Jo Clayton: Shadowplay

Asteplikota lay back in the longchair as the girl brushed and braided his hair, pulling the shining blond loops around to cover the ridged scarring where his scalp had been sliced away. It was a pleasant attention, but it made him uneasy; he had a strong aversion to such pampering.

And he was worried about his brother, uncertain, now that Kiscomaskin wasn't here to reassure him-not with words, because words were unimportant and unreliable, but with the flash of his smile and the warmth of his fondness. It was at those moments when they were alone and wrapped in bloodcaring that he felt Kiscomaskin's posturing was only that, the mask of a man protecting himself from his gentler side.

The girl finished her task, dipped and backed out. As if he'd waited outside for her to be done and begone, Lihtaksos tapped lightly on the doorpost, came in without ceremony, a measure of his disturbance. "Oppla Bless, Aste my friend. Kiscomaskin, has he been here in the past week?"

Asteplikota sat up. "No. I haven't seen him since he left for the Main."

Lihtaksos dropped on the hassock by Asteplikota's feet, seemed to crumple In on himself. "The Three are in the Gospah's hands, have been for the past two weeks, but he doesn't have your brother, even in his deepest pit, we're sure of that. And he's nowhere else. We've looked. I'm sorry, Aste, but I think he's dead. I don't know how or who, but I can see no other answer."

Asteplikota closed his eyes, touched the tips of his fingers to his brow, hiding his face. Grief was cold in him, it was a loss he couldn't comprehend. He'd half been expecting it, but that didn't help. Somewhere distant, almost beyond reach, he felt anger, he knew it was anger, but it was meaningless right then. He dropped his hands. "I see. So?"

Lihtaksos brushed absently at the wrinkles in his shirt. "Killing Makwahkik was a mistake," he said wearily. "Maybe there was satisfaction in it, perhaps even justice. But it was most definitely a mistake. There was a center to what we were fighting, now there's none. We hit at clouds and gain nothing from it. People die now for nothing, nothing at all, Aste, nothing at all Come back with me. We need you. Dencipim is at everyone's throat; Wetakisoh is drawing back into himself his caution is becoming paralysis; Mohecopah goes around in a permanent gloom saying I told you so. He warned us against killing Makwahklk and now he's proved right." Lihtaksos smiled wryly. "Much more of that and I'll strangle him myself. Kiscomaskin was our balance wheel, Aste: we could defer to him. None of us is willing to give that power to the others, none of us is big enough to take it. We need you."

"I don't have Kisca's talent, Lihto. I have enough trouble driving myself, I can't..

"You don't have Kisca's flash, my friend, but we can do without flash now, be better off for the loss of it. We, know whose mind devised the strategies that kept your brother afloat, we know who helped him polish away his excesses. We need you."

"Well then, I'll come, do what I can. Are things on the Main as bad as we've been hearing?" He held out his hand, let

Lihtaksos pull him onto his feet. "The scenes we get over the corn are enough to make a slither cringe."

The flatwagon was assembled outside the city on the Road itself, guarded by the Nistam's troops who were nervous enough to shoot without warning anyone who came too close, and their idea of close was a measure that changed with the changing tensions.

The wagon was fifteen meters wide and thirty long with six sets of double wheels individually mounted along each side and an additional four in front with twin tongues for the two teams of twenty kekelipis that pulled it.

Once the basic assemblage was finished, with the shell stage for the Three made ready, the throne of the Nistam installed above the warded cabins where the passengers would retreat for meals and sleep, teams of Kisar and Plicik women decorated everything with silk flowers, bright ribbons and gilded lace.

Royal Guards in gilded armor, Plicik men and women in beaded silks with quIckfirers In silver studded straps, Kisar Judges and Scholars in their blowing beaded crimson robes, kanaweh in flits and prowling about on the edges of the throng, in the midst of all these (sweeping along with him the angry, reluctant Avatars, Miowee and her daughter) the Nistam and his Court PROGRESSED to the wagon. ("So that's your Nistam," Shirai' whispered to Miowee. "What a weed."

"Of course It isn't," Mlowee whispered back. "The real one's even worse, he wouldn't dare stick his nose out where it could get shot off. Everyone knows that. That's his fifth double, the others were poisoned or stabbed or something. Look at the bastard sweat."

"If everyone knows, why should he be sweating, who'd waste his life on a double?"

"You're thinking rationally, Shadow. That's a mistake. Someone might lust decide to send a message to the Nistam, keep him nervous."

"Hunh! Sweet folk, yours.")

When the Procession reached the wagon, the PseudoNistam was Installed on his throne, his court settled around him behind screens of pelletproof glass. The Avatars were taken to the shell, Rohant told to sit on a massive bench at the back, the cats flanking him on their own benches as Sassa came circling down and perched on the rod at the apex of the shell. The Ciocan was a magnificent figure with his springing mane and golden eyes, his huge size and powerful musculature, the brilliant, barbaric clothing he was given to wear-black leather beaded all over In crimson and gold, azure and emerald. Against the matte white of the shell, he sprang to the eye; there was a hissing of approval from the watchers out beyond the ring of guards.

Kikun was led to a round dance platform and told to squat there. He wore a fringed harness hung with copper chains and totem dangles, and was painted head to toe in horizontal black and white stripes. There was a shudder of pleasurable fear among the watchers as he took his place.

Three Plicik honormaids took Shadith to a white bench halfway between Kikun and Rohant; she wore a long white leather robe beaded in lapis lazuli and gold with crimson beads in a diamond between her breasts, she supposed it was meant to represent her heart. Her hair was an explosion of tiny curls, the tips bleached to gold; they shimmered in the sunlight, making a gilded halo about her face. Her Plicik attendants spread out her skirt panels, arranged her limbs in the proper position, slapped her spine straight, fluffed out her hair, smoothed pearl powder over her face and arms, clucking as they always did at the darkness of her skin. She sat glowering through all this, only smiled when they brought Miowee and Kayataki to her and settled them at her feet. When the Plicik maids moved to take their own seats; she bent down. "Is this thing really supposed to move? And what happens to this foofaraw if it rains?"

Miowee snorted. "It gets wet, what'd you think?"

"You mean we get wet."

"That, too." Miowee winced as the drum corps started banging away. "Get ready, Shadow, another minute and you're on."

"Give me half a chance, I'd…"

The only way you could get out of this now is invisible or dead. Your choice."

"Fool." She laughed, tapped Miowee lightly on her head. "So… where'd they get that lot of tin-eared dead arses? They're not the ones, we practiced with." She wrinkled her nose. "I've heard more rhythm from a seaslug."

"They're Pliciks, what did you expect? They've never had to please or starve. They bought the right to make fools of themselves."

The wagon creaked out of the city and plunged into the throng of Pilgrims. Following the pattern drilled into her during practice sessions in the Kisa Misthakan, Shadith played the sacred Paleka Kitskew and sang the traditional Pakoseo songs, Miowee and Kayataki blending with her, their voices picked up and amplified by concealed lug-ikes.