Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

Shadow of the Warmaster

Jo Clayton

1988

Spacing and headings. 0 and 1. Spell-checked.

THE WARMASTER .. .

Equipped with the deadliest weapons of devas-tation, the huge battleship holds a world enslaved by

its very presence. With it, the Imperator and his forces have no need to fire a shot, no need to fill the jails.

For who would risk the destruction of the entire world to bring the Imperator down?

Yet still the rebels gather, plotting their near hopeless plans, driven by the cruelty of their conquerors

to the very brink of desperate action. And now they have an unexpected ally, an offworlder with skills far

beyond their own, Adelaar aici Arash, a woman out to rescue her daughter and claim revenge on those

who have wronged her.

But can even an offworlder’s advanced technology defeat that most powerful of sky fortresses—the

dreaded Warmaster?

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

The Duel Of Sorcery Trilogy

Moongather

Moonscatter

Changer’s Moon

The Skeen Trilogy

Skeen’s Leap

Skeen’s Return

Skeen’s Search

and

A Bait Of Dreams

Shadow of the Warmaster

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

pun-gent 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 shoul-ders, 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 sol-dered 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 corn’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 min-ute 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 aid 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 resi-dent 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

unpro-ductive 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 gab-bled 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 ex-port, 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 al-ready 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 any-one, 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, driv-ers 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. Proba-bly 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 be-cause 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 vegeta-tion thinned. She glanced up, kinking her neck to

see the top of the tower, stood watching the banners flut-ter 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 corn 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 scrub-bed 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 be-longs to one of the settlement families, his land’s tax free so long as he or his kin own it;

got the tempera-ment and habits of a mudweasel, but he keeps to himself 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 car-touches, 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 shift-ing greens and blues in place of shadow.

My worktable is a built-up slab of congel wood. Tough, that wood, takes a molecular edge to work

it, but it lasts forever; a benefit to living on Telffer, you pay in blood for congel offworld. Mottled medium

brown with patches of gold like a pale tortoiseshell.

Pretty stuff, which is a good thing because it won’t take stain any way you try it and even paint peels

off, something about the oil, they say. I had the gouges I was using laid out on a patch of leather close to

hand, the tool kit beside it, the frame I was working on set in padded clamps, the finished harps down at

the far end waiting for Shadith to try them.

Butterflies flittered about, lighting on the thornflowers, feeding on their pollen; a sight to add pleasure

to the day, but it meant I’d got worms in the wood and I was going to have to fumigate the yard. There

were quilos squealing in the viuvars. Quilos are furry mats with skinny black legs, six of them, and deft

little black fingers on their paws. Never been able to find any sign of eyes, ears or nose on them, though

they’re fine gliders and can skitter about on the ground like drops of water on a greased griddle. They

drive the cats crazy, how can you prowl downwind of a thing that’s got no nose or chase something that

can switch direc-tion without caring which end is front? I had five cats last time I counted and they’re all

neutered, so that should be that, but none of them are black and two days ago I saw this black body

creeping low to the ground, going after a quilo who was chewing on a beetle it picked off a thornbush,

it’s why I tolerate a few of the things about, they keep the bug population down. I threw a chunk of

wood at the cat and it streaked off. A young black tom. Pels says he thinks there’s something mystical

about black toms, there’s never an assemblage of cats without one of them show-ing up, he says he’s

convinced they’re born out of the collective unconscious of cats, structures of unbridled libido created to

assuage cat lust. He may be right.

Pels kurk-Orso. Let’s see. He’s my com off and aux pilot. He’s got a thing with plants and keeps my

Slancy green; he’s heavyworld born and bred, Mevvyaurang; not many have heard of it, Aurrangers

aren’t much for company or traveling. 2.85 g. Where they have three sexes. Sperm carrier (Rau), seed

carrier (Arra), womb-nurse (Maung). He’s Rau. Hmm. There’s a heavy burden he has to bear. Drives

him into craziness some-times. Females of every sentient species I’ve come across, even the reptilids,

want to cuddle him, they all think he’s devastatingly cute. Fluffy little teddy bear with big brown eyes.

Barely up to my belt which is small even among his own people. Talking about the Aurrangers, they’re

agoraphobes in a big way, live in huddles underground. Funny, they’re frightened of just about everything

and they’re the best damn predators I’ve met. You ought to see Pels stalking something. That fuzz of his

isn’t fur at all, when he’s up for hunting, it kicks over into a shifting camouflage that beats hell out of a

chameleon web. Thing is, he was born a misfit, always going out on the surface, fasci-nated by space and

the stars that gave the night sky a frosty sheen; he was different enough to be miserable with his own

people. He applied for a work-study grant to University and got it, being very very bright, but once he

got his degree, with an honors list a km long, no one took him seriously enough to hire him. He was too

damn cute.

When his money ran out, he had a choice between scavenging for scraps and a life of little crimes or

living in luxury as a family pet. He was a reasonably compe-tent burglar by the time I put my Slancy Orza

into orbit park over Admin/University.

I was finishing a job for some xenobiologists, deliv-ering a cargo of rare plants. The corn off I had on

that trip, she had a sweet paper trail and was a golden goddess for looks, but she was a whiner. Kumari

and me, we came close to strangling her, but we held off till we reached University. We fired her without

rec-ommendation; it was safer than pushing her out a lock if not so satisfying. We turned over the plants

and went out to celebrate our freedom from that rockdrill whine.

Sometime round dawn we got tangled up with Pels who was committing mayhem on what looked to

be half the thugs on StarStreet. Amazing thing to watch. We hauled him loose and took him home with us

because Kumari was curious about him. No, she wasn’t about to go motherly over him. I talk about her

as she, because she looks female, but she’s a neuter, got the sex drive of a rock and her maternal

instincts could be engraved on a neutrino with a number ten nail. Most of her energy goes into curiosity.

We needed a com off, he needed a job. We took him on for one trip to see how he fit in. That was

seven years ago.

Pels was digging around the thornbushes, pulling weeds, cleaning away sawdust and bits of paper

and old leaves, loosening the earth about the roots. He keeps after me about the plants in the back yard,

says I’m neglecting them, but those thornbushes could use a little neglect, they’re volunteers blown in by

the hefty winds we get in the thaw storms. If I pampered them the way he wants they’d take over the

yard, hey, they’d take over the world. He was about three-quarters finished with the thorns,

baroom-brooming along, happy as he could get on a miserable one-g world.

Kumari was stretched out on a padded recliner, leafing through a book of poems composed in

inter-lingue and interlarded with local idiom. She read snatches of them to me when she came across

some-thing she thought I ought to like. Mostly I ignored her, being too concentrated on gouge and wood

to have much mind left for other things. All the same it was a pleasant noise. Shadith came about an hour

after lunch....

2

Shadith brushed aside curls and chips of wood, swung onto the table; she set her hands on her thighs,

waited until I finished the cut and ran my thumb along the line. “I need a sneaky lander,” she said. “Lend

me Slider.”

“Hmm. See what you think of those harps. You like one, you can have it.”

She laughed at me. “Old Bear, put down your ax.” Hooking a foot around a table leg, she leaned

back, ran her eyes over the three harps, chose one, not the best, I thought, but a start. With a treble

grunt, she straightened, settled the harp against her shoulder and drew her fingers along the strings.

“Interesting tuning. Well?”

“Why d’you want it?”

She wrinkled her nose at me, concentrated on her playing. Even I could tell the tone was dull; the

song was dying on her. One dud. I think the wood was the problem there, no resonance to it. “Gray’s

disap-peared,” she said, “I’m off to see what happened.”

“I see. Want help?”

“This is a loser, Bear.” She did her lean again, switched harps, straightened. “Don’t think so.” It was

my favorite she had this time, she smiled at the sound of it, played a snatch of some tune or other, moved

on to another, then another. “My first chance to go off on my own,” she said after some minutes of

noodling about. “In my own body. Got a tuning wrench around? I want to try something.”

“In the kit.” I lifted the tool kit over the harpframe I was working on and pushed it toward her.

“Keep it if you want, easy enough for me to pick up another, you might be too busy where you’re going.”

I watched her as she began retuning the harp. This was the first time I’d got a good look at that new

body, couldn’t really count the web signal, the picture flats out here on Telffer, it’s a long way from

anywhere. And the color bleeds, runs round the image like lectrify jelly. Lot of dumps and glitches around

us. I found myself think-ing, what’s a baby doing jumping into something hairy as that? Then I had to

laugh; Shadow, little Shadith sitting inside that head, she was what? three, four thousand years older than

me? Thing is, it’s hard to remember that looking at her. I was glad I’d had the nous to keep my mouth

shut. I doubt having a body has changed her that much; she had a nasty turn of speech when she was

annoyed.

She finished the tuning, began to play. Weird reso-nances. Tried to do things to my head. If I’d

listened harder, I might’ve had visions, like some flaked out holyman. Hmm. Nice, once you got used to

it. I went back to carving, the music made the cuts seem easier. Kumari closed her eyes, laid her book

open facedown on her stomach. Pets stopped his humming but kept on with his digging. Remember his

ears? They were up as high as they went, spread out and quivering, he had them turned toward the table.

“I like the tone of this ’n,” she said.

“That’s the one I thought came out best, but try the other.”

“Why not.”

She traded harps, played with the new one a little, set it aside. “You’re right, the second one’s by far

the best.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised.”

“Poor old Bear, that rubbed at you, eh? Put your fur down, I didn’t mean it that way. The lander?”

I looked at Kumari. She managed to shrug without moving. Pels sat on his haunches and gave me a

slitted look. He didn’t say anything, but I got the point. “Take it, Shadow. Anything happens, the cost

comes out of my share of profits.”

Kumari has a sound she makes when she’s amused. It isn’t quite laughter, it’s a combined rattle and

hiss like the noises a kettle makes when the water’s about to boil. “Damn right,” she said.

Pels grinned, baring a pair of fangs that almost made him uncute. “Yes,” he said, “if anything’s sure in

this unsure universe, .that is.” He voices his sibilants and shifts or drops his plosives; it’s those teeth, but

I’m not going to try to reproduce how he sounds. “Shadow, be sure you get the Sikkul Paems to run you

through the basic finger patterns. The Paems and me, we haven’t finished working on her, so the coding’s

a nightmare. Don’t get yourself in a spot where you have to switch about fast.”

“Slow and sneaky. Gotcha.”

“Grr.” He went back to fiddling in the dirt.

She slid off the table. “This harp have any kind of case?”

“In the workshed, on the table by the lathe.”

“Thanks, Old Bear.”

“Call it a coming-out present.”

She laughed and went trotting to the workshed. Kumari raised a brow. “A bit young to be running

loose, isn’t she?”

Crew knows my history, makes things easier when I get down and dark, so they knew what I was

talking about when I said, “She’s older than me.”

“Coming-out.” Kumari pinched her nose. “Shame, Swar.”

Before I could answer that, the incom tinged and the housekeep came on. “One Adelaar aici Arash

to see Swardheld Quale, business, no appointment.” The plate showed a small woman with a determined

face while housekeep waited for me to decide what I wanted to do.

“Eh, I know her.” Shadith came to stand beside me, swinging the harp case. “When I was coming

from the port, I saw her walking along Sterado Street. Two men were going after her. Locals, I think.”

“On the street? Not pros then.”

“Well, one of them had a yagamouche, so they were serious about it. I stunned ’em, took her to that

ottotel on Fejimao, her business card’s in my flit if you want an extra check on her. Um, I got fots of the

men, they’re in the flit’s memory. You want, you can have them.” She frowned. “If this is business

coming up, won’t you be needing Slider?”

“A deal’s a deal. The lander’s yours long as you need her. What we can’t finagle, we’ll fake. Mind

her seeing you here?”

“Course not. Why?”

“I’ve got to call Kinok about Slider, ve’ll want a look at you so ve knows who to let in. Best do that

in the office. While we’re up there, you can give me the access code, I’ll have housekeep tap your flit. If

there’s local talent after her,” I nodded at the plate, “I can use the fots to place them, might even

recognize them myself, who knows. Better I have some idea what we’d be getting into before I close

with her.”

I told the housekeep to let the woman in and take her to the living room, I wiped my hands off,

brushed at the wood chips on my shirt and trousers and for maybe ten seconds thought about changing

my clothes. Decided if she wanted a three piece suit she could buy one.

“Kumari, Pels, I’ll open the com, you keep an eye on what happens, give me a call if you see

something I’m missing.”

“Aukma Harree’s blessing on her little head.” Kumari yawned. “I was getting bored doing nothing.

Lean on her, Swar; someone that close to being offed should have a strong idea of how much her life is

worth.” She made her happy noise. “A lean for a lien; the one on your share.”

“That’s not even worth a groan. You finished, Shadow? Come on, let’s find some air without verbal

farts in it.”

I like towers so I built myself one; taller than the tendrij it is, faced with fieldstone and paneled with

the finest wood on Telffer. Makes you want to reach out and caress it and I’m not saying I don’t if I’m

alone so I don’t embarrass myself. My office is on the top floor of the tower, got a desk and all the

gadgets I need to keep my peace unruffled, a pair of tupple chairs for my clients, a stunner or two in the

walls in case one of ’em gets ambitious. A droptube under my chair, same reason. Handknotted rug from

Gomirik, couple of paintings I like, a stone sculpture by a man on Univer-sity, what’s his name ... ah!

Sarmaylen. Place looks nice if I say it myself. The tower’s tucked into the southeast corner of the main

house, you get to it through the living room, there’s no outside entrance, at least not one I show an

ordinary visitor. The guest rooms are freestanding, connected by a walkway; they’ve all got outside

doors, for my privacy and theirs.

Harpcase bumping against her backside, strap over her shoulder, Shadith followed me in.

3

The woman was standing in the middle of the living room, prissy disapproval in the curve of her

downturned mouth. Hmm. There was a bit of a mess in there, so what. Nothing to do with her. Her eyes

flickered when she saw Shadith, but the expression on her face didn’t change. Looked like she was

plated with stainless steel, a lot of anger underneath, though; no passion, no warmth, only anger and a

hard control as if she’d explode if she let go her grip a single instant.

“Come,” I said, and palmed the tube open. “My office is the tower’s top floor.”

She nodded, a taut economical jerk of her head, then followed Shadow and me into the lift tube.

III

1. Approaching zero.

Quale’s Nest/Telffer.

The flickit was battered, rusty, with an intermittent eructation in its field generator that jolted a grunt

out of Adelaar every time because it wasn’t regular enough to let her get set for the drop. The seat she

sat on was dusty, streaked with ancient grease and sweat, pol-ished to a high gloss by years and years of

antsy behinds. When the driver pulled open the door for her and she smelled the interior for the first time,

her stomach lurched and she couldn’t help flinching from the filth, but she climbed in without comment.

She couldn’t afford to antagonize the driver/owner; he was the only one willing to take her out of Prin

Daruze, the only one. If he dumped her, she’d have to do her negotiating over the com circuit and that

would be like broadcasting her woes to the world. Specifically, to Bolodo Neyuregg Ltd. Besides, she

had to see Quale, to know him. So much depended on him.

The driver was a dour and silent man. Pressed to go faster, he slowed to a crawl; she recognized

defeat and kept her fuming internal. The trip wasn’t all that long, only about an hour, but his stubborn

silence meant there was nothing to distract her from her fretting.

The past three plus years had been a heavy drain on her resources; she’d taken her best researcher

off mar-kets and tech breaks, set him hunting out mercenaries, she’d put in escrow a sum for hiring the

most reliable of them once she located her daughter, she’d left Adelaris Ltd. in Halash’s hands. He was a

good man-ager, he’d keep things going, but he wasn’t up to finding new markets or people, the company

would be treading in place. She’d drawn her travel and research expenses from Adelaris’ current

account; the search had taken far longer and was more costly than she’d expected, the account was

dangerously low now, she really couldn’t pull more out without destroying her business, bankrupting

herself and her partners; they’d been patient with her. They more or less had to be, she was Adelaris.

Without her patents and processes, without her energies, Adelaris Security Systems wouldn’t exist, but

there was a limit to how much she could ask of them. If Quale didn’t work out, she’d have to tap into the

escrow fund and that might start a hemor-rhage that would kill all chance of getting Aslan back. The

driver’s fee was one more stone on the pile, which didn’t make it easier for her to tolerate his sour

misogyny.

The flickit flew west and a little south, labored along a steep-walled river gorge which cut deep into

mountains that rose and subsided like waves of stone, each wave higher than the last, narrow grassy

valleys dividing them, mountains thick with trees and brush, with fortress houses scattered widely along

the slopes. It labored through a pass and came out into a broad valley, turned several degrees farther

south and fol-lowed the river to a house on a mountainside, a ram-bling structure with scattered suites

like nodes on an angular vine, a tower at a corner of the largest node.

The Telff circled wide round the house, set down at a detached landing pad at least two hundred

meters off, clanked the door open for her and settled himself to sleep while he waited for her to finish her

business or send him away. Whether she went back with him or not, he’d gotten a roundtrip fee from

her. When she was out, he cracked an eye. “Stay on the path,” he said. “You won’t like what happens,

you go off it.”

“Thanks.” She shut the door, looked around. There was a sleek black flickit on the pad, a ship’s flit

beside it. She frowned, walked over to the flit, nodded. That girl, Shadith. Tick’s Blood, was that a

setup? She shivered, feeling trapped and loathing it, banged her fist against the side of the flit, shivered

again, with rage this time. Impatient with herself, she shoved away her apprehension and went striding off

along the me-taled pathway. There was no time for this nonsense; she was here, she’d know what she

needed to do once she met the man. Everything else was unimportant. Aslan, ayyy, three years gone, she

could be dead, no! I won’t think that, she’s a survivor, she let herself be trapped, but killed? No!

2

She followed a small floating serviteur along a hall-way; past several closed doors. The wood of the

walls and ceiling had a deep shimmering glow, the grain was a subtle calligraphy flowing like music under

the but-tery shine of lightberries on golden bronze stalks. She narrowed her eyes at the serviteur, eased

closer to the leftside wall, drew her fingers along the wood. After a few steps she dropped her hand and

walked faster.

The serviteur led her into a room full of light, gray light from the gathering storm, spidery with distant

lightning, a room without corners, irregularly shaped with a bite out of one side where the tower was.

Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: