Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

Kinefray snarled, slashed at him-but seemed to realize finally that there was no threat here, seemed to realize finally that this was only Patti-Paw. Confused and uncertain, he retracted his claws.

Azram darted in, caught him about the torso, and muscled him to the cell floor.

In minutes they were play-fighting, wrestling vigorously, even enjoying themselves…

Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):

ADDENDUM: By application of several primal forces-blood smell, anger, strenuous physical activity, subject 3A (native name: Azram) has managed to reestablish the kin-bond and to a considerable degree negate the effect of the drugs and the conditioning.

RECOMMENDATION: Considering the expense, the loss of subject material and the ineffectiveness of the drug treatments, this series of experiments should be brought to an end. We should concentrate on more efficient ways of acquiring information. We will also need more subjects for experiment. Though the acquisition of that young female lost with subjects 70s (native name: Ossoran) and 7Fy (native name: Feyvorn) cost us a number of agents and proved useless in the end, I believe we should attempt to acquire more females. It might also be useful to build up a stock of pre-pubescent males. The one thing we must do is locate additional sources of Dyslaera. Spotchals is becoming difficult about our presence there; according to reports from our assets in the records department, this is due to the continuing agitation of one Digby of Excavations Ltd and one Miralys, Toerfeles of family Voallts and Director of Company Voallts Korlatch. The abduction of that female has stirred even the most lethargic of the Spotchallix authorities to action.

NOTE: Our security seems suspect. It is as yet uncertain whether the Toerfeles Miralys knows who took her people; however the suggestion is that Digby has discovered what happened at Koulsnakko’s Hole. How? This is a question that MUST be answered.

Shadith (Kizra) On The Farm 4

The skimmer landed in the main Court, pulverizing a number of the paving stones, taking up most of the open space. On the side facing the House, a ramp unfolded. As soon as it was down and stable, the Artwa Arring Angakirs Cagharadad came marching out and stood before the stairs like the earth was his but beneath his notice. Rintirry lounged behind him, looking bored and beautiful.

Perched in the opening behind the oriel window above the Great Doors, Kizra watched Rintirry look around and decided Allina had splendid judgment when it came to men.

He straightened suddenly, his eyes fixed on something across the Court.

Kizra pressed her face against the glass, swore under her breath. Tamburra the Kiv’kerrinite was standing in a patch of sunlight that turned her hair to fire, emphasized the translucence of her skin, the perfection of bone and body. Posing for him.

Gods. That’s trouble, that is.

The Artwa was a tall lean man with an abundance of coarse white hair and a vigorous white mustache. His face was bright red, his skin rough as a rutted road. He glared at the silent facade and twitched his long nose.

Everything was stilled, waiting.

The great doors opened and Matja Allina came out, leaning on Aghilo’s arm, Polyapo and Kulyari a half-step behind her. She stood quiet a moment at the top of the stairs, looking down at the Artwa. A flutter of her fingers summoned Polyapo to her side. With both women helping her, she came down to greet him.

She stopped five paces away from him, placed her palms together, bowed her head, then let Polyapo and Aghilo lower her to her knees. While they prostrated themselves before the Artwa, Matja Allina rounded her back, brought her hands up, palm to palm, pressed her thumbs against her brow and waited to be acknowledged.

The old man spoke. “Matja.”

“Ghanar Rinta is honored,” Matja Allina chanted in the tonal version of the local langue, a formal singsong that her voice made into music, “Artwa Arring Angakirs Procagharadad. Amurra Bless thee and thine. This House and all in it are thine. What is thy pleasure, Artwa Arring?”

In the cloudless pale blue sky a single raptor glided in wide circles over the Kuysstead and precisely on cue gave its wild, eerie call, then went swooping off after something Kizra couldn’t see. She pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles that threatened to burst out of her (nervous giggles-though the scene had gone comical on her, there was still a soupcon of fear in it).

“Get up, get up, girl,” the Artwa said, a heavy geniality in his loud voice. “I’m an easy man, you know. These formalities…” He waved a hand, then scowled. “Where’s my son? Got his nose stuck in a book somewhere? Or is he so grand these days he can’t come to welcome his old father?”

With Polyapo and Aghilo boosting her, Matja Allina got to her feet. “Artwa Arring Angakirs, there was a raid on one of the outer pastures. Arring Pirs has gone with guide and guard to look into the matter. If he had known you were coming, Sar, of course he would have postponed his departure long enough to greet you. If you will enter your House, Sar? I have set the servants readying the Honor Suite for you and your household. Will you take some wine and cakes and rest yourself a while?”

He nodded graciously and strode past her, half-running up the steps, then striding into the House.

Rintirry strolled after him. He reached with languid grace toward Matja Mina as if he intended to draw his hand across her belly. She didn’t lift a hand to stop him, simply looked at him with calm contempt.

Rintirry laughed at the Matja; it was meant to be a taunting laugh, but it didn’t quite come off. He waggled his fingers at her and went sauntering up the steps.

Kizra ran her fingers through her hair, hurried back to her room.

There were two tables at the end of the Great Hall, the high table where the men sat and the lower one for the women. The high table was in a large curtained alcove raised a good two meters off the floor. The candles in the torcheres flickered in the drafts that wandered through the hall, waking shimmers in the damascened cloth-of-gold tiedrapes and a deeper sheen in the green velvet folds behind the gold. The rug was the color of fresh blood, the table a dark tight-grained wood, the dinnerware silver with gold wire laid into it in a series of interlocking double spirals. The wine in the crystal goblets was oxblood and there were yellow and white and blue flowers in oxblood vases.

Artwa Angakirs wore viridian and gold, a heavy gold chain about his neck set with emeralds, turquoise and chrysoprase, rings on all his fingers with more emeralds in them. Green and gold were the family colors and much of the Family wealth came from the emeralds found on Caghar Rinta, the gold in its streams and hills. And the pockets of turquoise that kept turning up. In the flickering candlelight he was magnificent, an old king: stupid as a rock, vain and selfish, but an impressive presence when presence was all you needed.

Rintirry lounged beside the Artwa in a smaller chair, dressed in a gold-crusted crimson velvet tunic with wide oversleeves trimmed in white fur. They fell back to show the black sleeves of his undertunic, a silky knit that hugged his muscular forearms. His only jewel was a single earring, a black opal teardrop hanging like dark fire from his left ear. The candlelight played games with his bright hair and gave an illusion of strength to a face that was a sculptor’s dream.

Kizra sat in shadows on the second level, concealed from the tables by a carved, pierced screen, six panels of polished wood, hinged together and zigging across the small stage. She was playing musical wallpaper again, waiting for the dinner to start.