by Jo Clayton
Shadow of the Warmaster
Jo Clayton
Shadow of the Warmaster
Jo Clayton
I.
1. Two hours before zeropoint-the meeting of Swardheld Quale and Adelaar aici Arash (from which events will be dated, backward and forward as circumstances warrant).
Prin Daruze/Telffer.
Sometime round midmorning on the third day of the second week in the spring month Calftime, Nuba Treviglio, Freetrader and free soul, set her ship down on the stretch of metacrete Telffer laughingly calls its star port, discharged one passenger and droned into town on the ship’s flit to see what the world had to offer her.
Adelaar aici Arash watched her leave. To the ground, Treviglio said, what you do after that is your business and by god, she meant it. Adelaar bent over her case and thumbed on the a/g-lift, straightened and looked for some means of transport.
Metacrete, flat, filthy, chalk white, seemed like there were kilometers of it on every side, reaching out to touch the mountains in the west, the blue glitter of the sea in the east, and the long dark line in front of her, the city that serviced this desolation. A brisk wind blew from the distant seashore, dragging with it pungent sea smells (seawrack, dead fish, iodine and brine); it lifted off the ’crete a heavy white grit that it drove hisssssing against half a dozen shuttles and a massive barge, against a battered wreck being stripped for parts, against two tenth-hand stingships snugged close like link-twins, against some ancient flickits gray and vaguely insectile, against Adelaar’s boots in a soft continual patter, against her tan twill trousers, the close-fitting tan twill jacket, against her face, forcing tears from her half-closed eyes. She flattened her shoulders, tugged on the case’s tether and started walking, moving with an easy contained stride toward the city ahead. Except for the diminishing dot that was Treviglio on the flit, nothing but the wind and the grit moved in all that shimmery white glare.
She was short, slight, neatly made, hovering about early middle age with the help of ananile drugs. She wore her tan hair trimmed close to her head so she could run a comb through it and forget it; the wind was teasing it, twisting it into a ragged halo about her face, angering her though she wouldn’t permit her annoyance to show except in the slight deepening of the shallow crows’-feet at the corners of her eyes, large eyes, gentian blue, cold eyes in a face adept at concealing what went on behind it.
After twenty minutes of brisk walking, she reached the edge of the field and stepped onto Telffer’s StarStreet.
StarStreet/Prin Daruze/Telffer had a fuel dump, a shipsupply store that from the look of it operated by appointment only, a short stretch of pavement and a very tall fence. Adelaar angled toward the Gate and stopped before a wooden kiosk painted black with a battered plastic window so scratched by windborne grit it had lost any transparency it had ever had. The Gate was shut, there were eyes and heat sensors soldered to the fencewire, melters perched on swivelposts atop the wire… She looked from them to the kiosk. “T’k t’k, sweet sweet.”
She located the outside palmer, a dullmetal oval freckled with old black paint, slapped her hand against it. A wall section shuddered, squealed, pleated itself until there was an opening wide enough for her to edge through. Tugging the case inside with her, she crossed to the heavyduty comset screwed onto the back wall and inspected it as the door squealed shut behind her, closing her in with an unpleasant smell, a mix of ancient sweat, dead moss and dryrot. Fungus grew in scaly patches on the greasy metal of the comset; there was an ugly olive-ocher film on the com’s thumbglass.
She touched the glass, her face rigid with distaste, rubbed her thumb repeatedly along her side as she watched a hold-pattern shiver over the plate. A minute passed. She glanced at the ringchron on her left hand, glanced again. Again. “If I was paying you, you’d be out on your ass yesterday.”
Two minutes, three, five… A loud ting. A face in the plate, male functionary, a slash of a mouth, a thin nose so long it approached the grotesque.
“Name, origin, ship, purpose of visit.” A bored monotone.
“Adelaar aici Arash. Droom in the Heggers.” She slipped her diCarx from her belt, touched it to the reader, slid it back in its squeeze pocket when the pinlight flashed red. “Passenger tradeship Niyit-Nit, owner/captain Nuba Treviglio. Business with a resident of Telffer.”
“What business? Who?”
Adelaar hesitated; as she’d built up her client list, she’d dealt with men like this and knew how unproductive annoyance was; push at them and they set their feet like mules. On the other hand, she wanted to say as little as possible to local authorities, she didn’t know what their under-the-table ties were. There was a man on Aggerdom asking questions about her the day she closed with Treviglio for passage here; the Niyit-Nit lifted before she learned more, but she had little doubt who he worked for, less doubt that there were people in Prin Daruze with the same ties. Bolodo had stringers wherever there was a market for their contractees and raw worlds like Telffer always needed more hands. Hmm, throw him Quale’s name if he keeps pushing me, no point trying to keep that quiet, soon as I hit the Directory, who wants to know will.
“That’s my concern, not yours,” she said, her voice neutral, nonaggressive, despite the implicit challenge of the words. “Should licenses be necessary, I will apply at the proper time and place.”
“What business? Who?” He wasn’t going to drop it though he knew and she knew he was going beyond his instructions.
“Swardheld Quale. I’ll let him know your interest in him. I’m sure he’ll be delighted someone cares.”
Conceding defeat with a malevolent glower, he gabbled another setspeech. “Qualified access granted, downtime coincident downtime Niyit-Nit, overstay downtime, fine one thousand telfs minimum assessed per day, business, full disclosure liabilities required on penalty locktime, locktime set complaint Telff, flake evidence, no recourse offworlder, locktime possibility conversion to fine by Camar Prin Daruze, schedule fines determined Camar, warning, altercation with Telff, presumed guilty, onus on offworlder t’ prove case, congel, madura, olhon, grao, ebeche, viuvar, tendrij woods consensual monopoly, license required for export, severe penalty for attempted removal, any questions?”
“None.”
“Gate open.” The com went dark.
“T’k t’k, sweet sweet.”
She tugged on the case’s tether, slapped her hand against the interior palmer; when the panel shuddered without budging, she gave it a kick with her boot heel that sent it sliding open, squealing and whimpering as the pleats formed. Wanting to kick the functionary where he’d feel it, she booted the door again, then swore at her folly as it died on her, the opening barely wide enough to let her waggle the case through and squeeze after it.
Outside, she brushed at herself, tucked away her annoyance and strode through the Gate.
As it clanked shut behind her, she looked about. She was on the outskirts of a gridded cluster of low, blocky, windowless buildings, gray and brown, scratched, dingy, not a bush or blade of grass to break the monotony. Automated factories. Deliveries of raw materials already made, production in process, everything tucked neatly out of sight and sound. The patched, dusty streets were empty; as far as she could see there wasn’t an intelligent entity within kilometers of her. No transport. He hadn’t given her the chance to call a cab. “T’k, animated spleen.”
She started walking.
There was a tall octagonal tower lifting like a raised finger over the city, a flagpole stuck in the top with half a dozen tattered banners flapping in the wind. She assumed it marked some sort of official center and used it to guide her through the factory section.
After another twenty minutes without seeing anyone, a ground car
like a black beetle hummed around a corner and sped past her; its driver stared at her, but went on without stopping.
“Friendly.”
More of the humpy little vehicles zipped past, drivers and passengers staring, no one offering a ride, a word, a favor. Great little world. Uh-huh! Bolodo would have a market here, selling closed contracts that took the laborers away when the job was done. Probably why the settlers came way out here in the first place, five generations of hermits, misanthropes and social inadequates whose idea of a good time had to be something like masturbation in a hot tub. Solitary masturbation. Hah! might as well put out a sign saying stay away, we don’t want you. Leave your coin, but leave. She fumed a while longer, then laughed, shook her head. Eh-eh, Adelaar, you’re just annoyed because your feet hurt. Multiple maledictions on those perfidious perjurous unprincipled bootmakers who foisted these instruments of torture on me.
The streets widened, lost their rule-drawn rigor as they turned and twisted among lush greenery, trees, shrubs, grasses, flowers, a thousand versions of fern from great, graceful clumps fanning overhead, their shadows a dark lace on the pale gray pavement, to gossamer cilia hanging from the trees. In this tangle, tossed down haphazardly, she saw bits and pieces of small free-standing structures, some domed, some with peaked roofs, some like tumbled toy blocks. Living places. The silence of the factories was gone; she heard birdsong and bug hum, children’s laughter and their screams as they played among the ferns, voices of men and women talking, a man’s shout. Now and then she saw the Telffs. They stopped what they were doing and stared at her, but no one spoke. The beetle cars came more frequently and were no friendlier than before; several times she had to jump for the gutter when a driver swerved at her, shouting obscenities. Sweat beaded on her skin and stayed there, adding to the discomforts this world laid on her the moment she set foot on it. If it had been anything else but Aslan that’d brought her here… Aaah! he’d better be good, Quale damn well better be good.
The streets straightened and grew wider, the vegetation thinned. She glanced up, kinking her neck to see the top of the tower, stood watching the banners flutter as she smiled in weary anticipation of a bed and a bath and food in her belly. Traffic was heavier and less aggressive, the drivers too involved with their own concerns to let their xenophobia loose on her. She went round a final curve and found herself trudging up a short ramp onto a raised walkway. “A real live sidewalk. Civilization at last.”
She moved past a clutch of small stores offering everything from stacks of fruit to electronic gadgets. The stores changed to eating houses, then taverns, then she was in a grimy rundown area, stepping over men sprawled sleeping on the walkway, around vomit and splatters of urine; she jumped down into the street several times to avoid clusters of lounging idle males who, when they saw her, whistled, popped their lips, made suggestive sucking noises, groped their crotches and shouted offers of assorted body parts. Twice a man grabbed at her, but she managed to avoid his hand and move on without having to damage him; they were Telffs and by functionary’s warning, onus would be on her to justify whatever she did and she knew from frustrating experiences elsewhere that her presence here unaccompanied would be excuse enough for whatever they tried on her. Despite her growing fatigue, she set a quick pace for herself, her heels clicking briskly on the boards; she looked directly ahead of her, her face impassive, ignoring the taunts, counting on her peripheral vision to warn her of anything coming at her from the side, on her ears to warn her of an attack from behind.
“Drop.” Female voice, loud, coming from the street. Without hesitation Adelaar went down, curling round as she dropped, landing on hip and elbow, shenli darter out and ready.
She didn’t need it. Two men lay crumpled on the walkway some five or six meters off. She swung her legs under her and was on her feet a breath later. A flit curved over to her, its offside door open.
“Jump.” Same voice.
She grabbed the case’s tether and jumped. As soon as she was inside, before she’d sorted herself out, the driver slapped in the lever and the flit took off as if she’d goosed it. Adelaar straightened up, clipped the darter back under her arm and arranged the case by her feet. “Thanks.”
“Nada.”
“Ahhmm, kill them?”
“Nope. Stunned ’em. Didn’t know maybe they were friends of yours playing a prank.”
“Not.”
“Takes all types.” The driver swung the flit round a corner and slowed to a more decorous pace. “That should be enough to keep us clear of lice. You just in? Thought so. You want to believe the shit they tell you at the Gate, mess with a local and you lose. You got credit, they suck blood, no credit, Bolodo gets you. Reason I yelled, one of your unfriends had what looked like an Ifklii yagamouche; if he was a pro, he could’ve fried your brain ’fore he went down. I loathe those things.”
Adelaar shivered. “I owe you. Let me…” Moving her hand slowly so she wouldn’t startle her rescuer, she eased a business card from her belt. “Here. Give me a call sometime.”
“Shove it in the abdit there in front of you, no need, though.”
“I know. Nonetheless…” She dropped the card into the hollow, “That’s a quiet stunner you’ve got, I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Built it myself. Any place you want to go?”
“City Center, the Directory. You’re not a local.”
“Sweet lot, aren’t they. No. But I’ve a friend here and a map on call. Center Directory it is. Or… mmmm… nothing like a long hot bath after hard traveling, there’s an ottotel not too far from Center, got a com plate in the more expensive rooms, these’re tapped into the Main Directory, you can bypass most of the hassle that way, let your fingers do the talking.” She grinned, dropping more years off her absurdly childlike face. Barely past puberty, if looks counted. A pretty child, kafolay skin, kaff brown eyes, light brown-gold hair in an exuberant halo of tiny curls. There was a brown tattoo on the cheek nearest Adelaar, a detailed drawing of a hawk’s head. A sudden dimple made the hawk dance as the girl broadened her grin when she caught Adelaar staring at her.
Adelaar drew her hand down the side of her face, looked at the smear of mud in the palm. “Ottotel,” she said. “Please.”
“Know what you mean. Shadith. My name.”
“Adelaar aici Arash. Mine.”
“Pleased to.”
“And I.”
2
Adelaar locked the door, activated a sweep from the case to ensure her privacy (local authorities legal and otherwise tended to ignore regulations when it suited them). Calling blessings on Shadith’s head from every god, saint and holy force she knew, she scrubbed off Telffer’s grit, grime and sticky sweat and with them the greater part of her irritation, pulled on a robe tailored from midnight silk, dialed up a pot of Nara tea and settled in front of the plate. Whistling a snatch of an old song, she fed tokens into the slot.
“Quale, Quale, where are you when you’re home? If you’re home…”
She scrolled through the directory.
“Let Treviglio be right, let him be home, wherever that is. Wherever… ah! here we are. Swardheld Quale / Quale’s Nest. T’k t’k, how cute. God help me, suppose his mind really works like that. Lat 2 deg 31 min W, Long 48 deg 53 min N. In residence, open for offers. Blessed be whatever. I’m running out of time and money. Damn. If I could handle this myself…” She thumbed off the directory and sat sipping at the tea, taking a moment to relax before she dressed and looked for transport out to Quale’s Nest.
II
1. A short while before the meeting, less than an hour.
Quale’s Nest/Telffer.
I was out in the back yard working on a harpframe, lovely wood, dark and resonant, didn’t have a name, Herby snagged the tree out of the river and took it to his curing shed. Herby’s a neighbor upstream, he belongs to one of the settlement families, his land’s tax free so long as he or his kin own it; got the temperament and habits of a mudweasel, but he keeps to him
self unless he scavenges something he thinks he can sell me, so he’s not all that bad as a neighbor. Where was. I? Ah. The harp. The shape sang under my hands and looked like music; whether it would sound as good, well, I was hoping. It was almost ready for stringing; I was carving a design into it, most complex pattern I’ve attempted, double spirals and woven lacings, amarelo buds and leaves in oval cartouches, took concentration and more patience than I thought I had until I started working on it. I’d put together frames before this one, trying one thing and another, different shapes, different woods, you get the idea; I wanted to make the sound as perfect as the shape. Far as I could tell. My ear’s not so bad, but my fingers are all thumbs. The last one before this had a warm rich tone, I was quite pleased with it. When Shadith sent word she was coming, I got it out with a couple more and tuned them. I wanted to know what she thought.
Back yard’s a comfortable place. I spend a lot of time here, working, reading, contemplating my navel, whatever. Got a plank fence around it to keep the vermin out. Flowering thornbushes grow in stripbeds against the planks. A sight to see, they are, come spring when every cane is thick with bloom. No roof, but there’s a deflecter field for when it rains, keeps the wet out without ruining the skyview, which can be spectacular during summer storms. One of them was blowing up the day I’m talking about, clouds were gathering over Stormbringer’s peak, they’d be down on us in an hour or so. I’ve got the ground under my worktable paved with roughcut slabs of slate. Some of them are cracked; griza grass grows in these cracks and between the slabs, that’s a native grass, dusty looking gray-green, puts out seedheads in the spring, not the fall, they stand up over the blades like minute denuded umbrella ribs. Beyond the stone there’s mute clover, griza doesn’t have a chance against it. There are stacks of wood sitting around, some roughcut planks, some stripped logs. I’ve got a largish workshed in the south corner, the roof is mostly skylight; I store my tools in there but don’t work inside except in winter when it’s too cold to sit in the garden. Or when I need to use the lathe or one of the saws. There are two viuvars (like short fat willows) growing beside the shed and a tendrij in the north corner. The tendrij was here on my mountainside before I built my house. The trunk’s a pewter column a hundred meters tall and thirty around; branches start about fifty meters up, black spikes spiraling around the bole; the leaves if you can call them that look like ten meter strips of gray-green and blue-green cellophane. When the storm winds blow them straight out, they roar loud enough to deafen you; on lazy warm spring days like this one, they shimmer and whisper and throw patches of shifting greens and blues in place of shadow.
