Jo Clayton - SQ 2 - Shadowspeer

Shadowspeer

Shadith’s Quest, Book 2

Jo Clayton

1990

SHADOW TRAPPED—

Shadith woke to the smell of leather and herbs. She was kneeling on a rough plank floor, held there

by men standing close to her. A light came on over her head. Blinding. A hand grabbed her hair, jerked

her head up.

Someone came round a tall pile of crates. He bent over her. One hand slid down the side of her face,

the side with the fauxskin covering the hawk acid-etched into her cheek. “Clever,” he mur-mured. “You

lie fluently, child. Don’t lie to me. Where is your partner?”

“I don’t know.”

“I said don’t lie.” Without straightening from his semi-crouch, he turned his head, spoke to someone

in the darkness. “Get the probe, Kase-doc.”

“It’s not a lie, it’s not. He’s somewhere around, but I don’t know where. That’s his gift. People don’t

see him. Or if they do, they forget what they saw. He doesn’t trust anyone any more. Not us. Not

anyone.”

He heard the terror in her voice, felt her des-perate trembling, and believed her. He took his hand

from her neck and stood erect. “Then there is nothing more I need from you.” He stepped into the

darkness beyond the cone of light. –Keep her here until sundown. If I haven’t counter-manded the order

by then, shoot her....”

Jo Clayton has written:

The Diadem Series

Diadem From The Stars

Lamarchos

Irsud

Maeve

Star Hunters

The Nowhere Hunt

Ghosthunt

The Snares Of Ibex

Quester’s Endgame

Shadow of the Warmaster

Duel Of Sorcery

Moongather

Moonscatter

Changer’s Moon

The Dancer Trilogy

Dancer’s Rise

Serpent Waltz

Dance Down The Stars

The Skeen Trilogy

Skeen’s Leap

Skeen’s Return

Skeen’s Search

The Soul Drinker Trilogy

Drinker Of Souls

Blue Magic

A Gathering Of Stones

The Wild Magic Series

Wild Magic

Wildfire

The Magic Wars

and

A Bait Of Dreams

Speer: To trace, to ask about, to make tracks

I. Opening Moves

(Ginny wins on points)

TARGET VOALLTS KORLATCH

TZAYL 7

Capture crew on ground—Vivalyn the Zadys (Capture Chief)

Capture ship in orbit—Rosshyn the Szajes (Ship’s Captain)

1

The camp was set up in scrub and red dust on an oval undulant plain, half a dozen matte-surfaced

shelterdomes huddled together, raised alongside a brown and bleached local village, stick-and-mud

domes inside a dessicated brush-and-stick fence connected to other fence circles where the local

livestock slept off the tag end of night. In the distance, faded and abraded purple-brown hills gummed at

a sky that during the day was red with con-tinually circling dust clouds. The dawn wind was begin-ning to

rise as it did every morning at this season, sweeping across the scrub plain, lifting more of the dust into

traveling devils dancing in staggers across the flats.

A sled hummed from the mountains, cut a jigging devil in half and nosed through a dustpeller screen

into an enclosed berth in the side of the workdome.

Yawning and scratching at her sleek silver-gray head-fur, Vivalyn the Zadys strolled into the

comcenter. “Servoos, Maskay.”

The young Dyslaerin tilted the swivel chair back, bend-ing her neck until she was looking upside

down at the newcomer. “Servoos, Viv. How’s it go?”

“It stinks. Nothing in those hills worth putting psalt on its tail. Unless the other team comes up with a

poss, I say we undust and try the next system on the list.”

Maskay let the chair squeak upright. “Rosshyn up in the Hajautka, she’d agree, she’s been paitshing

at me the past hour, she thinks this world’s on a par with toxic waste, she says why don’t you find

somewhere with pretty beaches. Just once, huh?”

“Never satisfied, is she? I gave her beaches last time.”

Maskay giggled. “Yeh, I remember. Very nice they were, with sandworms all mouth and carnivorous

crabs the size of young houses.”

Vivalyn strolled over and scanned the instrumentation. “Report time again. Ondue. I see you’ve set

the line for us.”

“Right. Two hours on. I thought I’d lay in a hiatus for a confa.”

“Practicing for your own team, huh?”

“Why not? I notice you came up comside, cousin.”

Vivalyn slicked her hand over the girl’s hot-copper headfur. “Why not, indeed.” She stepped back.

“Put me through to Sotarys, May. Likely she’s in by now since she’s working daylight, should be near

sunset that side the world.”

2

The red sun crept up and the whine of the wind grew louder.

The village woke and the locals began moving through their day lives; they were a sullen stolid lot,

built for endurance rather than beauty, stubbornly peaceful and self-enclosed, not so much tolerating the

offworlders as ignoring them.

Inside the workdome Vivalyn the Zadys comtalked with Rosshyn the Szajes, setting up the outline of

the next day’s departure while she waited for the CaIltime to Spotchals. “... to zeta Hyronix, then that

stargroup in the Aradica Arm, then over to Shavonari Pit where we transfer cargo, if any—let’s hope

Luck won’t be quite so stingy on our next dips—and treat ourselves to a few days

R&R, sorry Ross, no beaches at a Pit unless you count the sensi shows.”

The monitor showed Rosshyn the Szajes pulling an in-verted grin and twitching her ears. “We’ll make

do, Viv. I got a inventive crew. When do you want....”

The monitor went blank, the speaker crackled with a sudden burst of noise.

“What.... May?”

“I don’t know....” Maskay swore. “Incoming some....” she stabbed her hand at the domeshield

ac-tivator, but it was too little, too late.

3

After they buried their own dead, the locals gathered to stare into the blackened glassy crater where

the strangers’ camp had been.

TARGET VOALLTS KORLATCH

PILLACARIODA PIT

Capture Crew at R&R

Nightcrawler Cobben from Helvetia

1

To the Coryfe, Cobben Nerlkyss/HIT LIST

1. Capture Chief: Dyslaeror, has a weakness for sensi, dangerous at other times. Wait until he is under;

take first if possible.

2. Capture Specialist: this particular Crew has three—A Dyslaeror too good at his job to be trapped

easily. ?Sniper? If so, take last to avoid alarming the oth-ers.—Two Grydeggins, these being lanky

canids, six limbed, highly developed noses, taste. Unpredictable and dangerous, hard to drug but

susceptible to alco-hol. Minimum of two operatives—if necessary to work through surrogates,

remove surrogates before depar-ture.

3. Xenobiologist: From one of the cousin races, standard type, reticent about the world of his origin,

physiol-ogy unknown, poison therefore uncertain, mechanical means necessary, what is known about

him suggests considerable care in approach. ?Net-and-electrocute?

4. Ecologist: Spotchallix, should offer little difficulty, known to like variety and change in female

compan-ionship during R&R.

5. Logistics Specialist: This Crew has a Master (Javi-tand) and four Apprentices (Hallgats), all young

Dyslaeror.

The Javitand is a cranky ancient, an adoptee from the Foglala clan of Csilldys 4/Dysstrael; take care

around him, word is he is a bloody old monster capable of ripping the guts out of anyone foolish

enough to get close when he is smoking geezert which he starts the minute he hits a Pit. Since he

won’t let anyone near him, you’ll have to work at a distance.

?Sniper? If so, you will have to make the hit at the same time as the one on the Capture Specialist,

oth-erwise there will be too much Noise for safe Work.

2

SEVENTH DAY IN THE DEKADIURNE OF PILLA-CARIODA, (LUCK DAY to the

superstitious):

Vanassorn the Zadant lay sprawled across the water mattress, his eyes closed, the sensi-net fitting

like a sec-ond skin over his head and his broad hard-muscled body. His ears twitched, twitches moved

in waves along that body as he dreamed: running across a hot yellow plain, the scent of the yrz herd

like musk in his nostrils.

The cell door opened, a small wiry man dressed as an attendant slipped in. He crossed to the bed,

took a needlenose popper from a slit in his sleeve. Working carefully, he eased its fine glass tube through

the net field until he had the end resting on the Dyslaeror’s inner el-bow, then he triggered the poisonshot

and watched for results.

The sleeper shuddered, his breath caught in his throat, then he started a rapid panting.

The assassin smiled with satisfaction, slid the popper back in its sheath and went quietly out.

3

She was small and sleek, dark hair, dark eyes, dusky skin, quietly sensual. She touched Tenekiloff’s

wrist, her fingertips caressing, soft, leaving small warm spots as she took her hand away. The Ecologist

blinked at her, smiled foolishly, then followed her into the twilight of a privacy alcove.

When he reached for the drink pad, she stopped him, flattened his hand on the table, moved her

fingertips around and around his palm. So suddenly he hadn’t time to react, she sank her fingernails into

his flesh; they were razor sharp, there was no pain, only four small cuts. She slid from the banc and

vanished into the murk of the bar before he recovered enough to protest.

He sat staring at the tiny curved cuts beaded with blood, finally decided he’d better get something

done about them. He tried to stand; he couldn’t. His tongue swelled and went numb. His eyes blurred,

then he couldn’t see anything.

Sometime later, annoyed at the man for hogging the alcove, a bar patron shook him, then gagged,

jumped back and yelled for the manager.

4

The net came out of nowhere, whipped around Perdo the Xenobiologist’s top half. He dropped

backward, twisted as he fell, nearly escaped the trap, but the pair holding the leashes sent a massive

charge through the web strands and fried his head.

5

Argao and Kutyoh chased each other through the min-iature hills of the Chassedrome, giggling like

fools, so drunk they kept losing track of their legs, a serious lapse in a hexapod, and went tumbling in

knots down the grassy slopes. It was very late in the Pit’s arbitrary Night cycle so there were few

patrons in the Drome, even the Gry-deggins weren’t so much hunting as playing.

After a long night of chasing each other and sparring with other patrons, their energy levels were low

and their flasks were almost empty. With triplestrength a’hi-wai purpling their tongues and wiping away

any alert-ness they might still have possessed, they lay in a cosy dell, sucking at the drink tubes and

watching without much interest as a pair of slight wiry figures in black hunt fatigues and leather vizards

came trotting along the path.

Moving with a quickness that was too easy on the eye to register as such, the newcomers split apart,

dropped beside the recumbent Grydeggins and flipped Menavid-dan nooses over their heads. o

6

In their fourbed restroom, the Dyslaeror apprentices were sleeping with the fervor of healthy youth,

having exhausted their purses and their imaginations during the past seven days.

Dressed in the veils and glittersilk of Kantella courte-sans, two small dusky females wiped the lock

without triggering the crude alarm and slipped inside the room. They worked silently, efficiently, were out,

relocking the door, five minutes later.

7

Borszastag the Javitand came out of his restroom, banged loudly on the next door over, then went

down the slidestair without waiting for an answer from his appren-tices. As was his custom, he lowered

himself into a chair on the terrace of the hostel’s eating place and lit a stib of geezert as he sat watching

the official arrival of morning, a rainbow flow of color like the play of light across a diffraction grating as

the polarity of the Shell shifted to its Day setting.

He blinked suddenly, stiffened, then plopped over, his face in the fruit slices, a sniperdart sticking like

a small stub from the back of his head.

Half the Pit away, Capture Specialist Udvarorrn came from the Vervhus limp and sore from his

night’s exer-tions; he stretched, yawned. The yawn sagged into a wit-less gape, his eyes opened wide,

went blank. He sprawled on the walkway, a sniperdart sticking like a small stub from the back of his

head.

LIST CLOSED.

SATISFACTORY.

COBBEN RETURNED BASE (The City/Helvetia)

QUERY: NEXT OPERATION?

TARGET VOALLTS KORLATCH

SPOTCHALS (Jorbar 14). SPOTCH HELSPAR: world capitol

Meeting: Transfer Station, synchronous orbit above Spotch Helspar

Miralys, Rohant, Lissorn,

Dyslaerin Zimaryn (eldest aunt to Miralys, chief aide)

Dyslaror Sotabaern (uncle/cousin in third degree, Miralys’ chief bodyguard)

Shadith, Kikun

1

Miralys tapped her claws seriatim on the brushed steel of the lokcase. The small ticks fell like hail into

the tense silence. “Tzayl 7,” she said tightly. “Report Ondue. Line cleared. Vivalyn. Experienced Zadys,

one of the best at opening new worlds. Time came, nothing. We couldn’t even raise an echo. I sent out a

scoutrat, zapped it over tripletime. There’s a hole in the ground where the camp was and a ring of dust

instead of a ship. That was the first one. In spite of being warned to watch for trou-ble, next three months

two more Crews missed Ondue. I sent scoutrats each time. No Crew. No ship. Sometimes there was

debris, sometimes not. This morning another Ondue failed. I imagine the rat reports are waiting for me

downbelow. Someone is getting into our files or lis-tening to our transmissions to Field. Or both. I have

checked security and checked it again and I have ordered another look this morning. I expect the same

nothing!” She slapped her hands on the table, gazed at the inverted vees of fine bronze hair on their

backs. “Last month the Hoddj of Pillacarioda Pit informed us we had eleven bod-ies in his freezer. Come

get them, he said, and if you ered. Half a dozen different ways. MO suggests it was a Nightcrawler

cobben from Helvetia. Paid a bonus to go offworld. Which is an appalling indication of the funding back

of these attacks. Worst of all. One week ago. A shipment coming in. Voallts Korlatch Transport. The

Nyaralo Ous. The Szejant being one Halevant.” Her hot gold eyes went from Shadith to Kikun to the

others sitting round the table. “My halfsib. Not brilliant, but steady. Careful. Dependable. Spite of that,

someone got to Folt-som the cargo chief. A cousin. Ours. Someone must have dangled a moon of gold

in front of his twitchy nose, even he wasn’t fool enough to sell his honor for slop. He let someone put

bombs in two of the transport cages. He rode the Shuttle down with them, then he ran. We have

declared him Unmate and Cursed. Kinkiller. I sent word home to Dysstrael and the Council. No

argument from them. Five adults, ten children ...” her voice broke, but she quickly regained control and

went on, “ten chil-dren dead, seven children badly maimed, they’ll need treatment on a meatfarm and

mindwork so they can deal with what they saw, what happened to them. Sixty per-cent of the resident

beasts killed outright or so badly maimed they had to be destroyed. A number of others escaped and

caused damage to twenty-three citizens and several properties which we will have to pay for. It could

have been worse; we might have been completely wiped out, but one of the bombs didn’t go off. Faulty

chip in the detonator. Preliminary indications, detonators and other materiel associated with several merc

supply houses. There’s no Tradewar registered with Spotchals Business Bureau, so we don’t have to

escrow an indem-nity fund, but the Bureaucrats are annoyed and talking seriously about rescinding our

License to Trade if we can’t assure them that such a disaster won’t happen again. Someone is intruding

and attacking us. It’s reasonably clear who that someone is.” Her claws ticked on the table’s hardwood,

small angry sounds. “Ginbiryol Seyir-shi. Who else could buy teams of assassins and two or more merc

attack forces, who else would have reason for such free-handed scattering of funds? When I got your

call, Rohant, I set Digby the Tracer pulling in whatever he could find on Seyirshi.” She opened the

lokcase, took out several folders of faxsheets and three flakereaders, gave them to Zimaryn who

distributed them to Rohant, Kikun and Shadith. ‘Lissom has already been through these. I’ll summarize.

One. There are rumors of a new Limited Edition soon available. Revenge of the Avatars.”

Shadith looked at the folder and felt sick.

“Two. An extended explanation for the attacks on us, including a history of similar actions. It seems

Seyirshi has a reputation for creative vindictiveness. Anyone crossing our Ginny, she ends up dead or

wishing she was. According to the report Rohant ratted ahead to me, the three of you managed to thwart

him in at least part of his plans for Kiskai; he wouldn’t love you for that. And Voallts Korlatch refused to

deal with his agent over the—Ri-tors and the worldlist. Digby thinks he took the refusal as an insult. I

concur.”

Rohant pushed back from the table and began prowling about the room, his dreadlocks bushed out,

anger musk boiling off him.

Miralys waited a moment for him to comment; when he said nothing, she went on. “Three. Digby has

com-piled a tentative list of Seyirshi’s customers. Not for the ordinary snuff shows, too many of them,

too many out-lets. Digby went for the buyers of the Limited Editions. So far he can’t guarantee any of the

names—except one. He got confirmation this morning. I don’t have details of how it was done, but

Digby’s always reliable on this sort of thing so I didn’t push him, he doesn’t like to uncover his sources.

The Confirmed Buyer is one Wargun Muk-hasta dan Fevkindadam, Head of the Family Fev-kinda.

Chissoku Bogmak. Seventh planet, Yildakeser System. Digby promises more names certified by the end

of the week, but it’s going to be a slow operation and a costly one. Lives and money. He’s already lost

two op-eratives. The Buyers are protecting their reputations. A taste for death’s about as savory as pond

scum and snuff flakes are sordid. Nothing more vicious than the respect-able saving face.” She mimed

fastidious distaste, ears flicking, corners of her mouth pulled down. “They’re a powerful covey of

mokhas, you’ll see that when you read the names, they can afford a lot of whitewash. Talking about

what’s affordable and not, we need to decide how much of our resources are expended where, Ciocan.

We can’t opt out so we can’t waste credit; it’s a fight to the death and we have to make every florint

count. There’s no way we can match Seyirshi’s backstash.” She shut the folder, dropped it on the table.

“That’s it. Simple enough, isn’t it. We get him or he gets us.”

Rohant pulled his chair out, sat down. “Four ships gone, maybe five, maybe more by now. That’s not

a drain, that’s a hemorrhage. Exactly how bad is the damage from the bomb?”

2

The edgy abrasion between the two alpha Dyslaera was scraping at Shadith’s nerves. Both of them

were angry and upset and there was an added stressor, Miralys was moving into her season; the pull on

Rohant was tidal and growing. They were a lifepair, mated near to thirty years, in storm and calm, half a

dozen kits, the bond between them as much memory as passion, both memory and pas-sion operating

powerfully at this moment. They’d been separated for more than a year with Rohant in serious danger

and Miralys frantically trying to locate him and this was their first meeting, a public greeting, restrained to

the point of absurdity—all business on the outside, but underneath the efficient surface a mess of churning

emo-tion that tended to peak every few minutes and break through the barriers Aleytys had been

teaching Shadith to put up on the long trip from Kishkai to Spotchals, barriers between her growing

Talent and the chaotic world outside.

She felt like baggage again and played with the notion that she’d made a mistake allying herself to the

Dyslaera, not a real quarrel with the situation, only a venting of her irritation at sitting silent for so long.

When Rohant was one Dyslaera as Kikun was one dinhast and she was one whatever she was, she was

a partner with consider-able say in what they did.

Now that Rohant was back among his kind, she was shut out.

The Dyslaera weren’t doing it deliberately, there were just too many of them here.

She thought about Kikun, caught hold of the tail of that thought before it slipped away under the

influence of his peculiar Talent, looked around at the dinhast.

He smiled at her, the corners of his mouth curling up, the soft folds of gray-green skin that hung from

promi-nent cheekbones lifting and squeezing together, his eyes narrowing to orange slits. His long thin

hands were folded over his diaphragm and he was leaning back, enjoying the show. His smile invited her

to relax and enjoy with him. She sighed.

3

A lull.

Rohant smoothed a thumbdaw along his mustache; he looked congested about the eyes, his hair was

bushed out as if he’d put starch in his dreadlocks. Miralys’ ears were pressed flat against her head; her

nostrils were flaring; there were patches of red over her cheekbones; her breathing was a series of snorts.

Shadith lost patience. She sat up straight, slapped her hand on the table, breaking into the taut

contest between the two alphas.

They started, turned to stare at her, Rohant raising a brow, Miralys looking affronted.

“This is wasting my time. Maybe not yours, but mine for sure. And Kikun’s.” Shadith flicked the

report with her forefinger. “You told us all we needed to know an hour ago when you gave us the

Buyer’s name. The rest of this is your business, Ro, not ours.”

Rohant held his hand up, silencing Miralys for the mo-ment—and with her, the others. “All right,

Shadow.” He smiled affectionately at her, his tearing teeth carefully covered. He hadn’t changed, so he

didn’t see that everything else had. “Don’t Wow out your backtrail. What are you on at?”

Shadith took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “We’ve got some wiggle room, Ro. We’re fools if we

waste it. Ginny probably still thinks we’re dead, but that won’t last long. We could play dead, but it’s not

worth the effort. Anyway, we can’t out-labyrinth him. You know that. Waste of energy trying it. He’s got

more kinks in his thoughtpath than a worm on Acid. Only time we got any-where was when we smashed

ahead as hard and as fast as we could.” She closed her eyes for a moment, irritated by the blank

Dyslaera faces, the gold Dyslaera eyes star-ing at her. “He’s busy now,” she said, claws in her voice if

she didn’t have any on her fingers, “working on his production, putting it together, leaving the hits to

surro-gates. I want to lay a line on him before he wakes up enough to know he’s being got at.”

“I see.”

“Caught the habit from Aste, eh? I see. I see. I see. Hah!”

“Stop fooling, Shadow. Talk about wasting time.”

“Step by step, then.” She waggled her forefinger. “University first.” I’ve got connections there. I’ll

pick up the langue and whatever else I can get on ... what was that world?” She flipped through the fax

sheets. “Chissoku Bogmak.” Two fingers. “Next, jump in. See what I can find there. Lee left me a bag of

tricks which should be useful once I can get at ... um ... Wargun.” She remembered the dinhast again,

touched his arm. “Kikun, come along if you want.”

His eyes went suddenly wide, his hands beat softly at the tabletop, drumming a quick heart-rhythm.

“It is the road. It is the road. Yes.” He winked at her. “Can’t keep me out, Twiceborn.”

Rohant dug in his mustache with his thumbclaw; the corners of his mouth twitched up. “To coin a

phrase, I see. Right as usual, Shadow.” He exchanged a long hot stare with Miralys who was getting

restless as this cross-talk proceeded; she subsided once more, but her patience talk proceeded; she

subsided once more, but her patience had visible limits and he acknowledged them by getting to the

point. “I’ll be coming with you, me and Sassa.”

Shadith managed a smile. “So it’s hey-ho and Ginny watch your ass. Sure, come along.”

Myralis’ claws cut grooves in the wood. “Ciocan!”

“We’ll talk in private, Toerfeles.” Another eyeclash. “Give us a minute more, it’s almost finished. Tell

us the rest, Shadow.”

“All right, I’ll throw my florint in.” She set the reader on the folder, aligned them with the table’s

edge. “Your mindset’s wrong. Even yours, Rohant, and you should know better. You’re thinking

business, all of you Voallts. Assets and liabilities. Efficiency and optimums. Sar!” She paused, raised a

brow as Miralys started to protest. The Toerfeles settled for a glare.

“I’ve spent the last half hour listening to you argue. You haven’t got it, any of you. Ginny Is going to

kill you all. This isn’t business, it’s survival. Forget about effi-ciency and the rest of that gunge. When

you’re scram-bling to stay alive nothing counts but that, staying alive.” She cleared her throat, fingered

the fax sheets. “You need money. That’s a weapon, you’ve got that right at least. The Tracer Digby

seems good value, except you’re wast-ing him. What does it matter if those names are con-firmed or

not? Obviously, you’ve got to keep some of your teams out, working. Call in the rest, all you can spare.

They’ve got skills that should transfer to capturing people. Use Digby’s ops to do what you’re not so

good at. If he’ll play. Set up new teams, three, four of your people on each, them doing the slogwork

with one of the Tracer’s operatives directing them. Pick the likeliest names from that list—no, the closest

to hand, that’s bet-ter—and go after them, as many as you have teams to cover. If a team hits a dry hole,

pull them out and try another. Uh-mm ... another point to consider: the auc-tion almost certainly won’t be

down any gravity well, but it will be someplace solidly established with more than one back door. You

know our Ginny, Ro.

“Um ...” She chewed her lip, stared past Rohant’s head at the expensively paneled wall, madura

wood from Telffer—which reminded her of the woman she’d met at Quale’s place. “I suggest you get

Adelaris Security in to go over your systems. They’re expensive but not so ex-pensive as paying

damages and losing assets. I’ll give you a note to Aici Arash; she’s usually booked for years ahead, but

she owes me a favor and I think she’ll make time. Um ... have Digby send someone down the merc

market. I’ll give you the names of three mercs who’ve worked for Ginny. They might or might not be

alive ... it doesn’t matter, you could backtrack them anyway, lo-cate people they talked to, that sort of

thing. That amounts to ... what? about half a dozen lines at him. Think survival and work them all.” She

sat back and sketched a smile. “I’m betting us Three, we’ll get there first.” It was a heavy-handed

attempt to dissipate the prickly heat in the air around her and fell as flat as it deserved. She shrugged and

shut up.

Miralys stood.’”Ciocan, I must remind you....” She broke off, struggling to subdue her temper so she

wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of outsiders. She turned to face Shadith and Kikun. “If you will wait

in the anteroom, please? Lissom, Zimaryn, Sotabaem, you also, I’ll speak to you later. Ciocan, we have

to talk.”

Kikun blinked. Laughter like warm water filled him and spilled over into Shadith, though she didn’t

under-stand what he found so amusing in this confusion. She got to her feet and circled round to Rohant.

“Ciocan.” She closed her hand on his forearm, felt the tension in his muscles. “There’s not much point in

Kikun and me hanging around, but you’ve got things to do here so why don’t you meet us on University?

Don’t say anything now. Think about it. I’ll be at the ottotel booking passage on the ‘first ship I can find

going there nonstop. Coming, Kikun?

II. Whiteside In Play

(Ginny in abeyance)

CHISSOKU BOGMAK, KARINTEPE (the world capitol)

local time: 63-Kirar (63rd month in the reign of the Kralodate Kirar)

Sorizakre (Name of the Great Year-84.3 years standard—taken from the House reigning

for this particular Great year)

day 14 (of a 30 day month)

hour 15 (of a 26 hour day), early afternoon

Pikka Machletta and the Razor T’gurtt

1

Pikka Machletta walked into Old Town, elbows out, shoulders swinging.

An ivory-handled cutthroat razor, folded shut at the moment, dangled from a snapclamp on chains

triple stud-ded into her left ear. Fann beside her and the other four t’gurtsas weaving through side streets

in prowling pairs wore razors like that though hers was the only ivory one.

There was a wide leather band about her neck, stiff and black with pointed studs hammered into it

and a leather arm-and-knuckle guard on her left arm, also black and stiff and studded.

Her right arm was bare to the shoulder; slivers of brushed steel were bonded to her fingernails.

She wore a tubetop with one sleeve, black and shiny, hugging a torso like an adolescent boy’s; her

trousers were loose, fold on fold of black wool hanging from narrow hips, tucked casually into the tops

of limber black boots zipped tight to her calves.

Her straight black hair was waxed into quills, held out of her eyes by leather thongs slip-knotted over

her right ear, the four ends passing through lead line-weights.

Her eyes were an astonishing blue in a face with bold but elegant bones and a matte olive skin, a rigid

face trained to resolute immobility. She gave nothing for free not even a smile. Fifteen years standard

surviving in Old Town had taught her that, though her mother lived long enough to protect her through

Winter’s End and Thaw, the first nine of that fifteen. The next three or so she was a child whore; at

puberty she was thrown out and left to find her own living.

Her eyes moving constantly, flickers of blue and fugi-tive gleams of wet white in the yellow

incandescence of the Old Town bulbs, Pikka Machletta walked along the Raba Katir, elbows out,

shoulders swinging. Fann walked beside her, smaller and wilder, two years older.

The t’gurtsa Second had thick black hair, straight and fine; it hung to her knees when she let it loose.

Most times she wore it braided into a club which she would either leave hanging down or pin on top her

head with forked pins whose knobs were set with pseudo diamonds, whose razor tips were cased in

flimsy sheaths that came off instantly if she jerked the pins loose; the knobs were on the left because she

was left-handed. The T’gurtt totem-razor, redwood handle, swung from her right ear; she wore heavy

rings on her fingers with barbed and pepper-painted bezels (the better to mess up anyone she hit) and a

chain wound around her right arm, weapon and defense in one.

Her trousers were three-way stretch, clinging to her long slim legs, one leg green the other crimson,

and she wore a loose, blousy tunic with narrow green and gold stripes; jewel colors head to toe

shimmered in the shift-ing light while the pdiamond knobs threw off sharp white sparks.

She had delicate, lovely features that no one ever no-ticed because dark purple splotches were

spattered across her pale pale skin and a white, puckered scar cut through one eye and jagged past her

mouth.

Pikka Machletta and Fann her Second bopped along the Raba Katir, whistling a song called

Perfumed Nights, that month’s favorite, Fann elaborating on the melody and Pikka doing harmony.

Ingra and Mem moved parallel to them on a street to the left, flashing T’gurtt signs with hand mirrors

as they moved past cross streets and were momentarily visible; Kynsil and Hari moved parallel to them

on a street to the right, the T’gurtt guarding itself as always.

Letting Fann whistle alone, Pikka Machletta counted side streets aloud: “Teggil, Eggel, Unagatyl.”

She stopped at the corner of Trinagil to drop a guim in the bowl of the round little monk begging there.

“‘Roi, Ka-oyurz. What do tha’ night?”

“Bless, O sister.” Kaoyurz sang the shidduah with a grace-smile in his fluent tenor voice, giving the

syllables full value despite the meager status of the donor; he had a fondness for the Razor T’gurtt, they’d

done him more favors than one. “‘Roa, Razoort, Starstreet be full and runnin ov-ar. Lot of hoshyid t’ Fair

tha’ night, ready fer drunk and dip. And Bouni Vissin’s Steam Coaster come in with a load o’ fancies

and a heavy thirst. And word is Goyo mean to slum tha Fair so watch thy backs, young sh’kiz.”

“Nara, Kaoy.” She dropped another coin in the bowl, made an awkwardly graceful yayyay that sent

the razor swaying and the lead weights on her head thongs tunking against each other. “May Guintayo

She-Who-Burns grow you three for one.” She looked both ways along Trinagit, whistled and waited until

her sisters-in-T’gur came drift-ing toward the Raba Katir, then she and Fann her second went

swaggering on, talking idly, minding their own business, threading through the thickening crowd of

strollers and shoppers.

As they passed by one of the teahouses, a man came elbowing up to them, a tall thin type with a

shaved head and blue tattoos, a starman wandering off Starstreet, ar-rogant in his assurance of

superiority and his skill in negotiation. Ignoring Fann, he dropped his hand on Pikka Machletta’s arm,

jerked a thumb at the teahouse. “Come Upper, Pretty. Let’s party.”

She snatched her arm free, whipped around to face him.

Fann stepped away from her, ready to mind back if minding were needed, her eyes skittering about,

search-ing for City Police who’d haul them to jail and forced labor mostly for being a T’gurtt and handy

to blame for any trouble with visitors.

The locals faded away despite the congestion, leaving a wide opening around the stranger and the

two t’gurtsas. The rest of the T’gurtt clustered on the walkway, ready to move if needed.

Pikka’s face froze, her voice shook with anger and scorn. “How tha Hell you got the nerve to come

up to me thinking I gonna let you jogga me ov-ah how you want?”

“Cumma cumma, pig, how much?” He rubbed thumb against fingers, grinning at her, treating her

words like windbreaking.

“Sssaaa!” She swept the razor loose, flicked it open and leaped at him.

“Hey!” He jumped back, clutched at a hand spurting blood where his thumb had been. “What?

What?”

“Cumma cumma, mamajogga. Say’t again. You think you s000 bad. Say’t again.” She shook the

blood off the razor and bared her teeth at him. “Cumma cumma ov-ah here, jigjog. You wantta party, les

party.”

“Up your ass, you whore, he shrieked. “A doctor. Where’s a doctor? I want a doctor.”

“You a big man, whyn’t you come ov-ah here, I stick it up yours. Party, party.”

He wouldn’t look at her; blundering into tables, fol-lowed by curses and fist shaking as he crunched

Jo Clayton - SQ 2 - Shadowspeer

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