Jo Clayton - [Diadem 5] - Star Hunters
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Star Hunters
Diadem, Book 5
Jo Clayton
1980
Scanned 8 December 2002. Spell-checked.
The Novels of the Diadem:
1. Diadem From The Stars
2. Lamarchos
3. Irsud
4. Maeve
5. Star Hunters
“Jo Clayton weaves the engrossing tales of Aleytys and the mysterious diadem which controls her
actions and determines her quests through some of the most colorful and imaginative alien surroundings
...one cannot help but thirst for future adventures of this nubile heroine!’ — Kliatt
Aleytys — is attractive, red-haired, telepathic, empathic, telekinetic, and virile, or whatever the
female equivalent might be!’ — Science fiction & fantasy Book Review
Star Hunters is a new and complete novel of this vibrant heroine and the powers of the Diadem. For
on the world to which it conveyed her, she must confront not only the hordes of half-humans who are
devastating the planet but meet head-on the mental force of a madman of her own ancestral race. It is an
encounter on several levels — human, inhuman, and superhuman
—and she must triumph on all or lose everything.
“Aleytys, I concede that you could take out any of my Hunters even without the
special implants. But you’re potentially dangerous for us. We’re not a charitable
organization. We hunt for money, not for any illusive glory. We are mercenaries,
hired for specific purposes and required not to go beyond those purposes if we
want to collect our fees. We do not get involved with native populations.”
Aleytys let a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “I concede the point, Head. I
do get involved.”
“I expect you to make a strong effort to grow out of that. Then you’ll be a quite
remarkable asset to Hunters, Inc.” Head bundled the fax sheets together. “I’ve
labored that point long enough. The RMoahl are becoming troublesome. They want
you ....”
Chapter I
*******
The faras stepped daintily through the scattered rocks and began walking along the edge of the
escarpment The Sawasawa valley floor far below stretched into the blue distance, dry and lifeless, the
scattered patches of juapepo growing over it like tufts of hair on a mangy cat Films of red dust rose, rode
the wind in brief spurts, then dropped. “A long time away, Shindi.” He leaned forward and scratched at
the base of his mount’s roached mane. The faras tossed his horned head and snorted with pleasure.
Manoreh chuckled. “Run in the pastures and roll in the wet grass. We’ll both be home soon.” He
slapped at the pouch slung over his shoulder and smiled at the rustle of the parchment inside. “With a
good bit of new land mapped for the Director.”
Jua Churukuu the sun was hanging low in the east. He squinted matte indigo eyes at the lime-green
sun, passed a long-fingered hand over the wiry tangle of his indigo hair. In the strengthening light the faint
scale markings on his silvery-green skin became a bit more pronounced. He shifted in the saddle.
“Tomorrow night Shindi,” he murmured. “You’ll be in your pasture and I....” He grimaced. “I’ll be
swallowing Kobe’s insults and quarreling with Kitosime.”
The faras’s split hooves clacked rapidly over the stone, the tidy sound tick-tocking into the soft
whispering of the wind. The memory of his last encounter with his wife was still vivid in his mind even
though six months had drifted by since then. A long time, he thought. Too long? She wants me to take
up my father’s land and get away from Kobe. My father’s land .... Harsh, painful memories. A line of
bodies stretching out, out Endlessly. His mouth tightened. No! Never! Let the land raise weeds and
vermin. He glanced down at the Sawasawa, closer now as the escarpments flattened and lowered
toward a ripple of foothills. The dust clouds seemed thicker as they hovered in a crimson haze over the
brush. Manoreh frowned. Something moved down there. He halted the faras, leaning forward, straining
to penetrate the haze.
Flashes of white thickened to a ragged blanket that smothered the soil and brush. Hares. A hare
march. “Meme Kalamah, mother protect us,” he whispered. “So many of them. I’ve never seen so many
... sweeping clean this time ... everyone ... Ah!” He groaned. “So many ... so many ... so many ....” His
hands began to shake. He saw again the bodies of his people. The watuk blindrage ignited and began to
take him. He raised his head and howled.
The faras danced about, jerking his head back and forth. For a moment Manoreh’s body kept
balance automatically while he sank deeper into the uncontrollable rage that shook him like a rag and
slammed into the FEELING centers of the faras. Then, with a high ululating whine, the animal plunged and
reared, throwing him off his back to crash onto the rock. Then the faras ran blindly forward, seeking the
easiest way even in his panic, leaving Manoreh stretched out on the rock, blood running sluggishly from a
short cut on his head.
When Manoreh woke, the sun was shining directly into his eyes. He sat up slowly, clutched at his
throbbing head. Then he remembered the hare march and grunted onto his feet. For a moment he stood
swaying, eyes shut, head throbbing, then he forced himself to look at the valley. The herd was still
passing, there seemed to be no end of them. He rubbed his eyes. A force weighed heavily on him, stifling,
oppressive, impersonal. Haribu, he thought. Driving them. He pressed his hand to his head. The
Holders ... have to warn them ... Kitosime ....
Manoreh stumbled away from the edge of the cliff and began walking along the faint trail. As he
walked, the pounding of his boots against the stone sent flashes of light and pain stabbing into his brain.
Grimly he kept on. Gradually his body settled into a comfortable long stride and the ache in his head
eased to a dull throbbing that he could ignore. The feel of Haribu was oppressive but bearable since the
demon’s attention was focused on the hare herd. For a short while Manoreh tensed himself against a
probe, but the blast of rage that had set him afoot must have been too brief to call Haribu’s attention. The
barren stone gave way to sun-dried grass and red earth. Manoreh topped a gentle rise and stopped,
startled. Several lines of hares were heading for the main herd on the valley floor. He stood, clouds of red
dust blowing around him, perplexed by what he was seeing. Hares traveling naturally moved a few paces
forward, stopped to graze, moved on, walked a few steps on their extra-long hind legs, dropped on
fours again, grazed—continuing this irregular but patterned movement throughout the day. He saw these
marching like mechanical soldiers down the hillside and a shiver rippled through his body. He closed his
eyes. Hare walk ... the line of the dead ... no! Breathe in ... breathe out ... slow ... slow ... order
straying thoughts into rhythmic patterns. The mountains call me, blue mountains eating the green
sky, the plains call me, the great grass sea ....
Manoreh swung into a smooth lope he could maintain for hours. As he ran, he kept the songs flowing
in his mind and ignored the familiar disorientation thrown at him by the patches of juapepo as the
hundreds of receptor nodes picked up his emotions and retransmitted them, mixing them with snatches of
the plants’ own irritations and fears, snatches of the hungers, terrors and satisfactions of every insect,
reptile and rodent nesting among its roots.
Hares in the hills. None of the teaching songs spoke of hares outside the Sawasawa, even the songs
of Angaleh the Wanderer, who’d mapped most of the Grass Plain to the far side of the mountains.
Manoreh smiled. Angaleh the legend. Poet and singer. Explorer and mystic. Forgotten now except for his
songs and the stories about him, sunk into the anonymity of the Directorship of the Tembeat. Manoreh
smiled again. During the past half-year he’d added a small new triangle of territory to Angeleh’s maps.
The land dipped and flattened. Manoreh slowed to a walk, the hare rumble closing in on him until he
wove a precarious path through the lurching bodies of the hares ambling along at the edge of the monster
herd. More than ever he regretted the loss of the faras. By nightfall he could have been .... He dismissed
could-have-beens and lengthened his stride, closing his mind to the hares.
But he couldn’t shut out memory. Haribu Haremaster. Manoreh’s feet thudded against the ground,
moving faster and faster as the sight and smell of the hares triggered the watuk blindrage, and that rage
disrupted the rhythm of his breathing and the coordination of his body. He stumbled, slowed, took in
great gulps of dusty hot air ... lost in memories ....
The hare walk ... the tide of white pouring over the land stripping it greedily ....
He groaned.
The line of bodies stretching out and out ... the days following the line of the dead with Faiseh beside
him, burying his kin, bonded and blood ... bodies ... father ... mother ... sister ....
He sobbed. Tears cut through the mask of dust on his face.
His sister splashed out on the ground clutching her dead . baby, arms and legs twitching, eyes blank,
face empty, every touch of human burned out of her ....
He tried to hold her, slapped her, tried to wake her out of that terrible blank animal state. There was
nothing left in her. He knelt beside her, watched her for awhile. Faiseh found him there, offered to do
what was necessary, but Manoreh shook his head. As the moonring became visible in the darkening sky,
he pressed his fingers against her throat and waited until the artery was still under his fingers. He buried
her, the baby on her breast, and went on with Faiseh until there were no more twitching bodies.
Hare walk. Driven to walk and walk. To walk without stopping. To walk until muscles no longer
responded to will. To crawl. Finally to lie on the ground, hands and feet twitching while the last feeble
glow of life dimmed and died.
He groaned as he thought of the hares ringing Kobe’s Holding, focusing their malice on the Kisima
clan ... on Kitosime ... on his son Hodarzu ... until minds burned out and they began to walk.
Manoreh’s foot caught under a juapepo root and he crashed heavily into the red dust. The pain
jarred him out of his memories. He pushed onto his knees as the juapepo picked up and reinforced his
pain. He sucked in a deep breath and began pulling together the Tembeat discipline, distancing himself
from the troubling emotion, slowing the body, filling the mind. He got clumsily to his feet and looked up.
Jua Churukuu was halfway down the western arc of his day path. He turned and faced along his
backtrail. The grumble of the hares was a low murmur on the horizon. Around him scattered herds of
kudu leaped and galloped to the northeast, frantic to get away from the creeping menace behind them.
He checked the urge to race with them. If his spurt of blindrage had exhausted him, it had at least won
him a long lead on the hare herd. Enough. No good burning himself out The warning had to be given. He
swung back into the lope, his body moving smoothly, the thick red dust stirring about his feet.
An hour later he stopped to rest a few moments at a water tree standing in the middle of a mud slick.
He knelt by the multiple trunks and drank from the small cold stream, heard a rustling in the coarse grass
growing rankly about the slick. A hare pushed out of the grass and sat daintily at the edge of the mud,
bulging brown eyes staring blankly at him. Another rustle and a second hare crouched beside the first.
The blind-rage, he thought ruefully. This time Haribu noticed it. The hares rubbed the sides of their
heads together, then rose onto their hind legs, eyes fixed on him, long ears pointing stiffly at him. He felt a
dulling pressure. His sight blurred. There was a whining in his ears.
Working against a compulsion strong as tangleweb, he forced his hand to the darter on his belt.
The hares’ noses twitched and the pressure on him increased. His hand inched down, unsnapped the
holster flap, eased the pistol out. The hares shook and whined. The pressure built higher. He emptied the
magazine into the hares, the darts phutting into the white fur or skimming past into the grass behind. He
staggered as the pressure was suddenly cut off.
The grass stirred again. He wheeled to face the new danger, frightened and angry.
A wilding boy stood watching him. He was small and wiry, his green-silver skin stained and dirty. He
watched to see what Manoreh would do, then projected a complex FEELING: QUESTION/DESIRE.
Manoreh bolstered the darter. “Who are you?” he asked, hoping for but not expecting an answer.
Wildings never spoke.
The boy waited, still sending his silent message.
Manoreh sighed and projected: QUESTION?
The boy smiled, his dark blue eyes laughing. He pointed to the dead hares. QUESTION?
Manoreh nodded. Projected: ASSENT.
The wilding boy scooped up the hare bodies. Trailing a broad APPRECIATION, he trotted off and was
lost in the haze of dust.
The sun dipped lower and the cloud cover spread a growing shadow over the Sawasawa. Manoreh
ran steadily, his feet beating to the rhythm of the bush songs he repeated continuously to ward off the
betraying memories.
He heard the hounds before he saw the Fa-men coming toward him. He stopped, mouth pressed into
a grim line as the red-eyed dogs circled around him, growling and snapping at his boots, yellow teeth
clicking together a hair away from the leather. Fa-men. There was a sickness in his stomach when he
thought of them. Dangerous fanatics. Hating the wildings and everything to do with the Wild. Hating all
products of technology which they called corrupting abominations. They wore animal furs, despising
woven ‘cloth. They carried assegais rather than darters or pellet rifles and were expert in their use. He
was in some danger, he knew that. They tolerated the Tembeat but that toleration was easily strained.
They cultivated the blindrage and gloried in the bloody results. The Fa-men rode slowly toward him, their
hatred reaching him, sickening him yet more until he was at the point of vomiting. There were four of
them, assegais at ready. Ignoring the hounds, they spread out and stopped their mounts so that all were
facing him, spear points less than a meter away.
“Wild Ranger.” The Fa-kichwa stroked the scars on his right cheek then jabbed his assegai at
Manoreh. “Trying out the wilding boys?”
The Sniffer giggled shrilly. “Sold four legs for a two-leg ride.” Sniffer jabbed at him, the spear point
drawing blood from his arm just below the shoulder. “What’d you do with your faras, little Ranger? Huh?
Huh! HUH!” He was a little man, twisted and so ugly that the yellow river day painted on his skin and the
black-worked scars on his face disappeared before his monumental hideousness, a meager man, skin
stretched taut over tiny bones. He continued to poke at Manoreh, working himself into a dangerous state
of excitement.
“Mohj-sniff!” The kichwa’s voice was indulgent but firm. “Back off. You—Wild Ranger.” The sneer
in the words was deliberately exaggerated. “Your clan? What are you doing here?”
“Clan Hazru, Mezee Fa-Kichwa. Took the harewalk three years ago. I affiliate with Kobe of Kisima,
being wed to his daughter.” His voice was low and uncertain. He knew they relished his weakness and
this angered him. But the sudden caution that damped their hate when they heard his father-in-law’s name
gave him a small, bitter satisfaction. He sucked in a deep breath. “The hares march, Fa-Kichwa.” He
shrugged. “My faras went berserk and threw me. I run now to warn the Holdings.” With an outward
calm he pointed the way he’d come. “Little more than three hours behind me.”
“Fa!” The Fa-Kichwa looped the assegai’s thong over his shoulder and wheeled his mount. By the
time Manoreh faced around again, the four were galloping with their hounds toward the mountains.
He started running again, smiling at the Fa-men’s panic. “Scrambling for the Standing Stones,” he
murmured. “Going to crouch there shivering in their boots, praying that Fa will chase the hares away.”
In the thickening twilight he came to the bridge his grandfather had built across the Chumquivir, a
tributary of the Mungivir which was the great river running the length of the Sawasawa. This was the
southern boundary of his father’s land, his now. Though several planks of the bridge were broken or
missing, the pilings seemed sturdy enough. He stepped cautiously onto it, keeping close to the shaky rail.
The bridge trembled underfoot and groaned each time he put pressure on it, but held him while he
crossed. He stepped reluctantly into the shadow of the ufagiosh trees and walked with increasing
slowness toward the place where the ufagiosh merged with a ragged emwilea hedge. The sickness in his
stomach returned. His emwilea. Rank now, and wild. Canes growing haphazardly out from the tight
center, coiling like poison-tipped barbed wire across the rutted earth. The high roots were choked by the
round, fuzzy leaves of hareweed. When he saw a boy, a small silver-green wiggler who preferred running
with the farash to grubbing in the earth, he’d spent hour after, tedious hour grooming the hedge along this
section of path.
He hesitated, looked up. Through the sparse leaves of the ufagio he could see the clouds lowering, as
the wind whipped up the dust and the dry storm came toward him. He cursed softly. Another plan
rotted out. He scowled toward the south. Four hours lead on them. But the storm would slow them
down some. He walked slowly along beside the emwilea hedge, shoulders hunched over, head drawn
down. Anger: hot, ready to explode and spew the pieces of his soul across the land. Grief: like acid
eating at him, an itch that had no anodyne. Fear: colder than the glacial ice he’d walked the faras over
when he crossed the Jinolimas coming and going. Anger-grief-fear were pressing against his
consciousness.
The uauawimbony tree outside the gate postponed his anguish and rattled a warning. No one left to
warn. Manoreh ducked under the umbrella spread of the whippy branches and rested his palm against
the brain node, a dark bulge like a head sitting on a spread of twenty-four legs, the cone-shaped circle of
trunks that met in the middle forming a dark secret cavity where he used to sit giggling while the wimbony
whipped about like a wild thing. The tight wood was cool and soothing under his hand, reminding him of
a happier time. He stood a moment reluctant to think of the painful now, but sand was beginning to blow,
skipping like fleas under the branch tips. He ducked back under the fringe and walked to the gate.
The carved gate was knocked flat, the gateposts standing like broken teeth. The watchtower was a
wreck, twisted over, spread along the ground by one of the windstorms that had blown by since he left.
He knelt by the rotting gate and tore a section free. His fingers twisted in the spongy remains eaten away
by time and the tunneling siafu. The wood turned to dust and splinters in his hands, and scores of siafu
eggs fell onto the patchy gravel beneath. Dust. Manoreh opened his fingers and stared at the dull gray
dust filming his skin. He wiped his hand across the front of his jerkin. Dust. He stood and crunched
across the wood into the silent shattered quarters of the bound families. Mud houses melted away,
thatching scattered and rotting, rafters jutting up like old bones. And silent. Except for the dust grains
whispering along the earth and the howling wind. He walked along the rutted street, remembering the
loud cries of the weavers and dyers, the clangs from the smithy, the chant of the story teller in the center
of a ring of children, the shouts of children running naked through streets and side alleys. Filled with lively
human voices and the noises of energetic living before the hares came, it was a silent accusation to him
now. Why was he alive? And why did he leave the land dead?
The wind was rising to a howl, tugging at his tangled bush of dark blue hair. He walked silently past
the emptiness, dry weeds crackling under his boots, leaves and dry weeds rolling past him, driven by the
dust-laden wind that scoured at his skin and brought tears. His inner eyelids oozed upwards, triggered by
the smarting and he saw less clearly, the wet transparency blocking off some of the feeble twilight.
Thunder rumbled repeatedly, directly overhead as the dry storm took hold of the abandoned Holding.
He felt Haribu Haremaster tickling at him, insinuating spirit fingers into the private places of his mind.
When he tried to fight free of them, he was distracted by the rage-grief-fear that walked with him into this
devastation of his childhood. He pressed his hands to his face and tried to repress the boiling emotions
that weakened him and pointed him out to Haribu.
It walked by his side, not touching him, a red ghost in the haze of red dust. He burned his head
slowly, then bowed to the presence. The spiky head, beaked like a heraldic bird, nodded back. He
walked past the court wall. Then at the archway he hesitated, wondering if the Mother Well had been
covered or was choked. For a brief moment it seemed important that he know, then feeling empty, he
plodded away, the red ghost matching him stride for stride. He reached the wall that enclosed the kitchen
garden. The path was choked with old leaves and branches. His feet crunched through them with heavy
slow regularity. His head ached. He would have wept but could not with his inner eyelids in place. He
cupped his hand over his mouth and breathed deeply, a long shuddering sigh. The red presence swirled
closer, wrapped its arms around him, sinking claws deep into his body, the hook beak driving toward his
neck. He felt again the cold agony of his grief and the lava heat of his anger as the ghost began to merge
with him.
Haribu Haremaster moved closer.
“No!” He gasped then ground his teeth together, the dust gritting, rasping at his nerves. Weighted
down by the clinging specter, Haribu sniping at him, Manoreh stumbled around the corner, staggering
stiff-legged through wind debris that swirled around his feet and rose in choking whorls to attack his face
and hands. He shielded his face and lurched along the walkway that led to the barn.
His feet knew the stones, though everything was swallowed by darkness and dust. The red ghost slid
away, but glided beside him, its dark eye smudges fixed on him. Waiting. Like Haribu waited.
Manoreh slammed into a wall. The barn. He felt along the rough bricks until he found the sliding door
into the milking section. Head tucked down, holding his breath, he rocked the door loose and slid it
open. He thrust himself through the narrow opening, losing some skin to the rough brick. He shouldered
the door shut and turned to face the thick blackness inside.
Hands guided by old habit, he felt along the wall till he touched the lamp. Praying that after three
years the wick was intact enough to take a spark, he wound it up about an inch, relaxing at the smell of
the lamp oil. After a few futile attempts with the striking box, the wick caught and diluted the darkness
inside the bam with a weak yellow light. The rough wooden stanchions came out of the blackness like
narrow gray shadows; beyond them he saw the red ghost watching.
Ignoring it, he slapped at his leather jerkin and shorts, releasing clouds of dust. His ancestor had built
well. The barn was tight against the storm. Still ignoring the ghost, he worked through the triangular gap
of one of the stanchions, barely fitting where as a boy he had wriggled through with room to spare. He
groped through darkness toward the back of the barn, stumbling over abandoned tools and equipment,
working his way carefully toward the old wellhouse and its ancient hand pump.
As Manoreh touched the handle, worn smooth by long use, his grandfather’s spirit stood beside him,
a big knotted old man, dark blue laughter in his squinting eyes. Manoreh worked the handle until he heard
the clean splash of water hitting the stone of the trough. This ghost, his grandfather’s spirit, was a friendly,
happy presence, giving Manoreh strength to fight off his aches. He plunged his hands into the cool liquid
and splashed it over his face, washing away the dense coating of dust. He pumped more water and
drank, swallowing again and again, feeling half his anguish vanish with his thirst. He moved cautiously
back into the fringes of light He could hear the silken whisper of dust driving against the barn. The storm
was building. He thought of the hares crouching on the Sawasawa and smiled grimly. Hundreds of them
would be dead before morning and more would be weakened, delaying their march.
He stretched and yawned, feeling comfortably tired, the spirit of his grandfather strong on him. He
went to the milking lanes and brought the lamp back. Then looked around for a place to sleep. The hay
was damp and stinking of mildew. Manoreh grimaced. Another indictment of his neglect. His father
would be grieved. Manoreh stood quiet in the darkness hoping that Father Ancestor would come like
Grandfather Ancestor, bringing peace at last and a gentler end to grieving. He did not come.
Manoreh sighed and stretched out on the floor. A hard bed and a cold one. Briefly he regretted the
pack tied behind Shindi’s saddle, then composed himself to sleep. Futile to regret what couldn’t be
helped. The lamp light wavered as the oil supply burned away. He wrinkled his nose at his lack of
thought. Open flame inside a hayfilled barn. Stupid. He extinguished the flame then lay back staring up
into the darkness.
Overhead the dry storm turned to wet and rain began to patter on the roof. He listened for leaks and
felt a brief flash of pride when he heard none. He turned on his side and contemplated the bird-headed
ghost crouched in the darkness, visible like an after-image against the sooty background. “I see you,
ghost.” The spiky head bowed.
“Be patient, old ghost. I need you. I’ll be back.” The eye smudges flickered. “You’ll wait here for
me?” The head bowed again.
“Yes, you’ll wait.” Manoreh winced, aware of the danger of this splitting. As time passed the ghost
.would begin to fade. When there was nothing left, that part of him would be gone. He would grow cold,
stiff, would end as a man, even though his body continued walking around. But Haribu Hare-master was
too strong. The ghost would have to stay until the Holdings were warned. And Kiwanji. He wondered
vaguely if Faiseh had seen the march and was warning his own people. He drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The blackness merged to dream ... a pale woman with skin like sick amber ... eyes wide with
surprise ... eyes bright blue-green like the sky at its zenith just before night ... a face he’d never seen
before ... a type he’d never seen before ... everything wrong about her for beauty ... shapes subtly wrong
... texture wrong ... lips too thin ... eyes wrong ... wrong ... too strong ... too hard ... red hair ... demon
hair ... demon color ... probing at him ... projecting: QUESTION: YOU/WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? ...
unafraid ... with a forwardness he found hard to accept in a woman ... who are you? ... he tried to pull
away from her ... uncomfortable ... disturbed by her ... she was magnificent ... and wrong ...all wrong ...
something in him reached out to her ... distantly he felt her surprise ... felt a friendly outreach and a driving
curiosity ... he jerked away and was deep asleep in minutes.
Chapter II
*******
Kitosime walked down the steps, back straight, head high, swaying gracefully. After years of rigid
training, her body knew its business even when her legs felt weak and her hands shook as she slid them
down the railing. The courtyard was momentarily empty as was the porch behind her. The silence was
cool on her skin. At the last step she stumbled but caught herself, clutching desperately at the railing. She
stood shaking a moment, eyes closed, caught in a flood of terror. One flaw in her and Old Man Kobe
would throw her away like a broken pot He tolerated no spots on his prizes. She sucked in a deep
breath and tried to still the shaking that held her prisoner on that step. Her favored status was her son’s
safety. Hodarzu, ah Meme Kalamah, why did he have to be like his father ... and me ... ah ... me ...
me ... me. She glanced over her shoulder at the heavy throne chair blocking the way to the main door.
Kobe liked to look at her. He kept her kneeling beside him when he sat in that chair, her back straight,
her neck straight, her head held proudly. A living ornament, a testimony to his wealth and power as he
made his ponderous judgments. Kitosime the favorite daughter. Kitosime the beautiful. Kitosime the
elegant, the perfect expression of the power of his blood.
She shivered and stepped carefully onto the painted tiles of the courtyard. Grateful for the brief
solitude, a rare gift, she walked slowly to the Mother Well in the center of the enclosed space. I can’t
endure it, she thought I drown. I am empty. She rested one hand on the well coping and tilted her head
to look at the heavy red clouds that were garish against the morning sky’s bright yellow green, remnants
of last night’s twin storms. Not much time left for her. Kobe would be out in a little while and expect to
find her waiting.
The tiles gritted under her sandals as she shifted from foot to foot beside the great well. Though the
day was already hot, coolness touched her face. “Meme Kalamah,” she whispered. “Surround my son,
hide him. Give me strength to endure, great Mother.” The well whispered back to her, a low liquid
murmur that steadied her. “Help me.” The returning whisper was soft and confiding. She felt the coolness
bathing her, smoothing away her weakness. She turned away, then stopped with a soft exclamation;
something had brushed her foot through the thin leather of her sandal sole. She knelt.
Two small stones huddled next to the well, dull gray pebbles with holes like eyes in the centers.
“Eyestones,” she whispered. She lifted them carefully and placed them on her hennaed palm. They lay on
her painted skin, cold and complete with power, taking nothing from the warmth of her body. Slowly she
opened the pouch that hung on a leather thong about her neck and eased the stones inside. Filled with a
sense of terrifying portent, she glided from the courtyard wanting to run but not able to. She was
Bighouse and Bighouse didn’t run. Ever.
In the quarter the bound families were hard at work. She walked through the cheerful din like a dark
ghost, ignored and unable to join in. In the spinners’ circle the women were chatting and laughing, teasing
a young bride, sitting cross-legged about a basket of fleece, fingers busy shaping the thread, rolling it on
hard knees, winding it on the spindles. Several of the women had their babies with them, sleeping
comfortably in the long cloth slings that bound them tight against their mothers’ backs. From time to time
the women broke into a work chant while the spindles danced and twirled.
They fell silent as she passed. She could feel their eyes following her. They knew what she’d come
for. They know everything, those women. She envied them their freedom. They could move and laugh
without constraint, they could make awkward gestures without losing what was more than life to them.
She touched her hair. It was a measure of the distance between her and these her sisters. Plaited into
elaborate coils, it took two women an hour each morning to fashion what was really a miniature
sculpture.
She passed blacksmith and tinsmith beating against their metal, the metal crying back in deep ringing
protest She passed the porter kicking his wheel while his sons beat the air from piles of reluctant clay.
She passed women holding stone bowls between their knees, grinding agazu root to paste for the
many-layered honey pastry. Passed others preparing dyes, or stirring sodden cloth in great cauldrons, the
sweat forming rivers on their faces and bodies. She envied them their sweat. The noise died away before
her and swelled behind. She walked with the grace of Kobe’s favored daughter, and wanted to groan
and cry out her torment, wanted to laugh and work, even to sweat. Instead she went to Papa Goh’s
odorous hut for the fezza seed that dulled her senses and made her life possible.
She halted in front of the isolated hutch painted a dull black and scrawled over with cryptic symbols
written in white river clay. Her hands were shaking again. Remembering her training, she tapped her
fingers lightly against the skin of the small drum.
It was hotter inside than by the dryers’ fires. By some trick of construction the hut caught the sun and
trapped its heat under the mud-plastered thatch. Heat shimmered around the skinny naked figure of a tiny
man. His eyes were closed into slits and his skin was tarnished like old silver; he was almost lost among
the shadows. Kitosime suppressed a gasp as she sank onto her knees and drew in a breath of the fetid
atmosphere compounded of urine and ancient sweat, of death and a thousand different drugs.
She waited, hands on her thighs, palms up, fingers curving into flower petals, a silent begging which
was all her pride allowed her.
Papa Goh shifted irritably. “Are the bones to speak? You want to know where your man wanders
instead of staying home and plowing your field?” He cackled maliciously, then stopped as her face kept
its doll mask, “You waste my time, woman.”
“Fezza seed,” she said. Her voice was a doll’s voice, musical but lifeless. She touched the pouch
hanging around her neck, fighting back anger. He knew very well what she wanted but relished his small
triumphs over her. Slowly she pulled the pouch open and reached inside. She hesitated as her fingers
touched the eyestones, then dug further for the cool slickness of metal. He watched avidly as she pulled
out a large copper coin and placed it on the floor in front of him.
“Not enough. Not enough.” Flecks of spittle sprayed out from his toothless mouth. One landed on
the back of her hand. She wanted to scrub the hand against the dirt, wanted to scramble to her feet and
tear her way out of the stinking darkness. Instead she brushed lightly at the moisture then fished out a
second coin and placed it beside the first She waited, hands resting lightly on her thighs.
Papa Goh snorted and scooped up the coins, then he took a bit of crumpled paper, twisted it into a
cone and scooped a handful of dark brown seeds into the top. He thrust the screw of paper at her.
Kitosime took the seeds, repressing a shudder at having to touch his fingers and take the wretched
paper. But she smiled, murmured the proper farewells and dipped out the low door.
She stood blinking in the morning sunlight, drawing in great gulps of air to flush the foulness out of her
system. Then the gong sounded, Kobe would be coming out. Expecting her to be waiting. She fumbled in
the twist of paper and thrust three of the seeds into her mouth. The others she stuffed hastily into the neck
pouch. Her heart juddered in her breast and the veins at her temples throbbed. She pressed her hands
against her eyes and bit down on the seeds in her mouth, letting the juice slide down her parched throat.
There was a frantic clacking in her ears. She shuddered. Then the true meaning of the noise reached her
and she looked around.
The uauawimbony tree was jerking about, the seed pods rattling loudly. Kitosime tightened the roll
knot over her breasts, reset the brooch pin and smoothed the dress cloth along her sides. She knew who
the watch-tree announced. Monarch’s back, she thought. Why?
The watchman leaning out from his tower echoed her question unknowingly. “Well, Badnews,” he
roared down, “is this official or are you coming to visit your wife at last?”
Kitosime winced. All the world knew the privacies of her marriage. Briefly she hated Manoreh for
subjecting her to this. But the fezza was beginning to work; she drifted along the road letting the noise
flow over her without really hearing it. Only the shouted words at the gate reached her. “I have business
with Old Man Kobe, Watcher. Let me through.” She heard the clink of the gate bar as she turned the
corner and floated toward the arch that led into the courtyard. Something was wrong. She considered the
situation coolly. Hare march. Why else ask for Kobe? She felt a distant thrill of fear which she knew
would be terror without the fezza. There was danger in this for her son. Not from the hares, no, from his
kin .... If she were locked in with them for days and days, locked in with Kobe and his fanatic hatred of
the wildings, locked in until Hodarzu betrayed himself, until she cracked wide and betrayed her own
smothered but still present ability to FEEL. The terror grew, in spite of the fezza. She stopped by the well.
Kobe was not out yet, thank the good Mother. She leaned heavily against the coping. “Meme Kalamah,
help me,” she whispered. She fumbled in the neck-pouch and fished out two more seeds. With the juice
blunting her fear, she watched, distantly amused, as Kobe came out of the house, followed by a stream
of servants, one carrying the kneeling cushion, another the table that stood at Kobe’s elbow, a third,
Kobe’s beer mug and the tall pitcher of Minimi’s brew, a fourth, the special cushion he sat on, and a
humble fifth, cloths to dust the throne chair.
Kitosime left the well and drifted toward him, like a prisoned but unconcerned goldfish swimming in
cool water that kept the hate and fear outside the glass. She giggled behind her doll mask, a silent spiteful
giggle as she walked with deliberately exaggerated grace across the painted tiles and up the stairs under
his appreciative eyes. She knelt on the cushion, straightened her back, lifted her head, and smiled her
doll’s smile at the Kisimash pouring into the courtyard following Manoreh, silent worried people waiting
for news they didn’t want to hear.
He looks odd, she thought. Tired. But more than that. She felt the pricking of curiosity but the
fezza took away her will. He’s been long away at a time I needed him. The fezza washed above the
anger, damping down its fumes, sparking only a flow of thought passing behind her doll’s face ....
Hodarzu feels, Manoreh, and Kobe will give him to the Fa-men, and they will roast and eat him, my
little son. As he’ll throw you, Manoreh, my husband. As soon as he’s sure he doesn’t need you to take
possession of your land, all of it, unshared by other council members. At one stroke he doubles his land
and his power, Manoreh.
And he hates you, Manoreh.
Even through the fezza dullness it sickens me, his hate.
He can claim the land through Hodarzu too, Manoreh, so be careful, my husband, you walk on a
thread that could break any minute, Manoreh.
Once the Fa-men have you, Manoreh, what happens to me?
He hates the wildings, Manoreh, he goes to the Fa-men’s burnings and eats the burned flesh.
He has a taste for wilding flesh.
See how hungrily he eyes you, Manoreh; he marks your flesh for a meal.
Soon, I think, he’ll have you.
And when he has the land in those tiny, greedy hands, Manoreh, he’ll eat my son.
The words unreeled before her eyes, tangible things. She sat with her head high, face empty so
expression would not mar its pure beauty. A possession of the Old Man, Kobe of Kisima clan, her father
who would throw her to the scavengers if he suspected what she needed the fezza seed to hide.
Manoreh stood quietly at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Kobe to acknowledge his presence. His
eyes rested briefly on her but he said nothing to her, turning back to Kobe as if something like fezza
dulled his reactions also.
“Wild Ranger,” Kobe said heavily.
Manoreh bowed his head politely, then he fixed calm eyes on Kobe. “Kobe ya Kimbizi aya Fajir iya
Fundi iyai Kisima, the hares march.” He paused, waiting for questions that didn’t come. “They follow
about three hours, perhaps four, behind me, a herd so wide it blankets the Sawasawa.” His shoulders
slumped briefly before he straightened them, stubbornly refusing to show weakness in the face of Kobe’s
hostility. Kitosime was vaguely worried. He’s terribly tired, Meme Kalamah keep him .... She
breathed in the mist of hate and fear directed toward him. Manoreh, Manoreh why do you try to
endure this? Take up your father’s land and get us both away. Why, why, why don’t you do that?
“Kiwanji.” Kobe grimaced; his eyes opened wide until rings of white showed around the indigo.
Kitosime rocked slightly on the kneeling pillow, struggling to maintain her mask. Meme Kalamah, help
me, help me. I can’t stand it. The hate, the hate ....
“The psi-screens will keep the people safe.” Manoreh’s face froze. After a minute he said hoarsely,
“You haven’t seen what happens in a hare walk. Make up your mind, Old Man.”
“Psi-screens. Abomination.” Kobe twisted small hands on the elaborately carved chair arms. “No!”
He scowled at the line of blue where the eastern mountain crests rippled above the court walls. “The
mountains will hold us. The Fa-shrine.”
Kitosime jerked, almost cried out. As she calmed herself she saw Manoreh’s face freeze over again.
He was silent for a long moment, then said quietly, “If these were all young men—” he moved his hands
in a quick circle, taking in all the folk in the courtyard—”used to hard riding and hard living, you might
make it.” His mouth snapped shut. She felt the coldness in him. His eyes rested on her. “If you go to the
mountains,” he said tautly, “I want my wife and son. I’ve lost enough close kin to the hares.”
“Hold your noise!” Kobe snapped. Kitosime swayed again, fighting to cope with a tiny spark of
hope. To get out of here, ride with Manoreh, get Hodarzu someplace safe ... , She swayed back and
forth rhythmically, blanking out both hope and fear, but deep within, the chant was softly repeated: Talk
to me, Manoreh, just one minute, take a minute and talk to me, I’m your wife, talk to me .... She
fixed her eyes on him silently begging him to use his FEELING and hear her need.
“I’ve got no choice,” Kobe said sourly. “We’ll take the barges into Kiwanji.” His little dark eyes
glittered. “No need to take my daughter scrambling through the wild.” His tiny hands closed into fists. He
won’t let me go, Kitosime thought dully. Even if Manoreh bothered to try, he’d stop him somehow.
And he won’t try ....
Manoreh’s eyes flicked to Kitosime then dismissed her. “Give me a faras, Old Man. And let me go.
The other Holders still aren’t warned of the hare march.”
Kobe grunted. He wants to refuse, Kitosime thought. But he doesn’t dare. The Old Man rose.
“So,” he said, “go to the corral and pick your own.” He stumped back into the house, trailed by the silent
house servants.
“Manoreh.” Kitosime called to her husband, but he was pushing his way through the murmuring,
hostile crowd filling the courtyard and didn’t hear her. Kneeling gracefully erect on her pillow, afraid to
call him again, she watched him disappear through the arch. As the silent crowd began trickling out
behind him, she rose and walked slowly into the house. I wish I knew what to do, where to go ...
Chapter III
*******
The uauawimbony tree clattered as Manoreh rode out, and the dance of the faras’s hooves rattling
against the gold-brown gravel echoed the sound. Manoreh loosened the reins a little, letting the faras
move into a trot, thinking unhappily about Kitosime. He had a vague sense of foreboding but couldn’t
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StarHuntersDiadem,Book5JoClayton1980Scanned8December2002.Spell-checked. TheNovelsoftheDiadem:1. DiademFromTheStars2. Lamarchos3. Irsud4. Maeve5. StarHunters “JoClaytonweavestheengrossingtalesofAleytysandthemysteriousdiademwhichcontrolsheractionsanddeterminesherqueststhroughsomeofthemostcolorfuland...
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