Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

The Ridaar unit which Aslan wore on her belt was flaking everything around her, including whispered conversations not meant to reach her ears. Or the Huvved’s. She couldn’t check it because she didn’t want Huvved or Hordar to know what she was doing, but she was sure she wasn’t getting much useful except the whispers and she’d have to erase those, she wasn’t about to give the Grand Sech a handle on these people. The Farmers were focused exclusively on Efi Musvedd, vibrating with a resentment and loathing that blanked out all other body language. After about twenty minutes of this she grabbed hold of her temper’s tail, disciplined her face and turned to the white-haired Ommar, the official greeter. Before she could say anything, Efi Musvedd jerked open a door and went through it. It was the bedroom of a young woman who had apparently given birth not long before; when he burst in she was lying half asleep with the baby in the curve of her arm; she gasped with alarm when the door slammed open, pulled the baby to her and struggled out of bed. The Ommar was going to protest; Aslan took hold of her arm, closed her fingers tight about it. “If I may use your comset?”

The woman was hard with fury, but like Aslan she contained it. After a gesture that sent the other elders into the room to interpose themselves between the Huvved and the girl, she led Aslan rapidly toward one of the processing barges, opened a door and ushered her into a smallish office.

When she reached the Aide who handled her for the Grand Sech, she didn’t waste time on tact. “Whoever assigned that supercilious little cretin to me ought to have his brain scrubbed. He’s generated so much hostility here it makes me wonder if someone planned it; there’s no way I can accomplish anything with him in the same hemisphere.”

The Aide was a fat old man with empty eyes. He’d supplied her needs without comment the several times she’d called on him, he seemed to be an efficient administrator, she never had to ask twice or reject any of the supplies he sent her and subjects for interviews were on time and forthcoming. Now he smiled at her, briefly amused. “You didn’t object to him before you left.”

“I hadn’t been exposed to the full glory of his personality.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get him away from me. Far away. You know what the sweet thing just did? He barged into a bedroom where a girl was with her new baby and nearly scared her into a heart attack. Terrific.” She scowled at him. “Am I supposed to be some sort of agent provocateur?”

“No. I’m sure your energies will be fully engaged by the work Sech Tra Yarta has given you.”

“Which brings me back…

A hand clamped on her shoulder and jerked her out of the chair. Efi Musvedd flung her at the floor, put a boot in her side, then panted and cursed as he swung his czadeg at her, that limber gray cane which guards used to herd slaves and Huvved used whenever they were annoyed with someone of lesser status. The beating went on and on as the Huvved gradually worked off his rage. Aslan huddled in a tight knot, rolling and wriggling, slipping some of the kicks and taking most of the whipping on her shoulders and buttocks.

The Hordar elders watched, silent and impassive; Aslan caught glimpses of them standing in the doorway.

The Aide watched from the comscreen. When Efi Musvedd dropped his arm, he called him over.

“Zarkzar Efi Musvedd, return immediately to Gilisim Gillin,” the Aide’s voice was crisp, flat, “report to the Grand Sech as soon as you reach the Palace.”

The wild energy drained from the young Huvved’s face and body; he looked tired and there was a glint of fear in his narrowed eyes. “What about the woman?”

“Forget her; she’s no business of yours.”

“I hear.” He reached to click off the set.

“No. Leave it. Start back now.”

Efi Musvedd slapped the czadeg into its clip, smoothed his hair down and stalked out the door, the watching Hordar melting like smoke before him.

“Ommar Tirtky Presij come here.”

The elder walked to the comset, stood in front of it. “I am here, Seref.”

“The woman, what is her condition?”

“With your permission, Seref.” She stepped away, knelt beside Aslan and went carefully over her body, prodding at flesh and bone with strong, knowing fingers drawing groans and a film of sweat from the injured woman. She stroked her fingers in a brief caress along the side of Aslan’s face. “Nothing broken,” she murmured; a last pat, then she went back to the comset. “She is badly bruised and bleeding from several cuts; there might be internal injuries. If you want her intact and reasonably healthy, you’ll have to leave her with us for a while. If there’s nothing seriously wrong, she can travel in three or four days.”

“I will want a report each evening.”

“I hear, Seref.”

The screen went dark.

Aslan woke late in the night, her body one massive ache that disintegrated into dozens of agonies when she tried to turn over. Her throat was dry, one eye was swollen shut, her upper lip was sore and so thick it seemed to be pressing against her nose.

A young Hordar woman sat in a rocking chair a short distance off. She was reading by the light from a dim lamp, her face in shadows, only her hands and arms lit clearly, the scars on them like broken wandering threads that started on the backs of her hands and wound along her forearms to trail out above her elbows, the white vividly clear against the bronze of her skin. When Aslan began moving about, she lowered the book to her lap and waited a moment before she spoke, making sure her patient was awake and aware. “Thirsty?”

Aslan’s tongue rasped across dry lips. “Yes,” she managed.

When the glass was empty, the young woman set it on the table and pulled the chair closer to the bed. “You haven’t been a slave long, have you.”

Aslan tried to smile, but her mouth felt like wood and the cut on her lip burned and broke apart. “No.” She lay back, stared at the shadowy ceiling. “No.”

“Are you angry at us for not trying to help you?”

“No. You couldn’t do anything.” With her mouth in its parlous condition, her articulation was so mushy even she had a hard time understanding herself, but she wanted to talk. She NEEDED to talk. “Do you know what touched him off?”

“You shamed him before Hordar. Sea Farmers. We are too valuable to the Imperator, he couldn’t do what he wanted and wipe out the insult by killing us all. So he lessoned you.’

Aslan nodded, grimaced as the movement sent dull pain bouncing between her temples. “I should have known that. I wasn’t thinking. Too angry.” She lay silent a moment, then lifted a hand and let it fall, a gesture of futility echoing the confusion in her mind “The Grand Sech… You know he’s the one who sent the slavers looking for someone like me? Out there…” She tilted her hand up, waggled a finger at the ceiling. “He’s no fool or he wouldn’t be where he is… or am I the fool… no, not this time… and I doubt he tolerates fools working for him. Why did they send that clown as my escort? How could I possibly accomplish anything with him bulling about? Tra Yarta paid a hefty price for my skills, why why why did he undercut me like that?” She stopped, blinked, then tried out a painful laugh. “Funny, not long ago I was thinking about an acquaintance, I was telling myself he didn’t know what it was to be powerless, that he was going to run himself into trouble because of it, that he expected power to be rational and was he going to be surprised when he found out how irrational the powerful could be. I could have been describing myself.”