Shadow of the Warmaster

by Jo Clayton

  Aslan caught her hand, held it a moment. Then she sighed and shook her head. “I go away four days…”

  Xalloor caught hold of her chin, tilted her face to the light. “You get crosswise with someone?”

  “My escort switched into monster max when he thought I was being uppity.”

  “You and Parnalee.”

  “What happened?”

  “I never got it straight, all I know is from his mumbles when I was washing the blood off. Lessoning, he said, at least that’s what I thought it was, whoever worked him over got in some good licks at his face and he wasn’t talking so clear. Place. He say that a lot. His place. He kept going on about knowing his place all right and teaching some tofty prick his. I figure one of these snotheads he was catering for thought he was getting above himself. Like you say, uppity. One of the guards hauled me out of the pen and told me to take care of him. He was bleeding all over the mat nearest the door, you maybe noticed one of them’s new. Someone gave him one tart’rish going over, his back was hamburger. A local medic shot him with some stuff and gave me some goo to rub on the bruises, That was late last night. He’s still sleeping. So you found out yet what they want a… that thing you said… what they want you for?”

  “They’ve got me studying the Hordar.”

  “Why?”

  “Trouble. They want us, Parnalee and me, to poke around and figure out how to calm things down without killing everybody.”

  “I can see why, these mignish nothi would starve to death if they killed off the Hordar.”

  “How is he? Really.”

  “He’s going to know it when he moves for at least a month, but he’s a chunk of ax jerky, it won’t kill him. If I know men, he’s going to bitch a lot, but you just ignore it.”

  “What about the Bard? Anything happen to him?”

  “Not yet and maybe never, what I’ve picked up, you don’t mess with poets round here.”

  “I see. Xalloor, you know anything about computers?”

  “Deary dai, do I know about computers? Do you know about dancers these days? I guess not, stuck out in the boondocks with those primi types. It’s a hard world out there, Lan, and competition’s something fierce. Unless you’ve got an edge. I have this marvelous bitty Makerdac, no bigger’n my fist with a fanscreen that can holo full-size figures and make like a fiftypiecer, band you know. Do all my choreographing on it, plus my accounts and you name it. I swear, Lan, plug it into a sytha outlet and it’d fry you eggs for breakfast.”

  “Right. I’ll see if I can work it so you come over here and help me with my data. If you’re willing?”

  “Read dy da, willing!”

  “Pretty dull stuff.”

  “This mome, dull sounds marrrvelous.”

  “Come take a walk with me.” Aslan got to her feet, smoothed her hands down her sides. “I’ve been sitting all afternoon and I need to get the knots out.”

  “Ah hah.” That high wattage grin flashed again, then her narrow face was primly serious.

  19

  They strolled along a shady path that more or less paralleled the section of creek that ran through the enclosure. “… so we figured Bolodo would show up again in about six months standard and we’ve been looking about for ways to take the transport and run for civilization. Maybe not this time, but the next for sure.”

  Xalloor flicked a woven grass fan back and forth in the futile hope that moving air would be marginally less oppressive. “I heard talk in the pen, a snatch here, another there. You’re not the only ones. So what happened? It’s obvious you aren’t all that hipped on the idea.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it and trying to plan something from the minute I put foot to ground and saw the transport was the only insplitter around.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  “I know. I just wanted you to…” Aslan pushed sweaty hair back from her face. “One of the people at the Sea Farm, she told me it’d happened before. Slaves took the transport, got it flying.” She put her hand on Xalloor’s arm, stopped her. “You hear anything about what’s up there? Hanging over us?”

  “Huh?”

  “Ever seen one of those battleships they call Warmasters?”

  “Shee-it. Yeh, a client once took me through one, it was defanged though. You telling me…”

  “Yeh.”

  “It got the transport.”

  “Fffft!”

  “Think Parnalee knows?”

  “Haven’t told him.”

  “Maybe I should change my mind about moving over.”

  “Nice having someone to talk to.”

  “There is that.”

  They started walking again. After several minutes, Aslan said, “I don’t like helping Tra Yarta put the boot to the Hordar.”

  “Nothing much you can do about it and keep your own skin whole.”

  “I can um put a twist on what I tell him.”

  “Get yourself whomped some more. Maybe turned into fish bait.”

  “I’ve already started. You might not want to be involved.”

  “Daarra dai, Lan, do me good to practice my kicks.” Xalloor chuckled. “Could even be fun.”

  VI

  1. Half a year before Aslan lands on Tairanna/ three years before Adelaar hires Quale and crew.

  Airship/over the Duzzulkas/cloudless summer night.

  Karrel Goza tugged a length of wool from the skein, draped a few loops over his thigh. Ruya was brushing the horizon directly ahead of him, fatly gibbous, Gorruya was nearly out of sight overhead, an anorexic crescent riding a fan of stars that were particularly brilliant this night; the wind was still, even the veil of dust that generally hung over the southern Duzzulkas had settled for the moment. The land was flowing dark and silent beneath the airship, the watchfires of the herders were scattered pinpricks of red beside spreading shapeless blotches, yunk herds, nubby black against the ripples of silvery black grass. The clock on the panel gave him another twenty minutes before he made Koy Tarla; the pylon lights should be visible soon. He was a thin dark man, short, neatly made, a man at peace with himself; as his hands manipulated the needles and the bulky gray wool slid steadily about his fingers and the sleeve grew longer, his mind drifted without effort from image to image.

  Three sweaters by the time I get home. Not bad. Ommar keeps hinting I should get married. Hmm. I don’t want to shift Houses, whoever it is will have to adopt in. Gily? Ommar’d eat her alive. Her father’s tavern’s doing good, be a nice add to the family business. No, she’s all right to warm a bed, not for a long haul, too changeable, I’d never know who she was getting off with when I was gone. Long haul. Hmm. I don’t like Sirgыn sending me out alone for this haul. Dangerous. And I’ll have to lay over at some Koy and catch some sleep. Isn’t the stopping I mind, it’s the god forgotten Noses with their stinking questions, wouldn’t believe you if you said the sun was shining. Nehir. She’s a weaver, that’s good. Prime weaver. Bring a lot to the family. Even Old Pittipat likes her work. She wouldn’t mind me being off flying so much. Not going to quit flying, wife or no wife. What would I do if I had to quit? Don’t think about that, Kar, it won’t happen. Nehir, Nehir. I don’t know. She’s not bad looking, but… I like her brother. Not marrying her brother. Good solid business. Hmm. Doussi? Prettiest woman in gul Inci. Wonder why she’s not married yet? Five years older than me. Keeps the family factory ticking steady. There’s always someone needing motors for new airships. Sirgem Bol could use new ships, replace this old whale. He rubbed his foot against the control stick, smiled dreamily, shook his head. They haven’t bought a new ship for two years, hmm, maybe more. Something’s going on. Maybe I should think about changing companies. Percin Hizmet left last month. Hasn’t found a place yet. That’s odd. He’s a top mechanic, he shouldn’t be having trouble getting on somewhere. Casma. Wonder if she’d be willing to stay onshore. I doubt it, being she’s a diver. Divers are too scrappy for me, I can do without fights when I’m home. Way she dances would make a statue
stand. Maybe we could work out something. I’m gone so much, she could spend those days at the Farm, be on land a couple weeks when I’m home. Affiliated to a Sea Farm, mmh.

  The needles clish-clashed, small clicks and ticks came from the instrument panel, a ghost of wind noise filtered through the windows, wire stays sang sustained sweet notes into the shifting creaks of the gondola, cables burred deeper, stronger notes into the cargo bales hitched beneath it. Inside the cockpit, the light was dim, bluish, mostly from the panel though a small spotlight shone on his hands and woke watery gleams from the sea-ivory needles. Girls’ faces, fragmentary musings, dim apprehensions drifted in an unhurried stream through his head until the alarm chimed.

  He set the knitting aside, looked out. Lights in two columns above the much fainter glows from cracks in curtains and the occasional yellow square where an unshuttered shopwindow announced the business was still open. “Koy Tarla.” He patted Fud-40’s panel. “Good old girl.”

  He cut out the automatic pilot, began matching maneuvers and hit the pylon latch dead center first try. The noselock wouldn’t click home. He swore under his breath and made another pass, slipped loose again. Fud-40 hadn’t been properly serviced for months, there were a lot of parts that needed replacing, nose gear was so worn it was near unusable. The third time he tried, he revved the motors up more than he liked and held her vibrating against the pylon until the instruments gave him a GO. Swearing some more, he brushed the back of his hand against his sweaty brow, swiveled a rotor and nudged the side of the gondola against the platform extending from the pylon, watching the panel anxiously until the readouts told him he was set in solid. He released the rearend cable, felt the gondola shudder as it unreeled. When the hook hit the ground, a buzzer sounded and he shut off the motors with a sigh of relief and a fleeting suspicion that he wouldn’t finish this long haul with bag and self intact, a thought he immediately suppressed. He rolled up his knitting, stuffed it in its bag, clicked off his harness and got to his feet. The locks held the gondola stable; besides, Fud-40 was heavy with bales of yunk wool. It’d take more than his weight to knock her about.

  2

  Karrel Goza pulled the lift door shut, checked the cable out, it was taut and locked to the eyebolt. Birey Tipis was reliable as an old boot, bless the man. Rubbing at his back, he crossed the stretch of beaten earth to the office, pushed open the door and went inside.

  “Alo, Bir, how’s it go?”

  “Slow and slower. You better get that nose fixed, Kar.”

  “Don’t tell me, tell Sirgыn. What you got for me?”

  “Two passengers for Koy Vaha, six bushels orps with the rind on and five sacks tarins, dried. Old Muntza Tefrik, he brought in some hanks of unbleached kes yarn and he wanted to know if his package had got here.”

  “Passengers.” Karrel Goza grimaced; they always wanted to come up and talk to him, Fud-40’s musty cabin started closing in on them the minute he shut the door. “Nuh, nothing for here this trip. Geres Duvvar is due along in a couple weeks, coming from the west, he might have it. If he makes it here. He’s got Hav-13 and that bag makes old Fud up there look like a yearling.”

  “How’s it on the coast?”

  “Like here. Slow and slower.” Karrel Goza took the manifest, checked the weights, nodded. “Fud can handle this.” He set the clipboard down, smothered a yawn. “What’s open? I need to eat and catch a few hours sleep. Sirgыn laid my co off for the duration.”

  “You too, eh?”

  “Too?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “I’ve been short hauling along the coast, that’s why you haven’t seen me for a year or so.”

  “We’ve been getting singles since the thaw. Navlun Bol and Ilkan Bol just like Sirgыn. Cut way down on the schedule too. I get an earful of complaints from the Fehz and everyone else, their goods sit and rot waiting for a hauler to come along. Everyone’s notching their belts. For the duration they say. I’m getting an earache from hearing the word. I ask myself what’s it mean and I answer me, nothing.” Birey Tipis lifted the flap, came through the counter. “Food, hmm. You remember Annie Arkaday?” He waved Karrel Goza to the door, lifted the key ring off the counter and slipped the keys about, hunting for the one he wanted. “Yeh, not many forget her cooking. She had to shut the cafe, the rent got to be too much for the trickle of customers to cover. She petitioned the Fehraz to lower it for the duration,” a soft chuckle sounded over the clink-clank of the keys, “for the duration,” he repeated, “but he wouldn’t, so he gets nothing, intelligent, eh?” He shut the lights off, crossed to the door, followed Karrel Goza through. “Folks stay home these days or stake out a table in Mahanna’s Tavern with a couple cups of kave, it’s still open, but that’s because Mahanna’s got freehold on the building and only pays a ritseed rent.” He finished with the pair of locks, thrust the ring into a side pocket of his jacket. “Annie works out of her house now, same reason, it’s freehold, she’s piled her kids one on top of the other and hires out their rooms and fixes meals for whoever can pay. And the kids run errands when they can. She’s doing all right so far.” He pointed down the street. “That way, he said, “across town from here. It’s not far.” He walked beside Karrel Goza as they went down the middle of the village’s main street. “You heard anything? Been rumors the lines are going to drop half their stations, let the clerks in them go. I’ve been in that office near a score of years.”

  “No one tells us pilots anything except which route we’re on or we’re laid off till god-knows when.” Karrel Goza kicked at a pebble, watched it bound along the worn pavement until it disappeared into a pothole. “It’s a long low, but must ’ve about hit bottom, don’t you think?” Karrel Goza looked around. The village didn’t seem to have changed much since he’d seen it last, shabby, one-story buildings, red tile roofs showing above the packed earth walls that went round the house and the bit of garden that only friends and family ever saw, here and there trees rustled in the sometime wind and the shutters over the front windows of those shops that were closed for the night rattled with the gusts, the dark was kind and concealing, there was a lot he wouldn’t see, a lot hidden behind housewalls. He wished Birey Tipis would shut up about all this, it made him sick thinking about it and more than a little scared.

  “Can’t say, Kar, you and me, we’ve still got our jobs, knock wood, but what do we do if Skein and the others go broke?”

  “Nuh, Bir, they won’t let the carriers fail, Tairanna would fall apart if they did.”

  “Don’t be too sure. The Fehz would survive and the divers would still be bringing up rosepearls, so I can’t see Pittipat sticking his fingers in, what’s he care about a bunch of surrish grubbers? I don’t see any light ahead.” Birey Tipis glanced at Karrel Goza, wiped sweat off his forehead. “Wouldn’t say all this if I didn’t know you don’t run off at the mouth, Kar.” The tip of his tongue flicked along his lips. “Used to be we didn’t worry ourselves about what we said, used to be Yapyap, that’s what we call the Sech’s Nose, he let folks know when he was coming around so they could stop talking about anything he’d have to report.” He caught hold of Karrel Goza’s arm, stopped him. “Listen, Kar, I don’t know about other Koys, but watch what you say to folk here, Yapyap’s gone serious, got a bodyguard, a couple scrapings imported from Tassalga. Hurum Deval got drunk last week and wouldn’t shut up, he started spouting all those jokes about the Imperator, you’ve heard ’em, I’m sure, he didn’t mean anything by it, he always gets a mouth on him when he’s reeling. Thing is, come morning he was gone, we haven’t seen him since. The Fehraz he sent some men over and packed up the family, shipped ’em to gul Brindar on the west coast, we got word a few weeks later they were doing scut work for the Fehdaz there and hoping Hur would show up. He hasn’t so far. And he’s a long way from the first to slide down a dark hole without a bottom.” He started walking again. “What say you let me buy you a beer? Mahanna’s come up with a tarin brew that slides down sweet as honey. Don’t wor
ry about Annie, she’ll whip up something for you, doesn’t matter how late it is.”

  “Why not. Old Fud’s still a lady in the air. One thing though, who’s going to be wrestling the cargo come morning? If it’s me, I pass.”

  “You got a spare goum or two, I can scare up some strong backs for that.”

  “I could put in a requisition for expenses. Don’t suppose Skein would honor it.”

  “There’s another way, wouldn’t cost you or show on the books.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s some brothers who need a lift to the coast.”

  “Off the manifest?”

  “What else.”

  “This Yapyap of yours, won’t he be hanging around the pylon?”

  “There’s ways for handling that.”

  Karrel Goza walked on. At first he was sure he didn’t want anything to do with the proposition. Running like that, it must be serious what they’d done. If something went wrong he could suck his family into their mess. The Ommar’d eat me raw. He glanced several times at Birey Tipis; the old man was strolling along, eyes on the road ahead, face placid as a ruminating yunk, no sign of the nervousness he’d showed a moment before. Karrel Goza was suddenly sure he was going to do it, he wasn’t quite sure why, he was so scared of it, thinking about what could happen tied his stomach in knots and pumped acid up his throat, but somehow he couldn’t not do it. “Family’ll divorce me if this comes out.”

  “It won’t. Um…” Birey Tipis dug his thumb into the soft folds of skin hanging under his jaw. “The boys’ve done this before.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me some more.”

  “The less you know, Kar, the safer you are.”

  “I am?”

  “You got a point. Everyone is. Safer, I mean. I can say this, it’s not thievery or anything like that.”

  “Make sure you take care of Yapyap and his friends.”

  “We will, no fear of that, my friend.”