Jo Clayton: Shadow of the Warmaster

After another twenty minutes without seeing anyone, a ground car like a black beetle hummed around a corner and sped past her; its driver stared at her, but went on without stopping.

“Friendly.”

More of the humpy little vehicles zipped past, drivers and passengers staring, no one offering a ride, a word, a favor. Great little world. Uh-huh! Bolodo would have a market here, selling closed contracts that took the laborers away when the job was done. Probably why the settlers came way out here in the first place, five generations of hermits, misanthropes and social inadequates whose idea of a good time had to be something like masturbation in a hot tub. Solitary masturbation. Hah! might as well put out a sign saying stay away, we don’t want you. Leave your coin, but leave. She fumed a while longer, then laughed, shook her head. Eh-eh, Adelaar, you’re just annoyed because your feet hurt. Multiple maledictions on those perfidious perjurous unprincipled bootmakers who foisted these instruments of torture on me.

The streets widened, lost their rule-drawn rigor as they turned and twisted among lush greenery, trees, shrubs, grasses, flowers, a thousand versions of fern from great, graceful clumps fanning overhead, their shadows a dark lace on the pale gray pavement, to gossamer cilia hanging from the trees. In this tangle, tossed down haphazardly, she saw bits and pieces of small free-standing structures, some domed, some with peaked roofs, some like tumbled toy blocks. Living places. The silence of the factories was gone; she heard birdsong and bug hum, children’s laughter and their screams as they played among the ferns, voices of men and women talking, a man’s shout. Now and then she saw the Telffs. They stopped what they were doing and stared at her, but no one spoke. The beetle cars came more frequently and were no friendlier than before; several times she had to jump for the gutter when a driver swerved at her, shouting obscenities. Sweat beaded on her skin and stayed there, adding to the discomforts this world laid on her the moment she set foot on it. If it had been anything else but Aslan that’d brought her here… Aaah! he’d better be good, Quale damn well better be good.

The streets straightened and grew wider, the vegetation thinned. She glanced up, kinking her neck to see the top of the tower, stood watching the banners flutter as she smiled in weary anticipation of a bed and a bath and food in her belly. Traffic was heavier and less aggressive, the drivers too involved with their own concerns to let their xenophobia loose on her. She went round a final curve and found herself trudging up a short ramp onto a raised walkway. “A real live sidewalk. Civilization at last.”

She moved past a clutch of small stores offering everything from stacks of fruit to electronic gadgets. The stores changed to eating houses, then taverns, then she was in a grimy rundown area, stepping over men sprawled sleeping on the walkway, around vomit and splatters of urine; she jumped down into the street several times to avoid clusters of lounging idle males who, when they saw her, whistled, popped their lips, made suggestive sucking noises, groped their crotches and shouted offers of assorted body parts. Twice a man grabbed at her, but she managed to avoid his hand and move on without having to damage him; they were Telffs and by functionary’s warning, onus would be on her to justify whatever she did and she knew from frustrating experiences elsewhere that her presence here unaccompanied would be excuse enough for whatever they tried on her. Despite her growing fatigue, she set a quick pace for herself, her heels clicking briskly on the boards; she looked directly ahead of her, her face impassive, ignoring the taunts, counting on her peripheral vision to warn her of anything coming at her from the side, on her ears to warn her of an attack from behind.

“Drop.” Female voice, loud, coming from the street. Without hesitation Adelaar went down, curling round as she dropped, landing on hip and elbow, shenli darter out and ready.

She didn’t need it. Two men lay crumpled on the walkway some five or six meters off. She swung her legs under her and was on her feet a breath later. A flit curved over to her, its offside door open.

“Jump.” Same voice.

She grabbed the case’s tether and jumped. As soon as she was inside, before she’d sorted herself out, the driver slapped in the lever and the flit took off as if she’d goosed it. Adelaar straightened up, clipped the darter back under her arm and arranged the case by her feet. “Thanks.”

“Nada.”

“Ahhmm, kill them?”

“Nope. Stunned ’em. Didn’t know maybe they were friends of yours playing a prank.”

“Not.”

“Takes all types.” The driver swung the flit round a corner and slowed to a more decorous pace. “That should be enough to keep us clear of lice. You just in? Thought so. You want to believe the shit they tell you at the Gate, mess with a local and you lose. You got credit, they suck blood, no credit, Bolodo gets you. Reason I yelled, one of your unfriends had what looked like an Ifklii yagamouche; if he was a pro, he could’ve fried your brain ’fore he went down. I loathe those things.”

Adelaar shivered. “I owe you. Let me…” Moving her hand slowly so she wouldn’t startle her rescuer, she eased a business card from her belt. “Here. Give me a call sometime.”

“Shove it in the abdit there in front of you, no need, though.”

“I know. Nonetheless…” She dropped the card into the hollow, “That’s a quiet stunner you’ve got, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Built it myself. Any place you want to go?”

“City Center, the Directory. You’re not a local.”

“Sweet lot, aren’t they. No. But I’ve a friend here and a map on call. Center Directory it is. Or… mmmm… nothing like a long hot bath after hard traveling, there’s an ottotel not too far from Center, got a com plate in the more expensive rooms, these’re tapped into the Main Directory, you can bypass most of the hassle that way, let your fingers do the talking.” She grinned, dropping more years off her absurdly childlike face. Barely past puberty, if looks counted. A pretty child, kafolay skin, kaff brown eyes, light brown-gold hair in an exuberant halo of tiny curls. There was a brown tattoo on the cheek nearest Adelaar, a detailed drawing of a hawk’s head. A sudden dimple made the hawk dance as the girl broadened her grin when she caught Adelaar staring at her.

Adelaar drew her hand down the side of her face, looked at the smear of mud in the palm. “Ottotel,” she said. “Please.”

“Know what you mean. Shadith. My name.”

“Adelaar aici Arash. Mine.”

“Pleased to.”

“And I.”

Adelaar locked the door, activated a sweep from the case to ensure her privacy (local authorities legal and otherwise tended to ignore regulations when it suited them). Calling blessings on Shadith’s head from every god, saint and holy force she knew, she scrubbed off Telffer’s grit, grime and sticky sweat and with them the greater part of her irritation, pulled on a robe tailored from midnight silk, dialed up a pot of Nara tea and settled in front of the plate. Whistling a snatch of an old song, she fed tokens into the slot.

“Quale, Quale, where are you when you’re home? If you’re home…”

She scrolled through the directory.

“Let Treviglio be right, let him be home, wherever that is. Wherever… ah! here we are. Swardheld Quale / Quale’s Nest. T’k t’k, how cute. God help me, suppose his mind really works like that. Lat 2 deg 31 min W, Long 48 deg 53 min N. In residence, open for offers. Blessed be whatever. I’m running out of time and money. Damn. If I could handle this myself…” She thumbed off the directory and sat sipping at the tea, taking a moment to relax before she dressed and looked for transport out to Quale’s Nest.