Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

On the sixth day, Kikun said: “I followed Granzadoman the past three days; he runs errands sometimes, but mostly just hangs about. I saw him meet people, get money from them, decided I should see what I could see about them, trailed more than one of them back to the Troc Istana, that’s the High Vaar’s little shack. Looks to me like he’s an informer.”

“I’ll pay for those two,” she said, “go on.”

Bungkuk excavated the wad from his mouth, pitched it into the water, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Hary Prechar is doing drugs. Y’ name it, he is going to be hafing it. I am not knowing what you are needing from this lot, but Hary is being no good for anathing but pops. It is being a very bad idea to hit ’im for cash, is being even worse to get names or like that. He is having so many blocks, is taking him half hour to be getting into his own head. He is letting effabody know this, he is not liking pain, is so.”

On the ninth day Kikun came dragging in. When she asked him what he’d got, he shook his head. “Was looking into Prechar,” he said. “Can’t get close to him, not even me. He’s busy, all right, got people going in his place all hours, in and out, never staying long. He’s paying off the local Vaarmanta, got the city guards keeping order, shooing people on if they hang about too long.” Kikun shuddered. “What I saw of him, he’s crazy. Smells like he’s going to implode any minute. Just as well we keep as far away from that one as from Granzadoman. And there’s this, if I make too much of a point of my being in a place, the thing doesn’t work, Rose, so I can’t fool around there without getting pinned. Be easier to get at the High Vaar.” He sighed, flung himself onto the windowseat. “What about you, Rose, you come up with anything?”

She rolled over, pushed up on her elbow. “I found a skambler, a hustler,” she said, “a mangy little dried-up mouse who knows things, name of Bungkuk. We had a conversation in the park where I met those Angatines and the blind one laid the curse on me. They weren’t there, thank whatever. He’s going to meet me round sundown, the wharf across the street from here.”

“You be careful, Rose.”

She grinned lazily at him. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before, Kuna. I’ll have a stunner in my pocket and eyes in my backhair.”

“Right,” she said. “That’s three. I’ll buy it. Go on.”

“Sai Jinksay. He is knowing effabody, is doing a bit of effathing. Is having no high contact, but if you are wanting to put together a small deal not too complicated, is the man you are wanting to see. Or if you maybe are wanting to find someone, he can do that.”

“Downside?” She pushed her hands into her jacket pockets, shivered as another stray raindrop splattered across her face. “Tjis?”

“No. He is not selling it. He is getting his throat cut if he is selling it, but Beza Preszao is having him picked up effa so offen and is squeezing him dry. The squeeze is being due any day now, it is being only to wait a week or so if you are wanting to use him.”

“Hmm. Right. Go on.”

“Jao juhFeyn. Huh. He is being different from the others. He is being offworlder, but he is being connect, you knowing what I mean. Is being married to High Varmantianne. Mostly he is being taffernaman. The Kipuny Shimmery is being his place. Where people are coming for meeting without guards ofer effa shoulder. Or where they are coming for playing Ffagnag without taxman or tjis are sniffing about their winnings and losings. Jao is knowing more things and more people than Jinksay, but efen High Faar is not putting squeeze on him. Is being too useful for wasting. He don’t be talking, he don’t be bothering anabody, they don’t be bothering him.” He snapped his fingers at her, the sharp, breaking sounds almost lost in the whine of the wind. “Is being payday, estralluar.”

She sat hunched over, the cold beginning to strike to the bone. A lot of what he’d told her she’d already found out for herself, either her or Kikun, but there was enough new there to justify the price, plus the fact she was fertilizing a source. Besides, it, wasn’t her money she was spending, not coming from an expense account she’d have to fight Digby on, blood out of a stone any old day. “Right,” she said finally. “Worth five.” She took her right hand from her pocket, dropped the pouch into his twitching fingers.

As he counted and felt each coin, she could almost smell him speculating about her possible vulnerability and how much cash she might be carrying and she knew the moment he decided it was better to go with what he had.

“Be you wanting more,” he muttered, “you are knowing how to find me. The sounds of his movements covered by the wind, he went scurrying off.

She ran her hands through her hair, it felt stiff and wet, beaded with sweat and condensation from the chilling air. Best have a bath tonight, she thought, wash the mop. Or I’ll be scratching everywhere. Hmm. Wonder if I’ve got pale roots showing. Better fix that.

She glanced down the wharf. The men at the incinerator were still watching her. She got to her feet, shook her hands and arms, then went strolling off, her senses alert, her hand on the stunner in the pocket of her jacket. It was only a step to the rooming house, but one of the first things Digby had ground into her was closest to your base is your biggest danger.

In the narrow way between the warehouses, the wind mugged her as she walked, snatching at her, blowing gravel against her hard enough to bruise her even through the heavy cloth of her trousers.

There was a cluster of sounds behind her. A scrape. Another. Several small crackles.

She didn’t bother looking back, just moved as quickly as she could without actually running.

The street was dark and empty and getting damp as the rain started falling steadily; there were a few lights from windows in her Rumach’s facade and from other Rumachs along the street, pale amber squares with dark lines of bars crossing them, not much illumination on a night without moon or stars. She slowed once she was out of the alley, strolled across the street. The short hairs on the back of her neck were standing up and itching like crazy. In her right-hand pocket, she slid back the sensor cover on the stunner, felt the handle vibrate minutely against her palm. In her lefthand pocket, she separated out the front door key and held it ready.

When she was about to step from the street onto the short wooden walkway leading to the stairs and the front door, she heard another a flurry of scuffs. Coming on his toes, the oof’narc…

She whipped round, triggered the stunner and dropped him, a heavy dark figure, a blob in the slanting rain, bulky, without grace in his standing or falling. Then she was back around, sprinting up the walk, thrusting the key into the lock.

She made sure the door was locked and started for the stairs. The concierge looked out her wicket, saw that Rose was alone and going quietly about her business, went back to what she’d been doing.

Rose unclamped her hand from around the stunner, blessing whoever it was who’d invented the thing. The cretin out there who tried his chances, he’d wake in a couple hours with a sore head and maybe a touch of pneumonia to give him an incentive to stay the hell away from her. No body for her to explain to the authorities.

She climbed the stairs, groaning silently each time she had to lift her weary legs another step. Old, she decided, that’s what it is, I’m old and crazy. She sighed, switched keys and unlocked her door.

Kikun was waiting for her, a shadow in the windowseat. She felt a jolt in her groin, felt herself flushing bright red. She cursed her thin skin and blessed the dimness in the room, only one candle lit and that one the width of the room away, on the table by the bed. He probably felt none of this churning and would be horribly embarrassed if he noticed. So would she. She liked to have things very clear and limited between her and the occasional lovers she acquired; ambiguity and uncertainty were threatening.