Jo Clayton: Shadowplay

Shadith heard that SOUND and she savored it; she wouldn't be going into the dark alone-the men who murdered her would be just as dead.

It wasn't much of a comfort, but it was something.

She managed a wry smile as she remembered telling Miowee: if you're set on dying, take him with you (him being Makwahkik)

What with one thing and another, Makwahkik was the one that went, not Miowee, not Shadith.

The Nistam would go this time. Probably. The Gospah. The Na-priests.

She wouldn't see it. Sun was almost down.

For sure, not much comfort.

The Gospah finished his supplication and began turning in stately circles while the choir slid into another litany of praises.

He was pressing on to the end despite all distractions.

A moment ago, when he moved offstage for a change of paraphernalia, the Ni-ot Pipondihek (chief of the Nistam's Personal Guard, ex-liwa to Kati Mola), brought orders to cut the ceremony short and light the fires so they could get the hell out of there before the place exploded.

He nodded politely, acknowledging the command. And ignored it thereafter.

The Nistam's wishes were not important now.

There were things that must be done if the Sacrifice was to be acceptable.

That was more important than the Nistam's life, more important than his own.

Miowee was whining with frustration, an odd little sound, rather like the noise an exhausted and angry puppy might make; her fingers were strong and agile but she couldn't see what she was doing and the knot had been pulled tight by a Na-priest with long experience in the unnatural strength of people pushed beyond their limits.

Shadith blinked the sweat out of her eyes, twisted her neck around so she could look down at the singer.

"Mee." It was more of a groan than a word, but her voice was beginning to come back to her. This body was resilient as hard rubber, recovering with a speed that still managed to astonish her. It was too bad…

She, shrugged off regret, tried again. "Mee! Listen!"

"What?" Miowee didn't look up, just kept on clawing at the knot.

"If you can reach my left boot, there's a knife in it, but be careful, don't get near Kaya with it, you'd cut her in half before you knew what was happening."

"What good is it, then?"

"Cut the tethers. Roll her off the Prye. At least she won't burn."

"Ah." Her eyes closed, her mouth working, Miowee slumped for a moment against Kayataki's back, then she shuddered, collected herself and began working her body back around until she could reach the boot top, listening as she moved to Shadith's explanation of how to get into the sheath.

The Nistam was in a rage almost as great as the pilgrims', a fury he intended to exorcise by ridding himself of that idiot Ayawit after this stupidity was over with and he was back safe behind the Kiceota walls.

Until the ceremony was completed, until the Culmination was enacted, he couldn't leave. He had to perch on this ugly uncomfortable throne and put his neck on the line. His OWN neck.

Elementary precautions were one thing, running from' a gaggle of Maka clods was something else. His legitimacy and the power it conferred on him came from family tradition and the reputation of his ancestors. Running now would destroy that-and him.

There were dozens of other Pliciks and Plicik clans with ambitions to replace him and his, half of them sitting around him now, watching him.

In the cavern behind the portable Palace, the Ni-ot Pipondihek was calling in reinforcements from the city and the countryside, every Plicik capable of bearing arms.

It was a desperate throw, the landlords and their forces might prove more dangerous to him, than the pilgrims, but they were a greedy lot with delusions of competence, feuding with their neighbors, trusting no one and far easier to manipulate than the bloody fanatics out there now.

Divide and buy. His ancestors had done it before and won.

In smaller ways he had kept himself intact and in power buying and dividing. He could do it again-and win.

The Nistam sat impassively behind glass and steel and watched the not developing around him.

Miowee drew the crystal knife from the sheath in the boot, but her hands were clumsy because she couldn't see them and she didn't fully understand the danger of the blade; as she pulled it out, it sliced through ropes and cloth and pared away skin and muscle from Shadith's leg.

Until she felt the warm gush on her hands and twisted around to see what was happening, Miowee wasn't aware of what she'd done. She sucked in a breath as she saw the red flood. "Shadow…"

"Yeh, I know." Shadith managed a creaky laugh. "Told you."

"Death to the Pliciks! Death to the Godkillers!"

Dencipim came out of the crowd, leaped the rope, and buried the pistol in the belly of the nearest Royal Guard. As he pulled the trigger, he snatched off the Guard's gilded helmet, threw it to the men following him over the rope. "Death to the Pliciks. Death to the Godkillers!"

Darkness flowed across the crater; the shadows at the back of the. Bubble thickened. Shadith froze, but the rite went droning on and the sun came out again. Cloud or what?,

Maka and Tana began throwing themselves at the Guards and the portable Palace, coming at it in waves, individual men dying and dying and dying, the waves never dying. "Death to the Pliciks! Death to the God-killers!"

Miowee shifted cautiously, located the tether that bound Kayataki to the pole. "Kaya."

"Mmmmphmm." It was a small sound, but as much noise as the girl could make around the gag. It was just audible above the chanting of the choir, the groan of the Longhorns, the doomdoom of the Drums.

"Child of mine, you know how to fall, soon as you're loose, go over the edge, then scoot for the back, find a hole and crawl in, you hear me?"

"Mmmooohminm!" The sound rose in protest. The child shook her head.

"Do it. I'm coming soon as I'm loose, but I swear, baby, I won't move till you're out of sight."

"Mmnimm." It was a falling sound this time, acquiescence. Shivering and icy pale, Kayataki hunched forward, pushed her head against her mother's side, then pulled back, stretching the tether taut so it'd be easier to cut.

Miowee handled the knife more awkwardly than she intended, applying too much force despite her care. The blade went through both ropes, hers and Kaya's, without noticing them and kept on going, missing her buttock by a hair and sinking into one of the oily sticks. She let go of the hilt as if she'd closed her hand about a snake.

A redheaded woman came riding through the Cicipi Gate, sitting in an arslibre howda mounted on the arching back of an immense and ugly warbot like the worst possible cross between a spider and a lobster. Two more paced alongside and a third followed behind. They shot gouts of steam through spiracles along their sides, opening a path for themselves through the surging throng of Kiskaids, walking with ominous, sinuous inevitability through the self-created clouds of steam.

The pilgrims scrambled to get away from the things, frantic with terror, seeing them as demons from hell's cellar.

Maka and Tanak were swarming over the glass palace, stomping on it, kicking at it, shooting at it with guns they'd brought with them or taken from dead guards; the glass was chipped and webbed with cracks but would not break, the cage groaned from the weight it was carrying but refused to collapse.

Men died, their bodies piling up against the glass. Inside the portable Palace, the Nistam stared grimly at grotesque dead faces staring sightlessly back at him.

Loyal Guards fired into the mob, killing hundreds, but a half a million men were coming at them, they couldn't kill them all. There wasn't enough room for aiming or even for using their rifles effectively. One by one they were falling.