Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

No. Too much downside. Well, you know what it is, Shadow, you just don’t want to face that long lone ride.

She thought about Rohant and the Dyslaera, winced quickly away from that. Omphalos had them. She had to do something about that. She couldn’t while she was still a prisoner here…

She flung herself around, face down on the bed. She didn’t want to think.

She reached and found a rodent burrowed into one of the walls of the study, teased it out, and sent it running from shadow to shadow until it was under a bookcase near where the three men were sitting.

She made it curl up there, nose on its forepaws, and listened through its ears.

“… hot Kirtaa,” Angakirs was saying. “You know about Probrantarradad, ’s been going on forever. We nibble at them, they nibble at us.”

She heard creaks and cushion whispers as Pirs shifted in his chair. “I know. We get Kurn’s tumaks out here when he comes up with the cash to hire them.”

“Well, he picked up a backer two weeks ago. Kamaachadad. Old Mulyas and Kurn had a secret meeting round then. Kamaachadad found out who carried his daughter off a couple years ago. Bitch. She went willing, eager even. Rintirry swore it. Trouble is she ran off, tried to abort the cub and bled to death. That chal-what was his name? Don’t remember. It’s not important. The one Rintirry made so much of. Once Tirry was dead, he got to feeling Utilas wasn’t treating him right and he ran off to the Brush, but before he did, he sold us. Mulyas sent me the Warblade a week ago, along with the kind of letter a sane man would have burned. He hit us at Caghar Rinta the next day. It was a close thing, Pirs.”

“Kamaachadad. Amur bless. He’s got more sons than he has chals.”

“Five less now.”

“Rintirry, damn his soul to hell, why…”

Mingas stirred, cleared his throat. “Rintirry’s dead.”

Angakirs’ hand splatted against chair leather. “Keep your mouth from Rintirry, both of you. I don’t want to hear that. Pirs, I want you and fifty of your men at Caghar Rinta. You’ve got a son now, your Matja can keep busy with him, she doesn’t need you.”

“Fifty men, we can’t spare fifty men. You know we’re coming on Shearing Days.”

“I know you owe me. I’m your father and this Rinta is still mine till you pay the last payment. Your chals are sworn to me, I could take them all if I called in my rights.”

Mingas spoke again, very softly. “Our father has lost one son, Pirs. Our best fighter. Lost him because you were careless. You have a moral duty to replace that son.”

Angakirs said nothing, but Shadith, listening, had no doubt of his agreement with that.

Pirs drew a long shuddery breath, let it out again, the hiss loud in continuing silence. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll come and I’ll bring the men. If you arm them. I will not strip this Rinta for you, not even for you.”

“What good are men without arms?”

“I will not strip this Rinta.”

“Well, get them to me and I’ll arm them.”

“No, Father. Send the guns here, good guns and ammunition for them. As soon as the weapons are here, my trucks will roll.”

“We need drugs and cloth and other supplies, I’ll give you a list. Bring a truckload of those with the men.”

“All right.” The chair creaked again.

Shadith made the rodent creep forward until she could see what was happening.

Pirs was on his feet. “Father,” he said. “Mingas.” He turned and walked out.

Shadith knew she should stay and listen to Mingas and the Artwa, but she was tired of these men and their problems. She loosed the rodent and let him go scooting back to his nest. She stretched out on the bed and stared at the candle shadow shivering on the ceiling.

One damn thing after another… well, maybe it’ll be over soon.

The Artwa and Mingas left next morning, going without ceremony.

Shadith leaned on her windowsill and watched the skimmer disappear into the clouds. One opportunity gone. How many more would she see before she managed to kick loose?

Five days later the weapons came. Mingas brought them in the skimmer, offloaded them, and left immediately.

Arring Pirs came into Allina’s sitting room. He stood behind her, watching her work on her tapestry, then crossed the room to look into his son’s cradle. He bent, touched the sleeping baby’s cheek, then came back to her.

She looked up, managed a smile. “Are the guns what you wanted?”

“Wanted.” He poured heavy irony into the word, rested the tips of his fingers on her shoulder. “Not new,” he said, “but they work. P’murr’s finishing the inspection.”

“When will you be leaving, you and P’murr?”

“I’m not taking P’murr.”

She stabbed the needle into the canvas, left it hanging there, caught hold of his hand and held it against her face. “You will,” she said. “You must.”

“No.”

“Amurra. Amurra. Amurra,” she whispered. “Please, please, kiya-mi, kaltji-mi. If you’re worried about us here, what happens to us if you die?”

“You have Paji now. Father will take care of you.”

She was silent. She couldn’t agree and he wouldn’t hear her if she tried to argue.

In her corner Shadith continued to play softly, shivering at the anger and helplessness in the Matja. She knew what Allina was thinking. It wasn’t just the war that was waiting for Pirs; it was Mingas’ spite, Utilas’ jealousy, Angakirs’ stupidity. Allina was sick with fear that Pirs wasn’t going to come home from this, especially if he left P’murr behind.

“I have Tinoopa and Kizra, Wuraj for the men, the chal and chapa,” Allina said after several moments of silence. “Don’t you trust them, mi-Arring? Take P’murr, please? For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

“No.” He pulled away, angry. “I have said, Matja.”

“I hear, Arring.”

Two days later, Pirs left with fifty chal in three trucks, a fourth truck loaded with supplies.

Matja Allina stood on the steps for the Ceremony of Leavetaking, calm, smiling, pride stiffening her spine. When the last truck vanished through the gate, she signaled the young Amur-drummer.

He played a quick roll, then blew into the convoluted shell of a land snail.

Matja Allina looked down into the faces of her people. “You know what this means,” she said. She spoke slowly, her voice carrying to the farthest corners of the court. “Chal, explain to chapa. Chal and chapa, take great care of your lives, you are dear to us and you are needed. There will be tumaks come to burn and kill. Don’t go beyond the walls alone, don’t go without a guard. I will see you have them when you need them. P’murr, bring the herders to the Great Hall in one hour. I will have arms for them. And ammunition.” One by one she named the leaders of the men, those left at the Kuysstead after Pirs’ winnowing, setting a time for each to bring his men to the Hall. “We must go on,” she finished. “Shearing waits for no man’s war to end, planting has its seasons.” She signaled the drummer, turned, and went inside to the rattle of his sticks.

For three days she worked to tighten down the Kuysstead, then she took Aghilo and her baby into her suite, pulled the shades down, and grieved. She was in agony.

That agony filled the house and Shadith was sick with it; she struggled to shut it out, but could not.

Everyone but her was hard at work. P’murr and Tinoopa were running the Kuysstead; the place was busy as a termite mound with the top kicked out, but she had nothing to do but brood.