Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

Standing at the back of the crowd among the children, Shadith shifted from foot to foot, scratched at her arm. She was here because Tinoopa turned maternal and dogmatic and dragged her along. Don’t be an idiot, Tinoopa said, you need their good will and you know it. Show your face and behave yourself, child.

She watched as the rite went on and on, thinking:

Poor baby, he’s going to catch pneumonia if they don’t wrap something around him. No wonder boy babies had a hard time surviving. Jerks. Matja Allina isn’t even on the Hill. Wouldn’t you know. Come on, come on. Get that poor baby back where he belongs, let me get back where I belong. Old bastard, I have to admit he’s impressive, times like this. Should keep him in a closet and just take him out when it’s time to chant something.

The Amur-speaker spread scented oil over the baby’s body. Shadith wiggled her left bootheel on a dirtclod, crushing it.

Pirs. He’s riding high right now. Daddy’s spreading it thick, almost cooing at him (old warthog, wonder what he wants?). He’s got his boy, the Brushies are friendly, and there haven’t been raids for the past eleven weeks. Enough to make any amnesiac happy. Well, we get our papers out of this. Signed and locked away. Lovely. So generous the man is, as long as it doesn’t cost him anything.

Last night Pirs called her and Tinoopa into the study. He showed them their contracts and the cancellation papers. As they watched, he signed his name, stamped his seal on cancels. I wanted you to see this, he said, in six months your year will be completed. We will honor our promise as you have honored yours, to the limit of our ability . He folded the documents together, laid his hands on them, and waited for them to leave.

Arring Feelgood, dispensing favors to his chosen, favors with a call-date half a year off. Locked up somewhere in that study. Hmmmm.

Mingas was up there on the Hill, standing behind his father. It was the first time Shadith had seen him, and she didn’t much like what she was seeing.

Runt. Ugly pup.

In a way he was very like his spectacularly handsome kin, but his individual features were larger, their contours more rounded; he was a head shorter and considerably bulkier. It wasn’t fat, he was rock hard, but he looked clumsy, pudgy.

Odd what a thin line it is between beauty and ugliness.

She reached , touched him, shied away almost immediately. It was like touching acid. Behind that bland, immobile face, hate and rage were bubbling, boiling… Her mouth twitched.

Stick a pin in him and lolly save the ashes. Sar!

Pirs took the baby down to Allina, helped her wrap him in his blankets.

On the hill, the Speaker blew into his horn, signaling the end of the ceremony. The chal and chapa went back inside the walls and the party began.

Dinner with Daddy slipped by with nothing much happening.

It’d been a nothing much day, the day after the Nameday Party, chal and chapa dragging to work, sour in breath and spirit; Tinoopa’s eyes were red as alert signals and she didn’t want to talk about anything, just got grimly on with her business. Shadith took the hint the fifth time Tinoopa moved her aside so she could get something; she went to her room and played at escape for a while. The rest of the time she slept. Which was why her head was hammering right now and her own temper on a short leash.

Paynto was playing some kind of shepherd song on his flute, too many high notes; they were digging holes in her brain. She let her fingers find an accompaniment and tried to shut down her hearing.

Ghineeli chal slipped from the kitchen door, knelt beside Shadith, touched her arm. “When this is over,” she whispered, “Matja Allina says you don’t need to come to her tonight, feel free to do what you want.” She patted Shadith’s arm, slipped away.

Lovely. More hours looking at walls.

She glanced at the screen, sighed. The three Cagharadad were talking about shearing and problems with getting their goods offworld, getting the money back, wandering desultorily from topic to topic, none of it meaning anything, all of it embroidery on a tension growing between them, a tension that had nothing to do with what they were saying. She didn’t understand it and that put a cold shiver in her belly; she didn’t trust them, even Pirs, they could explode in any direction, any time.

They were drinking the bottle of brandy the Artwa had brought to celebrate the Name Day. Pirs was trying to enjoy himself, rapidly getting drunk; as usual, he was ignoring anything he didn’t want to know about. The Artwa was waiting to spring, spider in his hole; he wanted something and was sure he knew how to get it. Mingas simmered. She didn’t know him well enough to know how much of that was standard and how much aroused by whatever it was that waited for Pirs. His glass was still half full; he’d taken a sip at each toast, no more.

If Tinoopa was here, she’d say: Never trust a man who won’t get drunk with his own family.

The Artwa cleared his throat, looked at Mingas.

Mingas hurried around the table, pulled his father’s chair out as the Artwa stood.

“Help your brother,” Angakirs said, waited until Mingas was standing behind the Arring. “Pirs, I want to talk to you. Let’s go into your study.”

Pirs blinked. His eyes were clear, the blue as brilliant as ever. His face was slightly flushed, but he showed no other sign of how much brandy he’d consumed. “Study,” he said amiably. He didn’t move.

“Stand up,” the Artwa snapped at his son, annoyed because he’d misjudged Pirs’ capacity. “Take his arm, Mingas. Don’t just stand there, help him.”

Shadith kept playing because Paynto kept playing, same song over and over. He didn’t stop until the study door boomed shut, then he sighed, shook out his flute. “Another night killed,” he said. “Wonder when he’s going home?”

Impajin grunted. He stretched, shook himself. “Let’s get.”

They nodded at Shadith, left.

She stood, slipped her arm through the arranga’s carry strap, went out through the kitchen.

She sat on the bed, pulled her boots off. Balancing the left boot on her thighs, she slid her fingers into the slit and drew out the braincrystal knife. It was still there in spite of everything, overlooked in its incarnation as a stay stiffening the soft leather sides of the boot.

Since the Main Court had to be kept for the Name day party, the Artwa’s skimmer was parked outside the walls. Guarded, of course, but the guards were probably as drunk as Pirs by now, most of them anyway.

Might have a designated Drynose, might not. When the Cagharadads get out of the study…

She held the knife up, the candlelight shivering along the blade, then she sighed and eased it back into the boot and dropped that boot beside the other.

I could do it. They’re used to seeing me in there, I could get the papers, grab the skimmer, and run for Nirtajai.

But she knew she wouldn’t. A runaway chapa was one thing, a skimmer thief was something else. The Artwaes would stop a war to go after someone stupid enough to steal a skimmer, that’d be an attack where it hurt, an attack on their power. Even if she managed to reach Nirtajai and found a skipcom and got the call out, she’d still have to hang around until whoever was picking her up could get here.

Travel time, you can’t get around travel time.

She’d have to hide, to survive without allies and with a price on her head that would tempt an anchorite.