she had to fight her way up. The boring steady wind that drove the ship was the thing that saved her, lifting her, carrying her along so she hardly had to move a wing. She caught the ship what seemed an eon later but was probably more like half an hour, landed on the quarterdeck with an awkward thunk, almost forgetting to drop her kill first. She shifted to Pallah, pulled her robe about her, then just sat for several minutes looking at the bird, too tired to move but very satisfied with herself. There was a quill tube tied to one of the flier’s legs. Whatever that bastard was doing, he was more than likely a dead man now. Unless she was wrong about Maggí and she didn’t think she was. Skeen was altogether more easygoing, might even let the man live. Not Maggí; no one who plotted against the safety of her ship or her passengers or both was going to live three breaths after she discovered what he was doing. Timka grinned at the bird. Yes indeed. She stretched, groaned, yawned. Ay, lifefire, I am tired. And no rest yet. She stuffed the bird into a pocket, got to her feet. Pegwai first. Whatever’s written here, he’s the one who can read it.
Pegwai slit the quill and took out a roll of fine tough paper. He glanced at the dead bird Timka had dropped on the floor. “You’d best get rid of that.”
“Later, later. What does it say?”
“Give me a moment to look at the thing.” He slid down the bunk, closer to the lamp, smoothed the crinkled paper on his knee. “If he’s used code, this might take a while. Probably not necessary, from what I know of the Tail, not all that many can read anything, let alone a coded message. Ah.” Holding the paper close to his eyes, he scanned it first, then went over it more slowly. “Pallah script, no code. Listen. Ship Goum Kiskar. Made CaConder Point dawn, 3rd Yourchin. Damoun’s landing, dawn 4th Yourchin, should be making Clown by midday 6th Yourchin.” Pegwai looked up. “Today’s the fifth of Yourchin, I’d say he was providing information here about the speed of the Goum Kiskar.” He smoothed the paper over his finger and frowned at the tiny neat writing. “Carrying Trell essences, Atsila silks, metal-work, damask bolts, fine batiks Bretel Heran, plowshares, traps, Funor wines, Pallah brandy, tea Beren, Tjin, Comanso. Also Chalarosh Boy that Kalakal Ravvayad seeking, want much, would pay much for him. Scholar, Lumat might ransom. Two Min on board, flying watch only hotspots, othertimes on deck. No signature, just a sketch of an eye in a circle. Where’s Skeen?”
“Asleep, I suppose. When I came down she was gone from the deck.”
“Get her. Chulji, you scoot aloft and watch to see no more of these messages get off. Wait, Timka, did the man see you?”
“I don’t know. I was too tired to be careful.”
“Better to make no assumptions. Chulji, keep that in mind and don’t let anyone see you take off.” He rolled the paper into a tight cylinder and slid off the bunk. “I’ll wake Maggi; meet me there.”
Maggí read the paper for the third time, pinched her lips together; her not-hair whipped about, a writhing silver cloud. She put the paper down with a slow controlled movement of her arm, then slapped her hand on the table. “Uskkikayah! Who?” She spat the last word at Timka.
“Didn’t see his face. I thought I’d better get the flier first. Who’s in charge of the deckers? He ought to know which of them have birds along. Can’t be that many.”
Skeen yawned, rubbed her hand across her face. “Any idea who he meant that note for?”
Maggí calmed appreciably as she frowned at the bit of paper, her not-hair settling to its usual fluff about her strong face. “Could be any of three that I know of who’d have the nerve to try me. Wonder if he knows where.…”
“Won’t,” Skeen said. “If you were his runner would you tell him?”
“No. Skeen, Houms has the watch right now. Find him and bring him, will you. Better I don’t show my face on deck until I’m ready to act.”
Skeen nodded, got to her feet with that wiry ease that was her kind of grace. Her restlessness was gone for the moment and Timka was grateful for that; an edgy Skeen was hard to live around. Pegwai relaxed also when Skeen was gone; his shoulders slumped a little, the tension went out of his hands. What there was between them was their own business, Timka told herself that for the thousandth time, but she couldn’t stop her curiosity or the distaste that grew with every manifestation of that relationship. She could tell herself not to judge, but she did. The worst was, she didn’t know how much longer she could keep from showing what she felt. Skeen was deft at reading muscle language, picked up on cues that Timka knew she’d have missed nine times out of ten. Well, maybe Skeen was enough like everyone else and wouldn’t see what she didn’t want to see. So we hope, Timka thought, so we all hope.
The deckers muttered angrily as the Mate stepped over and around them, heading for a stack of wattle crates and the man curled up beside them. The pile of blankets didn’t move until the Mate put his boot in, then a tousled head emerged from the ragged nest. “Whaa.…” The Pallah rasped his hand along the two-day beard and looked stupid and dazed with sleep. When the Mate reached for him, he wriggled away clumsily, keeping his idiot’s gape firmly in place. “I paid, I paid, what’re you doing, I paid full deck fare me ’n me birds, wha wha what?”
A long lean beast like a cross between a leopard and a weasel came padding up, spat the dead flier at the Pallah’s
feet.
“You’re missing a bird,” the Mate said softly.
Chulji swooped down, maneuvering deftly about sails and rigging, squawked loudly when he passed over the pile of cages, went swinging up again to circle over the ship.
The Pallah surged onto his feet, clumsiness forgotten. Knife in his left hand, he backed away.
“I don’t know where you think you’re going,” the Mate said. He stood where he was, relaxed, casual, hands clasped behind him.
The Pallah looked quickly about. The decker well was surrounded by Crew, with Skeen, Pegwai, and the Aggitj spread among them. Maggí stood above them on the quarterdeck, a compound bow held ready, arrow nocked, other shafts in a case hooked over the rail. Snarling, the Pallah leaped for the Mate. Without change of expression the Mate caught him in the elbow with one bare foot, sent the knife flying, landed lightly beside him and broke his neck with a second kick.
Maggí lowered the bow but didn’t unnock the shaft. “He was sending messages about the ship,” she said, her voice carrying over the noises from the deckers, silencing them, “setting us up for attack. If he had friends among you, I hope those misbegotten sons of diseased jakadillos will have the elementary good sense to keep their hands to themselves and get the hell off my ship when we reach Cloum. Mister Houms, have the men take those birds down to Cook. Fowl will be a pleasant change from fish. Any left over from my dinner and Crew Mess, he can sell to the deckers.”
A PAIR OF TALES TO KILL TIME TRAVELING DOWN THE TAIL.
or
NOW THAT THE WORD’S OUT ABOUT MAGGÍ’S WARDS, LIFE HAS GOT VERY DULL.
Skeen’s tale:
The first time I saw Tibo he was riding luck with spurs on, determined to squeeze every ounce of possibility out of that reluctant lady; he had his own ship, was the slipperiest smuggler and thief in a dozen sectors, boasting he could take anything anywhere and get through the finest mesh of defenses the most paranoid of systems could field. Which was just about true as long as Bona Fortuna rose to his spurs. But the day came when he met her dark sister and Mala Fortuna was the one setting the spurs.
He went for suckerbait and swallowed the hook. No excuse for him except he trusted someone he shouldn’t ’ve, a judas goat sent into a Pit Stop to rope in the top smugglers and lead them blind and willing to the butcher’s mallet. Yes, he should have seen the hook, but after years of playing on the edge of the impossible, he’d grown careless. His ship was shot from under him, turned into scrap, but he hadn’t earned his reputation on Luck alone and he wriggled loose in an emergency pod, managed to get to ground in the system where he was trapped. More than that, he stayed free and even managed to reach a skipsender and put out the word that he’d gift his stash to anyone able to break him loose. Oh he was a grand little man, that Tibo. He looked so inoffensive, he could seem a meek little shadow when he needed to. With his training as tumbler and juggler and bones that bent like gristle or seemed to, and a strength that amazed everyone who tried to thump him, confused by his size, plus a slippery supple mind, he twisted out of trap after trap and stayed loose. A long settled world is a helluva big place to find a sneaky little man in.
There were extravagant rumors about Tibo’s stash. He was flamboyant and generous, flung coin about with both hands when he came in to a Pit Stop, but the long ride on Bona Fortuna’s back brought him far more than even he could spend. When I heard the offer, I added up some of the things I knew for sure he’d done and the sum was pretty fantastic. And there was something else—what Tibo promised, he did. No sidling and backing off like you sometimes find when folks make promises in trouble that they want out of when the trouble’s finished. I wasn’t the only one doing those sums. Seven smugglers I knew of went after him. Probably more. None came back.
Heeren Empire. That’s what the powers called it. Five neighboring stars plus the Heeren system. A big sucker, that system. Exchange binary. Fifty-nine planets, thirty of them habitable by oxygen breathers, though a couple of those took a bit of transforming before anyone could live there. A lot of debris in-system—gas, half a dozen asteroid belts, two of them canted forty degrees off the plane, something you don’t see every day, but you don’t see a system that big every day either. The tidal pulls in there were enough to worry even a phlux high on pharish-seven, complicated moving about something fierce. In lots of ways a smuggler’s dream, detecs couldn’t cover … well, never mind, you wouldn’t know about those things. Where was I. Oh yes.
None of the rescuers came back. The prize began to seem not so enticing. There were even rumors that Tibo sold out to the Heeren, that the forcers had landed on him and he bought his life by sending out that call. Folk who knew Tibo even a little squashed those, but even they weren’t about to try finding him. By the time I got into Revelation Pit and heard about the offer, the last of the seven seekers was overdue and she had a meeting with her ananile shots, what? Oh yes, something like the fountain of youth in a jector spray, that wasn’t something you walked out on, especially if you’ve paid for them already. Expensive, yes. Like I was saying she was late for her shot, so it was pretty generally assumed she wasn’t in any shape to return. The B-Doc put her money in escrow, then he sold the shot again. Me, I thought long and hard, but I’ve got this weakness, you wave something impossible in my face, and I’ve just about got to have a shot at it. Besides, I liked the little man and it seemed to me all the types I didn’t like would be sneering at us and saying self-righteous blatherings about the wages of sin. I played a bit at Deiro Dantel’s after I sold what I had left of my cargo; the rest was delivered directly to a special buyer, but I didn’t say anything about what I was thinking. It seemed to me the forcers had got ears into some of the Stops. Most of us who hit the Pits knew each other, at least by sight, but there were always new hirelings about and new travelers passing through.
One thing I knew without thinking much about it, I wasn’t going to take Picarefy anywhere near that trap. My ship. I arranged to have some work done on her so I’d have an excuse to leave her, and I found another ship, one I could charter, much smaller and just this side of falling apart. It belonged to a singleton smuggler who wanted a rest but couldn’t afford one; with his Mala Fortuna, general stupidity, and his crazy jury-rigged ship, he was just about tapped out so he grabbed at the chance I offered; he was so tired, he didn’t care much even if I wrecked the thing and left him without wings.
I did some juggling, a lot more thinking, got a friend of mine to put in some time on the ship, tightening it up enough so it wouldn’t drop to pieces around me, then I was as ready as I’d ever be. I’m sure you know that feeling. When you’re stepping off the edge of everything riding half a straw, your belly’s tied in knots and your skin is pricking all over and your breath catches in your throat and you think what the blazing hell am I doing here, but at the same time you’ve never felt more alive, more … well, you know the feeling.
I won’t go into details about what I went through getting that ship to the Heeren System. You’ve got some idea if you’ve ever tried to get somewhere in a leaky rowboat during a hurricane. What with one thing and another, I got where I planned to be some six months later. By then if you offered me a match and a stick of dynamite, I’d have taken you up on the offer and blown that miserable ship into scrap iron.
The thing was, though, the nature of the ship was its best protection. The others had gone after Tibo with everything they could lay hands on. Me, I crept along like a three-legged goat. Forcers out on a smuggler prowl stopped me a dozen times, but I had good papers and a lousy ship; no being in his, her, or its right mind would use that rust farm for anything dangerous. And my looks matched my ship. I looked like a half-molted owl gone senile; I was filthier than the ship and the ship had a stink to it that would choke a buzzard. The forcers who boarded me were extra careful to touch nothing, afraid they’d catch some sort of creeping crud. I’d wager the cost of this ship the ones who had to look at my papers had themselves fumigated as soon as they were
back on their ship. Those Empire forcers had a high opinion of their abilities and it was not too greatly exaggerated. Thing was, those clever minds of theirs were also rigid minds—they couldn’t think sideways. To consider me or my ship a danger was an insult they couldn’t swallow. The last few times they came across me sputtering along, they just waved me on.
When I nosed into the system, I putted along from world to world, doing a little trading here, a bit more there, paying my fees, getting paper straight, never really sure the ship would get up once it was down, but for all its cantankerous nature and miserable appearance, she was a tough little tub. With a curse or two, a lot of assorted prayers to every god I could remember, and some basic will power, I kept the bucket flying until I got to the world I wanted and got plunked down where I wanted on that world.
I took my time once I was down, doing what I’d done the other six times. I’d spent half a year getting here, another quarter working my way to my goal; you might say I was on my way so long they forgot I was coming. Funny. I made some good finds and better trades; even without Tibo’s stash, I came out ahead, but it was so damn tedious. Well, never mind that. I futzed about that world, a gray hag, too feeble to be a danger to anyone—looking, buying, selling—and everywhere I went I left a sign behind, a sign from something I knew about him that very few others did.
He saw the sign and followed me for several days before he came from under and signaled me. We met when we both were reasonably sure no forcers or other snoops were watching. Not any sentimental coming together like the story books tell it, that’s for sure, the way I looked and the way he felt, well, never mind. The big problem was getting him onto my ragged old ship. That bucket had hidey holes where no hole could possibly be; the owner told me about most of them, but even he didn’t know them all. I spent a lot of that six-months’ dip checking them out; whoever thought up some of those had a perverse mind. I wish I knew him; I’d like to spend a year or two listening to him talk. So once Tibo was on board, no forcer was going to find him. We kicked that around a bit. Tibo had managed to keep an eye on the main port, even got onto the apron to do some muscle work heaving crates about, watching how the forcers handled searches. Discouraging. They searched everything, even had some crude sniffers that picked up traces of live cargo. Twice they caught traders trying to smuggle out shalakuza eggs and sinka seedlings. That’s what Tibo’d gone in for, Shalakuza Silks. Came from spinnerets on the shalkako larva, an arthropod that lived on the world where we were; it ate a single plant that had to be grown in the special soils of a single narrow valley. The powers wouldn’t let any adult specimens of the shalkako, their eggs, or larva leave the world, nor any of the sinka trees. Naturally there was one damn huge bounty for anyone who could get them out, alive or dead. Smugglers were giving the powers fits—which was why they set the trap.
