Shadowkill sq-3, page 24
part #3 of Shadith's quest Series
“Time comes, we’ll see. If it’s all that tricky, we might have to hire the Talent. There was a man tonight at the game, a freetech. He says he’s into industrial engineering, but I think he lied. He said it too easily. And he didn’t like it when I claimed programs and systems. He did friend well enough, well as any of the techies do, but his smiles stopped at his teeth. Way he played, too, he’s into systems. I think. Maybe he doesn’t want competition. Second thing. I ran into an acquaintance from the time before I signed on with Digby. He doesn’t seem to know about that, which is certainly plausible. It’s a small world, the game circuit. You leave it and you might as well have dropped down a black hole. He’s got a thing he wants me in on, something to do with a game. I go along with him, I’ve got some protection. I think I’m going to need it. He set me up, the snake. Pointed one of the Beza Prezao’s men at me. He said he didn’t know the man was going to be there. I’ll believe that when it rains up. He had a ringer in the game to see if I’d lost my edge. Pulled the Lice off me when he got the signal from his ringer. I don’t think this has anything to do with why we’re here, but if I’m going to keep on this track, I’m going to have to go along with him.”
8
She woke sometime later; it was black outside and cold inside despite the half dozen candles burning on a plate Kikun had set in the middle of the floor. He was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the clump of candles, his eyes like orange fire, blind orange fire because it was obvious to her he was seeing nothing in the room. He was looking into elsewhere, yearning into elsewhere, swaying on his buttocks, chanting in monosyllables.
She watched for a while, but it was like watching a flake show with the sound gone and you’ve come in the middle of it.
She turned over, drew the covers up about her head, and went to sleep.
Dyslaera 10: Working Toward Escape
1
Rohant combed his thumbclaw through his mustache, his palm hiding a smile.
His tiny hands braced on the bottom bar of the doorgrill, Miji leaned into the room, his black eyes eager, his neck-frills extended. Reassured, he hopped through, skittered across the floor to Rohant’s leg.
He sniffed at the ankle, patted at the soft bronze fur on the Dyslaeror’s leg. Eeping with pleasure, he rubbed his forepaws then the side of his face over and over that fur.
Rohant waited.
Miji put a forepaw on the frayed hem of Rohant’s prison trousers; he scratched at the worn canvas, caught his tiny fingernails in it, and, abruptly, scurried up the leg. He didn’t stop until he was perched on Rohant’s shoulder, nibbling at the Dyslaeror’s mane.
2
Kinefray twitched in his sleep, convulsed, rolled off the cot, and hit the floor before Azram could catch him.
His claws out, his head banging repeatedly into the concrete, he thrashed wildly until he was fully awake.
Azram scrambled around, cushioned his cousin’s head with his thighs and, when he quieted, helped him back on the cot. “Do you remember what it was?”
“No.” Kinefray saw the fresh rips in Azram’s sleeves, shuddered. “Something was after me, I think. I’ve got that wobbly feeling in my gut, you know.”
“I know. Stretch out now. On your back first.” Azram began rubbing the back of Kinefray’s neck, working on his shoulders. “They’ve left us alone a whole week, maybe they’ve got what they want.”
Kinefray shuddered again, began crying.
3
Nezrakan lay curled in a fetal knot. For three days he’d refused to eat. Now he was too weak to move. It didn’t take a Dyslaeror long to starve himself dead.
##
Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):
NOTE 1: Negotiations with the Black House have slowed due to the need for a considerably greater security in handling the Dyslaera, also the difficulty in getting the value out of them since it would not be wise-or safe-to advertise their presence. Also there is a degree of uncertainty as to how many Dyslaera we will be able to provide.
NOTE 2: The cutouts have been arranged for the ransom demand. Clumsy setup, but what happened when Voallts went after Seyirshi is more than ample evidence of the need, for a careful distance kept between Mimishay and Voallts. The rat with the message is on its way, we should have, the answer in about forty days.
4
Rohant closed his eyes and concentrated.
He ran with Miji as the sakali scooted through the tunnels, heading for the pen and his exit into the open world. Though he couldn’t see through Miji’s eyes like Shadow, he felt the coolness of the concrete under Miji’s feet, felt the sakali’s surge of fear, felt the response of his muscles when he dived into shadow to avoid one of the warders.
He let the intensity drop and sat up. It wasn’t much and at the moment he had no idea how he could use the Tie, but he had to try something. He sighed and settled to brood over what to do next.
Shadow Watching
1
Arring Pirs held his son over his head so chal and chapa could see him.
The baby didn’t like that. He waved his small naked arms and legs and squawled his displeasure with a lusty enthusiasm that brought laughter and approving whistles from the chat and chapa of Ghanar Rinta gathered around the Amur-hill for the Naming Ceremony.
“Behold the son,” Pirs chanted in the formal langue. “Hear his name: Arringgarri Paji knigo Pirs ampa Cagharadad nima Procagharadad.” His voice escaped the bounds of the Rite, became a shout of pride and joy, answered by a shout from the chat and chapa.
A restless fringe around the edges of the crowd, the children of Ghanar Rinta gasped with pleasure, shouted and whistled as the Amur-speaker touched his torch to the conical pyre rising fifty meters from the top of the hill; saturated with kerosene, the wood caught immediately and the flames went running up the slope like an echo of Pirs’ triumphant cry.
While the Amur-drums rattled in the laps of the Amur-deacons seated around the fire and the Amur-speaker sang the Litany of the Son, Pirs dropped on his knee and held the baby out to his father for the Artwa to bless the child and formally accept the boy into the family.
The drumbeat slowed, quieted; the Speaker broke off the Litany and waited.
Chat and chapa and even the most boisterous of the children went quiet, stood hushed and grave, waiting. This was the vital thing. This was the pledge that their lives would be unchanged, a small red-faced surety of continuance.
The Artwa Arring Angakirs Cagharadad spread his hands over the wriggling baby. “Behold the son,” he chanted, “Behold the Summerday child, the newest fruit on the tree of Procagharadad. Behold the Joy, the Promise. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Irrkuyon of Irrkuy. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Blessed. I, Artwa Procagharadad, call upon you, the chal and chapa of Ghanar Rinta to declare your fealty to the Son of Ghanar Rinta.”
##
Standing at the back of the crowd among the children, Shadith shifted from foot to foot, scratched at her arm. She was here because Tinoopa turned maternal and dogmatic and dragged her along. Don’t be an idiot, Tinoopa said, you need their good will and you know it. Show your face and behave yourself, child.
She watched as the rite went on and on, thinking:
Poor baby, he’s going to catch pneumonia if they don’t wrap something around him. No wonder boy babies had a hard time surviving. Jerks. Matja Allina isn’t even on the Hill. Wouldn’t you know. Come on, come on. Get that poor baby back where he belongs, let me get back where I belong. Old bastard, I have to admit he’s impressive, times like this. Should keep him in a closet and just take him out when it’s time to chant something.
The Amur-speaker spread scented oil over the baby’s body. Shadith wiggled her left bootheel on a dirtclod, crushing it.
Pirs. He’s riding high right now. Daddy’s spreading it thick, almost cooing at him (old warthog, wonder what he wants?). He’s got his boy, the Brushies are friendly, and there haven’t been raids for the past eleven weeks. Enough to make any amnesiac happy. Well, we get our papers out of this. Signed and locked away. Lovely. So generous the man is, as long as it doesn’t cost him anything.
Last night Pirs called her and Tinoopa into the study. He showed them their contracts and the cancellation papers. As they watched, he signed his name, stamped his seal on cancels. I wanted you to see this, he said, in six months your year will be completed. We will honor our promise as you have honored yours, to the limit of our ability. He folded the documents together, laid his hands on them, and waited for them to leave.
Arring Feelgood, dispensing favors to his chosen, favors with a call-date half a year off. Locked up somewhere in that study. Hmmmm.
##
Mingas was up there on the Hill, standing behind his father. It was the first time Shadith had seen him, and she didn’t much like what she was seeing.
Runt. Ugly pup.
In a way he was very like his spectacularly handsome kin, but his individual features were larger, their contours more rounded; he was a head shorter and considerably bulkier. It wasn’t fat, he was rock hard, but he looked clumsy, pudgy.
Odd what a thin line it is between beauty and ugliness.
She reached, touched him, shied away almost immediately. It was like touching acid. Behind that bland, immobile face, hate and rage were bubbling, boiling… Her mouth twitched.
Stick a pin in him and lolly save the ashes. Sar!
Pirs took the baby down to Allina, helped her wrap him in his blankets.
On the hill, the Speaker blew into his horn, signaling the end of the ceremony. The chal and chapa went back inside the walls and the party began.
2
Dinner with Daddy slipped by with nothing much happening.
It’d been a nothing much day, the day after the Nameday Party, chal and chapa dragging to work, sour in breath and spirit; Tinoopa’s eyes were red as alert signals and she didn’t want to talk about anything, just got grimly on with her business. Shadith took the hint the fifth time Tinoopa moved her aside so she could get something; she went to her room and played at escape for a while. The rest of the time she slept. Which was why her head was hammering right now and her own temper on a short leash.
Paynto was playing some kind of shepherd song on his flute, too many high notes; they were digging holes in her brain. She let her fingers find an accompaniment and tried to shut down her hearing.
Ghineeli chal slipped from the kitchen door, knelt beside Shadith, touched her arm. “When this is over,” she whispered, “Matja Allina says you don’t need to come to her tonight, feel free to do what you want.” She patted Shadith’s arm, slipped away.
Lovely. More hours looking at walls.
She glanced at the screen, sighed. The three Cagharadad were talking about shearing and problems with getting their goods offworld, getting the money back, wandering desultorily from topic to topic, none of it meaning anything, all of it embroidery on a tension growing between them, a tension that had nothing to do with what they were saying. She didn’t understand it and that put a cold shiver in her belly; she didn’t trust them, even Pirs, they could explode in any direction, any time.
They were drinking the bottle of brandy the Artwa had brought to celebrate the Name Day. Pirs was trying to enjoy himself, rapidly getting drunk; as usual, he was ignoring anything he didn’t want to know about. The Artwa was waiting to spring, spider in his hole; he wanted something and was sure he knew how to get it. Mingas simmered. She didn’t know him well enough to know how much of that was standard and how much aroused by whatever it was that waited for Pirs. His glass was still half full; he’d taken a sip at each toast, no more.
If Tinoopa was here, she’d say: Never trust a man who won’t get drunk with his own family.
The Artwa cleared his throat, looked at Mingas.
Mingas hurried around the table, pulled his father’s chair out as the Artwa stood.
“Help your brother,” Angakirs said, waited until Mingas was standing behind the Arring. “Pirs, I want to talk to you. Let’s go into your study.”
Pirs blinked. His eyes were clear, the blue as brilliant as ever. His face was slightly flushed, but he showed no other sign of how much brandy he’d consumed. “Study,” he said amiably. He didn’t move.
“Stand up,” the Artwa snapped at his son, annoyed because he’d misjudged Pirs’ capacity. “Take his arm, Mingas. Don’t just stand there, help him.”
Shadith kept playing because Paynto kept playing, same song over and over. He didn’t stop until the study door boomed shut, then he sighed, shook out his flute. “Another night killed,” he said. “Wonder when he’s going home?”
Impajin grunted. He stretched, shook himself. “Let’s get.”
They nodded at Shadith, left.
She stood, slipped her arm through the arranga’s carry strap, went out through the kitchen.
3
She sat on the bed, pulled her boots off. Balancing the left boot on her thighs, she slid her fingers into the slit and drew out the braincrystal knife. It was still there in spite of everything, overlooked in its incarnation as a stay stiffening the soft leather sides of the boot.
Since the Main Court had to be kept for the Name day party, the Artwa’s skimmer was parked outside the walls. Guarded, of course, but the guards were probably as drunk as Pirs by now, most of them anyway.
Might have a designated Drynose, might not. When the Cagharadads get out of the study…
She held the knife up, the candlelight shivering along the blade, then she sighed and eased it back into the boot and dropped that boot beside the other.
I could do it. They’re used to seeing me in there, I could get the papers, grab the skimmer, and run for Nirtajai.
But she knew she wouldn’t. A runaway chapa was one thing, a skimmer thief was something else. The Artwaes would stop a war to go after someone stupid enough to steal a skimmer, that’d be an attack where it hurt, an attack on their power. Even if she managed to reach Nirtajai and found a skipcom and got the call out, she’d still have to hang around until whoever was picking her up could get here.
Travel time, you can’t get around travel time.
She’d have to hide, to survive without allies and with a price on her head that would tempt an anchorite.
No. Too much downside. Well, you know what it is, Shadow, you just don’t want to face that long lone ride.
She thought about Rohant and the Dyslaera, winced quickly away from that. Omphalos had them. She had to do something about that. She couldn’t while she was still a prisoner here…
She flung herself around, face down on the bed. She didn’t want to think.
She reached and found a rodent burrowed into one of the walls of the study, teased it out, and sent it running from shadow to shadow until it was under a bookcase near where the three men were sitting.
She made it curl up there, nose on its forepaws, and listened through its ears.
##
“… hot Kirtaa,” Angakirs was saying. “You know about Probrantarradad, ’s been going on forever. We nibble at them, they nibble at us.”
She heard creaks and cushion whispers as Pirs shifted in his chair. “I know. We get Kurn’s tumaks out here when he comes up with the cash to hire them.”
“Well, he picked up a backer two weeks ago. Kamaachadad. Old Mulyas and Kurn had a secret meeting round then. Kamaachadad found out who carried his daughter off a couple years ago. Bitch. She went willing, eager even. Rintirry swore it. Trouble is she ran off, tried to abort the cub and bled to death. That chal-what was his name? Don’t remember. It’s not important. The one Rintirry made so much of. Once Tirry was dead, he got to feeling Utilas wasn’t treating him right and he ran off to the Brush, but before he did, he sold us. Mulyas sent me the Warblade a week ago, along with the kind of letter a sane man would have burned. He hit us at Caghar Rinta the next day. It was a close thing, Pirs.”
“Kamaachadad. Amur bless. He’s got more sons than he has chals.”
“Five less now.”
“Rintirry, damn his soul to hell, why…”
Mingas stirred, cleared his throat. “Rintirry’s dead.”
Angakirs’ hand splatted against chair leather. “Keep your mouth from Rintirry, both of you. I don’t want to hear that. Pirs, I want you and fifty of your men at Caghar Rinta. You’ve got a son now, your Matja can keep busy with him, she doesn’t need you.”
“Fifty men, we can’t spare fifty men. You know we’re coming on Shearing Days.”
“I know you owe me. I’m your father and this Rinta is still mine till you pay the last payment. Your chals are sworn to me, I could take them all if I called in my rights.”
Mingas spoke again, very softly. “Our father has lost one son, Pirs. Our best fighter. Lost him because you were careless. You have a moral duty to replace that son.”
Angakirs said nothing, but Shadith, listening, had no doubt of his agreement with that.
Pirs drew a long shuddery breath, let it out again, the hiss loud in continuing silence. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll come and I’ll bring the men. If you arm them. I will not strip this Rinta for you, not even for you.”
“What good are men without arms?”
“I will not strip this Rinta.”
“Well, get them to me and I’ll arm them.”
“No, Father. Send the guns here, good guns and ammunition for them. As soon as the weapons are here, my trucks will roll.”
“We need drugs and cloth and other supplies, I’ll give you a list. Bring a truckload of those with the men.”
“All right.” The chair creaked again.
