Shadowkill sq-3, page 11
part #3 of Shadith's quest Series
She continued to sip at the broth as Polyapo waited across the table from her. Finally she set the mug down. “The supplies I brought from Nirtajai have been stored and inventoried?”
“It is being done, Matja Allina.”
Kizra blinked. That’s a lie, she thought. She glanced at Allina, decided the woman knew perfectly well that her Ulyinik hadn’t stirred herself, that the supplies could have sat out and rotted for all Polyapo cared about them.
“Good. I will expect a plan and a listing, a full accounting by sundown. I’m sure that will be plenty of time since you are already working at it. However, I would appreciate your personal involvement in this inventory since you’ll need to know exactly what you have to work with during the following months. Chapa Tinoopa will assist you in this and in anything else that will ease your labors. Amurra’s Blessing, Ulyinik Polyapo.”
“Blessed be Amurra, Matja Allina.” Polyapo creaked stiffly through the ritual bow, then went sweeping off with Tinoopa following placidly behind.
Aghilo brought out the flask of broth, touched the mug, but Matja Allina shook her head. “No more, thank you. Aghilo chal, your arm, please.”
3
The dye vats were in a large open shed in a secondary court west of the main court. There were lengths of cloth drying on lines shaded by thatch roofs, hanks of yarn draped over pegs, and vast steaming tubs of color with women walking on narrow ledges about them, stirring the cloth or yarn or tufts of wool with long wooden paddles, their hair protected by kerchiefs from the steam, their faces smudged, dark colorings under every fingernail. Blackened with coal dust and red with the heat, young girls tended the fires under the vats, fetched coal from bins built into the yardwall. Others rushed about with fleeces, fresh yarn, rolls of cloth. It was a busy, noisy place, women talking, laughing, the girls singing, chattering, all of that despite the hard heavy work they were doing.
Matja Allina inspected everything, the stores of ground colorings and other supplies,, the work done while she was gone, looking for quality and quantity. Then she settled onto the leather seat of a folding stool. “Uri, Gintji, little chals, little songbirds, come and sing for me. Teach young Kizra here some homesongs.”
Uri was a small pink and white child, with hands dyed a dozen colors and frizzy blonde hair escaping from short plaits. Gintji was longer and thinner, with less color in her face and more in her hair. They curtsied solemnly, conferred in whispers, faces flushed, blue eyes skittish. Then they turned and stood holding hands, singing in sweet true voices, small voices that fit the moment and the song.
“The sun rises,” Uri sang.
“Mayra spins the red threads.
The moon rises.
Mayra spins the white threads.
“The sun sets,” Gintji sang.
“Hirmnal tends his sheep.
The moon sets.
Hirmnal shears his sheep.
“Sun and moon, moon and,” they sang together.
Love waxes, love wanes
Day turns to night, night to
A young man grows old
A girl bears and rears
Sun and Moon, moon and sun
Love waxes, love wanes.
“The sun rises.
Mayra weaves her bride cloth…
“The sun sets.
Hirmnal fattens his sheep…
Kizra picked up the tune, began playing her own thread to the song; the girls were startled and stumbled over a word or two, and then were back on track and finished with a flourish.
##
As Uri and Gintji retreated among their friends, Kizra kept on playing, sliding into another tune that seemed to drip from her hands, a strongly accented upbeat thing that had the women clapping and stamping before she’d played a dozen phrases.
Matja Allina let the play go on for about five more minutes, then she nodded to Aghilo, got to her feet and went out, leaving a buzz of talk behind.
Kizra felt the women’s eyes on her as she went out, sensed speculation and some resentment, with a few spikes of outright dislike. Favor, she thought, they don’t like a newcomer landing such a cushy job. They liked my music well enough. Not me. No, not me. She bit on her lip, tried to tell herself bunch of backwater provincials, don’t mean a hiccup to me. I’m out of here first chance I get…
##
Weavers, embroiderers and fancyworkers, clerks, mechanics, turners and joiners, leatherworkers, herbalists, blenders, oil pressers and gardeners, field workers, millers (in the watermill on the riverside, the air white with flour and gritty with bran), herders in from the field, beast tenders in the home paddocks, the sick and wounded in the infirmary, pregnant women, prisoners serving out drunk-time, or recovering from the lash given for assault and other offenses, they visited them all, Matja Allina had a word with one or two, then Kizra played and learned songs while Matja Allina rested, drank more broth.
Allina rested, but she never stopped; weariness grayed over her emotions, but she didn’t show any of that; she listened, smiled, saw everything and moved on.
##
After several hours of this, Kizra began to worry. Getting out of the mess she was in depended on that baby and the mother’s exhaustion couldn’t be good for it. She dropped back until she was walking beside Aghilo. “Is it really needed, all this?” she whispered urgently. “The Matja is too tired now. She shouldn’t let herself get that tired.”
Aghilo patted her arm. “Yes,” she murmured. “I know. Don’t say anything.” She flicked the fingers of her left hand at Kulyari’s back. “That one.” She shrugged. “Give her a crack to pry at and she’ll have the Matja out before… tchah! Once the Matja has seen everyone, she’ll rest. She can’t miss anyone out. There are jealousies…
“I see.”
“She’s a blessing to us all, you don’t know.” Aghilo shook her head. “You just don’t know, child. It’s why the Irrkuyon hate her so much, even her own Family. She makes them look… ah… like what they are. She shames them. You keep your eyes open, you’ll understand. Now hush, there’s nothing you can do but sing your songs and play your music and make the day brighter for her and for us. She knows what she has to do. She’ll rest when it’s time. Go, go, I’ve talked too long…”
Dyslaera 6: Spree
The gym was a long oval with three tiers of seats along one side where the spectators could look down on the games being played out on one section or another of the springy floor.
Nine Savants formally dressed in cowl, mask, black robe and gloves sat in the lowest of the tiers, a waist-high wall the only barrier between them and the floor. Behind them there were two score techs in their formal whites. Behind these stood a dozen wards in cowls, black leather, and stainless studs; six had heavy-duty stunners, six held dart tubes armed with exploding missiles.
Down on the mat, facing the Savants, Ossoran and Feyvorn stood naked, arms dangling, loosely by their sides. Ossoran’s fur was rexed and sprinkled with gray; it shimmered in the light with each breath he took. Feyvorn was a red Dyslaeror, he shone like liquid copper. They were heavily muscled, and despite everything the techs had done to them, they were in magnificent physical condition. Savants and techs murmured with pleasure. The guards stood imperceptibly straighter.
Savant 1 leaned forward, spoke: “Look up, Dyslaera.”
A black cylinder emerged from the ceiling fifty meters up, the cable it was attached to lengthening slowly as it paid from an unseen drum. It stopped when it was about five meters from the mat.
The cylinder dissolved, revealing a Dyslaerin in a cage. She was very young, terrified, furious-and in season. Her claws had been removed, her fingers shortened by a joint; she was biting at the bars, wrenching at them, trying with everything she had to bend them just enough to let her limber body through.
Savant 1 watched the Dyslaerors, smiling with satisfaction. “A contest,” he said. “You will fight each other for her. The victor will be allowed one month free of tests and the services of the female. One of you must die. If both are alive at the end of the time we will set, she dies. If you refuse to fight, she will be artificially inseminated and as soon as the cub is born, she will be vivisected like that youth you saw a short while ago. Questions?”
Ossoran stared at Feyvorn. Feyvorn nodded.
“How long?” Ossoran said.
“Thirty minutes.”
“We will fight.”
##
They circled around each other, feinting, retreating, moving so fast they’d finished one set and were on to something else before the watchers fully realized what had happened.
This went on for several minutes, then they ran full out at each other. Feyvorn hit Ossoran’s hands, shoulders, bounded upward and caught at the bars of the cage; he twisted his body round, got his footclaws hooked over the base, surged up. He reached through the cage and tore out the girl’s throat.
As soon as Feyvorn was airborne, Ossoran ran at the wall, vaulted it and began mauling everyone he could reach, using his teeth and claws on his hands and feet.
##
Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):
… bloody debacle. Savants 1 and 2 are dead. Savant 3 has been sent to the meat farm with massive injuries including one arm torn from his body. Three techs were also killed or injured. Two of the guards panicked. Unfortunately, they were armed with the dart tubes. They killed the subjects, but also blew away several techs and Savants 8 and 9.
OBSERVATIONS: (1) the techs on duty at the data stations are to be commended, recommendation: honor bonuses for each.
(2) Preliminary analysis of readings indicates a reluctance to accept control from external sources that is far more powerful even than the kin-bond.
NOTE: We have a weakness that must be held in mind at all times when dealing with these Dyslaera. Their claws and fur lead us to think of them as beasts and this induces us to discount their intelligence. That is dangerous. On looking over the flakes of this disastrous event, I have noted that the plan was set and agreed upon in that first glance they shared. Without having to consult, they noted the best points of attack to achieve their goals, devised their plan, and set it in motion.
RECOMMENDATION: I must add my voice to that of Savant 1 in the course that he suggested: Acquire Dyslaera cubs, preferably before weaning. Also gravid females. These last should be kept comatose and their cubs surgically removed at term. If we can tame these creatures, they will be servants without peer, highly intelligent and physically magnificent.
Shadith (Kizra) On The Farm 3
1
Dinner over, her duties finally done, Matja Allina lay on her side, pillows tucked about her to help with the weight of the baby, hot water bottles spread around her, warming the aches out of her as the hot milk had warmed her inside. She was drowsing happily, sighing with pleasure as Tinoopa kneaded her back and shoulders; now and then she sang a few words to the music of the arranga.
Her grasp on the notes was sometimes shaky. She frowned when she was off, looked irritably at Kizra as if the arranga’s tuning were off, not her voice.
Kizra got the message; she played to minimize the clashes, mushing the accompaniment, shifting her fingering to follow the wanderings of the Matja’s voice. Crawl, Shadow, crawl, she sang under her breath. Her fingers faltered as she realized what her mindvoice had said. Shadow. Who… what… was Shadow? She gripped her lower lip between her teeth and forced a brittle calm over her nerves.
Ingva and Yla were sitting on the floor in a corner, a low table between them, playing a complicated game of cards but not absorbed in it. Kizra saw them looking repeatedly at their mother. She could.feel their anxiety. Confined in the room, they were confronted with her fragility and their inability to do anything about it.
The muted comfortable sounds of the Kuysstead shutting down for the evening came through the open casement; the sunset glittered crimson off the diamond-shaped panes; high overhead a hunting raptor screamed and stooped, then swooped away with its prey dangling from its talons. The wind was rising and a few clouds drifted past, high clouds pink and gold with the sunset.
##
Pirs came in. He waved Tinoopa away, settled on the stool beside the bed and drew his fingertips along Allina’s bare arm. Kizra continued to play quietly though her fingers shook with the impact of what lay under that gentle restrained gesture.
After a minute Allina caught his hand, sniffed at it. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.
“Raid on the South Pasture,” he said. “Not Brushies. Tumaks. A dozen of them. It got hot there for a while, but we drove them off. Karr and Ritmin were hurt, flesh wounds, nothing to worry about. We chased the ones left alive past the boundmarks, they had a rover hidden away, got to it before we could get close enough. We let, it go, no chance of catching up with them on horses. Too much chance of ambush.”
“So close to the house. How they dare… Damage?”
“Slaughtered a herd of woollies, tried to fire the brush, but it’s not dry enough yet. Karr thinks they’re townbred, their landcraft was more notable by its absence.”
“Fire.”
“Yes. That was a mistake. I saw a Brushie watching and a pair of l’borrghas. I don’t think we’ll have more trouble with fires, Lina aklina. I don’t think the tumaks will have time to strike a match if they try it again. Just to make sure, though, I’m going into the Brush tomorrow for a limalima with Chul-Gop.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I think it is, Mi-matja. You know Chul-Gop, he won’t lose his head.”
“If he kills you…”
“He hasn’t before, Lina mi’klien.”
“Tell no one. I’m not worried about the Brushies. Well, not much. It’s your kin that… brother Mingas drools in his beard when he thinks of this Kuyyot. And Rintirry…” She caught his hand, held tight to it. “I’d burn the Kuysstead and kill myself before I let Rintirry lay one finger on it or me.”
In their corner, the two girls had gone very quiet. Aghilo crossed her arms and hugged herself, her face blank.
Tinoopa stood in a shadowy corner, brooding over this new turn.
Kizra kept playing the same song over and over, the sound like water flowing, unobtrusive, gentling.
Pirs stood. “It’s time you slept, Mi-matja. Aghilo, cousin, take the girls and… wait. Come here, Ingva, Yla.” When they were standing before him, he touched each head, lightly, a small caress. “Say nothing of what you heard tonight, you hear, my lirrilirris?”
Yla blinked. “Not even to the Jili Arluja, Papay?”
“Particularly not to the Jili Arluja. Even if she asks, hmm? It’s for her protection, Yla-lirri, what she doesn’t know she can’t be expected to tell.”
“I won’t, Papay… I won’t tell anyone.”
“Ingva.”
The girl looked fierce. “I won’t, Papay; it’s none of their business.” She stroked her hand along his arm, took his hand. “You will see us soon’s you come back, huh, Pa-pay?”
He laughed, tapped her on the nose. “The very minute. Now go get your baths and go to bed.”
“Papay?”
“Ingva?”
“Take me with you. I won’t keep you back, I ride better than Wurro even, I do. You talk to the old ’uns, I’ll talk to the young ’uns. Babeyla and Tink and the rest. They’re as good as the old ’uns at looking out for strangers.”
“Not this time, lirri. It’s a good idea, but now’s not the time. I tell you what. We’ll do it in a week or so, when I see how things are going to jump. All right?”
Ingva gave a brisk quick nod, then took her sister’s hand and went out.
Tinoopa curtsied, said, “Arring Pirs, be sure we shan’t speak of this even to each other.” She hauled Kizra to her feet and hustled her out.
2
Pirs rode from the Kuysstead an hour before dawn. Kizra woke sweating and moaning from a nightmare whose details evaporated before she got her eyes open. She flung the covers back and went to the window where she saw him on the ferry, his uncovered head shining silver-gilt in the starlight. The rider beside him was long and lean, with plaits bumping against his back, blond, too, but duller, like rope braided from last season’s straw. P’murr the Loyal. Blood brother, as close to Pirs as chat ever got to Irrkuyon.
They rode the big Blacks, Pirs’ prize horses, skittish beasts, snorting and sidling, hooves noisy on the floorboards of the ferry, the sounds that they made as loud in the clean stillness of the predawn as if she were standing beside them; she could hear almost as clearly the put-put of the winch motor and the creaking of the windlass.
She watched them ride off the ferry and vanish into the predawn gloom, moving toward the leftward of the two mountains, the one called Patja Mount.
Well. Good luck to him.
She shivered and started to turn from the window. Something flickered. On the wall near the mill.
She pushed the window open farther and leaned out. Someone was running along the wall. Fair hair and skirts.
The way it moved, young. Accustomed to that Talent of hers by now, content to view it as the equivalent of her ear for music, she read the figure, nodded.
Kulyari. Up to something.
She could smell it-spite, triumph, and a furiously busy mind.
What is it? What could she do, that little rat?
Kulyari flitted along the wall like someone set her tail on fire.
Corning inside fast as she can scoot. How? Somewhere on the ground floor, no other way in. All right, let’s get down there and see what we see.
