Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

“There’s something called the Mimishay Foundation. I think it’s on one of the other islands. They hire techs, but they don’t hire women. Could be Omphalos under camouflage. If the Institute is into ransom, they’d need a cutout in case they’re traced. Could be a thousand other things.”

Kikun stirred. “Mimishay. Sai has a file on them.” He was silent a moment. “I only saw the directory and that by accident; one of the exwhores accessed it for something else and I was looking over her shoulder. That is not my Gift, Rose, working akurrpa machines. Lissorn and his crew taught me to play with them, but working is something else. I smell danger on this one. Time comes, if there’s need, you’ll have to do the thing.”

“Time comes, we’ll see. If it’s all that tricky, we might have to hire the Talent. There was a man tonight at the game, a freetech. He says he’s into industrial engineering, but I think he lied. He said it too easily. And he didn’t like it when I claimed programs and systems. He did friend well enough, well as any of the techies do, but his smiles stopped at his teeth. Way he played, too, he’s into systems. I think. Maybe he doesn’t want competition. Second thing. I ran into an acquaintance from the time before I signed on with Digby. He doesn’t seem to know about that, which is certainly plausible. It’s a small world, the game circuit. You leave it and you might as well have dropped down a black hole. He’s got a thing he wants me in on, something to do with a game. I go along with him, I’ve got some protection. I think I’m going to need it. He set me up, the snake. Pointed one of the Beza Prezao’s men at me. He said he didn’t know the man was going to be there. I’ll believe that when it rains up. He had a ringer in the game to see if I’d lost my edge. Pulled the Lice off me when he got the signal from his ringer. I don’t think this has anything to do with why we’re here, but if I’m going to keep on this track, I’m going to have to go along with him.”

She woke sometime later; it was black outside and cold inside despite the half dozen candles burning on a plate Kikun had set in the middle of the floor. He was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the clump of candles, his eyes like orange fire, blind orange fire because it was obvious to her he was seeing nothing in the room. He was looking into elsewhere, yearning into elsewhere, swaying on his buttocks, chanting in monosyllables.

She watched for a while, but it was like watching a flake show with the sound gone and you’ve come in the middle of it.

She turned over, drew the covers up about her head, and went to sleep.

Dyslaera 10: Working Toward Escape

Rohant combed his thumbclaw through his mustache, his palm hiding a smile.

His tiny hands braced on the bottom bar of the doorgrill, Miji leaned into the room, his black eyes eager, his neck-frills extended. Reassured, he hopped through, skittered across the floor to Rohant’s leg.

He sniffed at the ankle, patted at the soft bronze fur on the Dyslaeror’s leg. Eeping with pleasure, he rubbed his forepaws then the side of his face over and over that fur.

Rohant waited.

Miji put a forepaw on the frayed hem of Rohant’s prison trousers; he scratched at the worn canvas, caught his tiny fingernails in it, and, abruptly, scurried up the leg. He didn’t stop until he was perched on Rohant’s shoulder, nibbling at the Dyslaeror’s mane.

Kinefray twitched in his sleep, convulsed, rolled off the cot, and hit the floor before Azram could catch him.

His claws out, his head banging repeatedly into the concrete, he thrashed wildly until he was fully awake.

Azram scrambled around, cushioned his cousin’s head with his thighs and, when he quieted, helped him back on the cot. “Do you remember what it was?”

“No.” Kinefray saw the fresh rips in Azram’s sleeves, shuddered. “Something was after me, I think. I’ve got that wobbly feeling in my gut, you know.”

“I know. Stretch out now. On your back first.” Azram began rubbing the back of Kinefray’s neck, working on his shoulders. “They’ve left us alone a whole week, maybe they’ve got what they want.”

Kinefray shuddered again, began crying.

Nezrakan lay curled in a fetal knot. For three days he’d refused to eat. Now he was too weak to move. It didn’t take a Dyslaeror long to starve himself dead.

Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):

NOTE 1: Negotiations with the Black House have slowed due to the need for a considerably greater security in handling the Dyslaera, also the difficulty in getting the value out of them since it would not be wise-or safe-to advertise their presence. Also there is a degree of uncertainty as to how many Dyslaera we will be able to provide.

NOTE 2: The cutouts have been arranged for the ransom demand. Clumsy setup, but what happened when Voallts went after Seyirshi is more than ample evidence of the need, for a careful distance kept between Mimishay and Voallts. The rat with the message is on its way, we should have, the answer in about forty days.

Rohant closed his eyes and concentrated.

He ran with Miji as the sakali scooted through the tunnels, heading for the pen and his exit into the open world. Though he couldn’t see through Miji’s eyes like Shadow, he felt the coolness of the concrete under Miji’s feet, felt the sakali’s surge of fear, felt the response of his muscles when he dived into shadow to avoid one of the warders.

He let the intensity drop and sat up. It wasn’t much and at the moment he had no idea how he could use the Tie, but he had to try something. He sighed and settled to brood over what to do next.

Shadow Watching

Arring Pirs held his son over his head so chal and chapa could see him.

The baby didn’t like that. He waved his small naked arms and legs and squawled his displeasure with a lusty enthusiasm that brought laughter and approving whistles from the chat and chapa of Ghanar Rinta gathered around the Amur-hill for the Naming Ceremony.

“Behold the son,” Pirs chanted in the formal langue. “Hear his name: Arringgarri Paji knigo Pirs ampa Cagharadad nima Procagharadad.” His voice escaped the bounds of the Rite, became a shout of pride and joy, answered by a shout from the chat and chapa.

A restless fringe around the edges of the crowd, the children of Ghanar Rinta gasped with pleasure, shouted and whistled as the Amur-speaker touched his torch to the conical pyre rising fifty meters from the top of the hill; saturated with kerosene, the wood caught immediately and the flames went running up the slope like an echo of Pirs’ triumphant cry.

While the Amur-drums rattled in the laps of the Amur-deacons seated around the fire and the Amur-speaker sang the Litany of the Son, Pirs dropped on his knee and held the baby out to his father for the Artwa to bless the child and formally accept the boy into the family.

The drumbeat slowed, quieted; the Speaker broke off the Litany and waited.

Chat and chapa and even the most boisterous of the children went quiet, stood hushed and grave, waiting. This was the vital thing. This was the pledge that their lives would be unchanged, a small red-faced surety of continuance.

The Artwa Arring Angakirs Cagharadad spread his hands over the wriggling baby. “Behold the son,” he chanted, “Behold the Summerday child, the newest fruit on the tree of Procagharadad. Behold the Joy, the Promise. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Irrkuyon of Irrkuy. I, Artwa Procagharadad, declare this boy Blessed. I, Artwa Procagharadad, call upon you, the chal and chapa of Ghanar Rinta to declare your fealty to the Son of Ghanar Rinta.”