Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

“No. There’s a problem. I need you.”

She swore, worked a moment over the pad, then came through the door. “So? You stunned him, I hope.”

“Yes. I did. But he’s dead.”

“What?” She strode across to him, stirred the body with her toe. “Did you change the setting?”

“No. Look. He tossed the stunner to her.

She examined it, scowled down at the man. “All right. So why’s he dead? Or is he?” She dropped to her knees, held out the stunner. “Here, take this thing.” She pressed her fingers up under his jaw. “Z’ Toyff. They don’t come deader. Miserable luck, he must’ve been one of those extra sensitives. You don’t happen on them often, goerta b’rite.” She checked her ringchron, passing her hand across her eyes. “Yes. Who is he?”

“Don’t know. I suspect he’s Sai. He’s got keys. What are we going to do with him?”

She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just knelt there as if she were praying, though he suspected what was going through her head had nothing to do with prayer.

She straightened, got to her feet. “Another half hour and I’ll have the Mimishay file. I was going to go for Black House, too, but might as well forget that. He can stay where he is until I’m finished. We’re not likely to have more visitors. Or are we?”

“No. I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Mm. This building’s right on the bay, there must be windows looking out over the water?”

“Yes. Just drop him out? Like he was garbage?”

“He’s beyond feeling it, Kuna.”

“It’s not respectful.”

“I don’t know him, why should I respect his corpse? It’s our skins, Kuna. And not just ours. What about your friend Shadith? If we get topped, what happens to her?”

He moved uneasily. “I hear.”

“Right, then.” She transferred her scowl from him to the body. “Jorkhead. Middle of the night…” She swung round and stalked into the inner office.

Kikun heard the squeak of the chair as she sat, the patter of her fingertips, saw the unsteady light from the screen chasing shadows across the wall beside him. He sighed, caught hold of Sai’s shoulders and tugged him out of the doorway, laid him against the wall.

Xumady giggled and danced a triumph about and around the dead man.

Spash’ats gloomed in his corner and piled his silent demands on Naiyol Hanee called Kikun: Honor the dead. Honor YOUR dead.

Jadii-Gevas the antelope spirit ran clicka-clack through the empty stinking corridors, his black eyes wild, his breath wet before him.

Watch for me, Kikun told Antelope the Bear. Watch for me.

Dance for me, Kikun told Otter. Guide, he told ’Gemla Mask, suddenly there.

He knelt beside the dead man and sang a Going-home for him.

We drink from different rivers now.

O stranger, O enemy

We always have.

Surprised from life

Your heartsoul dances on a dry plateau

Cries out to me: Why?

O stranger, O enemy

I do not know.

Loudly your voice calls:

You sent me

Show me the way.

You leap past the moon

You run among the stars

You rush to me crying out

Bring me rest

I hear you

O stranger, O enemy

My hands draw the double spiral

Draw it in the air

Remember the spiral

O stranger, O enemy

Let your feet remember and run it

Look neither to the right nor to the left

Hoz’zha-dayaka lies before you

Garden of the Blessed

Run, then rest

O stranger, O enemy

Do not let anger snare your feet

Hold you from the blessed

Go quickly and do not remember your death

Or he who gave it unasked

May Shizhehoyu Father of all Bless you

And give you rest.

’Gemla Mask hovered over the dead man, drawing the spirit from his body, then danced ahead of the wild-eyed ghost, teasing him on and on until the ghost ran without prodding, ran and forgot what was, drew ahead of ’Gemla and vanished.

Kikun stirred, blinked, got creakily to his feet.

With the Going-home closed out, the weight of the dead man was off his shoulders. The thing before him was only rapidly spoiling meat; the sooner they got rid of it, the better.

Rose looked up as he wandered into the inner office. The minicorder was sucking up data. It didn’t need her, her hands were limp on her thighs, a sheen of sweat was drying on her face. “You’re supposed to be watching.”

“Jadii-Gevas watches.”

“What?”

“Watch is being kept. Don’t worry.”

“One of your gods?”

Kikun blinked at her. “Say, one of my ghost brothers.” She looked wary, tapped restlessly at her thighs. “If it works.”

“Want me to start cleaning away our traces?”

“Don’t bother. You’d have to burn the place down to thwart the forensic machines the lice are bound to use. Even then…” She flipped a hand, dropped it back. “With luck, they won’t find him before we’re gone. After that, who cares?”

Fighting grime accumulated over the life of the building, they wrestled a window open on the third floor, flung him out.

It was like throwing a log, he was that stiff; he fell like a log, landed on the edge of the wharf, teetered there for a long moment. A gust of wind caught in his rucked-up jacket, swayed him just enough to tumble him into the bay. The splash he made was swallowed by the other night noises and he sank quickly out of sight.

Rose shivered, jerked the window down, ignoring the squeal it made in its slides. “Let’s get out of here. I need sleep and a bath before I start getting ready for the Game.

Autumn Rose lifted the mask, dropped it over her head, and adjusted the eyeholes so she could see without difficulty. It wasn’t actually a mask, but a headsman’s cowl in soft thick velvet, long enough to fall in graceful folds over her shoulders. She leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting the folds to leave the deep vee of her dress uncovered and the necklace of rough crystal and knotted silver wire.

Kikun moved into the mirror field.

Rose gasped, twitched, then had to rearrange the hood folds. “Z’ Toyff, Kuna!”

He grinned at her. “You look marvelous, Rose.”

“Sss!” She smoothed her hands down her sides, the black sychoura clinging softly to her palms. “Magical. Yesss.”

After a last inspection, she straightened her shoulders and went out.

The Mewa Room had eight sides and seven doors. Six were doors to secure-suites for the Players. The High Vaar went home for bed.

The seventh was the exit.

The room was rich with dark woods and green velvet, a green-on-beige rug, rich red-brown wood paneling. There was a deep glow from crystal lamps on the walls and the massive chandelier hanging above the Vagnag table.

Low benches set against the walls between the doors were piled with green and gold cushions.

Dasuttras were arranged like flowers among the cushions, faces, bosoms, and arms printed with flowerforms in the pink dyes of ancient custom, long hair down and gleaming under chainmetal caps set with moonstones and jasper, citrine and turquoise, peridot and aquamarine, semiprecious gems catching the light like drops of colored oil. In one corner two Dasuttras were playing flute and lute, unobtrusive wallpaper sounds.