Shadow of the Warmaster

by Jo Clayton

  The wind was picking up, two fat raindrops splashed down on his head, trickled past his ears. Home and fast. From the look of those clouds and the height of the swells, they’d need all hands to get ready to ride this one out. Another raindrop broke on his nose, he wiped it away and started running toward the alley.

  5. Approaching the Dance Floor/Watergardens outside Ayla gul Inci/both moons down.

  “Like crawling through a room lined with black felt.” Tezzi Ofka braced herself on her arms, leaned forward until her nose touched the curving window.

  “Um.” Elmas Ofka scowled at the trembling lines scattered across the panel in front of her; trying to balance the ship in half a dozen directions and get somewhere at the same time took most of her attention. The storm didn’t help. Blessings be, the winds had died to a whisper. She’d flown the miniship a few times before (mostly in daylight though and tethered) so she’d be able to manage it in an emergency. She hadn’t realized how tricky this short jump was going to be. Thank God, Karrel Goza gave her the extra hour. It would have been easier for him to come to the place where they’d stowed the ship, but she wasn’t about to trust him that much. Not yet anyway. He probably realized she didn’t. He wasn’t stupid, though it was hard to remember that when he put on his dumb hardboy look. Good camouflage. I hope. “Tez, any sign of those lights?”

  “Not yet. You sure we’re heading the right way?”

  “Sssa. Half maybe. Keep looking around.”

  “Mm.”

  They droned on for several minutes, then a sudden gust of wind caught the small airsack and rocked it perilously. Elmas Ofka fought the miniship straight, exploded out the breath she was holding. “Tez!”

  “Turn a little left. I thought I saw something when we were tumbling about.”

  Elmas Ofka eased the nose around, bit her lip as she felt the gondola tremble in the swirl of winds that grew stronger as she got closer to the water. Two faint greenish spots swam past some distance in front of her. She tried to stop the turn, overcorrected, overcorrected again, went toward the lights in a series of diminishing arcs.

  “Elli, I’m getting airsick.”

  “Don’t talk so much.” She ran the pump that sucked air into the ballast sacs; the ship sank, steadied as the added weight helped the motors hold against the erratic push of the wind. A moment later it lurched, nosed down as it hit a powerful downdraft. She swore fervently and vented the air she’d just pumped in.

  “Elliiii, I didn’t know you knew those words.”

  “Shut up, Tez. Sssaaa, I can’t see…” The lights slid inexorably beneath her. She pumped in more air, shifted the stabilizers so she was edging downward, then swung carefully around. “Tez. Get ready to drop the ropes.” She fumbled over the switches, finally got the hover configuration right, swore again as she saw she was several meters away from where she wanted to be. “This is as good as it gets. Toss the marker, Tez, then let the ropes go.”

  The gondola rocked as Tezzi moved from side to side, shuddered as the hatches opened. The weighted glowglobe whirled away, caught by a gust whose fringes reached the miniship a moment later and started it tottering. Elmas Ofka chewed on her lip, drummed her fingers on the chair arms, waiting as long as she dared before she did anything. The ship jerked, steadied. She started breathing again. “Drop the ladders, Tez.”

  She left the chair and went to help balance the gondola as dark figures began swarming up the ladders.

  Karrel Goza was first up. He came in with a quick neat twist of his body and went without a word to the cockpit, settling himself at the controls and began running his fingers over them, touching the switches but changing nothing for the moment. If you can recruit him, there’s a flyer working for Sirgыn Bol, Muhar Teget said, name’s Karrel Goza. He’s a natural. If he manages to get as old as me, he might just be better than me. A natural, she thought, yes, Muh was right. She relaxed some more. Some have the gift, Muh said, lots don’t. You’ve got one, diving it is, flying it’ll never be. Some folk can get along quite well without any special talent for what they want to do, if they’re willing to work their asses off and never stop training. Don’t you put down the ones who go that route, sometimes they do a helluva lot more than the naturals. There’s the drive, you see, without the drive even the best don’t go far. The one weakness they’ve got, though, they don’t adapt fast to radical new situations. You need that kind of thing in what you and your isyas are doing. When you have to replace me, no no, gen-gen, a stroke or a bullet, one of ’em’s going to get me and let me tell you, I’d rather the bullet. What was I saying? ah yes. When you replace me, make sure your pilot is one of the naturals. There’s too much that can go wrong too fast for the other kind. You want inspiration rather than intelligence when there’s no time for thinking.

  Harli Tanggаr swung in, threw Elmas Ofka a salute and a broad grin and began reeling up the ladders. Elmas moved forward.

  “All up,” she murmured.

  “Run through this for me.”

  “Let me take us out over the bay first, we’ve been here too long already.” She slid into the co’s seat. “Tez, signal them cast off.”

  The miniship leaped free, began drifting sideways; Elmas Ofka worked uncertainly through the configuration shift, vented air too slowly at first, then too suddenly, swore under her breath at her clumsiness as she changed settings. She explained what she was doing in a rapid half-distracted murmur, all too aware of his eyes on her; she loathed doing things badly where people could see it, especially men. When they were at last out over the water and there was nothing for miles around to threaten the miniship, she sat back with a sigh and let it drift. “You want to ask questions, or do I give you the lecture Muhar Teget pounded into me?”

  He set a forefinger on a switch. “I touch, you name it, all right?”

  “Why not?”

  For the next twenty some minutes he worked with her, gaining skill with a speed that astonished her. She’d been told by more than Muh that he was good, too good for the stodgy hauls Sirgыn was giving him, it looked like her informants weren’t exaggerating. Before she thought, she said, “Why in forty hells did those godlost execs lay you off?”

  He laughed. It was a pleasant rumbling sound, deeper than his speaking voice. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Her face burned. Prophet’s blessing, it was dark up there except for the faint glow from the instruments. “It was so meant,” she said.

  “Yeh. Trouble is I never took the time to spread the old oil around.”

  “But flying…”

  “Being good is a frill on most hauls. Adequate does just fine.”

  “Adequate gets you killed down deep.”

  He blinked, raised his brows. “If Old Pittipat in Gilisim gets serious about taking title to your merm beds, he’ll fetch in slaves that can whomp him up a minisub or something like it before you can say spit, Elmas Ofka. Think about it a minute while I get set up here…” He worked in silence for a short while, tapping in the course, then he swung his chair round to face her. “You’ve kept hold of those beds up to now because no one can get at them but a Dalliss. How long do you think that’s going to last?” He touched the nearest switch, let his hand drop onto the chair arm. He was serious, frowning, seemed to be groping for a connection between the two of them; his words came in quick spurts with long pauses between them. “Muhar said crude and crudest. He’s right. You ever been up front in a longhauler? There’s stuff in there. Stuff no one was dreaming of. Just a few years ago. When I was in school. Look at me. I’m what? One year? Two? Not that much older than you. I tell you, Elmas Ofka, what with the skills the slaves bring in from outside. And the fiddling the mechs do in their offtime. Well. The ships are smarter than some of the pilots these days.”

  She stared at the blackness outside and at her face mirrored like a distorted ghost in the curving glass. “Herk the Jerk,” she said softly. “But why boys? They don’t know anything.”

  He pinched his nose, drop
ped his hands onto his thighs. His thumbs were twitching. “Maybe he thinks they do.”

  “But everyone knows it’s the Ommars and the Dallisses who control the beds.”

  He shifted restlessly, crossed his legs. “Everyone in Inci,” he said. “Everyone in any city with a Sea Farm handy. Yeh, you’re probably right about them.” He managed a kind of all-over shrug. He was a smallish man, his body limber and relaxed as a sleepy cat. She got glimpses now and then of another kind of person inside, mostly, though, he kept everyone away from that man. “Things get shuffled around a bit differently in different places. You ever hear Huvveds talking about women?”

  “I heard one talking to a woman once, a Hordar woman.”

  She could see him remembering the stories about her and feeling like a fool, then deciding that a continued ignorance would be the most tactful face he could put on. “What I’m saying is, Herk spent most of his time in Gilisim; that’s inland. On the Lake. Freshwater. No merm beds there. And since he’s been back, who’s he talked to? Ollanin and Kabriks. All men. And who’s he got close to him? Other Huvveds, all men. And knowing our beloved leader, do you think he’s going to bother asking anyone about how Hordar run their lives? See what I mean?”

  “Of all the stupid, arrogant…”

  “That’s our Herk.”

  She settled to a simmering brood while Karrel Goza put his feet up, tilted the chair back and dozed as the miniship droned on toward the Mountain Place.

  6

  The winds around the Fehdaz’s Mountain Place were clawing at each other and coiling into knots while an icy rain hammered verticals and horizontals alike. Karrel Goza tried sliding from one current to another, fighting to get close enough to the Hold to let the women down inside the walls. The rain blinded him, the winds knocked him away again and again, driving him toward the ground, skidding him toward the walls and the three-hundred-foot cliff behind the Hold, coming close to flipping him end for end. He backed off, climbed into a region of comparative peace.

  “She’s a sweet ship,” he said. “Tougher than I thought, plenty of power, but she is little. Not enough weight. Another thing, that lightning, if we’re struck, goodnight all. I don’t know…”

  Elmas Ofka frowned at the clock on the panel, looked over his shoulder at the silent women sitting on the floor behind her. “We can wait maybe half an hour, maybe three-quarters if we really push it, some of us have to be back in our beds before sunup. Let’s see if the storm will calm enough to let you take us in.”

  He nodded. “Even a half hour could make a big difference.” He reached under the chair and lifted up the shoulderbag he’d brought with him, took out a mass of knitting and settled it on his lap. Hands busy, eyes flicking back and forth between the needles and the panel, his face intent, he knitted steadily, the warm brown wool dancing through his fingers.

  She watched him, fascinated by this stranger who without intending it was showing her just how little she knew about her own kin and landfolk everywhere. It was disturbing, it was challenging, it was infuriating because she knew all too well that she couldn’t do a thing about the forces that kept her pinned where she was. Mostly she was too busy to fret about her limitations, she had other things on her mind; now there was nothing to do but think and she didn’t much like what she was thinking. Even when she was still Indiz Farm’s premiere Dalliss, her life was circumscribed by her talent and her duties and everything her Family expected of her. She fidgeted, wishing she had something to keep her hands and her mind busy. He knew he was going to wait maybe an hour for us, damn him, he’s set, why didn’t I get ready for a delay? Sssa, woman, you’ve got to do better… Forethought, Ommar Ayrinti beats her finger in the air, forethought saves aftertrouble. If you’d just think before you stepped in something, Elli, just take a meesly second and think a little, ay girl. The gnarly forefinger like a bit of dried floatstem beat beat beating at the air before her face. Sssaa… She moved her shoulders impatiently, swung her chair around so she wouldn’t have to look at the man, pulled her legs up and settled herself to doze away the wait. If she could.

  7

  Half an hour later the winds were still gusting, but the worst of the knots were teased out and the rain had diminished to a few spatters. Karrel Goza took the miniship in a ragged spiral about the largest structure inside the walls, brought her low and hovered her over an open stretch in the kitchen garden.

  Elmas Ofka knelt by a hatch, swept the spotter in a wide circle, slipped it back in the case snapped to her belt. “No guards,” she said, pitching her voice so she could be heard above the thrum of the motors, the whine of the wind. “Harli Tanggаr, Lirrit Ofka, go.” She watched them slide down ladders that twisted and bucked with them and went streaming away at an angle when they dropped free; they landed in rows of hanannas and moved quickly into the shelter of tall groaning beanpoles. “Melly Birah, Hessah Indiz, go.” She counted a dozen breaths, watched them jump free when they were more than a manheight from the ground; they landed on the trampled hanannas and ran for the hedge that circled the garden; they went to their stomachs behind coldframes there, merging with the inky shadows. “Binna Tanggаr, Jirsy Indiz, go.” She turned her head. “See you, Karrel Goza. Our turn, Tez.” She tipped through the hatch, caught the ladder and began dropping. The ropes whipped through her gloved hands, the wooden rungs slammed into her knees, her breasts, her face. By the time she reached the ground, she felt like she’d been beaten with rods.

  Her isyas came out of the shadows and drifted around her, shadows themselves, knitted hoods over all but eyes, black gloves on hands, narrow black trousers, knitted tops that clung like tight black skins. They were armed with deadly little darters the weaponsmith made for them and cutters that went through metal like a wire through cheese, braided leather straps that came away from their belts with a quick jerk, daggers thin and sharp as a wicked thought and broader all-purpose knives. At the kitchen door, she looked over her shoulder at them and was filled with pride; she pulled her hood away from her mouth, flashed them a grin, then waved Harli Tanggаr up to deal with the door.

  8

  Elmas Ofka checked the sketch Toma Indiz drew for her; it was hard to make out even with the pinlight held close to the crumpled paper, the lines were shaky and pale. Left from the kitchen. Done that. Two turns, door, probably locked, could be barred from the inside. They’d taken care of that, no resistance at all as the cutter sliced through the lock’s bolt. Bit of leather folded up and shoved under the door to hold it shut because it had a tendency to swing open and they didn’t want to attract the attention of any insomniacs who got a notion to ramble, you want to watch out for those, Elli, they can wreck the best plan there is. Scared the shit out of me when I was busting out; Prophet bless, he was as scared of me and a lot less ready and I tunked him on the head before he could yell. Left again, keep going past five doors, stop at the fifth, there should be a sharp curve ahead. Round that curve the corridor splits into three branches. If Herk’s just holding the boys until a ship leaves for Tassalga, they’ll be in a tank at the end of the right arm. There, see, where I drew the circle. If he had them under question and is finished with them and they’re still alive, then they’ll be in the infirmary, that’s here, along the middle way, cells here and here, treatment room there. If he’s still working on them, go left and down, keep going down. The question chambers are deep enough so Herk’s guests, if he ever has any, can’t hear the screams. There’s a sentry on each level, at least there was when old Grouch was working on me. I doubt little Herk has changed things much. You have to take them out, you don’t want them there when you’re leaving, you’re apt to be in a hurry and maybe carrying one or more of the boys. First though, everything past that curve is being monitored. Camera eye in the ceiling. The guards are watching the screens down in the anteroom to the question chamber. You can’t get at them without passing the pickup, so you’ll have to take it out. One thing you’ve got going for you, the wiring in that place is hopeless, thin
gs are always shorting out. There’s a good chance the guards won’t bother trying to fix the system before morning.

  She touched Lirrit Ofka’s arm.

  The isya nodded, dropped to her stomach close to the wall. She extended a collapsible tube painted black, eased it around the bend, put her eye to the viewer. She lifted her head, wriggled forward a few spans, looked again, repeated the process until all Elmas Ofka could see of her were feet in the soft black mocs with a gray dust smear like a crayon rubbing on the soles, footprints clinging to the bottom of her feet.

  Lirrit Ofka rolled over, there was a faint hum, a tinkle. She rolled back, crept forward again, her feet vanishing. For several seconds there was a tense silence broken only by the near inaudible rub of cloth against stone, then even that stopped, then the isya came trotting back. She grinned, gave them a thumb salute. Keeping her voice low but not bothering to whisper, she said, “There was just the one. I spotted the guard, took him out. Dart this time. You hear it?”

  “Uh-uh. How fast?”

  “Got him in the neck. I think he thought a bug had bit him, he started to raise his hand, poop! down he went.”

  “Alert?”

  “Nah. Leaning against the wall half asleep.”

  “I see.” She thought a minute. “We won’t change plans. Question chamber first, the other cells on our way back. Any objections? Good. Let’s go.”

  9

  Elmas Ofka and her isyas took out the drowsy sentries as they came on them with as little trouble as Lirrit had with the first; they left the men propped against a wall as if they slept sitting with their weapons beside them. Down and down the women went, through latched but not locked doors, running silent as hunting cats through the dimly lit corridors and down the spiraling stair flights. Empty corridors. Not even a rat prowling them, let alone an insomniac.