Jo Clayton - Fire in the Sky

The loud click of a door shutting snapped him out of his reverie. He got to his feet, stood wiping his damp hand on his old tunic as he watched two shadows walk along one of the Dushanne Garden’s paths, both of them carrying bulky packs. Two?

Holding his breath, he ghosted after them.

On his belly among stinkweeds that had grown tall and thick as scrub trees, Ilaцrn watched the cloaked figure climb from a sleek small flier. The spy from Banikoлh. As he had the last time, he started talking before he reached the shelter of the wall niche. “When I took the virus the last time, you said you wouldn’t call me across any more; you said you’d work a way to get me called home. Chaos broke last night when they found out the com wouldn’t work. How many times do you think I can shake loose before that lard-head tumbles to what’s happening? What! What’s that! Who’s he?”

Good, Ilaцrn thought. I want to know, too.

“You wanted to know why you’re here. He’s it. Look at this.”

The spy took the flake Hunnar handed him, slipped it into a reader, then sucked in his breath. Hastily he covered his surprise and made to return the flake.

“Keep it. The money’s in a special account, separate from the other. You’ll need that flake for authorization to transfer the funds.”

“And… mm… what’s it buying?”

“Transportation.” Hunnar set his hand on the squat dark figure of the other Chav. “You get him past Koraka’s forward line and drop him at the edge of the swamp. That’s all.”

The spy opened his mouth to protest, shut it again. The fur on his face was ruffled, his mouth was pinched into a black pout. His fingers had closed around the small reader, his thumb was moving across them, as if he caressed both himself and the gelt enumerated on the flake.

The scent of mesuch fear and greed was bitter as the stench from the stinkweed. Hewn watched the spy weighing the dangers of doing and not doing. You laid the stones for this the moment you let spite and greed goad you into taking your first bribe, fool. You might as well agree. You’re dead if you don’t. His eyes widened as he saw the second Chav edging away from Hunnar; the spy didn’t notice. He was too preoccupied with his struggle. No, I’m wrong. You’re just dead. He caught his lip between his teeth, bit down hard as the Chav stepped swiftly behind the spy and drove his fist into the mesuch’s back, jerked it away. No, not his fist. A knife with a blade hardly wider than a needle. The spy started to turn and the Chav struck again, this time driving the knife in under the chin.

The body dropped to the gravel. The Chav wiped his knife on the mesuch’s cloak, then slipped it up his sleeve.

Hunnar touched the sprawled body with the toe of his boot. “Too bad. But I suppose we couldn’t have milked much more out of him.” He stooped, pried the flake and the reader from the spy’s hand, straightened.

“Didn’t think he’d wear it, taking me in.”

Together they loaded the mesuch’s body into the flier, then tossed the packs in on top of him.

Hunnar stepped back. “You’re on your own, Kurz. As long as the Yaraka com system stays out, keep in touch. If you need supplies, I’ll do my best to get them to you.” He tapped the reader with the claw on his forefinger. “You don’t make it back, this goes to your son. I promised it and I keep my word.”

Kurz lifted his hand in the claws-in open-hand salute, reached for the sensor board.

The whine of the flier’s lifters in his ears, Ilaцrn crept backward through the stinkweed thicket, eased himself round the corner, and ran for the hidden door, moving as quietly as he could without diminishing his speed. His belly churned with the knowledge there was no chance of passing on what he’d heard before morning. Too bad too bad too bad… the words echoed in his head to the padding of his bare feet.

8. The Ways of Bйluchad

As the caцpa train rounded a hillock crowned with kerre trees, Shadith saw a Dumel ahead, nestled in a bend of the Menguid River, half a dozen sail barges tied up to the wharves lining the riverbank on both sides.

For some time now, they’d been out of the bottom-lands into rolling countryside-brush and grass with browsing beasts, instead of wide fields of plowed and planted land. The road ran west with little deviation from the straight line, up and down, over hills, across small valleys, always gaining altitude no matter how many dips it made, though the gain was slow and subtle enough to be nearly imperceptible; the Menguid sometimes ran beside the road, sometimes curved away so that they wouldn’t see it for several days, though more than once Shadith watched the tips of the stubby sails of the barges gliding past, just visible above the brush growing on a hillock, or the bright flutter of a burgee to remind her that there were other folk about.

There were no more lay-bys kept supplied by the Ordumel they were traveling through. No more Ordumels, only scattered farm houses and stock cabins.

This section of the road was poorly maintained, more ruts and potholes than paving, and few used it. Now and then they passed a farmwife on her way to market in a caцpa cart or a boy herding small animals that looked like cotton poufs on dainty black legs that her wordlist eventually told her were called cabhisha. Most of the traffic was on the river.

The Dumel ahead was flying bright pennons and oriflammes, burgees from the barges tied up at the river landing. Flowers blooming brightly on their heads and shoulders, Meloach were playing in circle games with Fior children dressed in red and orange trousers with brilliant white smocks embroidered in blue and green.

Overhead the two Eolt rose to a faster airstream and went gliding swiftly toward the Dumel.

Danor brushed his hand across his eyes.

Shadith winced as she saw how it was shaking. The happy scene below must be like ground glass on his nerves.

She kneed her caцpa closer to Maorgan. “What’s this place called and why the celebration?”

“Dumel Olterau. I think…” He clicked his tongue as he counted days on his fingers. “Time. How it slips and slides away. It’s the first of Seibibyl… that means this is the first official day of Summer-and if I haven’t lost track completely it’s also Rest Day. Supposed to be good fortune next year when Summer begins with Rest.”

As they rode into the town, a ring of dancers came from a side street, laughing and clapping, several of them singing, others beating out the rhythm with wooden clogs and tambourines. One of the singers was a pretty Fior girl with bright red curls and a spray of freckles across her nose; she glanced at Maorgan, looked up and saw the Eolt, then thrust two fingers in her mouth and produced a loud whistle. When she had everyone’s attention she pointed at the Eolt, then at Maorgan. “Ard,” she shouted.

“Ard. Ard. Ard.” The shouts passed on and came back as more and more people crowded around them.

The singer caught hold of the caцpa’s halter, looked up at Maorgan. “Will you come?” She sang the words, a ripple of pleased laughter in her voice. “Will you come stay with me, Ardcoltair?”

He laughed, lifted her onto the caцpa’s withers, and kissed her thoroughly to the shouts and cheers of the crowd. “Take us to the blai, Sun-blessed. My friend there’s in mourning and in no mood for pleasure. But once he’s settled, we’ll sing the Summer in for you.”

Fingers sore, throat raw from the hours of singing and playing, soul still aglow from the joy of the music, Shadith moved wearily along the deserted walkways of the blai. There were no nightlights, but the blaze that was the Bйluchad night sky made them unnecessary. Looking up was like gazing on a permanent fireworks display.