Jo Clayton - Diadem 10 - Shadow of the Warmaster

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Jo Clayton

Shadow of the Warmaster

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 pungent 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 shoulders, 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 soldered 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 ot tne 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 minute 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 aici 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 resident 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 unproductive 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 Aggerdorn 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 gabbled 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 export, 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 already 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 trans-

port. 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 anyone, 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, drivers 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. Probably 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 ber head. Eh-eh, Adelaar, you're just annoyed because 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 vegetation thinned. She glanced

up, kinking her neck to see the top of the tower, stood watching the banners

flutter 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 any-

thing 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 com 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."

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 scrubbed 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.

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 belongs to one of the

settlement families, his land's tax free so long as he or his kin own it; got

the temperament 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

cartouches, 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

shifting 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 direction 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 torn. Pels says he thinks there's something

mystical about black toms, there's never an assemblage of cats without one of

them showing 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,

Mewyaurang; 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 sometimes. 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, fascinated 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

competent burglar by the time I put my Slancy Orza into orbit park over

Admin/University.

I was finishing a job for some xenobiologists, delivering a cargo of rare

plants. The com 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 recommendation; 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 something 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. . . .

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 disappeared," 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

thinking, 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 resonances. 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. Pels 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

sibSants 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 lots 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'H 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 University, 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.

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.

Approaching zero. Quote'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 o let her get set for the drop. The seat she sat on was dusty,

streaked with ancient grease and sweat, polished 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 markets 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 manager, 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 hemorrhage 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 followed the river to a house on a

mountainside, a rambling 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, cranked 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 metaled 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!

She followed a small floating serviteur along a hallway, 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 buttery 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. Huge windows ran from

floor to ceiling, a ceiling more than ten meters high with cathedral beams a

distant richness of texture and line; polarizing glass in them, pale now, the

windows looked out across the valley or up toward the mountain's peak. Chairs

were clustered about these windows, comfortable, leather covered, ancient

design. Trays on the floor, remnants of today's noon meal congealing on plates

and bowls. Books and papers piled haphazardly about, drifts of them next to

the chairs. Set into the wall opposite the door there was a huge fireplace

meant to take logs, not limbs or splits, a table in front of it littered with

several pieces of wood and some gouges, chips and curls of wood scattered

about, a glass with a sticky residue coating the sides and hardening in the

bottom, a bowl of fruit with a half-eaten apple turning brown, a tea tray with

a plain pot and drinking bowls.

Tea set, windows, walls, chairs, the nubbly dark green rug on the floor, stone

and wood sculptures scattered about, tapestries, paintings—from the moment she

came through the outer door, she'd been bombarded with texture and color; that

said something about the man, she wasn't quite sure what.

Also clutter. She looked around and silently sneered at the debris of living

in what might have been an elegant room. He had serviteurs, he wouldn't have

to lift a finger to clean up after himself once he'd properly programmed them,

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JoClaytonShadowoftheWarmasterTwohoursbeforezeropoint—themeetingofSwardheldQualeandAdelaaraiciArash(fromwhicheventswillbedated,backwardandforwardascircumstanceswarrant).PrinDaruze/Telffer.SometimeroundmidmorningonthethirddayofthesecondweekinthespringmonthCalftime,NubaTreviglio,Freetraderandfreesoul,s...

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Jo Clayton - Diadem 10 - Shadow of the Warmaster

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