Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

“Ingalina chal Beastmistress.”

A thin wiry woman came forward, tanned leathery skin, sun-bleached blonde hair cut short.

Matja Allina took the last of the rolled up sheets, passed it across to the Beastmistress. “Ommla. Jhapuki. Fraji. Rafiki. Zhya Arru. Tsipor pa Prool. Go with the Beastmistress and do what she tells you.” She settled back into the cushions, accepted a cup of hot broth from Aghilo. “That ends that,” she said. “Ulyinik Polyapo, come here, please.”

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.”

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.